Sandbags in the Archipelago

Travel Stories: On a remote South Pacific island, Heather Eliot meets a man and explores the fine line between fantasy and reality.

03.15.03 | 9:54 PM ET

Photo by Heather Eliot.

Two weeks ago, I was next to him on the lumpy double bed of my rented South Pacific island bungalow. Outside, an afternoon rain fell, dogs fought, scooters buzzed down the road. Under the shadowy light of the mosquito netting, I was on my belly reading Jeannette Winterson, in a cami and bikini, as he snored softly beside me. I had given him Tums—he was ill from too much beer and fatty food—and in his boxers he slept off his heartburn. I wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. A man I’d known for 24 hours. If the air were cool and dry instead of warm and moist, if the smoke of the mosquito coil, irritating my sinuses, were not drifting around us, we could be in my California apartment, napping after a Sunday morning of brunch and languid afternoon sex. Now, I am alone in my California apartment, typing at my laptop, drinking tea, a Massive Attack CD on repeat, writing of him.

On what was meant to be my last morning before heading back to the main island of the archipelago, I had just opened Winterson’s “Written on the Body” when a shadow fell across me. I looked up. It was a man.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Derek.”

I introduced myself. I had seen him earlier that day walking across the yard, and thought then that he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen—shoulder-length dreadlocks, arched eyebrows, wide smile, wearing a Fubu shirt and board shorts. He said, “We’re doing renovations on the bathrooms. Is it okay if I check yours out?”

“Sure,” I said, and he gave the bathroom a perfunctory inspection. I’d heard worse opening lines from men.

This is a fantasy of travel. Not an actual fantasy, because it happened to me, but a fantasy of a relationship that might have been, realized through the movement of my body to an alternate space. I crossed the Equator, I crossed the International Dateline, and found myself in bed with a man. I had found myself in bed with a number of men in the past eighteen months, since the relationship I’d wanted to last forever painfully and caustically ended. I had coped with the anguish by taking a six-month break from sex, and then by having as much as I could get. Other men’s bodies became sandbags, forming a protective barrier between myself and my past. On the first page of my travel journal, I had written, stay away from boys.

After inspecting my bathroom, Derek returned to the foyer. As he lounged in my doorway and began to chat, I found myself liking his self-confident ease, his awareness of his body, his casual knowledge of the pleasure of looking at him. The polite, distanced formality I’d experienced with other locals was less apparent. Where was I from? He had been to California; his sister lived in Los Angeles, and his parents, who owned the bungalows, were there now for medical care. He and his brothers helped their father build the bungalows and were looking after things in their parents’ absence. He finished high school in New Zealand, played semi-professional rugby, was injured, did a chef’s course, lived in South Africa for a year, worked as yacht crew between San Francisco and Honolulu. He traveled through Europe, staying with people who had visited the bungalows throughout his childhood. We were the same age.

He asked me what I was doing there.

“Just hanging out,” I responded, “I’m a teacher and a writer. I’m interested in local art.”

I didn’t say, I’m on the run from sleeping around after having my heart broken by a man who valued his habit more than he valued me.

What did I think of his island?

“It’s great,” I said, “But I’m meant to head back to the main island on this afternoon’s flight.”

“You’re going back today? That’s too bad. I’m taking a boat out to a friend’s motu tomorrow. I’d be glad to take you along.”

I knew about motus, the small deserted islands that flanked larger inhabited ones, but I had never thought about them belonging to anyone.

“Your friend’s motu?”

“He leased it from the government. He’s building a house, and he wants me to supervise the crew. He hired some men from the village to clear the bush.” He paused a moment. “I’m going to watch the rugby match up the road. I’ll be back before you leave for the airport.”

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Heather Eliot is a writer and educator in Santa Cruz, California. This story was selected for the "Best American Travel Writing 2004" anthology.

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