The Islands that Time Forgot

“Go on! Get in, swim with them!” John shouts with a toothy, betel nut-stained grin. Anxiously, I pick up the tattered mask and snorkel and peer over the side at the dozens of Bottlenose Dolphins frolicking beside me. Their inky eyes fixate on mine and their mouths become wry smiles. The buzz of their “click, clickity, click” sounds fill the air as they mock my strange human form. As tempting as it is to climb in beside them, I decide to keep that bucket list item firmly unticked for now. Just watching them is captivating, and not being in the midst of a throng of clumsy, camera-weilding anoraks is a bonus.

I flew to the Solomon Islands on impulse. A Danish backpacker with a handlebar moustache had regaled me with tales of hidden tribes and seas like aquariums, as we stood side-by-side mindlessly peeling the leaves off corn at a farm in Queensland.

Apprehension washes over me as I clamber aboard the tiny wooden boat to the volcanic island of Savo. Handlebar moustache had told me about a village tribal chief called John, and his wife, Isabel who run a home-stay there, and will take you out dolphin spotting. In my naïve, western mind I am expecting a hulk-like figure to greet me at the other end, adorned with facial piercings the size of saucers, and holding a spear the length of a lamppost.

The rusty engine splutters to life and soon we are edging closer to Savo. Jungle-clad mountains begin to emerge. Juicy coconut-laden palm trees line white beaches. A towering volcano bellows and the distant sounds of someone banging on a homemade drum can be heard. The smoky aroma of local families cooking fresh fish on the beach surrounds me. And then, slowly he comes into view, my tribal chief host. He stands about 5’4” tall and is wearing a Man United top and a pair of faded Adidas shorts. I silently scold myself for being so ignorant. John greets me with a wide smile and rich mahogany eyes. Soon we are making our way along a sandy path through thick jungle. We pass men hacking at coconuts, women collecting yams, babies swinging precariously from their chests in makeshift slings, and tiny boys and girls with curious eyes peeking out at me beneath mops of sandy-coloured hair.

That night, in a house made of meticulously woven vines, we feast on yams: fried yams, boiled yams, yams in banana leaves, yam and coconut cake. We stain our teeth red with too much betel nut chewing, and we talk about the islands’ fascinating history, and why I’ve never met David Beckham.