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I have been sitting in the airless departure lounge for over an hour, with no sign of movement. Outside three mechanics have resorted to bashing the landing gear of the plane with a hammer. My anxiety builds. Maybe taking this trip alone was a bad idea. I am on my way from the Solomon Islands' capital Honiara, to the remote province of Makira, where I will spend several days collecting data on child health. As a westerner living in Honiara, I belong to a group, a subgroup, and even a sub-subgroup. Expat. Volunteer. New Zealander. In Makira, I will be a group of one. The mechanics are finished and, with apprehension, I board the little twin prop engine bound for the tiny island of Santa Ana. We touch down in an empty field surrounded by dense tropical forest. There is no obvious landing strip, no makeshift ticket office, not even a windsock to indicate wind direction. All I see is the field and a small group of locals waiting for their outgoing flight. I have just landed in the middle of nowhere. On Santa Ana, I am an ethnic minority, the only European face in a crowd of Melanesians, the only agnostic in a society of Christians. Over the next few days, I struggle to communicate, struggle to make myself understood. The locals speak only a little of my language and I speak none of theirs. Worse than that, I am a single woman in her thirties, abnormal in Solomon Islands culture. People are polite but I am an outsider, an alien, tolerated but mostly left alone. Even the village children avoid me; they are wary, almost fearful. Only one small boy seems to find me fascinating. He is tiny, five years old at the most with dark skin and completely white wavy hair, a common trait among Santa Ana children. Dressed in nothing but a pair of cut-off jeans, he watches me from a distance. I see him everywhere, playing at the beach, waiting outside the clinic or strolling in the village gardens. He is always on his own, seemingly belonging to no one. Then one morning, I come across him as he walks through the village square. This time he doesn't keep his distance. Instead, a determined look appears on his face, he squares his skinny shoulders, marches up to me and sticks out his hand. I clasp his little palm in mine and we shake, without a word. As he releases my hand and saunters away, I feel a lump rise in my throat. With a simple gesture, this small boy has broken down a world of barriers, because here, like at home, a handshake means hello and welcome.