The Native Iowan

I come in peace. I come from the planet SUBURB.  At times it does feel like another planet. The clean streets. The polite neighbors. The quiet calm that pervades. I blame it on Prozac. High property values and exorbitant taxes contribute. My corner of my planet is kidz Ville. Scooters and skateboards. Bikes and balls. Kidz rule

I think of Gizo on a quiet Sunday morn… Everywhere in the Solomons there is a damn rooster that starts at 4am and cockadoodles, on the hour until 7am. There is a small child that starts about the same time and carries on longer. There is that general bustle of life, fluid, and noisy.

My morn has been productive. And fun. Convinced the boys that sorting their rooms was worth doing. The candy wrappers under the bed. The dirty shirt under the sheets. The clean clothes pushed in the corner. All easy to police-up. A bit of pride in the completion of a job very well done. Well done.

I think the my “home-village”, Susuka. A Sunday morning. Holding numerous agendas… Sunday school for the kids. Big motu started early by the old woman. It’ll be ready to open and eat after church. Children singing. Damn rooster still crowing. A dog involved somewhere. The old woman squawking at some kids. Noisy, lively, and fun.

My planet SUBURB is a free democratic land. But it’s highly regulated. In my corner of my planet we pay more to be regulated more. As an immigrant to SUBURB I still find this perplexing. To pay to be regulated. We pay for “free education”. We pay for good roads. Quiet streets, and cable TV.

I think of modern-day Honiara. The noise started in earnest on Saturday. The loud music. Forced laughter. Same CD being played over and over again. And the one, over-played number (probably red-red-wine) that brings all to voice. By Sunday morn we’d been through it all. We’d been through it all.

The yelling and tears and fighting and fucking and things being broken. The crying children. Then the quite that comes when all pass-out. There is one guy in a pair of dirty jeans passed-out on the road, by the betel-nut stall. That damn roosters is still here. The kids too.  We’d been through it all.

The Suburbian life perplexes. I paid to immigrate here. Chose my corner of my planet well. It still perplexes me. I understand the noise and confusion of life well. It is the quiet I am confused by. Quiet kids don’t make sense. A quiet life? Maybe why I have two fast bikes in the garage?

Sunday afternoon bike ride through the Blackhall range… sounds like a good idea.