Strangest Things in the Invictus Islands . . . Nuzhat Shahzadi

Each time the Fiji airlines Boeing jet tried to land on the narrow air strip of Tarawa, I held my breath . . . a few feet off the mark and we could “safely” slide into the roaring waves of the Pacific Ocean. As we descended, there was only water and water below. . . the smell of warmth invaded the cabin space. 

Tarawa airport is very basic, tiny. If I remember correctly, baggages were checked manually, in a carefree, friendly manner as others looked on. The guard at the entrance was symbolic. Kiribati has no military, no guns. Even the police don’t possess any firearms (as of now). There was no organized gangs or social violence of any form. I never witnessed any brawls in public, though wife beating happened . . .  

Fiji Airlines Boeing-jet at Tarawa airport

The airport didn’t (doesn’t) have the capacity to land flights at night. Apart from two weekly flights from Fiji, it supported the operation of a few domestic flights to the outer islands. The domestic fleet had 2-3 (?) tiny planes. I am not sure how I flew in them.

Air Kiribati

When I was in Kiribati, the government had strong alliances with Taiwan and Cuba. 9 Cuban doctors (possibly sponsored by Taiwan?) was based in the country to support its weak medical services. One among them was a female gynecologist. We communicated with the help of an interpreter––Joao, our multi-lingual CP officer from West Africa. 

“I want to assist women with safe births . . . many problems but not much support. I do what I can,” she told me in Spanish. I was touched by this young doctor’s dedication.

The only pharmacy in the country was located inside the main hospital. We couldn’t buy even paracetamol at any store. 

Ante-natal clinic, Tarawa

Children’s ward in main hospital

The medical services were so rudimentary that the Peace Corps volunteers were ultimately recalled back to the US, I was told.

One time I had an eye infection. Dr Andre, WHO, came to my aid. It was a Saturday––he went to the hospital to get an eye ointment and brought it to my residence. I used to buy all kinds of over-the-counter meds from the US on return from leave. 

“Mom, please don’t eat anything that looks green, leafy,” my son used to caution me, teasingly. 

I will admit, I did contemplate some greens that grew lush behind my landlord’s residence, merging into a sort of wilderness covered by pandana and date palm trees, at the ocean’s edge. I could see the outlines of the ocean from everywhere.

Ocean everywhere . . .

In my first-aid bag, I had ointments for poison ivy, insect bites––always handy. I got stung by wasps, twice. They had made nests in the banana plants just beside the hibiscus bushes near the entrance to my bungalow where I used to park my tiny-Toyota.

My car parked close to the wasps’ nests

All our national staff (including the UN Joint presence office) were women, except for the driver, Matike (Ma-si-kay). He was an interesting character––a young man, and my source of gossip. Though I didn’t encourage him (about our team), he would mostly blurt out the key points of a story before I could stop him. He was a macho man. It wasn’t very easy for him to take directives from the female staff. He resented them, sometimes did not follow their instructions. In the community, they were at the same level––Kiribati is an egalitarian society.

Matike had no issues with me. I was a foreigner, “the boss-lady.” In the face of resistance from the medical Unit, I finally managed to negotiate his medical evacuation to Fiji. He liked my “power.” (I intend to share my interactions with the medical Unit at some point––frustrating and absurd).

One of my program officers had some health issues and was visiting the hospital regularly for check-ups during office hours. When she requested for the time off, Joao did the same, accompanied her. It was okay with me.

She came up with the explanation after a few visits.

“My Cuban doctor doesn’t speak English. I have to take Joao to interpret about my condition, problems,” she enlightened. 

“None of them speak English? Kiribati language?” I was surprised? “How do they examine patients?”

“They communicate only with gestures . . . as much as possible. Not sure what happens there,” she laughed. And I was struck by the situation in hand.

Some months later, she told me that she was dating her doctor. She was widowed a year ago. He was a good man. She invited me at her residence for dinner several times and I got to know her doctor better (we were successful with lay-peoples’ sign language). We lived in the same area––Temwaiku Village. Many from the community usually joined us. We sat on mats on the sand, under the night sky, against the soft-roaring of waves.

Eventually the Doctor’s contract came to an end. 

“What will you do now? How will you communicate . . . phone, email . . . Joao?” I was curious.

“Not sure. We will see,” she smiled with the wisdom and philosophy of an island-girl.

Our UN team-Fiji, Kiribati

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