Quotes of the Day

Louise Curragh slyly sees herself as the Queen of Munda. Leader of the local police, the 32-year-old New Zealand constable can exercise great authority. As the only person who carries a pistol in this part of the New Georgia Islands, once known for its marauding head-hunters, in theory Curragh has power in the way Mao envisaged it. She is usually flanked by two handsome Tongan colleagues and is greeted as Luisa or Madam wherever she goes. But the reason for Curragh's secret contentment is this: 6,000 km from her home in the Bay of Plenty, she has, to her surprise, found purpose, confidence and a sense of belonging amid the azure waters, lush forests and big skies of this earthly paradise.

Her regal serenity is sometimes tested. For instance, Curragh has been known to bog a four-wheel-drive vehicle or get a drenching in the lagoon after tipping over the dugout canoe into which she is trying to climb. When that happens, she'll swear like a trooper. Then she'll break into a hearty, long laugh. Here's an energetic cop, only seven years in the job, who craves action and responsibility but doesn't take herself too seriously. To the smiling, freckled Curragh, this outpost, and the surrounding islands, is an amazing place - "Magical Munda," she calls it now. "But you could easily be isolated and miserable out here," she says, recalling her first impressions last April, when she arrived knowing nothing about the sleepy coastal town that was to become her base for the next three months - and was greeted by rain clouds. Munda is not a place of obvious menace; nor of timetables and hurry-up. The policing style required is more subtle, even though the issues are not: land ownership disputes, domestic violence, alcoholism and sexual abuse. Here negotiation, cultural sensitivity and trust are as important as muscle.

While physical beauty abounds in the wilds of Solomon Islands' Western province, a more realistic eye also settles on the depredations of malaria, the ruinous idleness of youth, the vandalism of greedy loggers, and the frustrating isolation caused by impassable roads. No one lives in this environment without some hardship. Curragh and her Tongan colleagues, Seteone Polutele and 'Isileli Vei Koso, volunteered to be part of the country's Participating Police Force (PPF). Composed of officers from 11 Pacific nations, it's the law-and-order arm of the intervention force known as ramsi, the Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands, that arrived two years ago to save a country heading for the scrap heap. Solomon Islanders were being killed and brutalized by rival militias, while a corrupt political and bureaucratic class, and a rogue Royal Solomon Islands Police (RSIP) force, either stoked the hate or failed to stop it.

The police force has since been purged. Although it remains short of resources, with the help of some 380 foreign officers who now work as advisers it is winning back the trust of citizens. While the so-called "tensions" (which lasted from 1998 to 2003) were mostly confined to Guadalcanal, 400 km away, the Western province experienced food and supply shortages, and the trickle of funding for basic services such as education and medical care ceased. People who could afford it imported men from the neighboring Papua New Guinea island province of Bougainville as security guards. But the practice got out of control, and the hired hands quickly became henchmen and bullies; some are now wanted for murder. Once ramsi arrived, the Bougainvilleans returned home. Funded mainly by Australian taxpayers, the rescue mission has spread peace, order - and a good deal of money. But the further one goes from Honiara, the capital, the smaller its presence becomes. Here in Munda, ramsi is Louise, Sete and 'Isi. "We're part of a big jigsaw puzzle," says Curragh. "Every person that comes out here adds something to it. We all bring different experiences. Hopefully, by the time we leave, we'll have made the next person's job a little easier." During the short time they will spend among these people, the Kiwi and Tongans will play a variety of roles: police trainer, diplomat, trouble shooter, community builder. The country is in transition, its traditional ways under challenge from a torrent of new ideas. "We have to be careful about how much influence we expose the people to, especially in the outposts," says Curragh. "We are given a lot of power and authority. Sometimes we have to take a step back. We can't be dictators. Otherwise we could destroy this country." Standing side by side, the steadfast Vei Koso, 42, and Polutele, 43 - each 100 kg and counting - bring to mind two industrial refrigerators, one set at cool, the other at ultra-cool. Vei Koso exudes calm, Polutele is all charm. From the Ha'apai group of islands, they each have five children and have spent nine months in Solomon Islands. Vei Koso is a senior corporal who specializes in prosecutions. He spends most of his time with the Solomon Islands police officers in Munda, pursuing new leads on old cases and imparting his accumulated knowledge of investigations. Polutele is from Tonga's Royal Protection Squad, which guards the king and his family. He shaves his head and leaves the top two buttons of his tight-fitting shirt undone to reveal the tattooed crucifix on his chest. His dark eyes seem to say, How ya doin', especially to women, and his wide smile shows off a gold incisor. He's handy with machinery and is always the first to volunteer for duty when a boat is involved.

Powered by two 60-horsepower outboard motors, their rigid-hull inflatable boat is the most valued piece of police equipment in these parts. Before ramsi, there was no police boat or vehicle, and local officers often had to borrow canoes or walk long distances to bring in a suspect or respond to a call for help. On a cloudy, humid afternoon, in Roviana lagoon, south of Munda, RSIP officer Ege Saro skippers the inflatable around shallow-lying coral reefs. Reaching open water, he pushes it to a zippy, if bumpy, 27 knots. After a 50-min. journey, the boat arrives at Rendova Island, and Curragh and Sergeant Allenson Tiazy jump from the boat onto a small wharf at Ughele village - to be greeted by a throng of children that appears to double in size by the minute. It's a common Melanesian scene: skylarking children enjoying their freedom, men in earnest discussion at disused market stalls, and in the background - nursing, gardening, forever at work - the village women.

Tall, slim and stern-faced, Tiazy seeks out Jim Peter, the chairman of the local Crime Prevention Committee, a grassroots initiative of ramsi. "We work very closely with the community," says Tiazy, who spends time in the area's outer islands educating people about ways to head off crime. "In the past we used informers to get information. Now we rely on these bodies." As the local explosives expert, Tiazy is also responsible for dealing with the torpedoes and other old ordnance that islanders still occasionally stumble upon 60 years after the end of World War II in the Pacific. But today the police have come to Ughele to speak with Dick Dani. In his early 20s and unemployed, Dani has become the village nuisance. He's accused of assaulting people, using abusive language and throwing rocks at houses. Dani has ignored the warnings of Peter's committee and the village organizer, so the Solomons police have been called. Dani is questioned by Tiazy, whose disposition has now hardened by several degrees. The stocky suspect denies all allegations, so Tiazy decides to take him back to Munda for further questioning. After a night in the cells, away from the probing eyes of his accusers, Dani, who yesterday seemed to be enveloped in a dark cloud, admits his misdemeanors to Tiazy. Since there's no magistrate in this area, Dani is granted bail and ordered to face court next week in Gizo, the provincial capital. For minor offenses such as his, court tends to be a last resort. With fuel prohibitively expensive - at $1.20 a liter, a long trip can cost a day's wages - the police are always on the lookout for alternatives. Offenders might be asked to clean up the growth around markets with their bush knives or do other work in the village. "We've had to change our way of policing here," says Curragh. The measures they've come up with "seem to be really effective, and the community is happy about it."

The Munda police are conscious of traditional hierarchies and try to work with chiefs wherever they can. In nearby Nusa Roviana, once the coral-walled fort of notorious head-hunter Ingava, Curragh and skipper Saro have come to see the chief, John Boi. As light rain falls through a canopy of coconut palms, the police tramp a muddy path. Earlier in the day, 4 km across the lagoon, Dunde village was swept by a rumor that Chief Boi had banned a local candidate in tomorrow's provincial election from campaigning in Nusa Roviana. Dunde's chief, Eki Lee Daga, informs Curragh that men armed with sticks and knives are preparing to cross the channel in canoes if the ban is not lifted. The story seems far-fetched, but the police are obliged to investigate it. Curragh offers the frail chief her hand, looks into his cloudy eyes and slowly explains why the police have come. Through an interpreter, Boi denies he banned the candidate. Instead, he says, rivals of the man invoked Boi's name as a ploy to scare off their opponent. His message to the disaffected, issued via the police, is that anyone is welcome on the island to speak to voters; if they encounter a problem, they can come to see Boi in person. Before leaving, Curragh tells Boi that the village's peace and prosperity are due largely to his wisdom and fine example.

The episode shows how easily the fickle bush telegraph can chew up police time. As well, it reveals the power of Boi, a respected leader, and the weakness of a chief such as Daga, who lacks legitimacy. Dunde village throws up a host of problems for the Munda police: drunkenness, vandalism and domestic violence. Curragh says most of these things could be nipped in the bud by a strong role model. Daga's poor example only perpetuates bad behavior.

The evening before an election is known as "devil's night." It's when deals are done, money is exchanged, and candidates put last-minute pressure on voters. The atmosphere brings out the louts and alcohol abusers. Dressed in civvies, Curragh and Vei Koso head out after dinner in a four-wheel-drive to show their presence; in the dim, 40-watt glow of surrounding villages, officials are working late to ensure they're ready to meet the first voters when polling begins at 7 a.m. Curragh leaves the vehicle to caution one of chief Daga's buddies, who is drinking beer by the side of the road. After some coaxing, the man empties onto the ground a full bottle he has been carrying in his back pocket. "He knows it's against the law," says Curragh of the middle-aged man. "Look at all the young people he's with. I told him to go straight home." As a young, white woman, Curragh is plainly aware that she has to be extremely sensitive in her approaches, especially when she's visiting remote islands, where women have little power, and when the law she upholds conflicts with traditional kastom. Often, in the time between a complaint being made and the police arriving to ask questions, the parties involved have reached a settlement. "I didn't know anything about compensation until I came to the Solomons," says Curragh. "It definitely has its place, particularly in places like Munda, where there is no magistrate's court. It's part of their culture." In her time here, however, Curragh has seen many examples of the custom's commercialization; the original objective, of shaming a person and making him pay a price for his offense, has largely disappeared. The focus is now on how much money a victim can extract from the alleged guilty party. "It's the same as suing people in America."

A recent incident deeply affected Curragh. Two sisters, aged 12 and 14, were living with their mother and stepfather. The man had raped one girl and sexually violated the other. The older girl told the mother, a nurse, about the crimes. The mother paid compensation to her own daughters. And the sexual assaults happened again. A few years later, when the older girl was 17, she attended a community talk Curragh gave about incest, rape and sexual abuse. The girl later went to Munda police station to report the incidents. The statement given by the girl to RSIP constable Rozlyn Maekera still haunts Curragh. "When I read that their own mother had provided compensation to these two girls and thought that it was the end of the matter, that it was going to go away - this is where the system has completely broken down." The man pleaded guilty and is now in jail.

In police parlance, Curragh is proactive; it's her fate to be working in a sea of inertia. At the small police station in Munda, the local officers clock on for duty and wait for instructions. Curragh says the officer in charge here provides no leadership at all. "He's not competent and the staff don't listen to him," she says. "I have to motivate the staff, otherwise they will sit there and do nothing." But in this quiet place, where time means little, wanting to "Go, go, go!" gets you nowhere. Curragh has had to change her approach; from the human fridges, she's learned to just chill. Australian and New Zealand officers, who make up 80% of the PPF, are used to hectic schedules; Pacific Islanders have found it easier to take things a little more slowly - especially in the 18 outposts - and have been more readily embraced by the Solomons police. "I'm not a Solomon Islander," says Curragh. "I'm not here to bring in what I think policing should be because it works in New Zealand. I'd like to pass on my knowledge and adapt it so that it works here. So that when I'm gone, hopefully the RSIP will carry it on." The senior Solomons officer on New Georgia Island is Inspector Alpheas Sikajajaka. Based at Noro, a fast-growing town and busy fishing port a 30-minute speedboat ride north of Munda, "Sika" is pleased that the provincial election day is turning out to be a peaceful one. While crime is generally low in Noro, a high-profile double murder in the area three years ago is still being investigated by police; one of the people arrested for the murders of two special constables was the area's former provincial member, Billy Veo, who is not a candidate today. (At his recent High Court trial, prosectors withdrew the case against Veo.) By 3 p.m., with two hours to go before polling closes, there's a busy stream of voters at Noro's Town Hall. Town clerk David Riapitu Mamupio, perhaps the only man in the Solomons who wears a tie, says the maintenance of law and order is the most important prerequisite for development. "Security is paramount. Without it donors don't have the confidence to fund projects - and we've got plenty here in Noro on the drawing board." Sika is expecting a canoe and engine any day now from the provincial police headquarters at Gizo. That will help his officers enormously. Who cares about the lack of a vehicle anyway, says the sprightly Solomons police veteran, as soon as a 10-minute deluge stops. "Walking is the best way to see Noro," he says as the clouds roll away. "Come on!" Sika makes a brisk pace on the island's best road under a blazing sun, weaving around fresh puddles and pointing out the town's sights. His station, neat but spartan, sits on a small hill just outside town; marooned in the yard, an old shipping container, with a slot cut in one end for observation, serves as the lock-up. Noro station is empty - the officers, some of whom camped out on nearby islands for an early start, are supervising the elections.

While the RSIP has no shortage of new recruits, funding is a major concern. Will it inherit - and then be able to maintain - the new boats and vehicles when the visitors leave? Curragh says she had to fight with administrators just to get stationery for the officers: "How are you supposed to do your job without such basics?" Somehow they are managing, she adds, and perhaps good officers like Sergeant Tiazy and Constable Maekera will inspire the clock watchers. But Curragh fears that the presence of foreigners may turn out to be a modern cargo cult. "In some places, when people see a white person, they put their hand out. We don't want to reproduce that mentality here."

Having reached a flat spot in her police career - "I was a little bored" - Curragh came to Solomon Islands on the advice of other Kiwis who had served here. The country doesn't get much attention from New Zealand's news media and Curragh wasn't even sure where to find it on a map. Anyway, the graduate in psychology prefers to come to new assignments cold and make up her own mind. "For the RSIP, I was just another face to them," says Curragh of her arrival. "It takes quite a bit of time for them to trust you. The staff have opened up and I really enjoy working with them. Out here I have another family. I have Sete and 'Isi, my PPF family, and I have the RSIP." While the work has been pretty basic, Curragh's self-confidence has grown. "I'm out here and I don't have backup. I'm responsible for my two PPF officers and the Solomons police officers. If anything happens, it's my call. I've been thrown into a situation that's unique and I'm coping. I'm surviving, and I'm enjoying myself immensely." The day's work over, Curragh is swimming with the local children in the waterhole at Kindu village. "A smile goes a long way here," she says, as slippery kids do spectacular bombs off rocks into the clear, shallow water, and fishing boats make their way home in the twilight. No wonder she feels like a queen.

• Tom Dusevic
• In a remote community, a young police officer is restoring the rule of law - and striking a balance between new ways and old