Christmas Island Information

Christmas Island

After two days at sea, much sun and rum, and nothing to watch but the bobbing horizon, my brain had shrunken to the size of a jellybean, for I was taking unreasonable delight in the paradox before me. Easter on Christmas Island. I spent the previous day inserting new lyrics to the song, “Christmas on Christmas Island.” I’d buy a palm basket from the locals and the Easter Bunny would arrive on the back of a great seabird to hand out colorful, exotic eggs. I’d wade into a renown bone-fishing flat and snag a giant fighter, later joining in a jump-up celebration in the square where I‘d share my catch with other revelers.
Reality wasn’t exactly as I imagined.
Thirteen hundred miles south of Hawaii, our ship anchored within site of the largest coral atoll in the world, Kiritimati, or Christmas Island as it was dubbed after Captain Cook named it on December 24, 1777. The island is part of an archipelago called Kiribati, a British Colony until it won independence in 1976. The island nation sprawls across an incredible expanse of sea, a staggering two million square miles, yet encompasses a landmass of only 280 square miles with a population of a only a few thousand.
We were the first cruise ship to settle outside Christmas Islands’ fragile coral in over two years. After two days at sea, our arrival was something of an event to the locals and passengers alike. The eagerness to tread terra firma was palpable as the anchor dropped and tenders, chock-a-block with people, plied the crystal waters for the thirty minute ride to the harbor.
We took a leisurely approach to the situation. Within a few hours passengers were already returning to the ship, reporting that Christmas Island offered nothing much to see. No shopping, no restaurants, no distractions. Hearing this, my husband and I shared a knowing look. Cool!
After the eager throngs had returned to roost in the sun-drenched decks within easy access to bars, hotdog grill, and pizza café, we packed a provision bag, boarded the empty tender, and made our through the Bay of Wrecks.
Some locals had gathered to great the cruisers dressed in traditional island garb of ancient Micronesia. Performance over, they now sat wilted and weary under a make-shift canopy. A group of teeny, brown-skinned school children continued to dance, encouraged by a new round of camera flashes and contributions to their fund. The local women seemed more intent on gossip and visiting with friends than hawking their wares to the tourists. It was obvious the inhabitants were not overly familiar with the razz-ma-tazz of tourism.
Save one. A flat-bed truck had been outfitted for the day, equipped with a bench along one side with a number of plastic patio chairs providing additional seating. After selecting the single seat I deemed as “safe,” I thought to ask, “where do you go?” “Hotel. Good hotel,” the driver laughed, cranking up his radio and revving the engine.
We jostled merrily down a two-lane, semi-paved road for what seemed like an hour, pelted continuously by the hearty trade winds saturated with fine coral dust. The flat surface of the sunken atoll was speckled solely with coconut palms, and the expected ocean views were nowhere in sight. Yet, seabirds swooped and swirled, leading me to believe that sea teased just beyond the sandy expanses. At last we arrived at the bedraggled lane leading to the Captain Cook hotel. A weathered sign suggested what lie ahead. Indeed, the hotel comprised an open-aired lobby reception area with an assortment of tables and collapsible chairs huddled under the shade of the ubiquitous palms. A series of single-story motor-lodge style buildings painted in calypso colors dotted the property.
“Who comes here?” I asked the desk clerk after snagging a local brew. “Fishermen,” he replied, directing me to a wall sized map of the area’s fishing lakes. It was obvious that those birds I had noticed were fortunate foragers of the island‘s numerous flats. I set off exploring, hoping to find a picturesque reminder of my Easter visit. A rugged, sandy beach ringed the property, where waves hurl in an array of shells and driftwood. Two long-abandoned thatched cabanas faced the ocean like steely sentinels. A small gathering area provided for fishermen to grill their catch and trade stories was empty save for fellow tourist truck passengers.
“Truck’s leaving!” my husband called to me suddenly over the roar of the wind and waves.
The ride back provoked questions. Where do the people buy food? What do they do for a living? Where do they go for medical care? Could you live here? Could you stay for a week?
On the return trip I noticed much more than coconuts; collections of colorful laundry hung to dry, flapping in the sand-strewn breezes; three sided buildings, presumably dwellings, positioned so that the wind was at the door. A community center hosted a holiday party where children ran barefooted, jumping, laughing and rushing to the road, waving at the truck as if it were the Good Humor van.
At the port we walked through a small settlement and poked our noses into a few doorways where we had noticed comings and goings. No signs announced the enterprise within, but shelves of meager provisions were evidence that this was the local grocery. A generator out back chugged out enough energy to produce ice.
“It appears they have all they need here to be happy,” I said to my husband. “Amazing how little it takes, isn’t it?” he agreed.

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