'Twas the month before Christmas
And all throught the isle
Was nary a creature
Not sporting a smile.
The palm leaves were hung
With white lights galore
Giantplastic Santa guarded
The front of Senny's store.
As planeload on planeload
Of visitors arrived
--I'd ne'er seen the island
Quite so alive.
Then one magical, mystical tropical night,
I lay under my net
Watching mosquitos fight
When into my ears
There arrived such a sound
That I open'd my eyes,
Took a good look around.
At first, 'twas a hum
Like the buzzing of bees,
Maybe o'erzealous wind
In the coconut trees
But the buzz was increasing,
The wind had a beat,
I listen'd, discerned
THE SHUFFLING OF FEET!
Curiosity peaked, outside I crept
What ritual was happ'ning
Out there as I slept?
I followed that sound,
With all of my might,
Saw the church up ahead
All a-blaze with light.
Here was the birthplace, the source
Of the sound
Sung by all my neighbors
As they walked around!
I stood at the window
And watched them with glee--
They spelled "MXM,"
And then "H," and then "P"!
The flock ne'er tired in pursuit
Of their stars;
O'er the course of the night,
They travelled quite far.
Spellbound I stood,
I know not how long;
Bewitched by the stars,
Marching feet, and the song.
The crowd made a turn,
Crossed over the floor--
Oh! It looked like--
They were headed straight for the door!
I panicked, I freaked, tried utmost to hide...
But too late, alas,
They were already outside.
When what should I feel
Hitting me on the nose,
But a butterscotch sucker
And pack of Rolos?
The shower continued--
I took off my hat
In time to catch mints,
Gumdrops, and a Kit-Kat.
I understood not,
But that was okay--
It was the best Christmas ever
That day!
And, as I staggered off under
The weight of my haul,
I turned back around toward the crowd,
I recall.
And I shouted with joy,
Ere I journeyed on back:
"Merry Christmas to all,
nofon mwet Tafunsak!"
M. McCrea
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Zen wisdom from the South Pacific
~There are days when the best thing that will happen to you is not getting hit on the head by a falling coconut.
~Let sleepings dogs lie. Otherwise, they will bite you.
~"If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?"
"A hermit crab," my family decided last weekend. They then explained that they are easy to catch in the morning because "they like to sleep in, just like you."
~When it rains, it pours...if I've just put my clean laundry outside to dry.
Also, randomly, guess who is faster than me on my bicycle?
1) A small child sprinting.
2) A twelve year-old kid carrying another twelve year-old on the handlebars of his bike.
Awesome. I will continue to update this category as necessary.
Lastly, in lieu of doing a cliched "things I'm thankful for..." post, here are a few things I've seen here in the FSM that have already made my journey more than worth it.
I'm sitting on the floor in church in Pohnpei. All is relatively calm and still, but there's a little kid running up and down the side aisle nearest me. As he runs by a woman (presumedly not his mother), she reaches out and pats him on the head. He keeps running for what must have been 15 seconds, then walks back to the woman, slaps her (really hard!) on the thigh, and walks back to his seat. WHAT?
So I live on what is (no joke) one of the rainiest islands on earth. One gray morning, I woke up to the sound of POUNDING rain over my head. I walk out to have breakfast, and my mom laughingly tells me to go look outside.
"Your soris floated away," she says.
Now my family likes to joke around, so I assume this to be a lie. When I then open the door in order to humor her, I see that all of our shoes have literally been carried all the way down the side of the house on a torrent of water. This is not something you can see in Denver.
Before I officially started teaching at my site, I was visiting for a practicum day. Now, our school is situated such that all of the doors face the outside; they are padlocked shut. I was supposed to be teaching a first period class of 9th graders, but their teacher, I soon learned was out sick. I approached another teacher, asking him if he had the key. He smiled and said:
"Hold on. I'll go get the master key."
Now it was early, mind you, otherwise I might have wondered how you could have a "master key" to a bunch of padlocks. But I didn't. Then he returned, brandishing a hammer. He pulled the entire contraption, lock, hinges, and all, off of my door and proudly said, "There you go."
~Let sleepings dogs lie. Otherwise, they will bite you.
~"If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?"
"A hermit crab," my family decided last weekend. They then explained that they are easy to catch in the morning because "they like to sleep in, just like you."
~When it rains, it pours...if I've just put my clean laundry outside to dry.
Also, randomly, guess who is faster than me on my bicycle?
1) A small child sprinting.
2) A twelve year-old kid carrying another twelve year-old on the handlebars of his bike.
Awesome. I will continue to update this category as necessary.
Lastly, in lieu of doing a cliched "things I'm thankful for..." post, here are a few things I've seen here in the FSM that have already made my journey more than worth it.
I'm sitting on the floor in church in Pohnpei. All is relatively calm and still, but there's a little kid running up and down the side aisle nearest me. As he runs by a woman (presumedly not his mother), she reaches out and pats him on the head. He keeps running for what must have been 15 seconds, then walks back to the woman, slaps her (really hard!) on the thigh, and walks back to his seat. WHAT?
So I live on what is (no joke) one of the rainiest islands on earth. One gray morning, I woke up to the sound of POUNDING rain over my head. I walk out to have breakfast, and my mom laughingly tells me to go look outside.
"Your soris floated away," she says.
Now my family likes to joke around, so I assume this to be a lie. When I then open the door in order to humor her, I see that all of our shoes have literally been carried all the way down the side of the house on a torrent of water. This is not something you can see in Denver.
Before I officially started teaching at my site, I was visiting for a practicum day. Now, our school is situated such that all of the doors face the outside; they are padlocked shut. I was supposed to be teaching a first period class of 9th graders, but their teacher, I soon learned was out sick. I approached another teacher, asking him if he had the key. He smiled and said:
"Hold on. I'll go get the master key."
Now it was early, mind you, otherwise I might have wondered how you could have a "master key" to a bunch of padlocks. But I didn't. Then he returned, brandishing a hammer. He pulled the entire contraption, lock, hinges, and all, off of my door and proudly said, "There you go."
Friday, November 2, 2007
Style & Grace (or, "Me and my bicycle"); Everything I really need to know I learned in Walung
So, the PC hasn't actually issued us our bikes yet (a point of no contention, as I'm sure you'd guess); however, my host family here has become in the habit of lending me one of their bicycles to use. Now, you know the old saying--about anything--"oh, it comes back in a second. Just like riding a bike"? Well, I'm willing to bet that whoever made that up has never attempted to ride a bike sporting a long skirt and flip-flops, ill-balanced messenger bag slung over one shoulder. But that's another story.
Today I'd like to present to you a couple of shining examples of the fun I have had riding a bicycle here, where every trip is really an adventure. Young, carefree PCV has just begun her (soon-to-be weekly) bike odyssey on the road leading from Tofol (the capital) to her home. Dusk is just starting to think about falling. And action.
Out of nowhere, this crazyvicious-looking dog runs onto the road out of nowhere, clearly craving the taste of human flesh (but preferably that sweet, juicy flesh of the Homo homo sapienas americanus). Unsuspecting girl looks behind her, freaks out, and starts yelling "Teok! Teok!" literally at the top of her lungs. (This is probably Kosraen for some very bad word. She's not really sure.) Girl speeds up as fast as she can (still shouting) and pulls her right ankle up well above the crossbar, removing the tasty morsel from the eager, terrifying, (and, yet, not very tall) jaws of impending doom. Girl succeeds, hoping that no one was around to witness this ridiculous ordeal. End scene.
Another awesome bicycle incident befell said girl last weekend when she was least suspecting it. After running her bike off of the road and into a ditch, losing both her sunglasses and her dignity (but that's another story), our protagonist resolved to be very careful the rest of the way home. As usual, however, her procrastination meant that she was finishing her journey virtually in the dark. She becomes excited as she passes onto her street, confident that she has successfully avoiding having two embarrssing bicycle crashes in the same trip. As she passes her neighborhood store, she calls out "Eke wo" to the people sitting there.
One guy calls back "Eke wo. Kom lungse chocolate?"
Now here's where the ambiguity of the Kosraen language really starts causing trouble. Is this man merely offering an informational query ["You like chocolate?], or is this figure, now mainly veiled in shadows, offering our heroine chocolate out of the dark? In other words, small talk, or prelude to crazy real-life episode of True Crime? Well, as her mind has been working through all these cogitations, her feet have continued to pedal, the wheels have continued to spin, and Megan's head has turned progressively further and further around, toward the speaker of the confusing statement...and she's hit a giant (and very familiar, unfortunately speedbump). She recovers her balance in the nick of time, all still without a clue of what's actually just happened.
And now for something completely different...so, last weekend, our training class tromped out to Walung for "cultural activities"--though I think that it was designed as a break from the monotony of training as much as anything else. It was an odd melange of things: Berenstein Bears' Vacation weather, picture postcard setting, and a place of lodging that would have pleased Hitchcock and unnerved Edgar Allen Poe. But that's all for another time (when I'm not paying for Internet by the millisecond anymore).
For the moment, I present: "Everything I really need to know I learned in Walung"
1) Making fun of other people for taking Dramamine is never good karma
2) Snorkeling (anywhere!) can be fun, depending upon the degree to which you adjust your expectations. ("Ooh! Look! A rock!!!" "Oh yeah? I found mangrove roots. What what!")
3) Pigs can swim(!?!)
4) Contrary to popular belief, a higher proportion of yelling DOES NOT yield a higher proportion of caught fish while net-fishing
5) A coconut tree is a hell of a lot taller on the way down than on the way up
And, with that, I leave you for the moment. By next post will be as an OFFICIAL Peace Corps Volunteer. Expect great things (haha).
Today I'd like to present to you a couple of shining examples of the fun I have had riding a bicycle here, where every trip is really an adventure. Young, carefree PCV has just begun her (soon-to-be weekly) bike odyssey on the road leading from Tofol (the capital) to her home. Dusk is just starting to think about falling. And action.
Out of nowhere, this crazyvicious-looking dog runs onto the road out of nowhere, clearly craving the taste of human flesh (but preferably that sweet, juicy flesh of the Homo homo sapienas americanus). Unsuspecting girl looks behind her, freaks out, and starts yelling "Teok! Teok!" literally at the top of her lungs. (This is probably Kosraen for some very bad word. She's not really sure.) Girl speeds up as fast as she can (still shouting) and pulls her right ankle up well above the crossbar, removing the tasty morsel from the eager, terrifying, (and, yet, not very tall) jaws of impending doom. Girl succeeds, hoping that no one was around to witness this ridiculous ordeal. End scene.
Another awesome bicycle incident befell said girl last weekend when she was least suspecting it. After running her bike off of the road and into a ditch, losing both her sunglasses and her dignity (but that's another story), our protagonist resolved to be very careful the rest of the way home. As usual, however, her procrastination meant that she was finishing her journey virtually in the dark. She becomes excited as she passes onto her street, confident that she has successfully avoiding having two embarrssing bicycle crashes in the same trip. As she passes her neighborhood store, she calls out "Eke wo" to the people sitting there.
One guy calls back "Eke wo. Kom lungse chocolate?"
Now here's where the ambiguity of the Kosraen language really starts causing trouble. Is this man merely offering an informational query ["You like chocolate?], or is this figure, now mainly veiled in shadows, offering our heroine chocolate out of the dark? In other words, small talk, or prelude to crazy real-life episode of True Crime? Well, as her mind has been working through all these cogitations, her feet have continued to pedal, the wheels have continued to spin, and Megan's head has turned progressively further and further around, toward the speaker of the confusing statement...and she's hit a giant (and very familiar, unfortunately speedbump). She recovers her balance in the nick of time, all still without a clue of what's actually just happened.
And now for something completely different...so, last weekend, our training class tromped out to Walung for "cultural activities"--though I think that it was designed as a break from the monotony of training as much as anything else. It was an odd melange of things: Berenstein Bears' Vacation weather, picture postcard setting, and a place of lodging that would have pleased Hitchcock and unnerved Edgar Allen Poe. But that's all for another time (when I'm not paying for Internet by the millisecond anymore).
For the moment, I present: "Everything I really need to know I learned in Walung"
1) Making fun of other people for taking Dramamine is never good karma
2) Snorkeling (anywhere!) can be fun, depending upon the degree to which you adjust your expectations. ("Ooh! Look! A rock!!!" "Oh yeah? I found mangrove roots. What what!")
3) Pigs can swim(!?!)
4) Contrary to popular belief, a higher proportion of yelling DOES NOT yield a higher proportion of caught fish while net-fishing
5) A coconut tree is a hell of a lot taller on the way down than on the way up
And, with that, I leave you for the moment. By next post will be as an OFFICIAL Peace Corps Volunteer. Expect great things (haha).
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Welcome to Kosrae, "Water Safety," Kosraen 101
It's funny: I came here to Kosrae just 16 days ago, yet as I look back and attempt to describe my arrival here, it seems like aeons ago. Now, instead of remembering the entire day as one smooth, uninterrupted narrative line, I remember it in flashes--a sped-up, movie montage version of my transition.
Step 1: Waving at my first host family (to the extent this is possible as I precariously balance three carry-ons from my shoulders and, simultaneously, drag two overflowing suitcases to the Peace Corps van). Translation: Awkwardly giving the "wassup" nod to the family who has put up with me and my constant cultural faux-pas for the last three weeks as I disappear (from their lives) over the horizon.
Step 2: Becoming the first Continental passenger ever, perhaps? (oh, how I flatter myself) to check in wearing a PFD (e.g. lifevest). To me, I'm just saving much needed space, the staff, however, seriously assure me: "you know, we have flotation devices on the plane."
Step 3: Discovering love at first sight with my Kosraen host family. In fact, I can tell you when I knew it was meant to be: the PC staff had herded all of us (PCTs, current PCVs, and host families) into a meeting room for the official meet-and-greet-and-receive-leis-and-eat. However, nothing's happening...we're all just sitting around, waiting for Godot. As everyone else magically finds their host family, I realize that mine is MIA. That's right: who is the late family, holding up the whole ceremony? Mine!
When a young couple saunter in, easily 25 minutes late and blissfully unaware, I realize that my host family match was one made in Heaven.
Then came the drive home. Everything's going fine until we hit a police roadblock. Nothing to worry about, they explain. It's just a DUI checkpoint or something. Then, as this cop walks toward the car, my dad says to me, in English:
"I know this guy--he's crazy!!"
The cop arrives at the driver's side window. He starts talking, rapidly and seriously, in Kosraen. My parents just start laughing their asses off. The cop then says a couple of (very business-like) things in English:
"License and registration."
--More laughing and Kosraen
"I'm just doing my job."
--More laughing and Kosraen.
By this time, I'm totally freaking out. Oh my God, I think, my host parents are going to get themselves arrested for contempt on my first night here, and I don't even know where my house is!
All of a sudden, my dad turns to me and says:
"That's my brother."
I shake his hand, completely perplexed. We drive off.
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah."
I explain my erstwhile paranoia, and we all have a good laugh. Such was my welcome to Kosrae.
For some odd reason, I quickly garnered the reputation among my training class as being kind of a shitshow. (Can't quite put my finger upon when this occurred: perhaps when I slide-tackled someone during a game of Monkey in the Middle frisbee, perhaps, missed the frisbee and hit a concrete stepping stone?) Well, regardless of when it began, by the time the long-awaited Water Safety Day rolled around, our group had taken bets on who would be the first to hurt themselves, and I enjoyed a liberal early lead in the race. I swore, of course, to prove them all wrong.
A couple of hours later, we're out on the water. Our instructor tells us to jump in; we're practicing getting back into the boat. As one who has seldom been upheld as the supreme example of upper arm strength, I'm not excited. However, I jump in and hope for the best. It's the kind of moment where, in a movie, "Eye of the Tiger" should amp up in the background as I reach deep down into my soul to muster the awe-inspiring power to push myself back into the boat.
Well, I don't hear Survivor or feel like Rocky, so my arms decide to rebel against me. Charlie and Asa end up having to haul me into the boat like some unholy combination of dead fish and beached whale, as I lie there laughing my ass off (the natural response to such a situation, I'm sure). I face plant into the bottom of the boat, and shout (as much as it is possible to shout while laughing maniacally and hitting the bottom of a boat with your diaphragm): "I FAIL WATER SAFETY!" Everyone is laughing, their prediction having come true; I look down at my leg and yep, I've reopened an old scab on my knee as I was hauled into the boat, and now I'm bleeding profusely from my leg.
Oddly, I'm still allowed to swim...
Last but not least: Kosraen. (Yes, I have been doing things for the last five weeks besides tanning, hurting myself, and eating a lot of white rice.) We study Kosraen for four hours every morning which is, I assure, definitely a linguistic adventure. To give you an idea, here is a real sentence in Kosraen:
"Ke ke ke kom ke som ke Nga?"
--This translates to: "About when are you wanting to go with me?""Ke" translates to all of those words but me, you, and go. There are many, many other words that mean several things like this. For instance: "luhngse."
Whereas in English we have separate words to mean "like," "love," "would like," and "want," "'luhngse' is the all-purpose liking word. Thus, there is no linguistic differentiation between wanting a hotdog, liking to play soccer, and loving someone. It's just a funny concept to wrap your head around, really.
All of this translates into interesting language lessons (read: lots of anger/hostility. ("There are how many ways to say 'where'?") The funny thing is, I have no doubt that English contains just as many ridiculous grammatical abnormalities as Kosraen does. The difference is that we didn't learn English this quickly. Thus, right now, we're being confronted in 6 weeks with all those same caprices and idiosyncracies of Kosraen, that we've all had 20+ years to come to grips with in English. No wonder we're all so confused!
~Megan
Step 1: Waving at my first host family (to the extent this is possible as I precariously balance three carry-ons from my shoulders and, simultaneously, drag two overflowing suitcases to the Peace Corps van). Translation: Awkwardly giving the "wassup" nod to the family who has put up with me and my constant cultural faux-pas for the last three weeks as I disappear (from their lives) over the horizon.
Step 2: Becoming the first Continental passenger ever, perhaps? (oh, how I flatter myself) to check in wearing a PFD (e.g. lifevest). To me, I'm just saving much needed space, the staff, however, seriously assure me: "you know, we have flotation devices on the plane."
Step 3: Discovering love at first sight with my Kosraen host family. In fact, I can tell you when I knew it was meant to be: the PC staff had herded all of us (PCTs, current PCVs, and host families) into a meeting room for the official meet-and-greet-and-receive-leis-and-eat. However, nothing's happening...we're all just sitting around, waiting for Godot. As everyone else magically finds their host family, I realize that mine is MIA. That's right: who is the late family, holding up the whole ceremony? Mine!
When a young couple saunter in, easily 25 minutes late and blissfully unaware, I realize that my host family match was one made in Heaven.
Then came the drive home. Everything's going fine until we hit a police roadblock. Nothing to worry about, they explain. It's just a DUI checkpoint or something. Then, as this cop walks toward the car, my dad says to me, in English:
"I know this guy--he's crazy!!"
The cop arrives at the driver's side window. He starts talking, rapidly and seriously, in Kosraen. My parents just start laughing their asses off. The cop then says a couple of (very business-like) things in English:
"License and registration."
--More laughing and Kosraen
"I'm just doing my job."
--More laughing and Kosraen.
By this time, I'm totally freaking out. Oh my God, I think, my host parents are going to get themselves arrested for contempt on my first night here, and I don't even know where my house is!
All of a sudden, my dad turns to me and says:
"That's my brother."
I shake his hand, completely perplexed. We drive off.
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah."
I explain my erstwhile paranoia, and we all have a good laugh. Such was my welcome to Kosrae.
For some odd reason, I quickly garnered the reputation among my training class as being kind of a shitshow. (Can't quite put my finger upon when this occurred: perhaps when I slide-tackled someone during a game of Monkey in the Middle frisbee, perhaps, missed the frisbee and hit a concrete stepping stone?) Well, regardless of when it began, by the time the long-awaited Water Safety Day rolled around, our group had taken bets on who would be the first to hurt themselves, and I enjoyed a liberal early lead in the race. I swore, of course, to prove them all wrong.
A couple of hours later, we're out on the water. Our instructor tells us to jump in; we're practicing getting back into the boat. As one who has seldom been upheld as the supreme example of upper arm strength, I'm not excited. However, I jump in and hope for the best. It's the kind of moment where, in a movie, "Eye of the Tiger" should amp up in the background as I reach deep down into my soul to muster the awe-inspiring power to push myself back into the boat.
Well, I don't hear Survivor or feel like Rocky, so my arms decide to rebel against me. Charlie and Asa end up having to haul me into the boat like some unholy combination of dead fish and beached whale, as I lie there laughing my ass off (the natural response to such a situation, I'm sure). I face plant into the bottom of the boat, and shout (as much as it is possible to shout while laughing maniacally and hitting the bottom of a boat with your diaphragm): "I FAIL WATER SAFETY!" Everyone is laughing, their prediction having come true; I look down at my leg and yep, I've reopened an old scab on my knee as I was hauled into the boat, and now I'm bleeding profusely from my leg.
Oddly, I'm still allowed to swim...
Last but not least: Kosraen. (Yes, I have been doing things for the last five weeks besides tanning, hurting myself, and eating a lot of white rice.) We study Kosraen for four hours every morning which is, I assure, definitely a linguistic adventure. To give you an idea, here is a real sentence in Kosraen:
"Ke ke ke kom ke som ke Nga?"
--This translates to: "About when are you wanting to go with me?""Ke" translates to all of those words but me, you, and go. There are many, many other words that mean several things like this. For instance: "luhngse."
Whereas in English we have separate words to mean "like," "love," "would like," and "want," "'luhngse' is the all-purpose liking word. Thus, there is no linguistic differentiation between wanting a hotdog, liking to play soccer, and loving someone. It's just a funny concept to wrap your head around, really.
All of this translates into interesting language lessons (read: lots of anger/hostility. ("There are how many ways to say 'where'?") The funny thing is, I have no doubt that English contains just as many ridiculous grammatical abnormalities as Kosraen does. The difference is that we didn't learn English this quickly. Thus, right now, we're being confronted in 6 weeks with all those same caprices and idiosyncracies of Kosraen, that we've all had 20+ years to come to grips with in English. No wonder we're all so confused!
~Megan
Thursday, September 27, 2007
(Almost) 28 Days Later...the highlights tape
As I looked through my last blog entry, I realized that, while I personally had an awesome time being all literary and pretentious, those several hundred words or so conveyed little to nothing of the actual reality of my situation here in the Federated States of Micronesia. Thus today, I seek to remedy this error in presenting:
Sept. 4-28....Highlights Tape
...in which I propose to revisit all of the last-second buzzer beaters, miraculous Hail Mary passes, and hat tricks of my Peace Corps existence (metaphorically speaking).
It's 7 a.m. on Sunday #1 in Micronesia, and I'm proud/excited to put my best foot forward for church. After looking carefully through my extensive (haha) wardrobe, I decide to wear my one and only dress. (Or "The Habit," as I so fondly call it.) As I step out of the room and into the kitchen, my older sister, Sinoreen, looks at me at curiously.
"Do you have a skirt?," she asks.
"Yes," I answer, perplexed.
"Go put it on."
I silently return her quizzical expression.
"Only old women wear dresses to church," she explains.
I come back out in a button-down and skirt. She gives me a different skirt. Still not satisfied with my outfit, she asks if she can see my clothes and choose my outfit for me. She selects one of my t-shirts and hands it to me. I silently sigh...nice one, Megan...and hope that maybe someday I will be able to dress myself for church.
The following Sunday, my friend Tori's host dad invites me to join them for a trip to Nan Madol, these ancient ruins located in Temwen (an area about 25 minutes drive away for us). As when I first started at Duke, it's exciting and strange to be riding in a vehicle again--I'm moving so fast--and it's not every day you get to ride in a vehicle with a bobblehead chihuhua on the dash. It's beautifully clear and sunny, one of those idyllic days that just makes you thrilled to be alive.
On our way out, we drive over a long causeway with ocean off to either side, brilliant turquoise as far as the eye can see. We then wend our way through thick foresty terrain until we get to the path to Nan Madol. As we begin to walk, the forest is so thick in some places that it nearly blocks out all of the sunlight above. Then we will suddenly come to a clearing with a bridge through a mangrove swamp/ocean type area. The bridge promises adventure in several senses: 1) Nan Madol ahead! 2) The Survivor-style challenge/IQ test of crossing a bridge composed solely of two logs and (sometimes hole-ridden) plywood. Luckily, we managed our river crossings okay (even without caulking the wagon and floating it across).
Then, as we rounded a corner in the path, across the way appears Nan Madol. I can't really fathom how to describe it other than obscenely cool ruins. These stones have stood forever, and they structure is incredibly well-preserved. It has to be about fifty feet long (at least--this is English major guesstimation after all) and fifteen feet tall. As you walk in, you feel like you're walking into a temple. It's no wonder the Micronesians consider this place sacred.
After walking around inside, the structure strikes me as amazingly large from the outside. It's kind of the anti-put-mirrors-in-your-dining-room-to-make-it-seem-huge; rather, Nan Madol feels intimate on the inside and looks like a fortress from the exterior. We eat lunch outside, overlooking the ocean and soaking in the rays.
As I look out at the sea, I note, not 800 yards away from me, the Idyllic Island. This is literally the sort of island that postcard photographers have wet dreams about. Turquoise water laps up on a perfect white sand beach. As you get further from the shore, the water melts into this deep jewel-blue tone. A large stand of stately palms cover the island, swaying gently in the breeze. It's at moments like this that I feel like the luckiest girl on earth.
Well, I'm being paged to meet my new host family, so I've got to leave you here. If you'd like to write me, my new address here on Kosrae is:
Megan McCrea, PCV
Peace Corps/Kosrae
P.O. Box 98
Tofol, Kosrae FSM 96944
Take care.
Sept. 4-28....Highlights Tape
...in which I propose to revisit all of the last-second buzzer beaters, miraculous Hail Mary passes, and hat tricks of my Peace Corps existence (metaphorically speaking).
It's 7 a.m. on Sunday #1 in Micronesia, and I'm proud/excited to put my best foot forward for church. After looking carefully through my extensive (haha) wardrobe, I decide to wear my one and only dress. (Or "The Habit," as I so fondly call it.) As I step out of the room and into the kitchen, my older sister, Sinoreen, looks at me at curiously.
"Do you have a skirt?," she asks.
"Yes," I answer, perplexed.
"Go put it on."
I silently return her quizzical expression.
"Only old women wear dresses to church," she explains.
I come back out in a button-down and skirt. She gives me a different skirt. Still not satisfied with my outfit, she asks if she can see my clothes and choose my outfit for me. She selects one of my t-shirts and hands it to me. I silently sigh...nice one, Megan...and hope that maybe someday I will be able to dress myself for church.
The following Sunday, my friend Tori's host dad invites me to join them for a trip to Nan Madol, these ancient ruins located in Temwen (an area about 25 minutes drive away for us). As when I first started at Duke, it's exciting and strange to be riding in a vehicle again--I'm moving so fast--and it's not every day you get to ride in a vehicle with a bobblehead chihuhua on the dash. It's beautifully clear and sunny, one of those idyllic days that just makes you thrilled to be alive.
On our way out, we drive over a long causeway with ocean off to either side, brilliant turquoise as far as the eye can see. We then wend our way through thick foresty terrain until we get to the path to Nan Madol. As we begin to walk, the forest is so thick in some places that it nearly blocks out all of the sunlight above. Then we will suddenly come to a clearing with a bridge through a mangrove swamp/ocean type area. The bridge promises adventure in several senses: 1) Nan Madol ahead! 2) The Survivor-style challenge/IQ test of crossing a bridge composed solely of two logs and (sometimes hole-ridden) plywood. Luckily, we managed our river crossings okay (even without caulking the wagon and floating it across).
Then, as we rounded a corner in the path, across the way appears Nan Madol. I can't really fathom how to describe it other than obscenely cool ruins. These stones have stood forever, and they structure is incredibly well-preserved. It has to be about fifty feet long (at least--this is English major guesstimation after all) and fifteen feet tall. As you walk in, you feel like you're walking into a temple. It's no wonder the Micronesians consider this place sacred.
After walking around inside, the structure strikes me as amazingly large from the outside. It's kind of the anti-put-mirrors-in-your-dining-room-to-make-it-seem-huge; rather, Nan Madol feels intimate on the inside and looks like a fortress from the exterior. We eat lunch outside, overlooking the ocean and soaking in the rays.
As I look out at the sea, I note, not 800 yards away from me, the Idyllic Island. This is literally the sort of island that postcard photographers have wet dreams about. Turquoise water laps up on a perfect white sand beach. As you get further from the shore, the water melts into this deep jewel-blue tone. A large stand of stately palms cover the island, swaying gently in the breeze. It's at moments like this that I feel like the luckiest girl on earth.
Well, I'm being paged to meet my new host family, so I've got to leave you here. If you'd like to write me, my new address here on Kosrae is:
Megan McCrea, PCV
Peace Corps/Kosrae
P.O. Box 98
Tofol, Kosrae FSM 96944
Take care.
Friday, September 21, 2007
The bucket shower as symbolic of my entire existence (or When In Madelonihmw...)
Since all of those who know me should, by now, be well aware that my love of the extended metaphor will, eventually, be my downfall, here goes.
On that warm September night sixteen short days ago, as I was walking, running, losing my clothes, and, finally, diving face first into the Pacific Ocean, I simply couldn't help but (mentally) pull back from the moment and watch myself from above, almost like someone watching a character in a film. As I analyzed, it occurred to me that diving straight into the waves was rather neatly symbolic of my willingness to leave behind everything familiar and comfortable to me in exchange for life in a developing nation for 27 months with the Peace Corps.
I patted myself on the back psychologically, proud that I had taken my oceanic plunge that day in DIA as I had hugged my parents goodbye, turned my back on all I knew and loved, and turned to face several ambivalent security screeners (well, and Micronesia). However, as I stood in the concrete shower area outside of my new home in Madelonihmw, toy bucket full of cold water poised ominously above the crown of my head, I realized that this was it. This was the moment. As I poured, I dove into the breakers, departing from the safety of the beach on which I had stood and waded so many times before, free from worries about the strength of the undertow or about the aggressiveness of the local sea life.
Thus, as I closed my eyes and drenched myself in cold water, I once again stepped outside of myself and analyzed. I realize now that the proper sequencing of events would go something like this.
Walking down the beach=applying to the Peace Corps
Dipping my toe in to test the temperature=stepping onto the plane in Denver
Wading in up to my ankles=staging in LA
Running back and stripping to my skivvies=flying to Pohnpei
Running back to the water=my first two days in Pohnpei
Diving into the breakers=moving in with my host family and taking my first bucket shower
The metaphor works because, on some level, the two activities are the same. No amount of standing, waiting, and thinking on the beach will prepare you to actually dive into the Pacific, just as no amount of research, reading, and US-based classroom training can fully prepare you for your first bucket shower. Thus as I stood there in my skirt, waiting and wondering and fearing, I knew that the cold water was not a thing I could rationalize or prepare for. So I picked up the bucket, took a deep breath, and plunged in.
All that remains is to see if I can swim...
On that warm September night sixteen short days ago, as I was walking, running, losing my clothes, and, finally, diving face first into the Pacific Ocean, I simply couldn't help but (mentally) pull back from the moment and watch myself from above, almost like someone watching a character in a film. As I analyzed, it occurred to me that diving straight into the waves was rather neatly symbolic of my willingness to leave behind everything familiar and comfortable to me in exchange for life in a developing nation for 27 months with the Peace Corps.
I patted myself on the back psychologically, proud that I had taken my oceanic plunge that day in DIA as I had hugged my parents goodbye, turned my back on all I knew and loved, and turned to face several ambivalent security screeners (well, and Micronesia). However, as I stood in the concrete shower area outside of my new home in Madelonihmw, toy bucket full of cold water poised ominously above the crown of my head, I realized that this was it. This was the moment. As I poured, I dove into the breakers, departing from the safety of the beach on which I had stood and waded so many times before, free from worries about the strength of the undertow or about the aggressiveness of the local sea life.
Thus, as I closed my eyes and drenched myself in cold water, I once again stepped outside of myself and analyzed. I realize now that the proper sequencing of events would go something like this.
Walking down the beach=applying to the Peace Corps
Dipping my toe in to test the temperature=stepping onto the plane in Denver
Wading in up to my ankles=staging in LA
Running back and stripping to my skivvies=flying to Pohnpei
Running back to the water=my first two days in Pohnpei
Diving into the breakers=moving in with my host family and taking my first bucket shower
The metaphor works because, on some level, the two activities are the same. No amount of standing, waiting, and thinking on the beach will prepare you to actually dive into the Pacific, just as no amount of research, reading, and US-based classroom training can fully prepare you for your first bucket shower. Thus as I stood there in my skirt, waiting and wondering and fearing, I knew that the cold water was not a thing I could rationalize or prepare for. So I picked up the bucket, took a deep breath, and plunged in.
All that remains is to see if I can swim...
Saturday, September 8, 2007
A thousand miles begins with...
...intense bonding, running into the Pacific Ocean, a Jimmy Fallon sighting, LAX stress, Honolulu confusion, and the longest single day of travel of my entire life.
Though I haven't read Dante's Divine Comedy (for shame, English major--I know), I feel as if, over the course of the past few days, I have progressed from inferno to paradiso. The whole thing had been a dream, a vague noble enterprise that I was undergoing at some point in the vague future, right up until the moment that I hugged Mom and Dad goodbye for two years at DIA airport security. As I looked back across the barrier, I realized that my vague enterprise had suddenly become a reality: I was on my way to live in Micronesia for twenty-seven months; I'd be living without Starbucks coffee, bubble tea, Ben & Jerry's and all things American that I have known. I sat on the plane, numb with stress, unable to even carry on a simple conversation with my seatmates. (An occurrence which those who know me I'm sure find remarkable.) I arrived in LAX several hours later a bundle of nerves, afraid my baggage would be lost, that I would never meet up with my cousins without a cell phone, etc.)
Once staging started, I realized that I was stuck in Purgatory. Yes, I had left my family and everything that I know and love and understand. No, I was not in Micronesia, helping anyone, spreading love, harmony, and knowledge throughout the world. Inside of the hotel conference room, I was meeting all of these amazing people and having some of the best conversations of my life; however, whenever I walked out in order to use the bathroom or fetch objects from my room, I was walking through an entirely color-coordinated, plush carpeted, mirror-doored Sheraton lobby in the middle of LOS ANGELES. That's right. On my way to 27 months of recycling six t-shirts, taking bucket baths, eating spam in a can, sleeping in a hut, and living in country whose total population is under 200,000, I was staying at the Los Angeles Airport Sheraton. In LA. The City of the Car. The Monument to the Materialistic. (And I could go on...)
The LA chapter ended quite appropriately. We saw a celebrity (Jimmy Fallon, hurrying off to do something important, I'm sure--though I forgot to ask him to sign my passport) and underwent an insane amount of stress (as part of our group, myself included did not have assigned seats--meaning, not, as I had hoped, that we could sit anywhere(!) but that we might not make it to Honolulu if no volunteers gave their seats up. They did.) And thus, it was farewell America, aloha Honolulu.
Oddly, the Honolulu Best Western did not seem aware that we had a reservation, so that was another fun episode (involving a couple of hours sitting in the Honolulu Airport back in limbo). By the time we finally got to our hotel (who had, by this time, found it in their heart to find our reservation), we were all so tired that many of us forewent dinner (after I'm sure eight hours or so of no food at all) and went straight to bed, knowing that our flight in the morning left at 6:55. Translation: we had to meet in the hotel lobby at 3:30 to check out. Did I mention it's 10:30 pm?
Our group leaders order us a 2:45 am wake-up call. I told my roommate, Kathay, that they shouldn't have told us we have a wake-up call, because now we won't be sufficiently paranoid in order to wake up. Then I say, "oh, wait. On the other hand, if they just gave us a surprise 2:45 wake up call, we'd probably shit ourselves." I still practically did. Now I'm sure that in the proper context, Vivaldi is incredibly calming, stimulating, and enjoyable. However, when he came blasting out of the clock radio eight inches from my head at quarter to three, the first words that came to my lips were not "my, how lovely!"
Well, in short, Vivaldi (and the dreaded wake-up call) got us to the airport, and I didn't even have to change my pants. About thirteen hours of flights (and three stops) later, we landed safely in Pohnpei, Micronesia. I was utterly shocked at how many sweat glands I possess. I must have sprouted extras on the plane. Walking out onto the tarmac was something akin to the time I walked off of the plane in Philly at age 9 and proclaimed that I felt as if I were at the bottom of a bathtub and that someone had just pulled out the stopper. The difference lay in the fact that, this time, the person taking a shower in the tub had been taking a shower in boiling water.
We arrived at our hotel, got leid (yes!), and dittered around for another SIX HOURS before we were allowed to go to bed. Though I did not make any astounding observations as during my previous periods of jetlag (e.g. the Bastille=the Eiffel Tower, etc.), my bed did feel really really good last night.
All right, well lunch is almost over and people have been shooting me dirty looks in the telecom office, so I will have to leave you all panting on the edges of your seats as if you're at the end of Harry Potter Book 6 or something (or other things I will not choose to name here).
Hope all's well in the States and, until next time,
YOU STAY CLASSY, AMERICA.
~Megan
c/o Peace Corps
PO Box 9
Kolonia Pohnpei 96941
***this is my address for the next three weeks if you want to send me lovely letters
Though I haven't read Dante's Divine Comedy (for shame, English major--I know), I feel as if, over the course of the past few days, I have progressed from inferno to paradiso. The whole thing had been a dream, a vague noble enterprise that I was undergoing at some point in the vague future, right up until the moment that I hugged Mom and Dad goodbye for two years at DIA airport security. As I looked back across the barrier, I realized that my vague enterprise had suddenly become a reality: I was on my way to live in Micronesia for twenty-seven months; I'd be living without Starbucks coffee, bubble tea, Ben & Jerry's and all things American that I have known. I sat on the plane, numb with stress, unable to even carry on a simple conversation with my seatmates. (An occurrence which those who know me I'm sure find remarkable.) I arrived in LAX several hours later a bundle of nerves, afraid my baggage would be lost, that I would never meet up with my cousins without a cell phone, etc.)
Once staging started, I realized that I was stuck in Purgatory. Yes, I had left my family and everything that I know and love and understand. No, I was not in Micronesia, helping anyone, spreading love, harmony, and knowledge throughout the world. Inside of the hotel conference room, I was meeting all of these amazing people and having some of the best conversations of my life; however, whenever I walked out in order to use the bathroom or fetch objects from my room, I was walking through an entirely color-coordinated, plush carpeted, mirror-doored Sheraton lobby in the middle of LOS ANGELES. That's right. On my way to 27 months of recycling six t-shirts, taking bucket baths, eating spam in a can, sleeping in a hut, and living in country whose total population is under 200,000, I was staying at the Los Angeles Airport Sheraton. In LA. The City of the Car. The Monument to the Materialistic. (And I could go on...)
The LA chapter ended quite appropriately. We saw a celebrity (Jimmy Fallon, hurrying off to do something important, I'm sure--though I forgot to ask him to sign my passport) and underwent an insane amount of stress (as part of our group, myself included did not have assigned seats--meaning, not, as I had hoped, that we could sit anywhere(!) but that we might not make it to Honolulu if no volunteers gave their seats up. They did.) And thus, it was farewell America, aloha Honolulu.
Oddly, the Honolulu Best Western did not seem aware that we had a reservation, so that was another fun episode (involving a couple of hours sitting in the Honolulu Airport back in limbo). By the time we finally got to our hotel (who had, by this time, found it in their heart to find our reservation), we were all so tired that many of us forewent dinner (after I'm sure eight hours or so of no food at all) and went straight to bed, knowing that our flight in the morning left at 6:55. Translation: we had to meet in the hotel lobby at 3:30 to check out. Did I mention it's 10:30 pm?
Our group leaders order us a 2:45 am wake-up call. I told my roommate, Kathay, that they shouldn't have told us we have a wake-up call, because now we won't be sufficiently paranoid in order to wake up. Then I say, "oh, wait. On the other hand, if they just gave us a surprise 2:45 wake up call, we'd probably shit ourselves." I still practically did. Now I'm sure that in the proper context, Vivaldi is incredibly calming, stimulating, and enjoyable. However, when he came blasting out of the clock radio eight inches from my head at quarter to three, the first words that came to my lips were not "my, how lovely!"
Well, in short, Vivaldi (and the dreaded wake-up call) got us to the airport, and I didn't even have to change my pants. About thirteen hours of flights (and three stops) later, we landed safely in Pohnpei, Micronesia. I was utterly shocked at how many sweat glands I possess. I must have sprouted extras on the plane. Walking out onto the tarmac was something akin to the time I walked off of the plane in Philly at age 9 and proclaimed that I felt as if I were at the bottom of a bathtub and that someone had just pulled out the stopper. The difference lay in the fact that, this time, the person taking a shower in the tub had been taking a shower in boiling water.
We arrived at our hotel, got leid (yes!), and dittered around for another SIX HOURS before we were allowed to go to bed. Though I did not make any astounding observations as during my previous periods of jetlag (e.g. the Bastille=the Eiffel Tower, etc.), my bed did feel really really good last night.
All right, well lunch is almost over and people have been shooting me dirty looks in the telecom office, so I will have to leave you all panting on the edges of your seats as if you're at the end of Harry Potter Book 6 or something (or other things I will not choose to name here).
Hope all's well in the States and, until next time,
YOU STAY CLASSY, AMERICA.
~Megan
c/o Peace Corps
PO Box 9
Kolonia Pohnpei 96941
***this is my address for the next three weeks if you want to send me lovely letters
Sunday, August 26, 2007
9 days, 6672 miles
If a certain English professor of mine had been peering inside of my head yesterday evening, there isn't a doubt in my mind that she would have proclaimed my strain of thinking "soooo postmodern," (in that vaguely British, extremely professorial way of hers) before nodding thoughtfully toward the class in order to highlight the brilliance of the comment.
Now before you all run off (metaphorically speaking, of course) and abandon my blog for less pretentious, pseudo-intellectual waters, let me explain what Prof. X would have meant by that. You see, last night I stood on my tiki-torch lit back porch, pointing at several possibly invisible or, at the very least, microscopic, dots in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, nodding my head and repeating for the umpteenth time what I will be doing with the next 27 months of life.
"Unh-hunh, I'll be teaching English and doing community development projects."
"Well, I'll be in LA for two days, and then I'll fly to Honolulu before getting on a crazy-long three-stop flight that lands in Pohnpei."
"No, no. Not the ruined one. p-o-H-N-p-e-i. It's the capital of Micronesia."
"No, I don't know the language yet. I'll learn it in training."
...and so on and so forth and such.
It was during perhaps the fifth of these conversations that the absurdity of the situation dawned upon me, much in the way that the edge of a cliff dawns upon Road Runner. For the first time, I actually realized that in ten days, I would be moving away from everything I know to move to one (though I'm not yet sure which) tiny dot in the middle of the Pacific Ocean SIX THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-TWO MILES AWAY. I realized that I do not know what language I'll be speaking, where I'll be living, what I'll be taking...but the funny thing was, I was okay with that.
The post-modernity (the meta-me, if you will) entered as I wondered about what the Megan McCrea of one year from now would think of my thoughts at that moment. A year from now, so many of these blanks will be filled in, so many questions answered. I will have realized which questions were valid, which were less important...or even if I was asking the right questions at all. The invisible dots will have become living, breathing places; the faces beaming at me out of the pages of travel books will have emerged as real entities with hopes, fears, and problems just like me. I will even have learned what 6,672 miles feels like.
9 days and counting. Let's see what it all means...
Now before you all run off (metaphorically speaking, of course) and abandon my blog for less pretentious, pseudo-intellectual waters, let me explain what Prof. X would have meant by that. You see, last night I stood on my tiki-torch lit back porch, pointing at several possibly invisible or, at the very least, microscopic, dots in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, nodding my head and repeating for the umpteenth time what I will be doing with the next 27 months of life.
"Unh-hunh, I'll be teaching English and doing community development projects."
"Well, I'll be in LA for two days, and then I'll fly to Honolulu before getting on a crazy-long three-stop flight that lands in Pohnpei."
"No, no. Not the ruined one. p-o-H-N-p-e-i. It's the capital of Micronesia."
"No, I don't know the language yet. I'll learn it in training."
...and so on and so forth and such.
It was during perhaps the fifth of these conversations that the absurdity of the situation dawned upon me, much in the way that the edge of a cliff dawns upon Road Runner. For the first time, I actually realized that in ten days, I would be moving away from everything I know to move to one (though I'm not yet sure which) tiny dot in the middle of the Pacific Ocean SIX THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-TWO MILES AWAY. I realized that I do not know what language I'll be speaking, where I'll be living, what I'll be taking...but the funny thing was, I was okay with that.
The post-modernity (the meta-me, if you will) entered as I wondered about what the Megan McCrea of one year from now would think of my thoughts at that moment. A year from now, so many of these blanks will be filled in, so many questions answered. I will have realized which questions were valid, which were less important...or even if I was asking the right questions at all. The invisible dots will have become living, breathing places; the faces beaming at me out of the pages of travel books will have emerged as real entities with hopes, fears, and problems just like me. I will even have learned what 6,672 miles feels like.
9 days and counting. Let's see what it all means...
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