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Now fully recovered from a serious illness during my overseas holidays at the end of 2011, I eased back into the world of exploration with a short and necessary break to the Solomon Islands. It was with a greater deal of excitement than normal, for this marked not only my return to travelling, but also affirmed that my experience with scrub typhus had not dissuaded me from “exotic” destinations.

The drive from the International Airport to the capital of Honiara saw me pass palm trees that towered over tired buildings and people languidly strolled or lazily congregated into groups; all images that confirmed my preconceptions of a Pacific Island. A popular pursuit is evidenced by the bright red grin worn by many, for chewing betel nut is a seemingly addictive habit that sees a large portion of the population (mostly men) biting open the ovoid green nut, before combining it with the betel nut leaf and adding lime.

The Solomon Islands has previously been the site of tribal tensions, and the much respected RAMSI (Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands) force has reduced conflicts considerably; though fellow travellers informed me that they witnessed a young lad scampering headlong off the end of the jetty and into the harbour after being pursued by two ferocious youths swinging nunchakus and a machete.

I stayed at a guest house, where I was the only “white-fella” amongst Solomon Islander lodgers in the East Wing. Boasting a glorious view over the harbour at Point Cruz, one could sit on the balcony near sunset and watch daylight gradually melt away whilst talking to the locals. Here is a place where people fully engage in any discussion without being distracted by smart-phones, pads or tablets.

This tranquil island of Guadalcanal, graced with beautiful inlets, palm trees and mountains was a more troubled place 70 years prior when the destructive tentacles of war infested this region. The US Marines inscribed their name into history at Guadalcanal and earned the sobriquet "The Old Breed", as retold through such books as Helmet for my Pillow by Robert Leckie (though the preferred Marines' Pacific Campaign read is the eloquent and emotional account by Eugene Sledge, With the Old Breed), in the TV series The Pacific or the movie The Thin Red Line.

Hiring a taxi driven by the quietly spoken and amiable Stanley, I proceeded through different areas of the five month conflict that sought to wrest control of the airfield being constructed by the Japanese Imperial forces (hereafter referred to as the Japanese), which if completed, threatened the supply route connecting Hawaii and Australia. The US forces landed on 7 August 1942, only one week before the airfield was ready to launch bombing raids on Australia, and these forces immediately discovered the difficulties of fighting and moving through a terrain equally as foreign to their Japanese foes.

The thick and almost impenetrable jungle teemed with vines, malaria-infested mosquitoes, and the numerous rivers frequented by alligators all caused the already arduous combat to become more gruelling. The stifling tropical heat made living conditions intolerable, but worse, it caused the corpses to fester and emit the sickening odour of decay. The conditions were best described by an epitaph on a Marine’s tombstone on Guadalcanal, which Robert Leckie described as “the direct and unpolished cry of a marine’s sardonic heart”:

”And when he gets to Heaven
To St. Peter he will tell:
One more Marine reporting, sir –
I’ve served my time in Hell.”

Our tour commenced at the landing site termed Red Beach, and it was one of many locations that required Stanley to request directions for a local lad ambling along the dirt roads. Almost every fighting site on Guadalcanal is not signposted, so finding these without a driver would be troublesome.

Passing across the bridges of the significant battle sites of the Ilu and Tenaru River (the latter installed by the Japanese as a token of cooperation and friendship with the local populace) we stopped adjacent to an area where substantial unexploded ordinances still prohibit access. Even 70 years after, the impact of war continues to affects the local community; so imagine the substantial effort still required in places such as Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia to fully free their land of dangers from wars fought less than four decades ago.

We journeyed to Edson’s Ridge, also known as Bloody Ridge, one of the key fields of battle. From here, I could gaze towards the airfield named by the US forces as Henderson Field, and in order to secure this place, 7,000 Allied (mostly US) and 31,000 Japanese lost their lives, in addition to the sinking of 25 ships apiece. We intended to continue further along Bloody Ridge when our passage was halted by a white car parked some distance ahead on the single-lane dirt road. Stanley quickly reversed the car and informed me that a few minutes earlier he heard rifle shots, and believed that these shots came from the occupants of this vehicle, who may have less than honourable intentions, so we continued our hasty retreat.

The Japanese memorial at Mount Austen was a key battleground surrounded by deep ravines and high peaks – particularly difficult fighting terrain. Stanley and I were the only people present, and so we entered the immaculate grounds reminiscent of the gardens in Japanese temples. This is an understated and moving place, with the only significant noise emanating from an enormous swarm of hundreds of buzzing bees that crossed our path.

The US Memorial is a bolder monument comprising of walls detailing the Guadalcanal conflict, with a large part of the ground emblazoned with the US forces star sitting atop the residual remains of an unknown soldier. A mother and her young children were also respectfully visiting the site, but a group of four in their late teens behaved the opposite, lounging on the memorial and playing music on a portable stereo. I am usually a tolerant person, but as the music increased in volume I stormed towards them and blurted, “No music, this is a memorial!” and both they and the music immediately fell silent. I can forgive a person who is accidentally disrespectful in a cultural sense, but no such tolerance is given when dealing with war memorials, regardless of whose side of the conflict it is dedicated.

The final portion of the tour saw visits to rusting relics of battle. The mostly submerged wreck of the Japanese transport Kinugawa Maru sat beneath an active surf, whilst the equally decayed remains of a US tank sat further inland in a vale surrounded by grassy hills that trapped the heat, so even in winter sweat formed on my body. The final site was the Vilu War Museum that contained numerous aircraft in various stages of disintegration, and a more intact array of Japanese artillery, whose shrieking, screaming shells were described as sounds bursting directly from the lowest level of Hell.

However, the tropical conditions will eventually cause these physical traces of the conflict to fall apart and vanish, but the tales of bravery, horror and lament from that time will endure; or as eloquently etched into stone on the US Memorial, “May this memorial endure the ravages of time until the wind, rain and tropical storms wear away its face but never its memories.”

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