"Gregory!" That Voice, That Pitch, That Tone - I...

Tarawa, Kiribati

"Gregory!" That voice, that pitch, that tone - I knew I was in trouble! When you hear that voice you know its time to run. The name alone - only she uses that name - she gave it to me, she sticks by it, everyone else calls me Greg! Without even a fleeting glance over my shoulder I run out of our tin roofed bungalow - a roof battered by the battery of coconuts falling from one of the many coconut trees in the garden. Only a mother will know what my crime is and maybe one day I will return to find out. I run to the top of the garden almost tripping over the upturned dustbin. An alarmed stray dog, a lamp chop firmly clasped in its mouth, emerges and runs - yes runs - towards the beach to enjoy the trophy. Instinct calls the green cross code into play - there are so few cars on this island but motorcycles run amock. Nothing coming. I run across the road, round the corner and down a dirt path and into the local bread factory. I disturb Bruno, the manager and my friend. A panting i-matang on his doorstep can only mean one thing and he raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement. Then again this signal could just the typical Gilbertese greeting! I jump onto the numerous sacks of flour climbing high up to the ceiling and bury myself in a cloud of flour. I wait for a few minutes - it seems hours. Radio Tarawa is blasting in the background. The 2.30 news. Another half hour and the tabakea will be leaving for Bairiki. She'll never find me there and if she does I will run to Bonriki and catch the Air Pathetic to Fiji. Bored and thirsty I head for the wharf. I pass the local "freezer" and grab an Atoll cola. I pass by the Coop and the Bank, upto the roundabout and left at the cross roads. I tap the "Stop" sign in passing - in reverence - it is after all the only road sign on the island. As I approach the wharf I see no tabakea. This doesn't surprise me as this run down landing craft has served the island so well over the years but surely it must be put to rest sooner or later. When will those damm aussies finish the causeway! Never mind! A flash of sunlight bouncing off the BP towers catches my eye. Twenty cents - a bus ride! I seize this treasure and flag down the nearest minibus, jump into the seat alongside the driver and drift into my world as we embark on a magical mystery tour. Betio is a small island - probably 2 miles long and no more than half a mile wide (this includes the jetty!) and the main road therefore goes round, and round and round. The buses unsurprisingly follow this route monotonously day after day. The only sight to match the buses has to be the van loads of intoxicated revellers after a wedding circumventing the island after the bride and groom depart for their honeymoon. Where do the gilbertese go on honeymoon I wonder - probably "Bik-e-man"! As I pass the Marine Training School, the soccer pitch, the prison, the Betio Club, the big guns - a legacy of WWII - and pass the island's only billboard with the sign writing "Betio-Bariki Causeway Under Construction", I wonder if I will ever return to this paradise. I look out to the reef, the white sea-horses frothing and over the coral heads - the local fisherman returning with their catch - and think why ever leave. And then I remember that I am on the run! There is nowhere to run on Betio...