PacificEthnoExp. Part V. Tokelau

Map

August 29–30, 2013

A mere two days after leaving Samoa, we reach Tokelau’s main atoll—Fakaofo.

The capital.

We radio to shore. A pontoon boat with a border guard and cop comes out to meet us. They tell us they’re not authorized to let us enter because we’re not on the list, and suggest we take it up with the general manager of the village on channel 16.

We radio the general manager. It’s a woman. She tells us we were supposed to submit our paperwork three days in advance. And since we didn’t, they won’t let us into the country. Her superior is the only person who could resolve our case, but he’s away until next Thursday. So for now, we can retreat to 100 miles from shore and solve our problems from there.

Tokelau has no airport. There’s a plane that alights on the water three times a year and a ferry for the locals five times a year. It’s freaking impossible to get here and freaking impossible to leave. And now we’re being told to beat it and head back into the ocean.

There’s nothing to be done. Such are the rules of ethnography. We head back out.

Tokelau consists of three atolls a day’s run away from one another. We hatch a plan to head for the middle atoll, Nukunonu. It has its own administration; we’ll try to moor at the shore in the morning without radioing in and waiting to get denied entry.

We sail all day. And it pours all day.

We unfold our contraption for collecting rainwater. Now we can all take leisurely showers.

We reach Nukunonu by nightfall and heave to.

At 6 a.m. the sun begins to rise. Its rays are rays of hope. We simply have to land in Tokelau today.

The atoll is surrounded by reefs. There’s just a 15-meter channel for boats to pass through. I get into the inflatable dinghy and head for the wharf. We hit a reef; the propeller is still intact, the rubber hasn’t punctured, but we almost tip over, and my pants and shoes get soaked through. But we make it to the pier. Whew! I tie up the boat and see three children in straw skirts walking by.

We’re in Tokelau at last!

Half the houses on the atoll have a tall concrete ground floor to make them more tsunami-resistant.

Oh look, some locals. Ok, so they have a fancy stroller, but they’re all wearing straw clothing.

The Tokelau electrical box casing.

The main street. The cathedral’s arch is exactly like something you’d see in Suzdal.

A little girl.

The only source of fresh water on the island is the rain. People collect water from their rooftops into giant black plastic cisterns.

More locals.

Grave crosses are traditionally adorned with the shirts of the deceased.

A boy.

The wall of the school building.

We get to the post office and encounter a curly-haired policeman twirling a set of boat keys, who tells me he was about to come out to our boat because we hadn’t made contact. If he had come, the same thing would have happened as yesterday—we would have been sent back out because we hadn’t submitted our request for entry three days in advance.

Then a woman appears and starts giving us a stern scolding for violating visa requirements. If you say “Please forgive us, ma’am” three times in a row, however, even the sternest woman in the world will cut you some slack. This particular one also happened to be the person selling postcards and stamps.

At that moment a crowd of people in traditional dress walked by outside, banging on oil canister drums.

Ahead of the procession were symbols of the modern age: people taking photos with their iPads. There’s nothing stupider-looking in the world.

I ask Curly if the island’s residents always wear straw clothing. Of course not, he says, it’s just cultural heritage week now. We wear normal clothes the rest of the time. He says this as he’s wearing a plaid shirt, a walkie-talkie around his neck, and a skirt.

Having scolded us for our lack of respect for the sovereignty of Tokelau, the woman and Curly decide to forgive us and stamp our departure record. Curly accompanies us back to our yacht to see the other passengers and complete his ritual of official approval.