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.