In an island over the ocean
August 1, 2017
Our trip began as many do in Bougainville: slowly. We all gathered at the Buka boat stop, along with other locals, and searched the passage for our boat. The waters were still fairly empty at this early hour, with only a few boats ferrying passengers between Buka and Bougainville Island.
With us was Maria, our tok pisin teacher. Since March she had taught the four of us twice a week and now was time to put our fledgling language skills to the test. We were heading to her home, Nissan island, approximately 200km kilometres north-west of Bougainville and accessible only by boat.
Ferrying us to Nissan was no luxury liner but rather a banana boat, with a single outboard motor, wooden seats and not much else. Apart from a few small trips around Buka where the shoreline remained comfortingly close, I had little experience venturing into open water. Upon embarking I tightened my lifejacket and tried to quell my fears. I projected what I hoped was an outward feeling of calm but inside I was as turbulent as I feared the ocean would be.
The first hour we traced the coast, passing islands, distant dolphins and, rather unsettlingly, multiple shipwrecks. Fishermen in outrigger canoes paddled along and waved to us as we passed by. Smoke from hidden villages coalesced above the endless palms trees and every so often a flying fish would emerge from the water, skipping along the waves like a stone.
I am not someone who thrives on adrenaline. I do not frolic with abandon towards rollercoasters or downhill skiing, and turbulence leaves me convinced of impending death. So as the shore receded behind us like a film developing in reverse and weighty clouds began to cluster above us I wondered what I had signed myself up for. The swell blossomed around us as we rose and fell to its rhythm. To me it was all one unending mass of silvery grey, carrying us toward an infinite horizon and me, a speck upon the world. The skipper seemed confident, riding the waves like a surfer, but all I could picture was being swept away, with nothing but a lifejacket and a packet of soggy crackers to sustain me.
I thought of earlier explorers that had travelled far longer on the Pacific Ocean, with no GPS or motors. Armed only with paddles and courage they used their knowledge of the stars and ocean currents to find new lands. All I discovered that day was a newfound appreciation for solid ground.
After five long hours our destination began to materialise and my vice like grip began to loosen. Nissan lies like an ink stain upon the sea. A narrow strip of land forming a broken circle around an ancient caldera. Comprised of Nissan, Pinipel and Sirot islands, it is the largest of Bougainville’s atolls in both size and population.
As we entered the waters around the island the ocean transformed into a windowpane. We wove our way carefully through the reef as waves, a shade of psychedelic blue, broke upon the cliffs, vapour rising like steam.
Our arrival was unexpected. Though we had known of the trip for weeks this information had not been conveyed to our hosts. Nissan has no cellphone or internet access which makes communicating with the outside world more difficult than trying to hold a conversation in a crowded bar, with Ned, your drunk friend who always forgets things. Our host, Henry, was unfazed however and we were swiftly installed in the ‘dining room’ of our island Bed and Breakfast, a covered hut that jutted out over the sea. As we introduced ourselves and tried to converse in faltering tok pisin (after Maria stipulated that no English be spoken) our rooms were assembled and food prepared.
And oh what food. After six hours on a boat trying to aim cracker crumbs and drops of water into my mouth without breaking my teeth I would have eaten almost anything. So when a feast of fried fish, vegetables and hap mun (half moons) were laid before us I could have cried. The Spanish may have their empanadas, and the Indians their samosas but Nissan has hap muns. This crescent shaped pocket of doughy deliciousness was stuffed with fish, vegetables and, the staple of many a Bougainvillean dish, two minute noodles. They were delicious. Let’s be honest, who doesn’t love the starchy Russian doll that is a carb within a carb.
Nissan satisfied more than just our stomachs however. We spent hours in the water, discovering another world beneath the surface. Close to shore we were beset by children, their limbs and laughter surrounding us. But as we ventured deeper they had to settle with spectatorship.
Rocks rose up from the ocean floor, like aquatic apartment blocks. Thousands of fish, coloured, striped, some like giraffes, transparent, swift, yet others lumbering, swam in and out of bouquets of coral. Far below larger schools of fish traversed the watery highway, their tails sending up plumes of sand from the ocean floor. Giant clams lay like discarded bottle caps among rocks stained gold by some mysterious Midas.
We felt welcome wherever we went. As we passed villages marked by small stone walls the inhabitants waved and called out to us. In Nissan AaAaay (like a prolonged ay, inflected in the middle) is hello and oh ooooh is goodbye. As we drove along the air was filled with aaaay ohhhh like a surreal version of Hip Hop Hooray. As we rested at another village, drinking coconut water and scooping out the sweet flesh with a spoon, we were given a more official welcome. Showered in a confetti of leaves, we were garlanded in greenery and topped with a straw bonnet of sorts. It was one of those moments you knew you would never forget. Touching and amusing and humbling all at once.
After three days the thought of returning to Buka was hard. Though Nissan has little in the way of modern creature comforts its isolation was compelling. This isolation had allowed the inhabitants to avoid the worst of the crisis with many seeking refuge on its shores. Leaving anywhere in Bougainville always seems to be a momentous affair and Nissan was no different. The whole village came to see us off, carrying our bags and posing for pictures.
The weekend comes back to me in fragments of images and sounds: Ubiquitous downpours thrumming through the night before subsiding into the rhythmic sound of wave against rock that slid through the air. The heavy light of the full moon engulfing the silent, sleeping village. Old women at the market organising piles of betelnut with crevassed hands, hair hidden beneath brightly patterned scarves. Restless children at church, shooting giggles and shy smiles our way, as they knelt on their jandals to pray, pale feet exposed and curly heads bent. Wading through rock pools that lay beneath a cathedral like cave, where waves sucked at our ankles and swirled into gaps in the rock. Here, Hortense (a friend of Maria’s), flung off her wig and dove beneath the turgid waters. Wind whipping, as we sat in the back of a ute flying down Nissan’s disused runway, one of the longest in the world. Built in just six days by New Zealand soldiers during WWII it is now overgrown, a limp orange windsock the only sign of its former life.
As we headed home and the outline of Nissan diminished behind us I carried these fragments with me along with two delicious hap mun to sustain me for the journey home.
