Journey to the Sinking Lands
A witness to the world's first evacuation of an entire people due to climate changeArchive for April, 2009
Journey to the islands
I leave for the Carteret Islands tomorrow. I have a skipper, I have a boat, I have a very nice woman from the islands whose name is Reuth Marcella who would like a lift home please, and I have a large order for salted fish to bring back with me when I return. It’s a two-to-three hour trip with good seas and the weather looks fine. I am very exited. A lot of work has gone into getting there, and I wasn’t always sure if I would make it – right up to the end there have been obstacles; the latest being a $US 5000 ‘administration fee’ I’ve just been told to pay by the NGO organising the evacuation of the Carteret people. We’ve talked about it. We’ve agreed I won’t have to pay it this time. I’m still not counting my chickens, but if I do make it, I will be very happy indeed. And probably sleep for a week.
Morning in Tinputz
I slept in my clothes last night, on the bare wooden floor of one of the houses the first boatload of people to be evacuated from the Carteret Islands are building for their families. It was a jet-black night in the small clearing hacked out amid the jungle, the dark broken only by our two candles and the lights of Fireflies jigging in the trees. I’m heading out to the islands themselves on Friday (that’s if everything goes to plan; I’ve learned not to expect anything here until it happens) and the guys gave me a list of messages to pass on to their families, and a few things they ask I bring back with me when I return. Read the rest of this entry »
Back to Tinputz
I’m sitting on the ground in a jungle clearing at Tinputz, on the east coast of Bougainville. This is where the first boatload of people landed from the Carteret Islands last week – the fathers of five families, who will build homes and gardens here before returning to the islands to bring their families to Tinputz permanently. I’ve been invited back to spend a night with the five fathers, which is good because I made a bit of a mess of our first meeting, barely giving them time to get off the boat before shoving a microphone in their face and asking how they feel. This time is much more relaxed. Read the rest of this entry »
Lost voice
I lost my voice over the weekend. It quickly slipped away, from a normal rounded tone to a strangled caw within minutes. I’d been feeling crook for a few days but thought little of it. I even joked that I’d just been talking to much, easy to do in this town, where you can’t walk down the street without someone starting up a friendly conversation. After a couple of days twisting out what few words I could and still feeling ropey, I eventually went to find a doctor at the (only) hospital. When I arrived, the ward was hot. Only a few ceiling fans and lights seemed to work and no one seemed to know where the doctor was. Read the rest of this entry »
ANZAC day
Today is ANZAC Day, a big day if you’re from Australia or New Zealand, which means pretty much all the expat community in Buka (aid workers and police mostly). ANZAC stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps and the day itself commemorates those countries’ fighting troops who died in combat. In true Antipodean style, it is typically marked by a very sombre, reverential dawn service, after which everyone gets drunk. In Buka, Mark, a Kiwi here on a two-year stint working on reconciliation after the civil war, set up a cricket pitch in his garden; bamboo stumps, beer-can bails, a bat carved from an old packing case and tennis balls wrapped in tape, all overlooked by banana trees and coconut palms and overlooking the blue ocean. Read the rest of this entry »
Ben and Jenny Kadma
This is Ben Kadma and his wife, Jenny. I met them last night at a party outside the guest house where I am staying. Ben, in one life, represents everything Bougainville has endured and continues to struggle against today. As a young man, in the early 1980s, he worked at the vast Panguna mine that made billions from the island. The people who lived there, however, saw that the mine was causing huge environmental problems and one of Ben’s workmates, Francis Ona, formed a movement demanding compensation. Eventually this movement became armed, started to call itself a Revolutionary Army and demanded independence for Bougainville from Papua New Guinea. Ben, now one of Ona’s senior staff, fought with him and was eventually captured; he was tortured and spent years in prison. Eventually Ben was released and began working in the peace movement that eventually ended the fighting. I have seen photos of him at these talks and his signature is on the first peace agreements between the various sides.
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Sawa to the rescue
I lost the key to my room yesterday, somewhere on the road to Tinputz. There is no replacement so a man called Sawa from the restaurant downstairs showed me how to force the lock with a butter knife. He gave me the knife and I’m getting pretty good at it now. You slide the blade in against the lock and push, hard. I was a little worried about it for a while, but then realised the room is no less secure than it was before I lost the key; it just means I have to carry a butter knife with me when I go out.
Sawa also cooks the food. He has chicken for me tonight, he says. So the same as last night then. And the night before that. You don’t want to know about breakfast.
The five fathers
The evacuation of the Carteret Islands have begun. This morning I stood on black volcanic sand, pressed up right against the jungle, and watched a small white boat powered by a single outboard engine run in against the shore. On board were five men from the Islands, the fathers of five families, who have come to finish building houses and gardens already begun in a cleared patch of jungle at Tinputz, on the east coast of Bougainville. When these homes are ready the five will return to the Carterets, to fetch their wives and children back. Life, they hope, will be better for them here. On the Carterets, king tides have washed away their crops and rising sea levels poisoned those that remain with salt. The people have been forced to move.
The men climbed silently from the boat and into the shallows. They splashed towards us, carrying almost nothing. From beside me, others who had come to meet them walked out quietly in welcome. The air was still, both sad and happy, which seemed to suit the moment. That single boat carrying these five men is the first wave in what is, as far as I can tell, the world’s first official evacuation of an entire people because of climate change. Read the rest of this entry »
The view from Buka
Since arriving I’ve been speaking to as many people as I can, which isn’t difficult in a town as friendly as this one (that’s a photo of the harbour, where boats are unloaded for the neighbouring food market. This is piled high with fruit carried in baskets woven from palm leaves, salted fish, cakes, and things I couldn’t identify. I’m still not sure what I had for lunch.) I’ve alearned a lot about the evacuation of the Carterets that never seemed to filter through to the news at home. For starters, it’s not just the Carterets that is involved. Three other atolls and one island will also see their people leave because of rising sea levels. The regional government here plans to bring them to Buka a few hundred at a time, over a decade. The Carterets have had all the attention, and are the priority, but there are estimates of up to 8000 people affected, all told.
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Welcome to Buka
I am a little overwhelmed by hospitality. I landed in Buka this morning, an island in the Bougainville province, itself in the far west of Papua New Guinea. This is the final staging post before the Carteret islands – if I get that far.
The plane stopped first in Rabaul, a thin strip of runway among tall jungle in the East New Britain province. Most of the passengers left there, with only a handful continuing on across the Solomon Sea to Buka. At the airport a man introduced himself unexpectedly as Lesley. He is the chief executive of the Bougainville Government. With him was a minister and a third man, Phillip, whose role I missed – either a politician or a civil servant. Everyone was smiles. Geraldine, a local woman I had met in Port Moresby, had phoned ahead and they had decided to meet me off the plane. Read the rest of this entry »
