I’m on an atoll in Kiribati, 1.5-4 hours boat ride from Tarawa (depending on the boat and how crowded  it is), or a 10-minute plane ride, or a few centuries back in the look of palm-leef houses and the social-organization of the villages (fairly modern in the models of Chinese motorcycles and Huawei phones, however)  I’m sitting in a maneaba (dining hall, gathering place) of a mini village belonging to the family of the husband of a young couple that is hosting me. The village straddles the island from the lagoon side to the ocean side i.e. a distance of some couple of hundred meters. My little traditional palm-leaf/bamboo hut is above the water. I climb into it by walking on an inclined ladder then crawling through a narrow doorway. A mosquito-netted bed takes most of the straw floor through which you can watch the tide go in and out. A modern addition to the hut is the little well shaded balcony which you have to lower yourself to by about a meter without a ladder. The balcony, and the grounds of the little “resort” are sunset facing. Last night’s didn’t disappoint. I watched it while chatting with the couple and watching their year-and-a-half old super-happy-baby daughter – a deadringer for the girl in the original Monsters Inc movie.

I just finished breakfast consisting of thin pancakes, a pile of ground coconut and 4 pieces of ripe papaya. The coconut for the win! After a couple of weeks of getting real coffee in places where I woke up, I am back to my Organic Sierra Madre de Chiapas fair-trade shade-grown Cali coffee (OK, I have no clue about the conditions it was grown or how it was traded but it sounds good). The water is rain boiled with lemon grass hence the coffee tastes strange. Not bad just not like coffee, Jeremiah’s Pick and all…

I landed in Tarawa on Christmas Day and was promptly picked up by Richard, a tall skinny older Brit of nervous demeanor, Hugh-Grant-speech pattern and a vast knowledge of Kiribati. He was born here and only moved to UK for high school somewhere in the 1970’s, then returned 30 years ago… His place is called Dreamers and looks like a private house with 3 rooms to rent, each filled with old books and interesting tchatcki. He has one of those old portable AC’s that does the job well. The evening was so hot and humid and when I managed to get the little thing to work, I was very pleasantly surprised.

A beautiful older Kiribati lady Beta (presumably Richard’s wife but I am not sure; there were a few people in their large open space living room that hung out comfortably the relation between whom was very unclear) served me a simple rice, veggies chicken dish for $10 Australian. Begger/non-chooser, I devoured it. Then, I took off for a walk around the island in the dark. Much like Tuvalu which at one point was part of Kiribati, Tarawa is an atoll, long and skinny, and it consists of several islands all of which are well populated and all of which are connected by causeways. From the airport on the southern-most tip of the South Tarawa, we only crossed 1 long causeway so I guess I stayed on the 2nd island. The following day, on the way to the Betio Harbor, we passed at least 4 more causeways and there is a number more, the one road is all paved very nicely, even a little pedestrian path on sometimes one and sometimes the other side. Driving is on the left, just like the Solomons, Tuvalu, Fiji, Tonga… a vestige from the British colonial days. Richard was explaining how the island grew since he was a kid. On both sides but especially the lagoon side, people build a sea wall, use the area to deposit vast amounts of modern indestructible garbage, fill it with rocks and sand et voila: new land. 

In my 9pm walk, I passed by the house of parliament built in the shape of an outrigger canoe (or an overturned canoe and 2 sail ships, no idea what the architect’s intent was, both of these are my guesses) but built on one of those landfills.

I like going into convenience stores in various countries and seeing what they sell. Here, little stores (they can’t be corner stores since there is only one street and it is straight) are wooden kiosks on stilts. The offering is small but essential. I dropped by one, run by a lovely and friendly lady named Esther (didn’t realize this was such a common name). Esther’s shop featured everything from Spam, Nindo milk powder and  every type of everything made from sugar to birthday candles, plungers, tweezers and flip-flops.

A great night sleep later in Richard’s room of sundry tchatchki and fabulous aircon, I stepped out on the landfilled garden protruding into the lagoon and overlooking a long causeway. I walked on what were once sandbags (now large perfectly identical rocks) looking at the fishing expedition of a heron right  below me and a frantic research mission of a few sooty terns between my landfilled balcony and a little island 200m away.

A few clouds in the sky and a bright sunshine illuminating the lovely sea colors, some garbage piles and a couple of curious pigs at the neighbor’s property. A Norwegian couple smoking at the table in front of their room was cool and friendly. They were hopping about the South Pacific on their way to Australia to visit her daughter. She looked more Korean than Norwegian, gorgeous woman, and mega interesting to talk to. 

Fascinating thing who we do and do not like talking to on our trips. well, not we, me. Let’s do an inventory (long live homeric digressions!):

• Local women. Any, really. If their English and/or shyness about their English allow, they are very curious, sweet and helpful. And I love learning about what and how they do things.
• Local men. Provided they are not assholes.
• Women travelers. I find women travelers to usually be more practical, pragmatic, insightful and the conversations with them are usually nice exchanges without the overt bragging that men tend to do.
• Men travelers are very low on this list. As a rule, they tend to get into a pissing contests about diving or travel or experiences. On rare occasion, I meet male travelers who are interesting, easy going, and whose observations are interesting. I meet people who are on long trips and those men, if younger, can be a great source of information. The older ones are often just curmudgeons who used to really enjoy travel when younger but now should probably pick a different hobby.

OK, back to Tarawa. 

I had decided not to hang around Tarawa too long but instead to make it to Abaiang the first chance I had. So, after paying my bill, I crossed a few causeways and made it to Betio harbor. We went into the ticket office for the ferry to Abaiang but the lady at the office said that she had no idea whether or not there are still tickets available but to go straight to the boat. That made little sense at the time (being that it was a ticket office) but later I understood why. Well, it was only after I waded through waist-deep rain puddles, climbed onto the peer, climbed onto a big green-box boat, then lowered my big gray suitcase and myself through a tiny porthole and down a ladder into a crowded cabin. The boat I was inquiring about and ended up taking was supposed to leave 2 dayrs ago. Alas, rain and Christmas interfered. And being that is a norm in these parts, people were pretty chill about it. Well, not exactly chill: kids were running around screaming and killing each other, moms were screaming at the kids, grannies fussing and giving the kids endless supply of sugary snacks… Much sugar rushing goes on Kiribati (not dissimilar from the Solomons, Tuvalu…). Candy seems to be a staple diet. Little sea-through pouches of red sticky liquid are consumed massively. Grounds of Honiara, Tuvalu, Munda, and yea Tarawa are covers in the squeezed out baggies. Adults indulge in those as well… Anywaho, the commotion had nothing to do with the fact with the fact that people had to wait 2 days to travel to Abaiang. It happens, they say.

We all hang out coupes up inside the green aluminum box with the temperature easily at 40 Celzius… Waiting… Waiting for the marine police to inspect the boat and give it permission to sail… “So where are they?” – I ask. Oh he is probably still sleeping. It’s Christmas, after all, people tell me… OK. Finally a disheveled guy in flower-pattern trunks and a wife-beater T descends the ladder and starts counting humans. Apparently satisfied he leaves and the motors are turned on. Oh the engine is leaking oil so we will have to move very slowly… Crossing should take about 4 hours instead of 2. Super!

I climb on top leaving all my luggage in the metal bunker below, passport and cash be damned. (a sweet mom with a baby and her mama swear to guard it with their lives)

The breeze on top is sweet. We slowly glide through the Tarawa lagoon passing semi submerged rusty barges of various shapes and levels of decrepitude. 

Further we move, the more flying fish. I love watching flying fish and counting how far they fly… I think it was in Belize that they were serving them as a menu item. That made me endlessly sad.

My companion on the top is this marine-police officer, on his way home to Abaiang. His job is to make sure that no fishing boat gets a free ride in the Kiribati waters. Fishing is the main income. They are not particularly limiting the catch but they make sure it is well paid for. He says no trolling is allowed. But that they only have one patrol boat. The radar monitors the fishing boats in the Kiribati waters so it is safe, he says. But what if illegal fishing is happening and it is too far for the Marine Police’s patrol boat? He mumbles something then changes the subject to  bragging about the various conferences his government sends him on around the world. I was tuning in and out but remember 2 amusing tales: In San Diego, his colleague was hospitalized but upon hearing how much the hospital bill was, he helped him escape the US. When he was in Washington DC, his cabby drove him to a wrong Holiday Inn somewhere in the suburbs and he missed the first day of the conference. 

He then went on to tell me how his wife’s store provides everything anyone on Abaiang needs, how they also have a Kava Bar and how his wife is thinking of running for office. His older son is in school in New Zealand and the younger one is in Fiji. He works in Tarawa but leaves work every Thursday morning to go home. He returns Sunday night. Hard-working man! 🙂

He also tells me that I am on a wrong boat and that the faster boat that docks near the place where I’ll be staying leaves later than we did but will get there sooner. That actually happened.

We finally arrived and there is no jetty for the boat to stop so a small metal boat picks up passengers and their endless luggage and takes them to shore, almost tipping over every load. 6 shuttles and and an hour and a half later everyone and everything is on land. A truck that takes passengers to the other end of the island keeps waiting for everyone to load… Everyone loads then the guy who was sitting behind the wheel steps out and locks the truck. “Are we not leaving?” I dare ask (no one else does). Oh the driver is still sleeping. We’ll go when he wakes… Huh? OK, the driver wakes half hour later. “Are we leaving?” He ignores me and walks away… Everyone is still sitting on top of the truck. 2 boys are beating the third and feeding him sand. A small kid keeps yelling “Gatau” at me… About 256 times… First 50, I responded smilingly and lovingly saying “Hey!” then just ignored him which made him yell way louder… I’m in hell!

Finally this guy on a motorcycle drives over and asks if I am Dani. Why sure! “I’m Kaboua.” The owner of the establishment where I’ll be staying?! Yay! “I only have a motorcycle so leave your luggage on the truck and I’ll take you to Tarau. I’m watching the kids jump up and down on my suitcase… dive equipment, computer, French press and all… Sure, I shrug and we speed away.

The bag arrived an hour later. I was sitting with Kaboua’s wife Sinei, their baby girl and his grandmother sipping coconut when the momentous event occurred…

The place is super simple. Much like the rest of the villages on the island, it is built of palm branches and leaves with straw floors on stilts above the lagoon. A large manawa in the middle for hanging out. Outdoor toilet and shower next to the road…

I drink a pitcher of water and inhale a bag of crackers. I recover from the looney trip and go for a 2-hour swim in the high tide in the lagoon. The water is milky at high tide. It is also hotter than the swimming pool at Siereaville hot springs. 

The night was full of stars so bright that they illuminated the surface of the lagoon. New-moon nights are so magical in places without light pollution.