MY FOOD REVOLUTION

When I woke up the sun had climbed high enough to peek over Hairasa Point to the east. Its rays squeeze through the holes on the thatched wall and dance on my sleepy face. 

I know I have to hurry if I was to avoid the punishment gang. That is what they call those who cut the grass around the school compound after school because they had broken the school rules. Being on time is one of those rules that Mr. Totosasaha enforces diligently.

He is the school principal and had taught at Puratangisia Community High School long before I was born. He seems to have been trapped in the era when Solomon Islands was still a British colony. He is in his fifties or maybe sixties, has a long unkempt beard attached to a wrinkling face, and an infectious  smile that reveals his betel nut-stained teeth. His hair and beard look like they’ve never seen the tooth of a comb. He wears shorts, shirt and a pair of slippers that have seen better days. I often wonder how he became the principal. 

My Kaka and Nana say he is a nice guy if you get to know him well. I guess I will never know that because I have no intention of getting to know him well. He is my school principal; students are not supposed to know the principal well.

It took some effort, but I eventually sit up on my bed; a mat woven from pandanus leaves. I throw back the old cheap Chinese-made linen that I use as blanket. My only pillow is in a ball-like heap at the top of mat. My industrious Nana made the pillow by stuffing wool from kapok seeds in an old flour cloth bag. She then hand-knits it into a pillow case and then uses the leftover cotton to sew a hibiscus flower on the outside where my head is supposed to rest. My Nana learned to do embroidering as part of a women’s workshop on housekeeping that she never really needed. The workshop was tailored for concrete houses with corrugated iron roofing and louvers for windows; not leaf-thatched huts like ours. 

The workshop was offered by some overseas people who had never lived in a village, or a sago palm-thatched house. It was part of a women’s development project administered by an NGO with a name I can’t pronounce. Following the workshop, the village women pestered their husbands to buy singer sewing machines. The poor husbands worked odd jobs to buy the machines, not for the sake of development, but to make sure their wives didn’t leave them for another man who could afford a singer sewing machine.

I wipe my eyes and stare at the wall and then stretch with a loud yawn to chase away the sleep.

My name is Kolahe. I am the oldest in a family of three: two boys and one girl. My siblings are Kehunu and Koivo. They attend the village primary school while I am in form 2 at Puratangisia Community High School, about four miles from our village. 

Our parents are subsistence farmers. My Kaka regularly makes copra to earn a small amount of money that he uses to buy things like kerosene, soap, salt and school fee for me. Primary school is still free so he doesn’t have to worry about that. 

Our village is Bubutasi, located on the island of Koraisahalu. There are no roads, no cars, and no supermarkets on our part of the island, although it is only about 40 miles across the island from Pothole Town, the national capital.

I am a direct descendant of Bulengali, who lived here more than three hundred years ago. Because of our matrilineal society, my lineage passes through my Nana. Like our mother, my siblings and I belong to the Alohabui clan.

“Kolahe, ko rarai. Tahuna ba sasani, tolo,” my Nana calls just as I was looking for my lavalava. I find it and quickly wrap it around myself and then look for my old towel. When I eventually make it outside I was surprised that the sun had climbed so high into the eastern sky. I wash my face under the stand pipe outside our hut. I know I had to get ready quickly and walk the four miles to school. That is my usual daily routine – walk four mile to school in the morning and back in the afternoon.

By the time I change into my school uniform – white shirt and blue shorts – and make it to the little hut that serves as our kitchen, my Kaka is already there. He is eating kai deke and beho for breakfast. 

“Longana,” he says, stopping briefly to glance over at me and then back to his breakfast. 

“Longana dou Kaka,” I respond. 

My Nana is at the other end of the hut. Kehunu and Koivo sit next to my Kaka, eating breakfast while they talk about a new game they learned at school and chuckling about how funny it looked when Timo, the fat boy next door tried to jump. 

I had wanted biscuits and teac for breakfast. But there was none. We would sometimes get biscuits and tea from my uncles little store at the other end of the village. Well, most times we would just take things and then pay when my Kaka gets money from selling sold copra. It’s called kaoni. My uncle keeps a long list of people who took goods from his store without paying. Some of those on his list have died so he put a red line across their names. I once overhead him telling Peleni, a village elder, “ghira nia mate vaso mara taiha vata volia kaoni.” I sometime wonder whether he is hoping that he would find them in the next life and make them pay their debt.

“A beho si lalona abira. Ko kuta savusavu moko ba sasani,” my Nana says, pointing to a basket woven with coconut fronds; that’s what we call abira. As I look around and my eyes stop at the fire place where an old kettle hangs over an open fire, held up by a rope suspended from the rafter. The kettle looks like it had been condemned to spend eternity over the fire. Dark charcoal from the smoke cakes its outside. No one ever bothers to wash the outside, only cleaning the inside every time they refill water.

I grab a metal cup, untie the kettle from the rope and fill my cup with lemon tea – it’s hot water with lemon leaves. I then banish the kettle back to its place over the fire. I find the plastic sugar container and put two table spoons of sugar in my tea and then drink the tea and bite into the taro beho from the basket.

“Kolahe, ko visu mai savusavu murina sasani,” my Kaka says, looking up from his bowl of kai deke. “Nau ngaloa ko sangau a sahe cheia vale. Visana hinava na ato ra seko me tumu a langi me kudukudu i vale.” 

“ Dou, to sasani ka sui to visu mai,” I respond with a mouthful of beho. “Ghira koea ghami dami sui a sasani savusavu dani.” I swallow a mouthful of beho and then take a gulp of lemon tea. It is so sweet you would have thought that tea is made from sugar cane. I quickly finished my breakfast and the say, “Nau ba sasani.” 

 

The sun has climbed higher into the eastern sky. Its rays dance between the coconut trees that line the shorelines, casting long shadows on the beach. There are other kids walking along the beach on their way to school.

“Toiri!”, I call to a friend from the neighboring village. He is a few meters ahead of me. “Ko pitu, tolo!”

“Ae, nau pada kova ighoe o naho vaso,” Toiri says as I catch up with him. 

We arrive at school just in time to avoid the punishment gang. Our first class that day is history. The history teacher is Ms. Taraqau, a veteran who knows no other career apart from teaching. She looks like a historical piece herself – the wrinkles on her face look like the prints off a history text book. But, I love her classes because she is such a nice old lady.

“Today we are going to talk about Solomon Islands colonial history,” Ms Taraqau says as she takes a chalk and begins to write on the black board. She had learned English at a Teachers College in Australia and is proud of her English language skills. “Let’s begin before the European contact,” she continues looking at us through those aging eyes. “Can anyone tell me how our people lived prior to European contact?” 

A couple of kids put their hands up, but she points to Tome who sit at the front of the class.

“They live like us today, in villages. But, they have taovia na vera who govern communities.” All of us are struggling with English. Tome is one of the better ones.

“Good Tome.” Ms Taraqau says with a grin that looks like it was carved onto her wrinkled face. “Can anyone tell us the kinds of food our ancestors ate?” 

“They hania kake, uvi, kumara, kai deke, kai boto, bolo mana hahano,” I spit out the answer without being asked, but proud that I had an English word in my sentence – “they”.

“That’s correct Kolahe, but next time put your hands up and wait to be asked,” Ms Taraqau says. She isn’t angry – just trying to control the class.  

“Our people also traded using goods and shell money,” says Maria, a little girl who looks like she would never grow. 

“Now, let’s talk about European contact. Who can tell us about that? Ok Mika, you tell us,” says Ms Taraqau pointing to Mika. 

Mika is a fat boy who never stops eating. He is so big that every time he sits down, the wooden chair would squeak in agony. Mika used to live in Pothole Town, where his father drives taxis. You should see his father. He is so fat it seems that his gut would burst.

“There was this fella from Spain called Alvaro de Mendana. He was the first white fella to come to our islands in 1568,” Mika says confidently with a funny grin on his fat face. “Mendana and his crew came looking for gold and when they found our islands they thought they found the source of King Solomon’s gold. That’s why they called the islands Solomon Islands.” 

“Good Mika,” says Ms Taraqau. 

We talk about how the British declared a protectorate over the islands in 1898, making it a British protectorate. We also talk about the Second World War and how the Japanese and Americans fought their war on Koraisahalu. After the war the British came back and built a new capital and named it Porthole Town. Our country eventually gained independence on July 7, 1978.

         But what I can’t get my mind away from our discussion about the kinds of food that our ancestors ate. I think about the beho and lemon tea I ate for breakfast. I take another glance at Mika and was convinced that we must change our diet. 

After class, as Toiri and walk out I say to him, “Ghoe o dona sava?” “Ghita hania solaba e avo a vanga bulebuleha tahu dani neni. Dani na longana nau inuvia rauna laemane me rukatolu a labena suka.” 

“Sava e seko ai hanania?” Toiri asks, seemingly unconcerned. “Nau inu laemane pipi tahu.”

“Ghita hania vanga manesere se me naua mai ghita masahe chapatuhu,” I say confident that I am right. 

As I say that, I see Mika come out of the school canteen with a lolly pop stick poking out of his mouth. In his hand he has a can of coke.

“Maleo vahania si ghita utusia,” I say pointing at Mika.

“Sava si ghita data aqosia?” Toiri asks.

“Tatu aqosia cha sai ghita hania soba vanga dou mai ghita bamai ma koe vanira vera hania vanga ni ghita,” I say. “Ghita tamanina solaba e avo a vanga dou.” 

“Ghoe o pada kova ghita baka dona aqosia?,” Toiri asks looking at me with doubt written all over his face. 

“Soghoe, ghita dona aqosia,” I say with the determination to change our eating habits. I know it’s going to be difficult, but if I could convince Toiri then that would be a start.

We talk about the idea of an awareness campaign as we walk home after school. I help Kaka fix the leaking roof. By dusk I was tired. I take a shower and eat cabbage and kumara for dinner. 

That night, as I drift off to sleep I told myself that the next day I would start a eating revolution.

Years later . . . it hasn’t started yet!  

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