Tristan da Cunha - the most remote inhabited archipelago in the world - is a group volcanic islands in the South Atlantic Ocean and is home to a population of around 250 people. In the first part of a special feature, Media Isle of Man sales administrator JADE REPETTO, who now lives in Kirk Michael but was raised on ‘Tristan’, gives us a fascinating insight into what life is like on this unique islandfrom seven-day boat journeys to shops and socialising...

Approximately 1,500 miles from South Africa, somewhere in the vast, endless blue of the South Atlantic Ocean, there's a tiny speck of land that most people probably wouldn't even notice on a map. But if you squint hard enough and look just below the ‘a’ in ‘Ocean,’ you'll spot it. That tiny dot is Tristan da Cunha, home to around 250 people, all crammed together on a small, volcanic island. It’s like your own personal island community, where everyone knows everyone.

When people ask me about Tristan da Cunha - an island we affectionally refer to as Tristan - they usually imagine something straight out of Disney’s Moana—palm trees, coconuts, golden sand beaches, and possibly a crazy chicken. We do have the crazy chickens, but Tristan possesses more of a volcanic island vibe, with black sand beaches, plenty of potatoes and lobsters, and weather that’s sometimes like our own on the Isle of Man.

Travel

It takes seven days for the boat to arrive in Tristan da Cunha
It takes seven days for the boat to arrive in Tristan da Cunha (-)

If you think the three-hour ferry ride from Liverpool to the Isle of Man is a drag, try a minimum seven-day (yes, seven-day) journey on a rickety boat that smells like diesel and fish. That’s the reality of getting to Tristan da Cunha. We spend most of the journey trying not to be seasick in nine-foot waves, sleeping to pass the time, and maybe—just maybe—getting a game of cards going. When we leave our cabins, we like to enjoy the scenery. If you look to your left, you’ll see the South Atlantic Ocean, if you look to your right, you will see the South Atlantic Ocean. These ships only visit the island every six weeks. So, whilst I understand completely the frustration when the Manxman gets cancelled, and Tesco has no eggs for two days, try going without coffee, sugar, and worst of all alcohol for about four weeks or having it rationed per household, to avoid someone doing a Covid shop and buying up all the toilet rolls out!

Island life

Members of the Repetto family raise a glass on Tristan da Cunha
Members of Jade’s family raise a glass on Tristan da Cunha (-)

Tristan is a fishing and farming community, so for the most part we are very self-sufficient, although no one has learned how to make vodka from potatoes yet. However, we cannot completely survive without help from the outside world unless we absolutely have to. The island has many sheep, and every islander is given two lambs at birth, it’s the first thing you ever own on Tristan. They are your responsibility, yours to shear, yours to mark, yours to rear, and eventually yours to eat. It also has cows but the same rules do not apply. They are more like pets; on Tristan we believe what you put into the land and cattle you get back. So, we name our cows in the same way people name their dogs and cats. They will come to your call and are often very tame, you can stroke them, milk them and they (for the most part) will allow it. It is important for us to show them respect, they provide for us, and we provide for them. Chickens and ducks roam free, and I mean that literally. When riding my bike to school I had to be extra careful not to run any over. It was our version of the hit Nintendo game Mario Kart. A few seemed to have a death wish and would run directly at me.

As for sheepdogs, they aren’t just there to work—they’re like family. Sure, they’re great at herding the sheep, but they’re also our everyday companions. Out there, they don’t need leashes or formal walks. They get their exercise running alongside the truck to the fields, hanging out while I feed the chickens, or sprinting across the paddocks rounding up the flock. They’ve got the freedom to roam and do what they love, and honestly, I think they’re living their best lives.

Sometimes if we’ve had a harsh winter and the potato crops aren’t great or we lose some cows or sheep to the storms, we will all rally together. Families who have more would give to those who have less. I always think of the Tristanians as having a very good memory, they will remember if you helped them in the winter of 2005 and will give you twice as much in 2019.

School, shop and socialising

Party time on Tristan da Cunha
Party time on Tristan da Cunha (-)

We have one school which caters for pupils between the ages of 3 and 16, most of the teachers are family members, which, as you can imagine, is not always a fun situation. My granny was my maths teacher, and let me tell you, if I stepped out of line, sweet Granny turned into Miss Trunchbull from the Roald Dahl book Matilda. And the worst part? My mum was the first to hear about it.

We may live on an island, but we’re not exactly stuck in the past. We’ve got one shop—a store which is predominantly a grocery shop with a small corner for clothes. When I say clothes, I mean wool to knit the clothes, socks, the same five men/women’s t-shirts, Crocs in navy blue or black (which everyone wears).

Since we have no clothes shops many of the clothes we wear are hand-me-downs. Luckily for me I have several older female cousins who all had pretty good taste. However, when I came across a Primark when I went to the university in the UK, you best believe I went to town! There’s also nothing worse than getting into an argument with your cousin and she drops the ‘I want that top back!’ line on you. It really does wonders for your conflict management skills and is part of the culture that non-Tristan residents fail to properly understand. My university professor once asked me: ‘What’s the best way to resolve a conflict?’ to which I confidently replied, ‘use clothes as a form of bribery.’ Needless to say, neither my professor nor my class found that very funny, and it was the last time I relied on a childhood experience to answer any questions.

As for entertainment, we’ve got one pub—just the one. I didn’t even know what a pub crawl was until I moved to UK. At first, I thought the goal was to get so drunk that you literally crawled home. Spoiler alert: I only made it to the third pub before I was in fact crawling. Tristan’s pub is called the Albatross Bar, and once upon a time for a brief period we had the one and only Bushy’s beer in there. Bushy’s founder Martin Brunnschweiler is a close friend of my dad’s, and we knew him long before we made the move over here. There is no beer on tap there (I know it’s sacrilegious, and the reason my dad refuses to move back). We have two or three different choices of beer and that’s it. Honestly, I don’t know how we’ve survived. We have about two white and red wine options and a similar number of spirits. Since the Albatross is the only pub, it can be a bit of a community hotspot, and you best believe it, if you get up to any misbehaving the whole village will know. The one and only bartender there is a friend of my parents, and while I have bribed her on occasions not to ‘spend’ (Tristan slang for ‘telling tales’) on me, not everyone present could be as easily persuaded.

Sundays on Tristan are all about cows, family, and occasionally—golf. Yep, golf. We’ve got a nine-hole golf course, but don’t expect to find the same ‘rough’ that you’re used to. Here, you’ve got to dodge cows, cow pats (trust me, you don’t want to lose your ball in one of those), and random chicken coops. On one occasion, I was out with my dad and his mates. My dad’s best friend hit the ball, and it hit the roof of a moving car. Turns out it was our administrator’s car (Tristan’s equivalent of the Chief Minister). We are lucky we only have one policeman who doesn’t really have much of a job (although he may tell you otherwise).

Food

Jade's sister (left) and aunt (right) during a family gathering on Tristan Da Cunha
Jade's sister (left) and aunt (right) during a family gathering on Tristan Da Cunha (-)

When I left Tristan in 2017, there were no restaurants, no takeaways and definitely no hotels. Everything you want has to be homemade. I’ll never take Tesco’s 99p pizza bases for granted, I still remember being 13 and trying to make my own pizza dough. It was too floury and—let’s face it—not worth the hassle. Nowadays, whenever I miss home, I’ll take a trip to KFC, and let’s just say it clears up any homesickness instantly. Probably not doctor-approved, but it works for me.

To outsiders, our traditional island food may not seem appetising, but our ancestors did not believe in waste. We had so little that we learnt to eat as much of the animals as possible. ‘Waste not want not,’ my grandad would say. And that’s all well and good until you get served a fried penguin egg. Seven-year-old me was not having it. And yet I appreciate and respect so completely those who came before, those who learnt the hard way that you couldn’t afford to be picky, that a hard winter could mean a penguin’s egg or nothing and the need for survival outweighed any petty food preferences.

We take the concept of nose-to-tail seriously. I used to watch ‘I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here’ with my university roommate and I would often say things like, ‘I’ve had that before’, ‘that’s not as bad as its looks’, ‘that’s better cooked to be honest’. Our tripe, for example, is actually quite enjoyable if prepared correctly, although preparing it is a pain. I remember coming home from school at Easter and seeing my dad’s car parked in front of the ‘bull place’ (the slaughterhouse), knowing my gran, mum, aunt and cousin were waiting for me to come help them clean the tripe. It involved boiling it to soften the impurities, scraping them off with a knife, and trying not to gag. The dogs loved it, though.

We do however have more familiar cuisine, like fried fish (although ours is better). Freshly caught, cleaned and fried, we don’t believe in drowning it in batter. We are also very fortunate to have an abundance of lobster in the waters around the island. Actually, it’s so abundant you kind of get sick if it after a while. After moving to the UK, I was once craving the taste of home and thought I’d buy a lobster. I took one look at the price and abandoned the idea! Lobster is a luxury that’s free on Tristan. We also have fish that I’ve never even seen over here, although the names might amuse you. We have the Five Finger, because it has five finger shaped stripes along its side (best fried), we have the yellow tail, because, as I’m sure you’ve already deduced, it has a yellow stripe down its tail. In fact, the islanders have traditionally given plain names to things. Take ‘Pig Bite’ for example, for name of the island’s rubbish tip, so called because someone got bit by a pig at the site. I do not joke, I also didn’t know pigs could bite, and it instilled an irrational fear of pigs in me. The island is also home to ‘The Heart Shaped Lake’ because it’s a lake shaped like a heart. Or the ‘Hill Piece’ because, wait for it, it’s a piece of hill! Another place is called ‘Jenny’s Watron’ because a woman called Jenny built her house there (the first house to be built away from the settlement). I have never been lucky enough to have a place named after me, but it was not for lack of trying.

The thing about small islands is there are lots of different versions of stories and they change slightly every time they’re told. For instance, I was told a donkey ran away to a beach now aptly named ‘Runaway Beach’. My mum heard it’s because sea lions would beach there and as soon as islanders visited, they would run away back to the sea. My dad heard that a lady took a funny turn and ran away there for solace. Unfortunately, I cannot say with any certainty which of these stories are true. Part of the charm of a small island I suppose.

Seasons and customs

The 'okalolies' prowl the streets of Tristan da Cunha one day a year
The 'okalolies' prowl the streets of Tristan da Cunha one day a year (-)

The weather on Tristan is very similar to that of the Isle of Man, although Tristan’s seasons are the opposite. For example, our Christmases fall in the summer. Sadly, we don’t get an eight-week summer holiday, but we do push the boat out (literally and figuratively) for the festivities. School pupils receive four weeks holiday while adults have three. What is slightly unusual is that for those three weeks everything is closed, and I mean everything. The entire island becomes gridlocked, and nothing is more amusing than watching everyone do their ‘Christmas shop’, you would think the shop (again, the island only has one shop) was closing for three months! I once saw my auntie going to the till with six whole chickens (I do not jest). She only has her and her husband, and if the kids come over it would still only be six people (a chicken each does seem slightly excessive). My mum is no better, her Christmas shops usually last until Easter. I was fearful at one point that she was going to ask my dad to buy a bigger fridge. So, on a hot summer’s day wearing my cousin’s hand me down shorts, I found myself in the back of my dad’s bakkie (pick-up truck) surrounded by shopping bags, lumbered with the task of unloading them into the house. To say I was well trained for Covid shopping is an understatement.

The island’s customs and holidays are quite different to those in the British Isles. I was very eager to learn more about Hop-tu-naa, as opposed to Halloween, when I first arrived on the island. It’s interesting how different cultures have different perspectives and lores about quite similar things. For example, on Tristan we have something called ‘Old Years Night,’ it falls on the last night of the year, where the men of the village dress up in scary costumes. We call them okalolies and they essentially chase the women around the island. It’s a tradition that’s meant to symbolise chasing away the old year and bringing in the new one (although some Tristanians may disagree). If you have a grievance with someone, or you upset your close male friends, they will mark you and say something along the lines of ‘just you wait until Old Years Night’. When the date rolled around, the object of the festivities is not to be caught by the okalolies, which is harder than it sounds. I know of instances where doors have been taken off their hinges by okalolies trying to get to someone. Once they catch you, they can throw you in the island’s pool (it is summer after all), hose you down with the garden hose, throw you in any nearby vegetation, or (probably worst of all) take you on the back of a tractor trailer and drive you around the village. None of this is really that bad, but it’s a point of pride not to get caught and you’re rewarded with bragging rights if you don’t. I can say with great confidence I possess a clean record in that regard and have never been caught. I would like to chalk it up to my survival skills, but in truth, I just think being as small as I am means there are never a shortage of hiding places, and I never tried to upset any of my male friends in the run-up to the day.

We also have a tradition called ‘R*tting Day,’ and whenever I try to explain it, I fear people might think Tristanians are a bit barbaric, but trust me, there’s a method to our madness. The island is infested with long tails—seriously, they’re everywhere. And it’s not just annoying; they pose a real threat to our bird species, many of which are either native or endangered. There have been instances where long tails have climbed into bird nests and have eaten the chicks from the bottom up. As I mentioned earlier, survival is practically a pastime on the island. These r*ts aren’t just eating our wildlife, they’re also messing with our food chain. Potatoes are our staple diet, but try telling the r*ts that. As a result, everyone on the island gets together in teams once a year to hunt the r*ts down. It’s basically a big community effort that’s part pest control, part sport. You get prizes for the longest tail acquired and the most tails collected (it’s surprisingly competitive).

Pretty different

Tristan da Cunha
Tristan da Cunha (-)

I know it sounds a bit extreme, but here’s the thing: life on Tristan is pretty different from what most people are used to. We don’t have the luxury of popping to Tesco or calling an exterminator to deal with our r*t problem. We’ve got to handle it ourselves. It may not seem all that ‘civilised,’ but when your survival depends on the land and the animals that live there, you learn to respect it all—and you deal with the threats, no matter how messy it gets, it’s not as Lord of the Flies as it sounds.

At the end of the day, life on Tristan da Cunha isn’t for everyone—but it’s a way of life that teaches you to appreciate the simple things. It’s about living with the land, making do with what you have, and looking out for each other, no matter how small the island or how big the challenge. There’s no Tesco, no Amazon Prime deliveries, no endless options when it comes to food or entertainment. But what we do have is a tight-knit community, a deep respect for the environment, and a tradition of self-reliance that runs through everything we do. Life may be slower, simpler, and at times a little more chaotic, but there’s a kind of beauty in it—a beauty that’s harder to find in the hustle and bustle of modern life. And while you won’t find any Instagram-worthy beaches or fast-food outlets, you’ll find something much more rare: a place where everyone knows your name, and you’re never really alone.