The Sex Lives of Cannibals

“Beer.”

“Anchor Steam.”

“Harp.”

“Bitburger.”

“Duvel.”

Sigh.

“More rice?”

CHAPTER 8

In which the Author continues with the theme of Absence, which will be a pervasive theme throughout this narrative, there really being a lot to say, but here the focus will be on water and electricity, the absence thereof.

Before I moved to Kiribati, I had never spent much time considering the topic of infrastructure. If someone had asked me where does drinking water come from, I would have said from the tap, of course. The provenance of electricity was equally mysterious. It seemed to somehow involve lightning, a kite, a key, and men in frocks who conveniently stored the power inside walls. This all changed when I noticed with some alarm that water was no longer streaming from the tap. I had hesitated to look inside the water tanks, fearing the knowledge that awaited, but one day the dry rasping of our water pump forced the reckoning. Inside the tanks, a thick layer of mud, the remnants of leaves, nettles, and insects, covered the bottom. On the sides, I saw the outlines of several geckos silhouetted in relief, their decomposition having slowly occurred in our water supply. Not knowing what to do, but feeling the need to be useful, I clambered inside one of the tanks with a shovel and bucket and began cleaning. This ranks very high on my list of exceedingly dumb things I have done in my life. It was nearly midday and the sun had transformed the tank into an oven, which cooked and basted me until I finally gasped and, with the last of my strength, I hoisted myself out of the roasting tank and began to wretch. I stammered into the shower thinking cold water would do me good. I turned it on and nothing happened, of course, except the bleak sound of air moving through the water pump and the sudden awareness that the tropics had so far not been very kind to either my body or my mind.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I was filthy. Not only was I pasted in a thick layer of primeval slime, no doubt the kind of tropical muck of abiding interest to those with degrees in the life sciences, but I could also see bonded to my skin the dark remains of several geckos. What on earth were so many geckos doing in our water tanks? Ah, eating, of course. And what were they eating? Bugs. And what happens when geckos eat bugs? They poop. But what would have killed all those geckos? I was stymied there. Tottering on the cusp of heat exhaustion, I could only think, again, And we moved here why?

There was nothing to do but go for a swim. The tide was going out, but there still remained enough water over the reef to bathe, a shallow layer that the sun had heated to a near scalding temperature. I walked out about forty yards where the water was nearly waist-deep though not much cooler and dove in, enjoying the salt water and the feeling of sweat and grime departing me. And then I turned back to shore. Two large women were walking toward the water. Please no. They carried sticks. Oh, please, please, no. They moved toward the ledge of coral rock, which I had begun to call the Ledge of Coral Rock Behind the House Where Large People with Bottoms I Have No Wish to See Go to Defecate. Maybe they’re just going to talk about that cute guy they saw in the coconut tree. They squatted. Nooooo. Up went the lavalavas. Ugh.

When finally I returned to the house I immediately doused myself with half a bottle of antiseptic, and, to complete the catastrophe, drank our last liter of boiled water. Then I tried to think constructively about the water problem. In the short term, I would have to find water, any water at all that did not contain too much salt or too many parasites, for our hour-by-hour needs. In the medium term, I would have to find a sufficient quantity of water to fill, at least partially, one of the water tanks. And for the long term, I would have to learn the local rain dance. I contemplated sacrifices. Would the gods accept a dog? I would sacrifice a lot of island dogs for water.

I headed out with two large plastic canisters. On our little road were a few oceanside houses that were similar to ours, and across from these houses were smaller, decrepit permanent houses that appeared fatigued and burdened with the task of sheltering what seemed to be forty people per house. Surrounding each house like satellites were customary shelters of wood and thatch, raised on platforms and partly enclosed by mats. These, unlike the permanent houses and their crumbling walls, were always kept tidy and in tip-top condition. Each contained bodies in repose, mostly asleep, but a few awake, watching me, whispering to their neighbors, giggling and smiling. Two young girls, wearing lavalavas and plaited, locally made sleeveless shirts sat on a stoop in front of a house, one picking at the long cascading black hair of the other, seeking out the lice, and smiling radiantly at my passing. Everywhere there were dogs, mangy and spotted, their bones jutting against mottled, hairless skin, sleeping in freshly dug shallow pits, seeking the cooler earth below the surface that seemed to cackle and hiss in the sun.

I hesitated to ask anyone at all for water, knowing that most people relied on well water and that well water was brackish and the happy abode of numerous parasites and probably the reason why everyone was always shitting on the reef. Also, I knew that due to the drought even the wells were often nearly dry.

There is, I should note, a water system of sorts on Tarawa. Twice daily, for about twenty minutes, water is pumped from Bonriki and piped toward Betio. The water pipe was a gift from the good citizens of Australia. It was also so punctured that rare was the drop that actually reached Betio. It is technically illegal to puncture the pipe, but since there are way too many people on Tarawa and few homes actually connected to the water system, there really was no choice for people but to puncture the pipe in order to satisfy their basic water needs. This was usually done in a very orderly fashion. I had even seen policemen politely standing in line with their buckets awaiting their turn. A few I-Matang, confronted with their own empty water tanks, had taken it upon themselves to attach portable water pumps to the water system, ensuring that during the twenty minutes or so when water trickles down the main pipe, nearly every drop would get pumped into their tank. Like most houses, ours was not connected to the water system, so this was not a possibility for us, which was probably a good thing, because while I recognize that expropriating the island’s water supply to satisfy your own needs is just wrong wrong wrong, I might have been sorely tempted.

Instead, I decided to inquire at the neighbor’s house, which like ours had rainwater tanks. Most of the oceanside houses were allocated to the Ministry of Health. Our immediate neighbors were two female Chinese doctors, a psychiatrist and a gynecologist. I once attempted some friendly, neighborly banter—looks like it will be sunny today—but I was rebuffed. I mentioned this to Sylvia, who made her own foray. When she returned, she looked puzzled.

“They don’t speak English,” she said.

“Do you think they speak I-Kiribati?”

“No.”

We contemplated this for a moment. The psychiatrist represented the entirety of Kiribati’s mental health services. She was well known for favoring powerful tranquilizers, unlike her predecessor, who was partial to straitjackets. Her roommate was the only gynecologist in the country. “Well,” said Sylvia, “it’s good to know that if a schizophrenic Mandarin-speaking woman with a bad yeast infection ever shows up on Tarawa, there will be help for her.”

That’s the thing about Sylvia. She’s always thinking positively.

I knocked on their front door. I practiced my pantomime. No answer. Next to them was the surgeon, also from China. I knocked on his door. No answer. Of course, I thought. They have jobs. Just as I turned to go, however, the door opened and a sleepy, rumpled surgeon, wearing only briefs, emerged, blinking into the brightness of day. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but we just live two doors down, and… well, we’ve run out of water and —”

Before I could finish, he had relieved me of my canisters. He went to the laundry basin beside the house and filled them with water. “Any time you need water, just take. No problem.” The kindness of strangers is a great thing. Regrettably for the surgeon, his kindness did not go unnoticed and soon the entire neighborhood was helping