A Word about Muffin, and Others.

I have been an animal lover since… forever. When I was little, I pined for a pet, but the best I got was a tankful of pretty fish that to my dismay usually lasted all of 48 hours. Once, when I was in kindergarten, I got to take home some baby chicks for some project or another. They all died in a few short days, stricken with some mysterious chicken disease. I was devastated. When I was a little older, I took to capturing salamanders and putting them in the same tank that once housed my fish. They usually escaped.

For whatever reason, my parents never got us an *actual* pet. Most of my friends had either a cat or dog, or both. Some had birds, rabbits, or lizards. Reptiles seemed lazy, rabbits seemed stupid, and I hated the idea of keeping birds in a cage. Nothing could possibly be more contrary to nature. I wanted a cat or a dog desperately. I couldn’t tell if my parents just never liked the idea of a pet because they had never had one themselves and didn’t understand the joy that animals invariably bring, or they didn’t want to spend the money and time taking care of something that would not get a college degree and go on to make lots of money to support them in their retirement. Somehow though, I knew there was a hole in their hearts that could only be filled with the sweet barks or meows of a loving critter. My suspicions grew more and more concrete when one Christmas I asked for a horrible little toy: a fake dog that came with so much “fur” and a set of salon tools with which to cut and groom it. My parents both expressed disgust at such a thing and told me with certainty I wouldn’t be getting it and I should ask for something else. To my delight, I received it on Christmas anyway; a gift from Santa. I inwardly cackled at my expertise at wrapping that fat old man around my finger once more, and receiving what my parents vowed they would never give me. Of course, when I stopped believing in Santa, I realized they had been the ones buying those toys all along, and that one in particular which they thought so distasteful. Something told me that deep down, they really wanted a pet.

Things progressed. We got a hamster named Esquire. He lived in a two-tiered golden cage like a king and had the best of the best. Because my father hated keeping anything locked up, the two of us would sit in my room for an hour every night while the hamster ran around all over the place, as free as could be. Sometimes he would sneak away, only to be found hours later sleeping in someone’s fuzzy slipper, or munching on nuts and grapes beneath a table. He had an adorable face, but a rather tedious disposition despite the various personalities and alter-egos my brother and I invented for him. I drew pictures of him everywhere, and talked about him constantly with my friends at school. He was a relatively boring animal in retrospect, but my brother and I loved nothing more. Once we had a visitor stay with us; a family friend’s sister. She asked us if we had a pet, and we both answered excitedly that we had a hamster. She guffawed and shouted, “No, a REAL pet!” My brother and I sat in silent shock. What was more real than our precious rodent? When he died, we had a “family meeting.” Our mother told us gently he had passed away in his sleep, and my brother and I burst out into violent tears. We could not even be consoled with offerings of Friendly’s Jim Dandy five scoop ice cream sundaes that we were usually never allowed to have.

I became more and more of an animal adorer. I’m not ashamed to say that I am often more affected by cruelty to animals than cruelty to other people. It sounds harsh and misguided, but that’s just where my feelings lie and I can’t change them. In trying to explain why I love animals so much and why I am so much more hurt and angered by the mistreatment, neglect, or abuse of animals than of people, my response is always because animals cannot understand their feelings the way humans can. Animals know feelings: loneliness, pain, abandonment, sadness… but unlike humans, cannot discern why they are hurting. If forsaken, animals do not know why, they only know they have been left behind. If abused, they cannot understand that some humans are sadistic and evil, and that a better life is waiting for them elsewhere, only that their life is painful. Unlike humans, animals have no ability to be malicious or vindictive. They have no sense of doing someone or something intentional harm. They act on instinct and loyalty. It makes me sad in a way I am never otherwise sad when I hear about stories of animal cruelty and abuse. It is difficult for me to imagine humans having the capacity to harm animals just out of sadistic pleasure, apathy, ignorance, or just a lack of kindness, but this is so often the case. Maybe this is why I have so much more compassion for animals than I do for most people.

I have talked before about the neglect and abuse of animals in FSM, so I won’t do that here. This post isn’t about my feelings regarding animal treatment in this country (which are not positive one), it is instead about the wonderful experiences I have had with animals here, despite the obstacles they must overcome. It shows the true resilience of all creatures, and not just human ones.

During my first month last year at Xavier, my mother informed me via email that my cat was ill. My cat had always been sickly, needing various medications for various problems. He had always been, though, the love of both my life and my brother’s. He made a cat-lover out of my father, whom never thought such a thing possible. We got him when I was about 11 or 12 years old, and despite our parents’ fear that we would grow tired of him, our love for him only grew exponentially. He was not always the most affectionate animal; very selective about when and where and with whom he wanted to cuddle, but I knew that he understood more than we usually gave him credit for. When I was sick, I could always look forward to him sitting by my side tirelessly, something he would never do otherwise, even consenting to be held and petted for extended periods of time. As difficult as this is for me to admit, he probably loved my brother most of all, taking to sleeping in his bed every morning before my brother woke up. Hearing that he was seriously ill was devastating for me, and I wanted nothing more than to be back with him, comforting him the way he always comforted me when I was sick. A few days later, my mom called me to tell me he was dying. I pleaded with her to wait to do anything until I came home in the summer, but she said that it was urgent. He was in pain, and the vet would need to put him down right away. The hurt and shock I felt was immeasurable. I cried endlessly, hating myself for being across the world while my beloved pet was dying, maybe wondering where I had gone. My brother told me later it was the first time in years he had cried. In retrospect, I am glad I was not home. I think it would have been so much more awful for me spending that last night with him, knowing what was coming while he remained so ignorant. I don’t think I could have gone to the vet with him and seen him go to sleep for the last time. I am so thankful that my father had the strength to do that so Twilight was not completely alone.

I have spoken countless times about my cat Oreo that came to me (not the other way around for once!) while I was at Xavier, and whom I raised from kittenhood, so I don’t need to elaborate on her here. Like all my pets, I love her and miss her with all my heart, and am always hoping for her safety and happiness.

The day I returned back to Pohnpei from Chuuk, I discovered a delightful surprise: we had a puppy! One of the Pohnpeians built him a cage in which he was resting fretfully. My uncle warned me that he was a mean, savage little thing and hated everyone. I walked up to the cage and hesitantly put my fingers out to touch him. He growled at me viciously. Because I had just recently been bitten by a dog, I did not want to tempt fate, and left him to stew in his emotions. He had just arrived that day, and my uncle was positive he was just scared of being in a new place, trapped in a cage, away from his mother. That night, I tried again. He let me lightly touch his head, but remained angry and sad. The next day, he was better still. I pet him and offered him a piece of sausage… but eventually, he growled again and this time, barked and snapped at me, trying to bite. I left him again, and again I came back later. He was in much better spirits, and was trusting me a little more. We let him out of his cage, and he explored his new domain reluctantly. By the third day, he was my new best friend. He leapt up excitedly when he saw me, and let me hold him. He put my hands in his mouth without biting. He stayed close by my side while we walked around the yard so he could sniff things. When he was scared he hid under my skirt or between my legs. By the fourth day, we created a new routine. When I came home from work, I sat outside under the roof, and let him playfully come up to me and gnaw on my hands. He sat in my lap and fell asleep while I sang quietly. After that, I taught him to come to me when I whistled, to fetch (sometimes), and to play rough, but not too rough. He became my protector, barking at people when they walked by if I happened to be outside with him, and chasing away the cats when they clawed at me for food. Last night during the feast we had for the bishop, he barked and ran around anxiously until he saw me and leapt straight into my lap, licking my mouth, never more content seeing a familiar face. While everyone was dissembling tables and hauling away chairs, he came in my room with me, sleeping on an old pillow and snuggling with one of my flip flops. It never ceases to sadden me watching his face when I have to drive away somewhere. I call him Muffin despite my uncle’s insistence that this should not be the name of a future guard dog. He’s just a baby though, and will be my baby until I leave.

I didn’t think I would really be upset to leave. I feel it’s time for me to go home, and I’m ready to go back to my friends and family. Muffin has put a whole new perspective on this, however. We just met, but have already formed such a close bond. It’s widely accepted here that he loves me more than anyone else in the house; he will follow me anywhere and is (relatively) obedient and good-natured. He has never peed indoors, and is already often barking at strangers who come on our property. He is complacent and loving and has so much emotion in his face it’s hard to bear sometimes. I cannot stand thinking about driving away that final time – seeing the dismay in his eyes that I’m leaving again, but the faith that I will return, as I always do. It’s incredibly difficult to imagine how abandoned he will feel once I’m gone. Not that anyone here mistreats or neglects him: people will still pet and play with him, will still feed him and change his water. But the bulk of the attention has undoubtedly come from me; and the bulk of the pampering and comforting when he has been hurt or afraid. I don’t want to think about his sadness; I don’t want to think about leaving him. The inability to explain the circumstance to him is what kills me the most: if only he could understand.
I am also afraid for his safety. It’s a somewhat popular trend for children to steal puppies if they think they are cute, and an even more popular trend for Pohnpeians to steal adult dogs to eat. Everyone else here is largely apathetic on these points, or even joke about it, but for me, it isn’t a joke. It rips me up inside to know this is the potential fate I leave him to. I have never cried so bitterly as I do when I am alone and thinking these terrifying thoughts. Even though it also hurts me to think this, some part of me hopes he will forget me completely so that if something does happen, he will not be wondering where I have gone and why I have left him. Of course, none of these things are certainties. I know that despite all the jokes he makes, my uncle loves him too and will watch over him. You can’t not love this dog, and it’s so hard to leave him. I can’t be there to make sure he is ok; the best I can do is ask after him, and hope that he remains happy and safe, guarding the house that once was mine.

The Waiting Game

This was my last weekend in Pohnpei, and a relatively quiet and anticlimactic one at that. Saturday morning I received a text message from some of my World Teach friends inviting me to go to Nahlap, a small “picnic” island off the coast of Kitti. I had never been, and figured I could use some fun in the sun before returning to a bleak, dismal NY winter. After running some errands and pick-ups, we finally reached the Nahlap dock around 2 in the afternoon. I was told a little late in the game to make such plans myself, but everyone else was banking on staying overnight. I was also told that it is only a 5 minute reliable boat ride to and from the island. I figured I would stay until about 6 or 7, giving me some good afternoon hours on the beach, and then leave after sunset to have a full night back on the main island.

As is too often the case here, we ended up waiting. And waiting. And waiting. We kept hearing and seeing boats, but none of them drifted our way. We called the owners of the island every half hour asking over and over again in broken Pohnpeian for them to send out a boat for us. They assured us, with growing impatience, that one was coming. And yet we waited. Not that it was a complete loss: we had some good conversation, shared some good gossip, and had a few good drinks. Still, I was itching to go. Waiting has never, ever been easy for me. Anyone who knows me well knows that despite my pipedreams of going to school in Hawaii or California, I am anything but a laid back, roll-with-the-punches kind of girl. I am a true New Yorker: always on the go, compulsively organized, persistently punctual, and planned out to the hilt. I am impatient because I value these qualities in myself, as inflexible as they often render me, and expect these qualities to be present in others. In Micronesia however, this is a tasteless recipe for disappointment. The Westerners that I’ve known, both here and in Chuuk, joke about “Micronesian time” (everything happens 2 hours late) and the carefree, come-you-are-whenever-you-want attitude. I’ve noticed that people here don’t like setting times or making concrete plans, preferring to let things crystallize at the very last possible moment. People don’t wait for invitations or abide by conventional formalities (for instance, at a feast we had last night for the arrival of the Bishop, tons of “uninvited” villagers came just for the food and left promptly after eating). To me, these characteristics indicate rudeness, and it’s hard to see them in any other light. Of course, locals here have their own ideas of what is rude, and I’m sure I’ve made many slip-ups in this regard during my stay here.

Finally, after 2 hours of waiting (perfectly on time for Micronesians), the boat arrived. By this time, it was a bit after 4pm, and I realized that I would have very little time to spend on this island. I was invited over and over by my friends to stay the night, welcomed to eat their food and use their soap, and I considered it. But I had been hoping to make it to the annual Bell Tower Christmas ceremony over by my house, and potentially go out for a few drinks afterwards. After much internal struggle, I decided to stick with my original plan: stay for the sunset, and leave shortly after that.

Nahlap was much different than I expected. I figured it would be something like Pisar, since that is really my only gauge for what constitutes a “resort island” in Micronesia. But Nahlap is much bigger, and unlike the bareness of Pisar, is overrun with mangroves. There is only a small portion of the island which is actually “beach,” leading out into very still, gray water. The owners stay on the island and operate a “front desk” where you have to sign in the members of your party and pay for the boatride. There is a small “café” where you can buy chips and water, a slide, and a few rope swings, making the island resemble a primitive version of Splash Down. When we arrived, there were a ton of people there. Pisar, Jeep, and other such islands in Chuuk are not at all popular with the locals, but at Nahlap, there were several Pohnpeian families spending the day picnicking. Small children drifted around the dock area in oversized floaties. Mother carried baskets of food, and strangely, huge Tupperware containers of extra clothing and thick, quilted blankets. Most people were leaving as we were arriving, however, and soon enough the island was quiet and largely empty. We took a walk to the other side of the island where we found a strange little out-of-place chapel, and a random stepladder in the middle of the water. We played a version of bocci with coconut husks (which I was terrible at! Surprising since I’m actually pretty good at regular bocci), swam around, and watched the sunset from a rocky part of the shoreline. We had our own nahs, and Will built a fire and cooked some hotdogs. It was pitch dark and I could hear some boats leaving. I decided to say my goodbyes and check out the ride situation, hoping there would be some available space on a departing boat.

It was about 7:30, and the owner told me there would be two boats leaving. Originally she said I could leave whenever I wanted, but perhaps now that it was growing later, somewhat changed her tune. She said I could take the earliest boat that came, but when it finally did arrive, told me instead to wait for the next one. My impatience began flaring up again. One thing that never ceases to aggravate me about living here is there are rarely any explanations offered for why things are or are not happening. When our electricity situation was bad and becoming less and less reliable, there were several different rumors about what was going on, but no formal clarification issued by the utilities company. Before leaving for Chuuk, I had to wait an extra hour for check-in to open for some reason still unbeknownst to me or any of the other visibly irritated travelers tapping their feet in the middle of a stuffy, unbearably hot airport. My project here at MicSem was cancelled. Why? Don’t ask me; no one thought it necessary to enlighten me as to the reasons despite my hours upon hours of dedicated work. It is more difficult to accept let-downs and unpleasant circumstances when you don’t know why you are being forced to endure them. Such was my situation waiting for a boat to come. Experience told me that regardless of this woman’s promise that I would get a ride, I somehow might not for a reason I would never know. I tried to ignore the bubbling aggravation within me as I sat on a narrow wooden bench in total darkness, listening to the owner and her family laugh over dinner inside their small house. I dutifully tried to convince myself I was not as frustrated as I felt, attempting instead to view this experience as another lesson to learn about myself. I tried to peer through the thatched roof I was sitting under and look up at the stars which were endless and inviting. Instead of thinking about everything I was missing (the bell tower ceremony), I tried to think about everything I was having: silence, peace, a spectacular view of the night. Finally, the woman came outside of her house and told me the boat was arriving. She pointed with her thick finger towards the long, shaky pier, “You wait for them there.”

I didn’t have a flashlight since I hadn’t been planning to stay so late, so I walked in darkness down the wobbly planks towards the dock. It felt like I was walking into a new dimension or some kind of strange eternity. I couldn’t see anything in front of me but shadows of shoddy structures and worlds and worlds of traveling stars. I walked slowly, unsure of my footing, along this narrow pathway towards an indiscernible blend of dark sky and dark water. The owner, finally realizing I had no light (and probably cursing my stupidity) followed me shortly after with hers, and waited with me at the open mouth at the edge of the dock. A few people departed off the boat, and I got in alone. I was accompanied only by the owner’s sons or nephews who were navigating with nothing but a small flashlight they periodically shone into the water to determine their route. As unfair as it probably is, I did not feel totally safe out in the water, in the dark, with two Pohnpeian men I didn’t know. I had my cell phone in one hand, and my pepper spray in the other. Perhaps another indicator of my New Yorkerness, I couldn’t just sit back and enjoy the slow ride and the magnificent view of the sky. Instead, I was wary and suspicious of the people alongside me, who were realistically doing me a big favor by driving all the way back just for me. Of course I arrived in safety, realizing to my embarrassment that they had even called me a taxi without asking me (though I had my own car). I thanked them, and drove home, relieved to be back safe and sound, but still housing that undercurrent of frustration that I had missed out on the rest of my night. I’m not sure when or if I will learn to accept things as they come. I have friends (one specifically comes to mind) who revel in spontaneity and are never satisfied with making plans or being on time because these systems are too rigid and do not allow for any outside influence to take them where they were perhaps meant to go all along. I can’t make value judgments on which behavior is better, but as much as I might want to, especially after a year and a half of living here, I’m not sure I can shake my need to have everything already decided, already organized because I want to be the one to plot my course. I’m not yet comfortable with anyone or anything else mapping out my roads.

Giving Thanks, Part 2 (i.e. the longest blog post in the history of blog posts)

After spending Canadian Thanksgiving here in Pohnpei, it seemed only fitting that I should go to Chuuk for American Thanksgiving (perhaps not as fitting as being in America, but I can’t be so picky out here with such limited time and funds). I was so excited to get back to my much more rugged “home island” Weno especially after feeling somewhat like a tourist/visitor most of my time here in Pohnpei. The week ended up speeding by, dutifully ignoring the painfully long and drawn out anticipatory weeks which preceded it. I know it’s unfair to enter any situation with expectations, but that’s exactly what I did. Some of them were met, some were exceeded, and some fell short. The only proper way to handle this is to go day by day and try to dissect my week one piece at a time:

TUESDAY: I was a wreck! Packing, compulsive showering, not eating… this is what excitement does to me. It’s bizarre and slightly depressing to think that it’s Tuesday again right now and that a week ago at this moment I was beginning my journey to Chuuk. The morning was slow, the plane ride slower. Once I landed however, my day went into fast forward mode – the kind where talking sounds only like high-pitched, fast-paced chipmunk dialogue and everything moves in blurs; the plot being lost and the meaning vague. Tom was there to meet me with the requisite mwar’mwars and as we bumbled and bumped down the “road” back up to Xavier I began to feel overwhelmed by the old sights and sounds – the shops, the dust, the construction vehicles in a permanent state of not doing much. We passed a busload of Xavier boys on the way to a basketball game, hooting and hollering, previously unaware of my arrival. It was only a taste of what was to come, though. Approaching the hill up to Xavier, I heard a loud shriek. It was one of my students, a current junior, running faster than I had ever seen anyone run ever, trying to chase down the truck. “MISS!!! MISS IS IT REALLY YOU??!” his shouts caught the attention of other students who gathered at the top of the hill yelling down and waving dramatically. Once the truck reached the campus, there was a veritable welcoming committee of male students screaming and grabbing at me, trying to hug me. As the truck pulled through to the front of the school, more students followed. Extracurricular activities ceased as I was met with an onslaught of former students pushing me, hugging me, grabbing at me, jumping on me. “MISS, YOU’RE BACK!” “MISS LYDIA YOU CAME BACK!” “MISS, DID YOU BRING ME ANY PRESENTS?!” I couldn’t even handle the ensuing chaos. I was sweaty and exhausted by the time the tide of teenagers finally ebbed. I sat with them for a moment, watching their track and field practice, but utterly overwhelmed and feeling the urgent need to say hello to everyone else and meet the new people. In retrospect, this moment did not last long enough. I regret leaving when I did, even though at the time I was physically and emotionally unable to keep up with what was happening. Looking back on it, this is one of the few moments of my week I want to relive and replay. I want to go back to that instant and make it even better, more vivid, more lasting than it was. I keep thinking to myself “next time, next time,” without realizing there won’t be a next time. I will most likely never make it back to Chuuk; I will most likely never see the majority of those students again. I said over and over to them “we’ll chat later; I’ll come find you and we’ll catch up,” but the week flew by so fast, and for a good part of the time I wasn’t even at Xavier, and those conversations, those reconnections, never happened.

For all of that, I can’t remember the rest of my day on Tuesday. I met a few new people, said hello to some old people. I attended Xavier’s famous Tuesday night “porch prayer” and ate pasta for dinner. I was tired and inundated with so many new and different things. I was meant to sleep in Daisy’s old room which for me only held one memory: the time Daisy picked nits out of my hair. It was strange not to go back to my old room; I didn’t even end up seeing the house I stayed in all last year. I kept checking my old mailbox by mistake, wondering why there were so many papers in it and who had removed my purple NYU mug. The computer room had been changed around, and the table where I always put my laptop and did work was no longer in the spot it had been. Rooms were painted different colors and there were new dishes and new decorations. Someone else’s name was on my office door. It’s funny how these small changes really structured such a world of difference for me, and it was even funnier how sad, angry, or intrigued they made me feel. But this was all just the beginning.

WEDNESDAY: I felt largely useless. It was strange seeing everyone rushing around, getting ready while I myself didn’t have to go to class. No one invited me to visit their classrooms and I didn’t want to be a disruption and take it upon myself to do so. Instead I sat on the porch, looking out at the captivating view that had been such a beacon of serenity and peacefulness for me last year. I was surprised that I felt bored, though it was probably just because I was so anxious and had been waiting so long and now felt completely unproductive and like I was still waiting for something exciting to happen. In the afternoon, Tom and I played scrabble, and once school ended I sat outside in the rec house talking to more students and watching them practice for Xavier Day. Everyone asked me if I was staying for that, and showed such incredible disappointment when I told them I wasn’t. Truthfully, I hadn’t considered that at all when making my travel plans, thinking only of Thanksgiving which did not seem as important to them. I wish now that I had extended my stay. Xavier Day would have been an awesome opportunity to spend time with each and every student and really see them in their element with their full spirits. Again I kept telling myself, mired in a strange denial or forgetfulness, “next time.”

Wednesday night Tom and I took the girls’ bus downtown to Blue Lagoon. I was a little upset and distracted because it seemed at the time that our plans to go to Pisar were not going to work out. Because I am impatient and a worrier by nature, trying to convince myself to have fun despite my frustration was very difficult. It was better once we arrived at the resort and settled into our air conditioned room. Eating my old favorite Blue Lagoon meal (prawn suruwa, coconuts, and buca - a hollowed-out coconut filled with fruit and ice cream) for dinner also helped assuage my aggravation. The outdoor bar closed early because of rain and lack of customers, so we were forced to call it a night around 9pm which is early, even for a grandma like me.

THURSDAY: We awoke in time for breakfast overlooking a fantastic view of the resort grounds and the lagoon. The day was clear and shaping up to be hot and humid. I ordered eggs benedict, which arrived sans English muffin, with spam instead of Canadian bacon, and five pieces of dry, thick toast instead of hash browns. Perhaps I have been spoiled by brunch at The Village here in Pohnpei, but it just wasn’t as delicious as I remembered it. From our room we tried calling Dickenson, the owner of Pisar, to try and solidify plans, only to realize that he had given us the wrong cell number. We attempted his office, which was closed for Thanksgiving. After paying for our room, we decided to virtually throw in the towel and inquire how much it would cost to camp out on Jeep instead, another small atoll managed by Blue Lagoon. It was pricier than Pisar, and it was too short notice. We felt defeated as we began our trek back to Xavier.

The “back hike” from Xavier to Blue Lagoon, or vice versa, has been somewhat of a tradition for me and Tom. The first time I ever did this hike was the first weekend of second semester with a few other volunteers. I loved it, especially the reward at the end of coconuts and lunch at the resort. When the new Australians arrived a few weeks in, I suggested we do it again. There was less enthusiasm this time around, and a few people took the bus down to meet us for dinner and a night at the bar, but I insisted that Tom experience the hike. So the two of us walked, and it became one of our most frequented pastimes on the weekends. While others fretted about not being able to catch a ride back to Xavier from Blue Lagoon after the hike was over (another three-four hour, somewhat exhausting walk) Tom and I chose not to think about this until we absolutely had to. We would often walk to Saram and hope for a bus or truck to pick us up there. Sometimes we set out with the intention of walking all the way, an intimidating ambition, but I don’t think there was ever a time when we had to make the entire trip on foot. Sometimes if we were lucky we would catch up with a random Xavier ride coming back from a shopping trip or sporting event. Most times we hitchhiked, picked up by random and not always the most savory characters. Sometimes the rides were exceptional: once a man and his young son picked us up in their shiny, brand new, black SUV. His name was Rick, and he said that it was getting late and two Xavier teachers shouldn’t be walking in the dark. The car was roomy and air conditioned and he drove us all the way up the impossible Sapuk hill right to the front of the school’s door. Other times, the rides were less comfortable. We were once picked up by drunk man who was spewing frightening nonsense and angry accusations at us. We didn’t feel safe until his large and imposing (and sober) wife got in the car and literally slapped some sense into him.

This time however was different. Since Tom and I had taken the bus down, we intended to walk the back hike home. I had never done the hike from Blue Lagoon to Xavier, only the other way around, so it seemed a fitting end to the tradition, and it proved to be the most eventful walk yet. As usual along the way, we met some cute Chuukese kids, enamored with us for no reason except that we were strangers. I had to reacclimatize myself to Chuuk’s interesting social nuances. In Pohnpei, locals couldn’t care less to see mehnwai walking down the street. In Chuuk, everyone wants a piece of you. They spot you from miles away: from deep in the jungle, to behind their windows and doors, to atop large hills and cliffs looking down at you. You hear shouts and screams and salutations from all corners of your path, and you reply, sometimes without ever seeing the person calling out to you. Chuuk is very odd in that way, and sometimes annoyingly so. Seeing a boy and girl walking together elicits certain responses and reactions, some of which are not too pleasant, others which are downright rude. It’s often difficult NOT to think to yourself “don’t you people have anything better to do? Stop staring at us, stop whistling at us, get off your asses and get a job!” It’s hard to understand the intrigue and the strangeness that surrounds you as outsiders; it’s something I *kind of* got used to, but disregarded as soon as I left. I appreciate anonymity more than ever before and can better understand celebrities’ hatred of the paparazzi. Sometimes I like it, such as when little kids run up to me and follow me and want to touch me and get their picture taken with me. Other times, I hate it and wish desperately for privacy and the feeling of being back in NYC where no one cares who you are, what you’re doing, who you’re with, or where you’re going.

Tom and I eventually came across a special spot of ours; a little opening in the jungle which signified the near end of the first half of the hike, and was where we always stopped for water and to admire the views. This time though, as we continued on from there, we quickly realized we had lost the path. There had been significant overgrowth, and we couldn’t find where we were supposed to go next. Tom left me to go search for an alternate path and after a while of waiting, I started worrying he had forgotten where I was. I started calling out to him, and to my surprise, there was a reply, but not from him. A Sapukian man below us, realizing we were lost, gave us directions of how to get down to him. He was a scraggly character, with wild hair and a giant machete with which he used to chop a path for us through the dense jungle. He made us stop for a few minutes while he adeptly scrambled up a tree and cut down four coconuts – two for us to drink then, and two to take home. Chuuk is probably one of the few places I would follow such a man with such a knife through an unfamiliar part of an overgrown jungle, but as with most Chuukese I’ve met, he was just friendly and eager to help us. He led us to a familiar place at the beginning of Sapuk and I thanked him copiously, mostly for the coconuts since I had been dying of thirst. A few minutes later, we found ourselves walking through someone’s property, which we have done a hundred times before. The people know us (somewhat) from all the times we have trekked through. One of them, a graduate from Xavier, once stopped us and made us drink coconuts with him for a while before we headed on. This time, though, as we made our way across the property and excused ourselves for doing so, we heard a woman screaming “STOP STOP STOP!” I had no idea what happened, but in a flash, I felt teeth sink into my leg and screamed in fright and shock. This was an unusual attack: most often, dogs will bark and snarl before biting. I didn’t see the animal before or even after it bit – it was there and gone in the blink of an eye. I looked down at my leg and saw nothing but the small indentation of teeth. Members of the family ran over to me. One of the men asked “It bite you?” I nodded, my whole body shaking. “Ifa?” he asked and I pointed to the wound in my calf which was quickly starting to bruise and from which blood was beginning to run steadily. “oohhhhh” was the collective response. One of the women brought over a bottle of kerosene which I declined, not feeling comfortable about having lighter fluid poured over my skin. Another man tied a towel around the wound like a tourniquet. They asked if I felt ok to go home. I was waiting for an apology. “Amusana…” I tried, looking embarrassed. “Noooo no! Amusana tipis… that dog, he’s crazy.” It wasn’t as genuine an apology as I would have expected, but I suppose it’s hard to apologize for a dog that’s realistically just doing its job, especially considering we were technically trespassing. We walked off (maybe “gimped” is a better word). My body was still shaking, mostly just out of shock. The bite itself didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. The dog bit into the muscle which just felt tense and strained. Tom poured coconut water over it which is supposed to be some kind of healing agent. The rest of the path back was surprisingly very flooded. I’m not sure what has changed about the island, but the water levels were very different and very difficult to bypass. We made it back though, in one piece, and I was more than ready for a Thanksgiving meal.

Interestingly, this day of togetherness was really what solidified my status as an outsider at Xavier. After showering and tending to my dog bite, I walked out into the kitchen where everyone was in a cooking frenzy. This was very different from last year’s preparation which was largely not done by the faculty. I kind of wanted to help, especially since I love cooking, but everyone already had their place and knew their role. Tom and I planned to make brownies, mostly for Pisar, but thought as long as people were cooking and the oven was on, we might as well make them early so they could be enjoyed for Thanksgiving. This offer was quickly met with frustration (“you’ll be in the kitchen too?” “… But we’re already making brownies!!!”) so we did it alone on the porch. Afterwards, while sitting outside watching the view and listening to the clanking and crashing of pots and pans, I realized that this was a perfect example for how I was feeling about this experience more broadly. Replaced, displaced, and in some ways re-created. My place here was no longer as a participant. Even though I was a veteran, I felt more like a newcomer, unacquainted with the new patterns, new routines, and new personalities. There were new jokes, new stories, new experiences that I was not a part of. Unlike last year where I was integral and essential to the group effort, this year I was just a bystander watching it all take place. As the week progressed, I began to feel more and more like my time and purpose there had passed, as though this was a new and completely separate era of Xavier. I belonged in that time and that space, and no amount of effort or money spent returning again and again would be able to restore that world. Maybe I thought my particular knowledge, perspective, and experience would be much more valued, or that I would somehow be able to return to my old roles, or at least be able to feel included and welcomed in the way that I had when I first arrived last August. But a whole new herd of people ushered in entirely new viewpoints and ways of doing things. I wondered if I had ever been like that: still relatively brand new, but with already completely formed ideas and opinions about my situation; still figuring it all out and yet so seemingly certain. I’m sure of it.

The meal itself was delicious, even though I took far too much food. There was turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, seafood pasta, stuffing, rice, coconuts, ice cream, cake, brownies (too many?), and cookies. Everyone was finished surprisingly fast. I remember last year we sat talking for hours. People were finished and leaving the table by 7:00 after starting at 6:30. The dynamic was so drastically different; the community so much more fragmented. It forced me to think about the drama at the end of last year and if I could have withstood that for the entirety of my time. I think the answer is decidedly no.

FRIDAY: I woke up early, anticipating our potential trip to Pisar. Later Thursday afternoon after sifting through some address books, Tom found the correct version of Dickenson’s cell number and we made concrete plans. Renting the island would only cost us $50. We asked the workers to buy us gas (a more expensive investment: $120 apiece) and planned to set out around 1pm. Tom and I spent the morning cooking: I brought taco spices, shredded cheese, and tortillas from Pohnpei, so we cooked some meat, and put it on ice to reheat later. We made pasta salad and tuna salad and set aside some wine, brownies, and chips. After all this, and collecting other necessary materials (a lantern, sheets, a machete, sun block, etc.) we waited. And waited. And waited. I was getting more and more visibly impatient with each passing hour. The driver did not arrive with our gas. The maintenance worker that was meant to take us out on the boat was occupied with fixing one of the buses. Paired with some nasty weather, I was beginning to feel like the trip would be hopeless. Finally, we were told that we would leave at 3:30. I felt more relieved, but still annoyed that we wouldn’t get to the island until a little before sunset. I settled down once I was finally seated in the boat, ready to go. I was ready, SO ready for a night on a quiet, beautiful, deserted island… and then…

The boat ride. I have never in my life experienced anything so horrendously unpleasant, and I hope I never have to again. The water was rough, probably too rough to safely navigate. Plus, the driver cut through the choppy waves like the leader of a drug cartel speeds across the border. There were no seats, only jagged wooden blanks on the floor of the boat which I sat on, my back propped up painfully against the side. I watched the two young boys that had come along to help steer. One stood at the front of the boat (stood?! Impossible...) and the other sat motionless and cross-legged behind me, showing no sign of pain or unease. Meanwhile, Tom and I were jostled to and fro, slamming against the sides of the boat. If you have never been on a boat ride like this, it isn’t just a rocky, wavy feeling. It isn’t just a problem of seasickness. It feels as though you are launching into the air and then slamming down on a massive rock with every wave the boat encounters. Each time, my head and chest felt like they were plummeting to the floor, my elbows and the bottom part of my spine smacking violently against the wall of the vessel. About half way in, I started to cry beneath my sunglasses. I could already see bruises forming all along both my arms. My fingers were white and sore and splintered from gripping the wooden planks beneath me for some kind of support. When I finally saw the crooked palm tree at the edge of Pisar over an hour later, I thought I had never witnessed such a beautiful sight in the whole of my life.

We got to the island around 5. I was so sore from the boat ride all I wanted to do was sit on the beach. The sun was setting, and for once I was fully able to take in my surroundings. Pisar is a breathtaking, but tiny island on the edge of Chuuk lagoon’s reef. It was such an amazing and surreal feeling to be completely alone (except for the “security guards” who mostly stayed in their small house on one side of the island). The sand is almost purely white, mostly made from pieces of bleached coral, and the water is a glassy, crystal blue. Hammocks hang from the various coconut trees that dot the island’s small landscape, and hermit crabs rule the shore. I found so many gorgeous shells, but they were all inhabited by some sleepy sea creature. I did not feel right displacing them from their little habitats for the simple prize of a pretty shell, and I was rewarded later by finding a really neat piece of black coral which I have never seen (despite the small island off the coast of Pohnpei aptly named “Black Coral”). I’ve described Pisar before I think, so just to quickly recap: there is a small house with a few rooms and an indoor toilet and bucket shower (more of a luxury than you might imagine). There is no electricity and no cell service and only a small, outdoor fireplace for cooking if you happen to be so ambitious. As soon as we got there, Tom climbed a tree and got some coconuts which we drank on the beach watching the sun set behind a storm cloud that thankfully missed our vulnerable, private island. We set out to make a fire with which to reheat our taco meat, and were surprisingly successful (by “we” I mean Tom – my contribution consisted of sitting nearby, avoiding the smoke and offering pointless, ignorant suggestions). The tacos were delicious and probably could have only been enhanced had we been able to find sour cream, or had the lettuce we took from the Xavier fridge actually been fresh. Since we had limited transport space, and since there were no wine glasses to begin with, we drank my cheap Charles Shaw white straight out of the bottle. After eating and washing our dishes in the ocean like the cavemen we were, Tom and I sat on the beach and looked up at the incredible stars. It was a tremendous sight, and I was thankful for it especially since the last time I had been on Pisar, it had been cloudy and rainy at night. It’s probably difficult for most people I know to imagine the kind of depth you can perceive in the night sky when there are no lights around for miles and miles and miles. It’s not even anything like I’ve witnessed in the far recesses of rural NY where there are still distant city lights and car beams polluting the clarity of the atmosphere. It made me feel quite small, especially on an island as tiny as Pisar, but also part of something far larger and more magnificent.

Sleep was not so easy. The mattresses had bed bugs, and the wind was cold and harsh. There was no rain thankfully, but it got so cold that eventually I had to move into one of the small, stuffy, roach-ridden bedrooms. I wanted to get up for sunrise, but because the room was dark and windowless, I had no way of waking up in time for it. I lugged myself out of bed around 8, and Tom and I sat on the beach watching the gray post-dawn skies recede into a sunny haze. The waves around the reef were strong and loud and the clouds burned off in the mid-morning heat. We ate breakfast (honey bunches of oats and boxed milk) and went for an early snorkel. I had actually never snorkeled far off the shore of Pisar, but today I felt unsatisfied with the seaweed and little sea flowers right off the beach, so I ventured a little farther. We saw some really beautiful, exotic-looking fish and outstandingly bright coral. We saw a couple huge, neon-blue starfish (that I always want to pick up but I’m afraid to) and a couple airy, listless jellies. We saw a long, thin flashy fish dart through a school of tiny peers and eat one in the blink of an eye. The current was quite strong, and after my recent run-in with fire coral on Ant, I was concerned about going any deeper because the coral expanded out into great forests of itself with nearly no open space to rest among it. Tom and I fought the wall of ocean to get back to our island. After roasting out in the sun a bit, we took a short water-walk to a nearby island (maybe too strong a word – it’s really just a tiny plot of land that could maybe house one coconut tree if its earth actually had the stamina). But on this miniscule piece of land, there are always really unique shells and stones (it is where I found my piece of black coral). We tried to cross over the island and make it to the reef, but it began to rain and the water was strong so we only got about half way. I love walking out to the reef. The water becomes shallow and all you can see are rocks and large slices of coral peeking out through the surface, shiny and pale as bone. The water is gray and calm, and the sun beats down on it making it look like an empty, wet wasteland. Partially what makes it so strange is that the waves in the distance crash back into the water rather than on a beach, so it really seems as though you have reached the edge of the earth. You can’t see much beyond the waves, and it feels like you are an ancient explorer finally deciding the world is indeed flat as you come to the very end of the ocean and the last corner of the world. We watched it for just a little bit, but turned back as storm clouds menacingly approached. They ended up passing over us without the slightest interruption, as we ended up back on Pisar eating our lunch of tuna salad.

Afterwards, the day was a blur of different, not-so-strenuous activities such as floating around in the strikingly clear water, sunbathing, and mostly resting in one of the many generously spacious hammocks, catching up on the sleep I didn’t have much of the previous night. We went on a coconut binge, and I played around with the hermit crabs and the big, whiny orange cat that oddly enough lives on the island. The worker and his young helpers came to pick us up around 4:30 in the afternoon. I sat in a different position in the boat, and it was a better, but still bumpy ride home.

That night some of the volunteers went downtown to say goodbye to one of the Peace Corps, but Tom and I weren’t back in time to make the ride. We showered, ate dinner, and hung out on the roof and porch with the remaining staff. It was nice to get to know some of the people better, but I was exhausted and called it a relatively early night (midnight). I was planning a rather big finish on my last day ever in Chuuk.

SUNDAY: Tom and I always made brunch together Sunday mornings, and he had planned a picnic for us to go up to the water tower. But I hadn’t yet gotten a chance to see the Saram volunteers, and I really wanted to do that before leaving on Monday. There were no rides going down (Sunday is usually a sparse day for them) so Tom and I did what we had so often done before when bored on the weekends at Xavier: attempt the long, hot, rocky walk downtown. It was nice to see familiar spots on foot, and run into some interesting characters, but the novelty soon wore off and we hoped for someone to give us a ride. Thankfully when we reached Tunuk, we saw a familiar face drive up in a flatbed – Rufina, who had been one of the people I really wanted to see at Xavier, had been at a funeral all week, but was now just by chance driving past. She picked us up and drove us down to Lei Side restaurant where we got some famous Chuuk pizza. Afterwards, we walked the rest of the way to Saram where I had a great time reconnecting with Caroline and Jessica and meeting the new JVIs. I had also been told that this is where my cat, Oreo, got exiled to at the beginning of the year. I searched for her tirelessly, calling her name and peering in tiny, hidden spots. Chuukese people stared at me curiously, wondering what the hell I was doing, but I didn’t care. I wanted to find her so badly and say a final goodbye to one of my closest friends. Sadly, she was nowhere to be found. I was told she was in the late stages of pregnancy and was probably resting lazily, and also that she found a very good home with the nuns who gave her a little pink collar and only feed her cooked fish. It was good to hear she is taking after her mother (a little spoiled brat!), but I was really most thankful that she has a good home. It hurt me that I couldn’t find her – I had maybe expected her to intuitively sense my arrival and bound up to Xavier looking for me – but I tried to remember that I should really just be grateful that in a place where animals are so often neglected and mistreated, my cat found a loving, warm home with people who care for her just as she cared for me.

We were thankfully able to catch a random Xavier ride back up, eliminating the need to walk most of the way. I spent my last night watching movies on my computer and eating leftover pizza. I knew I would have to get to sleep as early I could since Xavier’s vehicle policy has never been very conducive to the schedules of those who often need them most, and I would have to wake up at 4:30 am to catch the workers’ ride downtown for a 10:20 am flight. A brutal and unappealing notion at best, I begrudgingly accepted the fact that I wouldn’t get another morning at Xavier, and wouldn’t get to say goodbye to any students or many of the teachers. I wrote a little note on the communal white board instead, and hoped that my limited time and presence there would somehow be appreciated.

While the power was out, I went up to the Xavier roof for the last time. The stars were not as fantastic as they had been on Pisar, but they were still an incredible sight to behold. I saw a few shooting stars, one that moved slow and brightly across the entire span of my vision. I tried to condense the whole of my experiences in Micronesia into one solitary instance of thought, but it was nearly impossible. I could only vaguely pass by the tips of certain emotional icebergs: happiness, joy, peace, anger, sadness, sickness, betrayal, comfort, discomfort, hate, and love. They flashed before my eyes, scratched the surface of my brain, and then floated uncertainly onward into a new and distant ocean. Most of my memories have been twisted and expanded; idealized and vandalized, overly-exaggerated or densely concentrated. I don’t remember most things, events, or people as they really were, but rather how they affected me; how they made me feel and how they either inspired or deflated my spirit. As I looked up at the endless landscape of stars, I realized I was staring into the past: light that was generated hundreds or thousands of years before just now reaching my eyes. Maybe that’s how I will come to truly learn from my experiences here. Years later, maybe I will finally see the light and accept a more unadulterated version of the truth. It is only when all of these things have passed completely that I will be able to value their immense influence and worth. Staring up at these millions of little lights above me, I felt minute and insignificant. I am not one who sees such a grand portrait and thinks to myself how wonderful it is that in such a vast universe I should have some greater purpose that will last until the end of time. Instead I see it, and I feel the full affront of my purposelessness. I am just one small thing amidst countless big things. I am an infinitesimal particle within a microscopic atom constituting one single grain of sand on an endless and eternal shore. Sometimes, this realization bothers me, because as humans we have difficulty forgoing our egos and recognizing that we are not as important as we make ourselves out to be. Other times, like up there on the roof last Sunday night, it gives me a sense of true peace because I’m not so sure I want to have that kind of influence over the workings of the universe. I would rather simply just exist within it, taking and giving what I can, and creating my own purpose for the short and fleeting time I have been so graciously granted. Because regardless of my insignificance, I am still not insignificant. I feel as though I am my own universe, and as small as I am, still somehow infinite within myself. I am my own collection of stars, my own endless stretch of personal, private galaxies, and there are many worlds which turn within me.

Kamadipw en Wahu

The title of this blog is somewhat of a misnomer. This past Saturday, I attended a Kamadipw en Kosap for the village of Wone in Kitti – about an hour’s drive from Kolonia. A brief, necessary, and overdo geography lesson: Pohnpei is broken up into five kingdoms, or municipalities. Starting in the north and going westward, there is Kolonia, the urbanized northern shore and the location of my residence and MicSem; Sokehs, where the FSM capital of Palikir is located; Kitti on the southern shore; Madolenihmw on the eastern shore and home to the Nan Madol ruins; the tiny kingdom of U, home to my favorite Village Hotel; and finally Nett, which borders Kolonia. Within each municipality, there are several different villages, each with their own chief (answerable to the “king” or nahnmwarki of each municipality). Some villages in Kitti include Enipein Powe and Enipein Pah (where I visited the sakao markets with Greg and his host family), Salapwuk, Pwok, Rohi, and Wone. Wone is one of the most southern points on the main island, and adjacent to the Sei Botanical Garden and pepper farm. A Kamadipw en Wahu (pronounced like “wow” hence the blog title!) is a celebration of an entire kingdom, such as Kitti, for the nahnmwarki.

Unfortunately I was not able to see this particular celebration, which happened a few weeks ago, and was evidently an expansive, wild party. A Kamadipw en Kosap is a celebration for only one village (in this case, Wone) honoring the chief of that village. During a Kamadipw, villagers bring gift upon gift as an offering to the chief. I was surprised to learn that the chief does not keep these things for himself: he distributes them among the villagers. It might seem redundant to offer back what was just given, but it does make sense. Apart from these social gestures of respect and give and take, there is also a sense of equalization among the villagers, and (I’m only guessing on this actually from the vague explanations I was offered) I think the people are given back mostly what they did not give. For instance, if you brought a ton of yams, you might receive fruit or meat instead in order to bring balance to your home and family.

I don’t know anyone in Wone. I heard about the Kamadipw from my friend Ryan, a mehnwai, who attends some classes at College of Micronesia. His classmate Travis is from this village and invited him to go along. I was subsequently invited as well and jumped at the chance to see such a cultural display since I probably won’t get to in the next three weeks before I leave. We left around 9am and picked up some chips and soda on the way so as not to show up empty handed. It took about an hour to drive to Wone. We first went to Travis’ house – a very nice, extensive, shaded piece of land where everyone was preparing their offerings. I was introduced to his family, and Ryan and I were giving mar’mars to wear on our heads.
The site of the Kamadipw was right next to the Sei Botanical Gardens. Ryan and I had actually anticipated being late, but by the time we arrived with Travis’ family, people were only just beginning to set up. While waiting, I was introduced to the chief of a neighboring village and his brother. We talked for a while before I was invited (read: commanded) to sit down with other women on woven mat by the side of the road. It was then that I got to know one of Travis’ relatives, I think his aunt, whose name I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember. We were formally introduced, but since Micronesian names can be so unusual, and because I was already overwhelmed by my surroundings, I immediately forgot it. She was an older woman who was very outgoing and spoke decent English. Her dry sense of humor reminded me of my grandmother, and I liked her instantly. For a while, she described to me the Kamadipw en Wahu that had happened a few weeks ago. She said there were Peace Corps there who seemed very timid, but once the music started, they danced all night. Micronesians love when outsiders throw themselves into their culture unafraid. She laughed as she told me, “They were really Pohnpeian then! They danced like us; real Pohnpeian.” She went on to say how, in her younger days, she could really cut a rug herself. Now she was old, and her “rock feet” would not let her move much. “One dance, and I think I am finished because my legs tell me ‘no more,’” she said sadly. She looked at me brightly, almost with the optimism that if I danced, she would also somehow be able to dance. She told me again about the Peace Corps and their experiences, trying to drive home the point, it seemed, that dancing was ok to do even for an outsider. “Today you dance with us,” she said to me, finally getting down to business. It was not really a request.

The center of attention for me that day was Travis’ little sister, LaLisa. She was a restless five year old sitting on the mat with us, occasionally running through our legs and crawling over us. Like most children here, she was fascinated with my presence, and before she was comfortable with me, only stared silently with huge, blank eyes. I smiled in return, and she would look away and giggle. She tested the waters with me. At first she sat far away on the other side of the mat, and then inched herself closer. She sat in her aunt’s lap and then finally right between us. She got up and went behind me, very lightly touching my back and my hair to see if I would react. When I didn’t, she knew it was ok to touch me and sat next to me again, holding my arm. The aunt thought it was so comical how she was acting towards me. “Her name is Lydia,” she said in Pohnpeian; LaLisa did not speak English. She just continued to stare. A few minutes later, while she was following me around, holding her aunt’s oversized purse to imitate me, her aunt laughed again and said in Pohnpeian, “LaLisa, do you know her name? What’s the name of this girl you like?” LaLisa looked at me for a few seconds before replying, “”Mehnwai,” which of course just simply means “white person.”

We finally picked up the mat and our gifts and headed in towards the celebration, following a big flatbed truck, honking persistently and carrying a large umbrella and some tables. I watched as all the people began lugging their offerings behind them – huge sakao plants, multiple bundles of yams, buckets and tubs full of food, even some cleaning supplies and clothing. My least favorite, unsurprisingly, were the pigs. They were still alive when they were brought, bound by the hooves to a long stick. It was so heart wrenching to see them like that, trapped and silent. One particular memory that has been blazed into my brain is that of one of the small boys taking a big pointed stick and thrusting it into one of the pigs who squealed horrifically. When I looked, I saw no blood, so the child might not have actually pierced it, but I was still shocked and saddened by the cruelty of such a young child. I realized later that he was emulating what he saw: slaughtering pigs is ultimately done by stabbing them through the heart, but the brutality of it didn’t seem lessened. I watched men kick the pigs as they walked by them, and I was confused why you would do this to a quiet, obedient animal already tied up. As I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, I don’t think I would ever ask Micronesians to convert to vegetarianism, but one thing I would change is their treatment of animals, which mostly live their entire lives under appalling conditions. My personal belief is that culture is not an excuse for cruelty: for me, saying that it’s ok to torture or inflict purposeful pain on an animal because its “cultural” would be the same as saying that torturing people is ok because it’s cultural. I think even the most sensitive cultural relativists would take issue with that. It might be a communal behavior, but that’s unfortunately not a sufficient justification. I think it’s true hypocrisy that many people would find it unobjectionable to encourage (or even accept) the forcing of Christianity down people’s throats, or the enabling a harmful economic system, but deem protection of animals as “culturally insensitive.” I found to be true last year as well when I was told (by other Westerners) that I shouldn’t wear pants or basketball shorts into town because it was culturally inappropriate. Besides the fact that this is a half truth at best, as time wore on I became wary of people who were everyday attempting to quell the “superstition” of traditional religion while promoting their own and their dramatically biased views of culture. When I finally talked to Chuukese women about it, most notably the woman in charge of the Chuuk Women’s Council of which I became involved second semester, she explained to me that pants were not culturally insensitive: that there is a difference between culture and convention. The difference is a fine line, but it exists, and it is crucial. She said that wearing skirts or shorts above the knee is inappropriate for anyone, not only women, but that pants themselves are not the issue. She said she usually wore pants, and was one of the first women on Weno to do so habitually. She got a lot of backlash for it, which she described as “men not liking women in pants… that’s not a good enough reason for me, sorry.” I remember those words well, because they rang so true with me. From then on, I often wore pants, both because I wanted to, and because I don’t believe that any oppression, no matter how small, is justifiable anywhere.

Thankfully, I only saw one pig being slaughtered. I heard several more, but they were out of my line of vision. We set down our gifts, and Ryan and I were given lawn chairs to sit on while the rest of the family sat on the ground. LaLisa spent her time running around me in circles or simply holding onto the arm of the chair looking up at me. I tried to talk to her, but for most of the time she remained perfectly still. Later on, she became a loquacious little thing, rambling on and on while ignoring the fact that I could obviously not understand her. I could tell she was asking me questions, and she thought it was funny when I shrugged my shoulders apologetically and told her that I only speak English. She would giggle and then begin an entirely new conversation full of, I’m guessing, information, stories, gossip, and more and more questions.

When the celebration first began, there was loud music coming from the speakers under the umbrella. Men, women, and children leapt at the opportunity to dance and of course, even the smallest children and the most elderly women danced better and with more energy than I would ever be able to. There were a few very small children who had very obviously just learned to walk a short time ago, still wobbly on their legs, who were moving their bodies enthusiastically to the music, laughing whenever their families encouraged them. At the beginning of the second song, Travis’ aunt took me and Ryan by our hands and led us to the “dance floor” without any questions asked, and no objections given. When we started dancing, the children backed away immediately and stood open-mouthed, staring at the awkward, visibly uncoordinated white people. It was fun though, and while most of the Pohnpeians stopped dancing to watch us, a few felt comfortable enough to join in. When the music ended, Travis’ aunt was finished. That had been her one dance. She grabbed my hand and held it as we walked back to our seats. “Thank you, thank you for dancing with me,” she said, smiling widely, “I wish I could do more. I’m too old now.” She laughed at this, but I couldn’t tell if it honestly amused her, or if she was embarrassed. “I don’t know, I think you had some pretty good moves out there,” I said. She patted my back and half-laughed, half-coughed. “You should have seen me when I was younger!”

The music did not continue for very long, and the celebration got increasingly “more Micronesian” – people mostly sitting around, quietly talking. A line formed with everyone holding their gifts and bringing them to the chief. The distribution happened quickly afterwards – Ryan and I were both given a tub of food each (ramen, macaroni salad, banana, taro, juice boxes, etc.) and Styrofoam containers were handed out to everyone as a small lunch. I thought the lack of music meant the power had gone out, but Ryan told me later that there are some points during the celebrations that there should be no obtrusive noises. Apparently, while the gifts were being offered and redistributed, there were speeches and stories being told under a small tent. Ryan and I got up to explore a little, and could hear a bit of these stories, but couldn’t understand anything. We also checked out the uhm, a specific kind of outdoor oven under a thatched hut. While most cooking is traditionally a woman’s obligation, men will use the uhm for roasting animals like pigs and dogs. We saw them carry in the slaughtered pigs one by one, and watched as they cut them up and took them apart to be cooked and given away.

I asked Travis if there was a particular reason for this Kamadipw, besides the honoring of the chief. He said the Kamadipws are seasonal celebrations; this one for yams and their harvest. He told me that there is a similar celebration for every local vegetable: taro, yam, breadfruit, etc. (a list that to my surprise does not include banana as they are apparently not a native species!) I was under the impression that the Kamadipw en Kosap happens only once a year, and I am still fuzzy on this point since Travis was unclear about it, but it seems instead like it happens several times a year for each new harvest. Travis said that the people do not eat these vegetables until the Kamadipw has taken place.

I took about 70 pictures during the course of the day, many of which were of children. LaLisa loved my camera, but also seemed to be afraid of it. When it was in my lap, she would poke at it curiously. I would lift it to take her picture and she would look confused and shy, but laughed and clapped her hands when I showed her the photos of herself. I took several pictures of young children playing together and little boys walking arm and arm. Even though I should be used to it by now, it still really intrigues me how everyone is related to everyone else. Every few minutes, Travis’ aunt would tap my shoulder and say something like, “See that woman Lydia? That is my mother in law. That one is my sister. That one is my promise-sister. That one is my cousin’s first wife. That one is my brother’s youngest sister-in-law…” and so on. Even if they are not *actually* related (meaning, by blood) any small connection at all constitutes them as family members. I thought it was funny that these connections had to be pointed out to me one by one, and was fascinated that they can remember all of them. I had a conversation about a month ago with a sassy Pohnpeian woman, a Chief Justice, who was appalled by the fact that the younger generations do not know their own family. She said something to the effect of: “These young ones! They will walk down the street and not even recognize their third cousin! Can you believe that??” Yes, I responded, I could believe that since I wouldn’t know my third cousin from a hole in the ground, even if we had been previously introduced. The woman brushed me off. “Yeah, but you’re mehnwai. You don’t count.”

I also took some pictures of a custom I found very interesting, in a disturbing sort of way. After most of the pigs had been cut up, I witnessed some young children running around with the raw organs. One little boy, a charmer for sure, ran up to me thinking I would be impressed that he had been given the heart of one of the animals. He thrust it in my face and my immediate response was to take a picture. He wasn’t sure what to make of this reaction, but his friend, another young boy holding a liver, patted his shoulder encouragingly and gave him a thumbs up as if to say “Dude, you just blew her mind!” I noticed the kids playing with them, throwing them back and forth to each other, or carrying them around triumphantly on sticks. I asked Travis why they were doing this, and he shrugged, answering the adults just give them the organs to play with. “They’ll barbecue and eat them later,” he said. “The kids?!” I asked. He nodded, surprised that I was so surprised. “We don’t do that back in the States,” I said, explaining my shock. He shook his head and laughed. Silly mehnwai.

After a while, the novelty of the day wore off. People just continued to sit and talk while pigs roasted and sakao was being prepared. Travis’ aunt looked at me at various points saying, “Lydia you’re bored?” I assured her that no, I was just relaxed and observing. “You’re bored,” she insisted; adding sadly, “it’s because there is no music!” I couldn’t disagree. I had definitely expected more liveliness.
Around 3pm, after five hours had passed, Ryan and I decided to head home. This was not well received by Travis’ family, who argued that we had to stay until the drinking of sakao. Travis warned that this would not be until well after sunset, and Ryan and I had no intention of staying that long. We accepted the compromise of dancing to one more song if they would play music again. This time, more children joined in, happily hopping around us. Travis’ family clapped and laughed – I couldn’t tell if it was because we were getting so local, or because we were so awful at it, but either way they seemed to enjoy themselves. I said goodbye and kalangan to Travis and his family. His aunt firmly grabbed my hand. “When do you come back?” she asked. I had told her earlier that I was leaving for New York in three weeks. “When do we see you before you go?”
I didn’t know how to respond. “I… will try to come back and visit,” I said as sincerely as I could. She looked at me grimly and skeptically. “Yes. When?” “Maybe… maybe next weekend?” I offered, “I’m sorry… I don’t know right now.” She seemed to accept this answer and nodded solemnly. “Well, you come back and visit. You will stay with us. You will call us soon. Maybe Ryan will know our phone from Travis.” None of these were offers or even invitations, but more like orders. I nodded and smiled, and thanked them again, feeling immensely guilty that as much as I would like to, I probably will not make it back to Wone before I leave. I didn’t want to offend them, or have them think that I didn’t appreciate the efforts they put into my unannounced visit, and I didn’t want to lie to them either. I just don’t have enough time to do everything and I know that declining their invitations outright would be incredibly rude. All I can do is wait and see what arises in the next few weeks. There might be an opportunity yet that I just don’t perceive right now. I’ve noticed that’s how things usually happen here.

While we were preparing to leave (a long and drawn out process of goodbye and thank you over and over), I saw LaLisa being carried off by her mother; she was probably exhausted and sick of the sun. She looked like a tiny, weary rag doll, limply resting on another body. From over the shoulder of her mother, she waved to me listlessly and smiled. “Byebye, Mehnwai. Byebye.”

Flu-Induced Reflections, and Reductions

‘Lehlie. I think for me, these past 8 or 9 days will be known as the “lost week” since I was stricken with and completely incapacitated by a horrible case of something… I’m still unsure what it was. I was given antibiotics for a sinus infection, but I’m almost positive it was the flu, which has been going around. Except for one instance of food poisoning, I was never sick in Chuuk, and haven’t been this sick in a long time. Intense pressure in my face, fevers, muscle soreness, joint pain, coughing, sneezing, dizziness, vertigo, fatigue… I had it all. I was almost worried at first it was Dengue Fever, especially when I started having pain everywhere in my body, but it mostly seems to have cleared up now (except for a persistent cough).

I had very little to do while I was sick. I mostly lied in bed, trying to induce fitful sleeps with the help of Nyquil. My fevers were made worse by the fact that we kept losing power and so I was stuck in my stuffy room with no fan and no breeze. When there was power, I often stole away to Greg’s office which has air conditioning and a comfy chair. There with my box of tissues and endless cups of green tea, I languished; nothing to do but watch the few movies I brought with me that I’ve seen a million times. The nights were worse because I oscillated between intense fevers and intense chills. Of course, for the few days that I was really sick, the weather was very humid and rainy, meaning that our water wasn’t exposed to enough sun to be adequately heated. For showers, I boiled three pots of water at once, pouring them into a wash basin and reverted back to my bucket showering days on Tonoas.

During this time of being completely sedentary, I was also left to do some thinking and reflecting on my time here. Whenever I think about Chuuk, I’m left only with the most peaceful and happy moments of my year, although I know I didn’t always feel peaceful or happy. In fact, when I think about the turmoil I experienced, especially second semester, it seems impossible that I ever felt content. For all the service I offered, I know I was not adequately appreciated by certain administration, and when I consider the reasons that there was so much conflict, it confuses me and makes me feel angry and taken advantage of. In the middle of all these fretful memories, I decided to look back on some of the notes that the students wrote to me on their first semester final exams, which I typed out and saved to my computer. They are glowing, loving, generous words that both then and now restore faith in myself as a teacher. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I didn’t go to Chuuk to please my fellow faculty members, or anyone really except for the students that I was given so much more influence over than I ever could have imagined. All the drama and issues that I struggled through seem so trivial when I think about the immense positivity the students brought to me, and that I hopefully brought to them. Reading their comments and letters to me makes me tear up, as I do when I receive emails or chat messages from them telling me how they miss me and wish I was back with them. I would have liked the opportunity to change and improve; to do it all over again this year. But for all my efforts, for one reason and/or another, this couldn’t be realized. It continues to surprise me – the pettiness of people, even of myself. Chuuk still feels more like home than this place ever will – I guess you have to fall and rise, give and be given comfort, suffer and heal, betray, be betrayed, and forgive, and find both anger and solace before you can really call a place your home.

Pohnpei has been a drastically different experience. Although I have fully enjoyed my time here, it has always just felt like I’m only visiting… which I guess I am. My work never felt as stable and giving as teaching; nor did it feel as tiring, trying, or frustrating. Both at times felt simultaneously rewarding and futile, but without the give and take of everyday classroom life, my days here feel more empty and less substantial. I’ve made some good friends here, and absolutely do not feel the same waves of tension and controversy as I did living in that Mabuchi bubble, but for the most part, my community is myself. Maybe being left with my own thoughts for so much of the time is too overwhelming, because my thoughts are as neurotic and self-deprecating just as they are provocative, evocative, and deeply centered. I have never had the occasion to fully explore them and I don’t completely know how. There is a quote I like by Sartre which says “If you are lonely when you’re alone, you are in bad company.” I think there is so much truth to that, and as happy as I can be when I’m alone, I am also often uncomfortable and entertain feelings that I am missing out. I think I have found a semi-decent balance between getting out in the community and having time to myself. It’s important to be ok by yourself just to be.

Last night there was a raw and vivid storm around 2 in the morning lasting until 4, or maybe later. It was striking and powerful. Picture frames crashed off my dresser, doors slammed, and lightening flashed threateningly. The power went out, though I don’t remember when or for how long. The noise, or de-noise, of things shutting down woke me up, and for a moment, I was left in the darkness, heat, and wet wind, before faithfully falling asleep again. My dreams were just as surreal and lifelike as they always are, except I kept waking up to the same hungry wind and sharp, relentless rain. Probably not much time passed, but it felt like I was caught for ages between sleep and storm. I only mention it because it really felt like a microcosm of my time here – half my limbs grasping for what I dream and desire, and half wading through the tumult of reality; fighting for what I want to happen and what I want to feel while mining deep down in what seems like incomprehensible blackness; chipping away at steel obstacles. Maybe my expectations were or are too high. Or maybe I am too much an anomaly in a place and culture which entertains very different values and priorities than I do. Everyone keeps telling me to “just take the experience;” it is what it is, and it is what you make it. I have to remember that when I’m feeling disappointed or aggravated or somehow injured in any sense - at the end of it all, I am mostly here for myself.

Now I’m back at Coco Marina, sitting very peacefully with that same cat who, after a few hesitant movements, finally jumped up onto my lap and fell asleep even without the promise of food, of which I had none to give. It shocks me how content I can be with these incredibly simple things – there is no power, I don’t know where my car is, I’m still coughing like an avid, ancient smoker, but the warmth of a friendly animal, the smell of salt water, and the relief of fresh fog and a cool, consistent wind has set me at relative ease.

But I see another storm blowing in over Nett River and the rain will come soon.

More Hiking, and Halloween!

Happy Halloween! This is definitely my second favorite holiday (Christmas still takes the number 1 spot). It’s never the same when I’m not at home though. My favorite part about holidays is actually everything that precedes them, not necessarily the holidays themselves. For Christmas, that means going to a tree farm every year and cutting down the perfect Christmas tree, usually in a few feet of snow. While I was at NYU of course, it was the gingerbread and eggnog Starbucks lattes, the lights and Christmas specials in SoHo, the Rockefeller tree, and hot chocolate at Haut-Chocolat. For Halloween, I used to love going to a number of the famous Hudson Valley apple orchards and picking and eating right from the trees (even though I don’t even really like apples). Hayrides, pumpkin patches, haunted houses, and cider were all part of the experience, as was sifting through the pages of Party City’s Halloween catalog to pick out the perfect costume. Again, at NYU things were slightly different. I still took the train in to Poughkeepsie so I could go to the fall festivals and watch the leaves changing color, but college in New York City also meant finding the most appropriately-themed bar for Halloween night and of course taking part in the massive Halloween parade in the Village. Senior year started a whole new tradition of getting together with some friends and finding a collective, inventive theme to stick to for costumes. Since I’ve been in Micronesia the past two Halloweens, I’ve missed out but I hope to make it next year if it’s still going strong!

Halloween last year in Chuuk was very different. It was as hot as ever, and despite some signs in “big-name” stores around town, no one seemed to notice or care that the holiday was approaching. That weekend was the fall retreat for the JVIs, so it really just left the Australians, me, and a few others to find something to do. I think we just ended up making a few drinks and watching awful horror movies on the roof. I expected about the same for this year. I didn’t think Halloween would be a big deal here, but whenever you have an increased number of Americans during the month of October, you have a Halloween celebration. Being more exposed to Westerners in general has somewhat popularized it among the locals as well, at least in Kolonia. Had I known, I would have had someone from home send me a costume, but as it was, I needed to find something since I got the impression NOT dressing up would be a flagrant and unforgiveable crime against the mehnwai community. While costume shopping with a few friends, it was decided (how and by whom I can’t remember) that a World Teach friend of mine and I should go as Ramen and Kool-aid. To Americans who have not lived in the FSM, this pair makes no sense whatsoever, but I guess that’s kind of the beauty of a region-wide inside joke. Popular among the locals here is eating ramen mixed with kool-aid powder (or anything mixed with kool-aid really – in Chuuk they would sprinkle it on cheetos, pickled mangos, bread, chips, etc.), or simply mixing the ramen spices with kool-aid powder for an easier and more convenient snack. They like the combination of salty, spicy, and sweet, however absolutely repulsive and unhealthy it might seem to outsiders. Anyway, it’s well known here that ramen and kool-aid is a very popular match – a “traditional” PNI snack – so it was decided that this would be both funny and somehow island-themed, and we opted to go for it. Saturday, a few of us met up for costume making and… a ton of eating. I left the creative visions to JVI Sam since I’m not very gifted in the area of making life-size ramen bowls. I AM proud to admit it was originally my idea to use a wash basin as a “bowl” and it worked pretty well, though I can’t really take credit for the execution. We (read: mostly Sam) covered it in white paper and using a Choice bowl as a model, we decorated it appropriately. We attached it to my body with hilariously big pieces of fabric, put chopsticks in my hair, and voila. It was beautiful. Leora’s kool-aid costume was eye, nose, and mouth shaped pieces of black fabric pinned to a pink shirt and an island-themed pink lava-lava. We definitely made quite the couple. Nachos, pizza, cupcakes, and orange jello shots were served as we got ready and waited for the pre-party to begin. People brought blondies, dip, chips, juice and mixers, and of course plenty of alcohol. Other notable costume characters included: Minnie Mouse, a hippie, schoolgirls, the Pringles man, navy officers, Colonel Sanders (with an actual bucket of fried chicken), hipsters, Wayne and Garth, witches, a Sarah Palin voodoo doll, Mario and Luigi, a soccer player, and a box from Yemen to Chicago. I was really surprised at the ingenuity of the costumes. Without a Halloween store, and any real decent clothing shops at all, I thought it would be super difficult for people to come up with ideas, but everyone looked really fantastic. Creativity shines through in the absence of all the materials we take for granted!

After the pre-party, we all drove over to the Rusty Anchor – a popular ex-pat bar which I had actually never been to. It’s a very strange place at first. There is no sign – the only indicator is a big, rusted anchor hanging down the side of the building. When you walk in, you have to go down some stairs and through empty corridors… apparently it was going to be or is going to be a hotel, so there are some pretty fancy looking rooms and balconies, all of which are half-finished and completely deserted. At the end of a long, white hallway is the actual bar which is a nice spot partially open to the outside and overlooking the water. I had a couple drinks and a free tequila shot and mixed and mingled with the ghoulish crowd. It was a lot of fun and I was pleasantly surprised with the amount of people. I had been told by various friends that it would be really crowded, and I was anticipating something along the lines of NYC bar-on-Halloween crowded, but it was nothing like that. It was *maybe* small Poughkeepsie-bar-on-regular-Saturday-night crowded, but even that’s a stretch. I caught up with some people I haven’t seen in a few weeks, and met some new ones as well. Around 12:30 or 1, a few of us decided to head over to Flamingo, which I had never been to either. It’s a dance club and bar, and a nice one at that; maybe a little shady, but nothing like I had ever expected. I just drank water and got out all the dancing I had wanted to do after listening to Lady Gaga all day. We left around 2, right before a big fight apparently broke out, so I’m thankful for that. I’m also thankful I decided to leave my ramen costume in the car since Flamingo was mostly filled with local people who for the most part had no idea why the crazy white folks were all dressed up.

I woke up the next morning around 11 with a wicked headache, unsure if I was up for the scheduled hike for that day. I’ve skipped the last couple since the Pohnpei hiking blog had them labeled as “difficult” or “strenuous” and seeing as I am not even in shape enough to do the “easy-moderate” hikes very well, I decided it would be perilous for me to endeavor anything harder. The hike this past Sunday though was the Pondollap – more commonly referred to as Sokehs Ridge. I have been told this hike is a must for anyone visiting or living in Pohnpei, and since I leave in a few short weeks, I figured this might be my only chance to see it (the same reason why I allowed myself to spend money on Ant last weekend). I lugged my tired ass out of bed, rinsed off in a cold shower, and ate some cereal to try and energize before meeting the hiking group at 1, back where I started at the Rusty.
A few people were going on a more difficult hike to Nan Imwinsapw – Sokehs Rock (as shown in the third picture from the top). This hike is half-jungle half-rock climb. I could do the jungle part no problem, but climbing up a massive rock angled at 45 degrees using only a rope tied to a rusty pipe would not be so simple for me. I’m sure I COULD do it, but I don’t really like heights, and I am not a master hiker by any means. Combined with my splitting headache and dehydration from the night before, I was not up for that adventure.
The ridge is much easier, though if you’re like me, you wouldn’t really know it. Sokehs is its own separate island which can be reached from the main island via a bridge right outside Kolonia. We parked at the Rusty Anchor and carpooled out there – about 10 of us. For the first few minutes, we hiked along the paved road which led to a narrower dirt road. It was all uphill. We stopped at a scenic overlook for a few minutes before beginning our next obstacle: a very, VERY steep and rocky uphill trek. Molly and Rachael really zoomed ahead (the benefits of not having a car is you are forced to get in good walking condition) but most of us, especially those who had been up until the early morning drinking and dancing, were really huffing our way up. The end was not in sight for quite a while, and I kept asking myself why the HELL was I doing this?! I was ashamed that it wasn’t even a difficult hike, really just a walk, yet I was somewhere between asthma attack and death. I realized that all the unnecessary driving and eating of processed cheeses and timtams I do on a daily basis were really biting me back and laughing hard at how pathetic and useless they’ve made me. I made a deal with my body that I would get in better shape as soon as I could if it would just not allow itself to collapse in front of people 20 years older than me who were chatting away casually and sauntering over the rocks while I heaved out heavy, gasping breaths. When anyone said anything to me, my response was something like “uhhhaaaaahhhuuu” which roughly translates into “can’t you see I need to save my oxygen so that I don’t shrivel up on the side of the road like a rotting breadfruit?!” I was drenched in sweat and my legs started feeling like two cement blocks that were trying to root themselves to the ground while I was struggling to pull them up. When I finally saw the road *somewhat* level out up ahead, it was all I could do to continue my march. Thankfully I didn’t have enough air in my lungs to complain, or else my unlucky peers might have gotten a famous earful. When we finally did reach the top, and the ground eventually flattened out completely, I heard my body say, “see that wasn’t so bad!” while my memory jotted down this hike as one only to do again once I’ve acquired a sturdy moped. The scenery was beautiful though, and totally worth it. The foliage was gorgeous and slightly overgrown – there were beautiful pink and yellow flowers and some really awesome ancient-looking trees. The coolest sight though (for once) was actually man-made. We saw three WWII-era Japanese tanks and a few bunkers. They were massive and completely rusted out, but we could climb on a few of them. It was really amazing just to see something like that outside of a guarded historic site or museum – leftover relics still lost in their “natural” habitats; a sort of stoppage of time. After seeing the tanks, we continued another, much shorter uphill climb to the water tower which was an absolutely amazing view. We could see all of Kolonia, and the entire reef woven around the lagoon like a piece of white thread. The mountains were covered with dense fog and everything looked very peaceful and mystical. I wished we had brought up some kind of small picnic to eat and talk and watch the view expand over us. We took some pictures and enjoyed the fresh, cool, half-rainy breeze before heading back down again.
I didn’t make it to yoga because I was exhausted and STILL feeling dehydrated. Instead I took a shower, demolished a box of wheat thins, and waited anxiously for trick-or-treaters. Greg bought a whole bunch of fun sized candies which were waiting by the door. I thought being a houseful of white people, the Jesuit residence would be a popular place, but we really only had about 15-20 kids. I heard some other people had over 100, so that was kind of a bummer because I love trick or treaters! Some of the kids that came to our house didn’t have costumes, just plastic grocery store bags, and said things like “HAPPY HALLOWEEN, NOW TRICKS AND TREATS!” Clearly they don’t understand the holiday at all, they just know it’s an excuse to get free candy from the crazy mehnwai. I’m convinced they think that we always have an unlimited supply of candy on hand, and that this is the one night we are generous enough to give it out.

I’m a bit sore today (no surprise there), and we had no power again for the entire morning. Pohnpei is getting to be more and more like Chuuk in that respect – the power situation has been really shaky for the past two weeks. I’m hoping it improves, but my fierce island instincts tell me that it will only get worse as limited technology, tools, and maintenance fail to keep up with inevitable entropy. I’m looking forward to Wednesday though: FSM Independence Day and a great excuse for a latte date!