Climate Change Frontlines: Local Perspectives on Life in Vanishing Kiribati

Kiribati (pronounced 'kee-ree-bass') spans 33 atolls and reef islands across the central Pacific, with most land sitting less than two meters above sea level. The Republic's 120,000 citizens are facing the world's most existential climate crisis—not in some distant future, but now.

During my first days on South Tarawa, the main atoll and home to over half the country's population, I'm struck by the juxtaposition of daily life against impending displacement. Children play in schoolyards where sandbags hold back encroaching waves. Elders tell stories of lands already submerged in their lifetimes.

'We have always been sea people,' explains Teeta, a local fisherman who becomes my guide. 'But now the sea is becoming our enemy.'

Navigating Tarawa requires patience and cultural sensitivity. Public transportation consists mainly of privately-operated minibuses called te bus that run along the single main road. For exploring beyond populated areas, I arranged a motorbike rental through my guesthouse—though I'd recommend bringing your own waterproof dry bag as sudden rain showers are common and electronics are precious here.

The impacts of climate change in Kiribati aren't theoretical—they're woven into everyday existence. Groundwater wells that sustained families for generations now run brackish as saltwater infiltrates the fragile freshwater lens beneath these narrow islands. Gardens where taro and breadfruit once thrived now struggle against soil salination.

I spend several days with Koin, a grandmother raising eight children and grandchildren in a traditional kiakia (thatched house) near the lagoon side of Tarawa. Each morning includes a ritual of checking how far water has seeped into her yard overnight.

'When I was young, the sea was far,' she tells me, gesturing toward a coconut tree now standing in water. 'That tree was where we played as children, on dry land.'

In her outdoor kitchen, I learn to prepare traditional dishes like te bua toro (fermented pandanus) while we discuss how food security has become increasingly precarious. Many families now rely on imported rice and canned goods as marine resources decline and growing space diminishes.

For visitors interested in understanding local adaptation strategies, I recommend joining a community workshop through the Kiribati Climate Action Network. Bring a solar lantern to contribute to your host family, as power outages are common and sustainable lighting solutions are deeply appreciated.

The most profound conversations during my two weeks in Kiribati center around an impossible question: how do you preserve a culture when its homeland disappears? The government has already purchased land in Fiji as a potential future home, and the concept of 'migration with dignity' has become national policy.

'We are not refugees,' insists Teaiaki, a cultural preservation officer I meet at the Kiribati Cultural Museum. 'We are a proud people facing relocation because of actions we did not cause.'

The museum itself is a humble building housing treasures of immeasurable value—traditional navigation sticks used for centuries to map ocean currents and star positions, ceremonial te maneaba (meeting house) models, and oral history recordings.

I'm privileged to attend a practice session of a youth dance group learning traditional te buki movements—rhythmic dances that tell stories of fishing, warfare, and island life. The choreographer explains that these dances now serve a dual purpose: cultural expression and cultural preservation for a potentially landless future.

For those interested in supporting cultural preservation efforts, consider bringing a portable audio recorder to donate to local heritage projects. The Kiribati Cultural Centre welcomes technology that helps document elders' stories and traditional knowledge before they're lost.

My background in archaeology takes on new urgency in Kiribati, where rising seas are literally washing away history. Along Tarawa's shores, World War II relics from the brutal 1943 battle emerge and disappear with shifting sands and tides—a Japanese bunker here, American artillery fragments there.

But it's the more ancient heritage sites that break my heart. Near the village of Taborio, I join local knowledge keeper Bauro in documenting traditional fish traps—ingenious stone structures built along the reef that fill with fish during high tide and trap them as waters recede.

'My grandfather taught me how to maintain these,' Bauro explains, carefully repositioning stones disrupted by increasingly violent storm surges. 'But soon they will be too deep under water to use.'

We wade carefully through shallow waters, mapping GPS coordinates of cultural features that may not exist in a decade. I'm reminded powerfully of my mother's archaeological work, but with a devastating difference—these aren't ruins of a past civilization but the vanishing present of a living one.

For travelers interested in contributing to documentation efforts, bring a waterproof action camera to help record threatened sites. The Kiribati National Archives welcomes properly cataloged footage that might become the only record of these places for future generations.

For underwater documentation, I relied heavily on my underwater dive slate to take notes while examining submerged features—an essential tool for anyone serious about marine documentation.

Visiting Kiribati raises important ethical questions: Is tourism justified in a place facing existential threat? After extensive conversations with locals, I believe the answer is a qualified yes—if done thoughtfully and with purpose.

'We need witnesses,' explains Tebikau, who runs a small guesthouse in Bairiki. 'Visitors who see our situation and share our story with the world.'

Responsible travel here means treading lightly on fragile infrastructure. South Tarawa is one of the most densely populated places in the Pacific, with limited resources stretched thin. I stay in locally-owned accommodations like Tabon Te Keekee guesthouse, where my host family provides simple meals featuring sustainable local seafood.

Water conservation becomes second nature. I use my portable solar shower to minimize pressure on limited freshwater supplies, and carry a water purification system rather than buying bottled water.

Most importantly, responsible travel means amplifying local voices rather than speaking over them. I spend hours recording interviews (with permission) and promising to share unfiltered perspectives when I return home.

The question of whether to visit Kiribati isn't simple. But if you approach with humility, minimal resource demands, and genuine interest in advocacy, your presence can answer the plea I hear repeatedly: 'Tell them we are still here. Tell them we don't want to leave our home.'