On Sunday night, Abacca hosted my farewell barbeque. Outside by the lagoon, a cool breeze on our backs, the setting was perfect. It rained for approximately 3 minutes at the start of the event (‘a blessing to you’, Mona said). She also said, in a successful attempt to make us both smile, “this evening was more like a funeral, my dear” after I cried for hours semi-uncontrollably.
Interested in a book about life in the Marshall Islands? A new one just came out – an easy beach read (no pun intended). Peter Rudiak-Gould was a WorldTeach volunteer on an outer island in 2003-4. He’s written a terrific, funny book that really captures a lot of the spirit of this place, without ducking the tough issues (Bikini nuclear testing disaster, grim global warming predictions, etc.). He’s now an anthropology grad student with an interest in linguistics; both of these disciplines feature prominently in his highly readable, witty memoir.
My one-minute commute to school commences amidst the aromas of cooking pancakes and rice, mixed with the smoky smell of burning coconut husks...no matter what work may be done today, the ambiance will be dominated by the central theme of outer island life here in the Republic of the Marshall Islands: food. [Second Place, WorldTeach Spring 2006 Journal Contest]
My daughter the adventurer, my daughter the teacher, my daughter the volunteer…what has all of this meant in a mother’s view of the growth and development of her daughter? When she left for the Marshall Islands last July, I knew I was saying good-bye to one person and would one day say hello to a new individual.
We were greeted by the screech of hundreds of exotic island birds and the scurry of countless crabs. We start a fire with some old coconuts, climb some trees to get coconuts to drink and to use to cook the rice and then weave plates and sleeping mats of coconut leaves.
On outer islands, we only receive mail about once a month and speak with other native English speakers only once a week over the radio. Unlike at home, when analyzing or thinking I have no one to bounce my thoughts, ideas or solutions off of except of course letters but the time it takes to send the letter and receive a reply does not allow quick feedback.
We ended up meeting his entire family – 11 children, 30 grandchildren, 6 great grandchildren – having dinner with them another night, and then on the final night there, attending a caimem (one-year birthday party) which no doubt Liz has told you all about, and it was simply amazing! There was traditional song and dance, and the little birthday boy managed to shake hands with every person present, and I am sure there were over a thousand people.
...
Enaj Elok ak Enaj Bar Jeblak, by Sarah Lipson
My final entry in the Marshall Islands....
I recently received the emails transcribed below. First from a member of the Majuro community and the second from a kind stranger who has followed my blog over the course of this year.
“What I suggest is that for one of your next posts, you explain to your readers how you managed to spend 10 months in the Marshall Islands without sleeping more than 2 hours a day, and why this is the way to have a blast in a wacky Pacific island. You have had (by all accounts) an incredible year, not to mention so productive it's alarming, and I remain amazed at your level of energy and enthusiasm. You have proved that perseverance, creativity, good humor, smiles, energy (yes, double helping there), vision and (don't forget) a good measure of talent can break through the myriad roadblocks that tend to derail most ordinary human beings in this country.”
Second, an email from a Marshallese man living in the states. It has been a great privilege to share my experiences in the Marshall Islands with an unexpected collection of ri-majel ilo Amedika. I can only anticipate my deep longing to stay connected to this place and if I have helped in any way to maintain this connection for others, it has been an honor:
“There's a Marshallese saying ‘enaj elok ak enaj bar jeblak’ (I shall leave but I shall return). I personally think what you've accomplished in 1 year is 10 years of work Marshallese style. You've inspired, motivated and poured your sweat teaching the future of the islands. You've started MICAP, which to be perfectly honest with you, I don't think anybody in government or education would have thought of such a wonderful idea. You have come up with such wonderful and great ideas that I think will be forever etched in the eyes of the Marshallese people, especially your students and in turn will inspired them to do the same, to think big, to lead, to inspire and motivate the generation beneath them. For your hard work and dedication to the cause of higher education in a country that desperately needed it, whether you realized it or not, you've changed the course of education in a tiny nation in the middle of the ocean.”
I share these emails not as a self-congratulations but as a prelude to how incredibly emotional and overwhelming my departure has been and will be. I have learned more in this year than I ever imagined possible. Embrace to endure – my silent mantra. If I embrace everything new, I will endure. If I open my arms, I will survive. The mantra transformed slowly: I will not only survive, I will thrive. In July 2009, I forced myself to stay in what I considered an impossibly hot, dirty and foreign place. Out of sheer stubbornness, I stayed. In the end, this has been the most beautiful year of my life. On an island that is a mere speck of land even on the most detailed of world maps, I have a life I never dreamed of.
On Sunday night, Abacca hosted my farewell barbeque. Outside by the lagoon, a cool breeze on our backs, the setting was perfect. It rained for approximately 3 minutes at the start of the event (‘a blessing to you’, Mona said). She also said, in a successful attempt to make us both smile, “this evening was more like a funeral, my dear” after I cried for hours semi-uncontrollably. In addition to the fact that the evening brought together almost all of the most important people in my Marshallese life – those who have shaped me, inspired me and picked me up time and time again, often unknowingly – certain moments were more touching than I was prepared for. Here is a small recap of the most tear-jerking moments/comments.
Hayden, age 4: tugged on my arm repeatedly until I gave him my full attention. Looked me in the eye, more serious than I have ever seen him and said “You promise? Promise you come back?....[long pause, me crying but not saying anything and then he said]…I love you [hug].”
It is hard to explain how adorable and sincere Hayden is and, in this particular moment, how heart-breaking.
Abacca: "You woke up these kids here. You found something in them and we cannot thank you enough. You are a part of our family."
Neibol, age 7: “We made a dance for you. I hope you like it.”
Neibol is one of the smartest first-graders I have ever known. She is precocious yet kind, strong-willed but cooperative. On Wednesday, when I board Continental Micronesia, Neibol will be by my side. Her mother has asked me to accompany Neibol to Hawaii, where her aunty will meet us. To be trusted in this way is what a home away from home is all about…
After Yuli, Jablik, Neibol and Hayden performed two dances, through which I sobbed, I was asked to say a few words. A year in the RMI has me more comfortable with public speaking than any rhetoric course ever could. Knowing I would be asked to speak at Sunday’s BBQ, I prepared a speech of sorts. On Sunday afternoon, I sat in my room crying as I wrote – never deleting, just letting my reflections flow, words and tears. When I finished pouring my raw feelings into written word, I emailed the document to myself and hopped in the car with Mona. We headed into town with two purposes: grocery shopping for the barbeque and printing my speech. Mona took on the former and I planned to meet her shortly thereafter. I took her keys to WUTMI and after a few technical difficulties, I managed to print my speech. When someone has bent over backwards time and time again, as Mona has for me, the last thing you want to do is hold her up. Attempting to expedite the process, I took the back-way through WUTMI to the grocery store. In doing so, I locked myself between WUTMI and the grocery store – a stank hallway, temperature around 90, humidity percentage ditto. I banged on the grocery store door and eventually a security man hesitantly responded to my pounding: “hello?”. “Yes! Hi! Um, I am locked in….or out…” I overheard a lengthy conversation in Marshallese, one that became progressively frantic, as did my heart rate. Listening intently, I learned that the only person who had a key was in Hawaii. I asked the security guard to “FIND MONA!” (no last names needed in the RMI). Soon Mona was on the other side of the door, telling me to stay calm. I texted my friend Noni (I was almost out of minutes and did “not have sufficient funds to complete a call”). Fortunately Noni called me back immediately (would have been hard to ignore my text, which went as follows: “Noni, am locked between WUTMI and Payless. Emergency. Out of minutes. Please call.”). In an amazing series of events representative of the support and insanity that has been my life in the Marshall Islands, Noni called Katie who called Tomigo who called Malynn who called me to say she was on her way and then half an hour later Lingy and Jablik showed up (if it wasn’t clear, my eventual heroes were several degrees of separation from my original outreach efforts). An embarrassing experience but, alas, I survived (sweaty and late, but no worse for the wear).
Below is the speech that trapped me, the speech that made me sob, the speech that I somehow delivered in its entirety. So why include such a personal speech? These words, after all, were for my Marshallese friends and family. Because these words explain, as best as I possibly could, my appreciation. And of all the emotions I feel right now, on the eve of my departure, gratitude is the dominating sentiment.
“When I thought about what I would say tonight, I realized that saying thank you and goodbye are two of the hardest and most complicated messages to deliver. I have tried and tried to find the words to say thank you but there are no sufficient words to show my appreciation. And even if there are sufficient words to say goodbye, I haven’t tried to find them. This is my biggest kommoltata and a bar lo kom, a see you later and not a goodbye. Tonight instead I hope I can share one message – the most important message – how important you are to me.
When I first arrived in the Majuro in July, I was scared. I was constantly on the brink of tears, though I never knew quite why. In my first month, it was hard to find time alone since I was living in a classroom at Ajeltake Elementary School with 35 other ri-pelles. When I was alone, bucket showering by the ocean late at night, I would cry and cry, hoping the waves would drown out my sobs. Mostly I missed having people who really cared about me and wondered if I would find that sense of connection so far from home. I knew I would survive this year – I am much too stubborn to give up on something – but I never imagined that one year in the Marshall Islands would become the most memorable, most hilarious, most challenging and most inspirational year of my life. All of this is the result of the people I have come to love and how you have accepted me into your lives.
I have an amazing family in the Marshall Islands and I will never know what I did to deserve this. As people have thanked me, especially over the past week, I accept these kind words but inside I just shake my head because I have given so little compared to everything I have received in return. I’ll try to say the things I am feeling but so much of what I want to say will probably come to me as I board the plane on Wednesday. Here are my best attempts to say thank you…
To Yuli, Neibol, Jablik, Hayden and Li-Sue, thank you for always making me smile. For bringing out my inner child. I know these kids can’t possibly understand how important they have been to me but here it is: Every Saturday morning, as I walked from the main road to Abacca’s house, my pace would quicken in anticipation of your reaction – screaming my name and running towards me, arms open. Your smiles have been one of the happiest parts of my life in Majuro. I have two little cousins back in Boston and they were two of the hardest people to say goodbye to when I left last July – Yuli, Neibol, Jabolik, Hayden and Li-Sue, these kids here are really a part of my family and I feel the same way saying bar lo kom to them. Thank you to your incredible families for putting up with me, making me feel at home and tolerating our loud play sessions.
Thank you to Karen for being you no matter what. You taught me how to turn frustration into motivation. You taught me to ask questions. Thank you for believing in me and in the Mentorship Program even when I barely could. Thank you for giving me your energy, for dancing with me, for knowing when I was down and always managing to make me smile.
Thank you to Bonny for being one of the most honest people I have ever known. Thank you for always making time for me and never being too busy for a quick bwebwenato. Having your support and perspective has been invaluable to me.
To Nika and Miram, you could never know what amazing women you are – how smart, beautiful and often unintentionally hilarious you are. Thank you for making me laugh, for telling me to loosen up and for teaching me more than you probably realize.
Thank you to Katie and Noni for being such amazing friends. For never once wondering why the crazy ri-pelle was always hanging around. For welcoming me into your lives, for making me laugh – for somehow finding me funny and for your positive attitudes – always ready to get involved, always looking for your next laugh. You are exactly what so many young girls in this country should see – talented, intelligent women.
Thank you to my students at MIHS for challenging me every single day. For seeing me as a friend. You have inspired me immeasurably, made me laugh, taught me more than I could ever return.
To Maria – thank you for welcoming me into your family. For shouting “hey cousin” every time we pass at MIHS, for welcoming my mother when she visited and for keeping my spirits high. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being a smiling face in the sea of students at MIHS and for wrapping your arms around me when I was down. You will never know how important you are to me.
Thank you to Pele for being the best little sister I will ever have. I feel like I’ve known you for years if not our entire lives. One day we will travel together, somewhere we’ve never been – I love the look on your face when you learn something new. Thank you for hugging me everyday for no reason at all. Don’t ever change who you are – thank you for making my last few weeks in Majuro some of my very best.
Thank you to David for welcoming me into your home and for your unending honesty. For sharing news, books, movies and always being up for a discussion, debate and for answering my many questions.
Thank you to Mona for making me a part of your family. For understanding me. For being the most positive part of my daily life. You have made me laugh more than anyone, listened to my stories, silently when I just needed to talk and providing advice exactly when I needed it. Somehow you have always known how to help. I came to the Marshall Islands hoping to be a role model but never imagined I would find my own. You have taught me patience, what it means to give, how to shrug off the small stuff and the list could go on and on. Every time I talk to my parents back home, my father says “I sleep better at night, knowing you are with Mona”. I know I will always have a home in Majuro and it is that knowledge that will bring me back.
Thank you to Abacca – most obviously for tonight. But for so much more. For opening your home to me, for your larger than life personality, for listening to me, really listening. For always having a plan – some hidden fun just around the next corner. For embracing my sense of fashion and reminding me to laugh at myself. These kids here are so lucky to have you as a mother and aunty.
Thank you to every single person here tonight. Thank you to so many people who couldn't be here tonight. If I could paint a life for myself in Majuro, it would be exactly as is. I have no idea how I got so lucky. The very best friends, the very best family.”
I do not regret a single day of the past year. I felt that I needed to change, though I am not sure where this feeling came from. Today I know that, at least for now, I am better person. I hope I will not revert to my least attractive tendencies (impatience, overzealousness) and that I can maintain my personal makeover of sorts (albeit one caked in dirt – and I’m not talking mud bath). Every challenge has made me stronger; every friendship has made me rethink myself; every minute of every day has made me appreciate the bliss of simplicity. There are however, milestones I was heartbroken to miss at home: Dad’s 60th birthday, Charlotte’s birth, Ben and Elise’s engagement and wedding, Kylie’s first birthday, Nicole’s death. So much can happen in one year. Yet in a remote corner of the world, I have never felt alone. To my friends and family back home, you will never know how integral your support has been this year. You have kept me going. With water all around me, I think the next analogy is worthwhile: I would have drowned without you. Some people believe that distance strengthens families and friendships. Slowly over the past 329 days, I have subscribed myself to this belief. I learned the truth therein from your unending love and support. Kommol aelop im bar lo kom motton jiddik.
Until my next great adventure, all my love and positive energy…
RMI National Anthem
Aelon eo ao ion lometo
Einwot wut ko loti ion dren elae
Kin meram in Mekar jen ijo ilan
Erreo an romak ioir kin meramin mour
Iltan pein Anij e-weleo im woj
Kejolit kij kin ijin jikir emol
Ijjamin Ilok jen in ae lemoran
Anij an ro jemer wonake im kejrammon Aelin kein ad.
My island lies o’er the ocean
Like a wreath of flowers upon the sea
With all light of Mekar from far above
Shining with the brilliance of rays of life
Our Father’s wonderous creation
Bequeathed to us, our Motherland
I’ll never leave my dear home sweet home
God of our forefathers protect and bless forever Marshall Islands.
"Surviving Paradaise: One Year on a Disappearing Island," by Peter Rudiak-Gould,
by Marci McPhee
Interested in a book about life in the Marshall Islands? A new one just came out – an easy beach read (no pun intended). Peter Rudiak-Gould was a WorldTeach volunteer on an outer island in 2003-4. He’s written a terrific, funny book that really captures a lot of the spirit of this place, without ducking the tough issues (Bikini nuclear testing disaster, grim global warming predictions, etc.). He’s now an anthropology grad student with an interest in linguistics; both of these disciplines feature prominently in his highly readable, witty memoir.
My experience is slightly different from Peter’s, for at least two reasons. One, I live on a rural island next to one of the two large population centers of the Marshall Islands, while Peter was on one of the remotest outer islands. Two, he’s male, and was therefore included in a lot of canoeing and spearfishing that were not available to me. Taking women on fishing expeditions is considered bad luck. Some Marshallese will break tradition to take a ribelle, but being a non-fisherman, I wasn’t particularly interested in breaking a cultural taboo on this one.
A few things that Peter writes about that don’t match my experience: I haven’t noticed any of the mistreatment or ignoring of children he talks about at some length. Neither have I seen the lack of activity on the part of the men. That’s probably a function of the rural outer island environment vs. the “urban” environment of Ebeye. Neither do men and women sit separately in the churches I’ve attended (Mormon and Catholic). Finally, the educational system here is challenged, but not as pathetic as the one he had to deal with on Ujae. We do have a school bell (an empty air tank clobbered several times a day with a hammer), and many teachers actually do teach. Among the Kwajalein Atoll High School teachers are several Filipinos, a Fijian, and a handful of Marshallese, as well as we two American WorldTeach volunteers.
It’s a great book for understanding a WorldTeach year in the Marshall Islands.
A Post-Decision Narrative, by Jeremy Douglas
It’s 7:30am. I’m awake. I didn’t need the alarm today. I didn’t need the alarm yesterday. I haven’t needed the alarm in a long time. It’s easy to get up at 7:30am when you sleep for ten hours every night. Instant oatmeal for breakfast – yeah, that sounds good. And instant coffee – always a coffee. Soon it will be time for school. I hope the students listen today.
I hear people outside talking about me. I don’t understand everything they’re saying – in fact, I understand very little of what they’re saying…but I know it’s about me. Seems like they’re always talking about me. It was novel at first. And understandable. I was the new émigré, and an interesting topic for discussion no doubt. But after eight months? Come on, enough is enough – let me just be another face in the community. I don’t want to stand out anymore.
Time for school. I have finally found the semblance of an effective teaching plan and routine. However, I am the student of trial and error experiences more than I am the teacher of concrete and flowing ideas and concepts. Despite people’s reactions, I am nothing special – I just come to do my inexperienced best at teaching English to elementary school children. Ultimately, I will not single-handedly save the children’s futures and raze the plagues of inadequate education. I may take a step in that direction, but it’s a long term goal that needs commitment from the community, other teachers, and the Ministry of Education.
My one-minute commute to school commences amidst the aromas of cooking pancakes and rice, mixed with the smoky smell of burning coconut husks. People are coming and going down the only dirt road, preparing for what may result in a day of copra making and general chores. But no matter what work may be done today, the ambiance will be dominated by the central theme of outer island life here in the Republic of the Marshall Islands (RMI): food. Mõňā (mung-i) is easily the most discussed topic (even more so than me!) and – literally – the life blood of the community.
I finally reach the school – the only area not among the sanctuary of coconut trees. There is even a makeshift baseball field, albeit a small one. I turn the key to open the rusty lock on my classroom door, and the eager children (most of whom are not even in my class the first period) rush through the open door like water breeching a levee. I open the windows, write the date on the board, ring the bell, and thus begins another day.
I am not sure exactly why I decided to come to the RMI. Perhaps Sartre was right: we are never really sure why we make the decisions we do, but only create a post-decision narrative, or story. In either case, I was unsatisfied with my job in Canada, I wanted to live abroad for a while, I wanted to be in a warm climate, I didn’t want to (rather, couldn’t) spend a lot of money while abroad, and I wanted to visit somewhere esoteric. But the RMI is one of dozens of such places, so why here? Perhaps it was a chance click of the mouse – a click that led me to the World Teach website and opened my eyes to the RMI program. Alas, a perfect opportunity. I applied. I was accepted. I had a plan - albeit a haphazard one – for the next year.
What to expect? Coconut trees, pristine beaches, brilliant turquoise and blue waters, amazing weather all year long – your typical archetypical tropical climate. And I have not been disappointed. There is a factor – the most significant factor – that I neglected to include: the culture. I’ve been immersed in other cultures before, I thought, so this transition won’t be difficult at all. So I didn’t give it a second thought. However, my experiences in Western Europe are a far cry from a long-term cultural immersion on an outer island with no electricity or running water. Even the orientation during my first month in the RMI didn’t prepare me for such a different experience. Orientation provided me with some basic language and teaching instruction, as well as some cultural tidbits. If the year keeps up like this, I thought, this is going to be every bit of the cakewalk I imagined it would be. But cakewalk it was not.
During my first week of orientation a former volunteer described life in the RMI as being similar to “being on heroin – incredible highs and really bad lows”. A good analogy. During my correspondence with other volunteers one friend wrote me saying she was “on a rollercoaster of emotions”. Another good metaphor. My initial reaction to seeing where I would be living for nearly a year: incredible low. Playing volleyball and basketball with people in the community: incredible high. Frustration with my teaching abilities and my students’ behaviour: incredible low. Learning how to husk coconuts and cook local foods: incredible high. And so on.
The most difficult aspect of living here has not been the language, the teaching, the culture, the food, or the lack of technology. Undoubtedly it has been my lack of family, friends (from back home), and a social life – things I now quite clearly realize I took for granted. No electricity, no plumbing, language difficulties – one adapts. No family, no friends – that’s more difficult. On the other hand, I have made friends here, with other volunteers and with Marshallese people. I will do my best to keep in touch with these people down the road.
Throughout my year here I have been receiving letters from people back home and from other volunteers. These letters form two distinct streams of conversation. The other volunteers already know and can usually relate to the things I’m experiencing, whereas people from home have no idea – and I’m not sure I can adequately describe life here to them. Maybe my communications have been saying things I did not intend them to say, since I frequently receive questions and remarks like, “Are you happy there?”, “Are you sure this was a good idea?”, and “Just three more months to get through!”. The latter remark sounds as though this were a prison sentence that is to be endured and not enjoyed. In response to these types of inquires, I usually write that this is an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything. It doesn’t matter whether I enjoyed it or not because it has opened my eyes to so many things – things that are beyond and more important than personal comfort. Things like traditional lifestyles, life without modern conveniences, the problems faced by developing countries, the challenge of teaching, the cultural-political relationships between the RMI and the US and the RMI and Asia, and so much more. It is all a learning experience – one I was not expecting, but one for which I am grateful.
Before arriving in the RMI, and even at the beginning of my time here, I remember thinking, “A year…what’s a year? That’s nothing.” How quickly the notion of ‘a year’ took on an entirely new significance. A year of eating rice, pancakes, donuts, and canned meat; a year of these impossible students; a year of isolation. This isn’t a year I’m dealing with, but an eternity. At least, those were my thoughts at the beginning of my time on outer island of Arno – certainly the most difficulty in the adjustment phase. Soon afterwards I stopped counting the days and started making the best of my experience. Too often I’ve been guilty of a “the grass is greener…” mentality, by constantly thinking about there I’ll go and what I’ll be doing in the future – that thinking is one of the things that drove me here is the first place. Is the world passing me by while I am stuck in time on this remote atoll? (Indeed it feels like time has stopped here – neither the people nor the weather give any impression of change). As I receive mail from home about all the changes taking place, I can’t help but wonder. Yet, it is nice to escape the bombardment of news and information that invades the lives of North Americans. It is nice to be in a place that feels so disparate from any other place on earth. It is nice to not worry about what a friend of mine refers to as “the world” – meaning anywhere outside of the RMI, and also implying that the RMI is not part of the world.
Before coming to the RMI I was told by a former volunteer that “you can put as much or as little into the experience as you want.” This has rung true on every level, including teaching, the host family arrangement, cultural inclusion, and relationships with other volunteers and Marshallese people. As the cliché goes, you get out of it what you put into it. The year begins as a tabula rasa; the questions are, How are you going to create your experience? Will it be minimal effort teaching?, or will you put more that expected into it by doing extracurricular activities and community involvement? I’d like to think that my time in the RMI has been richly coloured by my integration and involvement in a unique and wonderful culture in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It has been, in a word, unforgettable.
Selected as Second Place, WorldTeach Spring 2006 Journal Contest.
Katherine is the mother of WorldTeach Marshall Islands volunteer Anna Du Vent.
My daughter the adventurer, my daughter the teacher, my daughter the volunteer…what has all of this meant in a mother’s view of the growth and development of her daughter? When she left for the Marshall Islands last July, I knew I was saying good-bye to one person and would one day say hello to a new individual. The change began in late September when her letters dwelt less on the difficult of adjusting and more on the wonder of the people in her life. She was beginning to see the beauty of being accepted as a member of a community. She was going beyond the pleasure and security of interacting with the children of her community and spending time with the parents of these children. She was not only learning a new language but also a new way of communicating emotion. This is culture…a way of feeling and expressing feelings.
She wrote of the needs, both physical and emotional, of her students and how their parents were reaching out to deal with these needs. Yes, in some ways Marshallese parents did things differently from American parents, but she saw the practicality of such simple things as letting a crying child, who is in no immediate danger, just deal with the situation themselves. She also wrote of the apparent lack of involvement in school related activities the parents displayed. Yet she understood how some of these activities might seem foreign to these parents and how English, for all its usefulness, is a double-edged sword that will benefit the children and take them away from their parents the life into which they were born. When I asked her what she enjoyed the most, she said she could not answer such a question because it was the little things, the almost indescribable moments that occur throughout the day. Yes, she admitted to feeling foreign to the culture, and not having other with which to discuss her feelings was at times frustrating, but the indiscernible reality of being accepted was what made her yearn to return to her island after a week on Majuro at Christmas.
In late January, I decided to venture out to see for myself what all the hype was about. After my plane landed on the grass runway, I was greeted by about fifty children, my daughter’s host mother, the mayor, the chief of police, and many others I would come to know over my two week stay. Draped in beautiful flowers, I began the short walk through the jungle and into my daughter’s world. The village was like a state park campground, although the tents and trailers were replaced by what we would describe as plywood and concrete makeshift homes. But then it began, that feeling of total acceptance, “Takwa” to all we passed. A few words here and there, to and from my daughter, invitations to take a coconut or at least take a pandanus bulb to suck the juices and relieve our thirst.
Upon arrival at the home of my daughter, we assured our hosts that I wanted no special meals and was there to visit and help out if I was needed. I learned this meant an adequate diet of rice, breadfruit, coconut, bearo (in many forms), tea, and fish. I never went hungry, although many on the island were already down to one or two meals a day. Quietly all were awaiting the supply ship with dietary supplements of rice, flour, and sugar. I found it easy to join the family, either in the cook house or just outside at the picnic table. Broken English, hand motions, facial expressions, and my very broken Marshallese “enno, emman” helped to make all feel at ease.
My days were spent as an observer. I watched my daughter interact with the children, the adults, and her host family. I watched the relaxed way they all had with each other, the smiles, the joking, the moments of serious concern, and I was happy as a parents to see my child make it as an adult, as an observer, and as a teacher in her community.
As for myself, I filled my days helping at the school with a remedial English class of year five students, visiting the reverend’s home every two or three days, walking about the village, and visiting with the craft guild. As a quilter and sewer, crafts are my passion and here was an organized group of women ranging in age from their late teens to late fifties, all working to preserve traditions and help their families economically. While their pre-school age children played about them, the women worked to produce a wide range of weavings, which were mostly sold in the capital. Women anywhere love to show what they are doing and appreciate interest. These women taught me and in exchange, I taught some macramé and log cabin quilting on the hand crank sewing machine of my daughter’s host mother.
However, the best was yet to come. My fifty-sixth birthday was to take place while on Ujae. My birthday began somewhat quietly with an oversized card bearing the signatures of so many. After school, there were shell presentations by at least 56 students. I weighed these later, thinking of shipping charges; there were twenty pounds of beauty. But wait, the night was young. The craft women planned a surprise dinner and entertainment. The fishermen found me a coconut crab and the banquet began. Ah, but now an emergency call….the reverend, who had recently broken his foot, the adult English class, and others I had come to know were gathered at Jericho’s and wanted to sing a few songs in my honor and give a few gifts. That night was magic; we were one family. When all had settled, I turned to my daughter and said, “How they love you is shown in how they are treating me.” Her gift to me, I explained, was in letting me see all of this, letting me know that my daughter was valued by those with whom she had chosen to spend part of her life.
Now, so parents of current and future volunteers don’t get the wrong impression that life as a volunteer or visitor is all fun and games….the weather is hot, the cement schools echo, there are cockroaches, baths are by bucket, and the toilet facilities are not like home. But any discomfort can almost magically vanish with moments that you swear are unworldly. One day, after an energetic group of students demonstrated beat dancing and singing in their concrete library, I returned home at four, tired and with the beginnings of a headache. As I walked down the path, I thought if I were home all I would want is a cup of coffee and a chance to sit quietly with my feet up. Rounding the corner and walking up the steps of the home I shared with my hosts and daughter, I stopped and smiled. There in the sparse common room, which held only a simple couch, small table, and one chair, stood a steaming mug of coffee. Alfred, my host, appeared from behind me, smile on his aging face, and said, “Coffee.” I turned and said from the bottom of my heart, “Kommol tata.” Yes, as my daughter had said, you can’t describe it; it is the moments, the smiles, the understanding before you do, the laughter when playing cards with someone who does not know your language, or the shared look two adults from totally different worlds give when the two of your observe a child behaving as children do. I shall never forget my visit. Yes, my child has changed and I like what I saw, but also I changed and for both changes, I thank the people of the Marshall Islands. Kommol tata.
Stepping out of the shadowy classroom, arms full of books, I gaze across the basketball court at the lagoon. As I feel the weight of the books, I try to release my urge to do more work and breathe in the vibrant colors of the sunset.
Having pondered for a moment too long, my eighth grade boys abandon their game and come running over to me, shouting "likatuuuu....!" I love how the students in Utrik stay after school with me. They don't run away from school as soon as it's finished, but they're eager to stay in the classroom, look at books, talk and help me with tasks. Although they often distract me from my work, I enjoy their company and am thrilled that they want to learn.
My students look at me expectantly, wanting me to entertain or teach them something. We had already made plans that I would teach them some songs on the violin, but the violin was at home and the sunset was enticing. Ignoring my grumbling stomach, I hand some books to one of the bright-eyed students, Josey, who lives by the lagoon. I ask him if it's alright if I walk across his parents' land and sit by the lagoon to draw the sunset (of course it's okay). Although most of the students aren't sure what I intend to do, they follow me to the lagoon.
The sky is ablaze with orange and crimson colors, which I hastily try to capture on my paper with my charcoal pastels. The students, and now some parents as well, huddle around as I intently draw. All eyes shift from the brilliant sunset and glistening lagoon to my paper -- evaluating the accuracy of the reproduction. While I'm in awe of the colors and shapes of the sky and water, I soon realize that my companions see a lot more than I.
All of the sudden, Josey points excitedly to the water. He shouts to his father, who immediately scrambles to get something from the house. Not seeing anything, I turn questioningly to Josey, who says, "Fish!" A few minutes later, after several men and boys have tossed nets into the water, fish are flying through the air towards me. As I smile in amusement, Josey asks me, "Emman?" [Good?] "Emman!" I say, realizing now that I'm starving. While the poor fish are seeing their last sunset, I finish the last strokes of the painting. It's getting too dark, and I'm getting too hungry. Before going home, I'm given two fish, strung on a palm frond. I stumble into the house in the dark, books almost falling and fish flapping at my side, content with my day's work.
While I'm learning what it's like to feel hungry, I have not learned yet how to see and harvest the food that is all around us. I'm still mesmerized by the beauty of the island and view it in an artistic way. Yet I realized that there is another aspect of nature that satisfies more than the eyes.
First of all, I am alive and well. I am managing to survive on a diet of just-caught lobster, coconut crab, tuna, parrotfish, convict sturgeonfish and the like. In fact, I myself am starting to get pretty deadly with a spear (or as the locals call it jilu-bwar).
Yesterday, Friday, September 27, was a national holiday and I was taken on my first outer-outer-outer island trip. The holiday was Manit Day which is a celebration of Marshallese customs/traditions, fitting given that I was to learn about the manly ways of Marshallese life. The day started out around 6:00am with a breakfast of fish, peanut butter and some trail mix. Terry (a fellow teacher on the island--local) and I started off on what may go down as the hardest walk in my life. We waited for high tide to peak and start to wane and then started making our way towards Pokimejman, which all I knew was four islands away from Tobal.
We walked out to the ocean side and started to walk out on the reef between the islands. Okay, picture the surface of the moon pink, green and blue razor sharp coral under three feet of rushing water with waves literally coming in four directions (because of the nature of the lagoon and the ocean and the clashing tides) and three-, four-, and five-foot sharks everywhere, sea snakes, moray eels and devil rays shooting around. I wish I had NOT bought polarized sunglasses so I could live in ignorant bliss.
So anyway, we start walking in the three feet of water, every three steps falling into a hole in the reef or stubbing my toe on a rock. After maybe 15 minutes of walking, Terry asks me if I can swim. He then proceeds to tell me about the time 10 years ago when four ladies on the island traveled to the first island away from Tobal (remember I'm headed towards the fourth). Well apparently they were hurrying back for a festival that night and crossed the reef on incoming tide. Long story short two women were swept out to sea and died and one of the two who did survive no longer speaks. He looked at me and asked if I still wanted to go. I told him, "race you there."
Two hours later I can't feel my legs and the blood from my feet is starting to attract unwanted guests. At least I can see the island at this point maybe a mile off through three feet of reef and waves. Omitting the details of several ungraceful slips and falls we finally hit sand about two and a half hours after we started. We were greeted by the screech of hundreds of exotic island birds and the scurry of countless crabs. We start a fire with some old coconuts, climb some trees to get coconuts to drink and to use to cook the rice and then weave plates and sleeping mats of coconut leaves. Then we head off to fish in the lagoon. I try to spearfish on this unreal reef and come close to sneaking up on a 50 lb. Napoleon wrasse. Shoot. Miss. We find some hermit crabs for bait and start to fish off the reef catch enough for lunch even one small barracuda.
After grilling the fish on coconut husk skewers, we set off to find the fabled coconut crabs (the fish were enno tata). From the lagoon setting, walk 15 feet and you're in some of the deepest jungle this side of the Amazon. Coconut crabs live in old, hollowed-out logs. So, in order to catch one, you stick your hand into the home of a 10 lb. crab that can crack open coconuts with its claws and hope you don't lose a finger. I came close. Terry sees a huge hole and without seeing a crab, decides to machete a hole in the tree. Twenty minutes later we spy the crab Terry says, "wow a big, big one." So once again he throws his hand into the hole to try and drag this guy out.
The first part of the crab I see is its blue claw (only slightly smaller than Terry's hand) snapping at us. He IS huge. Another 20 minutes of trying to pull this thing out of the hole and we get it out. It's not happy. So in order to save our body parts, we cut its claws and two legs off. Back to the lagoon to cook it-wish I had some butter-and get ready to go take a nap and wait for the moon and tide to be right so we can lobster on the way home. Fell asleep on the woven mats and woke up in the middle of a huge storm. No moon, can't see, and all I have is my small headlamp, which is great to walk around the campfire, but not to navigate the way through open ocean, over reef, around sharks, through waves three miles home in the pouring rain and howling rain now carrying an extra 30 lbs of crabs and fish. Despite the extra heft, we make it back quicker than it took to get there I was so tired I barely remember any of the trek back. Finally get home around 2:00am drop the bag of crabs and collapse. Wake up this morning and somehow the crabs (though now mono-peds) have walked the bag across the yard and escaped. Nothing to do but laugh. So today I go fishing again for lunch.
It has now been five months that I have been living in the RMI and reflecting back on my time here thus far I would say that on a personal level, this experience is teaching me much more about myself than anything else. Of course the cultural aspect is a big part of it and I am learning lots and teaching is of course a large part of my experience, but I think being on an outer island is very much a personal journey.
I feel that what I am learning the most is how to be alone with myself, with my thoughts, with my experiences. I live on Mejit Island, a single island with no other islands anywhere near it. On outer islands, we only receive mail about once a month and speak with other native English speakers only once a week over the radio. Unlike at home, when analyzing or thinking I have no one to bounce my thoughts, ideas or solutions off of except of course letters but the time it takes to send the letter and receive a reply does not allow quick feedback. Learning how to be within myself, make choices and come up with solutions on my own is definitely one of the more positive lessons I am learning during this experience. I speak of both Marshall Islands related thinking such as teaching ideas and cultural adjustment as well as the thoughts that arise regarding my life before the RMI and after.
The experience of being so isolated and so unto yourself on an island so distant from anything familiar is of course both positive and negative. There are moments when I feel very much alone even though I am quickly learning the language and making fast friends among my new neighbors and family on Mejit. No matter how much we want to become part of the new culture we are now a part of, we can not deny where we come from, what we are used to and what comforts we are used to having at our fingertips. I think it is important to remember this while on this experience. It's okay to feel upset at times, it's okay to miss those at home and to feel that this is much more difficult than anticipated. There are lessons to be learned in those moments, lessons on how to cope with those feelings and bring oneself out of it and I think in the long run, those lessons are life lessons that can be used whether one chooses to be in this type of situation again or goes back to the comforts of home. I am thankful for the opportunity to learn these things and feel that among the many, many things I will take from my year here, this is one of the most positive and important ones.
Open Letter to All the Volunteers' Families, by Patricia Reed
I had an amazing week on the main island of Majuro while visiting my daughter Laura, who is also one of the volunteers. We were so fortunate to be included in a whole range of events that week as part of the Presidential Inauguration, and the experiences came thick and fast. The weather was pretty average I have to say, but somehow we just kept ducking the rain showers and getting things done. Kurt Pinos, who took us on the island picnic that first Saturady I was there, really took us under his wing and we ended up meeting his entire family – 11 children, 30 grandchildren, 6 great grandchildren – having dinner with them another night, and then on the final night there, attending a caimem (one-year birthday party) which no doubt Liz has told you all about, and it was simply amazing! I have never witnessed such abundance of food and wine and the presentation was absolutely stunning. There was traditional song and dance, and the little birthday boy managed to shake hands with EVERY person present, and I am sure there were over a thousand people. At nine at night he was still wide awake! It was all open-air on the waterfront at the other Resort, and the weather co-operated for them. Sadly my camera had run out of film by then, but many of the others took heaps of photos so I’ll just have to trust that eventually they will surface as everyone starts developing or downloading and passes them on.
I brought the chip from Laura’s camera home with me, and downloaded about 800 photos, and then mailed it back, and after receiving your wonderful email, I too joined Google Picasa (what a great idea hey!) and uploaded a whole lot of photos for her so that she could view them, and let her friends all know they were there too. I also put some family stuff up for her, so that she could stay connected to us all. Her Dad was absolutely thrilled to finally see some shots of her after almost six months of no communication.
I met her host parents' children and had lunch with them one day, and that was hilarious as I spoke no Marshallese and they spoke no English. Thank God Laura has become so fluent!
We shopped for more basic necesseties like a new pillow, a mat to sit on in the classroom for telling stories, sheets, a cooking pot, lots of instant coffee and tinned beans and tuna and soy sauce. Hopefully that will ensure she does not go hungry again like last semester.
On my second-to-last day we hired a car, drove with Laura to the island called Laura, delivered mail along the way, and generally took our time and visited one of the schools there. We never made it out to the island of Eneko as the weather was just too stormy and windy so in fact I only dipped my toes in the ocean one day out of seven.
I also sat in on the two-way radio check at the office with the Field Director, and it made everything so much more real, to hear the kids each checking in and going through their weekly experiences and sharing how they were feeling. It's a very crucial part of their weekly life, I would say. I had to laugh as there is one other Australian girl there, and no one can understand her accent very well, so they kept asking Laura to translate. We could understand her perfectly!
Leaving was hard, and Laura’s host parents who just happened to also be stranded on the mainland after they came in for a funeral came to see me off at the airport, and gave me the most amazing cowrie shell necklace, similar to the one in Ray’s photo, but not as long. I was absolutely certain Customs would take it off me, so I wore it all the way home, and sailed through back here in Australia without a hitch. But they did quarantine all my woven wall hangings and baskets, claiming they had to be fumigated, so I’m still waiting for them!
I posted some beautiful woven bird mobiles back for Francis (the other Australian girl) to her mother in Melbourne, and they made it through without a hitch so thank goodness for that!
The flight back to Guam was pretty amazing and boy did I ever learn my lesson about taking the island hopper instead of the direct flight the following day! It was a marathon day, and included ten takeoffs and touchdowns with FULL security checks at each island, despite the fact that we had endured the same process at every previous stop. By Guam I was heartily sick and tired of the body searches and Homeland Security let me tell you. They take their jobs VERY seriously, but I guess as it’s the only plane for the day that arrives and they feel they have to justify their existence! It took me three full days to get back to my little hometown of Bellingen.
What a trip...I’m so glad I decided to make the effort, and it was wonderful to meet you, albeit a short aquaintance. That Chinese feast we shared was something to remember and I still owe you a meal.
