Below lies the island's airport -- a single runway for the one flight a day -- connected to Pohnpei by a manmade causeway. Beyond the airport, several fishing boats sit in the lagoon, and beyond them, waves crash on the outer reef that surrounds the island. Then, the wide Pacific .

This is an island of rich color, tropical greens and blues, and a landscape exaggerated in scale. Pohnpei's large interior is filled with mountains that climb to more than 2,000 feet and trees that grow to prehistoric sizes. On the hike down from the ridge, I pass leaves larger than elephant ears. This is the second-rainiest place on earth, and everywhere I look the vegetation riots wildly.

I also pass giant rusted Japanese guns, relics from World War II. Some of their double barrels, more than 10 feet long, still point menacingly toward the water. Among them, purple orchids thrive in giant clusters.

Later, I relax with friends at the Rusty Anchor , an open-air bar that overlooks the sea. Suddenly it gets dark, the skies open up, and we watch the rain move in thick , twisting ribbons across the harbor. As I think about the images from the hike, I decide this is the most beautiful place I have ever seen.

I came to the capital of the Federated States of Micronesia as a volunteer with WorldTeach to teach English at a public high school. There is no McDonalds, no Starbucks, no traffic light here. For an adventurous traveler looking for a destination that feels completely off the map, this is it.

Beyond landscape, the best reason to come here is the people. I found most Pohnpeians reserved at first, but get to know them and you find they have almost bottomless grace and generosity. Many seem to have a relaxed yet passionate attitude toward life, and with time, you become more appreciative of the place and the lifestyle.

Not long ago, I paddled an outrigger canoe with some friends across the lagoon to Joy Island, a speck of sand and coconut palms just off the coast of Pohnpei. When we ran out of water, we smashed open coconuts and drank the sweet juice inside. Later, when I told my class about the trip -- the intense heat during the paddling, the taste of the coconut milk -- the happiness must have been written across my face. One student, a white flower tucked behind her ear, smiled and said, "You're feeling this place now, aren't you?"

Indeed, this is a place that needs to be felt . And the pervasiveness of music adds to that feeling. Hip-hop, reggae, and country music blast from open windows and passing cars, but one can also hear the strumming of guitars and ukuleles, and singing in Pohnpeian or English. Many students play and sing while they walk to class or sit in the shade with friends, and few seem shy about performing.

While this may sound like the Pacific paradise depicted in literature and movies, it is not. There are no beaches here. Pohnpei's shores are surrounded by thick mangrove swamps, which shelter it from rough seas and provide a habitat for the most delicious food on the island: mangrove crab.

The Federated States of Micronesia, spread over 1,550 miles in the western central Pacific just north of the equator, includes the four states of Pohnpei, Chuuk, Kosrae, and Yap and their 607 islands, only 65 of which are inhabited. The population is about 108,000. This is a developing country and many families struggle to make ends meet because goods are expensive. Gasoline comes by sea -- as do vegetables, eggs, and rice -- and fuel costs nearly $4 a gallon. There is a rhythm to life here set by the schedule of the container ships. A ship's arrival means that a period of shortages is over, and the island's shelves are full once again.

Like the comings and goings of the container ships, Pohnpei's history (it is thought to have been settled first thousands of years ago) is one of change wrought by outsiders. Long ago settlers from Southeast Asia came , then 16th-century explorers from Portugal and Spain, then Spanish rule , followed by the Germans, the Japanese, and finally, after World War II, the United States. Kolonia, Pohnpei's only town, has been completely destroyed twice -- once by a massive typhoon in 1905, and again when the United States bombed it in 1944. Today, the Federated States of Micronesia is an independent country, but it has close ties with the United States under a Compact of Free Association.

This is a place where chickens parade down the street, roosters crow throughout the night, and pigs squeal loudly at feeding time. Dogs sleep away the hottest hours of the day, are ferociously territorial at night, and are occasionally part of the local diet. Men and boys openly carry long, curved machetes . At night, when I walk past a neighboring house without electricity, and the orange light of the kerosene lanterns spills out onto the street, I think, living here is like time traveling.

Indeed, Pohnpei is a place that seems to straddle time, for there are two distinct worlds here: the modern day one of American influence, and the world of traditional culture and lifestyle.

One man who has felt the tension between them is Benster Santos, 58, who owns a small shop across from the school. Students and teachers alike gather beneath the tin roof of his store to escape the sun or the torrential rain. A drinking coconut is 50 cents, which you open yourself with the store's machete.

Santos told me of growing up on Pohnpei and seeing it change, a process of "changing from our life to a new life." He spoke wistfully of the simpler and slower life of the 1960s . This was a time before outboard engines, when fishermen paddled their canoes into the lagoon in search of reef fish for dinner. People did not drive but walked from village to village. And because few people had phones, you learned where people were and the latest news by word of mouth, a system with a wonderful name: the coconut wireless.

Despite these changes, Pohnpei, the largest and tallest of the islands, remains captivating. Not long ago, a Pohnpeian friend invited me to his home for dinner. Before we ate, we walked through the jungle undergrowth to a river where dozens of children were swimming and splashing and laughing. I treaded water and watched while they jumped and dove from a small cliff into the deep, cool water. Near me, a wild hibiscus tree that had fallen across the river trailed its leaves lazily in the water. Upstream, two teenage girls squatted on the rocks beneath a concrete bridge, doing laundry in the bubbling rapids and talking.

Later, as we sat down to dinner, we heard the sounds of the family next door singing Christian hymns in Pohnpeian. Their soft voices drifted through the darkening jungle to our patio. And though I don't know exactly what they were singing about, I imagine that it touched on the beauty of this island, and their home in the jungle.