Funafuti is a ring of 29 coral islets around a deep lagoon in Tuvalu, and the main one is a strip twelve kilometres long that narrows in places to about ten metres. Nothing on it rises five metres above the sea. A single road carries the entire country: churches, shops, family compounds, the hospital, the government building, past breadfruit trees and pig pens with water glinting on both sides. At the thinnest point Pacific surf breaks on one hand and flat lagoon lies on the other, both in the same glance. An hour on a borrowed bike gets you the lot. In February and March the year's highest tides come up through the porous coral itself, without a drop of rain falling, and stand over the airstrip apron and the low ground behind the village.
With no flight due, that airstrip stops being an airport. It is the island's only open space: volleyball nets go up on the tarmac at dusk, kites fly, motorbikes idle along the edges, and you get waved into the game. On the lagoon side a platform of dredged sand now runs 780 metres long and a hundred wide, finished in 2023 and raised deliberately above the sea-level projections for 2100. When you step up onto it from the old ground, the difference in height is under your feet. The runway itself was quarried out of the islet in the Second World War. The ten pits the coral came from sat there for seventy years, letting the sea seep into the fresh water beneath the village, until they too were pumped full of lagoon sand. An hour across the lagoon, Tepuka and Fualopa have nobody on them, and the only tracks in the sand are seabirds'. Beside the road stands a plain capped borehole that most people walk straight past. It is where the Royal Society drilled in the 1890s and proved Darwin right: an atoll is coral building upward on a foundation that is sinking. Keeping up with the water is the oldest thing this place does. What is new is that the people are doing the building.