The Sex Lives of Cannibals

luminous and indestructible material. Before, bags were made of pandanus leaves, food was encased in fish scales, and a drink was held inside a coconut. When you were done, you simply dropped its remains where you stood, and nature took care of the rest. Now, however, bags were increasingly made of plastic, food was found in tins, drinks sloshed inside cans, and sadly, poop resided in diapers, but, unlike the continental world, there is no place to put the resulting trash. There is no room on an atoll for a landfill, and even if one did bury mounds of garbage, it would soon pollute the groundwater, which on Tarawa was already contaminated by interesting forms of life. Waste disposal on an overcrowded island like Tarawa was an enormous problem, and while governments elsewhere in the world could be expected to do something about it, the government of Kiribati carried on as it always did, blithely passing the time in between drinking binges.

Actually, that’s not fair. They did do something about it. Once upon a time there was a can recycling program. Kids gathered all the beer cans that were strewn about the island, and there were many, and carried them to a privately owned recycling center, which had a can crusher that molded the cans into exportable cubes. The kids were paid. The beer cans were recycled in Australia. Excellent program, one would think. Income was generated. Trash was disposed of in a pleasantly green sort of manner. But then the government, displaying the brain power of a learning-impaired anemone, decided to institute an export tax. Never mind that the product being exported was the rubbish that was fouling the island, the government, as a minister explained to me, “deserved its cut.” He sounded like a Staten Island capo. The tax put the can recycling program out of business. The island remains awash in beer cans.

Beer cans, however, are merely unsightly, whereas soiled diapers are repulsive, particularly for those who are unrelated to the soiler. I grabbed a stick and collected the diapers, placing them in the rusty oil drum we used as a burn bin. Without other alternatives for waste disposal, we burned everything—plastic, Styrofoam, paper, even the expired medicine we found in the cabinet, a tangible catalogue of the ailments that bedeviled Sylvia’s predecessors. In case anyone was wondering what they should do with an old asthma inhaler, I can state with some authority that throwing it into a fire is not a good idea, unless you are prepared to spend the rest of the day deaf and bewildered from the subsequent explosion. As I doused the diapers with a generous amount of kerosene, Tiabo came by to see what I was up to.

“You are going to burn the nappies?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You cannot do that.”

“I am fairly certain that I can burn the nappies.”

“You must not burn the nappies.”

“Why?”

“Because you will burn the baby’s bum.”

This gave me pause. As I stood with match in hand, I did a quick mental inventory to see if I missed something. I checked the tattered remains of the diapers a little more thoroughly. There were, as far as I could see, no babies in the diapers. I pointed this out to Tiabo.

“It does not matter,” she said. “If you burn the diapers you will burn the baby’s bum.”

Tiabo scooped out the diapers and returned them to the reef. I was baffled. I am very fond of babies, and under no circumstances would I ever wish for any harm to come to a baby’s bottom, but I was mystified here. Somewhere between cause and effect I was lost.

“Tiabo,” I said. “I don’t understand how burning diapers will lead to a scorched baby bum.”

“In Kiribati,” Tiabo explained, “we believe that if you burn someone’s… um, how do you say it?”

“Shit,” I offered.

“Yes,” she giggled. “If you burn someone’s shit, it is like burning a person’s bum.”

To readers, I wish to apologize for the frequent references to all things scatological, but such is life on Tarawa. I tried resorting to cold, heartless, Western logic.

“Tiabo,” I said. “I can prove to you that burning diapers will not harm the babies. We can do an experiment. I will burn the diapers, and you listen for the wail of babies.”

Tiabo was aghast. “No!”

“I swear. No babies will be harmed.”

“Yes they will. You are a bad I-Matang.”

I did not want to be a bad I-Matang. I thought of myself as a good I- Matang, a good I-Matang who happened to be at wit’s end. “But, Tiabo, something has to be done. It’s not healthy to live surrounded by dirty diapers.”

She pondered this for a moment. Then she came up with an idea. “I will make a sign,” she said.

On a piece of cardboard, she wrote something in I-Kiribati. The only words I understood were tabu and I-Matang. “What does it say?” I asked.

“It is forbidden to throw diapers on the reef here. All diapers found will be burned by the I- Matang.”

“That’s good. Will it work?”

“I think so.”

We posted the sign on a coconut tree near the reef. The real test came on a Sunday. Due to their expense, diapers are used sparingly, and it was only on Sundays when mothers resorted to their use. The churches in Kiribati are, without exception, shamelessly coercive. It mattered not whether it was the Catholic Church or the Protestant Church or the Mormon Church or the Church of God, or any other of the innumerable churches to have set up shop on Tarawa; if a family found itself unable to pay their monthly tithe to their church, which typically took 30 percent of their meager income, they were called up to the front of the church by their pastors and loudly castigated for their failure to pay God His due. And woe to the mother who decides to skip the four-hour service to stay home and tend to a newborn.

On a Sunday afternoon, after the churches had released their flocks, I was pleasantly surprised to see a woman approach the reef with her child’s morning output, pause for moment to read the sign, and turn around, no doubt searching for someplace where she could be assured that her baby’s poop would be spared the flame. That’s right, lady. Not In My Backyard.

I GREW MORE appreciative of Tiabo. She was helping me along, conscious of the realities of Kiribati and the foolishness of the I-Matang, and it was not long before I began to feel at ease on Tarawa. I felt I understood its rhythms and peculiarities. I was adapting. Sylvia and I were temporary residents on the island, visitors really, and as much as we could we adjusted to island life. Here and there, we drew certain lines—the outrageous bubuti, the diapers in the backyard—but mostly we shrugged our shoulders and accepted that that’s just the way it goes here. It’s their island. Sylvia, of course, spent her days encouraging the I-Kiribati to manage their islands a little more thoughtfully, and were it not for the enthusiasm and good sense of her staff, she would have been brought to the brink of despair, but there is only so much a foreigner can do on Tarawa. It’s their island.

And so when a man walked by the window and gave me a friendly mauri as I stared miserably at my computer screen, I turned to Tiabo and said: “You know, Tiabo, I think I have adapted to Kiribati.”

She gave me a quizzical look.

“You see,” I said, “in my country if a very large man wearing only a tiny lavalava were to walk through my backyard while carrying an enormous machete, I would be worried. I would probably call the police. But here, I just give a friendly wave.”

Tiabo looked upon me as if I was irredeemably stupid. She sighed.

“He is only walking here because you are an I-Matang. He does not respect you.”

“Oh.”

“He would not walk on this land if I-Kiribati people lived here.”

“Oh.”

I had noticed that when people visited one another, they would first yell out from the road, announcing their presence. I had assumed it was because of the dogs.

“I see,” I said. “What would happen if that man had walked by and I-Kiribati people lived here?”