Harvey Flea | Mosquito. Travel Writer. Sleuth.

What would my first glimpse of Nauru offer me as I prepared to land? Would this island republic in the Pacific show me its emerald blue waters? Would I see the paradise that Nauru could be? Or would my first impression be of its devastated limestone remains? Would  the damage from its phosphate mining be my first postcard?

Neither, apparently. I couldn’t see a thing, what with all the sweat and dust in my eyes after island hopping from Australia. I don’t even know how I managed to find the place, I was flying so blind.

All I know is that by the time I got to Nauru, I was in desperate need of soaking my wings in the Menem Hotel pool while sipping a chilled Chardonnay.

Or the imported Australian beer, if that’s all that was available.

Or God forbid, water.

I landed on the beach. The ocean breeze almost smashed me into a palm tree. After catching my breath, I looked around to gather my bearings.

I had no idea where in Nauru I landed, which was hardly a big deal. Nauru is eight square miles. A band of grass circles the island. Follow the band, and eventually you’ll bump into whatever you’re looking for since no one lives in the center of the island.

Digging my feet into the sand of a new travel destination always reinvigorates me. Nauru’s steamy sand is no exception, so I chose to hold off my visit to the pool. It was time to explore.

I knew from my reading that Nauru’s interior, known as Topside, is in bad shape. For years, phosphate mining had led to Nauru’s boom. But it also destroyed the landscape. Nauru is in bad shape for oh, so many reasons. One is that much of its tiny land is a wasteland. They can’t even grow food on it. People have used the word “moonscape” to describe the mining site. But people always exaggerate, right?

Wrong. Gray limestone jutted out of the land. The whole terrain was gray. Pitted. Miles and miles of it. Eighty percent of Nauru was mined. Eighty percent is now a pockmarked mess. I zoomed up to get an aerial view and get some respite from the powder that hung in the air.  No one was below.

Then I looked closer. There was one odd animal. I squinted. It was obviously one of those strange creatures that inhabit this part of the world. Saw a bunch of oddball wildlife in Australia. And here was another one, one I had never seen before. It had the butt of a bird and the head of a…

I got in closer. Was that a…? No, it couldn’t be.

A beer can?

The creature belched. His head fell off and rolled in a limestone pockmark. I took a closer look. It was a beer can from Australia. Courage Draught. Nauru imports all of its food, including beer.

I looked up at the bird. Just an everyday bird after all. He burped again.

“Bit early to be drinking beer, don’t you think?” I asked.

“Ooooh, dessert,” he said and lunged his beak at me.

Crap, crap, crap. I ducked beneath a little jut of limestone, then the bird started laughing.

“Just teasing you. We here in Nauru prefer our food canned. I don’t eat fresh food if I can help it.” His guffaw was cut short by another belch. Suddenly he looked at me, alert.

“You’re new around here. What are you up to?” he asked. “Not going to be causing any trouble, are you?”

“No, no, no, no,” I said. I shook my head really hard so he could know how emphatic I was being. “Not at all.”

“Good, ’cause that’s my job.” He guffawed again. “So what are you doing here then?”

“I’m a travel writer doing a story on Nauru.”

“A travel writer. Like, you’re going to put my name in a newspaper, or book, or something? I’ll be famous.”

Excellent. When you’re a writer, it can be very easy to get others on your side, as long as they want to taste fame.

“If you’re willing to answer a few questions,” I said.

“My pleasure.” The bird sat down on a hole. It kind of looked like he was sitting on a toilet. I tried not to laugh.

“My name is Harvey Flea,” I said.

“My name’s Booby. I’m from a long line of Blue-footed Boobies.” He started to sniff. “It was my ancestors that made this island great.”

“Really?” Were they in the beer import business?

“Poop.”

“Excuse me?”

“Poop. It was their poop that created the phosphate,” he said. He lifted his eyes to the sun looking majestic. Then he burped again.

“Wow, that’s really,” I said. “Wow, no words.”

“And now look at me,” Booby shook his head. “Handsome as ever.” He laughed again. “Just kidding. No clue who my ancestors were. I’ll take you to my favorite pub. I’ll introduce you to some of the locals.”

Booby’s “favorite pub” was a polluted shoreline. Garbage lay strewn everywhere.

It was pretty clear from this heap why fourty percent of Nauruans have diabetes and ninety percent are overweight. There wasn’t a lick of fresh food tossed here, none that I could see. There were cans, containers of processed sludge and their ilk.

I had read about this, but seeing it first hand made my tummy cry.

There was something else that bothered me here. Nauru has some huge problems. It’s running out of money, its water supply is poor, rain is scarce, its environment is in shambles, the population is dying out. These problems loomed large and had difficult solutions. But this dump should be easy to fix. All anyone had to do was show up with a plastic bag and pick up the trash.

“Hey, Booby,” I said before he picked up a half-empty can of soda. “Doesn’t all this trash bother you?”

“Don’t you believe it,” Booby said. “It’s a crying shame. Can’t help tourism.” He pecked open a can can of what looked like spam.

“So why don’t you guys clean it up?”

Booby and his friends all swivelled their heads toward me. They looked stunned.

“Well, Harvey, I don’t know,” Booby said.  “We didn’t put it here. It’s not our fault.” The other birds nodded.

Maybe it was the humid heat, maybe it was my long trip, maybe it was seeing such a beautiful island wallowing in messes whose faults were sometimes hard to pinpoint. But suddenly my head felt like exploding and I realized I’d better head to the hotel for a rest.

“Booby, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” I said. “Maybe you can show me around?”

Booby nodded his beak, which was stuck to a tin.

I shrugged. At least the Nauruans are nice.

Tags: Australian beer, Australian imports, beer, birds, Blue-footed Booby, booby, courage draught, environmental conservation, fiction, funny travel writing, harvey flea, humor writing, Nauru, Pacific, phosphate, phosphate mining, Topside, travel, Travel writing

This entry was posted on Saturday, April 10th, 2010 at 9:27 pm and is filed under Harvey's Adventures. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.