Discover Local Customs

Cultural faux pas adds some spice to this couple's cruising life.

By Josh Holloway

There are many ways to immerse yourself in a new culture. Some people read books. Some hire guides. Others unknowingly commit minor social crimes and wait for the consequences to be explained to them in a crowded hut.

Cultures can clash over something as simple as a beach barbecue — one never knows if the sticks on the sand may be needed for a different purpose.

The Meeting Hut Incident

A hush consumed the entire maneaba, a Kiribati meeting hut. My lovely wife, Heidi, and I sat crisscross on the dirt floor, fidgeting awkwardly, keenly aware that all the villagers were staring at us in disapproval.

A few moments earlier, Heidi and I had been chatting enthusiastically about our previous day’s fishing catch, and how we had enjoyed cooking it up over a beach fire in the nearby cove. A villager had asked, “Where did you get your wood?”

“From the beach. There were plenty of sticks,” I responded, confidently—always a dangerous state.

And now here we were, in an awkward silence, our sins about to be conveyed to us by one of the elders. What had I done this time?

I admit, I had a particular aptitude for faux pas when it came to Kiribati culture. If there were an Olympic event for accidental disrespect, I would have at least made the semifinals.

The Church Lesson

A clear example occurred the first time we were invited to the island’s Catholic church service. The preacher finished his sermon and invited the congregation to lie down for a siesta.

“Wow, Heid, I’m diggin’ this church’s style,” I said, as I quickly adjusted my position from cross-legged on the floor to flat on my back, hands behind my head, toes in the air like I just don’t …

“Uhhhhhhhh!”
“Ahhhhhh!”

People were gasping. People were talking rapidly in Gilbertese, the Kiribati language. They were pointing fingers at me. They were pointing fingers at my feet — the bottoms of my bare feet.

The preacher looked at me sternly and said, “Never point the bottom of your foot at a person.”

I looked at my feet, the soles of which were pointed directly where? Directly at him.

“Oh! Oh! I’m so, so, sorry!”

Does “sorry” cut it when you’ve just done the equivalent of flipping the preacher the bird, in church? Fortunately, the preacher was a forgiving man, or at least one accustomed to visiting idiots.

Where Exactly Is Kiribati?

In my defense, the 33 islands spread out across the Pacific that make up the nation of Kiribati — and the culture of the people that inhabit them — never found their way into my formal Pennsylvania education.

Before leaving on the 2,000-mile sail from Hawaii to Kanton, Kiribati, aboard our engineless Pacific Seacraft 25, Tiny Bubbles, I had only met two people — hardcore cruisers through and through — who had been to Kiribati. They had confirmed that, “Yes, it does exist,” and “Yes, it does hold the Holy Grail.”

That was sufficient due diligence.

So it was off to Kiribati, pronounced “ki-ri-bas.” We told friends and family about our plans, and each of them, though highly intelligent and reasonably well educated, would get a perplexed look before asking, “Kiri-ba-what?”

Thinking that it’s perhaps safer to eat on board, Josh set up a makeshift fire pit on the foredeck.

Arrival and Reality

Luck was with us on the voyage, aside from a nasty “tropical wave” that made us one with the ditch bag. It was a week of mast-slapping, insanity-inducing, marriage-testing wallowing in the doldrums, capped off by a missed tack and a rather decisive introduction to the reef at the entrance to Kanton’s lagoon.

I’d say things went about as well as could have been expected.

So here we were on Kanton, population 40, roughly half of whom were children and all of whom were now more culturally competent than I was.

It is the only inhabited island of the eight atolls that make up Kiribati’s Phoenix Islands group. The residents work for the government, which mostly consists of maintaining a human presence on a coral atoll 1,100 miles from the mother island of Tarawa.

There are no stores, no telephones (everything is via SSB radio), and an inconsistent supply ship. During the three months we were there, it did not arrive, which put it at approximately half a year late—well within local expectations.

What Kanton lacked in Western convenience (everything), it made up for in a raw, unfiltered, live-by-your-wits existence that we found deeply appealing, possibly because we did not yet fully understand it.

Although the supply ship never arrived during their three-month stay at Kanton Island, the seafood was plentiful.

Lessons in Hygiene

Occasionally, we got ill. Very ill.

It was difficult to practice Western hygiene in a world without soap or running water, so the phrase “Oh, you’ve been eating sweets again” became all too meaningful.

It came from our well-worn copy of Where There Is No Doctor, by David Werner, a book that grew increasingly relevant as its pages began to fall out.

One passage stuck with us:

“If Junior is sick, his mother may say it’s because he’s been eating sweets. It’s not. It’s because he has been eating s—!”

Subtlety is not a major theme of the book, nor of life in general when viewed up close.

Cross contamination, we learned, is not theoretical.

The Stick Problem

The oldest member in the maneaba was ready to speak now, on matters concerning our previous day’s cookout on the beach.

“You must never do that again!”

We nodded gravely, though still entirely unclear on what “that” was.

He continued, searching for the right phrasing.

“Those sticks that you pick up. Those sticks are, how do you say… Those sticks are Kiribati toilet paper.”

I could feel my stomach begin to register this information before my brain fully processed it.

“Oh, Josh,” Heidi said, with a certain weary familiarity, “I think we’ve been eating sweets again.”

What We Learned (Eventually)

Travel, we discovered, is less about seeing new places and more about slowly realizing how little you understand about perfectly ordinary things—like where to find firewood, how to sit in church, or what not to cook your dinner over.

It is a humbling process. Occasionally a gastrointestinal one.

And while guidebooks can help, there is no substitute for direct experience, preferably learned just after—not before—you’ve made the mistake.