Every place has a special clock, determined by a concatenation of climate, culture and circumstance unique unto itself. The slow cycle of time in Bula Bula is mostly long hours of not much activity, broken at intervals by quiet periods of somnolence. The best of times come twice a day, once at the first light of morning, and again in the late shadows of afternoon, when the sliding fireball in the sky signals the soft ceiling of a cool and soothing cavern, the crimson covering of carpet created by the swirling brush of the setting sun.
On Bula Bula live lucky people who every night see clearly the splash of stars sown like scintillating seeds sown across the sky. They have given them names, to be called out and pointed to, as they come up one by one, over the rim of the eastern sea.
The sun on the sands are too bright for comfort during the middle of the day, and the eyes burn even at a squint. The middle of the day is for sitting in the shade. The high sun shines on the surrounding sea, and only once in every month is there any interest to sweep across the horizon for the sight of an approaching ship. Then the Mita Roa, the island schooner, comes to pick up a small load of carvings, copra and cuttlefish, exchange the mail, and drop off a few supplies.
Other islands similar to Bula Bula are over the horizon, within easy sailing distance, but they are uninhabited. Bula Bula has always been inhabited, just as the others have always been uninhabited. No one has an explanation. That is the way it is, the way it has always been. Change comes slowly to the island of Bula Bula. No one can remember when the last change came. Actually, it was the arrival of metal fishhooks, but that was too many years ago for anyone now living to recall.
There was a time before the schooner came, but that time must have been little different from the present time. There is nothing anywhere on the island to indicate that humans have ever been here before, and it is assumed that the people of Bula Bula have not come from anywhere. There is a tacit understanding that they are not going anywhere. They are satisfied to stay where they are, as they are, and to live as they have always lived. No changes are necessary or desired. In fact, changes are viewed with some suspicion. Even the cutting of a tree is an occasion to call for a community conference.
There are no roads on Bula Bula, only a network of broad paths through the tall coconut palm trees. No maintenance crew is required; they are kept in top condition by the foot traffic of users. Bula Bula is an extinct volcano. There is no physical evidence or oral tradition of any past activity. It is just there, as it has always been there, with only a few people ever climbing its steep slopes. It is revered as the source of water, because the clouds gather over the heights each day and nowhere else in the immense expanse of blue sky. Almost every day there is a light rain for almost an hour that keeps the streams flowing. The water is clean and tastes sweet. It has always been pure, and in the sunlight flashes like a complex crystal. No one has ever considered it might be otherwise.
The customs of Bula Bula are delightfully simple. When a young man wants to marry, he chooses a young girl from another part of the island. If she accepts him, they are married with a ceremonial feast. Everyone helps them build a house from bamboo and other local material. When they have children, as is the usual case, they provide primary care for them, but the children are capable individuals at an early age, and roam freely about the island. They eat and sleep wherever they are when they get hungry, being welcome and having equal family rights in every house. Everyone is a parent, and every other child is a brother or sister. They are not expected to work, and life is just learning to play together, gradually learning the skills necessary to an island existence.
One day Nuka Tora, the chief, put on his official headdress and sarong. The Mita Roa was anchored outside the reef, and its dory was approaching the beach. Monsieur Remillion, the government agent, was coming. This must mean new business, and Nuka Tora always enjoyed the excitement of something new. What could it be this time, he thought, smiling to himself.
There is no dock on Bula Bula, and M. Remillion stepped in the water to wade ashore. Nuka Tora called a few friends to go with him as a welcoming committee. While the others brought the supplies ashore, Nuka Tora led M. Remillion to the community pavilion of rattan and palm leaves. M. Remillion sat down at the bamboo table and opened his valise, taking out some papers. "I have good news for you, my friend," he said, "the government has decided Bula Bula is qualified for development."
The chief nodded with dignity, as was the proper thing to do. "Good," he said. He always told the agent everything was "good." That was the best way to keep him happy. It didn't really mean much; in two hours, Monsieur Remillion would be back on the schooner and gone. That, too, was good.
"The government wants to furnish you a bigger boat," said M. Remillion. The chief sat stolidly upright. He was a huge, round man, and whenever he stood, he towered high over the little Frenchman. "I could eat papaya off his head," he thought. After a respectful pause, Nuka Tora said, with a soft solemnity, "Tuan, you know we have no money to buy a bigger boat." "We know," said the agent, "so we have decided to make a loan to you."
"Good," the chief said.
Monsieur Remillion smiled. The chief offered him a coconut shell filled with coconut water. He took the customary courtesy sip. It was a ritual of the official meetings. M. Remillion disliked coconut water.
"With the bigger boat, you can fish farther offshore, stay out longer, and bring back more fish. With the extra fish you can pay for the boat, and for the development," said M. Remillion. "Good," said Nuka Tora.
"If you work hard, long hours and days, and are efficient, you will be able to save money for your retirement," said M. Remillion.
"Good," said the chief.
"Do you have any questions?" asked M. Remillion.
"Yes," replied Nuka Tora, "I do have a question."
"What is it?" asked M. Remillion.
"What is retirement?" asked the chief.
"Retirement is a life of ease and pleasure, the reward for a long life of hard work," said the government agent.
"Good," said Nuka Tora.
"Do you have another question?" asked the government officer.
"Yes, only one more," said the chief.
"What is it?" asked Monsieur Remillion.
"What do we do when we retire?"
"When you retire," said the officer, smiling broadly. "You can relax. You can swim and sleep. You can take life easy and enjoy yourself. You can spend more time in meditation, in reflection, praying to your God."
"Good," said the chief, "I will call a meeting of the elders to tell them about this offer of a bigger boat."
"How does it sound to you?" asked M. Remillion, gathering up his papers.
"Good," said the chief.
"What do you think the elders will say? Will they agree?" asked M. Remillion.
"They will listen carefully," said the chief. "Then they will ask me the same question I am asking myself."
"And what is that?" asked Monsieur Remillion.
"They will ask me, 'Why do we need to go out farther to catch more fish, to pay for the boat. Why do we need to stay out longer, risking bad weather, to bring back more fish? Why do we need to work long and hard for many years to pay for the boat, so that at the end, when we are old and tired, we can retire to swim and sleep on the beach? We don't like to swim and sleep on the beach. Isn't it true that we do what we want to do now? We are content.'
"'We are happy. We live a life of leisure. We meditate and pray whenever we want. You say we can live with pleasure at the end, in retirement, but we are doing these things now. We are already retired. If we buy the bigger boat, we lose everything we have and we gain nothing but a life of misery and toil. We must work harder and longer; we must wait many years to do the things we enjoy now. It is an undesirable thing. We don't want the bigger boat.' That is what they will tell me."
As he walked back to the boat, Monsieur Remillion looked up and down the beach. He had seen the same scene numerous times before, desolate and empty. A few children played in the surf in a distance, but there was not another sign of life. Only the tall palms swayed in the gentle breeze. It was completely deserted, unchanged for eons. He felt defeated. There would be no roads, no resorts, no tourists, no beach chairs and umbrellas. "What a waste," he thought.
The salt spray stung his eyes as Monsieur Remillion returned to the Mita Roa. He looked wistfully back at the boredom of Bula Bula, sad to think the people were too simple, too ignorant to improve themselves. They would not know the advantages of development. "Oh well," he thought, " I have tried my best."
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