We spent the weekend following Christmas on retreat on Nahlap, just off of the main island of Pohnpei, cooked over a fire, slept in a local nahs and hammocks, and got some much needed rest and relaxation. I wrote this in my journal, the first part during our first few hours there, and the second part the next morning. I figured there would be no better way to share the experience than by this:
12.26.09, 4:00pm - Away from the roosters, dogs, pigs, children, neighbors, and cars of Mabusi, I realize the peace of the islands that I've been missing - the soft sound of my own footsteps, the gentle fingertips of wind on my face and its roar in my ears, the sun's warm hands on my back, the soft waves I'd forgotten my hair can take when not overcome by humidity. I've just spent the last two hours doing absolutely nothing: first, sitting in 5-inch deep water watching all sizes and colors of fish swim around and under my legs; then, reclining in a ripped hammock barely big enough for my whole body, allowing the sun and wind to take turns washing over me. I sang softly to myself, knowing no one else is anywhere close to being in earshot, dozed for a few minutes at atime, and finally settled on writing - something I've failed to do for a while now (my college roommates who bought me the journal I'm writing in will not be happy to read this). To be honest, I have forgotten at times in the past five months where I am. Kolonia, especially Mabusi (our neighborhood), can feel so similar to the States - that is, until we're interrupted by a sudden island power outage, or don't see eggs or vegetables for weeks at a time, or catch sight of a six year old with a machete. But here on Nahlap, I remember very clearly where I am, and I'm not sure how to feel other than extremely blessed.
12.27.09, 6:00 am - I don't think I've ever known a peace like what I'm feeling this morning. For the first time since I've had this terrible sinus infection, I am thankful for it - because, as it has every morning for the past week and a half, the congestion woke me before dawn, demanding to be worked out of my chest and nasal passages. This morning, however, as I left our nahs for fear of waking the others with my cough, and settled into a hammock instead, I said a prayer of gratitude for the beautiful, full sun rising over the Pacific that my congestion had woken me to see. The dim grey light was just beginning to wash over the island as I settled in, and soon, I was able to begin to make out the gentle waves bashing against the shores that matched the sounds they had been making. I saw the main island looming powerfully in the distance. The fish began to pop their heads above the water's glassy surface, and the hungry birds began planning for breakfast. Small ripples of waves, still dark in the dim light of dawn, made their way ominously toward me, and larger waves crashed at the reef further out, ever elusive as to where exactly they begin and end. As the sun peeked its head over the horizon - first his eyes, then a hint of nose, and finally his mouth and chin - the clouds blew in on both sides to cover him completely, erasing any trace of his short visit. I looked around and saw no one else, and knew, without a doubt, I was the only person in the world to have seen that sun at that exact moment. My face smiling and my chest cleared, I laymy head back in the hammock's sweet cradle and allowed the wind to rock me back to sleep.
Trying to pose elegantly for Philip, but I sort of ended up looking like a beached whale.
You read that title right - for the first time since the end of September, I am boil-free! I am neither recovering from a boil, nor watching a new one grow, nor wondering if it's time to start antibiotics. I'm also recovered from the sinus infection I had for the past two weeks. I'm aware that I may have just placed a terrible curse on myself, and will wake up tomorrow morning on my death bed, but, hey - it's the holidays, and it's a time to celebrate. My right leg is a sight (where all six boils were). My fellow teacher, Russell, jokes that I'm creating a map of Micronesia with my boil scars.. we're still waiting for Palau to form.
So much has happened since I last wrote, I'm not sure where to begin. I'll say one thing about the last five weeks - Pohnpeians know how to do holidays. Let me start with the end of our first semester at OLM.
Classes wrapped up in a whirlwind, accented for me by daily dance practice with the sophomore girls in preparation for our Christmas program. When I first agreed to learn the dance with them and they squealed with delight, I thought for sure I'd be learning a beautiful hula-inspired, traditional Pohnpeian dance, complete with grass skirts and mwarmwars.
Laughing and sweating trying to learn the steps.
Turns out, it was more of a hip-hop step dance to some sort of strange country song. Either way, we had a blast running into one another, and the girls had fun yelling directions in Pohnpeian, then realizing the American teacher didn't understand, and switching to English.
Trying to keep up with the girls. Note the tongue sticking out in concentration!
I love the relationship I'm forming with all of my students, but especially my sophomore girls, who I have for homeroom, two classes, and after school cleaning duty. Even those who wanted little to nothing to do with me at first, I have figured out how to work a smile out of. The language barrier is our biggest struggle, no doubt. I know some of the students really struggle. But we're working on it... every day.
Showing off our style.
Our Christmas program was highlighted by a number of great performances by the students and my debut as Sam-ta Claus. I was decked out in full Santa attire - suit, belt, hat, and beard - and was officially the hottest I have ever been in Pohnpei. I may have actually suffered heat stroke. After the program, the teachers, staff, principal, and friends gathered for our Christmas lunch feast, which was wonderful. All of the tensions of the past semester eased for the afternoon, and we simply laughed, enjoyed one another's company, and stuffed ourselves with delicious local and non-local foods.
With our Christmas vacation officially begun, the four of us at the JV house discussed how it didn't really feel like Christmas - with the tropical weather, lack of powdery white stuff on the ground, being away from home, not having a Christmas tree. And then, as though she heard us, the island produced a number of factors that put a little Christmas cheer in our hearts. One of the roadside drive-up stores (called 'containers') that sell beer, Ramen, Spam, and soda, somehow got their hands on a bunch of Santa hats and sold them for 25 cents. Before we could buy any, they were sold out, and people began sporting them everywhere - even on 90 degree days! There's nothing that screams 'Christmas in Pohnpei' than a pick-up truck rolling by you blasting an island version of a Christmas tune, the back filled with a handful of shirtless men wearing Santa hats and yelling 'Merry Christmas, serepein (girl)!'
On the main road (there's only one), many of the businesses gradually put up Christmas lights, and some of them really didn't look half-bad. Our landlord even surprised us that week with blue icicle lights on our front gate. And every once in a while, between Chris Brown, the Mamma Mia soundtrack, and the Dixie Chicks, our Chuukese neighbors put on a Christmas CD that blasts through our windows beginning around 7:00 in the morning.
And alas, in an act of sheer boredom when I was home alone on Friday afternoon, I made a Christmas tree out of wire hangers, electrical tape, and green construction paper. It doesn't look half bad! I found everything else in our house that is Christmas-themed (much of it sent out by one Allyson Holsinger), or just red for that matter, placed it strategically under and around the tree, and taped all of our Christmas cards on the wall, constructing a bit of a Christmas shrine next to our bookshelf. When Philip got home, we made a star and placed it on top. My community mates were a little disturbed at how much time I put into the whole undertaking, but I like to think they're also delighted. With all that - who needs snow?
On Christmas morning, we made a big breakfast of eggs, briefly caroled over to our landlords' to exchange gifts, and had our own gift exchange at our house in our pajamas. We got dressed, and headed to church for a beautiful Christmas Day Mass, the church adorned with palm leaves and flowers, and every pew packed with familiar faces. After church, we headed off the Joab home, where we were invited to celebrate the day with a fellow teacher, Aurelia, and her family. An interesting part of the day was the gender division that occurred - although, I suppose it wasn't that unlike my own family. The women were in the kitchen and the nahs at the back of the house preparing the taro, fruits, and salads for the meal, and the men... well, the men were busy slaughtering six pigs. I guess that part is somewhat unlike my own family; I've never seen my uncles and cousins kill six pigs, remove their organs, and cook them on an uhmw, or local outdoor oven. Though I shielded my eyes from actually seeing any of the slaughtering, the noise made by the pigs was enough to send me running to the bathroom. Not surprisingly, I was a vegetarian for the rest of the day. The men also had the role of pounding sakau on two separate stones. I could sit around and watch men pound sakau forever, I decided. I wish I could adequately describe the process and atmosphere, but it's honestly an experience that is beyond words.
Though being away from my family this holiday season was difficult for many reasons, I feel truly blessed to have been able to experience Christmas en Pohnpei.
I have no idea where November has gone. It came and went, and it never even said hello. Did I say time was flying before? Well, someone just hit the turbo button, because in two days it will be December, and in a month, we'll be celebrating Christmas and New Year's Day.
Speaking of holidays – many of you have asked timidly what Thanksgiving (a word we tried to translate into "rahn kalahngan-kihdo" and were laughed at... and rightfully so) in Pohnpei “looked like” for us this year. I smile to myself when I hear this, because, as I have so often since I arrived on Pohnpei, can hear all of your unasked questions jam-packed into this one simple, innocent question. I can hear so clearly the things we really want to ask the girl who’s living on an island in the South Pacific: “What did you eat – raw fish and bananas? How were the people dressed – in loincloths? Have they ever even HEARD of turkey?” Well, the raw truth be told (brace yourselves)… we sat just outside of our house with our landlords Eugene and Lynn and their families. On chairs. We ate turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and apple pie. We sat around well into the night, watched kids run circles around us, laughed, and enjoyed reminiscent conversation about our families. Surprised? So were we, to be honest. But, we are coming to realize, very quickly, that Pohnpei is simply… not so different. Truly, the only parts of the evening that felt "Pohnpeian" were indulging in sakau after dinner and listening to the beautiful Pohnpeian language being spoken all around us.
I have never loved a language the way I love Pohnpeian. Sometimes it sounds so strange, I burst out laughing. But most of the time when I hear it, a huge smile spreads across my face and I am enamored, as though a newborn was just placed in my arms. I try to pick up as much as I can, but it has proved difficult, especially in Kolonia, where most people speak decent English and half of them don't know any Pohnpeian (they are from Yap, Chuuk, the Phillipines, or outer islands). But when I do hear snippets of it, that same smile creeps onto my face as I listen intently, trying to pick out any phrases or words that I know.
There has come to be no better cure for a difficult day than to be met with the warmth, humor, respect, and kindness that comes with every word of the language. Every day, one or all of the following encounters with this gorgeous language bring that same big smile to my face, no matter how tired, homesick, or down I may be.
As soon as we step out of our front door in the morning, the man who lives across the street might be perched on the hood of his car, ready to greet us with a cheerful "pwong mwahu!" (which means 'good night' - he's gently making fun of Philip, who, during our first week here, groggily greeted him in Pohnpeian one morning with ‘good night’ instead of ‘good morning’ – and he won’t let Philip live it down).
I’ll walk a little further down the street to see my favorite kids on island, who run as fast as their little legs can carry them until they reach our arms. I pick up the littlest one and give her a kiss, and as soon as I set her down, the next is ready for a hug, and the next, and the next. One usually scrunches her face in the general direction toward our school (the Pohnpeian method for gesturing direction) and asks, “Ke pahn kohla doadoahk?” (‘You are going to work?’), to which I raise my eyebrows, meaning 'yes', and they all excitedly respond, “SEE YOU LATER!” (which I think Philip and I might have taught them).
Further along my way to work will be my neighbors - men, women, and children perched on their porches and windowsills, mending a shirt, sweeping a threshold, or trying to convince their little brothers and sisters, daughters and sons to get dressed for school. All, it seems, are just waiting for me to walk by so we can exchange the morning greeting of “menseng mwahu,” which rolls off our tongues and ends on a mysterious note, as if we and only we know a very special secret. Even if nothing is said, we do a little dance number that is understood to mean, 'hello' - exchange a warm smile, raise our eyebrows, and dip our heads ever so slightly. The smiles I receive here are so unlike the quick, pursed-lips, let’s-just-get-this-out-of-the-way-and-go-our-separate-ways smiles of the States to which I am so accustomed. Not these smiles. These smiles are warm, soft, lingering, and intentional. They seem to say, “it is genuinely a pleasure to see you.”
At school, I often hear my students slip Pohnpeian words into what is supposed to be an environment of only English language. In fact, I can predict their use of Pohnpeian words fairly accurately – all I need to do is announce the homework assignment for the night, and I’m guaranteed to be met with a handful of exclamations: an exasperated “Ohsa!”, a tired “Ohtier…”, or a snippy “Ohiei.” The first is an expression of general disgust, the second is an expression of exhaustion, and the third is an expression of annoyance. I am honored to disgust, exhaust, and annoy my students all at once.
It's lunchtime, and all of the teachers take out whatever we have brought – rice, canned tuna, soup, fruits, sandwiches, packaged snacks – lay it all out on the floor to share, and chat with one another. Everyone begins in English for the benefit of Luke and me, but gradually, the English melds into Pohnpeian, and Luke and I just sit back and soak it in. I’ve never felt left out, but rather privileged to be in the presence of the great laughter and camaraderie of my coworkers.
At the end of the day, I make my journey home, and it looks strikingly similar to my journey to school, except backwards. I exchange greetings with my neighbors all along my short route – usually “Lehlie” (‘Hi’) in which the ‘e’ has a ‘eh’ sound and the first syllable is drawn out, again making it linger, warmly and intentionally. I reach the house of my favorite kids, and the very same process will repeat itself, except this time they will ask, “Ke kohsang doadoahk?” (‘You are coming from work?’), to which I will again raise my eyebrows, and they will grin and yell, “SEE YOU!” Every once in a while they’ll rope me into a game of tag, racing, or hide and seek, but usually they can see that I’m tired. The man on the hood of his car will switch up his game, greeting me with a “menseng mwahu”, though he can plainly see it is evening, and I’ll arrive at our gate, where Princess and Shark, our dogs, anxiously await the arrival of just about anyone.
Holding true to the nature of their warm language, I have found myself with a number of ‘moms and grandmas away from home’ – kind, smiling women who always greet me with a tasty treat or a genuine interest in how I am doing. One woman is the caretaker of Eugene and Lynn’s granddaughter, and another is the housekeeper and cook at the Jesuit House, Nihni.
One day a while ago, I was particularly down - missing home, hard times at school, not feeling well - and I walked over to the Jesuit House in the middle of the day to refill my water bottle. I walked in, and Nihni, who always has a cookie, recipe, or piece of banana bread for me, saw that I was down. She asked suspiciously, "Samantha, ia iromw?" (How are you?). I was armed with a pleasant lie of 'fine, thank you, how are you?', but to the surprise of us both, the same thing happened that happens whenever my mom asks me that simple question on a hard day - my pleasant lie got caught in my throat and my eyes filled with tears, my body ready to take all of my emotional stress, turn it into liquid, and let it flow out of me. Embarassed, I wiped my eyes and responded truthfully, "Soh mwahu, Nihni. I uhdahn pwang." (Not good, Nihni. I'm very tired/worn-down.)
Nihni shook her head, and told me that in Pohnpeian, when someone is asked how they are doing, they never respond with "not good" or "bad". Sometimes they will say, "I mwahu" (I'm good), but more often, they say, "I kehlail" (I'm strong). I had heard people say this many times, but I thought it was just another way to say, "I'm doing well." But Ninhi told me that they are different: (I'm paraphrasing, of course) "Sometimes we are mwahu (good) and sometimes we are not, but no matter what, it is important that we are always kehlail (strong)."
Few passing comments ring in my ears and imprint my heart like Nihni's did that day, but now, when I am asked "Samantha, how are you?" and am tempted to unload my terrible day or mood on some poor inquiring soul, I sigh, smile, and try to respond, "I am strong."
Happy Thanksgiving to my wonderful friends and family -- stay strong :)
Kaselehlie maing ko! Thanks for taking time to read about my life and work in Pohnpei. I'd love to hear from you, too! Email me at samantha.cocco@gmail.com. Until June 2011.. take care, and please keep all international volunteers in your prayers.
