Stuff

July 16

Stuff. Beautiful, glorious stuff. Two big wooden crates filled with our stuff arrived last week. Wenonoa and I are both known to favor minimalism when it comes to household stuff so you may be surprised over my excitement but consider…

For the last two months I have lived an existence that can be accurately described as Spartan. In the three bedroom house we are renting, the sole furnishings were a kitchen table and chairs; a pot, pan, a couple of plastic bowls and plates and assorted plastic cutlery; a yoga mat and exercise ball; and a mattress. I’m sure that there are monks who have more.

For the most part, I was ok with the setup. Except for the bed! It was a loaner until mine arrived. To call it a bed is being generous. Picture a set of springs wrapped inside a mattress casing – that is what I slept on. I’m not sure what happened to the foam or whatever material is generally used to fill a mattress these days but I’m pretty sure that if I cut open the mattress, I wouldn’t find any. If you think I’m exaggerating then consider this one fact: After Wenonoa spent her first night here, when she got up in the morning I noticed a series of indentations running up her back where the springs pressed into her flesh.

The worst part about the bed was that I could have had a nice (or at least decent) one. The standard contract used by the FSM government when hiring ex-pats requires the government to supply a bed and a kitchen table. I could have gone down to Ace Hardware (yes, Ace Hardware) or one of the few other stores that sells mattresses and walked out with a brand new mattress. Given that even a basic twin mattress retails for over $400 here and I generally hate to see money wasted, no matter whose it is, I didn’t.

I thought, “How bad could it be? My bed from home will arrive in a month or so.” So I took the loner and I found out just how bad it could be. For over 60 nights I tried to shrink my body into the narrowest of spaces between the columns of springs. It never worked and I don’t think I got one good night’s sleep in the two month period.

So yes – stuff, glorious stuff! Each time I walk into the bedroom and see our bed lying there, soft but firm with no springs poking up at me, waves of relief and appreciation wash over me.

Second in the list of possessions I truly cherish having is our television set. It’s nothing fancy. It’s a modest 27” or 32” and it’s not a flat screen. Having watched movies on a laptop at the kitchen table for two months, watching a movie on a 27” television screen while sitting in a good old Lazy Boy recliner is now as exciting as the first time I heard surround sound or sat in a theater with stadium seating.

As Huck Finn might have said, “I feel a might bit civilized.”

Wenonoa's writes about her first days

Arrival in Pohnpei
June 26, 2009
Guest blog by Wenonoa
As we flew over the expansive Pacific Ocean, I was struck by how many shades of beautiful blue existed in this amazing marine environment. Many of the outer islands that make up the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM) are actually atolls which are coral rings that form the top of dead, underwater volcanoes. These rings are surrounded by incredible turquoise, green and blue water and are beautiful from the air.

When we left Honolulu, we stopped in two of the Marshall Islands and in Kosrae (FSM) before landing on Pohnpei. As the plane touched down, I was very excited to arrive in our new home. It reminded me of when I first landed in Honduras so many years ago. As you deplane, the tropical humidity and heat hit you. You walk across the tarmac into a small building with wooden booths where you present your passport and answer questions about why you are there. Then you head out into baggage claim. Baggage claim on Pohnpei is a metal shelf facing the open air. A baggage attendant loads a Nissan or Toyota pickup with baggage, drives across the tarmac and deposits the baggage onto the metal shelf where you retrieve it and then go through customs. The pick-up usually makes a few trips.

When we emerged from customs, two of Eric’s co-workers were there to pick us up and give us a ride home. They were bearing a welcome fruit basket with local watermelon, mangoes, pineapples, and papaya. I can’t imagine a tastier welcome.

Right-sided driving
June 29, 2009
Guest blog by Wenonoa
Eric purchased a vehicle through Japanesevehicles.com. You go to the website, choose a vehicle from a database, wire some money to Japan, and wait for your car to arrive by ship. This takes about 4 weeks. As the cars come from Japan, they are mostly right-sided driving vehicles. Pohnpeians drive on the right side of the road just like we do in America; although, with many potholes and other obstructions, you mostly end up in the middle. America should really adopt right-sided driving as it puts the driver on the outside of the road and would reduce head-on collision fatalities (I am postulating here but it seems to make sense). I took to the right-handed driving right away. We have an automatic transmission so it is a lot less complicated than a standard transmission would be.

Driving on Pohnpei reminds me of the Atari game Pitfall. You start out slowly – about 25 km/hr and as you round each corner you brake to navigate around numerous potholes, dogs lying in the road, and slowly ambling pedestrians who expect you to wait until they decide to move to the side of the road. Then, as you pick up speed, a chicken bursts out from the foliage on the side of the road and you have to slow again or you come to a road trench – as I fondly refer to them. These reverse speed bumps are common on the main road and its arterials. On my first day of driving, I dropped Eric off at his workplace and continued onto the College of Micronesia where I will begin teaching in August. A colleague of mine, Mary, who has been here almost a year, accompanied me to show me the lay of the land.

Bureaucracy
July 1, 2009
Guest blog by Wenonoa
Today I decided to get a driver’s license. I needed one and, as it turned out, I had nothing else going on that day. The process would begin with obtaining a social security number. While not as challenging as going to an actual social security office in the states, it provided some unique challenges. I was given general directions - the social security office is directly in front of the Bank of Guam and there is a thatched roof hut in the area in front of the social security office.

There aren’t really addresses here. Fine, I thought, and set out. After several unsuccessful passes through the 1-mile downtown stretch, I still couldn’t locate the bank. Changing tactics, I began looking for the thatched roof hut. That bit of advice proved to be worth its weight in gold as I quickly spotted it and turned into a hilly driveway leading to a 2-story building. I parked in front of a small Bank of Guam sign that was only visible if parked directly in front of it. Luckily that is where I parked so knew immediately that I was in the right place.

I walked back down the hill toward the main road and the thatched hut. A non-descript cement building with 2 brown doors faced the hut. Upon closer inspection (standing directly in front of the door closest to me) I noticed a sign the size of an address label that said simply, “social security.” I went in. After filling out a postcard-sized, one-sided form, and paying $3.00, I was given a social security card. If only the bureaucracy in the states could be so easy… Now on to the police station.

On one of my lost loops through town, I had inadvertently passed where I knew the police station was based on a prior tour so I was certain where to go next. I parked in the lot and tried to decide behind which of the doors facing me might lie the police station. It was difficult to determine based on the ruin-like appearance of the entire complex. I picked the one directly in front of me and it opened into a small waiting area with a couple of “protect and serve” posters on the wall. I surmised I was in the correct place. This was confirmed as a gentleman in a “Charlie’s Pizza” shirt behind the counter sent for someone when I explained that I was there for a driver’s license. After logging my name and information in what can only be described as a century’s old journal on the counter, he asked for my current driver’s license and filled out a short form.

He handed the form back to me and explained that their driver’s license machine was broken but that parts had been ordered. They would issue me a paper license. First, though, I had to take the application form across town to the state finance department, pay the $6.50 fee and either go to Nicho’s, the local printing company, or the library for a photo. I left with the form to find the finance department. Luckily I knew it was in the vicinity of the Peace Corps office which I had already visited.

Upon arrival near the Peace Corps office, I saw two people standing in a line at a window and walked over to join them. There was a paper taped to the side of the window with a list of fees they accepted – I was actually surprised that I had found the right place. When it was my turn, I handed the lady my form and payment and left with a receipt. I then headed out to find the library which I was told charged less for a photo than Nicho’s and was right across the street from it. Without that knowledge, I would have missed the library altogether. I pulled up in front of a building that has seen much, much better days. I got out and went into the abandoned-looking building through a paint bare door. I waited for awhile as someone was dispatched to find the one woman who could operate the digital camera. After posing for the shot, I was given a passport-sized photo and asked to pay $1.00. Then it was back to the police department.

I was getting parched by this time so I stopped at what they call a drive through convenience store (really a pull in, park, get out, and walk up to) for a coke. When I arrived back at the police station some 40 minutes later, the policeman was surprised to see that I had finished all of my errands. I thanked him for his great directions. I then waited while the secretary typed in my information on an archaic word processor, spit out my new paper license, and taped on my photo. She did this all while carrying on what sounded like a very animated phone conversation as the police office looked over her shoulder the entire time. Multi-tasking has arrived in Pohnpei.

After handing me my license, the nice policeman suggested that I get it laminated or it would quickly deteriorate. Back to Nicho’s I went to pay another $1.50 for the lamination. After a full day of finding government offices, I was then pretty tired so I returned home to take a nap and catch up on some reading.

Reflections on my trip to the U.S.

Sunday July 5, 2009

I haven’t posted an entry in over a month. As planned, I went back to the states in June and Wenonoa and I rendezvoused in Jersey. Now I’m back in Pohnpei. Having returned over a week ago I’m falling back into familiar patterns, only now Wenonoa is with me!

Having only been gone three months, I wouldn’t say I experienced culture shock upon being back in the states but I definitely had a new appreciation for things we often take for granted. Things were wonderfully clean and choices were abundant. On my first trip to a supermarket I fought the urge to drop to my knees and kiss the holy ground. So many vegetables, so many fruits!

The suburbs, though sparkly clean, felt as empty as a ghost town. With no pedestrians, no dogs lying by the side of the road, and no chickens crossing the road (which they do with a frequency here), the life that pulses slowly through Pohnpei was missing. Though the housing structures were magnificent and the green lawns expansive, the burbs felt empty.

New York, on the other hand, was a whole different experience. New York was beautiful. I hadn’t spent much time in Manhattan since the 80s and the place has cleaned up nicely. The subway graffiti was wiped clean, the streets swept of trash, and even the seediness of Time Square was gone.

As an American, I felt a sense of pride during the time we spent in New York. New Yorkers take a lot of slack for being loud, pushy people but they get things done. The skyscrapers, the architecture, even the subway system that exists as a city beneath the city exemplified the ‘can do’ spirit that made America the land of opportunity. Pohnpei, by contrast, seems to lack drive and ambition and I question whether it will ever achieve any level of economic independence.

Most of all, I enjoyed the New York museums. During multiple trips from Jersey, we visited the Museum of Jewish Heritage, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the American Museum of Natural History, and even a folk art museum. Life in Pohnpei is pleasant but it lacks pure intellectual stimulation. Things are as they are here and there is little reason to give consideration to topics outside the immediate environment. The New York museums were a wonderful change from all that.

Our museum trips provided the opportunity to witness African-American school children consider prejudice from a different perspective as they toured a Holocaust display. At the Met we gazed at Greek sculptures among throngs of New Yorkers taking advantage of free admission on a Tuesday night. At the Museum of Natural History dinosaur skeletons prompted us to contemplate life on a whole different scale. Even the folk art museum provided food for thought. Jazz inspired quilts were on display leading one to consider the ways in which music touches us and inspires our own creativity.

Manhattan is now some 10,000 miles away and I’m on back on Pohnpei. Having been back for ten days now, I’m readjusting to the pace of life and the limitations. You may be wondering how Wenonoa is adapting to life here so I’ve asked her to write a couple of guest blog entries to share her first week here.

My Brand New Used Car

May 27, 2009

There seems to be some magical force that hangs over the island and makes even the simplest of task long and complicated and both frustrating and amusing at the same time. Today the force was with me….

My brand new used car arrived from Japan yesterday so I went to pick it up at the dock this morning. Simple as that may seem, the morning turned into a bit of a scavenger hunt. Luckily I had been forewarned.

The road from our office, which is 5 miles outside of town, passes through town and then heads toward the shipping port area, which is next to the airport. Micronesians seem to take things very literally, so it makes sense that they placed the airport next to the port.

Heading through town, I stop at an auto repair shop a co-worker had recommended to see about getting the oil changed. Who knows when the last time the oil was changed? I find the place, after first stopping at the tire shop next door by mistake, and ask the guy how much they charge to do an oil change.

“$15,” I’m told. That seems too cheap. The cost of labor is next to nothing here, but the oil and filter are still imported goods. Sometimes 15 and 50 sound alike, especially if the listener struggles with accents.

Not sure I heard correctly, I ask, “one five or five zero?”

“One five, $15 to change oil and filter and lube,” he restates.

Since I’m pretty sure I’ve seen oil being sold for $4 a quart and most cars take 4 quarts, this isn’t making sense to me. I just sort of stand there looking confused, trying to figure out what to do next.

Sensing my confusion, he restates, “one five, $15 to change oil and filter and lube.” Then he adds, “Plus the cost of oil and filter.”

It all makes sense now. Micronesians are literal people. I had asked how much they charge to change the oil. Its $15 to change it, plus the cost of the oil.

That issue resolved, I head off to pick up the car. I’ve never had anything imported before so the process is new to me. I’m not sure what it entails in the U.S., but in the FSM this is the process I went through:

Step 1: Go to the transit company’s office with my bill of lading and they stamp it and have me sign that I received the vehicle, which of course at this point in time I haven’t even seen yet.

Step 2- Go to the state finance office where I’m asked whether it’s for business or personnel use. It’s for personnel use so they stamp the bill of lading, no fee.

Step 3 – Go the Custom’s Office. I was told that Customs is in the three story building across from a certain store. I come to a three story building and park. There is no sign out front. I open the door on the first floor and enter a Dept. of Health building. There is no one there so I walk up to the 2nd floor. I open the door and enter another health related office. There is no one there so I walk up the stairs to the third story and enter yet another health related office. There is no one there so I walk down the three flights of stairs and go to the adjacent building, a little one story building.

I ask where the Customs Office is and learn that there is another three story building on the other side of the one story building. Both are across from the store and I had just gone to the first one I saw. The 2nd three story building is set pretty far back from the street so I had never noticed it before. The sign on the door says “National Office of Tax and Revenue”. Close enough. As I walk in, I see there are customer service windows on the right side and on the left. None are marked. I go to the right and am directed to go to the left. I go to the window with the bill of lading and am told I need the invoice. I was expecting this sort of thing so every piece of paper I have related to the car I have brought with me. I retrieve the invoice from the car, return to the window, and pay the import tax (4% of the total cost of bringing the vehicle into the country, including the shipping cost, in case you’re interested).

Step 4 – I’m told to go to the Port Authority. No problem. There is a guard house and gate where the fishing boats dock. The big sign in front says Port Authority. I’ve noticed it before so I know exactly where to go.

I pick up a co-worker who is working on a project in town so that he can drive the office vehicle back to town after I get my car. We head to the port authority guard house and the guard tells me I’m at the wrong place. I need to go to the two-story building next to the airport, which is just up the road a ¼ mile or so. I go to the two-story building (which doesn’t have a sign), pay $11.72 (a formula based on size and weight), and get stamp #4.

Step 5. It’s off to the loading zone, which is only a 100 yards down the road. A friendly guy in the warehouse directs us to the office, which was partially hidden by a shipping container. I pay $30 to the company that offloads freight, get stamp #5, and go back to the friendly warehouse guy. He counts the five stamps, some paperwork is completed, and the car is mine.

The gas gage is on empty and the oil, which I checked, seems dangerously low but town is only around 2 miles away. Fortunately, I have $20 left in my pocket so I can buy 5 gallons of gas. I gas up and drive over to the mechanic’s shop.

No one is working in the shop and the office door is locked. My watch says 11:38. The hours posted on the office door say, “8:00 to 11:30. 12:30 – 5:30.”

No problem. This is actually good. The car only came with one key and I wanted to get duplicates made as soon as possible. I can leave my car at the shop, walk the mile back to where my office car was left, drive the two miles to the hardware store, get the duplicate key made, and return to the shop to let them know which car is mine and to reaffirm the oil change appointment.

I used my last $20 for gas but the bank is between the repair shop and the location of the office car. Perfect, I can get money to buy the duplicate keys, pay the mechanic, and get lunch. Besides, I needed to stop by the bank and see if my checks had arrived yet for the checking account I had opened in March.

My checks weren’t there. I had called in April and they hadn’t arrived. I had called earlier in May and found out that not only had they not arrived, they hadn’t been ordered. They still hadn’t arrived but the nice new accounts rep pulled out her log book and saw that she personally had ordered them after my last phone call. Since, during our previous phone call she had taken the time to investigate why they hadn’t arrived and, in doing so, had found out that they hadn’t arrived because they hadn’t been ordered, I like her.

I’m reassured that they should arrive within a week and that if I need to, they can manually print me some checks. Since I’m out of starter checks and going to the bank requires using up my lunch hour to make the 10 mile round trip from the office, I decide to do the prudent thing. I ask her to print me a few checks. I then learn they are 25 cents a piece. Man of principal that I am, I’m not going to pay 25 cents a check when the reason I need the printed checks is because the bank failed to place the check order.

Though I am a man of principal, I wasn’t a man of either the extra time or the patience it would take to explain how ludicrous it would be for them to charge me the 25 cent fee. Instead, “I’m not paying the fee,” I informed her with no uncertainty in my voice. I add, a little more nicely, “I’ll hold off on the checks for now.”

I still need the cash I originally stopped in to get, so I ask, “Would you please write my account number on a withdrawal slip so that I can withdraw some cash,” I ask. (They don’t have an ATM machine.)

“You can’t use a withdrawal slip for a checking account. You need a check,” she informed me. I could have very easily gotten upset. In fact, some of you (you know who you are) are probably quite surprised that I didn’t explode. I could have easily exploded. The one thing that kept me from getting upset was the fact that she provided me with this information in the most matter-of-fact voice possible.

Her tone intrigued me. We had just had a whole conversation about how the checks were not originally ordered and how the first time I called the customer rep failed to notice that the checks hadn’t been ordered and how I had to call back a second time. After all that, with no hesitation in her voice, no acknowledgement of the irony of the situation, no apology, she simply stated “You can’t use a withdrawal slip for a checking account. You need a check.”

I asked her to print a check. Still amused by the absurdity of the whole situation, I decided to give her the lonely quarter sitting in my pocket rather than make her fill out whatever paperwork the bank would require to reconcile the non-collected fee of 25 cents. About 25 seconds later she came back, having gone to the back to type my name and account number on a blank check. She was very thankful when I gave her the quarter, adding that she was just going to pay it herself.

Cash in my pocket I left the bank to complete my walk to the office car. It started to rain. Hard. My co-worker from earlier this morning had just driven past in his car going in the opposite direction. Nice guy that he is, he turned around and gave me a ride to where the office car was.

To the hardware store. Getting a duplicate key made is usually a pretty simple process. Duplicate keys are made from specific master keys. There are different master keys for different car makes and lock models. The hardware store had between 25 and 50 master keys. They were out of the one I needed. No problem, there is a second hardware store in town. The second hardware store was also out of the master I needed. (Note: I later found a second key in the glove compartment).

It was now 12:30 so I went back to the shop. After explaining and re-explaining and just plain begging the mechanic not to lose the only key to the car I had, I surrendered the key to the mechanic.

That was my morning. The mechanic did not lose the key and I was able to pick up the car after work.

Postscript: Tomorrow I will need to get a license plate for the car. This is a much shorter process that involves only a trip to the police station where they verify ownership papers, do a vehicle safety check (horn, lights, blinkers, etc), and give you a form to take to the state finance office a ½ mile away. After paying the license plate fee at Finance, a person just needs to return to the police office, show proof of payment, and pick up the plates.

Sounds simple, right? Across the street from the police station there is an empty lot. Next to the empty lot there is a small hotel and conference center. An American guy I know had to go to a conference at the center so he parked his car in the empty lot, as people often do. When he came out his car and all the other cars belonging to non-locals that were parked in the empty lot had parking tickets.

Since there was no “No Parking Sign” he walked across the street to find out why they were ticketed. He was told that the lot belongs to the Police Dept., that no parking is allowed there, and that the Police Dept. is saving up to buy a No Parking Sign. The ticket was later dismissed.

I can’t wait until tomorrow. (Postscript: The registeration process was completed in a quick, efficient manner).