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.”