Saturday March 28, 2009
Yesterday I completed my 4th full week of work. Time flies. In some ways I feel like I’ve been here longer but in other ways I still enjoy the surprises and discoveries that come with being new. Today I learned that they do sell limes (which they call local lemons) at the produce market. I never new this because they are kept out of sight behind the counter. Now I know that if I want locals lemons I just need to ask.
If you asked me how much the produce is, I couldn’t tell you. I could only say, inexpensive. Prices aren’t marked. One brings the produce to the checkout counter and the counter person puts it on a scale, punches some numbers into a calculator, records it in a ledger, and then repeats the process with the next item. I could ask, but I don’t. Today I bought a big bunch of small bananas and 3 Japanese eggplants for $1.65.
At the time I was hired as audit manager, a second American was hired as a supervisor. He and his wife arrived this week so I am no longer officially the newbie. In fact, I felt like an old timer as I found myself in the role of sharer of knowledge and giver of advice.
It was hard to decide what information to share. The scale that balances the joys of discovery with frustration and anxiety can be a tricky one. While I didn’t want to take too much of the fun of being new away from them, I also wanted to reduce the amount of stress they’ll experience as they adjust.
Each week I feel as though I learn a little more about life on the island. This week I learned that there is a ex-pat yoga class on Mondays at the local college. It felt great to be back on the yoga mat. Its amazing how much flexibility can be lost in a month.
At the yoga class I learned that there is also a pilates class on Wednesdays. At the pilates class I learned that there is a hiking group that meets Sunday afternoons. Who knows what I’ll learn Sunday?
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Mahi Mahi
Friday March 27, 2009
Today we had a real treat for lunch. I thought yesterday’s lunch was a real treat because the college was serving mashed potatoes and rice for side dishes instead of just rice like they normally do but that doesn’t even compare…
Today the office shared a mahi-mahi that Hacer caught last Saturday. He brought it in frozen and whole yesterday and Jimbo brought it home to fillet. Today, Jimbo returned with some wonderful looking steaks along with butter, limes, sea salt, and Pohnpein pepper. He cooked it up in the office kitchen on a little George Forman grill.
Hacer had also brought in some lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, and celery (the boat arrived earlier this week so produce was in stock) which Aisi made into a salad. Some rice was cooked and we had ourselves a tasty tasty lunch.
The pohnpein pepper is worthy of its reputation. My guide book had said, “Pohnpei’s black pepper is thought by many to be the tastiest in the world.” I can understand why. I am by no means a connoisseur of fine foods but even I find myself writing, "the flavor of that pepper danced delicately and playfully across my tongue for the remainder of the afternoon."
Friday, March 27, 2009
A Waterfall Day
Sunday March 22
It was a slow weekend and I was feeling pretty lonely so I headed down the street to the Seventh Day Adventist School. I had met John (an American whose wife works there) and he said often on the weekend he and teachers (who are American college kids taking a year off to volunteer) go for a hike in the afternoon.
John wasn’t around but a young student and the school’s principal invited me to wait. They were sitting outside in the shade, boiling some taro root. Taro is one of the 4 local food sources grown here (the others being tapioca, breadfruit, and of course yams).
Taro and yams share the common trait of both being roots but the comparison ends there. Taro, as my guidebook describes it, is an ‘elephant-eared plant cultivated in freshwater bogs.” How could one even compare it to yams – a food so special that most Americans only eat it on the Day of Thanks.
Taro isn’t bad if it is prepared with some coconut milk. Served by itself, taro provides no culinary delight but I have been told it is incredibly nutritious.
It felt nice just to sit and chat while the taro slowly boiled its way into tenderness. Eventually John returned and plans were made to take short trip to one of the nearby waterfalls. Pohnpei boasts waterfalls like Paris boasts restaurants.
The interior of Pohnpei averages 400 inches of rain a year and the exterior, though less, still gets an impressive 200 inches.
John, Mikey, and I took a drive a waterfall not for from town. It felt good to be in a pickup truck on a dirt road. It had been too long. It felt good to be surrounded by nothing but trees.
All land is privately owned here but access it made available for a price – but a very reasonable price. We each paid the $1 per person fee, hiked down a short path, and found ourselves just a short leap away from an inviting pool of water.
If I had to list the differences between Oregon and Pohnpei, somewhere on my list would be the words ‘the streams aren’t fed by snow melt.’ It had been a while since I’d been in water that didn’t take your breathe away and make your feet go numb. As I wrote earlier, ‘a warm gentle rain falls...” and it makes for a comfortably warm swimming hole.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Saturday Afternoon
March 21 Saturday
A warm gentle rain falls lightly while the sun still shines from behind the clouds. A few minutes ago the rain came down hard but its fury quickly ended. It started just as I headed to Edwin’s apartment to see if perhaps he wanted to go for an afternoon swim. There is a place, not a beach, just an old pier of sorts from which one can swim. Edwin wasn’t home anyway so I went to the vegetable/fish market instead.
According to a Dept. of Health poster I have seen around town, there are 12 types of local bananas. The market usually just seems to have one or else many of the twelve are so similar looking that I am not distinguishing between them.
The bananas account for 80% of the space on the produce side. Besides bananas, there are a few small bins with onion, garlic, and a small variety of eggplant. A leafy green that may have been lettuce was also on display and some type of green beans were also available. There were also a handful of papayas, not quite ripe.
I walked out with a few of the small eggplants and one papaya. Tonight, for dinner it will be sautéed eggplant and onion with rice.
It was the widest selection of produce I had seen on display since arriving on the island. There were no yams, however. There never are. I don’t know why. Perhaps the yams are too respected to be treated like some common vegetable: put on display to be poked, prodded, and purchased by anybody with a dollar in his/her pocket?
I tried asking a co-worker once. He talked excitedly about the importance of the yam and its use at ceremonial feasts. He didn’t, however, explain why I can’t seem to purchase one at any of the produce stands or grocery stores I’ve visited.
A warm gentle rain falls lightly while the sun still shines from behind the clouds. A few minutes ago the rain came down hard but its fury quickly ended. It started just as I headed to Edwin’s apartment to see if perhaps he wanted to go for an afternoon swim. There is a place, not a beach, just an old pier of sorts from which one can swim. Edwin wasn’t home anyway so I went to the vegetable/fish market instead.
According to a Dept. of Health poster I have seen around town, there are 12 types of local bananas. The market usually just seems to have one or else many of the twelve are so similar looking that I am not distinguishing between them.
The bananas account for 80% of the space on the produce side. Besides bananas, there are a few small bins with onion, garlic, and a small variety of eggplant. A leafy green that may have been lettuce was also on display and some type of green beans were also available. There were also a handful of papayas, not quite ripe.
I walked out with a few of the small eggplants and one papaya. Tonight, for dinner it will be sautéed eggplant and onion with rice.
It was the widest selection of produce I had seen on display since arriving on the island. There were no yams, however. There never are. I don’t know why. Perhaps the yams are too respected to be treated like some common vegetable: put on display to be poked, prodded, and purchased by anybody with a dollar in his/her pocket?
I tried asking a co-worker once. He talked excitedly about the importance of the yam and its use at ceremonial feasts. He didn’t, however, explain why I can’t seem to purchase one at any of the produce stands or grocery stores I’ve visited.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Fishing
Saturday March 14, 2009
[Note: Last weekend I had stopped by my Filipino co-worker Edwin’s house around noon time and asked him he wanted to take a ride out the point to go swimming. “Now?” he asked incredulously. Edwin has lived on the island several years. He explained, “The sun is too strong now, we must wait until 5:30 PM.” He is a wise man, Edwin.]
Not much more than twelve hours after returning from happy hours, by boss Haser, his friend Pannie, and I left dry land in a small motor boat, my stomach wasn’t quite feeling 100%.
Heading off in search of yellow-fin tuna and mahi-mahi with two men whose ancestors subsided from the bounty of the sea, set off a surge of excitement within me. We sped out of the lagoon towards the open waters that lay beyond.
There are no trees on the water and the clouds had taken the day off. It wasn’t long before my excitement was visited by Edwin’s voice repeating itself inside my head, “Now? The sun is too strong now; we must wait until 5:30 PM.”
Less than an hour into the trip, the sun had crawled its way under my shirt. The heat sucked the energy from my flesh. I was no match for the early afternoon equatorial sun. Drinking water was plentiful but it didn’t sit well in my stomach. I would have gladly thrown in the towel and conceded defeat, a man beaten by the elements, only my towel was far away on dry land.
Seasickness was a secondary concern. The up and down motion of the swells certainly didn’t help my physical condition but it didn’t seem too bad except for when we had to stop the boat to change lures. It was then that my stomach played upon an imaginary seesaw while the rest of my body only craved shade.
I didn’t know how long the outing was scheduled to last but the cooler of food sitting in the boat suggested that I wouldn’t have wanted to know. The thought of asking to be returned to the launching pad, from I could have easily called a cab, occupied my thoughts. I’m sure they would have, but I didn’t want them to waste either time or fuel.
One searches for fish by searching for birds. Sea birds feed on small fish just like bigger fish do. The type of bird indicates the type of fish. At a point when we seemed closer to the lagoon than we had earlier, I was about to ask to be returned to dry land. Before the words could leave my mouth, a flock of black birds was spotted. In hot pursuit, we eagerly turned away from the lagoon.
After I short while I knew that defeat had come. The heat delivered its knockout blow. Had there been a fat lady on the boat, she would have burst into song. Instead, the next sound to be heard was that of me throwing up over the side of the boat.
As my head hung over the Pacific Ocean as if it were a giant toilet bowl, a mahi-mahi seized the moment to strike. I felt the line I held in my left hand go taunt in a way it hadn’t all day (we fished just with lines, no rod and reel). I turned my head and saw
Pannie standing at the back of the boat pointing excitedly in the direction of my line.
In a sequence of events I don’t really recall, my line was transferred to Haser.
I returned to my prior activity as hand over hand Haser pulled the line in. The next time I lifted my head, my eyes fell upon a nice size mahi-mahi flopping around in the boat.
I’d like to say my story ends here. It would a nice spot to end. A happy ending one would say, unless, of course, if one were a fish. But my story continues, my experience not quite complete.
As you may have experienced in your own life, vomiting is often accompanied by the need to empty one’s bowels. I was on a motorboat! With my new boss! Not coming from a boating background, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Coming from a different culture than my companions, I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject. The Micronesians seem to be polite people, and I wasn’t quite sure what was the correct noun to use to describe “#2.”
“I feel a little better," I announced as my head returned from the outside of the boat, “but I could really use a bathroom.”
“No problem,” Haser informed me, “Pannie will come sit up here and you can go back there and balance yourself over the edge of the boat.”
As Pannie and I switched places and the boat gently rose and fell, I could only reflect on the fact that the Spivak family has never been known for its coordination and balancing abilities. We Spivaks can take a certain amount of pride in our cardiovascular capabilities (running and biking and such) but balancing is another thing. Had we been a circus family of tightrope workers and trapeze artists, the family line would have surely died out long ago.
I can balance a checkbook. I can balance work and family responsibilities. I can even balance my diet pretty well. I wasn’t so sure if I could balance on the balls of my feet with my backside handing over the boat’s back side as we rolled in the gentle waves.
As Haser and Pannie sat facing forward enjoying a snack, I said a short prayer asking that the ocean stay calm and that my boss not have to pull me, with shorts around my ankles, back into the boat. I fumbled with my drawstrings and firmly planted my toes.
Let me just end, dear friends and family, by saying that if you have the opportunity to take a yoga class and if that particular yoga instructor is inclined to incorporate balancing poses into the yoga routine, one should seriously consider taking it. As I learned today, it can come in handy in situations that you never would have expected.
Fate was more kind to me then it was to the mahi-mahi that shared our small quarters. Both the wind and the water stayed still.
To Mary and Sue, my yoga instructors for the past year and half in Salem, I say, “Thank you from the bottom of my heart but not from the bottom of the ocean. In dry clothes and with a body once again centered in the boat’s interior, thank you and Namaste.”
[Note: Last weekend I had stopped by my Filipino co-worker Edwin’s house around noon time and asked him he wanted to take a ride out the point to go swimming. “Now?” he asked incredulously. Edwin has lived on the island several years. He explained, “The sun is too strong now, we must wait until 5:30 PM.” He is a wise man, Edwin.]
Not much more than twelve hours after returning from happy hours, by boss Haser, his friend Pannie, and I left dry land in a small motor boat, my stomach wasn’t quite feeling 100%.
Heading off in search of yellow-fin tuna and mahi-mahi with two men whose ancestors subsided from the bounty of the sea, set off a surge of excitement within me. We sped out of the lagoon towards the open waters that lay beyond.
There are no trees on the water and the clouds had taken the day off. It wasn’t long before my excitement was visited by Edwin’s voice repeating itself inside my head, “Now? The sun is too strong now; we must wait until 5:30 PM.”
Less than an hour into the trip, the sun had crawled its way under my shirt. The heat sucked the energy from my flesh. I was no match for the early afternoon equatorial sun. Drinking water was plentiful but it didn’t sit well in my stomach. I would have gladly thrown in the towel and conceded defeat, a man beaten by the elements, only my towel was far away on dry land.
Seasickness was a secondary concern. The up and down motion of the swells certainly didn’t help my physical condition but it didn’t seem too bad except for when we had to stop the boat to change lures. It was then that my stomach played upon an imaginary seesaw while the rest of my body only craved shade.
I didn’t know how long the outing was scheduled to last but the cooler of food sitting in the boat suggested that I wouldn’t have wanted to know. The thought of asking to be returned to the launching pad, from I could have easily called a cab, occupied my thoughts. I’m sure they would have, but I didn’t want them to waste either time or fuel.
One searches for fish by searching for birds. Sea birds feed on small fish just like bigger fish do. The type of bird indicates the type of fish. At a point when we seemed closer to the lagoon than we had earlier, I was about to ask to be returned to dry land. Before the words could leave my mouth, a flock of black birds was spotted. In hot pursuit, we eagerly turned away from the lagoon.
After I short while I knew that defeat had come. The heat delivered its knockout blow. Had there been a fat lady on the boat, she would have burst into song. Instead, the next sound to be heard was that of me throwing up over the side of the boat.
As my head hung over the Pacific Ocean as if it were a giant toilet bowl, a mahi-mahi seized the moment to strike. I felt the line I held in my left hand go taunt in a way it hadn’t all day (we fished just with lines, no rod and reel). I turned my head and saw
Pannie standing at the back of the boat pointing excitedly in the direction of my line.
In a sequence of events I don’t really recall, my line was transferred to Haser.
I returned to my prior activity as hand over hand Haser pulled the line in. The next time I lifted my head, my eyes fell upon a nice size mahi-mahi flopping around in the boat.
I’d like to say my story ends here. It would a nice spot to end. A happy ending one would say, unless, of course, if one were a fish. But my story continues, my experience not quite complete.
As you may have experienced in your own life, vomiting is often accompanied by the need to empty one’s bowels. I was on a motorboat! With my new boss! Not coming from a boating background, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Coming from a different culture than my companions, I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject. The Micronesians seem to be polite people, and I wasn’t quite sure what was the correct noun to use to describe “#2.”
“I feel a little better," I announced as my head returned from the outside of the boat, “but I could really use a bathroom.”
“No problem,” Haser informed me, “Pannie will come sit up here and you can go back there and balance yourself over the edge of the boat.”
As Pannie and I switched places and the boat gently rose and fell, I could only reflect on the fact that the Spivak family has never been known for its coordination and balancing abilities. We Spivaks can take a certain amount of pride in our cardiovascular capabilities (running and biking and such) but balancing is another thing. Had we been a circus family of tightrope workers and trapeze artists, the family line would have surely died out long ago.
I can balance a checkbook. I can balance work and family responsibilities. I can even balance my diet pretty well. I wasn’t so sure if I could balance on the balls of my feet with my backside handing over the boat’s back side as we rolled in the gentle waves.
As Haser and Pannie sat facing forward enjoying a snack, I said a short prayer asking that the ocean stay calm and that my boss not have to pull me, with shorts around my ankles, back into the boat. I fumbled with my drawstrings and firmly planted my toes.
Let me just end, dear friends and family, by saying that if you have the opportunity to take a yoga class and if that particular yoga instructor is inclined to incorporate balancing poses into the yoga routine, one should seriously consider taking it. As I learned today, it can come in handy in situations that you never would have expected.
Fate was more kind to me then it was to the mahi-mahi that shared our small quarters. Both the wind and the water stayed still.
To Mary and Sue, my yoga instructors for the past year and half in Salem, I say, “Thank you from the bottom of my heart but not from the bottom of the ocean. In dry clothes and with a body once again centered in the boat’s interior, thank you and Namaste.”
Sunday, March 15, 2009
I invite you to invite me...
Friday March 13, 2009
Sokeh's Rock (left/center view from the Balcony bar)
This week at work I was explaining my success in meeting some ex-pats. Mike, a co-worker, from the island remarked that I should also try and meet some Micronesians and not just spend my time with ex-pats.
“Mike,” I replied, “I tend to agree with you but from what I’ve read Micronesians tend to socialize within their families and clans and it is hard to breakthrough that barrier.”
The next day I cornered him between cubicles and let him know that I had thought more about what he had said and that it would be a shame if I missed out on the cultural experience of interacting with Micronesians, gaining an appreciation of their lifestyle, etc.
“Mike,” I informed him, “I’m putting you in charge of the project. You are now responsible for making sure I have a full social life. 90% of your performance evaluation will be based on it.”
Mike reports directly to me, so I could do this.
At the office staff meeting on Friday morning, I stood up and reiterated my conversation with Mike to the staff and concluded it by saying, “therefore, I invite you to invite me to your family feasts, to go with you on fishing trips, and on other social outings.”
My boss Haser, to his credit, stepped up and invited me to join his fishing trip planned for the next afternoon.
As Friday afternoon came to a close, we headed off for happy hour. The destination was typical in that it was located in a building I had driven past but that I had never noticed. Situated in an industrial looking complex down a long driveway from the main road, The Balcony had only a small sign (not visible from the road) to alert one of its presence. Of course, here everybody knows where everything is so signage is only an issue for newcomers like me.
The Balcony, though simply named, was also accurately named. We went up an outdoor staircase at the side of the building and I found myself on a covered balcony looking out at the water. Three small islands lay a ways out in the water, the view on the left was of lush jungle foliage, and Sokeh’s Rock (a familiar landmark) jetted out on the left side. Wow, I must say it was spectacular.
Late afternoon is a wonderful time on the island. The trade wind blows a gentle breeze and the clouds dance across the sky. Sashimi accompanied the beer and I enjoyed getting to know my co-workers. Twilight turned to evening and happy hour turned into happy hours. I went home not drunk, but with more beer sitting in my stomach then it’s had in a long time.
Two full work weeks have passed. I'm still in the honeymoon period but as of right now, I am feeling comfortable here, I am excited about what a great staff I have, and I'm enjoying the yams.
I went to sleep happy and looking forward to tomorrow’s fishing trip.
What a difference a week makes
Saturday March 7, 2009
The Rusty Anchor (see 3/10 entry "In Search of Ex-Pats" for the signifance of the exterior of this bar)
As you may recall, last Saturday (my first on the island) I went to a bar known to be popular with ex-pats with the hopes of meeting a few. Less than 6 people populated the bar, only two of the Anglos and not very extroverted at that.
I heard that at 9PM this Saturday a band would be playing and all the ex-pats would show up. It was a good lead, from a young American medical student doing a 30-day rotation here, so back I went.
When I arrived at 8:45 the only people in the place were a small group of Anglo woman were shooting pool but band equipment was set up in the corner. Now, it has been a while since I approached strange women in a bar but some things in life are like riding a bike. I ordered a beer, and with intentions purely platonic, wandered over to introduce myself.
They were Aussie woman, I learned, whose husbands were here as naval advisors (FSM has a small fleet that patrols its waters for illegal fishing vessels). Fortunately for me, the pool table sat at the front of the bar so that the players congregated near the front corner, a convenient place for their drinks. If you ever find yourself in a bar, trying to meet the ex-pat community, station yourself at the corner of the bar nearest the entrance.
As we chatted, as on cue the place began to fill up as the 9:00 hour drew near. Mike, an Irishman on contract with the Dept. of Education who has only been here a month himself, and I was introduce to him. Mike, in turn, then introduced me to several others. I was encouraged by the number of people he already new in the short time he’d been here.
After Mike excused himself, Paul, the Aussie Naval Officer, came over and took me under his wing. He invited me out to Aussie compound and also introduced me to many others. Within an hour I’d met the guys who operate the local surf tour company, the man who published the island’s bimonthly newspaper, the guitar player in the band (a fellow Jersey native) and a few others.
Overloaded with new names and faces, I retreated to the corner to take in the scene. The band of ex-pats played classic cover tunes just perfect for a local bar. The crowd was a mixture of young college students taking a year off to volunteer at the Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) school; Peace Corps volunteers, just slightly older then the college students; folks like myself here on contract assignments, and old ex-pats who had made Pohnpei their home after perhaps a stint as SDA teachers, Peace Corp volunteers, or contract workers.
I went home relieved and encouraged. What a difference a week makes!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Searching for housing
Friday 2/27/09:
My second day on the island was spent looking at available housing. One often hears of ex-pats living a life of comfort in developing nations that they could not afford back in the states. Those ex-pats did not live in FSM. I’m not sure exactly what I expected to find. Perhaps a little villa within walking distance of the town square? Perhaps an apartment complex with little Kiwis, Aussies, and American kids playing in the courtyard while adults drank beer and swapped stories of adventure from around the globe. That’s not what I found.
Zoning doesn’t seem to exist here. Interdispersed with the few modest houses I saw were Structures that seemed to combine elements of tin shacks and park ramadas appeared with alarming frequency. They didn’t quite look like homes but many had clotheslines out front, brightly patterned garments hanging in the noonday heat, suggesting a domestic presence. Not sure how to broach the topics of housing conditions without possibly offending my new host, I kept my curiosity to myself.
We headed down the main road and then veered up a sharp incline , angled left, passed a large pig in a small enclosure, angled right and went up another sharp incline and stopped in front a horizontal building that didn’t know the word ‘repainted.’ The building, which had about 5 apartments, was the color of an old white t-shirt that had never been introduced to bleach or hot water. A single bulb hung from the high ceiling in the living room and a few feet of grass kept the jungle vegetation at bay.
Next we looked at the Ocean View apartments, a building that lived up to its name. An elaborately tiled open staircase led up to the second story. At the top of the stairs I stopped to admire the view and enjoy the breeze that flowed through hallway. The apartment, I was told, faced the street and not the ocean. Not perfect but acceptable, especially as entrance required one to ascend and descend that magnificent staircase
I walked through the front with hopes held high. What I saw in front of me looking oddly reminiscent of the hundreds of hotel rooms I’ve stayed in. The front door opened directly into the bedroom. “Odd,” I thought. My hopes dropped like a roller coaster as I scanned the room for a doorway leading to a kitchen or perhaps another room but found nothing but wall. I had been shown a hotel room and not an apartment; the apartments were all occupied.
We looked at two more apartments, the second more drab than the first. I left the office with an uneasy feeling in my stomach. To make matters worse, I missed a turn, got lost, and didn’t make it back in time for Wenonoa’s scheduled phone call.
I went to bed that night with the assumption that things would have to get better.
My second day on the island was spent looking at available housing. One often hears of ex-pats living a life of comfort in developing nations that they could not afford back in the states. Those ex-pats did not live in FSM. I’m not sure exactly what I expected to find. Perhaps a little villa within walking distance of the town square? Perhaps an apartment complex with little Kiwis, Aussies, and American kids playing in the courtyard while adults drank beer and swapped stories of adventure from around the globe. That’s not what I found.
Zoning doesn’t seem to exist here. Interdispersed with the few modest houses I saw were Structures that seemed to combine elements of tin shacks and park ramadas appeared with alarming frequency. They didn’t quite look like homes but many had clotheslines out front, brightly patterned garments hanging in the noonday heat, suggesting a domestic presence. Not sure how to broach the topics of housing conditions without possibly offending my new host, I kept my curiosity to myself.
We headed down the main road and then veered up a sharp incline , angled left, passed a large pig in a small enclosure, angled right and went up another sharp incline and stopped in front a horizontal building that didn’t know the word ‘repainted.’ The building, which had about 5 apartments, was the color of an old white t-shirt that had never been introduced to bleach or hot water. A single bulb hung from the high ceiling in the living room and a few feet of grass kept the jungle vegetation at bay.
Next we looked at the Ocean View apartments, a building that lived up to its name. An elaborately tiled open staircase led up to the second story. At the top of the stairs I stopped to admire the view and enjoy the breeze that flowed through hallway. The apartment, I was told, faced the street and not the ocean. Not perfect but acceptable, especially as entrance required one to ascend and descend that magnificent staircase
I walked through the front with hopes held high. What I saw in front of me looking oddly reminiscent of the hundreds of hotel rooms I’ve stayed in. The front door opened directly into the bedroom. “Odd,” I thought. My hopes dropped like a roller coaster as I scanned the room for a doorway leading to a kitchen or perhaps another room but found nothing but wall. I had been shown a hotel room and not an apartment; the apartments were all occupied.
We looked at two more apartments, the second more drab than the first. I left the office with an uneasy feeling in my stomach. To make matters worse, I missed a turn, got lost, and didn’t make it back in time for Wenonoa’s scheduled phone call.
I went to bed that night with the assumption that things would have to get better.
A mail order bride arrives
Thur 2/26/09:
When the pilot announced we would be landing soon, I was as nervous as a mail order bride landing in a new country to begin a new life with a man she has never met. The reason was simple, I was landing in a new country to begin a new life. Not as a bride, but as an employee. I had two advantages over a mail order bride – I had met my new boss, though only once, and my commitment was only for two years, not life.
My first impression of Kolonia, the main population center, was that it came and went quickly, as we drove from the airport to the office in Paliker.
Dogs that looked semi-domesticated at best roamed freely through the streets. In fairness though, I should add they looked amicable enough and some even sported collars.
Pedestrians were everywhere. Not like one sees in pictures of India or China but there was always a few in sight. They ambled along with a proprietary sense of ownership of the narrow road. Cars were given nary a glance and the expectation was that they would manuver around. After all, why have a steering wheel if not to steer. The international law of tonnage did not apply here.
We drove up a winding, narrow road to Paliker, site of the national government offices. "This will most likely be the road I’ll travel daily for the next 2 years," the thought formed in my head and then fluttered downward to my stomach and settled there with the heaviness of a rock.
The flight from Honolulu lasted ten hours and included two stops in the Marshal Islands and a stop on the FSM island of Kosrea. I had traveled too far to turn back and, besides, I didn’t have a return ticket.
When the pilot announced we would be landing soon, I was as nervous as a mail order bride landing in a new country to begin a new life with a man she has never met. The reason was simple, I was landing in a new country to begin a new life. Not as a bride, but as an employee. I had two advantages over a mail order bride – I had met my new boss, though only once, and my commitment was only for two years, not life.
My first impression of Kolonia, the main population center, was that it came and went quickly, as we drove from the airport to the office in Paliker.
Dogs that looked semi-domesticated at best roamed freely through the streets. In fairness though, I should add they looked amicable enough and some even sported collars.
Pedestrians were everywhere. Not like one sees in pictures of India or China but there was always a few in sight. They ambled along with a proprietary sense of ownership of the narrow road. Cars were given nary a glance and the expectation was that they would manuver around. After all, why have a steering wheel if not to steer. The international law of tonnage did not apply here.
We drove up a winding, narrow road to Paliker, site of the national government offices. "This will most likely be the road I’ll travel daily for the next 2 years," the thought formed in my head and then fluttered downward to my stomach and settled there with the heaviness of a rock.
The flight from Honolulu lasted ten hours and included two stops in the Marshal Islands and a stop on the FSM island of Kosrea. I had traveled too far to turn back and, besides, I didn’t have a return ticket.
Prelude
February 24, 2009:
There is a sign on the highway four miles north of my home. It reads, “The 45th Parallel -halfway between the Equator and the North Pole.” I’ve always liked that sign; it provides a perspective. The words ground me in the center of the Northern Hemisphere with all but 60 miles of North America spreading out before me to the east.
The 45th Parallel sign also reminds me that one can travel. The hemisphere reaches out both north and south and we are situated exactly in the middle, the perfect spot to start a journey in either direction.
Flip a coin. Heads travel north and tails travel south. The travel gods flipped the coin that holds my fate. It landed on tails.
My journey south begins by heading north. I pass the sign as my wife takes me to the airport so that I can begin my voyage. With each passing mile the present faded into the past. All that had become familiar in the last three and a half years disappears in the rearview mirror.
My destination is just a speck. A speck on the map in a sea of blue, a mere 6 degrees north of the Equator. To get there I traveled so far west that I am now on the eastern side of the map. Not so far east as to be in danger of slipping off the map, but close, at roughly 150 degrees longitude.
Scuba enthusiasts might know of the Trukk Lagoon, which serves as a graveyard for Japanese naval ships sunk during WWIIs Pacific Front. Sociology students might vaguely recall reading about the giant stone coins that served as currency on the island of Yap during earlier times.
They are both islands, and states, of the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM). I am on neither. I am on, Pohnpei, which serves as the capital of the FSM and is home to 34,000 of FSM’s 110,000 residents.
Micronesia literally means small island. It was aptly named and not by one prone to exaggeration. Pohnpei is the largest of the islands in the FSM. It dimensions appear to be roughly 12 miles by 15 miles at its widest and longest points. Its not a perfect circle but within its perimeter lay 129 sq. miles of land.
129 sq. miles may not seem like a lot unless you consider that the total land mass of FSM, is just 270 sq. miles. The country is more water than land. I read that 1,000,000 sq miles of ocean resides within its borders. The distance from its western most island (Yap) to its easternmost island (Kosrae) spans 1,550 miles. The 4 major islands of Yap, Chuuk, Pohnpei, and Kosrae, are not alone. There are 603 smaller islands dispersed in the sea – the outer islands they are called.
Why I am here? Why would a person bypass Polynesia, famed for its beauty and beaches, and bypass Indonesia, reknown for its culture art, and come to Micronesia? Why, I’ve come for the yams of course.
There is a sign on the highway four miles north of my home. It reads, “The 45th Parallel -halfway between the Equator and the North Pole.” I’ve always liked that sign; it provides a perspective. The words ground me in the center of the Northern Hemisphere with all but 60 miles of North America spreading out before me to the east.
The 45th Parallel sign also reminds me that one can travel. The hemisphere reaches out both north and south and we are situated exactly in the middle, the perfect spot to start a journey in either direction.
Flip a coin. Heads travel north and tails travel south. The travel gods flipped the coin that holds my fate. It landed on tails.
My journey south begins by heading north. I pass the sign as my wife takes me to the airport so that I can begin my voyage. With each passing mile the present faded into the past. All that had become familiar in the last three and a half years disappears in the rearview mirror.
My destination is just a speck. A speck on the map in a sea of blue, a mere 6 degrees north of the Equator. To get there I traveled so far west that I am now on the eastern side of the map. Not so far east as to be in danger of slipping off the map, but close, at roughly 150 degrees longitude.
Scuba enthusiasts might know of the Trukk Lagoon, which serves as a graveyard for Japanese naval ships sunk during WWIIs Pacific Front. Sociology students might vaguely recall reading about the giant stone coins that served as currency on the island of Yap during earlier times.
They are both islands, and states, of the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM). I am on neither. I am on, Pohnpei, which serves as the capital of the FSM and is home to 34,000 of FSM’s 110,000 residents.
Micronesia literally means small island. It was aptly named and not by one prone to exaggeration. Pohnpei is the largest of the islands in the FSM. It dimensions appear to be roughly 12 miles by 15 miles at its widest and longest points. Its not a perfect circle but within its perimeter lay 129 sq. miles of land.
129 sq. miles may not seem like a lot unless you consider that the total land mass of FSM, is just 270 sq. miles. The country is more water than land. I read that 1,000,000 sq miles of ocean resides within its borders. The distance from its western most island (Yap) to its easternmost island (Kosrae) spans 1,550 miles. The 4 major islands of Yap, Chuuk, Pohnpei, and Kosrae, are not alone. There are 603 smaller islands dispersed in the sea – the outer islands they are called.
Why I am here? Why would a person bypass Polynesia, famed for its beauty and beaches, and bypass Indonesia, reknown for its culture art, and come to Micronesia? Why, I’ve come for the yams of course.
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