In my last blog post, I gave a rather critical and detrimental account of Chuuk. However, I don’t want my descriptions of the conditions of dirty Weno roads to taint everybody’s image of Chuuk. So to counter my previous negativity, this blog will be dedicated to describing one of the most breathtakingly fantastically beautiful places on earth. The pristine island of Pisar is a close neighbor of grimy Weno, but it is an entirely different place all together.
The school year was winding to a close and we needed a little vacation to kick off the summer in style. In addition, a few other American volunteers had finished their service and were heading home. These friends of ours are Jesuit Volunteers International (JVI’s). Together we form the young American volunteer community of Chuuk. We Peace Corps volunteers have a history of close relations with the JVI’s and we lean on each other for support. During our monthly meetings, we often rendezvous with the JVI’s and sleep over at their apartments on Weno. As a final farewell to our Jesuit friends, we all decided to spend a few days out on Pisar to relax and enjoy the wonders of tropical paradise.
The island of Pisar is on the edge of the barrier reef and is flanked by a number of other small atolls. As the world’s gargantuan geological clock ticks away, the barrier reef is slowly accreting material and building itself into a legitimate atoll. Atolls are usually formed during the long process of island erosion and deposition. The birth of an island can take place in a variety of ways, but one of the most common types begins with an underwater volcano. Molten magma is twirling around below our earth’s crust waiting for a chance to pop to the surface and gasp for a breath of air. The magma gets that chance when there is a small crack or weak point in the crust (often along a fault line between tectonic plates). The lava squirts up and instead of being greeted by a gust of fresh air, it is engulfed by the surrounding ocean and quickly cools into hard rock. The melted rock of our earth’s interior repeats this process for centuries/millennia. Inch by inch the rock solidifies on top of the lower level and starts to form a large mound. This mound/volcano will eventually get big enough that it peaks above the surface. The process continues and soon enough there is a giant volcanic summit towering over the waves below. This volcano will continue to grow until the lava changes its mind and decides to spurt its sizzling juices in some other spot.
Now we are left with one huge island. Over the eons, a coral reef begins to form around the edges of the island. As this coral reef is assembling itself, the island itself is beginning to fade. It is no longer reaching higher and higher with boosters of lava fueling its growth. Instead it is succumbing to the erosive powers of our planet. Wind, rain, water, waves (and in recent times, humans) chip off little pieces of this mighty island and slowly reduce it to rubble. The island sinks into the ocean and the reef around it continues to grow. The reef catches sand, soil, and minerals from the ocean and piles it up over the years. Sooner or later, the reef will develop into a circular ring of thin low-lying islands. These are atolls.
The Chuuk Lagoon is in the middle stage of this lengthy geologic dance. It used to be one immense landmass, but is now a smattering of small mountainous islands. (In fact, the word “Chuuk” means mountain). I assume that the bits of land above the water were the former peaks of the giant volcanic island that once resided here. All that are left are the high points of that ancient isle. The barrier reef is almost completely enclosed and has a few small atolls that are popping up around the circle. Pisar is one of these nascent islands vying for its life against the oncoming onslaught of rising sea levels.
On our boat ride out to Pisar, we were greeted by a peculiar optical illusion created by the barrier reef. The sea is totally calm, but along the horizon, white waves are crashing in the seemingly unruffled surface of the ocean. As I gazed at the panorama of milky waves splashing on an open sea, I couldn’t help but put myself in the shoes of a medieval sailor exploring the world. If I saw this site in 1491, I would have surely thought it was the edge of the world. The frothing white water was the edge of the precipice that took us off the ends of the earth and into the unknown abyss. Luckily, I’ve glanced at a map or two in my life and had no fear of falling off the tabletop of the earth’s surface. Instead of peeing my pants in fright, I simply smiled and savored the extremely unique vantage point that I was currently enjoying.
The small motorboat skipped its way towards the ends of the earth and our magnificent destination began to come into view. From a distance, the group of the three little atolls looked like clumps of green grass balancing on the tightrope of white water that was the border of our of known universe. As we came closer, the shapes of palm trees started to materialize and khaki colored beaches became visible.
The water below us changed from cobalt to aquamarine to powder blue in a series of cascading waves. If you think the ocean is just blue, you are sorely mistaken my friend. The waters around these tropical atolls are a rainbow of blues. A potpourri of pure periwinkle. A selection of shining sapphire shades. A trickster’s trunk of translucent tints. A hodgepodge of happy hues. A medley of mismatched manatee manes. (Ok, enough with the alliterations). You get my point, the variety of blues in the water will blow your socks off. No picture or amateur description by your author can do it justice. It is fantabulous.
The approach to Pisar is one of the most amazing sites that a human can ever hope to lay their eyes upon. The quintessential image of paradise is at your doorstep. The entrance to Shangri-La is only a few feet away. The pearly gates have swung open and heaven reveals itself in all its glory. People dream of places like this. People fantasize about places like this. People pray for places like this.
Imagine another boring day as you are punching keys on your computer and twiddling away your life in your cubicle. Your desktop background depicts a serene island landscape with an outstretched palm tree leaning over the clear shallow waters of a warm tropical sea. Now imagine stepping into that picture and placing yourself in that pristine environment. That is Pisar. Pisar is the type of place that goes on calendars, travel brochures and posters. It is stereotypical tropical paradise.
The minute that I stepped off the boat onto the soft sand of our beach wonderland, I flung off my sandals and tore off my shirt. I never put them back on. There is no need to cover up or keep a swanky style in paradise. Just me and the island. That’s all I need.
The 13 of us volunteers were the only guests on the island. Two local men stayed in a hut on the far end of the beach and acted as caretakers, however their presence was hardly noticed. For all important purposes, the island was ours. There are two small bungalow sleeping houses and an outdoor cook area. One outdoor bath house and one indoor toilet. And the toilet flushes! There isnt a single toilet that flushes with running water on my entire island, but this little fleck of sand has a fully functioning plumbing system. Bravo Pisar management.
Although there were beds, blankets and pillows available; I decided to forgo these luxuries and sleep island style. I hunkered down on a huge hammock fashioned from old fishing nets and slept sound as a pound. The island breeze kept me cool and refreshed. For the first night since I arrived in Micronesia, I didn’t sweat in my sleep. I just swayed in the breeze and delighted in the crisp sea air.
We spent the days frolicking in shallows and snorkeling around the colorful reef. The coral out here was more spectacular than anything I have ever seen. Its untouched beauty and endless variety set it apart from the average diving sites. Pisar is so remote that no dynamite fishing, oily refuse, or mechanical pollution has disturbed its pristine natural habitat. The wonderful shapes and configurations seem like they are right out of Dr. Seuss’s imagination.
One day, we decided to make a little trek and wander out to the edge of the barrier reef. The crashing waves were only about a half-mile away and we could actually walk most of the way. We waded through a strait of low water and then emerged on a rocky outcropping that stretched towards the waves. This wide rocky pathway led us to the far perimeter of the reef.
It was reminiscent of my Southern California home to see real white-capped waves pounding into the sea. Unfortunately for all you hopeful surfers, I don’t think this spot would be very suitable for your purposes. The waves crash on a hard coral base that is only about 1 foot deep. Even if you could keep your balance, I don’t think you could avoid being slammed into the ragged rocks.
We were enjoying the waves and gazing into the thousands miles of open ocean ahead of us when we noticed ominous dark clouds heading our way. Within a few minutes, the wind picked up and the face of an imminent storm was rearing its ugly head. The rain came ripping through the air with reckless abandon. It was a hard stinging rain that stung the skin as it struck. The roaring wind made the rain come in sideways and tear into our backs with its prickling pellets of water. We were weary of making our journey back in this kind of weather, so we had no choice but to wait out the storm. The waves increased their intensity, and clouds continue to dump their buckets of condensed moisture. We laughed deliriously and beckoned the storm challenge our strength. It threw all its might at our beckoning cries and then dissipated as quickly as it came.
The black clouds gave way to white wispy trails of moisture and soon the power of the sun shone through and warmed our sopping bodies. The rate of change in tropical weather continues to astound me. A cycle of sweltering sun, then tempestuous winds, followed by torrential rains, and back to blistering heat all within a half hour period. The constant change is exhilarating and always gives you something to look forward to.
Somedays I find myself caught up in the problems of teaching/community improvement and forget how luck I am to be in such a fantastic place. Taking little vacations like this out to Pisar are a stark reminder of how utterly amazing my environment is. I live in prototypical tropical paradise. I am one fortunate son of a bitch.
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