Written January 2023, Fakarava, French Polynesia
Current coordinates: 16°18′S 145°38′W.
Slowly, but surely, I’m beginning to understand the true meaning of island life—or should I say, atoll life. It’s a different rhythm out here, one that’s defined not by the bustle of daily schedules, but by the unpredictable flow of nature.
We’ve run out of both fuel and gas, and the supply ship that’s supposed to arrive weekly hasn’t shown up in three weeks. Word on the street is it could be anywhere from days to a month before it makes it here. But honestly, I don’t mind. Life needs a little sprinkle of difficulty, a touch of the unexpected, to keep things interesting. After all, what’s an adventure without a few setbacks?
No ATM, No Problem
On top of that, the island’s only ATM has gone down, and it won’t be fixed for another three months. I guess that’s just the way it goes out here—things come when they come, or not at all. And while this may sound like a problem back home, here, it’s more of a reminder that you can get by without constantly relying on convenience.
I find myself surprisingly at peace with the whole situation. There’s something liberating about living in a place where time slows down and small problems—like getting cash—just don’t seem so important anymore.

Flat As A Pancake
One thing I’ve noticed here is the prevalence of electric bicycles as the go-to mode of transport. It’s funny, really—Fakarava is as flat as a pancake, and its entire land area spans just 24 km². Yet, with the lagoon covering a staggering 1112 km², it’s clear that people are used to getting around, not on the land, but on the water.
The bikes make sense, even if they’re not really needed for the land. But as much as the land is small, the lagoon is massive. It’s been a great opportunity to work on my dinghy driving skills, though I’ll admit, there’s a small part of me that feels a little uneasy trying to navigate through the hazardous coral reefs.
The reefs are beautiful in their own way, but also downright intimidating. Honestly, I think I’d feel safer swimming with the 700 grey reef sharks who call this place home than dodging coral heads in the dinghy.

The Drunken Danes
Something else I’ve come to realize here is that us Danes—well, we’re to Polynesia what the British are to European holiday destinations. We’ve made a bit of a name for ourselves, and not exactly in the best way. Somehow, the rest of the crew on the boat has managed to get us banned from all the bars in Fakarava. Apparently, when they drink, they turn into what I can only describe as “fucking savages.”
Now, I’m not really part of the drinking crowd, but I have to admit, it does feel a little sad. There’s something about the way they act that doesn’t show the best kind of respect for a place that’s new to us, especially when we’re trying to tread lightly and appreciate the culture. I’d rather embrace the local way of life with more mindfulness and reverence for the land.
But despite it all, the Polynesian people have been incredibly kind and welcoming. I find myself smiling and throwing the occasional shaka at anyone who passes by, knowing that in the end, it’s the genuine connections that matter most.
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