A stormy day in Tarawa
We hear a lot about sea level rise. But, anyone who has stood on a beach knows the sea is anything but level. The concern for low-lying places like Kiribati is not so much that the sea will just slowly envelop the atolls over the next century. The issue is more complex: it is expected that larger or more frequent "king" tides and storm surges, caused by rising seas and temperatures, will accelerate erosion, dump salt into the ground, and possibly render the islands uninhabitable.
Climate science aside, I spent much of the first ten days in Kiribati trying to picture whether any of that was really possible. Then, on Thursday, February 24th, I awoke to a thundering rainfall, the sound amplified by the water pouring off the roof of the hotel into the water tank. A northwest gale began blowing across Tarawa overnight, bringing rough waves into the normally placid lagoon and blowing the tops of the breakers on the ocean side.
Situated on the equator, Kiribati is thankfully spared the wraths of cyclones or typhoons, the Pacific terms for the hurricanes of the Atlantic. The tropical depressions that grow to become cyclones can be spawned in the hot equatorial waters around the Kiribati. These meteorological seedlings need the rotation of higher latitudes to develop into full-fledged tropical storms.
In mid-morning, I boarded a thumping minibus in the hope of visiting the library (closed) and the immigration department (may as well be) in the town of Bairiki. The heavy humid air and light grey skies muted the usually strong colours of the atoll, making the lagoon a dull blue, the trees a pale green and the sand a bland beige. As the mininbus careened down the road dodging fallen palm fronds and coconuts to an embarrassingly enjoyable dancehall remix of "You are My Sunshine", I saw that empty manaebas and bwais and people busy patching thatch roofs, protecting windows and cleaning debris from yards.
By mid-afternoon, most people had given up on last minute repairs, and simply stood on the road watching the storm with awe. The winds peaked at well over 40 knots at 4:30 pm, right at high tide. The combination of the wind direction, wind strength and timing of the storm brought water over the causeway, knocked down sea walls and sent squealing pigs into the street. I offered to help the owners of a home down the street from the Otin'taii hotel (picture, right), whose kitchen and pig sty stood right in the path of the breaking waves from the lagoon (they politely declined). A crowd gathered in the lounge at the Otin'taii to watch the small dock, sea wall and elevated sand seating area wash out into the lagoon. I stood outside to watch, because it was too hard to see through the growing salt stains on the windows.
It turned out to be the strongest windstorm in years, according to Tekena Teitiba, the director of the Kiribati Meteorological Office. One week later, the damage was still evident. All along the lagoon side, there were broken sea walls, exposing homes, meeting areas and, egad, landfills. In most cases, the waves went over the sea wall (built of coral rock) and the pressure of the ponded water wore down the wall. Without the protection, the sand and garbage eroded away. Later, the waves brought garbage back ashore. So what was an elevated sandy sitting area behind a wall designed to combat erosion, became a hole filled with garbage and a broken coral rock.
The day before I left Tarawa, Taratau took me by his house to see the remains of the sea wall he built with his father and brother twenty years before. Like many residents of South Tarawa, Taratau's family lives on the ocean side of the road and maintain a small plot of elevated, protected land on the lagoon side. The storm broke apart the coral rock wall, broke the legs off their bwai, knocked over a tree, and eroded away most of the sand, leaving a pit full of branches and washed-up garbage (bottom photos). More than upset, the easygoing Taratau was amazed, laughing as we walked around the remains. And hoping it does not happen again for another 25 years
Climate science aside, I spent much of the first ten days in Kiribati trying to picture whether any of that was really possible. Then, on Thursday, February 24th, I awoke to a thundering rainfall, the sound amplified by the water pouring off the roof of the hotel into the water tank. A northwest gale began blowing across Tarawa overnight, bringing rough waves into the normally placid lagoon and blowing the tops of the breakers on the ocean side.
Situated on the equator, Kiribati is thankfully spared the wraths of cyclones or typhoons, the Pacific terms for the hurricanes of the Atlantic. The tropical depressions that grow to become cyclones can be spawned in the hot equatorial waters around the Kiribati. These meteorological seedlings need the rotation of higher latitudes to develop into full-fledged tropical storms.
In mid-morning, I boarded a thumping minibus in the hope of visiting the library (closed) and the immigration department (may as well be) in the town of Bairiki. The heavy humid air and light grey skies muted the usually strong colours of the atoll, making the lagoon a dull blue, the trees a pale green and the sand a bland beige. As the mininbus careened down the road dodging fallen palm fronds and coconuts to an embarrassingly enjoyable dancehall remix of "You are My Sunshine", I saw that empty manaebas and bwais and people busy patching thatch roofs, protecting windows and cleaning debris from yards.
By mid-afternoon, most people had given up on last minute repairs, and simply stood on the road watching the storm with awe. The winds peaked at well over 40 knots at 4:30 pm, right at high tide. The combination of the wind direction, wind strength and timing of the storm brought water over the causeway, knocked down sea walls and sent squealing pigs into the street. I offered to help the owners of a home down the street from the Otin'taii hotel (picture, right), whose kitchen and pig sty stood right in the path of the breaking waves from the lagoon (they politely declined). A crowd gathered in the lounge at the Otin'taii to watch the small dock, sea wall and elevated sand seating area wash out into the lagoon. I stood outside to watch, because it was too hard to see through the growing salt stains on the windows.
It turned out to be the strongest windstorm in years, according to Tekena Teitiba, the director of the Kiribati Meteorological Office. One week later, the damage was still evident. All along the lagoon side, there were broken sea walls, exposing homes, meeting areas and, egad, landfills. In most cases, the waves went over the sea wall (built of coral rock) and the pressure of the ponded water wore down the wall. Without the protection, the sand and garbage eroded away. Later, the waves brought garbage back ashore. So what was an elevated sandy sitting area behind a wall designed to combat erosion, became a hole filled with garbage and a broken coral rock.
The day before I left Tarawa, Taratau took me by his house to see the remains of the sea wall he built with his father and brother twenty years before. Like many residents of South Tarawa, Taratau's family lives on the ocean side of the road and maintain a small plot of elevated, protected land on the lagoon side. The storm broke apart the coral rock wall, broke the legs off their bwai, knocked over a tree, and eroded away most of the sand, leaving a pit full of branches and washed-up garbage (bottom photos). More than upset, the easygoing Taratau was amazed, laughing as we walked around the remains. And hoping it does not happen again for another 25 years
