the wind, and imagine a place that sails on a different plane. It is a place that prioritizes play, people, and prayer. On a typical morning, four-year-old Tangitane splashes in the aquamarine lagoon, singing a song to herself while tickling the stomach of a speckled mud crab. Her neighbour Anne-Tailor runs to join her. The older children walk the sandy road home from school. They strip off their starched navy and white school uniforms and jump into the lagoon too. Kids wrestle one another and try to catch sardines with their bare hands. The sun descends over the palm trees casting a warm mango-coloured glow over this three square kilometre atoll. A church bell rings. Mothers and older siblings gather wet children home for a cold bucket shower and a warm dinner of fish and taro. On Pukapuka, children play from dawn to dusk. With a population of four hundred and fifty and no cars, children feel safe to freely romp through nature. For toys, Tangitane has two hundred children, the lagoon, and the mud crabs. In Pukapuka, the village, the natural surroundings, and older children raise one another. Nature looks after the elderly too. Mama Maoake and Mama Langi sit on the shore of the lagoon “taking in the wind.” Every evening, they take in the wind, catch up on the village gossip, and watch the children play. Mama Maoake is in her seventies or eighties. She doesn’t know her age, and who cares really. Having spent her entire life on the sister atolls of Nassau and Pukapuka, she speaks little English. Some days she weaves, some days she peels taro, some days she plays cards with the other mamas until three in the morning. Most evenings, she sits with Mama Langi taking in the wind, angi angi te matangi, while the children splash nearby. Pukapuka sits only ten degrees below the equator. The atoll is at nature’s mercy too. Summer brings a scorching heat and truly “only mad-dogs and Englishmen
On Pukapuka, children play from dawn to dusk. With a population of four hundred and fifty and no cars, children feel safe to freely romp through nature. go out in the noonday sun.” The intensity of the heat means taking in the wind is an art form. Taking in the wind means searching for the windiest spot, feeling the light air dance on your skin, chattering with a friend, and letting your thoughts meander across the achingly sapphire sky. Modernised young couples often ride around on a motor-scooter along the sandy roads to catch the wind. Finding and taking in the wind is a full-time job. The heat and natural environment forces time to move differently in Pukapuka. People often sleep during the day, and work hard at night when the air cools. It makes sense to fish on the reef when the sun goes down and the fish sleep. It makes sense to weave a mat with a group of women when the moon is full. It makes sense to catch coconut crabs when they wander out of their holes at night. The question, “what time are you going fishing?” is usually answered with “it depends. I’m waiting on the tide.” If the tide is optimal at two in the morning,
well that is the right time. Many of the men wear watches but few of them work. The men follow the time of the tide. “We are vampires,” laughs one teenager who has watched a few too many episodes of Twilight. Life comes alive at night when the cool wind blows. Rather than functioning as a capitalist society, Pukapuka functions as a Polynesian commune. Pukapuka, along with Mangaia and Mitiaro, have no land court. Traditional leaders make the decisions about land, practice, and protocol. In Pukapuka, most of the land is owned communally by the villages. Pio Lavalua, a chief of Ngake and current Executive Officer has a salt and pepper beard and enjoys philosophical meanderings. He philosophises like a Yoda of the atoll. “Polynesians are the original socialists,” he laughs while we take in the wind. Everyone has land, food, and most of the land is made up of communally owned food reserves.
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