Island Home
There is more to the island of Fassarai than to any other island on the atoll; from the lagoon side, its mile-and-a-half appears tremendous beside the pin-point land masses nearby. And, to the natives, it is tremendous—it is their homeland—it is all they need in their limited world. It is all that many of them have seen.
Perhaps Fassarai comes closer to the Hollywood idea of what a Pacific paradise should be than any other island occupied by American forces during the Pacific war. There is widespread agreement that it may be a rock, but it's a pretty rock. With its sand beaches and swaying palms, a leisurely surf, and the delightful romping of native children, it provides a glimpse of the primitive garden untouched by the troubled complexities of civilization. It has a magic all its own. Trade winds keep the island moderately cool; there are no riveters, automobile horns, or next-door saxophonists.
Like the writer Stevenson, the artist Gaugin, and other fugitives from civilization, it leaves the visitor today with half-a-desire to detach himself and live in quietness among simple, gentle people on a languid plot of earth. The essentials of life are here—food, shelter, and clothing await harvesting, and the products of the coconut tree alone are sufficient to human life…all else is quiet and leisure.
The normal day of the Ulithian consists of a rest-punctuated routine of which the only drawback might be boredom. He is up at sunrise and going about his chores—fishing, harvesting the coconuts, gathering the breadfruit and taro which will provide the day's three meals. All of his work
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