On the water’s surface, a thin band of sand lingers on a belt of iridescent foam. Nothing is more gracious than these white islands barely emerging above the waves. Under the blazing sun, time comes to a halt.
In Tarawa, a single road links the North and the South, overloaded with cars, motorcycles and minibuses. Behind clouds of dust whipped up by the incessant coming and going of vehicles, the inhabitants slowly, very slowly pace up and down the nameless road. The air’s density here sometimes resembles a caress on the skin when, from the sparking sea, a peaceful murmur briefly rises. As if one could feel the world and its deceptive impression of being a welcoming place, made to fit man’s strangest dreams and desires.
However, the lagoon is polluted and rusting car parts pile up in heaps. Each tide disrupts the waste gripping onto the mangroves. And the ocean waves wear down the shore a little more every day. They break over the useless sea walls and endlessly nibble at the fragile territory. Unhurriedly, the village people consolidate their absurd remparts and reconstruct their houses in vain. And at times it rains in the middle of the dry season. Paradise is falling apart.