Kiribati: Te Mauri te Raoi ao te Tabomoa

Washing drying on the beach near sandbags to stop the rising tides.

In today’s social media-driven age, the urge to document every mildly interesting moment can be overwhelming, but in doing so, we risk missing the magic of simply being present. One of my most vivid and touching memories of Kiribati came not from behind my phone lens, but during my final drive to the airport. As the sun cast its last golden light, I caught sight of a barefoot young girl in a ballet tutu and a boy running freely along the entrance of one of Kiribati’s traditional stilted, thatched sea huts, known locally as buias. That fleeting scene, bathed in sunset hues, encapsulated so much of what I had come to admire about this place.

Everywhere in Kiribati, the uninhibited spirit of the children stood out, perhaps a reflection of lives lived mostly outdoors. Among tangled heaps of rubbish, stray dogs, roaming pigs, and the occasional rusted remnant of Japanese WWII artillery, children played without hesitation. They skipped and darted between debris, turning hazards into games, dancing nimbly around decay with a joy that made the grimness fade into the background.

Cheeky local youths wearing white shirts (and mirro lenses) on Sunday on their way to church.

Unlike the other three Micronesian nations I visited on the Nauru Airlines Island Hopper route,where week-long stays were often unavoidable due to limited flights,Kiribati offered a welcome change. This time, I could plan a shorter stopover of just two nights, without the stress of waiting days (or even longer if a flight was cancelled!) for the next departure. While it may sound brief, for most travellers without a specific reason to linger, two to three days in Kiribati can feel like just the right amount of time to experience its quiet charm.

It is easier to buy fresh tuna than fresh fruit on the streets of Tarawa.

The heavy rain pounding down, I dashed to my hotel’s minibus at the airport, and found myself sharing with the flight crew, both attendants and pilots. Like in the Marshall Islands, the main island of Tarawa is an atoll with the sea visible on both sides. This time, instead of hiding from the rain, the locals (and plenty of them) were out in the rain, many swimming in the ocean. I was excited at the prospect of being actually able to swim without having to pay for a tour to a different island until I was advised to only swim on one side as the other side was full of sewerage. Fearful of forgetting, which was the safe side, I played it safe and didn’t swim at all. Utirerei Hotel, where we were all staying boasted views of the ‘lagoon’ which I found to be a disturbingly bright green colour, definitely not suitable for swimming in.

Japanese WWII artillery on the beach casually sitting next to a fishing boat. 

If you're staying on Tarawa, the main island of Kiribati, there are essentially two tours available: a “city” tour and a World War II tour. The former centers around Parliament House, which, as it turns out, you can’t actually enter—and since it was within walking distance of my accommodation at Utirerei Hotel, I opted instead for the WWII day tour.

At the hotel, I met a New Zealand couple, Steve and Sue. Steve was especially animated—his father had served in the Pacific War and had been stationed in Kiribati, and this pilgrimage was clearly personal. He enthusiastically recounted his family connection to anyone who would listen—including the weary Nauru Airlines pilots we shared a shuttle with.

I booked my tour with the well-known local guide Molly Brown (yes, that’s her real name—perhaps her parents hoped she’d prove as unsinkable as her Titanic namesake in the face of rising seas). Unsurprisingly, Steve and Sue ended up on the same tour; options are limited on Tarawa, after all.

The tour itself offered a haunting glimpse into history. Rusted tanks, amtracs, pillboxes, crumbling bunkers, shipwrecks, and plane remains are still scattered across the landscape. Betio, the main site of the tour, was the setting for “Operation Galvanic”, one of the bloodiest battles of the Pacific campaign. You can technically explore many of these sites on foot or by bus, but I chose to book a guide to support local tourism and to gain deeper insight into the war's legacy here. The Battle of Tarawa, fought from November 20-23, 1943, was a pivotal and extremely bloody battle in the Pacific Theater of World War II. The main objective was to capture Betio Island, part of Tarawa Atoll, from the Japanese. The battle is known for the fierce resistance encountered by the US Marines and the high casualties suffered on both sides. 

As we drove through Betio, it felt like stepping back in time. We passed villages where people lived atop raised concrete blocks, surrounded by rusting Japanese artillery, likely unaware or unbothered by the historic weight of their surroundings. At one stop, we were invited to wade into the water to explore a half-submerged tank, though I declined,rubbish and the floating remains of animals made the idea unappealing. Steve, ever determined, rolled up his pants and ventured in, while Sue and I observed from dry land, bonded by shared amusement and mild concern.

One unexpected highlight came as we passed through a local village: a young girl spotted me from her house, balanced her baby brother on her hip, and darted out excitedly to ask for a selfie (with me in it). Next to her sat a piece of Japanese WWII artilery, which had become part of the landscape. It was a brief but memorable moment, a reminder that history and everyday life coexist here in ways both surreal and touching.

New Zealander Steve having a visceral experience by climbing inside the tank.

During our day out exploring, we spotted a burst of colour emerging on a wall beside the New Zealand High Commission, and on a whim, we asked our guide Molly to pull over. As luck would have it, one of the artists behind the mural was right there: Charles Williams, part of the renowned creative duo Charles & Janine Williams (charlesjaninewilliams.com).

The mural is a beautiful reflection of the deep ties between Kiribati 🇰🇮 and New Zealand 🇳🇿, celebrating shared cultural values and respect for the environment. Vivid imagery honours whenua (land) and the importance of indigenous perspectives in governance, while also reminding us of our responsibility to protect the natural world.

There’s powerful symbolism woven throughout, from the migrating whales that unite both countries, to ancestral Rangatira (chiefs), local seabirds, and ocean motifs. Kiribati’s presence is felt in flag-inspired imagery, while New Zealand is represented through designs like waewae pūkeko, evoking the journey home, and poutama, a stepped pattern symbolising the pursuit of shared knowledge and progress. It felt like stumbling across a living story being painted before our eyes.

New Zealander Charles Williams, posing in front of his commissioned mural at the New Zealand High Commission

More of the New Zealand High Commission mural by Charles and Janine Williams.

Having spent time in various Pacific Islands, I knew to expect two things on a Sunday: church takes centre stage, and nearly everything else shuts down. Fortunately, a church just a short walk away offered a peaceful way to spend the morning while I waited for the WWII tour with Molly and fellow travellers Sue and Steve.

All around, the community made its way to worship, some squeezed into the back of utes, others walking or riding motorbikes, often without helmets. The church itself had clearly outgrown its walls, and an open-sided shelter across the road served as overflow space. People came prepared, cleverly bringing their own plastic chairs, often strapped to the side of their motor-bikes.

This service had its own distinct character. Unlike other Pacific Island churches I’ve visited, here a man, possibly the priest banged a gong to signal the beginning of the service. Though I remained outside, I was swept up by the beauty of the choir’s harmonious singing. The children were curious, peeking shyly at me or eagerly posing for photos, many dressed in oversized white outfits reserved just for Sundays.

Later, as part of the tour, we visited a Japanese WWII bunker hidden behind a fence and nearly lost to the encroaching grass. Just metres away stood a pristine Mormon church, clean, orderly, and strikingly out of sync with its surroundings. Molly ducked inside to ask if we could visit, and soon we were welcomed in. The interior gleamed; everyone was dressed in crisp, well-fitting clothes, and the sense of order was striking. It reminded me of every other Mormon church I’ve seen across the Pacific, always immaculate.

A young boy took a liking to me and followed me through the building. Eventually, I asked if he’d like to pose for a selfie, which he enthusistically did. It felt almost surreal, an abandoned relic of war beside a meticulously kept house of worship. But in Kiribati, I would learn, such contrasts are not uncommon.

For something a little more lighthearted, we made a quick stop at the Betio police station, not because of any trouble, but to snap a photo with the unusual, slightly weathered statue of a man out front. The building itself looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint, but the moment added yet another layer to the day’s mix of history, irony, and local charm.

Everyone is welcome at the local Sunday church service. 

Barefooted children outside the church.

Posing in front of a Japanese WWII bunker next to a Mormon Church with a local Mormon boy wearing a fusion of Pacific and Mormon attire. As you do.

Just a short stroll from my hotel in Tarawa stands Kiribati’s Parliament Building, known as the Maneaba Ni Maungatabu, a striking symbol of both traditional life and modern governance. It's the largest structure in the area, not just in size but in significance.

Designed by a Japanese construction company, the building’s architecture is rich with symbolism. From the front and aerial views, it resembles a traditional Kiribati canoe, while its thatched-style roof pays homage to the island’s customary huts. The whole community played a role in its creation, underscoring just how deeply the structure is woven into the cultural fabric of Kiribati.

I later read that there is a bar tucked behind it that offers sweeping views over the lagoon and is a popular sunset spot for locals and visitors alike, though on the day I visited, security guards prevented anyone from entering the area. Still, the building’s carefully maintained grounds and unique design stood out in stark contrast to the chaotic surrounding villages, quietly highlighting the divisions between formal state spaces and the everyday rhythms of local life.

Kiribati’s Parliament Building, known as the Maneaba Ni Maungatabu.

On my final day in Tarawa, there was still one important mission left: to visit the local museum in search of something uniquely Kiribati—the famed puffer fish helmet I’d read about. Too far to walk in the heat, I had to muster the courage to try the local ‘bus’ system.

Public transport in Kiribati is an experience in itself. The buses are old, battered mini-vans, likely retired from Australian roads, missing interior panels, with rattling frames and just enough functionality to keep them going. But here, they do the job. I waited alongside locals at a roadside stop until one finally pulled over. As more people piled in, we all shifted and squeezed to make room. There was no air conditioning, barely any breeze from the windows, and soon the atmosphere grew thick, especially after a barefoot fisherman climbed aboard, carrying a sloshing bucket of fresh tuna. I handed over my fare to a formidable-looking woman (the bus fare collector), and to my surprise, received some change. When it was time for me to get off, I gently called out "Can you stop please", and the message rippled down the van until the driver pulled over and I manouvered past all the bodies to climb out . 

The museum itself was modest, much like many others I’d visited across the Pacific. Infrastructure was minimal, and at first, it was so dimly lit that I could barely make out the exhibits. Eventually, the lights flickered on but not for me, I later found out, but in preparation for an upcoming visit by Miss Pacific Islands, who, coincidentally, seemed to be tracing a similar Micronesian path as mine.

Despite its humble setting, the museum held treasures. I was especially fascinated by the scale models of buia, traditional Kiribati huts raised on stilts above the ground or water, made with local materials and reflecting both architectural ingenuity and a deep connection to the surrounding environment.

But the real highlight? I found it: the elusive puffer fish helmet.

This incredible artifact, made from the dried, spiny body of a porcupine fish, has long fascinated and baffled outsiders. Early colonisers assumed it was solely a weapon of war, understandable, given the sharp spikes, but this narrow interpretation overlooked the helmet’s symbolic and ceremonial significance. Once tribal conflicts faded, the practice of making these helmets also dwindled. Unfortunately, museums like the British Museum collected and displayed them without the full cultural context, stripping the items of their deeper meaning.

As I read more, I learned that each community’s version of these helmets could vary, some subtly, others quite distinctly, depending on local beliefs and traditions. One quote particularly stuck with me:
“Every stitch sewn carries a meaning,” said Rareti Ataniberu, a Kiribati craftswoman. “The designs used in our armor need to be alive in a Kiribati person.”

And standing there, in that quiet, flickering museum, I felt like I had briefly stepped into something alive indeed.

A model of a buia, traditional Kiribati huts raised on stilts above the ground or water.

A rare puffer fish helmet alongside a famous reference photo from the early 20th century; I found its display on an old caucasion mannequin creepy! 

Back at Utirerei, Sue and Steve were getting toey. They had seen what they came for (Steve’s father fought in the Battle of Tarawa) and could not bear the thought of staying for another five days until their Air New Zealand flight departed. They had made their way to the airport in the hopes of finding a flight out of the country before then, but there weren’t any. To make things worse, the wifi didn’t work in their room limiting their indoor activities. I visited them in their hotel room and convinced them that their room was far more luxurious than theirs and that maybe they could just relax for a few days. Then the power went. All we could do is laugh.

Swimming or fishing are regular pastimes in Tarawa.

Whilst finally departing Tarawa, as the sole passenger of my hotel’s airport transfer van, I plucked up the courage to ask the driver to stop at the famous ‘highest point of Kiribati’ sign, the title full of irony, given that the point is only 3 meters above sea level; but perhaps the point of the sign is to make a political statement. In fact, in 2010, in response to the official sign, a group of volunteers illegally installed a similar sign with similar wording, colours and size but with the hand painted words ‘Rising Seas, drowning islands, TCCC/ UNFCCC: SAVE THESE ISLANDS: YES WE CAN.

Rising ocean waters are threatening to shrink Kiribati’s land area, increase storm damage, destroy its crop-growing lands (much of the land previously used to grow crops is now under sea water). This poses the question of where will the people go?

Former President Anote Tong has long been a passionate voice on the world stage, warning that his nation’s very existence is under threat. He has urged the international community to take urgent and meaningful action on climate change. But even he has admitted that it might already be too late, and his government has explored relocation strategies for a population that may one day have no home left.

There’s a haunting story that when early explorers first arrived in Kiribati, one of the hardest concepts to translate was the word “mountain”, because the idea of elevated land simply didn’t exist here. And today, that geographical flatness may become the nation’s undoing.

Kiribati is home to just over 100,000 people, more than half of whom live on the narrow stretch of South Tarawa. As an atoll, the island has only one main road, shared by everyone, from schoolchildren to market vendors to bus drivers.

As we drove away from that modest but powerful sign, it felt like a farewell not just to a place, but to a way of life that may not survive the century.

The 'Highest Point' sign in Tarawa, Kiribati stands in front of a typical residence, right next to the ocean.