The vanishing of a tropical nation

Despite Tong and MacKenzie's belief that these islands will inevitably be washed away, the people here, known as I-Kiribati (pronounced "Eee-Kiribas"), are more preoccupied with the immediate environmental changes. The health of the coconuts is of paramount concern. For Westerners, the coconut may be a clichéd symbol of tropical paradise, but for I-Kiribati, the coconut quite literally equates to survival -- especially for those living on the outer islands, where imported goods are scarce.

Mikaio Rorobuaka sits upon a stone and mortar sea wall in Eita, a village on Tarawa. Wearing a sky-blue collared shirt and brown shorts, he has the gentle, grandfatherly air of a man who has fully enjoyed the richness of life and relishes telling you about it. He's also an unimane -- an elder patriarch and spiritual leader. As the turquoise-brown waters of the Tarawa lagoon slosh against the sea wall below him, Mikaio becomes almost reverential on the subject of the coconut.

"The coconut is a symbol of life and the survival of the people of Kiribati," he says. "From the coconut palm, nearly everything a person needs can be provided. Coconut provides food and drink, medicine, dancing skirts, shelter ... and these days, coconut is one of the main exports of Kiribati."

Indeed, the coconut pulls more than $20 million into Kiribati annually and accounts for nearly two-thirds of total export revenue. And though Mikaio believes that climate change has begun taking its toll on the coconut trees, he still thinks they will outlive the other plants.

"Over the last 50 years or so, I've noticed a lot of changes. It's getting hotter and hotter every year -- yet still the coconut palm survives. I think the coconut palm will be the last tree to survive, even if there is disaster caused by global warming."

Sea-level rise is already taking its toll on coconuts, however, by causing erosion and freshwater contamination, according to MacKenzie. The precise location of an individual tree determines its condition: Erosion affects the coconut trees along the coastline, killing them off row by row and sending them into the ocean; water contamination, however, affects trees living over sensitive groundwater reservoirs. When the coconuts "drink the salty water" (as the I-Kiribati say), it makes the fruit smaller and saltier, or kills them entirely.

There is little in the way of conclusive scientific research directly linking global warming to dying coconuts. However, IPCC scientists do say that erosion and freshwater contamination -- the conditions that locals claim are killing the trees -- will likely occur in many small-island states in the South Pacific over the next century.

The larger problem of rising sea levels is more difficult for some I-Kiribati to accept. Mikaio says there are three groups of people in Kiribati: one that believes sea levels are rising quickly and will totally submerge the islands within 50 years, another that thinks it's happening much more slowly but will nonetheless eventually have the same result, and a third group that believes that God will protect them, so they need not worry.

"The third group of people," says Mikaio, "are those who are very religious. They believe in what the Bible says. During the time of Noah, there was a flood, and the Ark was built to save good people -- Noah's family, animals -- but when the flood stopped, God made a promise to Noah not to make any more floods happen. So the Christians and most of the religious people in Kiribati are aware that there's global warming -- they experience it as well, and they understand that it could happen -- but still they believe that God's promise will always be there and no flood will ever happen."

Mikaio says that many Christians in Kiribati are often reminded of God's promise when it rains.

"A rainbow is a sign they always see when it's raining. And it reminds them whenever they see it in the sky -- it's a symbol of God's promise that there won't be a flood."

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It's about 10 a.m., and it's already starting to get warm. Fifty miles southwest of Tarawa, Tam Tamere floats in a small yellow boat, cleaning the spark plugs of his 40-horsepower Yamaha outboard motor. A wall of dark green mangroves shelters the boat, keeping the waters calm. He is about to embark on a journey that he hopes will illuminate many of the problems facing his people, including freshwater contamination, ailing coconuts, and a reduction in the quantity and variety of fish.

This is the lagoon of Abemama atoll, an island of 3,500 residents that is vastly more remote, clean and lush than the overpopulated capital island of Tarawa. The expanse of green coconut palms, empty streets and pristine, lush foliage in Abemama makes Tarawa seem like Manhattan by comparison.

Whereas causeways, sea walls, and other manmade projects have led to erosion and other damage on Tarawa, there is very little in the way of development on Abemama. But residents here are feeling the effects of climate change, too.

Tam gently navigates the wooden boat out of the shallow pale-green waters on his way out to fish. Soon the white ocean floor drops off and the water turns a deep emerald. Ten minutes later, the little boat is soaring across the tops of wind-churned swells toward a little islet at the edge of the reef.

Like MacKenzie, Tam also senses something different in the air.

"Well, the climate change," he says. "What we know now is, it's getting hot." Indeed, the IPCC report notes that global air temperatures have risen almost a full degree Fahrenheit in the past century, and could increase as much as 10 degrees in the next.

As the boat approaches the shore of the islet, Tam uses his leg to steer and puts the finishing touches on his fishing lure by straightening some chicken feathers and affixing them to the heavy nylon line. Once the boat moves into the surf, Tam kills the engine, jumps overboard, and pulls his boat onshore. Marching up the sand, he puts three saltine crackers into his pocket.

"Now we are going to visit the good man, the short man, here," he says. "Before you go out fishing, you need to visit this short man."

Leaning down as he walks, he holds his hand about a foot off the ground and says, "The short man is about this size. He is short. Very, very short. And he lived here -- he ruled this islet before -- and any people or visitors coming in, they need to come and see him, and greet him."

Tam ambles down a trail through the dense coconut forest; after a while, the trail runs into a single large coconut tree. At the base of the tree is a shrine, in the center of which is a small stone statue of a man, about a foot tall. He wears two beaded necklaces and is surrounded by a ring of volcanic rocks. Inside the ring, in front of him, are three enormous clamshells.

"You have to bring him some gift," explains Tam. "Normally they give him tobacco -- I don't know why, but that's what they use. But you can give anything you have." Squatting down, Tam lifts one of the shells and deposits the crackers.

"We give gifts to Kopunon in order to save us while we are out at the ocean fishing or catching what we need. So Kopunon is now with us to protect us from any trouble."

Tam smiles, turns around, and starts walking back the way he came. Soon, he passes a small stone well alongside the trail and stops for a drink. Inside the well, the surface of the water is barely six feet below his feet.

In the United States, freshwater wells are usually much deeper, but in Kiribati, shallow wells are the norm. Freshwater here literally floats on top of the denser saltwater, rather than being stored in protected aquifers -- which is why freshwater supplies are so vulnerable. Because freshwater is lighter than saltwater and shrinks under increased pressure, every inch of sea-level rise pushes the bottom of the freshwater lens 40 inches closer to the surface. This shift forces I-Kiribati to rely increasingly on water they catch from rain, and the storage tanks they use are expensive and small, and their contents wouldn't last through a long drought.

Droughts are doubly harmful, because a decrease in rainfall also means less water to replenish the groundwater lenses, allowing the saltwater to encroach even further.

The dearth of freshwater is the direst and most immediate climate-change-related problem facing I-Kiribati, and the IPCC predicts drought conditions will intensify as a result of global warming. Already, many I-Kiribati, including Tam, have begun reporting a decrease in rainfall. Standing now over this well of freshwater, Tam pulls up a full bucket of water and pours it down his shirt and over his head, then lowers it down for a refill.

"This is the only water you can get on this islet," he says. "Only this well gets freshwater ... because of him, you know" -- he points back toward Kopunon -- "that's what they say. This is Kopunon's well, so the water is always fresh."

Next page: "A generation or two generations from now, I think we're seriously talking about relocation"