Reflection Time

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The commute from Fefan to Weno is a tiresome and annoying task for most people. They dread the splattering salt water, the tailbone crunching smacks, and the deadening heat. It costs too much money, takes too much time and is always a hassle.

            Although I struggle with these same issues when crossing the lagoon waters on my way to or from Weno, I actually enjoy the ride. The main reason that I like the commute is because it serves as a time of personal reflection for me. I often get restless in my jungle abode or get wrapped up in the frustrations of school and poverty, but when I get out onto the open ocean everything changes. My troubles slip away and float out towards the distant horizon. The salty air whisks away my worries and a calming sensation washes over my body and mind.

            When I am out on the ocean, it puts everything in perspective. Literally and figuratively. Being in the middle of the dotted islands on the shimmering blue canvas gives me a jolt of reality and reminds me that I am not stuck in a dusky classroom in a sweltering jungle. I am in the center of paradise and the sights around me are beautiful beyond imagination. Somehow, this realization of the physical freedom of my situation spurs a feeling of happiness and contentment with my life.

            I have some of my deepest philosophical thoughts and most affirming inspirations while I am floating over the open waters. I ponder my life decisions, plan the future, recollect the past, and appreciate my life. The quiet atmosphere and feelings of freedom never fail to boost me up. At the end of our journey, most of the other passengers have nasty grimaces strewn across their faces but I will usually have a cheerful smirk on my salty sunburned face.

A Golden Afternoon

The steamy heat of the day fluttered away as the scorching sun hid its fiery face behind its blanket of blue. The straggling glimmers of light cast a golden shadow on the leafy mountainside and pierced through the towering palm fronds that line my village pathway. A group of little children giggled and skipped in a circle around me as we strode towards our houses in the jungle. We were leisurely strolling away from the beach where we had been playing volleyball and enjoying a lazy afternoon.

A mass of grey clouds came rolling over the peaks of our island and someone causally remarked, “epwene pung ran (its going to rain)”. The pace of our walk didn’t change; the onset of rain is not an alarm but rather a simple observation. The sprinkles trickled down for a few seconds and then a barrel of water dumped from the sky. We stepped to the side and stood under the umbrella leaves of a giant tree. Within 30 seconds, the heavy downpour was over and we resumed our happy tropical trek.

The migration of island walkers was not only comprised of children; people of all ages take part in our daily waterside hangout. In Chuuk, status and authority is often determined by age, but that doesn’t seem to stop people from spending social time with others. It is true that people often tend to spend most of their time with their general age group, but intergenerational social interactions are commonplace. The oruur (dock area) is the place where everyone unites to take a break form their chores and relax in the late afternoon. The unusual mishmash of people creates a very interesting social scene. 5-year-old girls hang on the shoulders of their thuggish brothers, old men limp along with their canes, fledgling babies suckle at the teats of their mothers, teenagers blast music from their cell phones, outcast men drink rum on the rusted remains of a boat, and everyone seems to get along in a happy and harmonious manner.

Watte Ranen Fani (A Big Day of Volleyball)

Last Saturday, I had an epic day of volleyball. My friend Paul and I organized a volleyball tournament between our two schools. The 5^th-8^th graders from our classes were scheduled to compete in a friendly tournament to showcase some school pride. My students gathered at our school building early in the morning and we began the hour-long walk to the neighboring village of Sapeta. It was like a school field trip, except with the lack of yellow busses, brown bag lunches, overprotective parents and crazy bus drivers.

            We did a short opening ceremony and had each of the students introduce themselves to the other school. Then we put together some teams mixed with boys and girls and began the games. The outcome of the volleyball competition was on the verge of embarrassing. We played 4 rounds of best of 3 series’ with different teams. My students from UFO easily won every single game and came away with a dominating victory. I was actually secretly rooting for the other school at one point, just because I felt so guilty that we were pummeling them so badly. The other students pouted and my kids celebrated, but in the end everyone seemed to have a good time.

            I walked back with all my boy students and we had a fun time messing around on the jungle pathway. As we were coming closer to our village, a girl hurriedly warned me that I was late for my volleyball game. On this same day, a volleyball tournament was beginning with the youth of UFO. I had been placed on the A team and our game time had been switched to this very afternoon. So I stopped by my house and grabbed a drink of water and a snack before heading down to Fongen to play the game. I arrived just in time and our team smashed our opponents. I am a head shorter than all my teammates, but I am scrappy enough to hold my own on the court.

            After our game, we went back to our village of Unnuno and started our standard afternoon volleyball mayhem. I played for another couple of hours until all the volleyballness was sucked out of me. It was a fun day of triple location volleyballing and gave me the rare sensation of actually being physically exhausted at the end of the day.

The Jerk

The many definitions of Jerk:

(verb) to pull or yank

(verb) to jolt or lurch

(verb) to masturbate

(noun) an inconsiderate asshole

(noun) a spicy sauce from Jamaica

(noun) a classic Steve Martin movie from the 80’s

(noun) a recent dance craze

            While various interpretations of jerk are all interesting, I want to focus on the last definition. The Jerk dance has taken over Chuuk. Its skipping steps and squeaky music have infiltrated all levels of Chuukese society. The tweet of jerking music and hopping youngsters is omnipresent throughout my island.

            The Jerk started a few years ago in the affluent suburbs of Los Angeles. White middle class teenagers combined hip-hop music with skater culture. The fusion of these opposing forces melded into a popular fad. A catchy song about “Jerking It” helped the trend spread at a dizzying rate. Pretty soon, dozens of Jerk songs popped up and certain moves were being categorized and named. Dance moves were nicknamed things like “the spongebob” and “the pretzel”.

            A couple of years ago when I was working at an elementary school in Irvine, the Jerk was just beginning to gain momentum. I remember the first time that I heard of the Jerk. One of my 5^th grade students came up to me at lunch and asked, “hey Mr. Hunter, do you like to jerk it?” I was taken aback by this question and didn’t know how to answer. I assumed his pubescent urges were beginning to rise and he wanted some friendly support about his newfound habit. I gave him a funny look and stammered a long and quavering, “Nooo, I don’t know what you are talking about”

            After a few months, the presence of the Jerk was everywhere and its meaning was no longer in doubt. My students had Jerk dance competitions and were constantly kicking their heels and flopping around with the distinctive jerky motions. I just thought it was a quirky southern California fad and would soon fade into obscurity along with the Macarena, pogs and yo-yo’s.

            You can imagine my surprise when the sounds of “jerk it, jerk it, jerk it” reached my ears in the far off islands of Micronesia. The locals chuukified the songs by adding a few Chuukese phrases and speeding up the playrate to Chipmunk decibels. Pretty soon, the Jerk was everywhere. Every single person knew about the Jerk. My baby sister and 80 year old grandma can both be heard chanting “jerkini” at any hours of the day. The kids jerk their way to school and jerk while doing their chores. 

            I enjoy the funny steps of the dance and the fact that it originated near my hometown, but I am eagerly looking forward to its demise. It will probably linger for a few more months and hopefully fade out by the next year. Its popularity has probably already gone away in America (but Im not sure, cuz I don’t live there). The spread of the Jerk is a testament to the vast network of global media that touches even the most remote areas on our planet.

A Big Micronesia, not a Little America

The main purpose of my job is to teach kids how to speak English. The FSM government has requested only English teachers as Peace Corps Volunteers. Although the FSM is intimately associated with the United States, they have one of the worst English literacy rates in the Pacific. This doesn’t seem to make much sense. So the government and many of the people of Micronesia are pushing towards an Americanization of these islands, beginning in the schools. This goal seems worthy on the surface, but recently I have been considering the long-term effects of my job.

Let me trace the series of events that is the desired outcome of teaching young children how to speak English. This is the generally accepted aim of TEFL programs from the teacher and student perspectives. The students go to elementary school so that they can learn English. Once they learn English, they can understand what’s happening in school and get good grades. Then they can graduate high school. Ideally they could attend college. If possible, they strive to go outside of FSM to attend a real university. If they reach that dream, then they will be able to achieve the ultimate goal of getting a good paying job in America.

So the final outcome of this system is the best and brightest of Micronesia migrating to America. This might be good for those individuals, but it sucks for Micronesia. The FSM and Chuuk especially are victims of the so called “brain drain”. The smartest and best-educated locals have left home. They have gone to seek high paying jobs and more opportunities abroad. This has left their homeland as a crumbling mess of unorganized problems. The Chuukese that have been trained as doctors, engineers, teachers and technicians do not live in Chuuk. They have moved to Guam, or Hawaii or the mainland. Chuuk is falling apart because we don’t have the right people to fix it up. When the potential leaders and geniuses sprout up, they are plucked out and sent to a far away land.

As a further detriment to the islands, the acceptance of English is slowly eroding away the traditional language and culture of Micronesians. Rap songs are replacing ocean tunes, movies are replacing island legends, and words like “fuck” and “faggot” can be heard uttered from the mouths of infants. It is entirely conceivable that the Chuukese language will be dead in 50 years. This has happened in many places around the world where European speaking people have colonized or migrated. North and South America, Australia and many other places only have tiny traces of their indigenous languages left intact.

This might be a worthless argument against the development of our global culture, but it at least deserves some attention. I am by no means going to stop teaching English to these kids. I want them to have opportunities. They should have the choice of education and jobs if they want to take them. Knowledge of the English language is usually a pre requisite for these things so I am simply giving them the tools to pursue those opportunities.

Many talented Micronesians do stay home. There are thousands of intelligent and capable people who have had the chance to emigrate away for higher paying jobs, but have chosen to stick around and help their country. I applaud these folks. They are the movers and shakers that are fighting to make Micronesia a better place. I truly hope that the future of Micronesia is built around these dedicated individuals. However, I believe that it is important that Micronesia develops along the appropriate path instead of embracing an all-encompassing drive towards modernization.

Back in 1969, FSM’s first president, Tosiwo Nakayama, warned about the future development of Micronesia and eloquently described the proper attitude that they should adopt. He advised, “Like our schools and our clothes, our hopes and dreams have been designed in America according to American models. In the decades to come we may have to sacrifice these things, may have to dream dreams and hope hopes that can be realized in Micronesia. We must hope to become a big Micronesia and not a little America”

Restlessness

I’m getting restless. In mind and body. I enjoy my work and my life here in Micronesia, but something has begun to stir inside me. I flow along in my island existence and try to savor every tropical moment, but a feeling is building up that needs to be released. My teaching is fulfilling and I have plenty of other projects to keep me busy, but my mind is spinning abstract webs of adventurous thought.  Its as if a slumbering Tasmanian devil is slowly awakening inside of me and starting to twitch. Pretty soon he is gonna explode in a frenzy of wild activity. I want to break out of my regular pattern of things and explore more of the fabulous possibilities in our world. I want to do. I want to see. I want to go. I want to experience.

This is kind of ironic, because this is the same feeling that motivated me to disengage from the standard path of middle class Americans and blaze my own trail of life. I loved my life in America, but I wasn’t content with simply going along with the average plan of living. Working in an office cubicle during the day, watching TV at night, and drinking a few beers on weekends can be a great life for many people; but for me it seems like a claustrophobic cage. Contrary to most successful people, I strive to avoid stability, schedules, and regular habits. I want each day to be a new and novel experience full of interesting and unknown possibilities. I don’t like to know what I will be doing next week or next month. This doesn’t mean that I don’t plan things, that is an inescapable tendency of the human species. Our enlarged frontal lobes in our brain give us the ability to imagine the future, and no matter how hard we try we can’t stop from doing it. I think I actually have an especially good skill at creating elaborate and efficient plans, but I only use that ability when it is necessary. It is one of the things that has allowed me to be very successful at most things that I have done in my life. But I don’t want to plan everything because spontaneity is sometimes a more creative innovator and exciting executor than imagination. I want my future to be varied, mysterious and changeable.

I think the reason that this restlessness has begun to creep into my life is that my life has once again taken on a fairly regular routine. The novelty and weirdness of living in a foreign country has worn off and I don’t feel like I am on a daily adventure anymore. I spend hours reading books that take my mind on strange journeys across time and space that light fires in my belly. My mental list of things I want to see and do is growing exponentially. And I actually plan on doing these things, not just dreaming about them.

My body is also restless. Mainly because I do a lot of resting. The suffocating heat and consistent rain make it difficult and wearisome to do much of anything. Sometimes I do local work like pounding breadfruit or chopping wood, but mostly I just sit around like everybody else. I play volleyball nearly every single day. However, volleyball is only slightly above golf and backgammon in its level of athletic activity. I can play 2 hours of volleyball and barely break a sweat. We play on a rocky and muddy sliver of a pathway with 6 people on each team. I do some jumping and shuffling of the feet, but there is only a little exertion of strength and speed. I want to use my muscles and push my body to its physical limits. Island volleyball, occasional pushups and whittling sticks don’t provide the activity that I’m looking for.

As I mentioned before, I try to avoid living in a mentally contrived future, but recently, thoughts of post-Peace Corps life have been running circles in my head. I don’t know what life holds for me when I am finished with this stint in the pacific. Probably some travel, some school and some work. But who knows. In actuality, I don’t want to know. I just want to plunge into the uncertainty of life and see where it takes me. This may seem like a reckless attitude, but my thoughts and actions are far from reckless. Living a life of freedom and unpredictability does not imply recklessness. It simply allows for the possibility of experiencing the world to the fullest. As JRR Tolkien once said, “Not all those who wander are lost”

The Sea Voyager

I was sitting on the stump of an old palm tree near a dock on Weno and a middle-aged man shuffled over my way and stuck out his hand. He had a hardened face with a salt and pepper mustache above his lip. He was rather old, but looked like he was still strong and capable. One of his eyes was scared and his skin was weather beaten like wrinkled leather.

“Oh, sipwe kapwong”, he said in a scratchy voice. I shook his hand and introduced myself. We exchanged initial greetings, which always include questions about where you are from, who is your family and how you are doing. He informed me that he was from the northwest island of Murilo. This tiny atoll struck a chord with me for two reasons. It was the unfortunate place that was devastated by the poisonous turtle meat that killed 8 people and hospitalized hundreds last year. It is also the home island of my former host mother from Tonoas.

We talked for a while, and then he told me that he had to get going to get ready for his trip. “Ka no ia (where are you going)?” I asked him. He explained that he needed to buy some supplies because he was leaving that night to head back to Murilo on his boat. A few things surprised me about this. Murilo is about 100 miles away across a stretch of treacherous open ocean. His rickety motor boat had a puny 40 horsepower engine and the fiberglass hull looked like a crusty bucket. And he was planning on leaving at night time.

He happily answered all my questions about his journey and I was utterly impressed by the end of our conversation. He does this trip often to come into Weno to get rice, gas and other supplies for his family. It takes him about 6 hours of continuous driving. The waves and rain are often problems, but he is always safe in the end.

He has no compass, GPS or navigation equipment. He simply relies on intuition and a few ancient seafarer tricks. He prefers to leave around 3 or 4 am because it is still dark when he departs. The man uses the stars to chart his course and point his boat in the right direction. However, it is much scarier and more difficult to cross the open Pacific at night time, so he likes to do most of the driving in the sunlight. He only needs stars in the beginning.

His pathetic little boat safely brings him and his supplies through the gauntlet of the raging ocean and plops him on the microscopic sandspit that he calls home. His island is only a little bigger than a football field and sits in the largest body of water in the world. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack. Or more like finding a grain of sand in an Olympic sized swimming pool.

I wished him luck and chuckled to myself as we walked away thinking about how his trip to the grocery store is a little more of a trek than my 3 minute car ride to Ralph’s back home.