Coconut Wireless

by Nicola Baird

  Henderson knows none of this, and knows it all too. But made helpless by the sawmill in his head, the pins and needles in his leg, the hot and cold shivers of "fever" he whimpers: "I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need help. I've got malaria."

  The women's eyes are raised skyward, they are used to helping the community's fools. "Come on, we'll take you to the hospital. Are you strong enough to get in the canoe?"

  Henderson half nods, moving is an agony. He puts an arm around the neck of each woman and is jerkily walked towards the canoe. He steps in gingerly. Closes his eyes. Concentrates on the pain and thinks of home. If only he was back in the village with his family. Childhood illnesses fill his mind - the time he had a big boil on his leg and his mother made him strong with cabbage (yuck) and chicken soup (ah heaven then, but hideous thought now). He thinks of lying in the corner of the house back home in the village: his mother stroking his temples with a wet towel, singing a haunting lullaby; his grandmother bringing medicine, a mix of some bush somethings which bring back health (and all the hideous dull chores that come with health) too fast. If only he was well, then he'd be able to go home, take his mother the present he has for her. Awful thought: he doesn't have a present, that money last night .... what did happen last night? There are snatched memories of music and lipstick and drink and money, heaps of money, and Patte, and that truck - snatched breath - the crash. The MP. The fight. What a hideous, hideous nightmare. That was real. What a sorry memory. He closes his eyes even tighter behind sore eyelids. And now this, malaria!

  Henderson is not heavy and the hospital close to the G-Klub by shore or road (so convenient for the fights that always break out on payday nights), so the Lau women reach the back of the public wards fast. Drop their "catch" on the black sand beach and bid him goodbye. "The casualty, the place you want to go is round the front. Walk carefully man. Get strong soon."

  It's always the women who see the action: remember that story about why people settled on Foueda, back home? It was all because of those two inquisitive daughters of Lomo, Olisi and Ulufaka. These sisters were out filling their bamboo with fresh water when they came across the warrior Aubasi sleeping in a tree. Curious, it's the sign of a real Lau women (are these journalists or gossips?) they asked him what he was doing. But his answer, boss style, was I'll explain if you take me to your father. And they agreed to that - he was a warrior after all. And so they paddled him over the water to see their father, ready to give this stranger food, offer shelter. But Aubasi was impatient, and stepped out of their canoe on to some stupid rock, a real stony place, which had been used as a beauty shop - for decorating the faces of women before feasts. Aubasi seemed to like this place and in the end he got much more than hospitality for a stranger. He decided to settle there. He demanded Lomo sent leaf, and bush rope and just moved in, settled this stony place, and for want of a better name they called it just that, Foueda (fou = stone, eda = place where we paint the heads of women). But his neighbours got something out of it too, because Aubasi made a special law stopping people from hunting, or eating kokola, the eight-armed octopus. He said if they followed that law then no child from Foueda could drown because the kokola would take its fingers and place two over the ears, two over the mouth, two over the nose and with the other two return the child to the land and its mother. Since then every woman is happier when it comes to feeling safe about living with her baby on a tiny artificial island. The story would be very different if those sisters had just ignored Aubasi sleeping in the tree. For a start octopus would be the choicest feast treat!

  Their ancestors, these women who've mockingly rescued Henderson (well, he could have been another Aubasi), run curious eyes over the hospital grounds - check out what's new - then paddle expertly back to their sisters. With the hot morning sun comes a hint of hunger for them, and those fish - both start to collect in the harbour over there, near that shallow reef; over there (by the drainage pipe); over there by the shadow of little ship MV Mali. Under the harbour the fish will be busy eating weed and debris, and other fish.

  On the water the women will wait until one hears rain, but thinks fish. "This way, quick this way!" They speed towards a dimpled shadow of water changing from blue to black, reach it, unwrap their lines from the dummy shaped plastic iceblocks and down goes the line. Eleven untwists, two up-downs (up-down, up-down go their hands), and wind up the line (number five for this). Count those fish sister! There are 10 on mine. "Lucky."

  What more could a woman want - food on the line and the freshest gossip? Didn't they see that Honourable Member's new white jeep looking crashed in the hospital car park, a small glimpse through the prefab ward buildings? Think: maybe a car crash? Maybe a broken leg after a night of cards and dice and Sol Brew? Maybe visiting his wife who is having another baby? No, he wouldn't do that so early - besides she's not due yet, though his other wife, that girlfriend might be ... The story takes shape as they mull over clues soon to be shared. No, the women of Lau, well the ones from the fishing village, couldn't possibly talk too much, or too loudly, its how news travels round the town: this is where the coconut wireless starts.

  Henderson walks unsteadily towards the waiting area. It's a long veranda, shaded by a hot tin roof. There would be a lot of hard chairs to sit on, but he is put off by the scores of people sitting on them. He squats in the darkest corner, knees bent, arms folded miserably, head tucked in. All eyes are on the new arrival. A mother sends her eldest girl over. She touches his arm. "Are you all right? Can we get the nurse for you?" Henderson nods, he has no energy for speaking, his energy is for fighting this malaria. The girl gives up and goes back to her mother. "He smells nasty," she says in a surprisingly stately manner for a six-year-old. The waiting patients understand, another rascal out-rascaled by rascaldom. Instinctively the two, very overworked, nurses pick up on what's happened and delay, and delay, checking Henderson.

  At last a short stout nurse with efficient look, expensive wrist watch, starched white uniform sashays over to the miserable looking young man. "Excuse me ... Are you awake?" Henderson blinks bloodshot eyes open, squints at the nurse and realises he feels even worse.

  It's malaria, I think. Feel terrib .." Nurse Ahu has a kind heart, but hates self pity. "OK, give me your name and I'll check your blood." She signals Henderson to walk into the internal waiting room. Inside the small, rather grimy-looking room are even more patients, just hanging around waiting for beds, or for wantoks, or for the doctor. (As it happens the doctor is playing his regular game of early morning squash and has been asked to be contacted by bleeper only for real emergencies - not for flu, not for low positive malaria, not for first stages of labour. He'll be back by 10am anyway). Nurse Ahu is about to go off duty, after a tiring night - paydays bring out the worst in some people that's for sure. She passes her records of the night's casualties over to Nurse Pitakatai. One child coughing blood, possibly TB; an old man with a weak chest (how come he noticed only after the dogs fell asleep, didn't his chest feel sore during daylight?); two women in the last stages of labour; five flu cases; the usual run of malaria sufferers - up again from last week, about 10 came for blood tests and eight proved positive; a baby with diarrhoea, a couple of kids who wouldn't sleep because of pain in their eye (maybe another bout of Honiara’s red eye?), oh yes, and you'll like this - that woman belonging to the MP is in here again. He knocked her out after some sort of row and then must have kicked her in the head. She looks a real mess. The MP is obviously feeling bad about it (he was pretty drunk too) because he wanted a private ward, and is sitting in there waiting for the poor woman to come round.

  "And there's a boy in the waiting room, who I haven't had time to deal with" Nurse Ahu points towards Henderson, "who claims he has malaria but has more likely got a hangover." Nurse Pitakatai sighs and heads towards Henderson.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Sore head, body aches. Want to throw up. Feel bad."

  "Have you been doing anything unusual?" She asks this with sweet innocence. Sh
e was after all at the G-Klub last night too.

  "No," says Henderson unsteadily thinking about the club. He's talking to a woman and he's never going to admit he'd never been to a club before. "Though someone did bash me on my head," he remembers in a sort of splutter.

  "Ah," the nurse gives his head an efficient sort of glance. No fresh bruising, though there's an old one above the eye. This boy's obviously always fighting. "My colleague said you thought you had malaria?"

  Henderson nods. Isn't that what a sore head, aching body, wanting to throw up means?

  "I'll just give you a blood test." This nurse then slips away, comes back. "Hold out your finger. No, the other hand. That's it, look away." The quick prick is made to hurt. "Now hold this cotton wool on your finger, hold it strong. I'll get this tested. Can you wait? It'll be some time before the results come through."

  Henderson nods again (he must remember not to do that, it makes his head feel worse) and then shuffles outside. By chance the out-patients area seems to have lost patients so there's room for him to lie down. He slips in and out of sleep, hearing snatches of conversation that seem as strange and disjointed as those at the club last night.

  "She's in here again you know. I heard them at it last night. Either she's a very bad wife, or he's just mean-spirited."

  "This must be the third time she's had to go to hospital with a broken head. Do you remember how she looked last time? I saw her down at Consumers Supermarket trying to look so cool. You know, sunglasses over the bruises. But everyone knows what's underneath."

  "I think she's quite a good woman, that Stella. She's kind to her child, and when my mother was sick, that was the time she had belly run and felt too weak to go anywhere, Stella heard about it - because they're neighbours you see - and she went in, looked after my mother made her soup, helped her swim, and then when mother was recovering she took the kids off for a trip to the beach. I should have done it really, but I was too busy that week doing sewing and cooking workshops for the squatter women. Really, I think the way that man treats her is a shame. And him a big man too."

  Henderson slowly begins to make sense of the gossip. Obviously there's a woman who has been beaten up by her husband. If he wasn't so thirsty he feels sure he'd want to listen to more. He sits up gingerly and is met by silence. All the women stare at him. If he goes they'll talk about him. Still they're only women, hardly an enemy.

  "Where is the water here? I need to drink?" He asks this rather imperiously, hoping it'll stir someone to action. The women might even bring him a glass. The women just stare: a united front of silence. He gives up, stumbles along the veranda, down the steps and back on to the hospital turf.

  Bad timing this walkabout - Nurse Pitakatai returns, looks around. "Where's he gone then, our young Sparka Masta (drunk) friend?"

  The gossips point towards the back of the hospital. "Said he was thirsty . .." says one. And well he might be, thinks the nurse. Clearly the boy had no idea what a hangover involves. Next time she sees him at the club she’ll maybe share a few secrets…

  Henderson has found his hearing has come back with a vengeance, the world has never seemed so noisy - but through it all, the hospital's moaning, munching, creaking, crying, there seems to be a tinkle of running water in the far corner by the wheelchairs with Number 9 printed on their canvas security straps.

  Lucky for him, he's right. And that's when he finds that water has never tasted so good. Henderson drinks and drinks and drinks from the standpipe. Each sip pushes the 'malaria' out of his body. By the time he's drunk his full Henderson feels a great deal better. He stretches, wipes at his wet lips, splashes water on to his head, over his nose, his ears, his feet. Wow this is life at its best - he's alive again! Really alive. He walks back across the hospital planning his route back to the house at Mbokonavera, the malaria forgotten. If he's lucky he'll probably see Fred in the taxi and get a lift with him. This musing is interrupted by a video scene: through the window in front of him a short, dark-skinned man, that same honourable MP, is raining blows on to something lying on the bed. Its cries are terrible. Instinctively Henderson runs to see what's going on.

  ***

  (This letter is never sent, lost in the house move)

  Hey Dan

  I've been having quite a time here recently. Let's see: I've moved house (phew, away from UNfriendlies to splendid isolation); I've learnt how to buy fresh fish (lucky, it's brain food and mine's clearly dissolving with only me and the mirror for company in my new residence) and I've suddenly realised just how fragile a hold us mortals have on life. No this is not going to be a maudlin letter - that's really stretching back to Oxford days (ho, ho!) - but I'm not sure how many jokes I'll be able to work in it. Perhaps we could both tally up at the end and see how far we are in agreement (I count that as a joke - OK?!)

  Anyway the route to the new house - first taken in a taxi and since then by Shank's pony or the bus - involves passing a shambolic collection of leaf houses, their backs to the sea, and chattering people, their backs to the houses selling fish in a truly determined manner. I guess they've been catching them on their own, well Honiara's own, doorstep. Every kind of fish seems to be there and there's no bargaining so it's quite easy to buy, assuming you know what kind of fish you want to eat. And then assuming you know how to deal with it. The first problem is that having a fish in your hand doesn't mean I can have fish for dinner. I mean it's got a tail, a head with EYES, and worse scales (I never realised they take these off in the supermarkets back home - see what I mean about brains now?) and worse, a body with its guts still inside it - YUCK, DOUBLE YUCK. So, little innocent gal about town, me, buys her lovely fish takes it back to her lovely new house (sweet jasmine growing over the door) and finds she can't eat her lovely dinner. I just couldn't cut its head off, not in front of those staring eyes. So the fish was given pride of place beside me (this is in a bid to accustom myself to eating nature) and I ate tinned fish out of the can. All these fish smells filling up the house might explain why I now am the proud owner of a pussycat, who turned up nose wrinkling with joy and has refused to leave! I call her names at the moment, not just one.

  My neighbours came round too. This was on Day Two and I was attempting to cut the grass. A task I've always thought looked quite comforting: Sunday visions of Dad behind the lawn mower. Completely, utterly wrong when you do it the Solo way - which you've got no choice about because the only tool was a long, lethal looking, sharply-hooked bush knife. Move it one way and you think you're going to cut off your right foot, move it back and the right AND left hoof are at risk. So, donning my sun hat, long sleeve T-shirt, long skirt (a bush woman!) I go out to the garden, business in mind. And I hack about a bit to the obvious delight of my neighbours, sorry neighbourhood. Soon I had about six enormous blisters erupting on my hands and a crowd of viewers. At last my rescuer, a teenage girl, just sauntered over to me, and without a word, took the knife out of my hand and started doing it right.

  I went and sat in the shade of my guava tree and watched. I did busy myself occasionally - made a few of the crowd bush lime drinks, and pondered about how I'm more of a homemaker than I thought. Then when the job was done, and everyone had gone, I patrolled my estate until dusk, walking on the tightly brushed grass (yes, that's what they call it, brushing not cutting) in bare feet. It was lovely, though I anticipate another rite of passage now: malaria in 10 days.

  I have to admit I'd rather hoped one of my neighbours would help me gut that fish. But still couldn't speak well enough in Pijin (I'm really going to have to borrow a small child and just chat away, or maybe a parrot would suit me better than this wretched orange cat). So the fish is now in cold storage, awaiting my encyclopaedic improvement in kitchen crafts - like butchering for example!

  The first night in my new house was scary. Hang on, let me explain I'm living on my own now, in such luxury compared to London - three bedrooms, one shower room, a massive sitting room with ceiling fans (so decadent) and a balcony which is nice to s
it on, though I imagine it's more of a theatre stage for the neighbourhood: me lolling on that balcony scratching at my mosquito bites etc, oblivious to the watching eyes. Anyway why scary? Well there was this terrific wail around midnight (I'd long gone to bed, eight is late these days) and then a burst of wails - a chorus of despair that you couldn't imagine hearing except perhaps in a Greek tragedy. And of course that's what it was, someone had died and the Malaitan women from Langa Langa (who live in town, in that house) were giving way to their grief. This public display of affection is so utterly alien to me that I thought there must be a murder going on at the very least and more like some sort of mass stab-in. The cries were inhuman, lasted the full night and then I suppose the unfortunate who'd died (though they were the only ones who got peace that night round here) was taken off and buried.

  Dr Maylinda says I probably heard a new baby. How can babies make so much noise?

  Gossip is clearly a major part of life down this part of town, everyone seems to know my name - though I can't remember telling anyone except the girl who brushed my garden. But even unseeing me did notice, on my slow walk to work, that the clinic looked impossibly crowded for 7am. I mean it doesn't open for business until nearly 9am. Thinking back on it I guess everyone collected up a child, with a minor (or otherwise) ailment and headed to the clinic first thing to catch up on what was going on the night before - you know who'd died, and why, that kind of stuff! It's more a drop-in centre than anything else. And I also notice that the clinics with a shady surround of trees are about 100 per cent better used than the others. Someone ought to be told: I tried quizzing my doctor friend about it and she just rushed at me saying, trees and long grass are the best places for that cunning, evil mosquito beast to live, best to cut everything down. Sometimes I'm not sure it's healthy to have an ambition to rid the world of malaria.

  Not sure I've got anything else to tell you. If you see a book on how to deal with fish send it at once. Here I am living on an island and I never get to eat fresh fish: it's crazy!