The Marshalls, because they are there
Thanks to some confusing, unconfirmed flight arrangements with the mysterious Air Nauru (see "my conversations with the i-Kiribati), I left Kiribati one weekend for a short trip to Majuro, the central atoll of the Marshall Islands. Claimed by the US after WWII, the Marshalls are best known as the home of Bikini Atoll, the site of U.S. nuclear bomb test during the 1940s and 1950s. It is a subject curiously omitted from the guidebook offered by the Visitors Authority. I can only tell you this: if you think the treatment of the Bikinians was deplorable, read about neighbouring Rongelap.
Today, the only inhabitants of Bikini are scientists and engineers studying the after-effects of radiation on the soils and groundwater. The only way a private citizen can visit the atoll is through the commercial dive operation. Morbid, yes, but the underwater sights of Bikini, which include the Japanese ship which led the attack on Pearl Harbor, are now renowned among divers, at least those who slept through high school physics.
In 1986, the Marshalls became an independent country in free association with the U.S. Technically, that means the Marshallese government receives financial support and in exchange, the U.S. military for use of Kwajalein Atoll as a missile test and tracking site (if you've been following the development of missile defense system, Kwajalein is the place the missiles keep landing when the tests fail). Practically, it means that the central atoll of Majuro has high prices, a bowling alley, a movie theatre, 110 volt sockets, distances in miles, locals gathered around televisions watching week-old NBA games and transplants from Guam belting out Celine Dion tunes in the karaoke bar.
After landing at the stick figure of an airport typical of atolls, I got a lift into town with the Marshellese owner of a small hotel called the Flame Tree along with an Indo-Fijian clothing trader whose hairpiece should not be allowed anywhere near a flaming tree, burning bush, smoldering leaf or lightly heated flower. I checked into the dingy biblical reference of a hotel and set out explore the sites.
Majuro looks like Tarawa, the central atoll of Kiribati, after it had been given a thorough scrubbing, survived a collision with a cement mixer and has someone mercifully feed all the dogs and cats. The three neighbouring communities -- Djarrot, Uliga and Delap -- that go by the unfortunate acronym D-U-D in the centre of Majuro may be poor by American standards. But for the central Pacific, it is a metropolis.
The atoll seems to follow the fine American tradition of paving over and hiding problems. The relative affluence for this part of the Pacific translates into more foreign packaged goods and therefore more waste. The difference between Majuro and Tarawa is that the waste is hidden better. There are probably more disposable diapers than living corals on the reefs.
Walking down the nicely paved main road, I found myself posing that question that graces Bruce Chatwin's autobiography -- "What am I doing here?" -- though my interpretation included a less polite four-letter word not favored by the deceased traveler and writer. I spent about an hour wandering the Payless Supermarket, arguably the biggest attraction in D-U-D. The selection of goods is pitiful by the standards of North American big box grocery stores. Everything is relative, though. The Payless is the only supermarket for thousands of kilometres and the main reason Majuro is a popular port of call for yachtees.
The next day, I was able to secure a spot on an overpriced half-day snorkeling trip operated by the relatively upscale Marshall Islands Resort. Along on the trip was an American student (one of many on one-year teaching stints in Majuro), a young businesswoman from Guam, an eastern European couple, and a retired nuclear physicist from Los Alamos. Though I balked at the price, it was nice to see some living corals after surveying the post-bleaching carnage around Tarawa. The second snorkelling spot even included a small plane wreck, an old Sea Star Pacific Jet sunken in around six metres of water. The plane had crashed on the atoll thirty years earlier; with nowhere to dispose of most trash, let alone downed airplanes, the government decided to throw the plane into the lagoon.
On the way back to resort, I made a major faux pas. I asked the nuclear physicist whether he planned to visit Bikini on his trip. In my defense, I was not actually trying to insinuate he was involved in the nuclear tests: there are very few rational reasons to visit the Marshalls, the guy had a very expensive dive mask and quite high-tech fins, so it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume that he had come to the Marshalls dive the infamous Bikini waters. Suffice to say, his response was not what one would call collegial.
Majuro is not the most thrilling destination on the planet. I am glad to have ignored my friend Bernie's advice -- for god's sake, do not go to Majuro -- for one experience alone.
In the centre of D-U-D lies the Bikini Atoll Town Hall, the official government of the displaced citizens of Bikini. Having seeing waves erode away the beach in low-lying Kiribati, the image of the displaced town hall struck a cord. As I walked to my departing plane, past the sign sponsored by Exxon Mobil thanking me for visiting the Marshalls (bottom photo), I wondered whether one day there'll be a Tarawa Town Hall in downtown Auckland. Or the displaced Bikinians will have to move, once again.
Today, the only inhabitants of Bikini are scientists and engineers studying the after-effects of radiation on the soils and groundwater. The only way a private citizen can visit the atoll is through the commercial dive operation. Morbid, yes, but the underwater sights of Bikini, which include the Japanese ship which led the attack on Pearl Harbor, are now renowned among divers, at least those who slept through high school physics.
In 1986, the Marshalls became an independent country in free association with the U.S. Technically, that means the Marshallese government receives financial support and in exchange, the U.S. military for use of Kwajalein Atoll as a missile test and tracking site (if you've been following the development of missile defense system, Kwajalein is the place the missiles keep landing when the tests fail). Practically, it means that the central atoll of Majuro has high prices, a bowling alley, a movie theatre, 110 volt sockets, distances in miles, locals gathered around televisions watching week-old NBA games and transplants from Guam belting out Celine Dion tunes in the karaoke bar.
After landing at the stick figure of an airport typical of atolls, I got a lift into town with the Marshellese owner of a small hotel called the Flame Tree along with an Indo-Fijian clothing trader whose hairpiece should not be allowed anywhere near a flaming tree, burning bush, smoldering leaf or lightly heated flower. I checked into the dingy biblical reference of a hotel and set out explore the sites.
Majuro looks like Tarawa, the central atoll of Kiribati, after it had been given a thorough scrubbing, survived a collision with a cement mixer and has someone mercifully feed all the dogs and cats. The three neighbouring communities -- Djarrot, Uliga and Delap -- that go by the unfortunate acronym D-U-D in the centre of Majuro may be poor by American standards. But for the central Pacific, it is a metropolis.
The atoll seems to follow the fine American tradition of paving over and hiding problems. The relative affluence for this part of the Pacific translates into more foreign packaged goods and therefore more waste. The difference between Majuro and Tarawa is that the waste is hidden better. There are probably more disposable diapers than living corals on the reefs.
Walking down the nicely paved main road, I found myself posing that question that graces Bruce Chatwin's autobiography -- "What am I doing here?" -- though my interpretation included a less polite four-letter word not favored by the deceased traveler and writer. I spent about an hour wandering the Payless Supermarket, arguably the biggest attraction in D-U-D. The selection of goods is pitiful by the standards of North American big box grocery stores. Everything is relative, though. The Payless is the only supermarket for thousands of kilometres and the main reason Majuro is a popular port of call for yachtees.
The next day, I was able to secure a spot on an overpriced half-day snorkeling trip operated by the relatively upscale Marshall Islands Resort. Along on the trip was an American student (one of many on one-year teaching stints in Majuro), a young businesswoman from Guam, an eastern European couple, and a retired nuclear physicist from Los Alamos. Though I balked at the price, it was nice to see some living corals after surveying the post-bleaching carnage around Tarawa. The second snorkelling spot even included a small plane wreck, an old Sea Star Pacific Jet sunken in around six metres of water. The plane had crashed on the atoll thirty years earlier; with nowhere to dispose of most trash, let alone downed airplanes, the government decided to throw the plane into the lagoon.
On the way back to resort, I made a major faux pas. I asked the nuclear physicist whether he planned to visit Bikini on his trip. In my defense, I was not actually trying to insinuate he was involved in the nuclear tests: there are very few rational reasons to visit the Marshalls, the guy had a very expensive dive mask and quite high-tech fins, so it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume that he had come to the Marshalls dive the infamous Bikini waters. Suffice to say, his response was not what one would call collegial.
Majuro is not the most thrilling destination on the planet. I am glad to have ignored my friend Bernie's advice -- for god's sake, do not go to Majuro -- for one experience alone.
In the centre of D-U-D lies the Bikini Atoll Town Hall, the official government of the displaced citizens of Bikini. Having seeing waves erode away the beach in low-lying Kiribati, the image of the displaced town hall struck a cord. As I walked to my departing plane, past the sign sponsored by Exxon Mobil thanking me for visiting the Marshalls (bottom photo), I wondered whether one day there'll be a Tarawa Town Hall in downtown Auckland. Or the displaced Bikinians will have to move, once again.
