Читать книгу Wanderlust: A Solitary Island in the South Pacific - Nina Hoffmann - Страница 10

When the island of our dreams appears on the horizon as a grey shadow, Salesi pushes me out of my sleep, which I try to catch up with every opportunity. I'm fighting the resurgence of nausea.

"Back there," he says, pointing to the end of the world. "Do you see it?"

I need a moment to get up and get the sight of Boatswain Ulu out of my mind, who at the height of my nausea bit a piece of baked breadfruit and went "Mmhhh" to demonstrate me what I'm missing out on.

I'd like to hang myself over the rail again right away, even now that the island is in sight. The waves are rough, the wind strong, despite the cloudless sky above us. And we've been on the road for more than two hours with a weak 25 horsepower engine.

Normally the islanders avoid a boat trip on days like this, but I insisted on it. So it's my own fault. My face is covered with a film of saltwater from the waves coming in, but I am used to that from Alo'ofa, and the salty taste on my lips distracts me from the nausea.

From the island in the distance there is always only something to see when our small wooden and soon falling-apart boat balances on the crest of a wave. Much too fast it goes downhill every time and I see nothing but foam crowns everywhere. I long for solid ground under my feet!

We are still about a kilometer away from the lagoon, and I can see the first palm trees that rise above the rest of the vegetation, the sand spur in the north of the island, the breaking waves on the outer reef. I force myself to search the backpack for the camera, because I promised Nina to bring her first pictures of our new home. Ulu notices my growing interest.

"Why don't you sit down over there," he says and points to the bow. So I climb over the small wooden roof into the front part of the boat. Just don't think what'll happen if I slip off ...

The closer we get to the reef, the quieter the boat lies in the water that peacefully spreads out in front of us near the island.

And then it's in front of me. Paradise. In the glistening sunlight, white wide beaches blur behind turquoise water in front of a dense island jungle and an infinite number of palm trees of all sizes.

Ulu knows the entrance to the reef and heads for a spot at the extreme southwest end of the lagoon, and as we glide into the gentle lagoon interior, it's as if someone had rolled out a turquoise blue carpet for us. It leads past individual coral blocks, which shimmer in all colors only a few centimeters below us during the prevailing low tide, and ends directly on the beach.

Even before Salesi and Ulu have anchored the boat and attached it to a palm tree with a rope, I jump on the wet sand and breathe in island air. The air of an island on which nobody lives and which, I am immediately convinced, will be the right place at the right time for Nina and me.

"You can go now," I would like to shout to my travel companions, and fortunately Salesi is lazy enough not to want to move another meter. The soft, warm sand on the upper beach makes him sluggish, and he stops exactly where he saw the first drinking coconuts at picking height. Ulu follows him with the machete.

"We'll take a break," says Salesi, and I'm gone.

Ulu's boat is located in the middle of the west beach of the oval island, and from the beach I cannot see the outer sand peaks, which were easy to see from the water. As I begin my first exploratory walk to the north, I am annoyed by my own stupidity of having chosen a black T-shirt today. I forgot the sunglasses, too. Hmph.

But quickly I forget my luxury problems, because behind a dense hibiscus, covered in bright yellow blossoms, I come across the small wooden house. Our house for a year. Well, maybe more like a cabin. I hold my breath. Looks a little run-down, but it doesn't matter. In my fantasy, I already restore everything, a task that Nina and I will share. A joint project.

I walk around it, take a hundred photos and can't stop smiling. A child under the Christmas tree couldn't be happier.

The cottage covers about twenty square meters and is painted with white paint, which peels off in thick stripes from the outer wall. The corrugated iron roof is rusty in places, hopefully without a hole. The grass on the area in front of it stands a meter high, several palm fronds lie on the ground, next to them coconuts in heaps, not gathered by human hand, but fallen from the palms. Some nuts already germinate, others rot under the upper layer of freshly fallen fruits.

The clearing, on three sides of jungle, on one side bordered by the sea, grows meter by meter. I understand what Jamie meant by wilderness. Everywhere, climbing plants proliferate and hang. Next to the entrance of the hut I step into the thorns of an ornamental bush, a bougainvillea, and scream loudly. I wished for sunglasses earlier, now I long for a machete!

Swearing, I push the handle on the front door, but it's locked. I fight my way to the back and come across one of those green plastic rain tanks that have established themselves throughout the South Sea. I knock off the wall and find it's not even half full. A piece of rain gutter has broken off its plastic holder. With a piece of liana I mend them and tie them to the broken part so that the water tank will run full until our arrival. After all, this will be our only source of drinking water.

I climb onto the tank and unscrew the lid to check the quality of the water. Is it fresh or does it smell weird? Is there a dead animal in the tank? The few drinking bottles we will take with us will last at most a few days, and it must therefore be ensured that the water from the tank is drinkable.

It seems to be all right, and the tap also works, although it is a little rusty. I dare a sip, because better a stomach problem now than later, when we won’t be able to leave the island just because of an emergency.

I am amused to discover that I behave as objectively as I would during a visit to a flat in the city. Any other person would probably have jumped into the sea first, swum a lap and then lay down on the beach to relax.

But I'd rather keep looking. The hut has three windows, one on the front, two on the side opposite the entrance. They consist of several angular individual glasses as large as tiles and can obviously be opened halfway by pushing the wooden frame that holds everything together upwards. However, they are locked from the inside with screws. I can't look into it with fabric covers hanging behind all the windows.

When I return to the beach, Salesi and Ulu are still sitting under their palm trees and enjoying the day. In a few weeks I'll be sitting there, too, just as relaxed and having discarded my structured German. I hope so.

"Are we going back?" asks Salesi.

"No, not yet," I say and wonder how quickly the island seems to bore him. "Will you take a tour with me? Once around the island?"

Ulu nods, Salesi grumbles. "But then we'll go back," he insists. I agree, even though I don't really want to leave. But I have to because Nina is waiting for me and I'm dying to show her the photos.

Together with Ulu I march off. From the hut, he decides to take the path above the beach, near the thicket, and knocks off hanging branches with the machete. After a few meters we arrive at an open space behind which dozens of bananas grow in the jungle: a former plantation. If Nina and I are lucky, some fruit will ripen soon.

We walk on, past papayas, on which large green fruits hang - they could soon be ripe too - and meet another open area. Grass grows upwards, coconut heaps lie under palm trees, climbing plants block the passage.

Behind it is a second wooden house that Jamie mentioned and in which he will live when he visits us. It is at least twice as big as "ours", has a huge veranda, and you can still guess how beautiful it used to be. Like the little one, it has a white coating that peels off in thick layers. The wooden slats of the veranda floor almost break underfoot in some places, the railing is falling apart here and there. At the upper corners of the supporting posts, which carry the roof beams, ornate wood carvings in flower patterns sit. They are covered with moss, and mold, and a reflection of the overall condition of the house.

The corrugated iron roof is rusting. It leaks, and with the heavy rains of the South Sea, especially during the rainy season like now, it is only a matter of time before nature has completely destroyed the house. Also here I can't look inside, because fabric covers are hanging behind the windows.

On the other side of the house there is an open space of twenty meters, at the end of which there is a small building: a kitchen room with a workshop.

Fishermen must have been here last, because fireplaces can be seen everywhere. Holes in the ground that were used as earth ovens. The wind has long blown away the ashes, but the stones for heating are still on the ground. The fishermen have been careless with their garbage. I find empty corned beef cans, beer bottles, engine oil cans, batteries. A lot of work for us.

Our tour takes us to the tip of the north-west of the island, which consists of an imposing sandy beach shaped like a crescent moon decorated with three palm trees at the top. I see the tiny, also uninhabited neighbouring island a mile away, separated by a deep canal and surrounded by its own lagoon.

I imagine Nina sitting under the palm trees throwing her shadow on the sand in the midday sun. This will be her favorite spot, I already know that. There she can spread out her towel and spend the whole day with a beautiful view of the lagoon, sheltered from the greatest heat, and in the evening she enjoys the sunset.

The current of the water is strong at this point, and Ulu says what I think: "This is the best place for fishing." Larger fish can hunt for smaller ones here, especially at dusk, when they are less visible. My fingers twitch - I can hardly wait to cast out the fishing line.

"What are you going to do on the island?" Ulu suddenly asks.

"Well, living a life just like you. Fishing. Horticulture."

Ulu laughs. "Good idea," he says, even though he has completely different plans himself. "I'm going to earn some money in Nuku'alofa," he says, "then I can fly to Australia. I'd love to stay there."

We arrive at Salesi. "Ready to go back?" he asks. I see Tonga dollars flashing in his eyes.

"Ten more minutes please," I say, and while both of them are already climbing into the boat, I go back to the hut to find out what I forgot before, blinded by the many impressions. Both things are very important.

One, cell phone test. In Nuku'alofa, Nina and I bought two extra mobile phones, one from Digicel, a strong player in the South Pacific, and one from TCC, a local provider. I hold both mobile phones up one after the other and read on both displays: no service. I climb onto a sloping palm trunk, hold the mobile phones up, but also in this way: no service. I can save myself another attempt, because the highest elevation of the island rises to a modest four meters above sea level.

Second test: What is the quality of the earth? For this I push myself through the thicket behind the house, in which some bananas grow further ahead as if behind the open area. I quickly look for a manageable spot where a garden could theoretically be laid out, tear out a few grass roots and dig a few centimeters deep into the soil, which is still damp from the nightly rain. In Tongatapu it is nice firm and loamy, the earth on the small island can't get close to it. But it is firm, dark brown, no grain of sand to be seen, hopefully not too salty - so probably suitable.

Good soil is a special concern for us, because we can only provide for ourselves at least partially by growing our own fruits.

Three hours later we are back on Salesi's island, and I pay him the agreed 150 Pa'anga, but ask another favor.

"Can you introduce me to the village chief?" I ask.

Salesi agrees. I stroll after him on the path that runs between well-kept South Sea lilies, past a church building - the largest building on the island - and we come to the hut of the "town officer", as Salesi calls him, at the edge of the village.

The village chief is an older little man with many sun folds around his eyes. He pushes a wheelbarrow full of sugar cane and papayas into the garden. He smiles at our unexpected visit, takes a fruit from the cart and stretches it out to me. I accept gratefully.

Salesi translates my request for the village chief, because he does not speak English. I tell him that I came to introduce myself to him and inform him about our plans. I give him two bags of kava powder, which is widely used as a gift in the South Seas. It is made from the roots of the Yaqona plant, a shrub with a striking bone-shaped stem. Mixed with water in a wooden bowl, it is the ultimate South Sea drink. It looks like mud broth and for my European palate it tastes the same, but it should give good dreams.

The village chief takes the kava.

"I am very happy that you have introduced yourself to me and wish you a good time," he says formally as I did before.

How simple everything can be on these islands, I think. After the visit to the village chief I lie down first. My head is buzzing, I think it's a little sunstroke. I spread out the sleeping mat in the living room of Salesi's family and immediately fall asleep after a delicious mango-coconut drink, which Salesi's mother handed over to me as a matter of course. Sleep all night long and dream of the island of dreams.

At this point in our adventure, I have little idea of how complicated it is to live simply. The coming months will have two sides, and Nina and I will learn how easily our existence in seclusion can be put at risk and that we will have to fight to have a good time on the island.

Before I climb back on the church ferry to Nuku'alofa the next day at noon, Salesi asks me with a serious expression to come to the fireplace, and I get a bad feeling.

"I need to talk to you about something," he says as I sit with him. "Can you lend me a hundred dollars?" When I don't react at first, he adds, "It's for alcohol."

That's what I thought, because even in the South Sea the issue of high-proof alchol is not uncommon. Although I know it's a mistake, I put a note in Salesi's hand. Next week, when Nina and I arrive here again and want to go on with Fischer Ulu, everything should run smoothly.