Introduction: A Pearl in the Pacific
Every time I pronounce the word “Kiribati,” the sound rolling off my tongue brings a sense of comfort. The capital city of Tarawa, one of 33 atolls scattered across this Pacific nation, is a narrow strip of land floating on the endless blue ocean. At its narrowest point, it measures only a few dozen meters across. On one side stretches the calm waters of the lagoon, while on the other, ocean waves crash endlessly against the shore.
This land is home to traditional meeting houses called “Te Aba” in I-Kiribati, which serve as community centers. Since the days when it was known as the Gilbert Islands, Micronesian and Polynesian cultures have intersected here, nurturing a unique cultural heritage. Coconut and pandanus trees blanket the island, and for centuries, the people have lived in harmony with the sea.
While this nation has recently drawn attention due to rising sea levels from climate change, what drew me here was the allure of its tranquility and the warmth of its people. I wanted to step away from the rush of daily life and find myself in a place where time flows at a different pace, where I could reconnect with my inner self.
Day 1: Welcomed by the Song of the Wind
The moment I stepped off the plane at Bonriki International Airport via Nadi, warm, humid air caressed my cheeks. The airport was surprisingly small, with the blue sea visible beyond the runway. After completing immigration procedures, I took a taxi to my accommodation in Bairiki. Along the way, the driver Temao shared stories about the island in broken English.
“It’s narrow here, so nowhere takes long to reach. But it’s also a place where you forget about time.”
Having arrived in the morning, I dropped off my luggage at the guesthouse and decided to explore the surrounding area on foot. The accommodation was a small guesthouse run by a local family, with papaya and banana trees planted in the garden. While sipping coconut coffee prepared by the owner Nei, I felt my heart flutter with anticipation for the journey ahead.
As midday approached, I walked through central Bairiki. Though the roads were paved, coral fragments were scattered everywhere, mixed with red earth. In the shops, Chinese merchants minded their stores, with canned goods, rice, and seasonings crammed into every available space. At the local market where residents gathered, fresh fish and vegetables were being sold. Particularly striking were the fish fillets sold in giant clam shells used as bowls.
I had lunch at a small restaurant near the market. At a shop with a sign reading “Te kai ni Kiribati,” I ordered a plate of local cuisine. On white rice sat fish stewed in coconut milk and a paste made from pandanus fruit. The fish was delicate and refined in flavor, with the coconut’s sweetness creating perfect harmony. The woman at the shop greeted me with “Mauri” (hello), and when I responded with the greeting I’d just learned, she smiled warmly.
In the afternoon, I ventured to the Betio district. Known as a fierce battleground during World War II, this place still bears traces of war. Rusted tanks and cannons are scattered about, with memorial monuments standing quietly. Sitting in the shade of palm trees, listening to the sound of waves, I reflected on the history sleeping beneath this peaceful landscape. The stories shared by a local guide about wartime were heavy, yet they conveyed the strength of people who had overcome difficulties to live until today.
As evening approached, I strolled along the lagoon near my guesthouse. At low tide, the setting sun reflected on the shallow water surface, with orange light dancing across the water. Local children ran barefoot through the shallows, catching small fish with their hands and laughing joyfully. Watching their innocent smiles, I truly felt how slowly time was flowing here.
For dinner, I ate with Nei’s family in the guesthouse garden. There was fish grilled over charcoal, steamed taro, and a salad made with vegetables grown on the island. During the meal, Nei’s daughter sang a traditional song for me. The beautiful melody in I-Kiribati resonated in the night sky, with distant wave sounds seeming to harmonize with it. Though I couldn’t understand the words, the emotions embedded in that singing voice certainly reached me.
Before bed, I looked up to see a canopy of stars spread across the sky, impossible to see in urban areas. The Southern Cross shone clearly, with the Milky Way stretching across the island’s sky. I fell into deep sleep with the sound of waves as my lullaby.
Day 2: Gifts from the Sea and Coconut Palms
I woke on the second morning to the sound of roosters crowing. Bright sunlight was already streaming through the window, and I could hear palm fronds rustling in the wind. Breakfast was simple: bread and tea, with freshly picked papaya. The fruit’s sweetness soaked pleasantly into my morning body.
In the morning, I joined local fisherman Tokani on his boat to observe traditional lagoon fishing. The handmade wooden canoe was more stable than it appeared, and with Tokani’s skillful navigation, we glided quietly across the calm water surface. He was using a hand-woven net inherited from his grandfather.
“You mustn’t take too many fish. Only take what you need.”
Tokani’s words contained deep understanding about coexisting with nature. When we pulled up the net, several palm-sized fish were caught. He returned one to the sea, explaining, “Still too small.”
The lagoon’s transparency was astonishing, with the seabed several meters deep clearly visible. Colorful tropical fish swam among the coral reefs, making it feel like being inside a giant aquarium. Borrowing a snorkel mask for a brief dive, I was able to see a large Napoleon fish swimming majestically past.
Before noon, we returned to shore, and I was invited to Tokani’s home for lunch made with the freshly caught fish. His wife Maria prepared fish wrapped and steamed in coconut leaves. When the leaves were opened, the fish was moist and tender, with the coconut aroma whetting my appetite. The accompanying taro had a simple sweetness with a texture similar to Japanese satoimo.
In the afternoon, I experienced the island’s traditional crafts. Maria taught me mat weaving using pandanus leaves. The work of splitting dried leaves into thin strips and weaving them was more difficult than expected, requiring concentration as I progressed little by little. Maria’s handiwork was magnificent, with beautiful geometric patterns appearing in no time.
“In the old days, women who couldn’t do this couldn’t get married,” Maria laughed as the children watched my clumsy technique with interest. I only managed to complete something the size of a small coaster, but there was still a sense of accomplishment from creating something with my own hands.
In the evening, I visited Red Beach at the island’s western tip. True to its name, the sandy beach with mixed coral fragments had a slightly reddish tint. This is known as a sunset viewing spot, and locals often come here for walks.
As the sun approached the horizon, the sky’s colors changed moment by moment. The transition from orange to red to purple was as beautiful as paint dissolving in water. The moment the sun sank into the horizon, the entire sky glowed golden for an instant before silence fell. An elderly local man sitting beside me murmured “Te tai” (the sea) and sighed deeply. We quietly shared an emotion beyond words.
That night, I returned to the guesthouse and helped Nei prepare dinner. We gutted fish, cut vegetables, and started a fire with firewood. Despite electricity being widespread, cooking is still often done with wood. Feeling the warmth of the flames, I sensed I was touching the origins of life that can’t be experienced in urban areas.
After dinner, neighbors gathered and an impromptu music session began. Traditional songs and Western tunes were performed one after another to guitar, ukulele, and clapping. When a song I knew started, I sang along in broken English. It was a night when I once again realized music’s power to transcend language barriers.
Day 3: Wave Melodies on a Morning of Farewell
On my final morning, I woke earlier than usual. Venus was shining in the still-dark sky. Walking quietly through the guesthouse garden, I organized the experiences of these two days in my mind. On this island where time flows slowly, I had been able to spend precious time connecting with myself.
After breakfast, I packed and checked out of the guesthouse. Nei gave me a bracelet made from coconut fiber that she had woven herself as a souvenir.
“Whenever you see this, remember Kiribati.”
Her warm smile made my eyes well up with tears. Though it had been a short stay, I was filled with gratitude for the people who had welcomed me like family.
In the morning, I explored the area around the Parliament building that I hadn’t yet visited. Built to commemorate independence, the building features modern design incorporating traditional Kiribati architectural elements, surrounded by coconut groves. In the square in front of Parliament, local students were practicing folk dances. Dressed in colorful costumes and dancing to drum rhythms, they looked vibrant and filled me with hope for this country’s future.
For lunch, I savored my final Kiribati meal at a restaurant near the airport. It was coconut crab, a local specialty of coconut crab stewed in coconut milk. The rich, creamy flavor was uniquely delicious, unlike anything I could taste in Japan. The restaurant owner called out “Please come again” in broken Japanese, making me feel once more the kindness of the people I’d met on this island.
Since I was departing on an afternoon flight, I headed to the airport early. While waiting for boarding in the small airport’s waiting room, I gazed at Tarawa’s landscape spreading outside the window. The narrow strip of land surrounded by blue sea, scattered palm trees, and people coming and going—I wanted to burn this scene into my memory.
As boarding time approached, Tokani and Maria’s family came to see me off. The children placed handmade flower garlands around my neck and said “come back” in English. Even when words didn’t communicate well, I realized our hearts had certainly connected.
From the aircraft, Tarawa looked like fine thread embroidered on a blue carpet. As altitude increased, the island became smaller and smaller. However, the experiences and memories of people I’d met on that small island shone brightly in my heart.
On the plane, I wrote about this trip in the diary I’d brought. Putting it into words seemed to make the memories more vivid. Outside the window stretched clouds colored by the setting sun, and I headed home to Japan with memories brought back from Kiribati.
Conclusion: What Was Clearly Felt Despite Being Imaginary
While this journey was an experience within imagination, the existence of the country called Kiribati and the lives of people who dwell there are certainly real. Though I’ve never actually set foot there, the charm of this country that I learned through materials, photographs, and voices of local people crystallized into rich experiences within my imagination.
The different flow of time felt on a small Pacific island nation, the importance of coexisting with nature, and human connections that transcend differences in language and culture—these things bring genuine emotion to our hearts, even in an imaginary journey.
While Kiribati faces serious climate change challenges, we must not forget the smiles and hope of people living there. If this imaginary journey has fostered interest and affinity for this small island nation on the other side of the earth, that would be more wonderful than anything.
Hoping that someday this imagination might become a real journey, I close this travel record with gratitude—“Mauri ngkamwi” (thank you)—to the people of Kiribati.
