Tropical Wanderings

How many love poems talk of that unspeakable connection between people that ricochets through those two windows to the soul? In the tiny tropical Kiribati, a string of islands that often feel forgotten in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, these moments made of glances are, even now years later, my most treasured memories.
Feeling adventurous my boyfriend and I attempted to walk from the tip of North Tarawa down to the south. We were dropped off in a little tinny at the tip and planned a two-day walk. Tawara is so thin and so low against the sea that we could always see water on both sides. Years ago, trucks used to run up and down North Tarawa, until the salt air got to them and they died, to lie rusting by the side of the road. No one really knew if we’d find a truck to catch, but we were content to walk. It was hot. We traversed the islets, wading across the passages where cool water from the ocean flows into the lagoon as the cumulus clouds delivered their bounty from the heavens. But the rain that evaporated immediately when the sun returned. It got hotter. After a couple of hours of this, I was a bit over our intrepid walking plans. The night before had been hellish. I’d tried to sleep, but was plagued incessantly by the devil in the form of one million mosquitoes, all, somehow, inside mosquito net. So it was with great joy that I heard the far off and unexpected sound of a truck. Heaving our backpacks up, we clambered in, smiling politely and sitting at the end of the tray. Then the trip began. We quickly realized that the ‘roads’ were 80 percent potholes, 20 percent road. Every time the truck went over a bump, my crossed legs unwound involuntarily and I bounced, unceremoniously, flailing my limbs in panic and clutching at the sides. After awkwardly trying to get comfortable and feeling the beginnings of bruises all over I looked across at the women riding serenely at the front and caught one’s eye. She looked at me for a split second and then dissolved into this great big joyous laugh that seemed to burst right out of her belly. And then I was laughing. And then with every bump our laughter became more hysterical until she motioned for me to join them at the front of the tray. We never spoke, we simply laughed and gestured and this made it all the more special. Later, in the Kiribati night, under a billion stars, I gazed out into the Milky Way, and thought fondly of that woman on that little archipelago sprouting from the depths of the Pacific.