PEDDLING DAYDREAMS: Part 1

The trade winds tell me secrets as I alternately press the peddles and swerve between mud puddles. I've got two miles before the thatched roofs of the kia-kias begin to freckle the forested roadside. For two miles my existence dissolves into the murmur of gnashing fronds. Only the splash of my tires in a deceptively deep puddle reminds me that I AM. Coconut palms gather on either side of the road nodding and gossiping with each other as if the road was a red carpet and I a movie star clad in a fashion faux pas. They strain their long necks for a better look. Where their shadows stop the equatorial sun is oppressive. I suck at the steamy air and keep peddling.

When the road cuts closer to the lagoon, shades of milky turquoise stack up between the curved trunks of the palms on the 'front line' that lean deeply into the wind. Their fronds press backward but bounce in resistance like tufts of green hair stiff with hair spray. My thirst snaps me out of the trance. I veer right, hop off the bike, and wander toward the lagoon--my eyes cast skyward as if scouring the frosted doors of a 7-11. "Nope.too sweet.too young.too vertical." I spot my beverage of choice in a palm of sufficient diameter and arc. My fingers tingle with excitement as I peel off my hat and feel the rough rings of the trunk under my bare hands and feet. The climb is absolute concentration, but it hardly feels conscious until I collapse into a tight hug of the trunk at the top and look out over the lagoon. Twisted from the bunch, a coconut falls and I slide down. Three angular incisions of my grandfather's buck knife and I am sipping ultimate refreshment-no safety seals, no catchy marketing labels-nature has packaged its perfect drink in a simple green husk. I sit on a cushion of fallen fronds and savor each swig. The trades animate my surroundings. They blow with great, lasting vigor-tiring the trees and shoving surface water across the atoll into wind waves that crumple over and over onto the white sand before me.

I'm dodging puddles again. Rain comes and goes in schizophrenic hurries. The first kia kia appears on my left. Kata must be out cutting copra. Only pigs and dogs and chickens stir about his stilted thatch dwelling. More peddling. My tires span the gaps of the planked plywood bridge and I am nearly to the first village. The reflective corrugated tin roof of the 'maneaba' (village gathering place) blinds me as I pull over into its shade to greet the old women. They know me now and don't mind my observing their intricate workings of pandanus and fronds. Independence Day festivities are only a month away and every islander is busy. The women sit, lean and lay amongst heaps of loose, dried strips of pandanus. Today they are making elaborate, double-layered grass skirts for dancing. My friend Teburenga sets a plate of bananas in front of me. "Ko rabwa," I reply with an appreciative nod. The women tease me as usual--bickering over whose son will sail off with me as my husband. Their laughter is delightfully unchecked-gushing and flooding the maneaba like broken fire hydrants. I love this flood. I stand up with one of the finished skirts, tie it around my waist and try to mimick their dancing. The hydrants spew great cackles of hilarity. "You no I-matang, you Kiribati woman!" I am safe and happy here. An hour passes and I remember that this was not my final destination. I scoop up the last two bananas for the ride, give Tinaai the antibiotic cream I brought for her little boy's skin infection, buy a dozen local candies and continue down the road. It must be after 3pm.the kids will already be in the water...