Some trips are just more interesting than others. Some places more unique. Some experiences which unexpectedly reach out and pull you in. Tuvalu was one of those places and one of those trips for me. I have a small obsession with visiting atolls, the island nations that are likely to be the most impacted by climate change and the first that will suffer severely due to sea level rise, possibly to the extent that the islands disappear completely. The Marshall Islands, the Maldives, Kiribati and Tuvalu. Tuvalu was the last on my list to visit and not extremely easy to get to with only two flights arriving on the island each week via Fiji.
I planned my trip to the utmost perfection last fall. After working in Chuuk for a few months I would fly to Hawaii, then American Samoa, then Samoa for an assignment, onto Fiji for an overnight layover and to Tuvalu. Then five days later back to Fiji and onward to Hawaii. The dates/times/flights/hotels matched up perfectly. But we know these things never work out that way, especially when island travel is concerned…during cyclone season (I always tell myself I should pay more attention to things like cyclone season when I’m planning equatorial trips…but so far I don’t every time).
My flight out of Chuuk was delayed due to the travel restrictions and then my Hawaii flight was delayed due to a cyclone. My flight out of American Samoa was three days later because of another cyclone, which meant pushing the rest of the trip back so I could complete my assignment. I ended up changing eight flights total and paid almost as much in change fees as the flights cost to begin with (well…almost, a lot of frequent flier miles were involved too.)
Either way, when I finally arrived in Tuvalu it felt like I’d already accomplished something big. Maybe that’s part of the reason I love travel so much, it whittles life down into this very minor successes that seem huge. You appreciate things you otherwise would have never considered. I still remember wandering the streets of Montevideo, Uruguay a long time ago in search of a post office to get a stamp and mail a postcard (to myself btw) very nearly missing my departure ferry back to Argentina. Yes, I spent an entire day in Uruguay frantically trying to mail a letter (knowing very little Spanish) with the determination most would save for a much more critical task. I did finally mail the postcard (to myself) and I got to the ferry before departure. Small successes are huge when you don’t know where you are, you cannot speak the language, and when all the handsome men smile at your terrible attempt at Spanish, no comprende, and point you in the wrong direction.
I am wondering off topic. Tuvalu was a really rare kind of place. The tiny atoll, where in some parts of the thin island you can almost leap from ocean side to lagoon side, with one small road lead from end to end. I rented a bicycle (kwaj habits die hard) and made my way in the sweltering heat towards the northern end my first day. I always find myself comparing new places to those I’ve been to before, a sometimes bad habit I wish I could break. It’s hard not to take newness and unknown and try to make it familiar, a coping technique to wrap our minds around the unfamiliar. So, of course, my seeking to familiarize my new destination conjured up memories of the Marshall Islands (but with motorbikes) and of walking around Kiribati, both narrow islands hardly above sea level.
Reminiscent of many poor Pacific Island nations, parks of old shipping containers helped build houses with corrugated metal walls and roofs and sometimes a whole container being used as a building or structure. Colorful laundry brightened the monotonous green foliage and blue ocean views. A rainbow of vibrant flower pattern dresses and t-shirts with messages of far away; the undesired second hand Salvation Army donations with messages of class reunions and charity walks from literally thousands of miles away were hanging out to dry or laying out on mats.
Motorbikes zoomed passed me. I actually prefer walking through a new place. I find I take more in at a slow pace. But while the island was thin, it was long (and it was tremendously hot outside). So I pedaled my bike aiming for patches of shade under the palm trees on either side of the road and embraced any small breeze. Nearing the end of the island I came to a fence, unsure if I had permission to pass, but it was open and I didn’t see anyone around, so I continued. The road turned to dirt and I started to notice crushed cans and plastic bits of garbage on the ground. Looking around it soon became evident that I was at the dump. I could still see from side to side of the island but what was in between was a mound of trash.
The environmentalist inside me died a little. I could hear the roar of ocean waves to one side and it wouldn’t take much wind or a storm to blow that water up and over the island, into the dump and take with it the trash either into the lagoon or back to the open ocean. Even while I stood there staring at the trash the calm wind grabbed bits of plastic and carried them right into the water. I suppose I don’t have a better solution of how these people should deal with their trash. But this did not seem a very good one.
The lovely woman who picked me up when I landed in Tuvalu asked me if I had any plans for the night (I didn’t) and she invited me to “join her congregation.” I thought she invited me to church, and I enjoy attending island worshiping ceremonies which often have singing and flowers and colorful Hawaiian-style shirts and dresses (and you usually need an invite). It was a Monday, so I wasn’t sure what would be happening on a Monday night, but she said there would be singing and local dancing.
Returning from my bike ride sweaty, sunburnt and tired; I jumped in the shower to get ready. Even in the hottest of places cold water showers always feel shocking to me, how is it that water could possibly feel that cold when it’s a million degrees outside? Like on most Pacific islands women needed have their knees and shoulders covered. I put on a long skirt and shirt with sleeves and went to wait for my ride.
My lovely host arrived on a motor bike and she seemed to skip off it, running up to me and placing a flower wreath on my head. It smelled fantastic. She told me to wait a few minutes, she needed to have a cigarette and her husband didn’t like it when she smoked, so she had to do it before we got there. When she finished she climbed back on the bike and motioned me to climb on behind her. I was probably supposed to sit side-saddle, but I didn’t care to be Tuvualu-road-kill so I got on and held on for dear life and she sped through the winding roads while other motorbikes zoomed by. In Tuvalu they “sort of” drove on the left side, but often it seemed everyone just clung to the middle, scooting over to the side at the very last minute when necessary to avoid head on collisions.
Arriving at the maneapa, or meeting house, which is an open air structure with pillars around the outside and another layer of pillars inside. The floor was concrete and woven grass mats were laid on the floor. There were women bustling around setting up tables and laying out food and as people arrived most sat crossed legged around out outer edge of the building. A few men sat within the center rectangle. Children played, as children do, running around and peeking in through the window-like openings, finally taking their places seated next to their families.
The sky turned the rich color of a pink tropical drink and I could hear the ocean waves breaking on the shore only a few hundred feet from us. There wasn’t much of a breeze but any wisp of cool air felt fantastic against the hot, humid evening. I sat next to my host and met her husband who soon would move to the center with the other higher-ranking men. The women waved woven fans constantly to cool themselves and I wished I had one.
While I was properly clothed so to not be over-revealing, I was not color-appropriate. I was surrounded by bright green or purple flower-print. The men wore Hawaiian-style button up shirts of the color and pattern of their village and dark sarongs. The women were in mumus or other types of long dresses. I soon realized there were two villages present, one was purple and the other was green. I was with the green side. I also very quickly realized the skirt I was wearing, while long enough, was much too tight to comfortably sit crossed legged in. I should have worn my sarong.
The evening started with the head pastor giving a prayer and talking. It was all in Tuvluan, so I did not understand, but there was occasional laughter, so he must have been keeping his sermon light. Once he finished the higher-ranking men in the inner area each talked. My host said they were community leaders, her husband being a police officer. Basically this was a community meeting as well as church service. Prayers were said and community news dispersed.
This occurred toward the end of February and the coronavirus pandemic was only just starting. One of the only words I recognized throughout the evening was “coronavirus” and my host told me they were discussing stopping all incoming flights to prevent the virus from reaching their islands. (As of today, April 8th, Tuvalu still has no cases.) When I arrived you could not get on the plane to Tuvalu if you had been anywhere in the last 14 days that had cases. When I arrived I still had not been to a country with cases (Hawaii wouldn’t get a case until three weeks after I had passed through, although the mainland USA already had cases).
When the talking was finished, the food began. A literal feast was set up and people had brought their own plates and utensils, my host providing a set for me. There was coconut covered taro and many types of fish, breadfruit chips, rice, fruits and plenty more. It reminded me of a luau in Hawaii.
Then the main event started. Men came out with wood boxes, about 4ftx4ft and maybe 10 inches high. They covered these boxes with the woven mats and the men sat around them. More men and women sat around them (the purple on one side of the room, the green on the other.) At the edges were both men and women dancers in grass skirts and decorated with flowers on their heads and around their necks.
The purple side started. Slowly speaking words starting a low-toned, slow song with light drumming on the box at the center. After completing one round of the song they started to speed up, the drumming dictating the speed. The dancers told the story through their hands and swaying. The third time, faster and louder and the fourth or fifth chorus the room was filled with loud singing, fast drumming and cheering. This would continue repeating, louder and faster, until you just about thought they were finished and someone from the group started up another round. When they finished for real, it was the green side’s turn.
The green started the same way. Slow and soft, then louder and faster. Each side sang for 20-30 minutes before passing the game back to the other side. The contest was who sang, drumed, and danced the best. When the songs were at their height occasionally an older man or woman would stand up and dance and sing loudly with face and arms raised to the sky, similar to gospel blues choirs in the south. Also throughout the songs people from the other side wouldwalk over to the singing side with bottles of perfume and spray the dancers and some singers. I tried to find out what the meaning of this was the next day, but no one could explain it to me (one person told me, “it’s just perfume, you can buy it at the store over there.”) But why? What is the meaning? We can travel and see things, but we will never fully understand.
Around 10pm my knees started to ache. I consider myself a fairly flexible person with plenty of yoga in my life, but sitting for hours in the same positing with my legs crossed in my too-tight skirt turned out to be incredibly difficult. (Who would have thought?) I kept trying to move slightly, putting one foot to the top of my other leg and switching the top foot every once in a while. How did these women do this for so long sitting on this unforgiving cement floor? I started to notice some of the women moving so that the knees were together and bent with legs and feet pointing backwards, I adjusted into that position for a little while and just change position helped a little.
The purple vs green Sing-Off/Dance-Battle continued on and on. I started to wonder for how long it would keep going. At one point the head pastor paused the singing and seemed to critique each side (but never actually taking sides) of who he thought was better, but praising both (I’m making a lot of this interpretation up because none of it was in English, but I think that’s what was going on.) On the flight home I was reading one of the only books I could find on Tuvalu and the author said these would go on until dawn.
I did not make it until dawn. Around 1am I politely excused myself to my host and walked back in the dark under a million stars to my hotel. I had left Fiji that morning at 6am, getting up around 3am. I was entirely exhausted, but happy I went. It was one of the few times I felt like I was allowed to watch an event that happened without the influence of outsiders. So often in the Pacific you get to watch the beautiful dancing and hear the lovely singing, but at a show put on for tourists. This felt real and it was truly a privilege to be there.
The next day with my knees aching from sitting crossed legged for so long and much of the rest of my body hurting from riding a very uncomfortable bike for most of the day, I decided to rent a motorbike. How hard could it be, right? When the man came to give me the keys he asked, “You do know how to ride one of these, right.” I’m really not very good at lying and he audibly laughed when I said, “Yeah, I think so, can you just show me how to start it.” He also showed me how to shift gears. Wait…shift gears? When exactly do you shift gears? I think I could still hear him laughing as I pulled out of the drive way an onto the road. (and yes, I don’t recommend this at all.)
Luckily, Tuvalu has only a few roads that are all straight with no hills and not much traffic. The many, large speed bumps were terrifying though. I headed in the opposite direction of my bike ride the day before, passing the runway and ending up where the island ended on the other side. I parked the bike (realizing when I came back that I left the key in the ignition and I was really lucky no one stole it) and walked out to the blindingly white beach made of bits of smooth-polished coral. I could see another island in the distance and I set up my drone to try and get some shoots only to be denied take-off because I was too close to the airport. Dear DJI – Tuvalu receives two flights a week and you do not list Tuvalu on your country list, so it is impossible to request an override to be able to fly. Very disappointing.
After spending a lot of time attempting to get the drone to fly I finally gave up and headed back to my bike, cautiously making my way back to the hotel and then off in the other direction back to the dump. The very end of that side of the island was just out of the no fly zone and I managed to get it up and flying.
The plane only comes in twice a week and the runway (the largest/longest) part of the island serves many purposes. My last night, exhausted by heat and my uncertainty on riding a motorbike, I contemplated an early dinner and sleep before my flight, but at the last minute got back on the motorbike and headed back to no-drone-land to watch the sunset. While many people were out and about during the day, it was clear as the sun was setting and temperatures cooling, everyone came out. The runway was now a place full of activity with joggers exercising using the runway as a track circle, there were football (soccer) games, even a volleyball net was set up. Motorbikes were parks everywhere with kids and adult played as if it was a recreation center, not an empty runway. They mingled, some hadfood and drinks. Atoll islanders never cease to amaze me. Make the most of every bit of limited space.
At the far west end of the island I rode until I could go no further, parked the bike (took the key out this time to prevent it being stolen and having to walk back) and walked out over white coral rocks polished smooth by the seas. The sky turned yellow and then fire orange, pink and finally dark purple, turning out to be quite spectacular. I started walking back before it got too dark (I wasn’t ready for night motorbike riding) and low and behold two expats were walking along the coral trail. The woman exclaimed, “A person we don’t know!” and we chatted a bit until the darkness and threat of death by motorbike persuaded me back to my lodging.
They were Australian volunteers and had previously worked in the Federated States of Micronesia on Pohnpei. (Small world.) After mentioning my employment in Chuuk they told me how, strangely enough, they were booked on the Air Nugini flight that missed the runway and crashed in Chuuk recently. How strange to be on a rarely visited island talking about an obscure plane crash on another hardly-known island. So many people know nothing of Tuvalu or Chuuk and here I was, among people familiar with both. I found it interesting, as they continued their story, that an argument amongst them prevented their getting on the plane. Was it one of those serendipitous moments of fate?
To clear children, motorbikes, and pigs from the runway before the plane arrives, a siren is sounded about 20 minutes before the plane lands. Then again about 10 minutes out, and finally continuously throughout the actual event of the plane landing. Despite rumors of Tuvalu shutting its airborne doors that morning in hopes of stopping coronavirus from getting in (being stranded on islands seemed to be my theme lately) the plane did arrive and I got on it. I could have stayed a few more days, I was quite entranced by this tiny island.