The Dolphin Hunters

Jim McMahon

The call of a conch shell roused the dolphin hunters from their beds. Under moonlight, the six men shuffled to the village church.

There a priest led them in a whispered prayer, his voice barely audible over the sound of crashing waves. It was high tide. Salt water pooled in parts of the village, which is on Fanalei Island, an ever-shrinking speck of land that’s part of the Solomon Islands in the South Pacific.

They paddled out in wooden canoes before first light, cutting through the darkness until they were miles from shore. After hours of scanning the horizon, one of the hunters, Lesley Fugui, saw a fin slice the glassy water. He raised a 10-foot-long bamboo pole with a piece of cloth tied to the end, alerting the others of his discovery. The hunt would begin.

These men are among the last dolphin hunters of the Solomon Islands. Some conservationists say slaughtering the marine mammals is cruel and unnecessary. But for the 130 or so residents of Fanalei, the traditional hunt has taken on renewed urgency in the face of climate change and rising sea levels. They say they need the dolphins for their lucrative teeth—which are used as local currency—to buy land on higher ground and escape their sinking home. Government research suggests that Fanalei, which is less than a square mile in size, could be underwater by the end of the century.

The dolphin hunters heard the call of a conch shell. They got up the from their beds. Under moonlight, the six men slowly walked to the village church.

There, a priest led them in a quiet prayer. They could barely hear his voice over the sound of crashing waves. It was high tide. The men live on Fanalei Island. It is part of the Solomon Islands in the South Pacific. The island is shrinking, and salt water pooled in parts of the village.

They paddled wooden canoes in the darkness until they were miles from shore. After hours of looking out at the horizon, one of the hunters, Lesley Fugui, saw a fin slice the glassy water. To alert the others, he raised a 10-foot-long bamboo pole with a piece of cloth tied to the end. The hunt began.

These men are among the last dolphin hunters of the Solomon Islands. Some conservationists say killing the marine mammals is cruel and unnecessary. But for the 130 or so residents of Fanalei, the traditional hunt is more important than ever because of climate change and rising sea levels. They say they need the dolphins for their lucrative teeth, which are used as local currency. And they need to buy land on higher ground to escape their sinking home. Government research suggests that Fanalei, which is less than a square mile in size, could be underwater by the end of the century.

“For a low-lying island like ours, we witness with our own eyes how sea rise is affecting our lives,” says Wilson Filei, the head chief of Fanalei.

Crops no longer grow on the island, as its once fertile land has been ruined by encroaching salt water. The government has promoted seaweed farming as a source of income, and overseas conservation groups have offered cash to end the hunts. But the dolphin teeth remain the villagers’ most profitable resource.

“We feel sorry too for killing the dolphins, but we don’t really have a choice,” Fugui says. He’d be willing to abandon the hunts, he adds, if there were an alternative way to secure his family’s future.

“For a low-lying island like ours, we witness with our own eyes how sea rise is affecting our lives,” says Wilson Filei, the head chief of Fanalei.

Crops no longer grow on the island. The land that was once fertile has been ruined by the rising salt water. The government has promoted seaweed farming as a source of income. Overseas conservation groups have even offered cash to end the hunts. But the dolphin teeth remain the villagers’ most profitable resource.

“We feel sorry too for killing the dolphins, but we don’t really have a choice,” Fugui says. He’d be willing to abandon the hunts, he adds, if there were an alternative way to secure his family’s future.

During the January-to-April hunting season, people on Fanalei can kill up to a thousand dolphins. While they eat the dolphin meat and use it to barter with neighboring islands for food and other products, the teeth are the true prize. Just a single hunt of around 200 dolphins can bring in tens of thousands of dollars, more than any other economic activity on the island.

The teeth are shared among every family according to a strict tier system: The hunters get the largest portion, and married men who didn’t participate get the next largest. Widows, orphans, and households without a male representative split the rest.

Village leaders also set aside a portion of the teeth in what they call a “community basket” to fund things like a new church, a sea wall, and an extension to the local primary school. The leaders hope to one day buy land to expand a resettlement village on the larger South Malaita Island.

These shares are a safety net to residents like Eddie Sua and his family. Sua was once a dolphin hunter who became mysteriously paralyzed from the neck down about two years ago. He’s been bedridden ever since. During high tide, his home floods.

“We have to be scared of these floods, because that’s what will make us act to save our lives,” he says.

Dolphin hunting season lasts from January to April. During this time, people on Fanalei can kill up to a thousand dolphins. Dolphin meat is eaten and used to barter with neighboring islands for food and other products. But the teeth are the true prize. Just a single hunt of around 200 dolphins can bring in tens of thousands of dollars, which is more than any other economic activity on the island.

The teeth are shared among every family according to a strict tier system: The hunters get the largest portion, and married men who didn’t participate get the next largest. Widows, orphans, and households without a male representative split the rest.

Village leaders also set aside a portion of the teeth in what they call a “community basket.” The funds are used on things like a new church, a sea wall, and an extension to the local primary school. The leaders hope to one day buy land to expand a resettlement village on the larger South Malaita Island.

These shares are a safety net to residents like Eddie Sua and his family. Sua was once a dolphin hunter. Two years ago he became mysteriously paralyzed from the neck down. He’s been bedridden ever since. During high tide, his home floods.

“We have to be scared of these floods, because that’s what will make us act to save our lives,” he says.

When Fugui raised his flag that morning, he set off a cacophony of delight. Children climbed trees and cheered “kirio”—dolphin in the local Lau language—so that every resident would know the hunt had started. Men in canoes hanging close to shore broke through the waves into the open ocean to help the hunters form a semicircle around the dolphins and corral them to land.

But a successful hunt is never a certainty. After spotting the dolphins, Fugui and the other hunters started beating fist-sized rocks together under the water to drive the pod toward the shore. Just then, a trawler passed behind them, the roar of its engine drowning out the dull thuds of their rocks. The dolphins scattered, and the men returned empty-handed.

Such occurrences only add to the bigger problem. The weather has become increasingly unpredictable, making it harder to locate and trap a pod. Halfway through this year’s season, there was only one successful hunt in the Solomon Islands.

It’s unclear whether dolphin hunting is sustainable, experts say. Some of the more commonly hunted species appear to have healthy populations, says marine biologist Rochelle Constantine at the University of Auckland. That’s less certain for more coastal and smaller dolphins.

For the people of Fanalei, the more pressing question isn’t the future of the dolphins. It’s their own survival.

“Dolphin hunting may be our identity,” Fugui says, “but our lives and the lives of our children—that’s what’s important.”

When Fugui raised his flag that morning, he set off a celebration. Children climbed trees and cheered. They shouted “kirio”—dolphin in the local Lau language—so that every resident would know the hunt had started. Men in canoes hanging close to shore paddled through the waves into the open ocean. They went to help the hunters form a semicircle around the dolphins and move them to land.

But a successful hunt is never guaranteed. After spotting the dolphins, Fugui and the other hunters started beating fist-sized rocks together under the water to drive the pod toward the shore. Just then, a trawler passed behind them. The loud sound of its engine drowned out the dull thuds of the hunters’ rocks. The dolphins scattered. The men returned empty-handed.

Such occurrences only add to the bigger problem. The weather has become increasingly unpredictable. It is much harder to locate and trap a pod. Halfway through this year’s season, there was only one successful hunt in the Solomon Islands.

It’s unclear whether dolphin hunting is sustainable, experts say. Some of the more commonly hunted species appear to have healthy populations, says marine biologist Rochelle Constantine at the University of Auckland. That’s less certain for more coastal and smaller dolphins.

For the people of Fanalei, the bigger question isn’t the future of the dolphins. It’s their own survival.

“Dolphin hunting may be our identity,” Fugui says, “but our lives and the lives of our children—that’s what’s important.”