As the first hints of moonlight danced across the village, the sound of a conch shell stirred the dolphin hunters into action. The six men quietly gathered at the village church under the watchful gaze of the moon. Their village, located on the increasingly fragile Fanalei Island within the Solomon Islands, is no stranger to the high tides that sometimes turn their homes into temporary waterfront properties. In the dim light of early dawn, the hunters followed a priest in a subdued prayer, their murmurs mingling with the relentless crash of the ocean waves.
With the first light yet to break the sky, the men launched their wooden canoes into the dark waters and paddled out to sea. After navigating the ocean’s vastness for hours, one hunter, Lesley Fugui, spotted the telltale fin of their quarry slicing through the glassy surface. He lifted a 10-foot bamboo pole, adorned with a piece of cloth, to alert his peers of this vital discovery and promptly phoned his wife. The hunt was officially underway.
These hunters are among the few remaining who carry on the tradition in the Solomon Islands. While some conservationists criticize the practice as brutal and needless, for the people of Fanalei, it’s a necessary undertaking. As climate change mercilessly encroaches upon their land, these hunts provide valuable dolphin teeth, a traditional currency that holds the promise of purchasing land on safer, higher ground.
In Fanalei, each dolphin tooth fetches about 3 Solomon Islands dollars—approximately $0.36—as dictated by the local chiefs. A successful hunt of around 200 dolphins could reel in a windfall, far surpassing the island’s other economic activities.
“Of course, we’re not happy to kill the dolphins, but what choice do we have?” Fugui explained. He expressed a willingness to abandon the hunts if another means of livelihood could ensure his family’s future.
The encroaching saltwater has rendered agriculture nearly impossible on Fanalei, a tiny speck that’s only about a third of New York City’s Central Park. The once fertile land now refuses to yield crops, prompting the government to advocate for seaweed farming as a viable alternative. Some overseas conservationists have even offered money to halt the hunts altogether. Yet, the ocean, for all its threats, remains the island’s most precious asset. Reports suggest that by the end of the century, the island might be claimed by the sea.
Wilson Filei, Fanalei’s head chief, voices the urgency facing their community: “We’ve seen the sea rise affecting us with our very eyes,” he said.
Throughout the years, the wealth brought by dolphin teeth has funded a new church, a sea wall, and an expanded primary school for the community. From January to April, hunters may kill up to a thousand dolphins during the hunting season. However, erratic weather continues to pose a challenge, making it increasingly difficult to track and trap the pods.
While the dolphin meat is consumed and traded with nearby islands for goods, it’s the teeth that truly matter. Used in cultural celebrations, they play a significant role in traditional bride price ceremonies in local customs.
In recent years, a large portion of Fanalei’s villagers moved to a neighboring island, yet they still rely on dolphin hunts to purchase land for those left behind and to support their expanding community.
The hunt is a collective endeavor. When Fugui raised his flag, it incited contagious excitement. Children scrambled into trees to catch a glimpse, their voices echoing the call of “kirio,” the local term for dolphins, signaling the community that the hunt was on. The hunters then paddled out to the open ocean, forming a semicircle to guide the dolphins toward the shallows.
Once back on shore, the collected teeth are distributed among families, adhering to a strict hierarchy. Hunters receive the largest shares, while other married men, along with widows, orphans, and households without male representatives, receive the remainder. Some teeth are set aside in a “community basket,” earmarked for communal projects like purchasing new land for resettlement on larger South Malaita Island.
For villagers like Eddie Sua and his family, these shares are a crucial support system. Once a skilled fisherman and hunter, Sua was stricken with paralysis two years ago. Now bedridden, his home becomes flooded during high tide, a stark reminder of their precarious future.
“As the flood waters creep closer, we know we must act to save our lives,” Sua remarked as he watched the saltwater rise.
His wife, Florence Bobo, emphasized the significance of the hunts, especially with her husband unable to provide like before. The family anticipates saving enough to eventually leave the island. “Without dolphin teeth, we’d be left with nothing but rocks to eat,” Sua joked.
But the certainty of a successful hunt is never guaranteed. Despite spotting dolphins, Fugui and his team found their best efforts thwarted when a passing trawler drowned out their signals with its noisy engine, scattering the quarry and dashing hopes of success.
Only one hunt this season has been fruitful, with a nearby village managing a catch of over 300 dolphins. Whether dolphin hunting remains sustainable is a question still unanswered. While certain species appear to have healthy numbers, the impact on coastal and smaller dolphin populations remains uncertain, as explained by experts like Rochelle Constantine and Kabini Afia.
For Fanalei’s people, survival against rising seas is a concern far outweighing the sustainability of dolphin hunting. Lesley Fugui reflects this sentiment: “While dolphin hunting is part of who we are, our primary concern is the future of our children and our lives.”
