Lots of rain lately, so no more worries about water supplies, it seems. It's been a while since my last post, and once again, lots of things have happened, but nothing has changed. It's still hot, my students are still a lot of fun, and I still am struggling to stay in the present and not fantasize about our plane out of here. It's become harder as our departure grows tantalizingly closer (but still a month+ away! I'm celebrating too early).
3.20.2010
While passing through the cafeteria on some errand, I peeked into the kitchen as one of the cooks, Rina, removed a large yellow cake from the oven. She spotted me and eloquently mimed that I should grab a piece. I reversed directions and swung into the kitchen to obey, and soon I was working on a couple mouthfuls of hot, rich cake. Very rich cake.
As I nodded and raised my eyebrows at the chef in that universal sign of culinary approval, she proudly said, “No egg. No egg.” I wasn’t sure whether to display excitement or dismay, so I just kept nodding. Rina then pointed to a nearly empty one-gallon tub of yellow-white goop that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, and smiled. “Only mayonnaise.”
Having bowed to my greed for hot, dense, remarkably moist cake, I was already halfway through my not-insignificant piece when she dropped this bombshell. If she had never told me, I would have peacefully carried on my way, left only with an oddly leaden feeling in my stomach. Instead, my formerly active jaws stopped moving, and suddenly I could taste the mayo oozing out of the cake’s pores. It might have been my imagination, but I felt my whole body slow down to process this new flood of chub. I think I went from an A-cup to a B-cup in a few short minutes.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no lightweight when it comes to my mayo. I’ll slap my BLT silly with it, and it’s indispensable to Fourth of July favorites like potato salad, but as far as I know, there is a line in the sand that you don’t cross when it comes to baking with mayonnaise. Rina kicked that sand right into my eyes, and then clocked me in the lower belly for good measure.
I finished my piece out of politeness, but my day was pretty much shot. I felt like a grizzly that had been shot from behind with a tranquilizer dart, shambling heavily around, groaning and knocking down small trees.
4.3.2010
We’ve done it. We have finally reached the point of no return…of mail. Thanks again to everyone who has sent friendly letters or care packages full of goodies, but if you are presently planning on a grand, last-minute gesture of your support, it’s TOO LATE. Anything sent now would probably not make it here in time for us to use or respond, so don’t bother. We’re all set, and I am inordinately excited that we have reached this point, because it means the end is in sight.
4.5.2010
Going into Easter weekend, which was four days long, we decided to attempt to visit an outer island in the Jaluit atoll called Imroj. We braced ourselves for travel difficulties, this being the Marshall Islands, but we still managed to underestimate the struggle it would require. And yet, even with all the stress and annoyances accounted for, it still managed to be a great weekend adventure.
We had planned to leave on Friday and stay until Sunday, but it was not to be. Seven o’clock on Friday morning found us packed and eager, standing on the dock, backpacks full of snacks, tuna, Spam substitute and other necessities for gifts. We were waiting for a rumored incoming boat, a water taxi of sorts, to arrive and whisk us off to two days of tasty local food and care-free loafing with the Imroj WorldTeach volunteer and associates.
Of course, the boat didn’t actually arrive until 10 a.m. By this time, our formerly bright eyes had dulled a bit, so we found some shade and tried to figure out when the boat would be making its return trip to Imroj. It seemed they were waiting to transport the body of a recently deceased Imrojan (?) back to be buried on his home island. In hindsight, this didn’t bode well, but we figured we still might be able to grab a ride on the funereal craft—perhaps an unthinkable notion in the U.S., almost like hailing a hearse, but practicality often trumps our concepts of ceremony here.
Not this time. They took our bags, and almost took our money, before realizing that we were probably not one of the bereaved family—not sure how they knew. Perhaps it was the goofy vacation grins, or maybe the conspicuously ginger head of hair. In any case, they politely handed us our bags back, and took off without us. We once more got our hopes up when we were told another boat was leaving for Imroj “soon,” but it also filled up with people before we could even talk to the captain. It’s all about who you know, I guess, and we know almost no one outside the school. We had hoped someone would take pity on the wretched, sodden ribelles (it also began to pour rain in the afternoon) peering cluelessly at the boat, but no luck.
We returned to our apartment late in the afternoon, completely dispirited and more than a little pissed off at the state of Marshallese travel. We had blown an entire day of our precious long weekend sitting at the dock, with absolutely nothing to show for it. We had had expectations to travel, and there are few things more disheartening than failing to realize those expectations.
The next day, we paid our $3 fare and were finally able to hop on the taxi. By 3 p.m. we on our way to Imroj. After about 45 minutes, we were granted our first good look at the island, which has a beautifully sheltered beach cove, curving around for maybe 150 yards. The water was a rich, dark cyan, outrigger canoes were scattered on the abundant sand and kids were swimming naked in the cool water; Imroj is so perfect, it’s like a stereotype of an outer island. If you ever picture me here sipping coconuts on a white sand beach (which I very rarely do, unfortunately), this is the tropical island you’re seeing in your mind’s eye. The only incongruity was a huge, beautiful old church that towered over the rest of the buildings and is by far the largest structure on the atoll. We were later told it is one of the oldest churches in the Marshall Islands.
We were ferried ashore by two small boys paddling a little two-bench boat that was filling so rapidly with water that Peter was required to continuously bail it out. Safely on shore and mostly dry, we poked around for a couple minutes before remembering a fundamental truth: at six degrees north of the equator, exploring a cove that is sheltered from the wind while the sun is high is like sightseeing in Hell. It was Hot and completely airless.
We set out to find our WorldTeach host’s living area, a few minutes to the east, about halfway between ocean-side and lagoon-side. Rose, the volunteer on Imroj, lives with a very sweet family in an awesome family compound, with her own little private shack made out of pandanus leaves. The huts are essentially just for sleeping, because all the living/cooking/eating goes on outside. We were gratified to find that the ocean breeze was strong at this point on the island, and there was lots of shade.
Rose was struggling when we arrived, because the man who had just died, the one whose coffin was on the boat the day before, was actually her Marshallese boyfriend’s 24-year-old brother. She knew him well and was understandably upset, but to exacerbate this, she was sick. On outer islands, the natives really freak out about death, and see demons lurking everywhere. Sickness is usually interpreted as some sort of curse by someone—oddly, there seems to be almost no positive associations with the supernatural, which is different from the native cultures I’m accustomed to. Magic is invariably black in intent, and ghosts are always evil. It’s kind of a bummer.
We ended up hanging out and talking until late, being very generously fed by Rose’s host family. Most of Marshallese partying, at least the kind we see, is based around eating, and for Easter they step it up a notch. It seemed like we were always munching on something. When time came for bed, we decided to sleep outside under the stars, which proved to be an adventure. The provided sleeping mat was pretty comfortable, but a combination of the gravel underneath, roosters and dogs that crowed all night long, occasional rain showers, and a bright moon above left me greeting the dawn with only a few of hours of sleep accomplished.
It was Easter Sunday, so we rose slowly, cleaned up, ate, and eventually went to a service in the big church. The service was pretty standard, although a combination of sleeplessness and still, stifling heat made me drop off more than once. The problem with being a white person here is that there is no blending in with the crowd—if you’re sleeping, a number of people are probably watching intently.
I ducked out a bit early and was spotted by one of my favorite students, a big girl in my 11B class named Mokai, the same one who I described last semester as being very vociferous in class. She invited me to come hang out with her and her friend Lynn, another 11B. They fed me lunch, and then we met up with Peter. We went to check out where they were staying for the weekend, the second floor of Lynn’s family’s house, and it reminded me of a perfect tree house or fort from my childhood. What is it that’s so great about elevated, roughly built spaces?
In any case, Mokai patted the sleeping blankets and invited us to lie down and hang out for a while. She then began playing her ukulele and softly singing Marshallese songs. Peter told me later that he was a little wierded out by the situation, and I didn’t disagree. The fact remained, however, that I was full and sleepy on the breezy, shady second floor of a Marshallese house, being softly sung to sleep in the native tongue. I just rolled with it, and found myself more at peace than I have been for this entire experience. I actually grasped why some volunteers choose to return.
After a glorious but brief nap, we jumped back on the school boat and headed home, to lesson plans and rocky beaches. This in itself was an adventure, but I’ll save the story for my return. It was good to get back and have a shower.
4.7.2010
One of my senior students was expelled today…he was in my class when he was called to the office, and he made an “Uh-oh” face as he left. Apparently he had kicked another student, a freshman, in the face, for no particular reason. The freshman was fighting with another first year, and Jefferson, the senior, decided to insert himself in the fracas, despite being less than 2 months from graduation.
I just finished reading The Cider House Rules, and I wanted to tell my class, “Let us be happy for Jefferson. He has found a new home.” This boarding school, where there is no surplus of money or parental supervision, has been his home for the last four years (with summer breaks, of course), but no longer. He was in both my and Peter’s class, and we always saw the friendly and cheerful aspect of his personality. He must have some suppressed anger and bullying issues.
[Update: Since writing this, Jefferson has been given another chance to finish at JHS. Good news for him, but I already deleted him from my gradebook, so it creates more work for me. Never thought I would be torn about a kid getting a second chance to finish high school.]
4.8.2010
I never knew that news sites were bandwidth-dependent until I tried to check up on current events while in the Marshall Islands. CNN.com and the Drudge Report take a solid 3-4 minutes to load, as opposed to about 20 seconds for Facebook. Very odd, considering how many photos and updates are displayed on the latter. In fact, with Drudge refreshing automatically every five minutes or so, I usually only have about 30 seconds to scan the headlines before it sets out on the long loading journey once again. And Drudge is basically all text! There is also a marked dearth of information on coconut prices and Marshallese politics, I notice.
4.21.2010
A definition for you: frustration is knowing that the computer teacher at JHS is getting paid a good salary, ninety percent of which comes from US taxpayers, to sit on his obese ass in the computer lab and surf the internet for the three periods he “teaches.” Then he goes back to his school-provided housing and sells cigarettes to students to supplement his income. He will never get fired, for some reason that I do not quite understand. The worst possible thing that can happen to him is to be transferred to some other school at the same guaranteed salary, so he can become someone else’s problem.
I fully support tenure for toll booth collectors and meter maids, for any jobs that don’t require a lot of commitment to the work, but something is very wrong with the system here if this guy is allowed to keep his job.
4.22.2010
I’ve really tried to stay in the present, to enjoy the here and now. But as of today (Happy Earth Day everyone!), I’m ready to give up on that goal. I’m not unhappy, far from it, but I cannot seem to stay focused on the present no matter how much effort I put into it. We just had a fun weekend with a few WorldTeach volunteers, two of whom were visiting from Majuro, and I hoped it would refresh me, but instead it just made me miss hanging out with a strong group of people.
It’s actually easier when things don’t change… I focus on one class at a time, then on getting through a workout, then looking forward to dinner and an episode of The Wire or a movie. The routine is comforting, especially this close to the end of the school year.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Ides
3.2.2010
A couple weeks ago, I spent about 10 minutes explaining an activity to my 11Cs (lower-achieving juniors) and put the instructions on the board. When I asked if they understood what to do, I counted at least three affirmative replies, which is about three more than normal. Things were looking good. As soon as they started to move their desks to get into groups, I started circulating. As I passed one group in the front row one of the members, named Martinez, made a slight motion, the twitch of the hand that passes as a raised hand in this terribly embarrassed country. It’s more like the signal one might give to the dealer in a poker game.
In any case, I responded to the call, and Martinez shuffled his papers purposely, took a breath, looked up confidently at me and said, “Okay. So, what we do?” I looked at him askance, mirroring his own expression. Actually, I think my jaw was a little slack. We stared at each other for a few long moments, until I managed to say, “Well, uh…just do everything I explained in the last 10 minutes.” He looked down, looked back up, and said, “Oh. Okay,” then busily hunkered down to do the activity with his group. I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to relate the directions from the top and moved on.
3.3.2010
Peter and I were exploring a nearby construction site during a long weekend (March 1st was Nuclear Survivor’s Day) when we encountered a big Marshallese man name Rosen, dressed in the requisite construction worker’s uniform of jeans and a white t-shirt. We engaged in conversation, and in fearless and nearly flawless English he imparted more information about Jaluit High School than we had learned in the past seven months of working here. We found out who built the first buildings (Koreans), when they were built (1972), and that there is a complex centralized water system in place that has never been maintained enough to use. He seemed to know the whole place inside out, and told us things that no one else had known or bothered to mention.
It turned out that Rosen is qualified for all kinds of construction work, including plumbing, refrigeration systems, and a number of other skills he rattled off. He seemed busy, happy and well-fed. When I asked him where he went to high school, he replied, “Oh, sorry…I never went to high school.” No apologies necessary, Rosen. He is a good illustration of a point Peter and I have discussed in the past: unlike the United States, one doesn’t really need a high school education to live well in the Marshall Islands. Sure, it would be nice to provide college prep for everyone, but a number of the outer islanders seem to approach high school as summer camp, and they seem to be wasting their time and mine. A lot of students, even some of my best ones, say that they cannot wait to get out of “crowded” Jabor and back to their beloved home atoll, where they will probably find a partner, have kids, and harvest the bounty of the ocean, needing only enough money for rice and occasional repairs.
A few weeks ago, two very nice yachties from Seattle, WA named Don and Sharry came through Jaluit and docked at Jabor. They kindly invited us aboard their beautiful 75-foot powerboat cruiser for dinner, and we spent a few blissful hours enjoying a break in routine and food that had never seen the inside of a can. I spotted the same Kirkland extra virgin olive oil that my parents have at home, bringing on a discussion about our mutual love for Costco Wholesale. Where else could you get a whole 8-lb beef tenderloin, a plasma TV and a patio set all at the same place? Only in the West. Why buy 100 Q-tips when 2000 will do? Perhaps the East Coast will learn someday.
But I digress. I mention the yachties not only because they were great people, but they also asked an excellent question during dinner; what would we do to fix the education system here? I think it is safe to say that the problem is mostly in the elementary schools; they are too spread out and inaccessible to maintain any form of accountability on the teachers’ parts, so learning only happens when something else (ex: a funeral, church, rain, sleeping) doesn’t get in the way. As a result, many kids come into high school with the equivalent of a third-grade education. To their question, Peter and I essentially replied, “Um…it’s shot. We need a new one,” as if it was just a spark plug. I have been thinking about it, though, and I have a little more of an answer now:
It’s true that the public elementary schools are generally awful, so I change the focus to fundamentals—mostly English and math, and a little science, so they would gain the base they need for high school. I would spend less money on local teachers, and more on principals, and make sure they were easy to fire at the first hint of slacking. We’ve found that having an educated, hard-working principal makes a world of difference. Principals also need training on how to confront lazy teachers—we hear horror-stories of department heads who don’t teach a single class and get paid more than the ones who do, because of seniority and tenure.
As they finish eighth grade, elementary students take a test at their school to determine if they can go to high school. However, we have heard that they’re almost a joke, because the proctors allow or even encourage cheating to boost the school’s scores. I’m guessing part of it is an “everybody’s doing it” mentality. I would make the tests available only at one place in each atoll, and have a Ministry representative proctoring. If the kids don’t make it to the test, they obviously don’t want to go to high school very much.
Once past this hurdle, I would ensure that the best and brightest students were able to get the hell out of the RMI on scholarships and home-stays. Most families that can afford it already send their smartest to live with relatives in Hawaii for most of high school. Because of the family ties and high quality of life available to an educated person, many, if not most, come back to the RMI. I don’t think brain-drain would be a real problem.
For the students who stay, I would suggest a lot more vocational training, while reinforcing math and science. There are lots of arguments for studying a broad range of subjects in high school, and I’m not questioning their validity in a country where one can choose from innumerable paths, like the U.S. But in the Marshall Islands, it’s not a huge oversimplification to say that there are really only two paths available: one that takes you out of the RMI, and one that keeps you here. Most of our students seem very content to stick with the latter. Assuming that fact, then do they really need to learn how to organize a five-paragraph essay? I think they would be better off knowing how to grow a garden, fix an engine, repair clothing, or harvest pearls from clams. One of the vocational classes is building a motorboat for a local merchant. How cool is that??? Meanwhile, I’m teaching them about thesis sentences, and Peter’s teaching them about endothermic reactions. Yes, it’s valuable for those going to college, but in my proposed plan, those kids would probably be in Hawaii instead.
So, Don and Sharry, if you read this, that is what I would do.
3.11.2010
I was recently wrapping up a descriptive writing/collage project, and one of my students came up to me in class and showed me her work. It was an excellently constructed collage, but I recognized an illustration from one of the reading textbooks I used briefly, so I asked her incredulously, “Did you cut this out of a textbook??!!” She averted her eyes and walked away with a guilty smile. I know it wasn’t from one of the textbooks in my possession, because we haven’t used them in months, but I’m pretty sure it’s from some other class.
So what did I do? I took a few points off her final grade, and that was the end of it. Am I going to go find her reading teacher and tell him to check his books, and then suggest a punishment? In the middle of the utter chaos of a collage project in my own classroom? No, I think not.
Peter and I were fortunate to recently get the first season of “The Wire” on a flash drive, and we watched an episode that night. One line, spoken in remonstrance to the main protagonist by his detective partner, struck a chord: “Look at you, givin’ a f___ when it’s not your turn to give a f___.” Explaining the context would take too long, so suffice it to say that my experience thus far in the employ of the government is summed up well by that line. Granted, I’m not pursuing murderers in the dystopia of urban Baltimore. To me, though, it reminds me of my daily struggle to decide which students will benefit the most from my instructive energy, because there is simply not enough to go around. I realize this is not an unusual problem for educators, but I really liked the parallel between two government organizations.
A couple weeks ago, I spent about 10 minutes explaining an activity to my 11Cs (lower-achieving juniors) and put the instructions on the board. When I asked if they understood what to do, I counted at least three affirmative replies, which is about three more than normal. Things were looking good. As soon as they started to move their desks to get into groups, I started circulating. As I passed one group in the front row one of the members, named Martinez, made a slight motion, the twitch of the hand that passes as a raised hand in this terribly embarrassed country. It’s more like the signal one might give to the dealer in a poker game.
In any case, I responded to the call, and Martinez shuffled his papers purposely, took a breath, looked up confidently at me and said, “Okay. So, what we do?” I looked at him askance, mirroring his own expression. Actually, I think my jaw was a little slack. We stared at each other for a few long moments, until I managed to say, “Well, uh…just do everything I explained in the last 10 minutes.” He looked down, looked back up, and said, “Oh. Okay,” then busily hunkered down to do the activity with his group. I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to relate the directions from the top and moved on.
3.3.2010
Peter and I were exploring a nearby construction site during a long weekend (March 1st was Nuclear Survivor’s Day) when we encountered a big Marshallese man name Rosen, dressed in the requisite construction worker’s uniform of jeans and a white t-shirt. We engaged in conversation, and in fearless and nearly flawless English he imparted more information about Jaluit High School than we had learned in the past seven months of working here. We found out who built the first buildings (Koreans), when they were built (1972), and that there is a complex centralized water system in place that has never been maintained enough to use. He seemed to know the whole place inside out, and told us things that no one else had known or bothered to mention.
It turned out that Rosen is qualified for all kinds of construction work, including plumbing, refrigeration systems, and a number of other skills he rattled off. He seemed busy, happy and well-fed. When I asked him where he went to high school, he replied, “Oh, sorry…I never went to high school.” No apologies necessary, Rosen. He is a good illustration of a point Peter and I have discussed in the past: unlike the United States, one doesn’t really need a high school education to live well in the Marshall Islands. Sure, it would be nice to provide college prep for everyone, but a number of the outer islanders seem to approach high school as summer camp, and they seem to be wasting their time and mine. A lot of students, even some of my best ones, say that they cannot wait to get out of “crowded” Jabor and back to their beloved home atoll, where they will probably find a partner, have kids, and harvest the bounty of the ocean, needing only enough money for rice and occasional repairs.
A few weeks ago, two very nice yachties from Seattle, WA named Don and Sharry came through Jaluit and docked at Jabor. They kindly invited us aboard their beautiful 75-foot powerboat cruiser for dinner, and we spent a few blissful hours enjoying a break in routine and food that had never seen the inside of a can. I spotted the same Kirkland extra virgin olive oil that my parents have at home, bringing on a discussion about our mutual love for Costco Wholesale. Where else could you get a whole 8-lb beef tenderloin, a plasma TV and a patio set all at the same place? Only in the West. Why buy 100 Q-tips when 2000 will do? Perhaps the East Coast will learn someday.
But I digress. I mention the yachties not only because they were great people, but they also asked an excellent question during dinner; what would we do to fix the education system here? I think it is safe to say that the problem is mostly in the elementary schools; they are too spread out and inaccessible to maintain any form of accountability on the teachers’ parts, so learning only happens when something else (ex: a funeral, church, rain, sleeping) doesn’t get in the way. As a result, many kids come into high school with the equivalent of a third-grade education. To their question, Peter and I essentially replied, “Um…it’s shot. We need a new one,” as if it was just a spark plug. I have been thinking about it, though, and I have a little more of an answer now:
It’s true that the public elementary schools are generally awful, so I change the focus to fundamentals—mostly English and math, and a little science, so they would gain the base they need for high school. I would spend less money on local teachers, and more on principals, and make sure they were easy to fire at the first hint of slacking. We’ve found that having an educated, hard-working principal makes a world of difference. Principals also need training on how to confront lazy teachers—we hear horror-stories of department heads who don’t teach a single class and get paid more than the ones who do, because of seniority and tenure.
As they finish eighth grade, elementary students take a test at their school to determine if they can go to high school. However, we have heard that they’re almost a joke, because the proctors allow or even encourage cheating to boost the school’s scores. I’m guessing part of it is an “everybody’s doing it” mentality. I would make the tests available only at one place in each atoll, and have a Ministry representative proctoring. If the kids don’t make it to the test, they obviously don’t want to go to high school very much.
Once past this hurdle, I would ensure that the best and brightest students were able to get the hell out of the RMI on scholarships and home-stays. Most families that can afford it already send their smartest to live with relatives in Hawaii for most of high school. Because of the family ties and high quality of life available to an educated person, many, if not most, come back to the RMI. I don’t think brain-drain would be a real problem.
For the students who stay, I would suggest a lot more vocational training, while reinforcing math and science. There are lots of arguments for studying a broad range of subjects in high school, and I’m not questioning their validity in a country where one can choose from innumerable paths, like the U.S. But in the Marshall Islands, it’s not a huge oversimplification to say that there are really only two paths available: one that takes you out of the RMI, and one that keeps you here. Most of our students seem very content to stick with the latter. Assuming that fact, then do they really need to learn how to organize a five-paragraph essay? I think they would be better off knowing how to grow a garden, fix an engine, repair clothing, or harvest pearls from clams. One of the vocational classes is building a motorboat for a local merchant. How cool is that??? Meanwhile, I’m teaching them about thesis sentences, and Peter’s teaching them about endothermic reactions. Yes, it’s valuable for those going to college, but in my proposed plan, those kids would probably be in Hawaii instead.
So, Don and Sharry, if you read this, that is what I would do.
3.11.2010
I was recently wrapping up a descriptive writing/collage project, and one of my students came up to me in class and showed me her work. It was an excellently constructed collage, but I recognized an illustration from one of the reading textbooks I used briefly, so I asked her incredulously, “Did you cut this out of a textbook??!!” She averted her eyes and walked away with a guilty smile. I know it wasn’t from one of the textbooks in my possession, because we haven’t used them in months, but I’m pretty sure it’s from some other class.
So what did I do? I took a few points off her final grade, and that was the end of it. Am I going to go find her reading teacher and tell him to check his books, and then suggest a punishment? In the middle of the utter chaos of a collage project in my own classroom? No, I think not.
Peter and I were fortunate to recently get the first season of “The Wire” on a flash drive, and we watched an episode that night. One line, spoken in remonstrance to the main protagonist by his detective partner, struck a chord: “Look at you, givin’ a f___ when it’s not your turn to give a f___.” Explaining the context would take too long, so suffice it to say that my experience thus far in the employ of the government is summed up well by that line. Granted, I’m not pursuing murderers in the dystopia of urban Baltimore. To me, though, it reminds me of my daily struggle to decide which students will benefit the most from my instructive energy, because there is simply not enough to go around. I realize this is not an unusual problem for educators, but I really liked the parallel between two government organizations.
Friday, February 26, 2010
It rained!
After almost two months of little to no rain, we just had a downpour, so things are looking up. That is, until you look at the paper, which tells us to expect almost no rain until June. Water is getting low, but we'll be alright...there are lots of sources, people just have to get in gear.
2.24.2010
I’m currently showing Planet Earth, the documentary series, to my students, and we’re watching the first episode. My favorite moment of the whole series is when the Great White shark strikes a seal – if you’ve watched the series, that scene should be emblazoned in your memory. It’s the most amazing two seconds of slow motion action ever captured on film, in my opinion. Anyway, what really struck me was the difference between my own and my students’ reaction to this scene. As a generally landlocked Northwestern American, I’ve never considered sharks a threat to my health, so my response to seeing thousands of pounds of killing machine leaving the water and chomping a seal is along the lines of a football fan watching a defensive tackle leveling a receiver: “Woo! Yeah! alRIGHT.”
In contrast, my students become rapt and quiet when it begins to show the sharks’ feeding frenzy, with only an occasional agitated exclamation to break the silence. Watching their alert faces from my desk at the front of the class, I am reminded of the Gelata monkeys of the mountains featured later in the series when they are confronted by a predator. I realized that even though, statistically, falling coconuts are almost certainly more dangerous than shark attacks here, the students still harbor a healthy, real fear of their power and razor teeth. When my ancestors were running from lions, tigers and bears (oh no!), I suppose the ancient Marshallese were doing their best to avoid the tiger sharks instead. The most frightening presence on land here is the cockroaches.
2.25.2010
The sensation of drifting off to sleep in warm, just-out-of-the-dryer sheets was a pleasure of which I knew nothing until college. At Dartmouth, I usually did my laundry sometime between 11 pm and 1 am, for various reasons, including saving energy and having forgotten to do it the previous 10 days. Just when things were getting desperate, I would gather all my laundry together in an artful ball (this was before I permanently borrowed a basket from a fraternity brother), making sure socks and other small articles were secured somehow in my bear hug. If I was feeling particularly ambitious, I would throw my sheets into the bundle – I won’t bore (disgust?) you with how often this actually happened, but true to the cliché of a college man, it had usually been far too long. Two hours and a few trips later, I could dive into toasty, clean sheets that would pass any mother’s inspection.
To return to the hot, humid present, I just pulled my sheets out of the dryer at 11 pm (the same ones, in fact!), and realized that this little joy of life that brought me brief pleasure in New Hampshire will cause nothing but sweaty suffering at six degrees north of the equator. It’s late and I need to get to bed, but I’m fairly sure that the waves of heat radiating from my bed will mean there will be a gingerbread-man-shaped pool of sweat in the middle when I rise tomorrow morning. Yeah, I’m ready to return to my down comforter at 47 degrees latitude.
2.24.2010
I’m currently showing Planet Earth, the documentary series, to my students, and we’re watching the first episode. My favorite moment of the whole series is when the Great White shark strikes a seal – if you’ve watched the series, that scene should be emblazoned in your memory. It’s the most amazing two seconds of slow motion action ever captured on film, in my opinion. Anyway, what really struck me was the difference between my own and my students’ reaction to this scene. As a generally landlocked Northwestern American, I’ve never considered sharks a threat to my health, so my response to seeing thousands of pounds of killing machine leaving the water and chomping a seal is along the lines of a football fan watching a defensive tackle leveling a receiver: “Woo! Yeah! alRIGHT.”
In contrast, my students become rapt and quiet when it begins to show the sharks’ feeding frenzy, with only an occasional agitated exclamation to break the silence. Watching their alert faces from my desk at the front of the class, I am reminded of the Gelata monkeys of the mountains featured later in the series when they are confronted by a predator. I realized that even though, statistically, falling coconuts are almost certainly more dangerous than shark attacks here, the students still harbor a healthy, real fear of their power and razor teeth. When my ancestors were running from lions, tigers and bears (oh no!), I suppose the ancient Marshallese were doing their best to avoid the tiger sharks instead. The most frightening presence on land here is the cockroaches.
2.25.2010
The sensation of drifting off to sleep in warm, just-out-of-the-dryer sheets was a pleasure of which I knew nothing until college. At Dartmouth, I usually did my laundry sometime between 11 pm and 1 am, for various reasons, including saving energy and having forgotten to do it the previous 10 days. Just when things were getting desperate, I would gather all my laundry together in an artful ball (this was before I permanently borrowed a basket from a fraternity brother), making sure socks and other small articles were secured somehow in my bear hug. If I was feeling particularly ambitious, I would throw my sheets into the bundle – I won’t bore (disgust?) you with how often this actually happened, but true to the cliché of a college man, it had usually been far too long. Two hours and a few trips later, I could dive into toasty, clean sheets that would pass any mother’s inspection.
To return to the hot, humid present, I just pulled my sheets out of the dryer at 11 pm (the same ones, in fact!), and realized that this little joy of life that brought me brief pleasure in New Hampshire will cause nothing but sweaty suffering at six degrees north of the equator. It’s late and I need to get to bed, but I’m fairly sure that the waves of heat radiating from my bed will mean there will be a gingerbread-man-shaped pool of sweat in the middle when I rise tomorrow morning. Yeah, I’m ready to return to my down comforter at 47 degrees latitude.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Februuuuuuaaaaary
Haven't had a lot of time to write, with our Field Director paying us a visit and sitting in on our classes. It's been a loooonng month, in spite of its deficit of actual days. We're hoping to get out of town this weekend to visit a nearby village and relax a bit. That said, here are a couple unrelated thoughts.
2.7.2010
Does the noise and energy of high school aged kids wear other people down? I realize that part of it might be due to being an only child, home-schooled until eighth grade. My childhood was relatively solitary, admittedly a bit lonely at times, but blissfully quiet. And high school is….not that. When my boisterious 11Bs enter the classroom soon after lunch – no, scratch “enter,” “bounce into” would be more accurate – I feel my pulse quicken and the sweat bead on my neck.
They’ve usually liberally indulged in Kool-Aid beforehand, and the tart saccharine smell mingles with the odor of their hair oil, sweat and overpoweringly cheap perfume. If I had high school to do over again…I’d skip it. It probably doesn’t help that on the Myers-Briggs test, I scored firmly in the “introvert” side, meaning large groups of people don’t so much energize me as bleed me dry of my desire to live.
2.9.2010
I had a great dream last night about finding my recently lost Bic ballpoint pen, with the added bonus of another red pen for correcting. It is entirely pathetic how happy I was in that dream. I sort of assumed pen technology was about the same everywhere in the world, until I was forced to use the crap they give teachers here. I never knew pens could suck so much. Drop them once, and the little ball bearing pops out, leaking red ink everywhere and rendering them entirely unusable.
2.7.2010
Does the noise and energy of high school aged kids wear other people down? I realize that part of it might be due to being an only child, home-schooled until eighth grade. My childhood was relatively solitary, admittedly a bit lonely at times, but blissfully quiet. And high school is….not that. When my boisterious 11Bs enter the classroom soon after lunch – no, scratch “enter,” “bounce into” would be more accurate – I feel my pulse quicken and the sweat bead on my neck.
They’ve usually liberally indulged in Kool-Aid beforehand, and the tart saccharine smell mingles with the odor of their hair oil, sweat and overpoweringly cheap perfume. If I had high school to do over again…I’d skip it. It probably doesn’t help that on the Myers-Briggs test, I scored firmly in the “introvert” side, meaning large groups of people don’t so much energize me as bleed me dry of my desire to live.
2.9.2010
I had a great dream last night about finding my recently lost Bic ballpoint pen, with the added bonus of another red pen for correcting. It is entirely pathetic how happy I was in that dream. I sort of assumed pen technology was about the same everywhere in the world, until I was forced to use the crap they give teachers here. I never knew pens could suck so much. Drop them once, and the little ball bearing pops out, leaking red ink everywhere and rendering them entirely unusable.
Friday, January 29, 2010
1.13.2010
I never had very much luck with high school girls; not in high school, not in college (not that I tried, of course), and certainly not now. Wait, that didn’t sound quite right. Before you accuse me of gross misconduct, let me assure you that my current problems are nothing extra-curricular, if you know what I mean. For my employer’s sake, I’ll be perfectly blunt (Hi Anna!): I AM STRUGGLING TO TEACH MY SENIOR FEMALE STUDENTS.
It’s nothing new, really; they’ve been a bit of a hassle from day one. Hell, they’ve been hassling me since my own freshman year of high school. But while my female classmates in secondary school could have benefitted from talking significantly less, the problem is predictably the opposite here. I try to start a little oral practice on the boys’ side of the classroom (they self-separate), and it moves along well enough until the green shirts of the uniforms start to give out to yellow blouses, the black hole of energy the girls create on their side of the room. This isn’t true for all of my classes, but the lower levels really struggle with this. I’m trying to make it fun, but they don’t make it easy.
1.17.2010
Well, America, we asked for chocolate and snacks, and you totally came through. We feel wealthy with high-calorie treats, and we thank you from the bottom of our stomachs. We think we’re pretty set now for food, so please don’t send any more, because we would hate to waste anything. However, if you feel irresistibly compelled to use the USPS one more time before it goes under, any kind of preserved meat, your basic salami or summer sausage, would be welcome in our pantry. They add a little spice to our weekend pasta. Thanks America!
1.19.2010
I asked my students to try to inject a little excitement in their writing by including more details, but instead, the girls just flipped over the lower-case “i” in their stories to an exclamation point. !. Which, of course, would be f!ne, !f !t didn’t drive me COMPLETELY NUTS. MaYbE ! sHoUlD sHoW tHeM hOw To WrItE lIkE tH!S. It certainly gets the blood pumping.
I think one of the toughest parts of teaching for me is explaining directions for activities. I think I’m fairly proficient in it by this point, and yet, no matter how clear, deliberate and methodical I try to be, there are inevitably at least a couple of students who do precisely the opposite of what I intended. The most frustrating cases are with the kids who understand English fairly well, and clearly have just not listened to a word I was saying, instead staring vacantly at a spot above my head somewhere as if I were explaining nuclear physics. No, kids, for the fourth time, I’m just showing you how to fold a piece of paper into thirds.
What’s that? You LOST the paper I gave you four minutes ago? And Marcus, this is folded into sixteenths, not thirds. Awesome. I mean, I just spent 15 minutes of my life repeatedly demonstrating how to do this, but no worries. Please excuse me while I throw a desk through the window.
I know it might be boring, but if it’s such simple stuff, why do they always screw it up? I'm not really this impatient, don't worry, but it does build up from time to time.
1.30.2010
Last week we attended our principal’s birthday. It was an event mostly without distinction – the standard singing approach, most of the staff and a couple of students leading a charge into the principal’s apartment with a ukulele, singing traditional Marshallese birthday songs and clapping along. Peter and I had heard about this only a few minutes earlier, and since our apartment is about seven strides from the principal’s, we tagged along at the end of the singing procession. Actually, to be totally honest, Peter had just removed two trays of beautiful whole-wheat biscuits from the oven, and when I suggested it was time we join the celebration, he was rather firm: “Morgan, hell no. I’m having a [expletive] biscuit while they’re hot.” He was right, they looked amazing, so I went over to the party and represented 4-B while he enjoyed the fruits (grains?) of his labors. [Dr. and Mrs. Shellito, don’t worry about your son, he only curses at me when something gets between him and fresh bread]
The only incident of note was at the party. As about 15 people gathered in the principal’s living room, still singing, the birthday boy came out and sat down in the traditional seat of honor, all smiles. When the singing finally stopped, he said, “Wow, I am so surprised!” He repeatedly insisted upon this. Two minutes later, his wife came out of the kitchen bearing a platter with about 80 Fudgee Bars, a locally popular Little Debbie-esque snack from the Philippines. We estimated that they ended up dispensing at least 120 of these little cakes, each of which contains 40% of your daily recommended saturated fat. Judging by the numbers he had on hand, either he wasn’t actually surprised, or he keeps an enormous stockpile of Fudgee Bars, just in case he suddenly gets the urge to eat 4800% of his saturated fat allowance.
1.30.2010
This past week, Jaluit High School has been doing some surveys of its students as part of its School Improvement Plan. They asked the kids what needs to change in the “comments” section. I chose the best responses, and they ranged from funny, to a little scary, to kind of sad/inspiring (grammar and spelling are verbatim):
“Yes, I think this school should let us some time for bwebwenato [chatting/hanging out] with our girl or boyfriends. That is all.”
“I don’t like the rule. This school is like a prison to me. From now on civil war is started. ‘Watch your ass!’”
“School food should be big enough”
“I really want the Ministy to keep track of the way each teacher works at school, whether they are doing their jobs the way they should. If not then immediately dismiss them from teaching. I say this because I see a lot of this issue going on today at JHS. There are many “fake” teachers here and I hate to go to their classes. They should be fired!”
“I don’t want to be treat like a little baby who had just been born a moment ago, teachers had to work nicely and fairly.”
“More foods to make stomach strorng brains also.”
“I need you to help to improve me, no me only, but other students. If you need me I’m ready.”
I never had very much luck with high school girls; not in high school, not in college (not that I tried, of course), and certainly not now. Wait, that didn’t sound quite right. Before you accuse me of gross misconduct, let me assure you that my current problems are nothing extra-curricular, if you know what I mean. For my employer’s sake, I’ll be perfectly blunt (Hi Anna!): I AM STRUGGLING TO TEACH MY SENIOR FEMALE STUDENTS.
It’s nothing new, really; they’ve been a bit of a hassle from day one. Hell, they’ve been hassling me since my own freshman year of high school. But while my female classmates in secondary school could have benefitted from talking significantly less, the problem is predictably the opposite here. I try to start a little oral practice on the boys’ side of the classroom (they self-separate), and it moves along well enough until the green shirts of the uniforms start to give out to yellow blouses, the black hole of energy the girls create on their side of the room. This isn’t true for all of my classes, but the lower levels really struggle with this. I’m trying to make it fun, but they don’t make it easy.
1.17.2010
Well, America, we asked for chocolate and snacks, and you totally came through. We feel wealthy with high-calorie treats, and we thank you from the bottom of our stomachs. We think we’re pretty set now for food, so please don’t send any more, because we would hate to waste anything. However, if you feel irresistibly compelled to use the USPS one more time before it goes under, any kind of preserved meat, your basic salami or summer sausage, would be welcome in our pantry. They add a little spice to our weekend pasta. Thanks America!
1.19.2010
I asked my students to try to inject a little excitement in their writing by including more details, but instead, the girls just flipped over the lower-case “i” in their stories to an exclamation point. !. Which, of course, would be f!ne, !f !t didn’t drive me COMPLETELY NUTS. MaYbE ! sHoUlD sHoW tHeM hOw To WrItE lIkE tH!S. It certainly gets the blood pumping.
I think one of the toughest parts of teaching for me is explaining directions for activities. I think I’m fairly proficient in it by this point, and yet, no matter how clear, deliberate and methodical I try to be, there are inevitably at least a couple of students who do precisely the opposite of what I intended. The most frustrating cases are with the kids who understand English fairly well, and clearly have just not listened to a word I was saying, instead staring vacantly at a spot above my head somewhere as if I were explaining nuclear physics. No, kids, for the fourth time, I’m just showing you how to fold a piece of paper into thirds.
What’s that? You LOST the paper I gave you four minutes ago? And Marcus, this is folded into sixteenths, not thirds. Awesome. I mean, I just spent 15 minutes of my life repeatedly demonstrating how to do this, but no worries. Please excuse me while I throw a desk through the window.
I know it might be boring, but if it’s such simple stuff, why do they always screw it up? I'm not really this impatient, don't worry, but it does build up from time to time.
1.30.2010
Last week we attended our principal’s birthday. It was an event mostly without distinction – the standard singing approach, most of the staff and a couple of students leading a charge into the principal’s apartment with a ukulele, singing traditional Marshallese birthday songs and clapping along. Peter and I had heard about this only a few minutes earlier, and since our apartment is about seven strides from the principal’s, we tagged along at the end of the singing procession. Actually, to be totally honest, Peter had just removed two trays of beautiful whole-wheat biscuits from the oven, and when I suggested it was time we join the celebration, he was rather firm: “Morgan, hell no. I’m having a [expletive] biscuit while they’re hot.” He was right, they looked amazing, so I went over to the party and represented 4-B while he enjoyed the fruits (grains?) of his labors. [Dr. and Mrs. Shellito, don’t worry about your son, he only curses at me when something gets between him and fresh bread]
The only incident of note was at the party. As about 15 people gathered in the principal’s living room, still singing, the birthday boy came out and sat down in the traditional seat of honor, all smiles. When the singing finally stopped, he said, “Wow, I am so surprised!” He repeatedly insisted upon this. Two minutes later, his wife came out of the kitchen bearing a platter with about 80 Fudgee Bars, a locally popular Little Debbie-esque snack from the Philippines. We estimated that they ended up dispensing at least 120 of these little cakes, each of which contains 40% of your daily recommended saturated fat. Judging by the numbers he had on hand, either he wasn’t actually surprised, or he keeps an enormous stockpile of Fudgee Bars, just in case he suddenly gets the urge to eat 4800% of his saturated fat allowance.
1.30.2010
This past week, Jaluit High School has been doing some surveys of its students as part of its School Improvement Plan. They asked the kids what needs to change in the “comments” section. I chose the best responses, and they ranged from funny, to a little scary, to kind of sad/inspiring (grammar and spelling are verbatim):
“Yes, I think this school should let us some time for bwebwenato [chatting/hanging out] with our girl or boyfriends. That is all.”
“I don’t like the rule. This school is like a prison to me. From now on civil war is started. ‘Watch your ass!’”
“School food should be big enough”
“I really want the Ministy to keep track of the way each teacher works at school, whether they are doing their jobs the way they should. If not then immediately dismiss them from teaching. I say this because I see a lot of this issue going on today at JHS. There are many “fake” teachers here and I hate to go to their classes. They should be fired!”
“I don’t want to be treat like a little baby who had just been born a moment ago, teachers had to work nicely and fairly.”
“More foods to make stomach strorng brains also.”
“I need you to help to improve me, no me only, but other students. If you need me I’m ready.”
Friday, January 15, 2010
Leaning Into the Wind
1.4.2010 Monday
It appears that a number of my students have gained a few pounds over the past two weeks. I guess it’s comforting to know that that particular Christmas tradition holds true wherever it’s celebrated. I wonder if Jesus thought his birthday would still be celebrated 2000 years later by hundreds of millions of the faithful getting bloated and waddling to church. All in all, I can think of much worse legacies to leave.
1.8.2010 Friday
Well, they told us this was the windy season, and they weren’t lying! After almost daily rainstorms during the second half of December, the skies dried up and the wind came and hasn’t let up. It’s a lot cooler on average, but there are a few below-neutral side effects as well. The first run I went on with Peter upon our return seemed easier than I had anticipated initially; we hadn’t done much besides eating and having the occasional beer for two weeks, but the first half seemed fine, heading south down toward the airport.
We hit the end of the runway and turned around, and suddenly, instead of the pleasant prevailing breeze from the north to which I have grown accustomed, I felt like I was standing behind a jet preparing to take off. Every stride I took, it seemed I was losing a step before I hit the ground again. Peter, essentially a fitter, more aerodynamic version of me, turned his baseball cap backwards and jaunted off into the sunset as I gasped and wheezed in the headwind. Killin’ me.
Additionally: the cross-breeze in my room, normally a blessing during the hot months, takes on new malevolent fury in this windy season, making classroom decorations nearly impossible to maintain. Every thing that can catch wind does, and I come in every morning and my room looks like it has been trashed. I’ve given up the battle as lost, so for now, the beautiful posters of my mom’s paintings are coming down, until nature’s wrath is spent. The class contract has ended up on the floor, as well, and shockingly, my students are acting…well, exactly the same.
1.14.2010 Thursday
Last night, laying on my bed with my eyes open, thinking about my students and classes, I realized I unconsciously assign each of my units, and each of my classes, a metaphor. Whether it’s definite and indefinite articles, count and non-count nouns, or peer editing, each takes the form of a three-mast sailing ship in my head. Additionally, it may not be this clear, but the group of kids determines the quality of ship; my best class appears as a sturdy and maneuverable frigate, able to take anything I throw at them and change directions easily, while my slowest group can hardly get from point A to point B, a flimsy, lumbering Man O’ War Made in China.
Each unit is like a voyage across the ocean, and now that I think of it, I guess that makes me Poseidon. So I, God of the Oceans, throw a unit at them (keep a weather eye, kids; here be the place that the metaphor totally breaks down), and do my best to guide them to the end. Or perhaps I’m the captain, trying to get a little freaking work out of a mutinous crew. I wonder if keelhauling would be looked down upon in this seafaring nation of theirs.
At the end of the unit, the ship is usually limping into harbor with tattered sails, although occasionally there is a triumphant entrance at full sail. If the subject was tough and the class was 11C (my slowest), upon taking the unit test the ship might sink with all hands in the harbor…the best attitude to take in this situation is to forget about the failures of the past and look into raising a new crew. Onward and upward!
It appears that a number of my students have gained a few pounds over the past two weeks. I guess it’s comforting to know that that particular Christmas tradition holds true wherever it’s celebrated. I wonder if Jesus thought his birthday would still be celebrated 2000 years later by hundreds of millions of the faithful getting bloated and waddling to church. All in all, I can think of much worse legacies to leave.
1.8.2010 Friday
Well, they told us this was the windy season, and they weren’t lying! After almost daily rainstorms during the second half of December, the skies dried up and the wind came and hasn’t let up. It’s a lot cooler on average, but there are a few below-neutral side effects as well. The first run I went on with Peter upon our return seemed easier than I had anticipated initially; we hadn’t done much besides eating and having the occasional beer for two weeks, but the first half seemed fine, heading south down toward the airport.
We hit the end of the runway and turned around, and suddenly, instead of the pleasant prevailing breeze from the north to which I have grown accustomed, I felt like I was standing behind a jet preparing to take off. Every stride I took, it seemed I was losing a step before I hit the ground again. Peter, essentially a fitter, more aerodynamic version of me, turned his baseball cap backwards and jaunted off into the sunset as I gasped and wheezed in the headwind. Killin’ me.
Additionally: the cross-breeze in my room, normally a blessing during the hot months, takes on new malevolent fury in this windy season, making classroom decorations nearly impossible to maintain. Every thing that can catch wind does, and I come in every morning and my room looks like it has been trashed. I’ve given up the battle as lost, so for now, the beautiful posters of my mom’s paintings are coming down, until nature’s wrath is spent. The class contract has ended up on the floor, as well, and shockingly, my students are acting…well, exactly the same.
1.14.2010 Thursday
Last night, laying on my bed with my eyes open, thinking about my students and classes, I realized I unconsciously assign each of my units, and each of my classes, a metaphor. Whether it’s definite and indefinite articles, count and non-count nouns, or peer editing, each takes the form of a three-mast sailing ship in my head. Additionally, it may not be this clear, but the group of kids determines the quality of ship; my best class appears as a sturdy and maneuverable frigate, able to take anything I throw at them and change directions easily, while my slowest group can hardly get from point A to point B, a flimsy, lumbering Man O’ War Made in China.
Each unit is like a voyage across the ocean, and now that I think of it, I guess that makes me Poseidon. So I, God of the Oceans, throw a unit at them (keep a weather eye, kids; here be the place that the metaphor totally breaks down), and do my best to guide them to the end. Or perhaps I’m the captain, trying to get a little freaking work out of a mutinous crew. I wonder if keelhauling would be looked down upon in this seafaring nation of theirs.
At the end of the unit, the ship is usually limping into harbor with tattered sails, although occasionally there is a triumphant entrance at full sail. If the subject was tough and the class was 11C (my slowest), upon taking the unit test the ship might sink with all hands in the harbor…the best attitude to take in this situation is to forget about the failures of the past and look into raising a new crew. Onward and upward!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Green Christmas
12.8.09
You know how in my last post I said nothing much had really happened? I am an idiot. One particularly blog-worthy event did happen, and somehow I forgot about it until I read Pshell’s excellent post about it. On Friday Dec. 4th, which is a public holiday in the RMI called Gospel Day, I got a chance to tag along with the JHS Environmental Health Club on a field trip to Pinglap, an island across the lagoon which is partly owned by our school registrar, who accompanied us as a boat pilot and guide. For a much better and more detailed description of most of the trip, see Peter’s post “A Great Adventure” at petershellito.blogspot.com. However, at one point in the woods our paths diverged, and it made all the difference in what tasty local food we got to sample.
We had struck inland as a group to see some wetlands, but we reached some lands that were a bit too wet to navigate, and while Peter’s half of the expedition pushed on to the right side, I lagged behind with Jabuwe, who grew up on this island and who I trusted more as a guide than the other guy with us. We veered to the left. One might say I took the low road and Peter took the high road, but in the Marshall Islands, the distinction is a matter of inches.
NOTE: Think of this like one of those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books from middle school. You come to a fork in the road. If you choose to go with Peter, turn to page (petershellito.blogspot.com). If you choose to go with Morgan, just keep on truckin’.
We bush-wacked inland for a while longer, as I stumbled along in my flip-flops. I hadn’t counted on Indiana Jones-level jungle navigation, and my footwear was woefully inadequate for the coconut-carpeted ground. Ever tried to walk on top of half-decayed coconuts with muddy, slippery flip-flops? I don’t recommend it. However, all the Marshallese seemed to be doing alright in their flimsy sandals, so I sucked it up. As students with machetes cleared the way up in front of the column, I marveled at the tropical flora and fauna. There were some really incredible spider webs strung between two trees along the trail, which made me glad I wasn’t walking up front.
After an hour or so of forging trail, we began to see blue sky through the trees, which meant we were near the ocean, and we were all glad to get out of the stifling jungle, even though we hadn’t found the wetlands. Upon reaching the shore, however, we found that we had come back out about 200 yards south of our initial starting point, having made a neat horseshoe-shaped trail through the forest. Damn. We were supposed to have come out on the other side of the island. I then realized that although our guide did grow up on Pinglap, he’s also over 60 years old and it’s been a long time since he actually lived there.
Our principal, who had stayed with my group, was tired out after our trek, so he headed back along the beach with the girls to start getting lunch ready. The man likes his vittles and I can certainly appreciate that. I decided to stick around with the fellas, though I was not at all sure what we were going to do. Something about a shipwreck, and fishing? Sure, I was game. We started walking down the beach. Well, the “shipwreck” turned out to be a strangely isolated six-foot anchor on the beach, supposedly from a Japanese warship, and the only success from fishing was one three-foot black-tipped shark, dazed from a machete blow to the head. The kids discarded it on the beach, and in true bleeding-heart white-guy style, I grabbed it by the tail and brought it back out into the shallows, and tried to get it moving out. It was moving slowly when I left, so I think it might have been okay. I figured somebody should try to protect the sea life from the Environmental Health Club.
We were now on ocean-side, opposite of the lagoon-side spot where we had landed and set up camp. Jabuwe decided we should cut across the island through the jungle, and as we started struggling through the foliage again, I noticed big breadfruit trees, which have amazing hollows inside of them. One of the trees could have comfortably fit two adults in its trunk. Every time we encountered one of these trees my guides would start a small, smoky fire of dry palm fronds inside the trunk, and I discovered that they were trying to catch a coconut crab, a local delicacy. I was thrilled, but the first efforts were fruitless. Finally they found a breadfruit tree that seemed to have a lot of scrabbled earth around the roots, and definitely looked like something was living inside the cavity below. Using a lit palm-frond torch, they again began trying to smoke out whatever was living within. After 10 minutes of fiery prodding, a few huge armored legs started to emerge, followed by the rest of a monster, grey-blue crab. I stood well back as one of the students expertly flipped the big guy over and picked him up, with his hands supporting the carapace, safe from the powerful claws. A little later, I got to hold the big guy, who easily weighed in at 15-20 pounds, and was extremely docile once on his back.
Awesome. It was one of the highlights of the last four months.
Successful hunter-gatherers all, we kept moving through the jungle, but soon reached an impassable tangle of fallen trees. Jabuwe decided we should head back to the beach, and almost immediately after, my right foot flip-flop gave its last protest to my sliding everywhere in the mud, and the straps snapped. Now I was in the middle of the jungle with one bare foot.
I limped my way back out to the beach, carefully choosing my path, and we traveled along the beach for a while until we found a path that Jabuwe had created a while ago. It seems cliché to me to comment on the amazing speed of the jungle in reclaiming everything done by humans, but I’ll do it anyway. Peter and I often wonder why the Marshallese spend so much time raking gravel or picking up fallen leaves by hand, but it has become obvious that it’s part of a daily battle to stop the jungle from encroaching on their living spaces.
12.14.2009 Monday
I’m sitting in my classroom, having given up trying to review for the final exam with my 11C class. It’s seventh period, I’m losing my voice from talking all day, and it just started pouring rain. The big drops beating on the tin roof above make teaching nearly impossible, so I asked them to do some practice in the workbook. Little unexpected reprieves like this can be nice.
Meanwhile, outside my window, which looks out to onto a basketball court, a few low buildings, and the ocean about 100 yards away, eight utterly naked little boys are running around in the downpour, using small sheets of plywood to glide across the huge, shallow puddle that is the basketball court during a rainstorm. That looks really fun. If I’m not mistaken, there is a similar sport on West Coast beaches called skimboarding.
That's all for now, heading to Majuro in a day or two to see my parents! Hope everyone is looking forward to the holidays as much as I am...I get to spend them with my family, a good friend, and perhaps a well-traveled turkey, so I really can't complain.
You know how in my last post I said nothing much had really happened? I am an idiot. One particularly blog-worthy event did happen, and somehow I forgot about it until I read Pshell’s excellent post about it. On Friday Dec. 4th, which is a public holiday in the RMI called Gospel Day, I got a chance to tag along with the JHS Environmental Health Club on a field trip to Pinglap, an island across the lagoon which is partly owned by our school registrar, who accompanied us as a boat pilot and guide. For a much better and more detailed description of most of the trip, see Peter’s post “A Great Adventure” at petershellito.blogspot.com. However, at one point in the woods our paths diverged, and it made all the difference in what tasty local food we got to sample.
We had struck inland as a group to see some wetlands, but we reached some lands that were a bit too wet to navigate, and while Peter’s half of the expedition pushed on to the right side, I lagged behind with Jabuwe, who grew up on this island and who I trusted more as a guide than the other guy with us. We veered to the left. One might say I took the low road and Peter took the high road, but in the Marshall Islands, the distinction is a matter of inches.
NOTE: Think of this like one of those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books from middle school. You come to a fork in the road. If you choose to go with Peter, turn to page (petershellito.blogspot.com). If you choose to go with Morgan, just keep on truckin’.
We bush-wacked inland for a while longer, as I stumbled along in my flip-flops. I hadn’t counted on Indiana Jones-level jungle navigation, and my footwear was woefully inadequate for the coconut-carpeted ground. Ever tried to walk on top of half-decayed coconuts with muddy, slippery flip-flops? I don’t recommend it. However, all the Marshallese seemed to be doing alright in their flimsy sandals, so I sucked it up. As students with machetes cleared the way up in front of the column, I marveled at the tropical flora and fauna. There were some really incredible spider webs strung between two trees along the trail, which made me glad I wasn’t walking up front.
After an hour or so of forging trail, we began to see blue sky through the trees, which meant we were near the ocean, and we were all glad to get out of the stifling jungle, even though we hadn’t found the wetlands. Upon reaching the shore, however, we found that we had come back out about 200 yards south of our initial starting point, having made a neat horseshoe-shaped trail through the forest. Damn. We were supposed to have come out on the other side of the island. I then realized that although our guide did grow up on Pinglap, he’s also over 60 years old and it’s been a long time since he actually lived there.
Our principal, who had stayed with my group, was tired out after our trek, so he headed back along the beach with the girls to start getting lunch ready. The man likes his vittles and I can certainly appreciate that. I decided to stick around with the fellas, though I was not at all sure what we were going to do. Something about a shipwreck, and fishing? Sure, I was game. We started walking down the beach. Well, the “shipwreck” turned out to be a strangely isolated six-foot anchor on the beach, supposedly from a Japanese warship, and the only success from fishing was one three-foot black-tipped shark, dazed from a machete blow to the head. The kids discarded it on the beach, and in true bleeding-heart white-guy style, I grabbed it by the tail and brought it back out into the shallows, and tried to get it moving out. It was moving slowly when I left, so I think it might have been okay. I figured somebody should try to protect the sea life from the Environmental Health Club.
We were now on ocean-side, opposite of the lagoon-side spot where we had landed and set up camp. Jabuwe decided we should cut across the island through the jungle, and as we started struggling through the foliage again, I noticed big breadfruit trees, which have amazing hollows inside of them. One of the trees could have comfortably fit two adults in its trunk. Every time we encountered one of these trees my guides would start a small, smoky fire of dry palm fronds inside the trunk, and I discovered that they were trying to catch a coconut crab, a local delicacy. I was thrilled, but the first efforts were fruitless. Finally they found a breadfruit tree that seemed to have a lot of scrabbled earth around the roots, and definitely looked like something was living inside the cavity below. Using a lit palm-frond torch, they again began trying to smoke out whatever was living within. After 10 minutes of fiery prodding, a few huge armored legs started to emerge, followed by the rest of a monster, grey-blue crab. I stood well back as one of the students expertly flipped the big guy over and picked him up, with his hands supporting the carapace, safe from the powerful claws. A little later, I got to hold the big guy, who easily weighed in at 15-20 pounds, and was extremely docile once on his back.
Awesome. It was one of the highlights of the last four months.
Successful hunter-gatherers all, we kept moving through the jungle, but soon reached an impassable tangle of fallen trees. Jabuwe decided we should head back to the beach, and almost immediately after, my right foot flip-flop gave its last protest to my sliding everywhere in the mud, and the straps snapped. Now I was in the middle of the jungle with one bare foot.
I limped my way back out to the beach, carefully choosing my path, and we traveled along the beach for a while until we found a path that Jabuwe had created a while ago. It seems cliché to me to comment on the amazing speed of the jungle in reclaiming everything done by humans, but I’ll do it anyway. Peter and I often wonder why the Marshallese spend so much time raking gravel or picking up fallen leaves by hand, but it has become obvious that it’s part of a daily battle to stop the jungle from encroaching on their living spaces.
12.14.2009 Monday
I’m sitting in my classroom, having given up trying to review for the final exam with my 11C class. It’s seventh period, I’m losing my voice from talking all day, and it just started pouring rain. The big drops beating on the tin roof above make teaching nearly impossible, so I asked them to do some practice in the workbook. Little unexpected reprieves like this can be nice.
Meanwhile, outside my window, which looks out to onto a basketball court, a few low buildings, and the ocean about 100 yards away, eight utterly naked little boys are running around in the downpour, using small sheets of plywood to glide across the huge, shallow puddle that is the basketball court during a rainstorm. That looks really fun. If I’m not mistaken, there is a similar sport on West Coast beaches called skimboarding.
That's all for now, heading to Majuro in a day or two to see my parents! Hope everyone is looking forward to the holidays as much as I am...I get to spend them with my family, a good friend, and perhaps a well-traveled turkey, so I really can't complain.
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