Moama Ngatoko

For most of my 54 years, I worked alongside my husband and our children at the small hotel we ran, one of the very few on Mangaia, the second largest and southernmost island in the Cook Islands. The island, ancient and quiet, has always been a peaceful place, where life moves at its own pace. Geologists say it's 18 million years old, and though its history is vast, the population has gradually shrunk. Once home to 2,000 people, now there are fewer than 500 of us.

Over time, while the number of visitors increased, the number of inhabitants on the island decreased. Most of the people who visit are tourists seeking tranquility or scientists doing research. Planes rarely land here, but when they do, I sometimes help as an air traffic controller. Yesterday, a dog on the runway caused a plane to circle back, wasting fuel before it could land. The pilot was frustrated at first, but once he relaxed with a chilled coconut on our terrace, his worries disappeared.

Island life has a rhythm of its own. It’s a quiet, unhurried existence that suits me well, though I see the younger generation looking for something more. They dream of lives far from here, in places with more excitement and opportunities. It’s a different kind of longing than the one we have for the simplicity of island life.

The number of visitors may be steady, but the island’s future remains uncertain. I wonder what it will look like when the younger ones leave for good. Will they ever return? Will Mangaia continue to exist in the way I’ve known it? All I can do is hold onto this life, content with the rhythms of the island as they are, knowing the world around us will always change.