When I was small every step he took could span the globe. It was so hard to keep up with those superhero strides. His arms could reach clear across tables and from one end of the couch to the other. He rarely used a ladder. His face was scratchy when he didn’t shave for two days. It was a hilarious panic when he came in for a goodnight tuck-in and you knew he would rub his face on your forehead or cheek and you would laugh until you were done making noise and could only wheeze. His lap was huge, with seating for four at least. Somehow everyone got on. He had glasses that made his eyes seem bigger and he told people that his salt and pepper hair was getting more on the salt side of things. It was the funniest joke I’d heard until I was 10. He listened to John Denver songs and replayed small sections to point out Mr. Denver’s speech impediments. Somehow he knew. Once he told everyone in the car that he’d give a dollar for every hawk they spotted. Twenty-some bucks later, he called the deal off. He wasn’t mad, only broke.
Now I am even taller as he is and I know that my steps are small in the grand scheme of things and it takes millions to span the globe. My arms are long and I can reach things, but this only means that people are always asking me to get things off high shelves for them. I can grow a beard, a scraggly one at least, I can make it scratchy, but so can everyone else I know. I don’t mind when my cousins sit on my lap, as long as they stay still and don’t jab their boney elbows into my stomach. I don’t wear glasses and my hair is too blonde to make any seasoning jokes. I make my friends listen closely to lyrics that don’t make grammatical sense. They usually don’t listen. I once told my friend James that if he gave me a dollar I’d order a pink credit card. I’m a dollar richer, but with a credit card for a Care Bear in my wallet. For some reason I am hesitant to use it.
The biggest thing my Dad ever did for me was make small things huge and ordinary things amazing.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Driving Home from Eugene
So I am driving home from Eugene and I stop in a gas station to use the bathroom. In the bathroom there are two stalls. I take stall one, and in stall two there is a very large and dirty man (judging from his tattered work boots). Well, I am sitting there and he's sitting there and we are doing our respective business and all is right with the world.
Suddenly someone comes into the bathroom and slams on each of the stall doors in turn. When he slams into mine I say nothing and continue to concentrate on the matter at hand. My friend to the right however, chooses a different strategy.
"What the hell are you doing?" he shouts out.
"Checking to see if there was someone in there," answers the stranger outside the stalls. "What's it to you."
"Well, haven't you heard of knocking, you prick," my porcelain neighbor says. An important word to note here is "prick," because he was the first to resort to vulgarities.
"Hey, listen you f**king a**hole, if you got a problem then I'll be waiting for you outside," the other guys says. By now the whole situation is intense, and I think that everyone is tensed up, which is a problem because being tensed up doesn't usually jive with the sort of things that go down in a bathroom stall if you catch what I am saying, and I think that you do.
Well, the newcomer goes storming off and me and the guy next to me are thankfully in silence again. I got "back to work" so to speak, hoping that all the drama is behind me when I hear a whisper from the stall over.
"Can you believe that a**hole?" the guy asks.
I didn't answer. How could I? I can't imagine a more uncomfortable place to have a conversation then perched bare-butted over a swirling body of water in a gas station bathroom with loogies spotting the floor and used Bandaides taped to the stall walls.
Well I cleaned up, pulled myself together and got out of the stall to wash up my hands. The thought crossed my mind that the two men had not even seen each other's faces. When I left the bathroom I could be clocked in the side of the head.
I left from the side door just in case.
Suddenly someone comes into the bathroom and slams on each of the stall doors in turn. When he slams into mine I say nothing and continue to concentrate on the matter at hand. My friend to the right however, chooses a different strategy.
"What the hell are you doing?" he shouts out.
"Checking to see if there was someone in there," answers the stranger outside the stalls. "What's it to you."
"Well, haven't you heard of knocking, you prick," my porcelain neighbor says. An important word to note here is "prick," because he was the first to resort to vulgarities.
"Hey, listen you f**king a**hole, if you got a problem then I'll be waiting for you outside," the other guys says. By now the whole situation is intense, and I think that everyone is tensed up, which is a problem because being tensed up doesn't usually jive with the sort of things that go down in a bathroom stall if you catch what I am saying, and I think that you do.
Well, the newcomer goes storming off and me and the guy next to me are thankfully in silence again. I got "back to work" so to speak, hoping that all the drama is behind me when I hear a whisper from the stall over.
"Can you believe that a**hole?" the guy asks.
I didn't answer. How could I? I can't imagine a more uncomfortable place to have a conversation then perched bare-butted over a swirling body of water in a gas station bathroom with loogies spotting the floor and used Bandaides taped to the stall walls.
Well I cleaned up, pulled myself together and got out of the stall to wash up my hands. The thought crossed my mind that the two men had not even seen each other's faces. When I left the bathroom I could be clocked in the side of the head.
I left from the side door just in case.
Friday, June 6, 2008
On Some Level
On some level it feels like I never left home. Here I am with friends and family and we are still talking about what is going to happen to the Blazers next season, high gas prices and what everyone else is doing. People are laughing at the same types of jokes, are still excited to do the same sort of things and are still addicted to coffee.
In some ways however, it is utterly different. Suddenly my friends are all entering adulthood full-on. Talking about salary rates and 401K's. Hanging out with new friends and telling stories that I am so lost in that I need a map to make sense of anything. Is there any way to get back to normal? Does that even matter?
Do I have to grow up too?
How far to the nearest beach people?
In some ways however, it is utterly different. Suddenly my friends are all entering adulthood full-on. Talking about salary rates and 401K's. Hanging out with new friends and telling stories that I am so lost in that I need a map to make sense of anything. Is there any way to get back to normal? Does that even matter?
Do I have to grow up too?
How far to the nearest beach people?
Monday, June 2, 2008
Hello USA, How Have You Been?
Well, here I am, back in the U.S. of A. and I must say that it feels pretty dang good. Got off the plane at 2:30 am and waited for 8 hours for the Continental desk to open up so I could check my bags. Once that happened though, things have been going smoothly. They even checked my bags all of the way through to Portland even though the LAX to PDX leg is on a different airline.
Sweet.
Things I love so far: Starbucks, high-speed wireless internet, not being stared at, understanding everyone, clean bathrooms with soap and hot water, fresh fruit and air conditioning.
Things I am weary of: Well after spending a year in a country where all women were more or less boxy in shape due to the huge conservative dresses draped over them like a burlap sack, seeing ladies strut by in tight jeans and low cut shirts makes me blush. I want to shout, "HAVE SOME MODESTY! DO YOUR PARENTS KNOW YOU DRESS LIKE THIS?"
Things I hate so far: Everything in the airport is about $30 more than it actually should be. Want a water? Well, just sell me the rights to your kidney and then we can start talking.
Well, I waited with two friends from the RMI and we slept a little, talked a little and I called people on my cell phone...
Boomer found rest flung over the top of his suitcase while Ashley meditated to a higher plane.
Next step Portland.
Can't wait.
Sweet.
Things I love so far: Starbucks, high-speed wireless internet, not being stared at, understanding everyone, clean bathrooms with soap and hot water, fresh fruit and air conditioning.
Things I am weary of: Well after spending a year in a country where all women were more or less boxy in shape due to the huge conservative dresses draped over them like a burlap sack, seeing ladies strut by in tight jeans and low cut shirts makes me blush. I want to shout, "HAVE SOME MODESTY! DO YOUR PARENTS KNOW YOU DRESS LIKE THIS?"
Things I hate so far: Everything in the airport is about $30 more than it actually should be. Want a water? Well, just sell me the rights to your kidney and then we can start talking.
Well, I waited with two friends from the RMI and we slept a little, talked a little and I called people on my cell phone...
Boomer found rest flung over the top of his suitcase while Ashley meditated to a higher plane.
Next step Portland.
Can't wait.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The Walk of Hell
Well, I don't know whose stupid idea it was, all I know is that it seemed a good one at the time... Famous last words to be sure. My assistant field director and I decided to walk the entire length of the island in one go. That is 30 miles folks and no rest for the weary. We left the Rita end of the island at 7:57 pm and took off at a four mile an hour clip. as you can see from the photo, we were pretty stoked at the start...
Well around mile 10 things started hurting. My joints felt like they were grinding away my bones and Jeremy and I began to wonder if we had made a mistake. Delirium set in. I imagined that giant winged dinosaurs were swooping in around me... My feet and legs hurt. Mean dogs came out at every passing house to nip at my heels and my bag, which was less than 10 pounds at the start, suddenly felt like it was in upwards of 100 pounds. The nice walk, turned quickly into a trudge... I only kept pressing on because Jeremy insisted. He reasoned that if we stopped now, the defeat would be more painful then our legs. We hobbled on in tottering steps like we were on stilts...
We finally made it after sleeping for two hours on the abandoned cement basketball court of Ajeltake Elementary school. We slept on the beach and ignored the flies that swarmed. After an hour nap we hitched back home in the back of a truck whose driver was so impressed with our feat that he bought us gatorades and snacks on the way home.
30 miles in one night, 14 hours of walking, one bottle of water and a bag of sunflower seeds. Top that.
Well around mile 10 things started hurting. My joints felt like they were grinding away my bones and Jeremy and I began to wonder if we had made a mistake. Delirium set in. I imagined that giant winged dinosaurs were swooping in around me... My feet and legs hurt. Mean dogs came out at every passing house to nip at my heels and my bag, which was less than 10 pounds at the start, suddenly felt like it was in upwards of 100 pounds. The nice walk, turned quickly into a trudge... I only kept pressing on because Jeremy insisted. He reasoned that if we stopped now, the defeat would be more painful then our legs. We hobbled on in tottering steps like we were on stilts...
We finally made it after sleeping for two hours on the abandoned cement basketball court of Ajeltake Elementary school. We slept on the beach and ignored the flies that swarmed. After an hour nap we hitched back home in the back of a truck whose driver was so impressed with our feat that he bought us gatorades and snacks on the way home.
30 miles in one night, 14 hours of walking, one bottle of water and a bag of sunflower seeds. Top that.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Goodbye RMI
I tend to skew towards the sentimental. So now that I am on my way out of the RMI I wanted my last week to be filled with happy tears, lot’s of laughs and a house-full of hugs. Anything that would have fit into a TV sitcom montage would have been perfect.
Things didn’t work out that way – let me tell you what.
First of all I was robbed.
A few nights ago, while I was sound asleep, someone crept into my yard, peeled back the security screening on my living room window like a can of tuna and rifled through my roommate’s room. They stole his money and I pod.
That wasn’t so great. I felt pretty alarmed that someone would go through all of the trouble to rob volunteers.
Then, a few days later I went to school. While I was taking role my principal came whirling through my room, stick in hand, demanding to know who was late. I told her that every single student was on time (a lie) and that she needed to leave my classroom (the truth). She yelled at me for a while in the hallway. I asked her if we could talk about it later. She told me I had no control over my class. I said she was handling this the wrong way. She told me to go back to my class. I somehow ended up with the stick.
I examined this stick from end to end and was disgusted to see the end was studded with nails sticking out like jagged teeth from a bad dream. She had intended to hit my kids with it and had actually half-heartedly tagged one on the shoulder on the way out.
To get rid of the stick I went to the window of the bathroom – a deplorable place with no running water that over the course of the year has turned into a haven for hellish smells – and looked out my two-storey vantage point for a good place to toss the stick.
That was when I saw John. John is a student whose most consistent quality is that he skips every single class every single day. I’ve had him in class maybe five percent of the year. Anyway, I saw this kid sitting against the fence behind the school. He kind of looked like he was in pain. I couldn’t make him out clearly so I leaned out further. It was only then, to my terrible, horrible and scarring surprise that I saw he was feverishly completing the rite of passage all young men do on their way to manhood. Instead of being in the darkened corner of his own bed, he was in broad daylight behind an elementary school.
I took the stick and threw it in the bushes near John without him seeing me. He ran away with wild eyes.
Killed two birds with one stick.
I went home and fell asleep, homesick and frustrated.
I woke up to the sound of rocks being hurled at my door, the sign that some of my students want to come and hang out. I got up and let Billis and Paul in. they immediately set to work with hammer and nails and fixed my window. Then they saw how messy my room was.
“This is no good, Mr. Tim,” they told me.
“I know guys, but it’s been a tough couple days.”
Well, they fixed my window, cleaned my room and afterward we threw a football in my front yard.
Positive montage scene worthy of sitcom: Check.
Next mission: Adjusting to life in America.
Things didn’t work out that way – let me tell you what.
First of all I was robbed.
A few nights ago, while I was sound asleep, someone crept into my yard, peeled back the security screening on my living room window like a can of tuna and rifled through my roommate’s room. They stole his money and I pod.
That wasn’t so great. I felt pretty alarmed that someone would go through all of the trouble to rob volunteers.
Then, a few days later I went to school. While I was taking role my principal came whirling through my room, stick in hand, demanding to know who was late. I told her that every single student was on time (a lie) and that she needed to leave my classroom (the truth). She yelled at me for a while in the hallway. I asked her if we could talk about it later. She told me I had no control over my class. I said she was handling this the wrong way. She told me to go back to my class. I somehow ended up with the stick.
I examined this stick from end to end and was disgusted to see the end was studded with nails sticking out like jagged teeth from a bad dream. She had intended to hit my kids with it and had actually half-heartedly tagged one on the shoulder on the way out.
To get rid of the stick I went to the window of the bathroom – a deplorable place with no running water that over the course of the year has turned into a haven for hellish smells – and looked out my two-storey vantage point for a good place to toss the stick.
That was when I saw John. John is a student whose most consistent quality is that he skips every single class every single day. I’ve had him in class maybe five percent of the year. Anyway, I saw this kid sitting against the fence behind the school. He kind of looked like he was in pain. I couldn’t make him out clearly so I leaned out further. It was only then, to my terrible, horrible and scarring surprise that I saw he was feverishly completing the rite of passage all young men do on their way to manhood. Instead of being in the darkened corner of his own bed, he was in broad daylight behind an elementary school.
I took the stick and threw it in the bushes near John without him seeing me. He ran away with wild eyes.
Killed two birds with one stick.
I went home and fell asleep, homesick and frustrated.
I woke up to the sound of rocks being hurled at my door, the sign that some of my students want to come and hang out. I got up and let Billis and Paul in. they immediately set to work with hammer and nails and fixed my window. Then they saw how messy my room was.
“This is no good, Mr. Tim,” they told me.
“I know guys, but it’s been a tough couple days.”
Well, they fixed my window, cleaned my room and afterward we threw a football in my front yard.
Positive montage scene worthy of sitcom: Check.
Next mission: Adjusting to life in America.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Dear Diary
While in Ebeye I made sure to keep a detailed diary. Here is it:
5/8/08 – It was immediately apparent to everyone when I got off the plane that this was my first visit. Can’t go anywhere here without police escort. Am the only white person waiting to go to Ebeye. Got driven to docks in a Port Authority van and saw all the wide open spaces and manicured lawns of the base. Swimming pools, tennis courts, skate park, basketball courts, and all of them deserted. American style homes stacked down the street with square lawns. Got a burger and chips at a lunch counter from one of the saddest looking dudes I have ever seen. Tired Marshallese workers lounge around and wait for 2:40 shuttle to leave. Entering Kwaj, Marshallese workers have to scan their hands in a finger print scanner like something from Star Trek. Wierd. Read in paper that it averages two degrees hotter in Ebeye than back in Majuro…
5/9/08 – One road rambles around this dirt and tin place. Taxis everywhere. Don’t know why. You could walk from one end to the other in 20 minutes. Everything has surprisingly clean and organized feel. Kids are less outwardly friendly than in Majuro. Only really “nice” place in the whole town is the King’s place. Private boat launch. Dogs don’t bother anyone and every little kid asks for a quarter. Water was supposedly tested positive for E. Coli and Conner and I both had Kool Aid today. Am not sure why. I might have some sort of bug or worm.
Found out that five kids from Ebeye get the privilege every year of attending school on the Army base. The chosen start in kindergarten and go all of the way through.
There are abandoned military installments across the lagoon that Marshallese families have moved in around. There are locked doors that they cannot break into but inside there are machines that continue to run…
5/10/08 – There is a road build of dynamited coral that connects Ebeye to Gugigoo – a nice place with space. Some people say that it was built by the king because he has a house out there and wanted an easier way to get there. Some say that it was built because they were trying to get people to live out there and alleviate crowding on Ebeye.
Walked to next island over from Gugigoo and it was deserted. Strange to think that you can go from third highest population density to deserted tropical island in about 40 minutes.
5/8/08 – It was immediately apparent to everyone when I got off the plane that this was my first visit. Can’t go anywhere here without police escort. Am the only white person waiting to go to Ebeye. Got driven to docks in a Port Authority van and saw all the wide open spaces and manicured lawns of the base. Swimming pools, tennis courts, skate park, basketball courts, and all of them deserted. American style homes stacked down the street with square lawns. Got a burger and chips at a lunch counter from one of the saddest looking dudes I have ever seen. Tired Marshallese workers lounge around and wait for 2:40 shuttle to leave. Entering Kwaj, Marshallese workers have to scan their hands in a finger print scanner like something from Star Trek. Wierd. Read in paper that it averages two degrees hotter in Ebeye than back in Majuro…
5/9/08 – One road rambles around this dirt and tin place. Taxis everywhere. Don’t know why. You could walk from one end to the other in 20 minutes. Everything has surprisingly clean and organized feel. Kids are less outwardly friendly than in Majuro. Only really “nice” place in the whole town is the King’s place. Private boat launch. Dogs don’t bother anyone and every little kid asks for a quarter. Water was supposedly tested positive for E. Coli and Conner and I both had Kool Aid today. Am not sure why. I might have some sort of bug or worm.
Found out that five kids from Ebeye get the privilege every year of attending school on the Army base. The chosen start in kindergarten and go all of the way through.
There are abandoned military installments across the lagoon that Marshallese families have moved in around. There are locked doors that they cannot break into but inside there are machines that continue to run…
5/10/08 – There is a road build of dynamited coral that connects Ebeye to Gugigoo – a nice place with space. Some people say that it was built by the king because he has a house out there and wanted an easier way to get there. Some say that it was built because they were trying to get people to live out there and alleviate crowding on Ebeye.
Walked to next island over from Gugigoo and it was deserted. Strange to think that you can go from third highest population density to deserted tropical island in about 40 minutes.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
CAMERA!
OK, this is great; I just refound a digital camera that Tiffany left me. I know, I am an idiot; I waited until I only had 17 days and counting to whip out the digital camera but the fact remains, it is awesome. I take it out in class and there is an instant clamoring for pictures to be taken. Suddenly everything I tell you guys are real, and it is not just some ongoing elaborate story that I am making up. I mean, let’s be honest, I could have been hanging out in some house in Tigard this whole time and making up everything I say that happens to me, but now I can give you proof. Here is proof that Lejab really is the funniest kid around, as this picture shows. All of a sudden he just whips out this crazy wig to go out into recess with… it is so great. Then there is a bunch of kids who showed up to my house soaked and playing in the water catchment’s overflow… it was really awesome because let me tell you, some of these kids need a shower… In related news, the Salvation Army here just received a bunch of pudding from some American donor, which means that all my kids are suddenly ingesting copious amounts of milk product and the flatulence in class is really ramping up… Well, that’s all from here… I’ll be home so soon it makes my head spin…
Monday, May 12, 2008
Black and White
It’s easy to paint things in black and white. I took my last big trip here in the Marshall Islands to the Kwajalein Atoll to visit a friend on Ebeye. When I told people I was going, all they could say was Ebeye was too crowded and hot and Majuro was good. “Stay,” they all said, “why go somewhere bad, when you can stay somewhere good?”
Kwajalein Atoll is notable for two very different things. It is the home of a US military base involved in missile defense research and site of WWII battles with Japan and it is also home to one of the most notorious slums in the Pacific, a place called Ebeye.
Getting on the plane, I was surrounded by army base employees coming back from vacation and trading stories: what was good, bad and funny. Some complained about going back to work on the base – getting back to the daily grind.
When I got off the plane I was escorted by a base policeman through what amounts to an American suburb in the middle of the equatorial Pacific. Strange.
Here I was, used to tin shacks and plywood walls, being driven in a Chrysler mini van through mowed lawns lined up perfectly for a paperboy route. Among the skateboard park, golf course and swimming pool people leisurely rode their bikes around in the afternoon sun.
The difference made my jaw drop. Not in the fake way people sometimes say to express shock, but in the literal way where drool gets on your shirt.
I was brought to a secure little dock where I went through the metal detector yet again and led to a small diner to wait for the next shuttle over to Ebeye. The shuttles, big army personal boats, come every few hours. One had just left so I sat down to wait. The army base on Kwajalein employs hundreds of Marshallese men and women, a main reason for the crowding on Ebeye as people flock there to work on the base, and I waited with a few of them for the next transport. A group of women shared an order of French fries and laughed their heads off.
Finally my time came and I got on one of the big barges and headed over to Ebeye. The trip took less than 20 minutes. At the dock I got off and asked where my friend Conner was staying. I was led by one of his students through a series of thin alleys in between ramshackle housing. We stepped over pools of mysterious liquids and ducked our heads under rusted tin over-hangings.
Again a shock to my system. I went from the suburbs into a more crowded version of Majuro.
While statistics vary, the most conservative numbers put the packed little town as having the third highest population density of anywhere in the world. Roughly 14,000 people are packed into an area of less than 0.14 square miles. The houses crowd each other like people in line for a concert. Everything is rusted. Kids climb over walls and onto roofs like the whole place is their own, personal jungle gym. Near the end of Ebeye is a section appropriately called Dump Town.
It is exactly as advertised. Rows upon rows of metal trailers that the base has sent over once they’re deemed “unlivable” sit in crooked rows with backyards of rolling hills of refuse. Here and there piles of used diapers and soda cans burn off a noxious smoke. As I walked by, a group of young boys picked among the trash for something suitable to clean themselves and then squatted and did their business.
I felt the strange sensation of not being able to turn away, but disgusted in myself for staring.
The weirdest part was that while there were scenes that made your stomach sink, the whole situation somehow didn’t feel hopeless. There were men sitting outside small coffee shacks, joking with old friends, there were kids swimming and playing basketball and men and women out for their evening strolls.
The sun that evening set into the sea in brilliant oranges and reds and dressed everything in curtains and shades of its fiery color. So much for black and white.
I will explore other aspects of Kwajalein in the next few columns...
Kwajalein Atoll is notable for two very different things. It is the home of a US military base involved in missile defense research and site of WWII battles with Japan and it is also home to one of the most notorious slums in the Pacific, a place called Ebeye.
Getting on the plane, I was surrounded by army base employees coming back from vacation and trading stories: what was good, bad and funny. Some complained about going back to work on the base – getting back to the daily grind.
When I got off the plane I was escorted by a base policeman through what amounts to an American suburb in the middle of the equatorial Pacific. Strange.
Here I was, used to tin shacks and plywood walls, being driven in a Chrysler mini van through mowed lawns lined up perfectly for a paperboy route. Among the skateboard park, golf course and swimming pool people leisurely rode their bikes around in the afternoon sun.
The difference made my jaw drop. Not in the fake way people sometimes say to express shock, but in the literal way where drool gets on your shirt.
I was brought to a secure little dock where I went through the metal detector yet again and led to a small diner to wait for the next shuttle over to Ebeye. The shuttles, big army personal boats, come every few hours. One had just left so I sat down to wait. The army base on Kwajalein employs hundreds of Marshallese men and women, a main reason for the crowding on Ebeye as people flock there to work on the base, and I waited with a few of them for the next transport. A group of women shared an order of French fries and laughed their heads off.
Finally my time came and I got on one of the big barges and headed over to Ebeye. The trip took less than 20 minutes. At the dock I got off and asked where my friend Conner was staying. I was led by one of his students through a series of thin alleys in between ramshackle housing. We stepped over pools of mysterious liquids and ducked our heads under rusted tin over-hangings.
Again a shock to my system. I went from the suburbs into a more crowded version of Majuro.
While statistics vary, the most conservative numbers put the packed little town as having the third highest population density of anywhere in the world. Roughly 14,000 people are packed into an area of less than 0.14 square miles. The houses crowd each other like people in line for a concert. Everything is rusted. Kids climb over walls and onto roofs like the whole place is their own, personal jungle gym. Near the end of Ebeye is a section appropriately called Dump Town.
It is exactly as advertised. Rows upon rows of metal trailers that the base has sent over once they’re deemed “unlivable” sit in crooked rows with backyards of rolling hills of refuse. Here and there piles of used diapers and soda cans burn off a noxious smoke. As I walked by, a group of young boys picked among the trash for something suitable to clean themselves and then squatted and did their business.
I felt the strange sensation of not being able to turn away, but disgusted in myself for staring.
The weirdest part was that while there were scenes that made your stomach sink, the whole situation somehow didn’t feel hopeless. There were men sitting outside small coffee shacks, joking with old friends, there were kids swimming and playing basketball and men and women out for their evening strolls.
The sun that evening set into the sea in brilliant oranges and reds and dressed everything in curtains and shades of its fiery color. So much for black and white.
I will explore other aspects of Kwajalein in the next few columns...
Friday, May 9, 2008
Here on the Big E
So I am here in Ebeye which is where all of the Marshallese people live in the Kwajalein Atoll. This small island is right next to the US Army base and supposedly has the 3rd highest population density of anywhere in the world. Very interesting. More later when I have better internet and time to think.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Why Sports Here Rock My World
Over here May 1 is Independence Day. To celebrate, the government sets up a series of competitions for area schools and I got the day off to watch. I came away with one general impression – I love sports here in the Marshall Islands.
First of all, tug-of-war is serious competition here. There are strategies, rivalries and fortunes won and lost along that taut line. My students, especially now that summer is knocking on our door, are sometimes impossible to round up in class. They are more interested in spitballs and Bruce Lee kicking. However you put them along a rope with another school at the other end and there is not an army in the world with more discipline. They all know their special positions, they got their signals down pat and when push comes to shove they will sacrifice the skin off their palms to win.
No joke. It is serious fun to watch.
Second thing that is great about the sports here is trash talking. Yeah I know that the US is the country that invented trash talk, but it is nowhere as entertaining as it is here. I was watching the high school basketball championships and I can honestly say I haven’t laughed that hard since my sister shaved her cat (true story). For most of the game these kids were the epitome of composure. Then, all of a sudden, they break into some ridiculous dance or do some crazy face. One kid, after a particularly crucial free throw, did a chicken dance back to mid-court. His fans copied. The place was suddenly a chicken coop with bleachers full of people flapping their bent-elbow wings. Phenomenal.
The third greatest thing about Marshall Islands sports are the fans. Anytime there is a ball and more than one person there will be a crowd of people watching. Strike that, if there is a person and a ball and a wall there are people. Strike that, if there is a ball, there are people. Every single event venue I went to on Independence Day was filled to the brim with fans ready to boil over. And this is for all levels, even the younger ones. I know for a fact that at the majority of middle school games in the US the entire fan base could car pool home together – in a Pinto.
At the volleyball championship here, the referee stopped the game towards the end because there were too many kids sitting on the floor because it was packed everywhere else. His solution? Well, get the score table stick and walk back over to the kids brandishing it over his head. Instantly the floor cleared.
In my head I imagined the TV announcer’s call. And here we are in the championship game to decide volleyball supremacy and it’s Arno’s serve. Wait. What’s this? We have a whistle blown, and… yes, the referee has gone to the score table and he has the stick. The kids are running folks, you should see them run…
The last reason why I love sports here in the Marshall Islands is also a biased reason. My student, Solomon Riklong, won the sprint championship in the 100 meters. He is the fastest person in all of Majuro for anyone sixth grade and younger. You’ve heard of people running like the wind? Well this kid runs like a Ferrari. I actually don’t know if a sports car is faster than the wind but the point is that he is fast. The best part was, he won fifty bucks. I asked him what he was going to do with all of his money. How many five-cent gums and 35-cent popping fireworks can that buy?
“I will give it to my family,” he said.
I love the sports here.
First of all, tug-of-war is serious competition here. There are strategies, rivalries and fortunes won and lost along that taut line. My students, especially now that summer is knocking on our door, are sometimes impossible to round up in class. They are more interested in spitballs and Bruce Lee kicking. However you put them along a rope with another school at the other end and there is not an army in the world with more discipline. They all know their special positions, they got their signals down pat and when push comes to shove they will sacrifice the skin off their palms to win.
No joke. It is serious fun to watch.
Second thing that is great about the sports here is trash talking. Yeah I know that the US is the country that invented trash talk, but it is nowhere as entertaining as it is here. I was watching the high school basketball championships and I can honestly say I haven’t laughed that hard since my sister shaved her cat (true story). For most of the game these kids were the epitome of composure. Then, all of a sudden, they break into some ridiculous dance or do some crazy face. One kid, after a particularly crucial free throw, did a chicken dance back to mid-court. His fans copied. The place was suddenly a chicken coop with bleachers full of people flapping their bent-elbow wings. Phenomenal.
The third greatest thing about Marshall Islands sports are the fans. Anytime there is a ball and more than one person there will be a crowd of people watching. Strike that, if there is a person and a ball and a wall there are people. Strike that, if there is a ball, there are people. Every single event venue I went to on Independence Day was filled to the brim with fans ready to boil over. And this is for all levels, even the younger ones. I know for a fact that at the majority of middle school games in the US the entire fan base could car pool home together – in a Pinto.
At the volleyball championship here, the referee stopped the game towards the end because there were too many kids sitting on the floor because it was packed everywhere else. His solution? Well, get the score table stick and walk back over to the kids brandishing it over his head. Instantly the floor cleared.
In my head I imagined the TV announcer’s call. And here we are in the championship game to decide volleyball supremacy and it’s Arno’s serve. Wait. What’s this? We have a whistle blown, and… yes, the referee has gone to the score table and he has the stick. The kids are running folks, you should see them run…
The last reason why I love sports here in the Marshall Islands is also a biased reason. My student, Solomon Riklong, won the sprint championship in the 100 meters. He is the fastest person in all of Majuro for anyone sixth grade and younger. You’ve heard of people running like the wind? Well this kid runs like a Ferrari. I actually don’t know if a sports car is faster than the wind but the point is that he is fast. The best part was, he won fifty bucks. I asked him what he was going to do with all of his money. How many five-cent gums and 35-cent popping fireworks can that buy?
“I will give it to my family,” he said.
I love the sports here.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News
How much did you pay for your last doctor’s visit? A lot? Well, hopefully you had some insurance to help you out and your premium wasn’t too high.
Last year, when I graduated from college and before I worked as a sports writer for the Molalla Pioneer, I entered about six months of uninsured life. I had little to no money and a huge black cloud of debt following me around like a bad dream. The thought of shelling out around 100 dollars a month to be insured made me sick to my stomach. Sad to say being unemployed doesn’t pay a kingly salary so I wondered what I’d have to cut from my diet to be insured. I’m young, I thought, and healthy too so I’ll let it slide for a few months.
I found out quickly what was wrong with being uninsured. Suddenly I was scared in everything I did. I walked down the sidewalk like a little kid sneaking into the kitchen to steal a cookie. Every movement was slow and precise. When cold season came around, and some nasty bug flattened me out and I felt like every cell in my body was rebelling against me, instead of seeing a doctor I just waited it out. I carried Kleenex in my pockets like most people carry spare change. Good thing it wasn’t the bird flu.
Here in the Marshall Islands though, my pockets are a spare-change-only zone. It’s awesome. Everything here at the hospital costs 17 dollars. No joke, 17 bucks opens the doors wide to healing, medicine and operation. Have a runny nose with a nasty flu? Seventeen dollars later and it is all better. Broke your leg? Well, that’ll get that fixed right up for 17 bucks. Need your appendix taken out? Seventeen bucks and it’s all gravy.
When my field director told me that she was in the hospital for a week and came out with her pockets only 17 dollars lighter I was floored.
Suddenly physical injury was just momentary discomfort. I snorkeled shark-infested waters, I took up windsurfing, I gave snotty little kids high-fives – no matter what happened I had a 17 dollar angel at my side.
Now luckily I’ve only had to go to the hospital once in my time here for a skin rash. I walked into a modern building with bone chilling air-conditioning and was led through the usual paper trail and three hours of waiting; but at the end I saw a doctor, got the appropriate medicine and was on my way for – and I know you all are getting tired of this – 17 dollars.
In all of this crazy new country, where government and private citizen are still learning the best ways to work things out and infrastructure is being built from the ground up, here is this thing that makes a ton of sense.
You’re sick? Just go to the hospital.
There are a lot of times when I am in class where I feel sad for my students. I see this amazing group of young people who are so kind, smart and energetic and then I think about their future options and it doesn’t add up. It’s sad to say, but many of them will have a hard time finding work and will deal with issues like poverty for the rest of their lives. It’s almost enough to make you want to go curl up under a coconut tree and wait for the next tsunami.
Now, however, I know they have at least this one thing they can count on – access to health care.
How much did you pay for your last doctor’s visit? More than 17 bucks?
Last year, when I graduated from college and before I worked as a sports writer for the Molalla Pioneer, I entered about six months of uninsured life. I had little to no money and a huge black cloud of debt following me around like a bad dream. The thought of shelling out around 100 dollars a month to be insured made me sick to my stomach. Sad to say being unemployed doesn’t pay a kingly salary so I wondered what I’d have to cut from my diet to be insured. I’m young, I thought, and healthy too so I’ll let it slide for a few months.
I found out quickly what was wrong with being uninsured. Suddenly I was scared in everything I did. I walked down the sidewalk like a little kid sneaking into the kitchen to steal a cookie. Every movement was slow and precise. When cold season came around, and some nasty bug flattened me out and I felt like every cell in my body was rebelling against me, instead of seeing a doctor I just waited it out. I carried Kleenex in my pockets like most people carry spare change. Good thing it wasn’t the bird flu.
Here in the Marshall Islands though, my pockets are a spare-change-only zone. It’s awesome. Everything here at the hospital costs 17 dollars. No joke, 17 bucks opens the doors wide to healing, medicine and operation. Have a runny nose with a nasty flu? Seventeen dollars later and it is all better. Broke your leg? Well, that’ll get that fixed right up for 17 bucks. Need your appendix taken out? Seventeen bucks and it’s all gravy.
When my field director told me that she was in the hospital for a week and came out with her pockets only 17 dollars lighter I was floored.
Suddenly physical injury was just momentary discomfort. I snorkeled shark-infested waters, I took up windsurfing, I gave snotty little kids high-fives – no matter what happened I had a 17 dollar angel at my side.
Now luckily I’ve only had to go to the hospital once in my time here for a skin rash. I walked into a modern building with bone chilling air-conditioning and was led through the usual paper trail and three hours of waiting; but at the end I saw a doctor, got the appropriate medicine and was on my way for – and I know you all are getting tired of this – 17 dollars.
In all of this crazy new country, where government and private citizen are still learning the best ways to work things out and infrastructure is being built from the ground up, here is this thing that makes a ton of sense.
You’re sick? Just go to the hospital.
There are a lot of times when I am in class where I feel sad for my students. I see this amazing group of young people who are so kind, smart and energetic and then I think about their future options and it doesn’t add up. It’s sad to say, but many of them will have a hard time finding work and will deal with issues like poverty for the rest of their lives. It’s almost enough to make you want to go curl up under a coconut tree and wait for the next tsunami.
Now, however, I know they have at least this one thing they can count on – access to health care.
How much did you pay for your last doctor’s visit? More than 17 bucks?
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Sick
I have been sick for the last week. I'm talking what-the-heck-just-came-out-of-your-nose-and-should-we-inform-the-government-about-it sick. The good thing is that it gav me a chance to just lay around, the bad thing is I had nothing to do. The headaches made reading impossible so I watched the second season of "24," in, well, a day give or take. With so much tension my nerves are shot.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Here's to the Next Guy
OK so stuff here is starting to wind down and I have to write a letter of advice for the next volunteer coming to my school. This kind of threw me for a loop. I had to think long and hard as to what the heck I should tell the next guy (or girl) to come to Rita Elementary School. The problem I have is there is nothing I can say that would adequately prepare him for this place. I thought about just not writing a letter as a poetic way of telling him to blaze his own path.
However, seeing as I need to write a letter in order to get my 1,500-dollar deposit back, I decided to give it a shot.
One, bring a big stick to scare away dogs, knock down spider webs and poke around fires. If you don’t want to bring a stick because of concerns with airport security fret not, there are sticks here as well.
Two, bring your favorite kind of fruit tree. Fresh fruit is expensive and hard to come by. Better just bring your own dang tree and plant it in the front yard. Yes I know this sounds ridiculous but when your skin is turning the varying shades of yellow on the road to scurvy, who will seem ridiculous then?
Three, you’ll need a raincoat. You think you know rain, and then you come here and you see that what you knew before was just the drizzle they use in supermarkets to keep the veggies fresh. Seriously, it rains here like the sky is holding a grudge. If you don’t have a raincoat you could just wrap yourself up in a trash bag, but I thought we were trying to stay away from ridiculous.
Four, get a good camera. There are things you don’t want to miss or forget. This one time a group of girls started blasting out the “Grease” soundtrack on this ratty boom box and shaking, rocking and rolling like they were on American Bandstand. I didn’t take a picture of it. I wish I would have.
Five, consider getting some sort of little vice. For me it’s sugar. Every time that I feel those pangs of homesickness creep on up through my bones I jam about 15 Snickers bars down my throat and I feel strangely better. I also feel very close to diabetic shock but things in life are all give and take. You’ll learn that here better than anywhere.
Six, get a thick skin. I don’t know how you’ll do this before hand. Maybe take an instrument you’ve never played before, say a bagpipe, and go to open-mic night somewhere and belt out “Little Red Corvette” at the top of your lungs – off-key. There are things here that will scar you if you don’t have a thick skin. Stuff kids say and repeat to you. I will spare the details because this is the classy sort of column, but trust me, get that skin thick.
Seven, learn some new words. You try explaining the concept of a volcanic coral lagoon in print. I’ve tried for nine months and still nobody knows what I’m talking about. Maybe if I had more words…
Eight, bring an open mind. This place has the capacity to crawl up inside of you and change you from the inside out. Let it. The people here are these amazing, generous and loving people that you can learn a lot from. Twenty-five years down the road you will not be lamenting the fact that it was so hot everyday, you’ll be telling about how cool it was to be a positive part of a community.
So there’s the letter – can I get my money back now?
However, seeing as I need to write a letter in order to get my 1,500-dollar deposit back, I decided to give it a shot.
One, bring a big stick to scare away dogs, knock down spider webs and poke around fires. If you don’t want to bring a stick because of concerns with airport security fret not, there are sticks here as well.
Two, bring your favorite kind of fruit tree. Fresh fruit is expensive and hard to come by. Better just bring your own dang tree and plant it in the front yard. Yes I know this sounds ridiculous but when your skin is turning the varying shades of yellow on the road to scurvy, who will seem ridiculous then?
Three, you’ll need a raincoat. You think you know rain, and then you come here and you see that what you knew before was just the drizzle they use in supermarkets to keep the veggies fresh. Seriously, it rains here like the sky is holding a grudge. If you don’t have a raincoat you could just wrap yourself up in a trash bag, but I thought we were trying to stay away from ridiculous.
Four, get a good camera. There are things you don’t want to miss or forget. This one time a group of girls started blasting out the “Grease” soundtrack on this ratty boom box and shaking, rocking and rolling like they were on American Bandstand. I didn’t take a picture of it. I wish I would have.
Five, consider getting some sort of little vice. For me it’s sugar. Every time that I feel those pangs of homesickness creep on up through my bones I jam about 15 Snickers bars down my throat and I feel strangely better. I also feel very close to diabetic shock but things in life are all give and take. You’ll learn that here better than anywhere.
Six, get a thick skin. I don’t know how you’ll do this before hand. Maybe take an instrument you’ve never played before, say a bagpipe, and go to open-mic night somewhere and belt out “Little Red Corvette” at the top of your lungs – off-key. There are things here that will scar you if you don’t have a thick skin. Stuff kids say and repeat to you. I will spare the details because this is the classy sort of column, but trust me, get that skin thick.
Seven, learn some new words. You try explaining the concept of a volcanic coral lagoon in print. I’ve tried for nine months and still nobody knows what I’m talking about. Maybe if I had more words…
Eight, bring an open mind. This place has the capacity to crawl up inside of you and change you from the inside out. Let it. The people here are these amazing, generous and loving people that you can learn a lot from. Twenty-five years down the road you will not be lamenting the fact that it was so hot everyday, you’ll be telling about how cool it was to be a positive part of a community.
So there’s the letter – can I get my money back now?
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Taxi!
My friends Steve and Ali are the first two people to go home from their year in the Marshall Islands. They are getting on a plane tomorrow and going back to hot water, real coffee and fast Internet.
Oh man, do I feel sorry for them.
The problem is that they are leaving behind the ever-entertaining Marshallese taxi. What are they going to do when they hop in a cab and the driver just takes them where they want to go? Where is the fun in that?
Here you get so much more than a ride. You flag down a cab and the driver is either half-asleep at the wheel or talking excitedly to you about his experience with the American cultural underbelly. Either way you’re riveted.
Then there is always this lady next to you insists on dropping plates of food off at about 35 different houses. At each stop she gets out and pauses to have a word with someone in the front yard and you get to witness first hand how good news and rumors travel so dang fast here.
Plus, the windows of these cabs are so much better than any TV channel you will ever get at home. I zoom by touching scenes of kids playing baseball, swimming or three-legged racing each other down the street. I see lines of kids waiting their turn under the electric razor for a hair cut. I see people playing cards on front steps and the flipper end of a fisherman bringing home his reef catch. I see sunsets gambling their rays out on top of the ocean like a game of dice. I see dogs wrestling each other to the ground and women starting coconut fires.
Then there are also the comedy channels. These are window scenes of kids sucking on rocks and grooving out to the latest Akon rap song. You’re sitting there, laughing your head off, wondering where the heck they get their material. I mean, kids sucking on rocks, who could have come up with that. When the TV stations were hurting for writers they should have just walked around Majuro.
Here’s another great thing about cabs; they are air-conditioned. For fifteen minutes out of your day you get to sit down on a cushy seat and just give your pores a break already. I have been thinking about this; I’ve been sweating for about nine months straight here in this equatorial sun and I don’t know how much longer my glands can hold up.
What’s the warranty policy on these babies?
Then, and here is a real sweet part about taxis, you get a glimpse into the real world! Yes, that’s right, on the most popular radio station in town the BBC splices in ever hour or so to tell you what is happening in the grander scheme of things and you sit back and sigh and know that yes the world is still in fact turning even though you have been caught up in the same summer since last July.
And all of this for a mere 75 cents – how much did your last DVD cost?
I am excited for Steve and Ali to get on with their lives in Boston, but do they realize what they are missing?
Oh man, do I feel sorry for them.
The problem is that they are leaving behind the ever-entertaining Marshallese taxi. What are they going to do when they hop in a cab and the driver just takes them where they want to go? Where is the fun in that?
Here you get so much more than a ride. You flag down a cab and the driver is either half-asleep at the wheel or talking excitedly to you about his experience with the American cultural underbelly. Either way you’re riveted.
Then there is always this lady next to you insists on dropping plates of food off at about 35 different houses. At each stop she gets out and pauses to have a word with someone in the front yard and you get to witness first hand how good news and rumors travel so dang fast here.
Plus, the windows of these cabs are so much better than any TV channel you will ever get at home. I zoom by touching scenes of kids playing baseball, swimming or three-legged racing each other down the street. I see lines of kids waiting their turn under the electric razor for a hair cut. I see people playing cards on front steps and the flipper end of a fisherman bringing home his reef catch. I see sunsets gambling their rays out on top of the ocean like a game of dice. I see dogs wrestling each other to the ground and women starting coconut fires.
Then there are also the comedy channels. These are window scenes of kids sucking on rocks and grooving out to the latest Akon rap song. You’re sitting there, laughing your head off, wondering where the heck they get their material. I mean, kids sucking on rocks, who could have come up with that. When the TV stations were hurting for writers they should have just walked around Majuro.
Here’s another great thing about cabs; they are air-conditioned. For fifteen minutes out of your day you get to sit down on a cushy seat and just give your pores a break already. I have been thinking about this; I’ve been sweating for about nine months straight here in this equatorial sun and I don’t know how much longer my glands can hold up.
What’s the warranty policy on these babies?
Then, and here is a real sweet part about taxis, you get a glimpse into the real world! Yes, that’s right, on the most popular radio station in town the BBC splices in ever hour or so to tell you what is happening in the grander scheme of things and you sit back and sigh and know that yes the world is still in fact turning even though you have been caught up in the same summer since last July.
And all of this for a mere 75 cents – how much did your last DVD cost?
I am excited for Steve and Ali to get on with their lives in Boston, but do they realize what they are missing?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Eyebye
Hey, I am going to Eyebye on May 8th. If anyone wants me to check anything out for them, let me know. It is connected to Kwaj the US missle base.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Focus
It’s easy to get blown away by how different my life is today from what it was a year ago. I sit on the beach outside my house and I look down the gentle curve of Majuro framing the lagoon and I remember that a year ago I was holed up against the rain with cabin fever.
Sometimes difference is good.
There are times though when the contrast is bad.
This coral atoll is only 30 miles long and at is widest is probably no more than 200 yards. Trash piles and accumulates with nowhere to go. The problem is compounded because when anyone is done eating anything, they just throw the wrapper down. It’s kind of shocking at first. It used to make sense because before the trash was all coconut husks and pandanous leaves. The Pepsi cans of today are a little bit more ubliqitous.
Now plastic bags roll like tumble weeds and diapers do their best imitation of jellyfish. It’s enough to get me swooning for the pristine state parks of Oregon.
Either way, when I feel myself drifting too far away from anchor and home is a long way off, I just bring my focus in tighter. If you bring your focus in close enough then it doesn’t seem so strange and you can find home most anywhere.
There are pine trees in the Marshall Islands. Yeah, it’s pretty weird but someone brought them in and the trees did what they did and now there are big sweeping pines poking out of coconut tree horizons. This weekend on my walk to Ejit I stopped beneath a pine tree and saw pine needles mixed with sand and it was just like the beach in Tillamook where I go camping every summer. At least a tiny part of it.
My classroom is on the second floor and during recess I lean my elbows on the rail and look out on the small baseball field. The kids all line up to bat. They use an old stick rather than a bat but a pitch is a pitch, a strike is a strike and girls versus boys is a battle we can all get behind.
Coffee is a godsend in the morning. It’s divine. I drink it here same as anywhere.
Sometimes when my students are not behaving and won’t stop talking in class I’ll pace up the rows one by one singing Yankee Doodle Dandy at the tops of my lungs until everyone is cracking up. A clown is always a clown anywhere you are and my voice will be terrible no matter what corner of the map I’m on.
There’s a Salvation Army a few doors down from where I live with a perfect cement basketball court. Right now we are smack dab in the middle of the city league tournament to see who the champion of Majuro is. Sometimes I watch the games from the second storie balcony of the church with my students. We chomp on gum and sunflower seeds and root, root, root for the home team. They are called “The Uglies.”
I went to the hospital and waited for two hours while I killed three pens filling out enough paperwork to make college seem like kindergarten. Heartwarming.
I still like the adventure that living in a different place and culture brings. I still get a kick out of doing unique island things like swimming in one of the deep channels that punch through this atoll like Morris Code. However, there are also times when I just want the familiar, and I have been pleasantly surprised by how I’ve found it.
I guess that old adage that it’s a small world after all is completely true if you bring the focus in tight enough.
Sometimes difference is good.
There are times though when the contrast is bad.
This coral atoll is only 30 miles long and at is widest is probably no more than 200 yards. Trash piles and accumulates with nowhere to go. The problem is compounded because when anyone is done eating anything, they just throw the wrapper down. It’s kind of shocking at first. It used to make sense because before the trash was all coconut husks and pandanous leaves. The Pepsi cans of today are a little bit more ubliqitous.
Now plastic bags roll like tumble weeds and diapers do their best imitation of jellyfish. It’s enough to get me swooning for the pristine state parks of Oregon.
Either way, when I feel myself drifting too far away from anchor and home is a long way off, I just bring my focus in tighter. If you bring your focus in close enough then it doesn’t seem so strange and you can find home most anywhere.
There are pine trees in the Marshall Islands. Yeah, it’s pretty weird but someone brought them in and the trees did what they did and now there are big sweeping pines poking out of coconut tree horizons. This weekend on my walk to Ejit I stopped beneath a pine tree and saw pine needles mixed with sand and it was just like the beach in Tillamook where I go camping every summer. At least a tiny part of it.
My classroom is on the second floor and during recess I lean my elbows on the rail and look out on the small baseball field. The kids all line up to bat. They use an old stick rather than a bat but a pitch is a pitch, a strike is a strike and girls versus boys is a battle we can all get behind.
Coffee is a godsend in the morning. It’s divine. I drink it here same as anywhere.
Sometimes when my students are not behaving and won’t stop talking in class I’ll pace up the rows one by one singing Yankee Doodle Dandy at the tops of my lungs until everyone is cracking up. A clown is always a clown anywhere you are and my voice will be terrible no matter what corner of the map I’m on.
There’s a Salvation Army a few doors down from where I live with a perfect cement basketball court. Right now we are smack dab in the middle of the city league tournament to see who the champion of Majuro is. Sometimes I watch the games from the second storie balcony of the church with my students. We chomp on gum and sunflower seeds and root, root, root for the home team. They are called “The Uglies.”
I went to the hospital and waited for two hours while I killed three pens filling out enough paperwork to make college seem like kindergarten. Heartwarming.
I still like the adventure that living in a different place and culture brings. I still get a kick out of doing unique island things like swimming in one of the deep channels that punch through this atoll like Morris Code. However, there are also times when I just want the familiar, and I have been pleasantly surprised by how I’ve found it.
I guess that old adage that it’s a small world after all is completely true if you bring the focus in tight enough.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
A List
Things I thought I’d be but aren’t after living for nine months on an equatorial coral atoll:
A rugged specimen of island toughness – After nine months of never cutting my hair and only rarely shaving, I expected I would look like Johnny Depp from the Pirates of the Caribbean. You know, a suave, rugged individual with majestic locks. Instead people have said that I look like actor Gary Bucci from his police mug shot. My hair puffs out like a cat licking an electrical outlet and for some reason, I blame my Father, I cannot grow facial hair anywhere save a thin strip above my upper lip and all over my neck. It just looks awkward.
A tanned hunk: In a place where the thermostat rarely drops below 80 degrees, I thought that it was safe to assume that my white skin would have turned into a healthy bronze. Well it’s just not true. I have witnessed shades of red reserved only for the internal fires of the sun. My skin skips a step in the burn, peal, tan cycle and simply resets after peal. Flaky is not sexy.
Well versed in island survival: Listen, if you put me and someone else who had never been to Micronesia on a deserted island and saw who would survive the longest, I’d put my money on the other guy. Sure, I have been spear fishing a few times, and sure, I know how to open a coconut, but those are skills that someone with a free afternoon could safely put into his repertoire. When my brother came to the island to visit, he scurried up a coconut tree in seconds – a feat that whenever I try puts my ability to have children at risk.
Used to the heat: I have been here for nine months. That’s enough time to have a baby for goodness sakes, how can I still be sweating this much?
Things I didn’t think I’d be but am after living for nine months on an equatorial coral atoll:
A man with complete disregard for personal hygiene: I think it’s a good day when I can pour a bucket of water into my toilet and have my business go away. All that you need to know about a bad day is that it involves a shower drain and bare feet.
Patience enough to wait out a tree: island time is island time. There are days where my food comes a mere hour after I ordered it and I’ll think to myself “wow, they sure are speedy today.” Added on top of that is the fact that I don’t think anything of taking 30 minutes in a taxi to get somewhere 10 minutes away because hey the lady next to me needs to drop of plates of food to five different houses along the way. I can do waiting now. Not a problem. Bring it on DMV.
Brave in a stupid way: sharks used to be something that I avoided. There was nothing better than sitting on my couch, flipping on the Discovery Channel’s “Shark Week” and getting scared silly. Now, when I’m about to go snorkeling, I’ll think to myself “geez, if I’m lucky, maybe there’ll be a shark!” Somehow I wonder if I have my priorities messed up.
A tolerance for nasty things to rival a garbage man: OK, I know that this was already kind of covered in the toilet one, but seriously, it needs to be touched on again. Things can get disgusting here. Dan and I will be paddling out to the surf and I’ll say casually, “Watch out for the disposable diaper floating there.” I mean, come on, that’s bad.
A rugged specimen of island toughness – After nine months of never cutting my hair and only rarely shaving, I expected I would look like Johnny Depp from the Pirates of the Caribbean. You know, a suave, rugged individual with majestic locks. Instead people have said that I look like actor Gary Bucci from his police mug shot. My hair puffs out like a cat licking an electrical outlet and for some reason, I blame my Father, I cannot grow facial hair anywhere save a thin strip above my upper lip and all over my neck. It just looks awkward.
A tanned hunk: In a place where the thermostat rarely drops below 80 degrees, I thought that it was safe to assume that my white skin would have turned into a healthy bronze. Well it’s just not true. I have witnessed shades of red reserved only for the internal fires of the sun. My skin skips a step in the burn, peal, tan cycle and simply resets after peal. Flaky is not sexy.
Well versed in island survival: Listen, if you put me and someone else who had never been to Micronesia on a deserted island and saw who would survive the longest, I’d put my money on the other guy. Sure, I have been spear fishing a few times, and sure, I know how to open a coconut, but those are skills that someone with a free afternoon could safely put into his repertoire. When my brother came to the island to visit, he scurried up a coconut tree in seconds – a feat that whenever I try puts my ability to have children at risk.
Used to the heat: I have been here for nine months. That’s enough time to have a baby for goodness sakes, how can I still be sweating this much?
Things I didn’t think I’d be but am after living for nine months on an equatorial coral atoll:
A man with complete disregard for personal hygiene: I think it’s a good day when I can pour a bucket of water into my toilet and have my business go away. All that you need to know about a bad day is that it involves a shower drain and bare feet.
Patience enough to wait out a tree: island time is island time. There are days where my food comes a mere hour after I ordered it and I’ll think to myself “wow, they sure are speedy today.” Added on top of that is the fact that I don’t think anything of taking 30 minutes in a taxi to get somewhere 10 minutes away because hey the lady next to me needs to drop of plates of food to five different houses along the way. I can do waiting now. Not a problem. Bring it on DMV.
Brave in a stupid way: sharks used to be something that I avoided. There was nothing better than sitting on my couch, flipping on the Discovery Channel’s “Shark Week” and getting scared silly. Now, when I’m about to go snorkeling, I’ll think to myself “geez, if I’m lucky, maybe there’ll be a shark!” Somehow I wonder if I have my priorities messed up.
A tolerance for nasty things to rival a garbage man: OK, I know that this was already kind of covered in the toilet one, but seriously, it needs to be touched on again. Things can get disgusting here. Dan and I will be paddling out to the surf and I’ll say casually, “Watch out for the disposable diaper floating there.” I mean, come on, that’s bad.
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