I find myself somewhat starstruck to see that Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner is on our plane, returning home from her standing ovation at the World Climate Summit in New York. Many of the passengers and airline staff take the opportunity to shake her hand. “We’re so proud of you Kathy. We all cried with joy.” I decide that the plane cannot possibly crash, not when dear Matafele Peinem is being walked up and down the aisle. Her parents and grandparents taking turns to hold her close, patting her gently on the back.

Back on an atoll. The lagoon to one side, always. The ocean to one side, always. The breeze blowing between the two, always. Two directions to travel — up the road or down.

Silver aluminium roofs glinting in the sun. The reflections dart past my eyes. It is as though I am hallucinating flying sticks.

A group of cheeky shirtless kids who should probably be in school. One of them comes towards me for a closer look. I ask him how old he is. Six? Seven? Eight? “No” he says, “One, two, three, four…”

On some days the water is an impossible — a ridiculous — blue. My brain tries to tell me it can’t be real.

A young woman stands waist deep in the lagoon, fully clothed. Just looking out to sea.

Hitching up my puletassi skirt to stride up the road, back to the hotel. The pleasure of walking defiantly through the milky white, cloudy, puddles on the side of the road. Noticing the grooves of freshly swept sand. Skinny, sleepy dogs that lie nearby. Too lazy to do more than open one eye and watch me go past.

Inadvertently sitting down in a puddle of water on a plastic chair. Not caring. Remembering what it felt like to sit in a puddle of water and not care.

Taxis that act as buses. Stopping as frequently as required until the car is full.

The sound of shrieking laughter — infectious — coming from the women at the local market next door. (The sound of a shrieking dog, coming from somewhere, makes my face crumple as though I’ve just chewed up a Vitamin C tablet.)

A scrawny kid leaning out of a car window, eating a sandwich.

At a pier, the water is so clear that I can see in perfect detail all the way to the bottom. Two fish are swimming with little apparent purpose. Old rice bags entangled in the sea wall. The frayed ends moving gently — back and forth — like bright yellow sea weed.

I thought it was Kiribati but apparently it’s not. I have the same feeling here of being connected to people — people that I do not know. Of not feeling the pressure of having to behave in a certain way or pretend to be something that I am not. A constant awareness of the elements — the ground, the sky, the sea, the breeze, the sun, the rain. Groundedness.

The final lines of Jetnil-Kijiner’s poem ‘Tell Them’ keep echoing through my head. “Tell them that we don’t want to leave. That we never wanted to leave.”

I totally get it. And I don’t want to leave either.