Chuuk



Elani, Isela, me, and Melody on Weno.




The road around Romanum.




Romanum



Me, Isela, Melody, and Alex.



Romanum



Me and Melody swimming.

Romanum

Alex, Gretchen, Melody, me, Isela, and Mariel on my last morning in Chuuk.

The Federated States of Micronesia (FSM) is comprised of four states: Kosrae, Pohnpei, Yap, and Chuuk. I live on Pohnpei, the capital (and largest at ) island state. The Peace Corps also currently has Volunteers on Kosrae and Chuuk. Over the “winter” break, I chose to visit some of those Volunteers in Chuuk (pronounced “Chook”) for an eight-day vacation. We joke here on Pohnpei that we choose to take a break from our small island by escaping to even smaller islands, which is definitely true. It’s funny how that works out. One Volunteer’s fishbowl is another Volunteer’s vacation.
The main island of Chuuk is Weno. This island has the airport, stores, hotels, restaurants, cars, and electricity. I spent the first four days of my trip there, visiting with one of my friends Elana and her host family. Weno is like the “town” of Chuuk, but being there for even four days helped me to understand why my friends stationed there are always overwhelmed by Pohnpei when they return.
The town here in Pohnpei, called Kolonia, is by no means large but it has become very large by my perception in the year and a half I’ve lived here. The cars move at what I can estimate is about 20 mph in town, with speeds sometimes reaching 30 or 35mph in the more rural areas. That is the scope of my “fast”. In Chuuk, however, the roads are in less order, and therefore drivers chug along at probably 15 mph, tops. Yet, my friends jump back in fear as a car comes “speeding” by. Funny how we can become accustomed to things.
The shops are fewer and less flashy than those found in Pohnpei, but you can still find all that you need. There are much less restaurants, maybe five, but they do have an incredible ice cream shop which I made a point to investigate. The locations with air conditioning are even more sparse than in Pohnpei, making their existence even more cherished.
The interesting thing I got to experience, was the novelty of living so close to town. Here in Pohnpei, town is at least 45 minutes away, so “quick trips” don’t exist. When I was staying on Weno, meals consisted of exotic ingredients such as canned vegetables and peanut butter, things that are hard to find out in the villages here in Pohnpei. I gobbled up the food with embarrassing enthusiasm.
Aside from size and proximity to stores, I didn’t find much different between Weno, Chuuk and Pohnpei. There are some subtle cultural differences, but largely the island lifestyle remains constant. The biggest difference, of course was the language. In Pohnpei we speak Pohnpeian, and in Chuuk they speak Chuukese, so I was at a complete loss for words. I learned only how to say “hello” and “thank you”. Amusingly enough, the word for “thank you” in Chuukese is the exact same word in Pohnpeian for the word “naked”. That definitely made me laugh.
At the end of my vacation: part one, I boarded a small motor boat bound for an island about 45 minutes from Weno. My companions were Isela and Alex (new but wonderful Volunteers that I met during this trip), Melody from my group (my hostess), a Chuukese woman, our boat operator, and a boat boy. Oh, and piles of our luggage and goods purchased in “town”. About 20 minutes into our trip the engine died (Melody’s words were “That’s not good.”), leaving us stranded in open ocean on rocking waves. After about an hour of spinning, bobbing, and drifting, we were rescued by several other motor boats who answered our distress calls (thank God there was cell reception!). Everything turned out okay, and I can now cross “puking violently over the side of a motorboat while waves splash relentlessly into your face” off my bucket list. I had to scrub paint chips off of my hands and arms from how desperately I was clinging to the sides of that little boat. And that was after taking seasickness medicine. I can only imagine what would have happened otherwise. Yikes.
Despite the less than pleasant start to my vacation: part two, I had a wonderful time. I was staying on an island called Romanum in an area known as FiChuuk. With a land mass of about 0.28 square miles, it takes only about 30 minutes to walk around it completely. Despite its compactness, the terrain varied between rocks, sand, swampy marsh, and jungle. The beaches were beautiful white sand, which was an exciting change as Pohnpei is a mangrove island without sand. There are no roads, cars, or electricity on Romanum, and the quaintness was refreshing. They have gas-powered generators that run for a small portion of the night, maybe 7pm-12am. Otherwise it was utter and complete darkness during the night, which was only scary when I had to find my way to the bathroom.
We spent three days lounging around, swimming, and eating a notably large amount of junk food. It was perfection. On our last day on Romanum we even took a trip to an even smaller island only about 15 minutes away by motorboat. This island took only about 8 minutes to walk around and was 100% sandy paradise. It was such a nice break. On my island, I live so deep in the jungle that it is easy to forget I’m even on an island at all. In Chuuk, and on Romanum specifically, the ocean was visible at almost all times, and if you couldn’t see it, you could definitely hear it. The views were breathtaking. No camera can accurately capture the different hues of intense blue that is the South Pacific. It was exactly what you picture as tropical paradise.
On the last day of my Chuuk vacation, we got back on a (different) motorboat for our return trip to Weno. The trip was mercifully uneventful. We met up with a few other Volunteers and all went in together at one of the nicest hotels on the island, frequented by diving fanatics. It was Melody’s birthday, and I celebrated by treating myself to an expensive dinner. I had the most glorious steak and shrimp and person could ever imagine (I do acknowledge that perhaps my judgment is clouded by almost two years of fish and rice). It was almost a religious experience. Then we all enjoyed some cherry cheesecake in honor of the birthday girl, took hot showers, and slept in air-conditioning. Granted, I was freezing cold the entire night and slept horribly, as is the custom whenever I am in air-conditioning, but it was worth it to not be hot for a few precious hours.
I then said goodbye to all my friends, most of whom I’ll be seeing in just four months at our Close of Service (COS) Conference, boarded my plane and headed home after a wonderfully perfect vacation. It’s hard to believe I’m finally in the home stretch. As my mom says, it’s now the “correct year”, meaning the year I come home: 2014. And I feel very fortunate that I was able to kick off the “correct year” in beautiful Chuuk, surrounded by friends and laughter.
I hope everyone at home at a wonderful New Year, and that 2014 brings you and your family happiness.
Enjoy some photos from my trip:

Buttons, Cake, and Talking Books: Three Keys to a Merry Christmas

Christmas tree sent by my wonderful mother. I set it all up and snuck it out of my room when no one was home. I was even able to convince the kids for a few minutes that Santa brought it.

Some of my students listening to my dad read "The Night Before Christmas" for about the one-millionth time.

My niece Anyan and I on classroom decorating day. I promise she does love me.

The boys back with our classroom's Christmas tree.

The cake I made for my class's party.

Christmas skirt!



The seven eighth grade girls and me at our Christmas party. I love them very much!



Some of the eighth grade boys at our Christmas party.

My co-teacher Hickperson, his wife, and me at our Christmas party. I'm wearing the skirt they gave me for Christmas.

In Pohnpei church is not separate from state, and there is practically zero religious diversity (one only has to ask to which denomination of Christianity you belong), which results in Christmas being celebrated in the schools. It is a big deal. Each classroom draws names for Secret Santa, divvies up dishes for a potluck, and all the students pitch in to decorate. Most families don’t celebrate Christmas outside of the school’s Christmas party, aside from attending church, so people go all out. But, because it’s Pohnpei, people wait to the absolute last second to go all out.

So, the night before the party, around 9 ‘o clock, my sister Ioren (our resident seamstress) was very, very busy. She had just begun my Christmas skirt (that she intended to start a week ago, and that she didn’t end up finishing until five minutes before I had to leave the next morning), her youngest son needed his new shirt for Christmas altered, and her oldest son’s Christmas pants were missing a button. She was in no shape to have so much on her plate, as she spent the whole day in town buying presents for her three children to take to school the next day for the exchange and was physically exhausted. So I decided to take it upon myself to complete one of her tasks: the button. Several of my shorts that I brought with me have additional buttons sewn into the inside, so I simply chose one that was a decent size, grabbed a needle and thread from my mini sewing kit, and plopped down with the shorts to make the minor repair. The whole world seemed to stop. Everyone was astounded. They all dropped what they were doing and gathered around to gawk.

I’m not sure if Pohnpeians just imagine that all Americans have maids, butlers, nannies, and personal chefs, but for some reason every time I do any form of menial labor it causes everyone to lose their minds. I had quite the audience for the ever-interesting act of sewing on a button, and when I returned the pants to my nephew Hayden he thought I was playing a trick on him, No really, I’m the one who sewed on your button, I promise.

The good news is that it doesn’t take much to gain my family’s approval. Like earlier that same day, when I made the cake I signed up to bring to the school the next day. I’ve helped make cake before, but no one had ever allowed me to do the work myself, so when people started to notice me by myself in the cooking house, they became very interested. As you know, baking a cake from a box is pretty much the simplest thing you can accomplish in the kitchen, all you have to do is dump the mix into a bowl with some oil, water, and a few eggs, and pop it in the oven. Presto! Cake! But you would have thought it was brain surgery the way my family was applauding my efforts.

You may be wondering, How does Christy bake a cake without an oven? Well, let me explain. We actually have an oven, like the kind you’d see in any average home in America. Okay, so maybe more like the kind you see on any average curb in America on trash day, because it’s horribly rusted and decrepit looking, and actually doesn’t function any longer. But it is still a metal box with a door that opens and closes, and that’s all that matters. We light a fire underneath, stick the cake or bread inside, and simply monitor it for an even bake. For this step in the process I enlisted my Pahpa, who is limitless with his desire to help me. Anyway, the cake was baked and iced, and I became a legend, especially because I chose to buy additional icing, dye it red using Kool-Aid, and pipe the words “Merry Christmas” onto the cake using a plastic bag. Now that was a showstopper.

And as if two moments of fame weren’t enough for one day, I had one more brush with celebrity for this day- before-school-Christmas. Last year, my dad sent me the best present I’ve ever received: a recordable book. As long as I can remember, my dad has recited The Night Before Christmas to my sister and me every Christmas Eve as we held the book and looked at the pictures. And even after we were grown and we complained relentlessly (okay, maybe just I complained, Kay is much nicer than me), he still loved to “read” it to us. So he recorded himself reading the poem to me and mailed it to me for my first Christmas away from home. If that’s not a Hallmark moment, I don’t know what is. But last year, every time I even looked at the book, I burst into tears out of homesickness. So, needless to say, I didn’t share the book with anyone.

But this year, I decided I was strong enough to bring it to school and let my dad read my 8th graders a story. It was such a big hit. No one had ever seen a recordable book, and they were completely dumbfounded. I had to “read” through the book many times before my students were satisfied. And even after that, they couldn’t stop talking about my “talking book”, so much so that when I got home from school, all the kids at my house were already briefed and eager to see this mysterious “talking book”. All the kids gathered around and my dad began to read. There were shrieks, screams, giggles, and silently dropped jaws. Unlike my 8th graders who simply thought it was cool to hear my dad’s voice, the kids were unable to comprehend the phenomenon and found it overwhelming. How is his voice inside? How does he know when you turn the page? Can I talk to your dad? Is it like a telephone? Does it run on batteries? HOW IS THIS HAPPENING? There was also some confusion as to if my dad was in fact Santa Clause. When I explained that he was not, they settled on the conclusion that he must be the other man illustrated in the pages (the poem’s speaker) and I didn’t have the strength left to correct them. It is very hard to explain these things in a language that doesn’t have the words “record” or “sensor”, etc. I finally settled on mahnamahn—magic. Christmas is full on magic, right?

So essentially, my family’s respect for me has increased exponentially through very little personal effort. Ah, the life of the lazy. I can get used to this set up.

The next day, school Christmas (which everyone just refers to as Christmas, despite my many attempts to explain that Christmas is still a week away), was a big hit too. Unlike the chaos of last year, my students simply came, ate, got their presents, and left. It was short and sweet. My co-teacher Hickperon’s wonderful wife, the girls, and I made up all the plates and delivered them all around the room, per cultural expectations, and we had such a good time joking around and getting icing all over ourselves (no one thought to bring a knife—okay, so maybe it was sort of my fault—so dishing out the cake was a little complicated). I got the honor of being “Santa Claus” and handing out all the presents, and while I was announcing a student’s name, Hickperson’s wife came up behind me and pulled a beautiful new skirt over my head so that I was wearing it like a poncho. All the kids laughed and clapped. She’s maybe the sweetest woman I’ve encountered here. The whole event lasted only about an hour, but it was small and nice and perfect. I even managed to get a few pictures. Can’t ask for much more.

So while everyone in America is rushing around trying to purchase the must-have gifts and make their Christmas experience perfect, I did virtually nothing and reaped the reward of a fabulous holiday. I hope you all can take this time to slow down and just enjoy being with your family and friends. Bake a cake, sew on a few buttons, and experience the magic of Christmas.

I wish you all a very happy holiday season!

--Christy

Turkey Tails (A Thanksgiving Story)

If you ever want to awe an amaze a group of 14 year old Pohnpeian students, introduce the hand turkey. I have never instantly gained so much respect and admiration as when I traced my hand on the chalkboard this past Thanksgiving and then added feet and a beak, turning it quickly into a turkey. My students were mesmerized. A timeless tradition, created and recreated year after year by millions of school-aged children in America had made me an instant hit. I tried explain the meaning of Thanksgiving, beyond that of pure gluttony, and to steer the activity toward being thankful, having students write one thing they were thankful for on each of their finger-feathers, but they weren’t having it. They all simply copied to generic example I’d put on the board and proceeded to create a dozen more hand turkeys. Piles and piles of hand turkeys that were remarkably lifelike, considering none of these children had ever seen a turkey in their lives.

 The next night, a former member of Peace Corps Staff named Emy invited me and my friend and fellow Volunteer Ben over for dinner, and as any Volunteer in their right mind would do, we graciously agreed. However, we had no idea what to expect as far as menu. After all it was the day after Thanksgiving, but this was Pohnpei, and surely the food spread would be of the Pohnpeian variety. Either way, it was a free meal and nice company, so we arranged our taxi and happily set off. We were very much mistaken. Yes, there was fried fish, and huge plates of rice, and even sushi, but there was also turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce (with cranberries in it, not the canned gelatin), pumpkin pie, and most importantly, there was wine. Wine! I hadn’t had wine since America! As soon as the foil was removed from the covered dishes, and their glory was revealed, Ben and my eyes met across the table, wide with a palpable glee. We ate like kings.

 Fortunately for us, the Pohnpeians in attendance weren’t particularly interested in the American food. In Pohnpei, for some unknown reason, eating turkey tail is very popular. It is typically served fried (shocking) and is essentially a giant fried wad of turkey fat that I find repulsive. It’s the only dish that I have explicitly told my family that I will not ever eat. So when all the kids at the dinner party heard “turkey”, they immediately imagined turkey tail, and were disappointed to find instead juicy slices of turkey breast. But their loss was our gain. We ate until we were full, then we ate some more. I laughed and drank wine into the night, overwhelmed by all that I had to be thankful for.

And so it came to be that my second (and last) Thanksgiving on Pohnpei was a huge success. I got to make hand turkeys and then eat turkey. There’s not much more a girl could ask for. I also got the chance to talk to my parents, sister, and aunt all at the same time as they enjoyed their Thanksgiving time together in the States. It was the perfect ending to a great weekend.

 I hope you all watched the Macy’ parade, ate delicious food, and had a great time being with your families on Thanksgiving this year. Next year I’ll be celebrating with you.

--Christy

Shit Happens

I’m going to level with you all; these past few months have been very difficult. I had a vision that my second year of service would just sort of fall into place. That all the time I put in last year being frustrated by differences in cultures (often incompatibilities with the job at hand) would mean something and that this year would just be easier. Hah. Yeah, right. So as you might imagine, realizing that I will have to be irritated every day for the rest of my time here (9 months, not that I’m counting) didn’t settle too well. People say that eventually the frustrations of Peace Corps no longer bother you; that you simply get over it and learn to be at peace with your situation. Well, anyone who knows me well knows that I am far too uptight for that nonsense. I intend to be pissed off every day until this is done. But something strange happened. Just yesterday there was a huge rainstorm in the morning, and I trudged through ankle-deep mud with a flimsy umbrella in order to make it to school on time. Not many other people did. When we rang the bell for school to start, only 3 of 12 teachers were present (ironically the man who lives the furthest from school, the only other teacher that walks, and me) and only about one-third of the student population. I’d like to tell you this doesn’t happen very often, but then I’d be lying. Ordinarily I’d be infuriated. But I peeked into my eighth grade classroom and quickly realized that my rotten apples that spoil the whole bunch were all absent. God smiled upon me that day. He saw what he made and that it was good. I had an exceptionally good day. It poured for most of the day (deafening on the tin roof of the school) and half my class was missing, but I just smiled. I didn’t have to put up with any shenanigans. It was blissful. I went home with a spring in my step (well, to be fair, I had to traverse the lethal mud again, but it’s an expression) and a new view of my life. Instead of getting upset by upsetting things, try to find the positive. My new motto. And just to prove He was listening, God put on a little dramatization for me later in the evening in order to hit the point home. And boy was it hit home. My favorite human being on this island is a two year old boy named Ray. He is my life and my love. He is also learning to potty-train. I have mastered assisting him in going number one, but he had not yet required my services with going number two. In a world without toilet paper, number two requires a bit of intimacy between the caretaker and child to achieve cleanliness. As such, Ray usually only goes to do his business with a select few older women. But that night, he came straight up to me and announced he needed to go poop. So, what’s a gal to do? Maybe because I’m a born mother, or maybe because I spent a summer changing diapers at a daycare, but I really didn’t find the set up too upsetting. I was happy to rinse his little bottom off after the deed was done, and even happier that he trusted me enough to have me do so. Here’s where things got a little complicated. Let’s just say that Ray misled me when he told me he was finished on the toilet, because whilst I had my hand in the danger zone it turned out he was not finished, and I got a handful. But, the most disturbing part was that I was completely unfazed. I simply rinsed off and continued my work until we were both clean and dry. It wasn’t until later, when I was recounting the story to my family (met with uproarious laughter, of course) that I realized how gross it was. The point I’m making is not that I’ve become a desensitized disgusting animal (though that might be true), but rather that I was so caught up in the hugeness of the moment that I didn’t let the mess get in my way. How many people can say they had such a close and intimate relationship with a small child from another country, who doesn’t speak your language, yet trusts you completely? Not many, I bet. So as we cuddled together later that night, Ray and I played and giggled, his misdeed fully forgiven. And as I reflected over my day and what I had learned, I just laughed out loud. Inspirational Mottos: Instead of getting upset by upsetting things, try to find the positive. I guess it’s like when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or more accurately, when a small child poops in your hand find a way to smile about it. I guess that’s a little less catchy. Hey, shit happens. --Christy

“Tricker Treat!”



Some finsihed products from our Halloween mask-making extravaganza!



Ray making his Halloween face.



My jack-o-lantern made from a file folder. It was a BIG hit.




My new Halloween skirt!



Last year, I didn’t do much to acknowledge American holidays, but this year I decided to change that, starting with Halloween. A big help was my dear friend Rachel who mailed me holiday-themed fabric so I could have my host-sister make festive skirts. Another noteworthy contributor was my wonderful mother, who sent an obscene amount of candy to share. So, on Halloween evening, while wearing my fabulous new skirt, I gathered up the smallest kids (grades 1-3) and had a little mask-making party. But first, to set the mood, I made a make-shift jack-o-lantern out of manila folders and a candle and set it up in the room before the kids came in, and shut off all the lights. The children freaked out. They LOVED it. I used manila file folders (cut in half), colored pencils, scissors, and yarn to help my family create their masterpieces. But as it turned out, the kids had absolutely no clue how to make a mask. And thus the party turned into a class. I sat with my usual partner in crime; the 2 year old named Ray, and made his mask as an example. Then the kids went to town. Word eventually spread and even the older boys decided to come give it a try. One of my cousins Villazone even managed to scare the crap out of me, much to his delight. But otherwise, they didn’t really want my help (typical teenage boys), but observing their enthusiasm from afar was enough. Then came the candy. In hindsight, I should have distributed the candy much earlier in the evening, because as I finally was falling asleep around 10pm, the kids were still running wild, screaming in the darkness outside. But I smiled, in spite of the fact that I had to wake up early the next morning, because my stomach was full of candy and the kids outside were having a blast. Earlier that evening I gave up on trying to explain that the phrase is “Trick or Treat” and that it’s actually a question. The kids were not to be bothered with such details on such an exciting night. Instead, I fell asleep listening to their voices echoing through the trees, “Tricker treat!” and “Happy Halloween Day!” Hope your Halloween Day was fun, too. Enjoy the photos! --Christy

Choose Your Own Path

Summer in the life of a teacher in Pohnpei is a very confusing thing. You are required to go to work every day throughout the whole summer, yet there is literally absolutely no work to be done. (That tends to happen sometimes when your job is to teach children and there are no children present.) The result is a scene that makes work ethic prone Americans, such as me, gawk speechless at the absurdity: the entire staff just sits around. And I really mean that. They just sit. Nothing else happens. At all. Ever. So, after a dramatic and stressful conclusion to the previous school year, this summer set-up left me little hope for a better second year. I spent the whole time miserably dreading the return of students and my own personal hell. (Just what you want from a teacher, right?) I was wholly convinced that things were going to continue to suck even worse than they did at the end of school in May. And believe me, things sucked bad in May. So when in the last week of summer, my favorite co-teacher Hickperson (yes that is his actual name) asked me if I wanted to go to his home one afternoon I was eager to oblige. First, let’s be clear, it was actually his wonderful wife who invited me, as it would be improper for him to ask me. That’s how I knew it was legit. She rode with him to school that day, just to ask me. How can you turn that down? The next day, I came to school ready for adventure. After we pretended to work for a while, Hickperson and I hopped in his car and headed home. By now I know all of his children (most attend the school at which we teach), and they were waiting anxiously for my arrival. I was immediately swept away by the band of children to go swim in the river, which was fine by me. We just splashed around and played in the cool crisp water, then perched ourselves on slick rocks while casually munching bananas. It was one of those things you picture when you go off to Peace Corps on a tropical island. Pure bliss. Then we returned to the house compound, changed clothes and began cooking dinner. The great thing about Hickperson’s family was that they did not treat me like a princess, the way my family does. They plopped me right down next to some women, gave me a machete (yes, a machete), and had me cutting up potatoes. Now let me tell you, that was an exercise in bravery. Against all odds, I came out unscathed and was then assigned to various other parts of the cooking preparation (not excluding the all-important taste-testing). Meanwhile I got to spend real quality time laughing and gossiping with Hickperson’s wife, sisters, cousins, nieces, and best of all, his adorable mother. Before dinner, it was Hickperson’s idea that we should play a game with the kids. It just so happened that the previous day the new Volunteer at my site Matt taught the teachers how to play “Ninja” (it’s a ice-breaker type game you play in a circle where people get to use ninja moves—essentially the greatest game ever), and so that is what we taught the group, and then what we played for the next hour nonstop. I was exhausted, but it was incredibly fun. Finally it was time to feast on the food we’d labored over, and a feast it was. When I was driven home hours later (by both Hickperson and his wife, per social requirements) I was almost in a coma I was so stuffed. I had such a great time I had almost forgotten how not excited I was for school to start in a few short days. But the time finally came, and I trudged into school, not at all ready to face the rude, bored, rowdy students I left in May, but they weren’t there. Instead I was met by hugs, high-fives, handshakes, and smiles all-around. Happy, eager faces, excited to get back to business. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was literal a night and day turnaround from their demeanors at the end of the year before. And when we started class I was met with the biggest surprise of all—they actually remembered English. Students were bouncing off the walls trying to answer questions, and their answers not only made sense, they were superb. After we read Walt Whitman’s “The Road Not Taken” (a poem I must have chosen for my English-learners in their first week back from summer in a bought of insanity), one of my eighth grade hooligans from last year raised his hand (a feat in itself) and said plainly, “So it’s saying we should choose our own path.” As if it was the simplest thing in the world. I just about fell on the floor. I fully expected to have to start over from scratch after my students spent a summer in the English-free environment of their homes, and I was not thrilled about essentially repeating my first year’s work. I either underestimated my students or my teaching abilities, or both. Either way, I was hugely mistaken. It is a relief so palpable that I felt its healing powers immediately. I did, in fact, accomplish something in the past year. Behind their sass and their seeming lack of interest, my students did actually care, did actually pay attention, and did actually learn something from me. Who would have thought? What a much-needed affirmation of not only my reason for being here, but my calling and purpose in life as an educator. (That may sound extreme, but when you’re on a tiny island with next to nothing to occupy yourself, you begin to equate disrespectful students with your own self-worth and abilities.) We’ve already begun building on what we covered last year and with some new tricks up our sleeves, including a killer classroom management rebuff that should help quell the shenanigans. There’s hope for us yet. Everyone always says the second year of Peace Corps is much better than the first, but I just didn’t believe them until now. So here’s to a new school year, full of new possibilities. And whenever I feel discouraged during this coming year, I’ll simply think back to the overwhelming, almost maternal pride I felt when that one student boldly stated, “Choose your own path.” Stay well. --Christy

The Rollercoaster

I know I’ve mentioned before that being a Volunteer in the Peace Corps is like a giant rollercoaster ride, with its incredible ups and downs. But that doesn’t really explain it clearly enough, at least not for me. I’m not talking about days or weeks in between the highs and lows, I’m talking hours or minutes. It happens that quickly and drastically and I never see it coming. One former PCV said that Peace Corps makes us all temporarily bipolar. I might agree with that.

Today was a prime example of such a bipolar episode, so I feel inclined to share it with you all.

First of all, you need a bit of backstory. I’ve (foolishly) undertaken what we call a “secondary project”, that is a project in addition to regular classroom instruction. I have decided to gather my rising 7^th and 8^th grade students together and paint a giant world map  wall mural on the outside of one of the school buildings. Cool, right? Wrong. It has been nothing but a thorn in my side since the minute I made the decision to begin. I’m sure it will all turn out wonderfully and the students will have a great time while also learning, blah blah blah, but right now I hate the project.

I know hate is a strong word, but the frustrations are limitless and debilitating. Between motivating and organizing local counterparts, acquiring funding and supplies, building a local scaffold (multiple times, by the way, due to some punks who thought it’s be cool to chop it up one night), and praying that the weather cooperates (I live on a tropical island…yeah right), things have—how should I put this?—progressed slowly.

Part of the preparative work that needs to get done before the students can start involves drawing a grid across the entire working area (4meters x 2meters—hah! Metric system). This sounds simple enough, but it is anything from simple. A step that should have taken 2-3 days has now dragged itself out for almost 3 freaking weeks. I won’t bore you with the laundry list of reasons why I am a failure, but let’s just say things never go according to plan in the Peace Corps.

Anyway, back to today. I was at school, slaving away (alone) on my Everest. I had promised the students it would be ready on Wednesday, and well, it wasn’t. Then I told them to come back on Friday and we’d start. Halfway through my work time today (Thursday) I did some mental calculations and determined that there was absolutely no way in hell I’d be done for Friday. So once again, I would let the kids down and even worse, prolong the god-forsaken process of drawing a huge grid on a brick wall. So I stood there on my wobbly local scaffold, sweaty, enveloped by mosquitos and flies, pencils stuck in my horribly messy hair, giant eraser between my teeth, meter stick in hand, and just started to cry. And then, in that very instant—and I wish I was kidding—it began to pour rain.

I let out some choice words, and just stood there brooding for a few minutes before dashing inside to escape the downpour. I started thinking, what the hell am I doing here? And why do I put up with all this crap? I began to imagine what my life would be like if I was back Stateside. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d be doing, but I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing on a damn scaffold in the pouring rain holding a meter stick! I grumbled to myself and then stomped home, practically kicking every stone I passed on my way.

Now, one of my only real stress-relief strategies that I can implement here is cleaning, so that is what I decided to do. I took one more look at my teetering tower of filthy clothes and the3 decision was made—I would do laundry. Easy enough? Not. Nothing is easy in my life. Pohnpei has been experiencing controlled blackouts for several weeks. I’m not exactly sure what that means, except that we don’t have power between the hours of 12-6pm. Everyday. So when I come home from school, there is no power with which to use the laundry machine. Now, this ordinarily wouldn’t be a problem, except that my family is going through a machine-only phase. All of the useable areas for hand-washing clothes are otherwise occupied or have been completely deconstructed (my living area is an object in motion and it is rarely the same from week to week).

Well, I was determined to beat my frustrations out and hence needed to find somewhere to wash my clothes by hand. And rather than allow others to do things for me (as they’d most definitely prefer), I took the task upon myself. I found a slab of concrete, dragged stuff around, scrubbed, rinsed, and somehow rigged up the water to flow into an old ice chest. Brilliance. I then spent the next two hours or so doing some good old fashioned manual labor. Nothing beats really working hard. And when you’re full of anger and despair, whacking your clothing repeatedly with a wooden paddle is extremely cathartic. Trust me. And somehow the planets all aligned and nobody came over to gawk. That is definitely a first. I did however, overhear several family members commenting on how impressed they were. My Nohno even joked to my sister that she is the American, because she likes to use the laundry machine, while I’m the Pohnpeian, because I wash my clothes by hand. It never hurts to hear your mom bragging about you.

And although I was exhausted and sore, when I finished my laundry, my mood had visibly lifted. So much so that the gang of children that typically drive me up a wall actually brought a huge smile to my face. They were being ninjas. Clearly. And let me tell you, if you’ve never watched a group of 4-8 year olds make “hiyah!” sounds and pretend to spin and kick each other stealthily, you’re missing out. I managed to get them to slow down long enough to capture this gem:

Then it was time to begin preparing for a big celebration: a 1^st birthday party. These are a really big deal here in Pohnpei (sadly, due to high infant-mortality rates), and my cousin (everyone is called a cousin, I actually have no clue how we’re related) Samiah just turned 1, so cake was definitely in order.

Usually, I am not included in cooking tasks because everyone assumes I am incompetent.  But today, for whatever reason, my sister Ioren plopped the supplies and the bowl in front of me and told me to make the cake. Just like that. So I did. All of the kids were simply dumbfounded. It may be narcissistic, but I don’t ever get tired of dazzling the Pohnpeian spectators to my life. And believe me, they were dazzled. Plus I got to spend some quality time with my sister, which is always a good thing.

The evening wore on and eventually we were ready to eat our cake and ice cream (essentially just milk at this point—remember the power has been out all day). [Wait. First you need to understand how we bake the cake. My Pahpa found a rusty  old broken oven, only God knows where, and he brought it home and stuck it in our fire pit. Now, we light a fire underneath, and presto—a working oven! You have my permission to be impressed.] As you might imagine, eating cake and ice cream is a BIG deal. All of the kids sing “happy birthday” (in English because interestingly enough, the practice of celebrating birthdays came from American influence, in fact there isn’t even a way to say “happy birthday” in Pohnpeian…just a fun fact!) and then line up from youngest to oldest and get their huge portions, which they eat with their hands and faces only, no spoons required.

Here’s the birthday girl, Samiah, enjoying her ice cream:

So there I was, surrounded by happy, sticky children, dripping with ice cream and joy, stuffing their faces with the cake that I made, and I just thought, I love these people.  And just like that, I made a complete turnaround. My day, which had begun in such misery, had ended on the highest of high notes. I almost laughed at myself, at how dramatic I can be. I mean it’s just a silly map. It will get done, eventually. It’s not worth getting so upset over. I found sanity through chocolate cake (is there any other way?).

So, there you have it; a small glimpse into the rollercoaster ride that is my Peace Corps experience. I have a feeling that if I can stomach the drops and just hold on tight, it will all be worth it in the end.

Stay well,

Christy