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.
No comments:
Post a Comment