April showers allow US to shower

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.