7

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THE TOUR GUIDE was waiting for Jack at the appointed hour. Wearing a tropical shirt and an infectious grin, he introduced himself as Emmanuel. His face had been weathered into the shape of a shriveled grape. He opened the back door of his metro vehicle and flourished a hand of invitation. Jack preferred to ride up front.

Emmanuel drove like a maniac, but a skilled maniac, his body pointing forward, his hands riding the steering wheel at eleven o’clock and one o’clock, and his eyes roving like pinballs in an arcade game. He pointed out the island’s best assets, interspersing his picturesque narrative with personal essentials. “There’s the house where I was born. The school I went to. My church. My wife shops at that store over there. There’s my wife’s cousin. He’s a barber. Hello, Jacob!” he called out, and without slowing down, yelled something to this cousin in Nauruan, upon which, the sightseeing tour immediately resumed.

He used broad hand gestures and turned towards his passenger every few words while a vortex of wind whistled through the lowered windows and his gray hair whipped around his face.

The South Seas island, he explained, was surrounded by a coral reef exposed at low tide. A recent typhoon had all but wiped out everything. This afternoon’s low tide made evident the manifold protrusions composed of seemingly lifeless though intricate shells where colonies of polyps and other sea creatures lingered. Anchored underwater, the coral apartments were mostly blackened, both above the shallow depths and below, and lacking the usual pastel hues of a thriving reef.

“The reef lives still,” Emmanuel assured his passenger. “It will come back. In a year or two or three, God’s paint brush will restore the beauty so that once again we can feast our eyes on it. Life,” he said with an accepting shrug, “goes on.”

Northeast trade winds blew from March to November, he explained, usually bringing heavy rains. Deep waters bounded Nauru on the seaward side while pristine beaches flanked its inland shores. “We are in the middle of a draught. Climate change,” he said with another of his expressive shrugs. “The oven effect.”

He changed the subject, pointing out the many trees that at first appeared like a fruit cocktail sitting in a shallow dish but upon further examination did not appear quite so colorful. While coconut palms, figs, almonds, mango, wild cherry, pandanu, and tomano trees seemed to be thriving, palm trees boasted frondless poles and pandanus wore black crowns. Seaside golf courses had been reduced to an unremarkable canvas of dull hues even while golfers persisted in playing the greens, green no more but motley shades of yellows and browns. Beneath the trappings of an island paradise lingered the pangs of a slow death.

“We import fresh water from Australia,” Emmanuel said. “It’s a nuisance.”

Now the sea, the sea was altogether different. Given the terrain, there was no natural harbor, but offshore moorings were the deepest anywhere, and world-class sailboats and pleasure yachts bobbed in sapphire waters.

“Who do they belong to?” Jack asked.

“Drug runners.”

“Where do they come from?

“Everywhere.”

“Why do they come here?”

“Because they are welcome.” He winked with conspiratorial knowing. “Like the banks.”

Frigate birds swarmed the sky, their plumage mostly black, or black and white with some gray, and their enormous wings catching wind currents, allowing them to sail over the waters with effortless ease.

“They can stay aloft for days, sometimes a week or more,” Emmanuel said. “They search for tuna.”

A population of ten thousand souls inhabited the island, everything made accessible by a single loop of paved road lined with palm trees and bordered by sea. For twenty minutes Emmanuel drove his client around the near-perfect circle of Nauru, stopping once at a small store carrying white bread and diet soda. Since both knew there was only one reason, or possibly two, why an American would fly to the tiny island nation, the sightseeing tour took place with respectful camaraderie. Emmanuel slowed down when he approached a factory spewing great clouds of choking smoke.

He turned to Jack, his expression no longer happy-go-lucky. “We Nauruans are a proud people, a resourceful people. We have belonged to many nations, officially and unofficially. America. Germany. Australia. Each took what they wanted. Whales, coconut, phosphate. After they took everything away, they left us with sunshine and ocean, which is enough for us. It is where we started as a people. Now we are a proud republic, beholden only to ourselves. We get by. The boat harbor has been rebuilt. Very modern. Very efficient. We can withstand anything the seas send our way. More goods from Australia and New Zealand come every day. Instead of whaling, we have deep-sea fishing. Jackfish tuna, marlin, dolphin fish, skipjack, and sailfish. Coconuts and bananas when there’s nothing else to eat. Instead of phosphate, we have banking. Also smuggling. And always there is snorkeling and scuba diving. We have pleasant surroundings, no? An ocean away from the strife and wars and trivial worries of the rest of the world. Nauru is the way it has always been. And so it goes with we Nauruans. We fight and squabble and make up and make love and make the best of what God has given us. It is our way. There is no more.”

Emmanuel was more than driver or tourist guide. He was a philosopher, a man in tune with his environment, an accepter of life, and a thinker. He was also a hustler.

“If you want to go swimming, I can take you to Anibare Harbour. Most of the other beaches are too shallow and rocky, you see. Or if game fishing interests you, I can arrange a charter with one of the best. Darrell. Darrell Roberts. He has his own boat. It’s a beauty. You want to see Topside now?”

“Topside?”

“Our nickname for the interior, where the phosphate is mined.”

“You said the mining was over.”

He shrugged at the contradiction. “Every now and then, they find pockets and veins, always a cause for celebration and work.”

He turned up a winding dirt road and drove slowly with the windows rolled up and air conditioning turned on. Parallel to the road, an active railway transported massive boulders down to the factory.

“Phosphate is used for fertilizer, but you probably already know that.”

He pulled over, got out of the car, and stretched up his arms, flagellating his fingers as if he were a supplicant in the throes of adoration. Jack followed him to the edge of the road where, less than a yard distant, the shoulder abruptly dropped off. The dizzying view embraced a lunar landscape of excavated canals, limestone towers, and coral outcroppings. A colossal pit—sheared of vegetation and quarried down to bare rock—had been hollowed out of the island’s heart.

“The reason we have drought is the oven effect,” Emmanuel was saying. “The scorched air rises up fast enough to blow away the rain clouds. The government intends to remove the barren highpoints and reshape the land to make it useable again, but it will take years, maybe decades, and a great deal of money. We squabble over what belongs to who, and beg from the bankers, telling them it will be the best investment they will ever make. When it is done, the land will welcome vegetation once more.” He gazed up at the sky. “And the birds will return. When I was a boy, everything here was jungle. Green as far as the eye could see, and even farther, over to the back of beyond, on the other side of the rainbow. My friends and me, we would come up here and hunt for black noddy birds. Today, no more noddy birds. They are gone like the wind.”

He made a gesture, fingers striking thumb and dispelling unseen spirits. Afterwards he quietened himself in the airy stillness, just another rock on the mountain while the heat of the sun beat down on his head, his eyes closed against the brightness. Perhaps he was seeing other kinds of images. Pictures of the mind. Memories of his youth. Loved ones who long ago left this world but remained in the recesses of his heart. Outlining the plains of his face like the serrated edge of a knife was a deep-seated sadness along with something else. Shame. Shame for his people and shame for the place he called home.

“One day I hope to bring home a noddy bird for my wife to cook in the old ways like my mother did. Just one more time, so I can savor the taste and the memories.”

As they headed back to the car, Emmanuel was pensive. “With the mines petering out ... well ... they call it the new economy.”

“Drug running?”

“International banking. Better than phosphate. More profitable than opium.” Emmanuel was a very pragmatic man and proved it when he said, “What you really came for.”

“And if I did say no?”

“It is useless to pretend you are in Nauru for the fishing.” They had been playing a game of poker, hiding their hands and bluffing. Except Emmanuel was holding the ace of diamonds all along. “It is of no concern of mine. Do what you want to do. But we both know the truth of it.”

Tour guide and tourist descended the mountain in silence. Emmanuel pulled in front of a building not much larger than a shed. He left the engine running while his fingers drummed the steering wheel.

“Do you get a commission?” Jack asked.

“For every outsider I bring,” he said, nodding. “A hundred dollars Australian. It is all very upfront. Even if you don’t do business, I get a hundred dollars.” He scratched the back of his neck, waiting for his passenger to answer.

Jack ran his eyes over the shed, a simple oblong building with gray siding, stone foundation, flat roof, and wooden steps leading to the front door. Plywood platforms supported air conditioning units of nearly every window. A motorized chorus hummed in the heated air. Several vehicles were parked on the side. “What’s this place called?”

“Around here, just the Shack. Go inside. You’ll see. Officially, the Shack does not exist. Many years ago, every bank pulled out of Nauru because of money laundering. Now they are dribbling back in. You could go to one of the modern banks in town. Or this one. Off the grid. Your choice.” There was a twinkle to his eye and a crookedness to his toothy grin. He waited for Jack to say or do something while his fingers tapped the steering wheel in a rhythmic cadence. “Or another time. Just say the word.”

After the silence had been swept away by disquiet, Emmanuel shrugged, put the car in gear, and drove away, his passenger still sitting beside him.