The Rebublic of Kiribati (Kiritimati)

Christmas Island (Kiritimati) – The Republic of Kiribati



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For the last week Carly & I have been marooned on a desert island slap bang in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The island, Kiritimati, part of the Republic of Kiribati (pronounced Kir – ee- bas) is possibly the most improbable nation on Earth.

For those that, like me, had never heard of it – let me enlighten you. Located just a notch above the equator and five thousand miles from anywhere, Kiritimati is one of 33 lagoon atolls spread across an ocean area as large as the continental United States. The total landmass of these islands is about 300 hundred square miles, roughly the size of Newcastle-upon-Tyne and its suburbs, though it halves at high tide. Most of Kiribati’s landmass is found on Kiritimati (Christmas Island, where we are). What remains is not much. To picture Kiritimati, imagine that the continental US were to conveniently disappear leaving only land area equivalent to Newcastle and a vast swath of very blue ocean in its place. Now chop up Newcastle into thirty three pieces, place a neighbourhood where Maine used to be, where California once was, and so on until you have thirty three pieces of Newcastle dispersed in such a way so as to ensure that 32/33 of Newcastle United fans will never attend a Toon match ever again. Now take away electricity, running water, toilets, television, restaurants, buildings, and aeroplanes, (except for two very old prop planes, tended by people who have no word for “maintenance”). Replace with thatch. Flatten all land into a uniform two feet above sea level. Toy with islands by melting polar ice caps. Add palm trees. Sprinkle with Hepatitis A, B and C. Stir in Dengue fever and intestinal parasites. Take away doctors. Isolate and bake at a constant temperature of 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The result is the Republic of Kiribati.

We arrived a week ago.

Our first glimpse from 3000 feet as we descended – a startling fusion of incandescent greens and blues, lagoons upon lagoons. Ribbons of land stretching into the distance, bordered by the ocean on one side, and more lagoons on the other. Weaving channels exposing interesting swaths of land locked lagoons. Villages of thatch appeared, the land got closer and closer, then there was no more blue sky, just a wall of coconut trees. Any moment we expected contact, the hard bounce of wheels on the tarmac. And then … something was wrong. My inner ear was confused. My stomach lurched. The engines screamed. Carly’s hand gripped my arm, seeking comfort, finding none. We raced over the tarmac like a careering hovercraft, not quite making contact with the ground. Still flying. And then we began to ascend. Kiritimati gone. The blue ocean. The blue sky. Again. The pilot spoke: “ah sorry about that. There were pigs on the runway. We’ll just swing around and try again.”

The pilot’s voice revealed nothing. No tremor. No gulping for air. No crackling of the chords to indicate that we had very nearly met a most pathetic end, the unknown void, courtesy of pigs. We made a second approach, landed, and in the rush fleetingly saw children on the side of the runway, as if they had been playing in a cul-de-sac and had given way for a passing car. I absorbed this. We had departed a country where children are protected by helmets and body armour, and then only allowed to ride a bike in a carpeted living room, and now we had arrived in a country where children play on active runways.

We emerged from the plane and were immediately stricken by the heat. It was astonishing. A wonder of nature. A blazing force. As we melted, a handful of people dressed in the brightest of hues observed us from behind a steel fence separating two barn-like structures comprising departures, arrivals and immigration. “Welcome to Christmas Island” was painted, badly, on a sign which we estimate to date from the early 1300’s. The runway had now been reclaimed by children playing football, and a shirtless man cycling down it with a dog, eagerly pursuing 5 piglets…

With trepidation we approached the immigration desk. We didn’t have VISAs. After all, the representative for Kiritimati in Honolulu had said we didn’t need them (this after over 20 e-mails went without response, 14 phone calls without response, and an answer received only after walking 3 miles from the nearest bus stop in Honolulu to wake the bloke at his desk, in a dilapidated office building which has probably now fallen down). We handed over our passports and onward tickets, eagerly asserting that we were only staying for a week. After filling out 6 (though what felt like 10 million) forms for no apparent reason, we walked down a line of 6 people afraid that the roof of the shack that was immigration, was about to collapse too; but on us. One person to take each form - and the first clue that a lot of the jobs in this nation exist solely for the “sake” of it.

As we left the barn, we met Tinia, the manager of the Captain Cook Hotel who directed us into the back of a 1970s Ford pick up which took us for the bumpy 5 mile ride along dirt roads and to what was to be our weeks’ accommodation. On arrival one might expect that you’d have someone help you off with your luggage, maybe even help the lady off the back of the truck. But nope, not in Kiribati, the men loosened the back of the truck and we both perilously balanced our luggage while simultaneously performing a sort of bungee jump to the ground – well not like we bounced and all that, but I think you see what I mean. We were told to wait for a second or two in a situation not too dissimilar from Thailand a few months back. One of those moments where you just don’t have a clue what’s going on, you just find a seat and let everything happen around you. Ten minutes later we received our key and were hustled back onto the truck and driven a distance of approximately 400m around the back of the hotel to the ocean front bungalow (that’s putting it nicely) which was only about 10m from where we sat anyway. I know exactly what this week was to be like already – and we’d only been here fifteen minutes.

Without a clue how much this was costing us, or what was included, or anything for that matter, we quickly drew comparisons between our weeks’ abode and the formidable Belmarsh & Wormwood Scrub prisons. I daren’t even touch any of the switches, god forbid the sockets. But it wasn’t all bad. Most of it was worse. No I’m kidding - there was an air conditioning unit. But it didn’t work. In fact, neither did the lights. And come to think of it, the fridge isn’t on either. Could I charge my Macbook? What do you think?

It emerged that the island had been without electricity for a few days but that they were expecting it back on some time this month. Personally, I think the Christmas luminations are doubtful.

We settled in as best as we could, read a few pages of our books and by 7pm were sat in the dining room stroke former 1952 aircraft hanger that was to be the meal (well if you can call them that) location for the week. We soon met everyone else at the hotel, that being a New Zealander fisherman, a Japanese chap here to extract salt, and a family from Switzerland whose purpose of a holiday is to get to the most remote place they possibly can. After a reasonable meal of octopus and water the manager introduced the team that was to look after us for the week, all 16 of them, 9 more than the hotel had guests. And for the next 15 minutes we were the audience to their tribal singing, which I must say, was rather fitting for the location. I pondered how this might have sounded had Captain Cook heard such a menacing chant coming from the depths of coconut palms on his arrival and discovery of the island in 1777. Though to be honest, after having seen a handful of thatched shacks, only the hotel staff and minimal guests since my arrival I felt very much the intrepid discoverer. Though it might sound slightly colonial I felt like I should, and probably easily could considering Kiribati has no military (as what nation would actually want Kiribati?), plant my flag at the high point of the island (7 feet) and claim it as new British territory – in Queens English - “I here by, with gracious permission of Her Majesty Elizabeth, lay claim to this Island, and in so doing so, name it Lawro Island, after…well…me.”

In fact, until 1979 Kiribati was a British Colonial Territory, but quite rightly, in 1979, the British realised that Kiribati was the most pointless nation on Earth and didn’t warrant the time and effort colonial ties required and handed independence to the 33 atolls which then became today’s Republic of Kiribati. I think I quite like the logic (a) own the island since…well… sometime after 1777, then; (b) station a few thousand British troops on the island from 1953, cause we can, then; (c) drop a few atomic bombs on it, and the surrounding ocean and completely decimate anything that was here, then (d) drop a few more just to ensure there definitely isn’t anything left on it. And perhaps best by far; (e), team up with the Americans and launch ballistic missiles at the other uninhabited atolls and blow them up too, plus a few more onto Christmas Island, just to be doubly, doubly sure. After the Atomic Bomb Treaty came into effect banning experimentation with nuclear weapons in the 1970s, leave the island, sever all ties, and hand over independence; thus rendering the toxic island, mothballed in waste, to a bunch of Polynesian so called politicians who, of course, due top a wealth of experience with the intricacies of effective government know how to run a country…

And so here I am today, 30 years later.

After convincing Carly that having spiders as large as your palm, lizards crawling up the wall and two crabs lodged peaking up at you from the shower tray was entirely to be expected in equatorial climates we got our first nights’ sleep. Nothing but the ocean roaring over the coral and two crabs carefully placed on rocks outside, in 17 different pieces.

Until 3am we slept silently, then ‘ku-ching,’ we awoke suddenly with two lights flashing on, a fridge stirring into life and an air conditioning unit making noise equivalent to the reverse thrust of a 747. It looked like Tyrone down at the diesel generator had remembered not to put unleaded in this time.

The next day we woke early, after all breakfast is only served 5.30 am to 7 am. So in a place that has nothing to do, hotel “management” (ahem…) get you up even earlier so you are bored for even more of the day. Toast, but no butter, sausage, well we think it was, and warm milk with cereal (diluted milk too, thanks to the ice cubes.) I thought I needed to get into the Kiritimati way of things and decided to take a walk down the beach. Looking out towards the ocean it started to dawn just how remote this place is. Put it this way, between the US west coast and Hawaii, there is nothing. Not even a rock. That’s 3000 miles. Between Hawaii and Kiritimati, there’s nothing. That’s 5000 miles. In fact to get an idea of how remote this place is. Imagine a short wave radio. Something that I’m sure you’d agree, picks up innumerable radio stations and idle chitter chatter in a variety of different languages. Carefully spin the dial and most often you’ll hear a radio station from the middle east perhaps, then next a US station, or maybe even hit lucky on BBC World Service. Well not here on Kiritimati. Radio Bhutan, and for 30 seconds at 1am Folk Tunes from Bolivia on BBC World Service. Yes that’s right. For 30 seconds at some god forsaken hour, the climatic conditions are just perfect that, for a split second, a radio wave transmitted from the BBCs SW antennae in the Azores is beamed upwards into the stratosphere, over North America and bounces down onto a tiny, inceywincey coral atoll 5000 miles from anywhere in the middle of the biggest ocean known to man kind and crackling from a 0.01 watt speaker of my radio comes a terribly English voice proclaiming that the fiddle really is selling well in La Paz… until, and to my dismay, very quickly the sound merges back into that white noise the US like to play to Muslim people in Guantanamo Bay. Of course, Radio Bhutan is available 24/7.

Anyway, I digress. Later that day I spotted two white people about half mile down the beach with my binoculars. Curious, (frankly I thought I was hallucinating) I pounded down the beach – white people who I hadn’t already met at the airport I thought! I quickly introduced myself and it transpired that the two people were pilots from Australia and had the best job in the world. Picking up new airplanes that people had bought in far flung corners of the world, then flying them to the people that had bought them. This time they were heading from Kansas to Cairns in Australia. Kansas – California – Hawaii – Kiritimati – Samoa – Fiji – Cairns. Asking them to confirm that there was nothing in between Hawaii and the US West Coast, and between Hawaii and Kiritimati, their response was

“there is DEFINITELY nothing between either. We’ve had long enough to check that out.”

Considering the plane they were flying at the moment was a single prop Cessna I was inclined to believe them.

Day two we decided to take a “hotel organised” trip to London, the main village on the island (the others being Paris, Poland & Banana). So at 8.30 am up rocked a tiny pick-up, sporting some rather inappropriate leather seat covers 5 inches thick. So with our rear end hotter than the sun we began the 12 mile journey to London, down no other than the “A1” – another wonderful influence of the Great British. Now, our wonderful guide, Takayoko, I don’t think quite got my humour. “So you’re friends with Ono then?” Yoko Ono! Yoko! Get it! Get it!

I don’t think she did. Shame really as it was far better conversation than what she had to offer. “Now to your left is the world’s only double headed coconut tree”. “To your right is the Japanese Air Force Satellite tracking station”. I was otherwise mesmerized, by the only other part of the landscape that she didn’t seem to be proud of. The trails. Every quarter mile or so, little dusty trails going off through the salt trees and coconut palms, some the way of the ocean, some the lagoon. There had to be some storming five or ten mile runs to be had here.

After an average of 12 mph, for an hour, we eventually reached London. Three settlements of a few hundred shacks set affront the lagoon with blue hues not even Adobe Photoshop could produce. As it was school leaving time, hundreds of kids were pouring out onto the road, shoeless, staring inquisitively at us alien beings. Carly’s long blond hair, my David Hasselhough, and growing, mop, was certainly not order of the day here. Maudi (greetings) we heard shouted towards us from both sides of the road, waving. I began to realise that Lizzy Windsor must get incredibly sick of waving back. May be I could take this opportunity to tell everyone that I’ve just reclaimed the island and that you are now once again part of the Greatest nation of Earth. But then I quickly realised that it was pointless. These people have never even heard of Britain. The life expectancy is so short there is no one actually alive from the days of colonial rule in 1979. Plus I don’t think they know how to queue anyway.

After whipping around the end of London and being shown a shiny new diesel generator that was, unsurprisingly, not working, our driver began the trip back to the hotel. After not even one stop, and a 10 minute cruise through London I was quick to realise that a “stop off,’ as might be realistically incorporated into another country’s hotel excursions had probably never been heard of in the Republic of Kiribati and I began to quickly understand that I might have to leave exploration of this island to myself.

On our third day I awoke, washed my face, put my flip-flops on, opened the rear door, and it fell off. Well actually, it didn’t, but it should have judging by the look of it. What really happened was that it got stuck. Actually that didn’t happen either but it had happened to all the other rooms, imprisoning their occupants. What really, really happened was that I opened it on some Kiribati gentlemen, sporting a torn Hawaiian shirt from 1967, sat on his honkers digging a big hole in scorched earth - drier than Gandy’s flip flops, surrounded by tiny pieces of stone which littered the entire hotel site – the leftovers of the old British buildings from the 1950s after decades of weathering and eventual building disintegration. In a well-honed English accent I wished him a good day, but couldn’t help turning around and asking what on earth he was doing.

“That’s a big hole you’re digging” I chuckled.

“Fishing” he replied, all three yellow and black teeth protruding at awkward angles.

I quickly deduced English was not his forte, and that it was highly probable he was asking me a question, not giving me some reciprocal banter, so I replied,

“no, just here to see the sights” - quietly thinking to myself, “there are none”.

Realising that this conversation required a little more action I pointed and repeated “that’s a big hole you’re digging”.

“Ah” he said, “flowers”.

I stood silently for a second. Contemplating the likely hood of a flower surviving more than a nanosecond under the savage sun and replied, “wonderful, a great idea that’ll really brighten up the hotel. Have a good morning.” I walked off wondering whether I had accidentally swallowed some magic mushrooms during the night.

With breakfast closed, and the time being 06:55 I decided to take advantage of some knowledge I had acquired from the Australian pilots on our first day. Off we plodded to “John’s” hanger, one of only two white residents on the island. A Scotsman he was! Bow and arrow in hand, I was still quite taken aback that a Scotsman resided in Kiribati. Half a mile up the road we met John outside his gas/food/recycling/car hire/bike hire/money exchange/storage business/import/export/everything business and quickly learnt that he had lived here since 1969. Easily making him the oldest person on the island. John was to become an invaluable contact over the week that we were to be on Christmas Island. That afternoon I rented a motorbike from him. A limited risk I thought. After all, there was only three cars, eight motor bikes and four pick up trucks on the island. And only one bike and a car actually worked. I thought the only way I’ll injure myself here is if I do something stupid.

So off at my own pace, I made my way back to London. I had spotted an ANZ (Australia & New Zealand) bank mid way through London. Now don’t deduce from this that Kiribati is in any shape or form a developed nation. In fact, if I mention that it has an ATM outside, and that when I put my Nationwide debit card in, entered my pin, requested $200 AUS, and waited as it successfully made contact with England, authorised the transaction, gave me my card, then my $200 – even though I tell you all this, and even though I can’t believe even now it all worked, all from London, a tiny village in a tiny nation, on a tiny island, thousands of miles from anywhere, this does not mean that this nation is part of today’s modern world. That was an unequivocal exception. That night I fell asleep pondering how we again had lost electricity, found a crab behind the fridge, a centipede in the lampshade, a dead flower outside our back door, yet had managed to draw out $200 from my bank account in England. I thought I’d seen it all over this cumulative 6 months travelling. Oh how much more was to come…

By the middle of the week we were getting into the routine of things and getting to know a few more things about the island. John had leant us a couple of books on the history of Christmas Island and I’d had another ride down to London on the motorbike where I’d met Kim, the second, and only other, white resident of the island. Kim owned Dive Kiribati, a scuba diving, snorkelling & fishing business from a couple of thatched shacks which also doubled as his home, right on the lagoon. As Californian as you can imagine, Kim was fairly blunt about the future of Kiribati.

“Totally unsustainable. You’ve got 250 new people a month arriving by ship from Tarawa”, the much smaller, island capital of Kiribati.

“There’s not enough water, there are no jobs, there’s no sanitation, the government is corrupt, you only venture into the hospital to die; I mean have you seen it?” Sensing that we were both thinking along the same lines I replied that our rather disappointing ‘village tour’ had enlightened us as to the state of Christmas Island medical care – “there were two people in white overalls asleep outside the front of a shed fronted with a sign that said ‘Operating Theatre,” I mentioned.

“That’s the one”, he chuckled.



After taking to this guy’s sense of humour I decided to book us in for a half days’ snorkelling. The offer of swimming with dolphins, manta rays and seeing abundant coral was too much to refuse, and it was $200 cheaper than going through the increasingly incompetent Captain Cook Hotel. Their price often changing with the direction of the wind.

On the morning of the next day Carly rode pillion and down to London we sped, successfully crushing sixteen crabs – three up from Friday. After excess motorcycle fume inhalation Carly was feeling decidedly worse for wear, made even worse by the numerous bacteria contained in the Captain Cook’s chicken and rice of the previous evening. I hoped I wasn’t going to fall victim later on, after also breaking with Kim’s ‘golden Captain Cook rule:’ “only EVER eat the fish”. Kim was fantastic as guide and took us to the Paris flats, an area renowned among fisherman the world over for its bone fishing, where I snorkelled among hundreds of tropical fish seen only through Perspex glass in the UK. With the water temperature at 29.4 degrees centigrade we made our way to Cook Island and then on into the lagoon where we saw hundreds of spinner dolphins. Now I thought dolphins only jumped up out of the water and swam alongside you in the movies. But on first sight Kim urged me into the water and said in no uncertain terms,

“catch hold of that black rope. Tight.”

Hanging onto the side of the boat, head under water I was catapulted through the lagoon at a dolphin’s snail pace. But watching them swim less than three feet away from me, hearing their playful high pitched call underwater, and then later seeing them jump and spin up out of the water, under and around the boat was magical.

The rest of the week was spent in a state of complete, total and utter, rest and relaxation. I mean I even managed to almost finish Bill Clinton’s autobiography. But occupying my time more than anything, even running, was a book called “The Sex Lives of Cannibals” leant to me by Kim, our American snorkelling guide. Written by a quarter Czech/Dutch/American/Bulgarian bloke called Martin Troost, he recites his memories of two years spent living in the Republic of Kiribati on Tarawa island. On giving this book to me Kim said that it was the most accurate depiction of Kiribati life there is. One particular story stands out, and perhaps above all, reflects the Kiribati way of things when he describes the plight of Air Kiribati.

With a fleet of two turbo props they ran domestic and international services to the other islands, Honolulu, New Zealand, Fiji and Samoa. But in the late 1990s so many of their pilots had been arrested, their planes impounded and corruption investigated that could no longer fly. Planes were covered in masking tape to hide damage, pilots didn’t have pilot’s licences, hence their arrest and some planes were flown in such appalling condition that they were refused to be allowed to take off from Sydney and Honolulu. Eventually all their planes had been impounded. This is perhaps not surprising for a Kiribati government owned airline when one considers that for five months of the year the government suspends all activity in order to allow the different departments to compete, through dance, yes dance, to determine which department will get the most money for the year. This probably explains why so much of the country is falling apart.

Our week has, without doubt, been an experience. But as I write this now sat in seat 19F on the way to Nadi, Fiji I am glad that we took the time to visit this outrageous nation. Back I’m sure I will be, one day….