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!

3 Day Weekends on Pohnpei are Good For: Coffee, Karat, and Ant (for once, not the insect)

It was my first three day weekend on Pohnpei, and I have to admit it was pretty exciting. Friday was Brother Dave’s last day in Pohnpei – he had recently been reassigned to Yap – so everyone in the house and the JVIs went to The Village for dinner. It was even more delicious than last time since I wasn’t paying and could order whatever I wanted : ) I had scallops and some sour sop daiquiris, and since I had never had dessert there, also ordered bananas foster which, to my embarrassment was made at the table in a big show of flames and knife skills. It was fun to watch, but I probably wouldn’t have ordered it if I knew it would be such a big deal!

Saturday was quiet. Every weekend I mean to take a walk into town and look for souvenirs, but every Saturday has been rainy, and every Sunday I’ve been busy. This weekend was no exception. Saturday morning was pouring rain, which if nothing else, was a good excuse to sleep in. I decided on Sunday take a boat trip to an outer atoll, so I spent most of Saturday afternoon cooking for the next day and sipping Dunkin Donuts coffee that my mom sent to me in my last package. Cooking is one thing that really relaxes me. I seem to find a lot of peace chopping vegetables and stirring and frying or roasting. The smells and the colors, especially of fresh fruits, herbs, and vegetables have such an overwhelming ability to calm me down. So it wasn’t a total loss having to stay inside in front of the stove because of rain. I made stir fried vegetables (for once we had several different kinds – broccoli, eggplant, and cucumber) with couscous. I also noticed some Karat on the table that Fr. Julio brought us from some feast or another (he is always attending them and bringing back wonderful local foods). I had never had karat (pronounced KAR-rach) before, but I have heard Greg rave about. It’s a fruit; a square banana actually. The skin is dark yellow, green, and brown, making it look overripe, but the inside is different altogether. The fruit itself is not the whitish yellow of a regular banana, but a bright, neon color, like the skin of a lemon. It’s smooth and creamy, and really needs to be eaten with a spoon, like pudding. It’s traditionally baby food here which makes sense because of its texture, and also because it has a higher concentration of vitamins than most other fruits combined. I felt healthier just eating one of them, and one of them is enough for an entire meal. It was very sweet, with a tinge of bitterness, and very filling. I hope I can find more before I leave. I think they’re popular, but I haven’t seen them in any stores.

Later that day, Rachael and Molly came to read and do work, but were interrupted as usual but my chatterbox tendencies. Greg ordered a pizza, and the four of us had a quiet night of eating and wine on the porch. We discussed the new casino that will possibly be built in Madolenihmw, though this is a major point of contention. Most of the locals are either unaware of it or against it, but many people in the government are pushing for it for the profits it could potentially generate for them. It’s a sketchy situation though – there have been a lot of questions concerning the legitimacy of the business, and why it would be built out in Madolenihmw instead of Kolonia where all the real money and tourism is. Money laundering and drugs are major concerns, as are inevitable opportunities for prostitution and human trafficking. The idea is that locals would be prohibited from going inside; that it would only be open to foreigners, but how this would be enforced is questionable at best, disregarding the discrimination towards the islanders who would be forced to feel the consequences of such a place whether or not they were participating in it. This is something the Church has recently gotten very involved in, and for once I agree. Or, at the very least, I agree that the people should have the direct right to choose whether they want it or not, having been educated and made aware of the repercussions. Anyway, after these lighthearted conversations, we took a break from talking and watched The Motorcycle Diaries which I had never seen, and I went to bed a lot later than I intended to considering I had to wake up the next morning at 6:30.

Going to Ant was a spur of the moment decision for me. Usually when I get an email about $50 trip somewhere around here, I disregard it because that’s almost half my monthly stipend, and I’m trying my best to save as much as I can for Chuuk where I already have bookings lined up that need paying for. But I have wanted to go to an outer atoll since I got here, and as I read the email and looked at dates, the stark realization hit me that I only have four more weeks until I go to Chuuk, and then two more weeks after that before going home. I figured I might not get another opportunity to go, especially after my Chuukese vacation bleeds me dry of most of my funds. So I reserved a space on the boat, and tried not to consider the money for once.
We left the PCR dock at 8am (getting out of bed that early on a Sunday was enough of a journey for me). There were only eight of us, including Allois, the “captain,” if you will, of our tiny vessel. Apart from me, there was a white-haired man whom I had never met but who was very obviously a member of an older, but lively generation of surfer dudes. He had come to Pohnpei after several other trips around the world in search of some good surf, but that can be unpredictable here, and as it was he had no luck so far. He used words like “killer” to describe the sunny weather and the view of the island from afar and wore a very busy and colorful bathing suit. I was suddenly jealous of his extreme and active lifestyle. It’s a difficult thing to face, that a man older than your father leads a much more exhilarating day to day than you probably ever will. There was also a Brazilian couple who were just visiting. The woman looked about 40 and wore what I can only imagine is an acceptable and popular bikini style in Brazil, but in America would probably be considered the kind of thing you only *might* wear in extremely intimate situations, and only then, maybe without the lights on. For a 40 year old, she worked it well, but after a year of ankle-length skirts, it was a shocking sight to say the least. There was another young American woman who has been living here for a while and her friend from the States, and Whitney, one of the World Teach volunteers and the only other person I knew on the boat. We first sailed out past the reef where we saw some young guys trying to surf along the rather pitiful waves crashing on the coral. On our way out of the lagoon, some dolphins swam under and around our boat, jumping out of the water right in front of us. Had any of us been at the nose of the boat when they jumped, we probably could have reached out and touched them. We eventually crossed to the northern (I think?) pass and did some off-boat snorkeling which was absolutely incredible. The reef was beautiful, looking like an endless underwater jungle of greens, blues, yellows, and pinks. I saw a lot of neon colored fish – some puffer fish and bright, orange and white angelfish. The coral was gorgeous, but also dangerous, as I soon found out after accidently brushing up against some blood red, feathery stuff that looked like a pretty Christmas flower, but stung like wild. It was fire coral, which releases its agitating poison into the water, and unfortunately, I was close enough to feel the burn. It’s harmless, but painful, and I noticed red, blistery burns on my knee and calves after climbing back into the boat. It only hurt for a few minutes, and was actually fine by the time we reached Ant Atoll, a small island very reminiscent of Pisar (but sadly, not AS incredible. I don’t think anything can top that small, quaint island, which has a much more expansive, bleached-white beach and many more kinds of stunning foliage). No one was able to tell me why it’s called Ant Island. Constan, the maintenance worker at the Jesuit residence, says that, like Bird Island (another small atoll) these islands were named because of their miniscule size – you can’t see one while you’re on the other because they are so tiny. Ant, however, is much bigger than Pisar, though without all the luxuries like hammocks and bucket showers. It is a very striking, quiet island – mostly uninhabited jungle, but with tiny patches of sand that constitute its “beach.” Luckily (and unluckily, as I’ll explain later) the day was hot and sunny, one of the best days we’ve had so far in terms of weather, and the sunshine and nearly cloudless sky made the turquoise water sparkle. The colors of the water were “just killer” as my new friend Dave put it; a rainbow of different shades of crystal blue, all equally transparent and limitless. I suppose in some senses, I will always be a child of the Atlantic, having been born in New York and enjoying most of my beach experiences alongside that cold, gray ocean. Now that I’ve been to the Pacific, however, I’ve been spoiled with warm, clean, clear, dazzling sea, and I don’t know that I can ever be satisfied otherwise. We ate lunch on the beach, swam around, and had some drinks and a slight dance session (which mostly found me instead lying in the front of the boat trying to get some sun). I saw quite a few sharks near the shore – small, black-tipped reef sharks that skidded wildly in the ankle-deep water. I tried to be fearless and approach them, but they weren’t as daunting as I imagined, swimming rapidly away from me. We stayed for a few hours before heading back. I was under the impression that we would go snorkeling in another spot, but the boat couldn’t make it back over the reef amidst the waves, so we ended up going home a very roundabout way. We did stop a few miles from shore for a swim in the choppy water if we wanted, but we noticed that there were plenty jellyfish. They were stranger than any other sea creature I’ve ever seen – they were mostly clear and jellylike, but floated on top of the water like oddly shaped bubbles instead of drifting under the surface. They weren’t round like most jellyfish I’ve seen, but structured almost like a miniature sail. They were bright blue on top and underneath where you could see the tiny tentacles. Each one looked like a different Georgia O’Keefe painting, if you can imagine that. Although some people were lifting them out of their watery domain, Allois kept saying that their sting is incredibly painful. After the fire coral, I wasn’t up for that kind of adventure.

I was exhausted on my drive home, and felt intensely feverish. When I got back to my room, I noticed that I was red everywhere (yes even after applying 70 SPF sunscreen!). I wasn’t that disappointed in myself – I had witnessed most people constantly reapplying sunblock, but it seemed like everyone came away with some kind of burn. The sun is sometimes just too strong by the equator! Mine is a full body burn, except for my stomach, legs, and arms, which I guess have been gradually exposed enough to the sun not to be so nastily affected. My back, shoulders, and upper thighs got the brunt of it (and my face a little, but that just mostly looks blushed – and it’s nice to finally have some actual color). I’m fighting the constant sting by reminding myself I will have a rockin’ tan in a few days time, but til then I’m afraid I will be a tad more irritable than usual (dangerous).

Sunday night dinner appeased the pain a little – mangrove crab again! I love Julio for being so popular among the people here! Among the other various foods he brought back from a Church ceremony in Madolenihmw was dog. I saw it on the counter as I walked in to refill my water bottle. I put my face up close to it, trying to decipher at first what kind of animal it was. My fears were confirmed when I noticed the hairy paw attached to the great, bleeding hunk of dismembered meat before me. The way that animals are killed here is gruesome, which can possibly be discerned by the way they are subsequently and casually cut up and distributed. I hear pigs being slaughtered on a frequent basis, mostly at ungodly hours of the morning. There is nothing that will jolt you out of sleep faster than a squealing animal being brutalized to death. I won’t eat pork here as a result. Dog is another issue altogether. Of course, I realize that eating dogs in the first place is something that most Americans can’t wrap their heads around, which is totally understandable. I have to say that seeing the disembodied, still furry limbs of the creature in question right on my kitchen counter was slightly nauseating. I had no intention of eating it, but was suddenly brought back to the question that everyone, even my vegetarian and vegan friends, excitedly asked: “well… you’re gonna TRY it, aren’t you?!” And since I so hate letting people down, I did. Constan cut off a piece that had been adequately cooked, and after a few, long minutes of smelling it and *almost* putting it in my mouth, I finally began to gnaw on it. It was more anticlimactic than I anticipated, because it was so tough and chewy I couldn’t swallow it at first. It tasted a little like pork (not really an incentive to keep eating it) but more gamey. Mostly, it tasted like smoke from being charred and barbecued.

I know quite a few people living here who lead anti-cruelty lifestyles and subscribe to either veganism or vegetarianism (as I flexibly did before I left). I don’t really understand how living here can feel satisfactory to them. That might sound judgmental, but I say it in the kindest way possible. When I left for Chuuk, I decided to put my dietary habits on hold as not eating meat would be akin to starvation (not quite, but it would be exceedingly difficult, and sometimes culturally rude) but I would never sacrifice my firm stance on animal rights. It’s hard for me to understand how people who are much more unyielding in their principles and their diets; a quality I admire more than anything else, can feel content in a place that practices such cruelty to animals, as I often find this one of the most difficult things to deal with myself. For example, while I’ve thankfully never seen it myself, I’ve heard from people that dogs are killed simply by beating them until they’re dead. There is no concept here of a painless kill. It has so far been the deciding factor in why I haven’t eaten dog (and why I STILL won’t eat turtle). My brother introduced me to this Gandhi quote: “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” Using this tool, Micronesia would not measure very highly on a moral scale. It is difficult to assign judgment, but even more difficult for me to accept the fact that Micronesians cannot seem to progress beyond brutal slaughtering of animals. I am not requiring that this region converts to vegetarianism (as wonderful and beneficial as I think that would ultimately be). But I can’t accept unnecessary cruelty to animals as culture, in the same vein that I cannot accept unnecessary cruelty towards humans as culture. There are plenty of virtually painless methods to slaughtering animals for food, and I don’t think that Micronesians are naïve enough that they don’t understand they are causing animals suffering. The problem is either indifference or lack of awareness, or both. If I had the energy or the time, I might embark on some kind of campaign… it surprises me that one hasn’t been undertaken already by the very outspoken, radical animal rights people that I know are living here. Having said all this, I was taken in by the moment – that moment where dog meat was laid out before me on the counter. I have never gone searching for it, and took it as a sign that it showed up in my kitchen unannounced. In the interests of having the experience and absorbing one more thing that the locals engage in, I rescinded my theories and virtues and ate the TINIEST possible piece; feeling both pride and guilt in the aftermath of it, as though I had just broken down a seemingly impenetrable wall, but behind it there was a multitude of suffering people that I now felt obligated to help. I don’t think I will eat it again. My present self feels contented and settled, having leapt over this particular barrier of fear. My past and future self admonish me, threatening a lifelong diet of rabbit food, against which I don’t argue very vehemently.
Even though they asked me with excited curiosity if I had or would ever try dog, most of my friends do and will continue to express disgust or shock or both that I actually did. This has really led me to think about the ways in which we value, or don’t value, animals in the West, and the arbitrary worth we ascribe to some and not others. We eat pigs and cows at revolting rates, not even considering the savage methods with which they are killed. In this sense, we are not too much farther ahead of Micronesia on the morality scale. So while I have a firm desire to educate the locals on animal rights, I am intrigued myself with the politics that dictate my own culture’s attitudes to certain animals. Most Micronesians do not indulge in such attachments; all animals to them are meant for labor or food. Yet Westerners frown upon this equalization of animals in light of our own skewed perceptions, but we never consider why. Why, for instance, are cats, dogs, hamsters, rabbits, and certain fish upheld to a different standard than cows, pigs, chickens, and certain other kinds of fish? We perceive puppies and kittens as cute, but baby cows are called veal, and are a popular parmigiana dish. Some people might argue it has to do with the cuteness and friendliness of animals, but both of these qualities are completely subjective. Anyone that’s had a pot-bellied pig as a pet knows how surprisingly loving and snuggly they can be, and anyone who has ever kept a ferret or a tarantula has a completely different idea of what’s cute than someone who collects kittens. The animal in question, of course, is the dog. People also claim that dogs are very human; they have emotions and facial expressions, they need attention and constant care, they can be the eyes and ears for impaired owners, they protect and serve, and like some people I know, they can sense drugs a mile away. Yet one of my Jewish friends told me that one reason Jews don’t eat pigs is because their flesh tastes remarkably like a human’s. When turtles are killed for soup, they shed tears. I don’t know what makes one animal more “human” then the next, but to me this seems like a moot characteristic anyway. I often find myself liking certain animals better than certain people, and I think one major crime that people impose on animals is to anthropomorphosize them. Humans are animals, it’s not the other way around, and keeping that in mind, we should learn to respect all life equally, not choosing on the basis of some obscure and arbitrary trait system. This is what I think of when people withdraw in revulsion when I tell them I’ve eaten dog, but shrug at the thought of the abuse suffered by millions and millions of cattle each year at the hands of a brutal slaughterhouse factory system. Baby back ribs and dog meat, realistically, are not that different, yet one is valued differently than the other. Obviously, I don’t think the Micronesians have better ideas about animal treatment. Instead, I’ve decided to treat all animals equally – and not eat them. I think this is the only realistic solution for me to have peace of mind. Tom and I both decided not to eat meat when we return home, and I’m really hoping this decision sticks. As a disclaimer, this does not include fish for me since I think this is a slightly different situation, and perhaps also because I’m slightly hypocritical, but if I didn’t eat fish I might as well not go on living.

To sum up my decision to eat a piece of man’s best friend: you have to try everything once. Make judgments later.

The rest of my weekend was filled with more coffee, room cleaning, toenail painting, movie watching, baby powder (sunburn, remember??), and what is called a “choco leche” from Coco Marinas – really just a poorly made mocha, but who am I to complain when there is a steady supply of espresso? As it happens, I feel called to the kitchen right now for some more caffeine… I will try to keep my updates a little more limited in the future... but I can't promise anything :)

Sakao, and Several Other Drinks

This blog is a long one.

On Friday, walking back to work from lunch, I was steadily and consciously taking in the vastly changing scenery. When I first arrived in August, the “commute” from the Jesuit residence to MicSem was a 3 minute walk down some slick, crude stone steps through relatively dense jungle. For a few minutes each morning, I was able to pretend that I was lost in the Amazon or the bush, listening to the calling sounds of those deep red birds (I don’t know exactly what type of bird they are) and the rustling of bright, glossy lizards in the fallen palms. Recently though, our maintenance workers and a family we call “the Mangove People,” whose last name I can never remember, have been chopping and tearing down trees like the demolition of an entire city. The Mangrove People, aptly named after constructing their shoddy home in the mangroves directly across from MicSem, have been involved in a tumultuous affair with the Missions for quite some time. They offer help (as with this new foresting project), they are friendly, and in return we give them water from our catchment and limes from our tree. But they are also a source of uneasiness. They are poor, by Pohnpeian standards (though I have some hang ups about the actual meaning of the word “poor”) and they are the leading cause of the thefts that have taken place at MicSem and in our house. I think it is usually the children and younger ones that have the audacity and guiltlessness to do such things, but it has nevertheless been a point of disconcertion for me since I arrived. So far I have been here during three break-ins and quite a few more attempts, though nothing of mine has yet been stolen. It’s strange to have someone wave and smile at you when they have tried to slash through your window screen with a pocket knife. Anyway, there is now a combined effort to chop down this jungle area, and I am surprised at how quickly it is happening. Already, the path from the house to MicSem is nearly blank – a flattened field. The area has been subdued and become transparent; no longer wild bush. The benefits are twofold, I think. One reason is safety – it would be more difficult and uncomfortable for thieves to sneak to our house if there was no jungle to hide them. It seems bizarre that the same people who steal from us are currently helping to heighten security, but like all things political, the circumstances are not so simple. Not everyone in that family steals, and in fact some of them are embarrassed about the transgressions of others. Some of the children who steal most likely do it because, well, they are children and all they know is that the mehn wai up in that big house are not very good at sharing their toys. I have seen them dancing and playing in our carport while it rains, happy and carefree, and it’s hard to imagine them being devious and malevolent. It is a fraught and complicated situation. The second reason is planting, which is mostly to the benefit of the Mangrove People. So far they have successfully planted cabbage and cucumbers, which are growing wildly in the fertile shoreline soil. The plates of massive, bright green vegetables constantly appearing in our kitchen are testaments to the compromises we have been trying to erect.

Anyway, during this mentally eventful walk to work on Friday, I was thinking about the benefits and detriments of this project. It’s sad to see the jungle go, and I’m not the only one who thinks that. On the surface, it seems irresponsible to destroy yet another natural area, sanctioned, at the highest level, by the white people wanting to secure their stuff and at the lowest level, by locals who do not understand the environmental repercussions. But every time I see women harvesting vegetables to eat and sell, and making such productive use of land that keeps giving, I remember that these events are not so black and white.

On Saturday, Greg and I drove out to Enipein, the village in Kitti where he stayed for three when he first arrived in Pohnpei. We were visiting his family, a very friendly a down to earth people who lived relatively close to the Lehn Paipohn waterfall I hiked a few weeks ago. When we arrived, I was suddenly transported back to Chuuk – the house and its surroundings had little resemblance to Kolonia. I once again found myself in the mud and dirt, sitting on the raised portion of a one-room concrete house. I met most of the family, who welcomed me immediately and asked if I would be staying overnight. The youngest girls sat close to me, smiling and whispering to each other when my back was turned. They tried to speak to me in the little English they knew, proud of themselves for that, and taking great joy in scaring away their dogs that came to sniff me. They giggled and pointed, and inched closer and closer until their legs were touching mine, staring at my pale face – my mascara and free-falling hair dead giveaways that I was very different. We were served one of the best meals I have had since arriving: a pork and onion stew; a sweet pounded yam and coconut milk mash that was purple in color and looked unpleasant, but tasted like a sweeter version of bananas; and the biggest lobsters I have ever seen. They saw me staring and encouraged me to eat until all the food was finished; the aunt breaking a lobster with a spoon and cutting the meat into little circular slices like you would a hotdog for a small child. After lunch, I was told we were going to visit some Sakao markets. The aunt brought out a mwar’mwar made of folded palm leaves and a big, bright red flower to put around my neck, and a water bottle full of a yellow-brown greasy liquid which she rubbed all over my arms. Greg said this is a form of anointing because I was new and from the outside… and also, more practically, to keep the bugs away. It smelled like sandalwood, felt warm like massage oil, and made my skin shimmer.
Our first stop was to the lower village where we stopped to see a woman called Nona Sik (I am not sure how to spell this… “Nona” apparently means “mother,” and “Sik” is her name, though when she was first introduced to me, I thought they were all telling me she was ill which is probably why they were so confused at my expressions of sympathy). Nona lived in a traditional Pohnpeian house – a small thatched hut on stilts. It was very dark inside, and cool, and smoky from something being boiled or cooked by another woman in a big black cauldron. Pots and pans hung from the roof, and little friendly kittens scurried around our feet. For its size, the hut was extremely neat and homey. Even in Chuuk, I had never been in a house as traditional as this one. Clothes were drying, women were cooking, and in the middle of the floor sat Nona, and elderly woman with very large arms and shocking white hair. She was topless, and hunched over, yet still somehow looked incredibly distinguished. She had small eyes, and a coarse, throaty voice which, accompanied by her surroundings, made her seem like some ancient medicine woman hiding herself away from the modernizing world around her. Even though I could not understand her, I could tell she had a good sense of humor – wry and accurate and gravely. Greg talked and laughed with her for a few minutes while the two other women in the house sat and smiled and stirred. One of them looked like a slightly younger, slightly slimmer version of Nona, while the other was a beautiful girl, maybe my age, with a very Westernized look – her teeth were perfect and she was wearing lip gloss and large hoop earrings. She kept grinning at me in a haunting sort of way, like a bizarre caricature, even though I said nothing the entire time and was mostly entranced with Nona herself who fascinated me on some very deep level. When we left, Greg laughed and said “Nona is really something. She’s just like your grandmother…” I figured, then, that had to be the connection and intrigue I was feeling. I asked Greg about the girl, and he said he didn’t know her. I said she dressed like an American. From the words “mehn wai” I could tell he repeated this to his Pohnpeian uncle. The man just laughed and shook his head.
From there, we went to the first of three sakao markets. I had never been to anything like this, and thought it would be something like a farmers’ market – everyone just selling their own brand of sakao, but it was more like a bar. It was small; outside under a tiny thatched awning. People sat on benches or lawn chairs while three or four young men pounded sakao. You could “order” a serving, which was delivered to you in a coconut shell. One of the men we were with named Castillo spoke fairly good English and while Greg and his uncle talked, he demanded that the two of us keep drinking. I had never had so much sakao at once before, and it’s kind of like beer in that it fills you up very quickly. We talked with the chief of the village for a while (a graduate of Xavier who spoke English) and Greg took me to the old house where he lived when he first arrived, which was right behind the market and still in fairly good condition (considering!). It was small and concrete, like many of the homes in Kitti, with a VERY small outhouse, and a rocky, slippery path to the river where he showered and washed laundry. I stood on a stone wall that I recognized from a picture I had seen in my grandma’s house; a photo he sent years ago. I think when I was little I thought this picture was from Hawaii for some reason, and I always had such distant and fantastic ideas of what his life must be like. This past summer, my mom dug up a postcard that Greg sent in the early 90s. It was a picture of two Marshallese children, accompanied by a note that mentioned their names and explained where the Marshall Islands were. The note also said that Greg was sure someday I would be there with him. I guess realistically it’s not that strange… he has lived in the tropics for 20 years and has been trying to get my family to visit since he’s been out there. It was only a matter of time before I took advantage of a perfect situation and accepted the offer. Still though, the message of the postcard had a very poignant quality about it. It’s really weird when I actually try to recall the fantasies and feelings I had about where my uncle was living, and how I tried to explain this to people and to myself when I was young. I had shell necklaces and carvings that I knew were from some far-off island but I had no idea of where or how far or how they were made. In some senses, I thought the place was magical and unreachable; a completely different world which did not at all intersect with mine. Now that I’m here of course, it doesn’t seem that way at all.
The other two sakao markets were very similar. The faces changed, and the furniture, but the sense of familiarity stayed the same. Everyone knew Greg, and were equally fascinated with getting to know me. I mostly sat only with men, which I think evoked some disapproving stares from some older women. It was interesting, and unusual, and even though they could not really understand me, they laughed loudly and pounded the table when they figured I had told a joke. Of course, I could tell when they were talking about me – pointing and smiling and chattering away, and I smiled dumbly as well, wondering all the while what kind of things they were discussing. Greg would sometimes translate, but not often, so most of the time I was left inventing the dialogue in my head, pretending they were praising me for some unknown feat I had accomplished. I know they were pleased that I was drinking with them, and that I had eaten their food so vigorously, but everything else was a mystery. In the meantime, Callisto kept foisting more and more sakao on me, pouring more into the coconut shell from his own private water bottle stash whenever we were running low.

I think I slept for most of the ride home, but I really just remember feeling exceedingly numb. As soon as I got back though I decided I needed to equalize the sakao with some alcohol (which, by the way, is not how it works at all). So the two new JVIS and I went to Cupids, a restaurant/bar overlooking Sokehs Bay. I racked up a quick bill on a cheeseburger, a pina colada, and a mudslide, but it was well worth it to fill my stomach with something familiar. The world here is so quickly shifting when one half of the day can be spent drinking root extract and eating yam mash in the dirt with village chiefs, and the other half can be spent drinking classy cocktails with two other white chicks at a restaurant that has tablecloths, air conditioning, and a million dollar view. So much can change in the span of a few hours.

Sunday was also centered around food as well, not surprisingly. I went out for a bagel and some coffee at a place called Oceanview, another nice restaurant, and Rachael and I stayed talking for several hours trying to absorb the relaxation of the weekend. I did laundry and went to yoga, and came home starving to an unusually fantastic meal supplied by friends of Fr. Julio. Two large mangrove crabs, pasta salad, a paella-type rice dish, crab salad, chicken, coconuts… the list was endless. What was even more surprising was that no one really wanted any of it, so I proceeded to go wild, eating like I hadn’t had food in a week. It was delicious.

On the way back to my room, I saw one of the Mangrove Children standing by the window – a tiny, shirtless, big-eyed girl with straggly hair and a pleading expression. She was carrying a Clorox bottle and was staring at me with boiling vision through the screen. I asked her what she wanted, and she said she was looking for one of the priests who wasn’t around. I told her this, and she stared at my hands – a water bottle in one, and a bowl of chocolate ice cream in the other. I felt an immediate pang of guilt. Why did I have to be carrying ice cream NOW? I wanted to explain that I hardly ever eat ice cream; I don’t even like it that much. I wanted to give it to her, appeal to her hungry eyes, but all she said was “I want to drink.” The family usually gets their water from our hose (which is the same water that comes from our faucets; all from the rain catchment tank beside the house). I told her she didn’t need to ask the priest, she could take as much water as she wanted. “Where is he?” She asked again. “I want to drink.” “He’s not here… but go! Take the water!” She looked at me sadly, and ran away, yelling to her mother, or brother, or someone that the particular priest wasn’t there. The shame I felt was immense. There was inside me, somewhere deep and disgraceful, a voice that said haughtily, “Why should you worry about this girl’s water? You HAVE water. It’s right in your hand. You can take it whenever you want – just turn on the faucet when you’re thirsty, and there’s water.” I didn’t even want to acknowledge the voice that was going on about my ice cream… the water was enough. Everyone I know, including myself, takes for granted the magic of faucets and light bulbs – they go on when you want, and off when you want, and they are always there for you. There is always water and there is always light. And for most people I know, there is always high-speed internet. There is always gas for cars and cash for expensive clothes and expensive clothes for fancy dinners. I have never had to lower myself so humbly to ask someone for water because I didn’t have it, and even when it was offered so fully, didn’t feel privileged enough to take it. I tried to deny this voice that was growing louder, urging me to shrug her off and go back to my room and forget. And if I’m truly honest with myself, I guess that’s what I ended up doing. But her face and her thin arm carrying her empty Clorox bottle was cemented into my brain for the rest of the night; her voice lingering – asking for the most simple of things. I had a dream about her that night; that she stole into my room and tried to take my things. I found her, and chased her off before she was successful, but her eyes were the same as they had been looking through that window – bottomless, full of appetite, and lacking comprehension. I wanted her to have my ice cream and my water and much more than that. How much can one person do, and how far can one person extend? Plenty of people get taken advantage of that way, or end up depleting themselves for the sake of others. I can’t always seem to find a healthy balance, but I know if I see that girl again on a search for water, I will take her by the hand and fill up her Clorox bottle myself.

Giving Thanks, Part 1

This past weekend was the last for one of the Peace Corps girls, whom I actually just met a few weeks before so it seemed strange to already be saying goodbye. We didn’t really get to know each other very well, but I went anyway because it sounded like a lot of fun, and I’m always looking for good opportunities to meet more people here. It was a “sunset cruise,” which was somewhat deceiving since it had been cloudy and pouring rain the entire day. The small boat left around 5:30 from the PCR surf club dock (the same place where Tom and I had sake and pizza on his last night in Pohnpei). It was more of a booze cruise than a sunset boat trip, anchoring a few miles out in the lagoon by an old and unfamiliar lighthouse. Lots of people brought different kinds of beer and liquor; I brought a cheap bottle of wine that turned out to be the most foul tasting thing ever, but not surprisingly, was finished anyway before the night was over. We stayed out for 4 ½ hours or so, swimming, drinking, dancing, talking, and huddling into jackets when the rain started to pour down again. It was nearly pitch black since the sky was still cloudy, but in the distance I could see lights that I mistakenly thought were those of a city. I was told it was actually a Japanese fishing vessel with over 2,000 people on board. No wonder it looked so massive. The current was strong and when I jumped in, immediately had to hold on to a sturdy rope anchored into the water. It made me even more seasick than I had been sitting in the boat; a nausea that was only assuaged after eating a slice of cold pizza.

On Sunday, I was meant to go to Kitti with Greg to meet his host family from when he first arrived on the islands. However, even after waking my ass up at 7 am, the trip seemed less plausible to both of us. It was Mental Health Day (a misnomer really since it was technically a day for the mentally disabled/challenged/ill – not for the overall mental health of the community, youth, etc.) and Greg assumed that his family would be at the festivities for most of all of the day and would not be able to host us at their home. I agreed to reschedule and sank back into bed for another couple hours of a sleepless kind of sleep until taking a taxi to The Village for brunch with some World Teach volunteers. After that I went to yoga. Not the most strenuous day, but I’m not here to exert myself, right? Right?? : )

Yesterday was Canadian Thanksgiving (a holiday which, to be honest, I didn’t even really know existed). It’s the same as American Thanksgiving – surface-wise at least. There is no story about the Pilgrims and Indians, no story at all it seems, only pumpkin pie, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, squash, potatoes, and wine – all of which were present last night at the wonderful and hugely popular dinner held at the house of a Canadian woman and her husband. Along with some more interesting dishes like ziti, chicken curry, and couscous, 40-some mehn wai (and a few locals) got together in our hosts’ impressive house overlooking Sokeh’s bay. I missed out on the pumpkin pie, which is my FAVORITE holiday dessert, but I was asking for it when I piled literally layers and layers of food onto my plate. I validated this decision by noting that this was the last time in a while I would have such a meal. Of course, this also meant taking ample advantage of the delicious drink selections which included various wines, beers (coronas!), and coconut rum.
In conclusion, this past weekend was full of great food and better friends. I feel luckier and luckier as time goes on that I am here… of course, a phone call from my grandma and a card from my friend in NYC brings me right back again to missing home and looking forward to going back in December, even though there’s really nothing like partying out on the Pacific.

Elevation (as in, above waterfalls and in the moutains)

This past weekend was full of new experiences for me. On Saturday afternoon, which was rainy and chilly, I drove to my new favorite restaurant, Coco Marinas, which is a small, outdoor café and bar that I happily realized is in possession of an espresso machine. The milk they use for lattes and cappuccinos is still sadly the boxed stuff that tastes like baby formula and goes bad nearly instantly after opening it, but I am in absolutely no position to complain. I ordered something iced and caffeinated, and a tortilla and onion rings – the fattiest and most delicious meal I’ve had since arriving. I went alone and took with me some letters and postcards I’ve been in the process of writing, as well as the book I’ve been reading since before I left – What is the What. It’s a fantastic book, but really depressing, and while reading is meant to be a relaxing and reflective activity, reading about the horrors of the Sudanese civil war really takes it out of me. I’m determined to finish it and start my next book, Eat Pray Love, which, while not something I would necessarily think would be my taste, has been recommended to me by a lot of people so I figured I would give it a shot.

I sat at a table right by the water until it started to rain again at which time I moved beneath the thatched roof. Although my meal was partially fueled by texting which is sometimes not the most calming pastime for me, I found private and consoling space in the small cat that sat next to me for most of my stay. I haven’t so far found many, if any, animals here that are very friendly or trusting of people, which is natural considering most of them are abused and neglected. But I miss my cat from Chuuk, and even now have this overwhelming sense that I abandoned her, especially after hearing how she waited for me day after day by my door, but I never came. That kind of story breaks my heart because animals lack the ability to fully understand – all they know are the feelings they are left with. I miss her sitting with me, and sleeping in my bed, following me around, carrying her babies to my door so they would be safe. There is such a connection between humans and animals, but the people here just don’t perceive it that way and seeing how animals are so intensely mistreated here makes me angry and upset, enough to ignore and partially reject the valence of “cultural relevance” to which I always feel so pressured and expected to subscribe. The cats that live at the Jesuit House are unfriendly and skittish. I feed them my leftovers, and they sometimes leave me dead animals they’ve caught, but they refuse to let me touch them and hiss, run, or swat at me if I try. That’s why it was such a nice feeling to have this cat by me at the restaurant. At first, she only came for the chicken, and if I am truly honest with myself, I’m sure that’s why she stayed. Initially though, I was not allowed to touch her. She ran off or slunk away, adeptly dodging my hand. After a while of eating the pieces of chicken I threw to her and sleeping at my feet, she finally let me pet her, which I did while I read. She would vacillate between feeling cuddly and rubbing up against me, to feeling moody and clawing or biting gently at my fingers, but she had a nice rest by me, and I found a surprising amount of solace having her nearby. She looked a lot like my Chuukese cat Oreo and it reminded me of the countless afternoons sans electricity that I sat on the porch with her in my lap watching the water. Or the countless times I felt sad, overwhelmed, or homesick and cried while holding her, eventually falling asleep with her next to me, my loneliness temporarily assuaged. I think she is somewhere else now, away from Xavier, living with nuns who I hear take good care of her and love her presence in their house. I hope to somehow find her when I visit in November and say hello and goodbye one last time before I leave for good.

The day cleared up, and around dusk, Greg and I left for Madolenihmw, the municipality of Pohnpei where Nan Madol is also located. After about 30 minutes, we followed a very steep path up into the hills to a big house owned by a family with whom Greg is fairly close. There was a sakao party because one of the daughters had just returned from the States. The word “party” indicates to me loud music and, being a New Yorker, even louder people; with food, alcohol, mixing and mingling. This was not the case. A relatively small group of people (10 or so) were seated outside in the nahs (I think traditionally a hut, but this one was a concrete structure, something like a really big and furnished carport). No one was eating except for a deacon who was present; most people were chewing betelnut. As soon as I stepped out of the car, all eyes expectedly turned to me as I don’t think many of them were anticipating hosting a white girl they had never seen before. No one spoke, and except for the immediate family, I was not formally introduced to anyone. For a while they just sat and watched me, and while Greg assured me that no one really talks at such things, the conversation that gradually emerged led me to believe that they had just been occupied with observing me, unsure of who I was or why I had come. Just like in Chuuk, it’s a strange feeling to be exotic and different, yet at the same time part of a minority that wields a surprising amount of power. It’s strange to be stared at, scrutinized and studied. It’s unsettling and flattering at the same time, and I don’t think I will ever get used to it. Greg and I were given chairs and a table with sakao “chasers” - local chicken soup, salad, taro with coconut, breaded fish, water, and one drinking coconut. It’s fascinating for me to watch sakao being pounded – the men sit around a big, flat stone table and pound the roots with a smaller stone, mixing them with water, and then wrapping them in the hibiscus leaf, which is squeezed and wrung out into a halved coconut shell. The sound of the small rock pounding on the big, flat stone is hollow, like the echo you would hear hitting an empty metal pipe. Combined with the sakao itself, and the mechanical, nonstop motions of the men making it, the effect is hypnotizing. Sakao is more of a slight muscle relaxer than anything else, and after a few rounds I just found myself happily joining the circle of people in their silent sedation, watching and listening. Conversations flourished every so often, but no one was speaking English even though some could, so I wasn’t really able to participate in the discussions. At first, I felt a slight twinge of exclusion, but after a while, I realized that I was enjoying being a passive observer, and that even without knowledge of what was being said, I was absorbing the fluid sounds of the language. It was a very comfortable night, and even though we were there for 2 hours doing nothing but passing a small coconut shell around and around, the time seemed to fly.

On Sunday, I joined the mehn wai group for a hike around Kitti, another Pohnpeian municipality. “Mehn wai” is literally “white man” (as you can probably discern from the way it sounds), but can also, not surprisingly, be translated to mean “sneaky people.” This particular group is not officially called the mehn wai club, and certainly you don’t have to be white to tag along, but it is largely made up of Westerners who like to do Western things such as hike, snorkel, kayak, play frisbee, and socially drink – things that many Pohnpeians don’t understand (like running simply for the exercise) or have little interest in. I am making a habit of going to the yoga class every Sunday evening, which helps relieve the tension of the week and find the energy to begin a new one. Yesterday was the first hike I’ve joined, and it was a lot of fun. We were walking to Lehn Paipohn, a waterfall situated a bit inland. It took about a half hour – 45 minutes to get to, and I soon realized that sneakers would have been a much better choice than flip flops since once we reached the jungle, the trail became pretty muddy. The waterfall was beautiful, and the pool beneath it was much bigger than that of Liduduhniap. Possibly because being home led me down the dangerous path of pure atrophy, and because sakao the night before sapped most of my energy, the short hike exhausted me completely. I was dirty and tired by dinner time, and it felt really refreshing.

I’m hoping this week goes quickly… I’m liking Pohnpei more and more, but I think the onset of November will really recharge my batteries because it will bring me that much closer to my visit to Chuuk. Of course, I also feel like I might be wishing away time I will really want back come winter in NY.