In search of ex-pats

Feb 28, 2009

I was on my own for the weekend. Saturday morning I took a walk through town in an attempt to get my bearings. The walk yielded a preliminary understanding of where a few major roads connect and I found the turn I had missed on Friday. What I didn’t find were signs of an ex-pat community. No used bookstore, no white skinned people, no sounds of English coming from a small restaurant.

Saturday night came and there I was sitting alone in my hotel room. I decided to make another effort to find the ex-pat community (if you wonder why I sought out ex-pats rather than Micronesians, it is because my research indicated that Micros are very clan and family oriented and that it is hard to break into their inner circle).

I asked the hotel clerk to recommend a place and to call a cab. A little while later the cab deposited me in front of a sign-less, windowless building that upon passing earlier, I had assumed was a project that had never been completed. It was a cement goliath of a building perched on the side of the main road towards the edge of town. Light shined through a small side door that was open and a young man sat on a chair out front.

Was he another passenger waiting for a ride? Had the cabby clearly heard my destination? Not sure, I asked, “Is this the Rusty Anchor?”

“Yes,” she said, “It’s in there.”

In most other countries, in most parts of the U.S., a cold sweat would have started to form on the back of my neck if a cabbie had taken me to an abandoned building on the edge of town. But this was FSM so I asked, “Where is the door?”

“Oh, you’ve never been here before. Go in that door and downstairs.” She then said something in Pohnpean to the boy on the chair. I could only hope it was “show him where to the bar is.”

The little doorway with the light opened onto a large open staircase that curled downward to another open concrete area. At the bottom of the stairs another hallway lead to an open door. Light and noise drifted towards me so I followed the path and found myself in a large thee-walled bar that opened towards the ocean. Complete with a few pool tables, dart boards, and a patio, it had the comfortable look of an island hangout. Two Anglos and half a dozen Micronesians occupied the place.

Not wanting to be intrusive, I smiled, nodded and took a seat near but not next to one of the older Americans. A little while later a younger Micronesian came over and said hello. After I told him I was new to Pohnpei and came here to work for the government, he asked if I was Eric. Imagine by surprise. It turns out he works for the quarantine office and had processed Scout's paperwork. I was indeed in a small town on a small island.

We had a nice chat but between the background music, my hearing challenges, and his soft voice (all Micronesians seem to talk softly) I had a lot of trouble understanding him. The soft voices have been a challenge for me a few times already. Their words seem to get lost in whatever background noise there is.