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.

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...

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