BY JOHN HOUANIHAU 

The first thing a visitor notices at Oliveti community in the highlands of Northwest Choiseul Province in the Solomon Islands is the silence, a silence not of emptiness, but of resilience.

It is broken only by the rhythm of winds striking pristine forests and the laughter of birds echoing through the forest. At the heart of this fragile, self-sustaining world live the Oliveti guardians whose authority is not written in books, but carried in stories, rituals, and the memory of their people.

For the 100 or so residents of Oliveti, a remote community in the land, the people are more than leaders. They are the link between generations, holding knowledge about planting seasons, fishing grounds, sacred sites, and the moral compass of the community. Their role is both spiritual and practical, anchoring highland life in a world where modernity arrives by wind.

To reach Oliveti, one must traverse four to six hours of bush tracks from the coast, with coastal villagers often carrying visitors’ essential supplies such as backpacks, food, and other belongings.

The community’s life revolves around a subsistence-based lifestyle. Families cultivate gardens of potatoes, yams, taro, sugarcane, beans, bananas, pineapples, and vegetables, which provide food for the household and occasionally surplus to sell at markets in Taro, the provincial capital or at coastal communities.

“The Oliveti people are not just people nor chiefs. They are keepers.

“They keep our respect for land. Without them, we are just adrift. This is our land, which our ancestors gave us. People go and come,” explains Chief Raziva Vatukikesa.

Oliveti’s remoteness brings significant logistical challenges. Medical access is risky, with villagers risking dangerous land journeys to reach Taro Hospital, or coastal health clinics, especially during bad weather, long distances, which has tragically resulted in lives lost.

Oliveti’s isolation has long shielded its customs. With no school in the community and poor road links, daily life still revolves around subsistence gardens, river fishing, and community ceremonies. Within this pace, the Oliveti guide balances: settling disputes, reminding families of taboos, and protecting sites where ancestors are said to dwell.

The communities’ youth, many of whom now leave for schooling in the coastal communities or in Honiara, return to find the Oliveti still shaping life. An elder notes, “Our children grow up between two worlds. But the Oliveti keep one foot firmly in the world of our ancestors.”

Despite challenges, signs of resilience are everywhere, projects such as the building of a clinic in the community, water supplies, community hall and church building whose iron roofing required coordinated effort across days under adverse conditions, exemplify the determination of villagers to improve local infrastructure.

“We really need better roads. Our children need education. We don’t have school here. So, our children have to live with our relatives in the coastal communities to attend school. We have a clinic, but since then, no nurse has been stationed here. Communication remains under development here,” said Chief Raziva Vatukikesa.

Yet even the community of Oliveti is not untouched by the outside, and local foods play a vital role in sustaining the livelihood of the Oliveti people.

“The land tells us when to hunt. The trees tell us when to plant, but now the seasons change.

“The land is sick. If we lose that knowledge, we lose ourselves,” Chief Vatukikesa explains.

To adapt, some Oliveti people have begun working tirelessly, blending traditional stewardship with modern life. Women weaving traditional baskets, men mending homes from sago-palm leaves. Each act is a quiet defiance against forgetting. And the Oliveti community remain at the centre, steadying the community through continuity.

Oliveti may appear as just a small dot on the Choiseul province map, but they embody a lesson with global reach: that culture and environment are inseparable, and that wisdom is not only inherited but practised.

As night falls and the sun glows over the community, the Oliveti people gather in silence. They do not speak loudly, for they do not need to. Their presence is enough: a reminder that guardianship is not about power, but about remembering what must never be lost.

*Reporting for this story was supported by Pacific Media Assistance Scheme (PACMAS)

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