I was waiting at Mary's motel in Tarawa. I was on a reconnaissance mission prior to accepting the offer to head the UNICEF Field Office and the UN Joint Presence office in Kiribati.
The moist-salty ocean air filled my lungs. The tall coconut trees swayed in the breeze––touched the soft frangipanis and loud-crimson hibiscus flowers. Surprisingly I didn't notice any bees or butterflies. Later I learned that the island didn't have them in addition to snakes and birds. Sea gulls hovered around the port, though.
A woman in her 50s (?) showed up.
"I'm your driver," she held a pleasant smile.
"I'm impressed . . . UNICEF has a female driver!" Years ago, UNICEF-Bangladesh had hired 2 women drivers.
"I'm Akoia. Admin. Assistant––back-up of the office driver," Akoia corrected me demurely.
Akoia assisted me in settling down after I moved to Kiribati. She drove my imported car from the port, found a house for me . . . sat beside me when I drove my tiny-Toyota on the precarious-narrow-broken road for the first time . . .
"I'm impressed . . . UNICEF has a female driver!" Years ago, UNICEF-Bangladesh had hired 2 women drivers.
"I'm Akoia. Admin. Assistant––back-up of the office driver," Akoia corrected me demurely.
Akoia assisted me in settling down after I moved to Kiribati. She drove my imported car from the port, found a house for me . . . sat beside me when I drove my tiny-Toyota on the precarious-narrow-broken road for the first time . . .
A month ago, I was texting with Nike, our former national child protection officer, (now lives in Solomon Island) . . . she informed me about Akoia's death. Akoia had a troubled heart.
In 2013 (?) we medically evacuated her to Australia . . . I was working late. Everyone had gone home. My phone rang. Akoia's husband, Mr. Keitu told me that she had a heart attack and was taken to the TCH––the main hospital. TCH was close to the office and my house in Temwaiku village. I drove to the hospital.
"Mauri Nuzhat––nothing to worry . . . I'm good," Akoia greeted me with a smile. She was in a room with a tiny terrace filled with family and well-wishers. It's the Kiribati culture . . .
"You need to rest––no visitors. I have already informed Suva. Will go back to the office to forward medevac request forms." She agreed to get rid of her guests.
About 2 hours later on my way home, I went to see her. There were still some visitors. Akoia, caught red handed, looked a bit ashamed. I shooed away everyone. She had violated the doctor's instructions. We moved fast on her evacuation and flew her out of Tarawa.
Akoia had a bad heart.
. . . 31st December, 2011 was my first new year's night in Tarawa. I felt lonesome, home sick as evening was approaching. There was a knock on my door. Akoia stood outside with a broad smile.
"I have come to take you to a new year's night party, Nuzhat. Get ready," she said. I quickly changed.
"Put on your dancing shoes," she gave a shout from my living room.
The entire village was invited. At that time, I had only a handful of friends. Most of them were present. There was food, beer, Cava . . . Akoia's 17 year old nephew was my dance partner––booked by Akoia.
The nephew was an amazing dancer, so was Akoia. In our office parties, celebrations, Akoia always did dance performances.
We continued moving, shaking, gyrating with local, African and western music. I caught up with my island friends and made new friends. Some Ministers, Cabinet officials and dignitaries were present.
After midnight when the new year began, professional dancers took to the floor. It was spectacular! Akoia dropped me home at 5 the next morning.
Our life on the island was absurdly simple––the hardships of isolation . . . unavailability of everyday stuff was challenging. Some days I wanted to go to a movie theater, or watch TV . . . eat something novel. Nothing was available.
Islanders didn't consider these hurdles as barriers to their happiness. The ocean was there––so were the tuna fish . . . their ancestors, families and friends . . . my son lived 13,500 kilometers (8, 388 miles) away from me. Phone lines didn't work. Wi Fi was mostly too weak to make a skype call . . .
. . . Akoia drew my attention to some issues related to a staff member. I called a meeting with the staff, staff association representative (she was a great mediator) and Akoia to resolve the problem. When I brought up the concerns, Akoia didn't fully stand by her complaints. She started a word-scramble-walking back. At one point, she left stating she was feeling unwell. Like any other offices, cultures, the islanders gossip, talk behind each other but they are not strong at confrontational situations . . .
I was disappointed with Akoia, hurt. At the time I was almost ready to leave Kiribati––didn't like this rift between us. Somehow, I couldn't let it go.
I gave away all my clothes, household stuff to my colleagues. They loved my skirts and scarves, jewelry . . . I knew Akoia liked a particular floral-cotton skirt I used to wear. I had thought of giving it to her at the time of departure . . .
I couldn't forget that damn-meeting . . .
. . . Akoia reached out––we began communicating . . . we texted regularly during the pandemic and continued . . . Every time I wear my floral skirt, I think of Akoia (oh, yes, I still have it).
In 2013 (?) we medically evacuated her to Australia . . . I was working late. Everyone had gone home. My phone rang. Akoia's husband, Mr. Keitu told me that she had a heart attack and was taken to the TCH––the main hospital. TCH was close to the office and my house in Temwaiku village. I drove to the hospital.
"Mauri Nuzhat––nothing to worry . . . I'm good," Akoia greeted me with a smile. She was in a room with a tiny terrace filled with family and well-wishers. It's the Kiribati culture . . .
"You need to rest––no visitors. I have already informed Suva. Will go back to the office to forward medevac request forms." She agreed to get rid of her guests.
About 2 hours later on my way home, I went to see her. There were still some visitors. Akoia, caught red handed, looked a bit ashamed. I shooed away everyone. She had violated the doctor's instructions. We moved fast on her evacuation and flew her out of Tarawa.
Akoia had a bad heart.
. . . 31st December, 2011 was my first new year's night in Tarawa. I felt lonesome, home sick as evening was approaching. There was a knock on my door. Akoia stood outside with a broad smile.
"I have come to take you to a new year's night party, Nuzhat. Get ready," she said. I quickly changed.
"Put on your dancing shoes," she gave a shout from my living room.
The entire village was invited. At that time, I had only a handful of friends. Most of them were present. There was food, beer, Cava . . . Akoia's 17 year old nephew was my dance partner––booked by Akoia.
The nephew was an amazing dancer, so was Akoia. In our office parties, celebrations, Akoia always did dance performances.
 |
| Akoia is dancing at our office party |
We continued moving, shaking, gyrating with local, African and western music. I caught up with my island friends and made new friends. Some Ministers, Cabinet officials and dignitaries were present.
After midnight when the new year began, professional dancers took to the floor. It was spectacular! Akoia dropped me home at 5 the next morning.
Our life on the island was absurdly simple––the hardships of isolation . . . unavailability of everyday stuff was challenging. Some days I wanted to go to a movie theater, or watch TV . . . eat something novel. Nothing was available.
Islanders didn't consider these hurdles as barriers to their happiness. The ocean was there––so were the tuna fish . . . their ancestors, families and friends . . . my son lived 13,500 kilometers (8, 388 miles) away from me. Phone lines didn't work. Wi Fi was mostly too weak to make a skype call . . .
. . . Akoia drew my attention to some issues related to a staff member. I called a meeting with the staff, staff association representative (she was a great mediator) and Akoia to resolve the problem. When I brought up the concerns, Akoia didn't fully stand by her complaints. She started a word-scramble-walking back. At one point, she left stating she was feeling unwell. Like any other offices, cultures, the islanders gossip, talk behind each other but they are not strong at confrontational situations . . .
I was disappointed with Akoia, hurt. At the time I was almost ready to leave Kiribati––didn't like this rift between us. Somehow, I couldn't let it go.
I gave away all my clothes, household stuff to my colleagues. They loved my skirts and scarves, jewelry . . . I knew Akoia liked a particular floral-cotton skirt I used to wear. I had thought of giving it to her at the time of departure . . .
I couldn't forget that damn-meeting . . .
. . . Akoia reached out––we began communicating . . . we texted regularly during the pandemic and continued . . . Every time I wear my floral skirt, I think of Akoia (oh, yes, I still have it).
A very touching article. As far as I know both Tehran office and Amman office had female outstanding female drivers since late nineties
ReplyDeleteMany thanks for your comments, Mary. Yes, I heard about Tehran and Amman and also South Sudan––isn't that great? Women are doing well in every field––flying jets, sanely governing (apologies about PM Hasina now hiding in Modi-land)), discovering . . .raising families . . .
DeleteUNICEF Somalia also has smart women drivers.
ReplyDelete