Can I join?

In my second year in Pohnpei, I have grown to love language acquisition thus expanding my opportunities at interactions with Pohnpeians in my host family, at school, and all around the island. While formal training hasn't worked out, I pick up phrases and vocabulary from those patient enough to teach me.

I have noticed and enjoyed certain phrases and idioms that don't translate exactly right between English and Pohnpeian. They are small subtleties that can be confusing and entertaining at the same time.

One that has helped me out in my excursions into traditional culture is "I kak ieang." The immature boy inside of me can't help but laugh at the second word "kak" and it's similar pronunciation to a dirty word in English. My students never say "Can I go with you?" or "Can I go swimming with you?" Instead, they ask "Can i join?" (I kak ieang?) and "Can I join swimming" (I kak ieang bambap?)

Last year, I was only able to make it to my host family's home in Kitti a hand full of times. The one hour drive and busy weekend schedules made it seem impossible. I have been much more determined this year and have even resorted to hitchhiking my way out there in the absence of a car.


My visits last year were very simple. My family would insist immediately that I eat immediately upon my arrival. Eating is often viewed as a workout in this culture due to the amount of food consumed, so it was always suggested that I rest or nap while my host brothers and cousins went to do local work. A simple recap would be:
1. Eat
2. Rest
3. Sit in the local house and drink sakau
4. Eat
5. Sleep
My routine didn't stray too far from those things. After a while, I started feeling down right useless. Junior and Raymus would return from the jungle after gathering coconut and sakau covered in mud and sweat as I rested. I made it a priority to try and break down this idea that local work is for locals and rest is for menwai (foreigners)

I did so with the simple aforementioned phrase: "I kak ieang?" Suprisingly, I was answered with a strong "KAK!" (YOU CAN!)

I started waking up at the sound of machetes being sharpened in hopes of yielding my own 4 foot blade during weekend chores. Sure enough, I started venturing into the jungle swinging my machete at anything and everything green. I even cut down some plants I wasn't supposed and was playfully laughed at. Blisters formed here and there and I even nicked myself a few times, but I began to feel like I was finally living in solidarity with my family, the Anthons.

After I started making myself more visible in the community, I would no longer hear calls of "Philip," but rather "Nahnsou en Pohnte." There is still a traditional hierarchy of local kings (nahnmwarkis), chiefs (soumas) and lower titles. My host father, Sother, is never referred to by his Christian name. Instead, everyone bows their heads as they walk onto his land and softly say "Kaselehlie maing, Soulik." He is the chief of our small village, Soun Kroun, and is honored as such.

Late last year, Soulik's mother passed away and was given the traditional three-day long funeral (mehla). During these three days, members of the village honor the deceased and her family by offering fruits of the land: fish, yam, breadfruit, sakau and pig. To say it is an ordeal would be an understatement. The family of the deceased spends countless hours preparing food and drink for anyone who comes to the funeral. Those who attend more than likely spent the last two or three days harvesting and preparing the foods and animals they would bring with them.

During these ceremonies, prayers are read, songs are sung and the community dynamic is strengthened. It was during these days that I was given my title (which is sometimes rare for a foreigner to recieve). The sakau plants that are offered to the chief are then pounded, squeezed and distributed among the Pohnpeians who have the highest titles. I sat idly by listening and witnessing a ceremony like none I have ever seen. A few coconut cups of sakau were passed into my eager hands and I eased into simple conversations with those who knew English. It was then when Soulik stood up and called for "Nahnsou en Pohnte" to come to the front of the local house to receive his official drink of sakau. I was oblivious to what it all meant and thus sat in my respective place, knees folded. It was then that my promise brother, Raymus, elbowed me in the ribs and said, "Philip, that's you!"

My time trimming banana trees and husking coconuts had put some muscle back on my thinning figure, but more importantly, it landed me with a village title. These titles don't really translate to English but they do hold meaning. They are simple rankings; my title literally means "Worker on a Leaf" but it really establishes my rank and where I stay in Kitti.

Early this year, my family stressed how important it was for me to come out during early September for the Kamadipw en Wahu (Celebration of Respect) for the nahnmwarki of Kitti. I wasn't exactly sure why, but I planned my schedule accordingly. Immediately after my Saturday Catechism class, I drove like a madman through the winding roads of Pohnpei to see what all of the hype was about. I think I was a still a mile away from the Kamadipw when I heard primal screams and local music flooding the air. My neighbor flagged me down and walked me up to a scene I only thought I would see on a late night National Geographic program. The celebration was in full swing. Inside a 40' by 15' local house, high titled Pohnpeians were sitting peacefully adorned with mwarmwars (flower headdress). At the front of the nahs, choas ensued. Micronesians are a traditionally reserved and pacific people, but that was the not the case that day.

The purpose of this ritual is similar to the Pohnpeian funeral. It is a presentation of the year's harvest to the king of the entire municipality. Elaborate presentations of slaughtered pigs and 200 lb. yam are hoisted on sore shoulders and offered as a sign of respect and pride. It is a time to celebrate the resilient preservation of culture that lives on in a Westernized island. I caught the bug and turned to Raymus once again with a simple "I kak ieang?" He grinned and said, "Take off your shirt and follow me."

Any man who enters the nahs (local house) must remove his shirt. It goes without saying that my milky skin stood out among the earth-toned complexion of the locals surrounding me. I had made it just in time for the crucial sakau presentation. Each village, including Soun Kroun," had a table-sized basalt rock ready. In the chaos, someone shoved a pounding stone in my hand and nodded in approval at my presence around the rock. A man at the front of the nahs calmed the music and yelling to near silence and then exclaimed "SUKASUK!" (POUND!)

I was startled as arms began to slam their stones onto the sakau root awaiting their blows. My intimidation caused a brief hesitation before I started hitting my own side of the plant. It was nothing less than a display of pure manhood. After the root is sufficiently "suk"ed, there is an orchestra of rocks pounding the bare basalt rock in rhythmic patterns. It reminded of the sometimes dissonant scores by the Chronos Quartet (featured in Darren Arronofsky's Requiem for a Dream) The pounding rocks were like short, violent strikes of a bow on the violin strings over and over and over. My village didn't seem to mind the offbeat pattern I was adding to our rock. The tinging ceased and the local keyboard and music from Daniel rocked the house once again. After a few sips of sakau, I found my dancing and found myself swaying and moving my arms to synthesized melody. My family said I was a great dancer, but I'll let you be the judge (check out the skinny white guy at 3:18 in the video below)



The air smelled of bitter pounded earth and the sweat of the exhausted pounders. Words were not spoken because they were inaudible in the shadow of the Peavey speakers. It was dancing in its most raw form - an expression of utter joy and ecstasy. And man did the Pohnpeians love to see this skinny white boy following suit. My host dad pulled me aside and said slowly, "You represented me and our village with your dancing, and you did well." It was a pat on the back that doesn't happen often in my ministry here.

Only two weeks later, I was at another Kamadipw but on a much smaller scale. Each village has to offer a Kamadipw en Kousapw (Celebration of the Village) to their village chief, which happens to be my host dad, in the center of the photo below.


This time I would know almost everyone in the nahs and feel as though I were in my own neighborhood party. It was then when things got a little hairy.

The first order of business if you are preparing an offering for the chief is the pig. Pohnpeians empty their pockets for weekly pig feed to raise anywhere from 1-15 pigs at their household. It is a necessity for any well-respected male on this island. My host brother Junior told me that I would join him in offering a 300 lb. pig to Soulik that morning. He didn't tell me that I would be the butcher as well.

You may feel like you are flipping through a chapter of Golding's Lord of the Flies for the next bit. Pigs are tied to long tree trunks and carried on the shoulders of workers to the nahs were it is killed and prepared. The first step is burning the hair off the skin in the local stove known as an "uhmw." Scorching hot rocks are spread to a flat layer and pigs are dragged across the surface. Nose plugs are advisable. I can safely say that when I arrived in Pohnpei over a year ago, I didn't have the gusto to do what I did next.

My host brother grabbed the legs of the recently seared pig and spread them to expose its belly. I grabbed my machete and exposed of the pig's lukewarm innards. (NOTE: Sorry for the details) I straightened my back with crimson red covering my forearms and noticed the horrified look of some brand new Peace Corps volunteers. They cupped their hands over their mouths at the sight of the rather savage display. They asked with some serious emphasis, "How long have you been here?"


The pigs were then cooked through and the offering could begin. Junior and I and two of my neighbors hoisted the swine onto our shoulders and walked toward the awaiting crowd. As a sign of accomplishment, the men shout a high-pitched "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" as they rush the pig to the chief, resting calmly with his legs crossed one over the other. When I let my gutteral screech loose, mouths dropped and eyes widened. Here I was, in it.


My close friend Regson handed me a machete as the pigs were placed on the cold concrete of the nahs. The pigs are sliced into 14 specific pieces that the chief then offers to his family and village. I have never manhandled livestock before, and I don't intend to ever again.


Regson looked over and smiled saying, "Man, you're turning into one of us. Now we just need to find you a wife." I wasn't sure about his first point, but I was definitely in agreement with his second.

It has become an ongoing joke in my village that I need to find a local wife. A woman receives a title based on her husbands, so my future wife will become "Nahnammen en Pohnte."

Without fail, I can always hear from a distance. "Nahnsou! Where is Nahnammen? My answer never changes or fails to earn a chuckle: "I don't know, but I think I'll find her today."

My time has changed from mundane naps to becoming a solid part of my village of Soun Kroun. I feel as though I am stretching myself more than I have ever done, and I am earning a perspective that is unattainable in the American bubble that surrounds my permanent residence in Kolonia. It is a strange thing that you have to seek out the real Pohnpei when your plane lands on this tiny isle. It won't find you. A simple "I kak ieang?" may be all it takes.

Same country, different island altogether

As the stresses of graduation began to ease in late May, I started mentally preparing for the first time I would leave my humble island in one year. My island fever was quickly relieved as we flew over the blues of the lagoon about one hour to Truk International Airport. One might guess that the proximity of these islands would result in similar languages and cultures between Pohnpei and Chuuk. During my time on Pohnpei, I had heard that this wasn't the case. I heard horror stories of Filipino darts, drunkenness and THE ROAD. I finally got to draw my own conclusions on my neighboring island.

The summer started with the annual Re-Orientation/Dis-Orientation for all volunteers in Micronesia. Some old and new faces greeted us through the glass wall at the airport. We took a bus ride through "downtown" Weno and I realized that I was exactly where I was one year ago ... a brand new island with brand new language, culture, and people.

The drive to Saramen Chuuk Academy took longer than expected due to the never ending mudslide we had to drive through. When people ask about the road in Chuuk, the clever response is always, "What road?" It was an eternal pothole around the entire island.

Re-O/Dis-O is a bittersweet rejuvenation for the mind, body and soul. It is a time for processing, a time to recharge and a time for goodbyes. We spent a week on the picturesque island of Pisar close to the edge of the Chuuk lagoon. This island, no larger than a football pitch, is surreal. The name of the island translates to "changing sand" because it is forever changing. Each time you visit Pisar, there are new nooks and crannies as well as sand bars that seemed to have disappeared into the blues of the Pacific. This idea of transformation fit the bill for what we attempted to do inside ourselves throughout the week.

I ate well, slept well and was finally able to understand the issues that had been fluttering around in my mind throughout the year. The main one was simple - What is the role of a JV in Micronesia? I couldn't find where the line was drawn for what JVs could or should do in the challenging situations that arose at my work site. Are we expected to whistle blowers or simply stick to our classrooms and lead by example? As I sat facing a magenta sunset over Tonowas island, the answer that I discovered was that it would take more time to fully understand; that I am here to observe and learn and take every lesson I can from these islands. The time for judgment and action was not then and may never be. Two years seemed like a large window of opportunity to effect change on these islands. I'm was starting to feel like it wasn't large enough.


The highlights of the trip came in casual conversation. Stories were shared of embarrassing cross-cultural moments, classroom slip-ups, the good, the bad and the ugly. It was in discussing the ugly that we were able to recognize the beautiful in our work here.


Late in the week, I sat down on a narrow porch for the last time with my community: Jo, Sam, and Luke. There were so many things to say to each other and so many ways to say it. I was and am still thankful for Jo's compassion and generosity, Samantha's endurance and sisterly love, and Luke's wisdom and support. It is humbling and a bit strange to hear what roles you played for each community mate. Later came celebratory cigars and reminiscing under a star-filled sky as we all wondered "What's next?"


For me, next was a 3-month stint as an eighth and seventh-grade summer school teacher at St. Cecilia school on the main island of Chuuk, Weno. Each and every morning, I drove dozens of kids from our apartment up to the school with Caroline riding shotgun. My first month was one of the hardest I had in Micronesia. The education system was hurting in Chuuk, and St. Cecilia was feeling the pain as well. The physical structure and daily operations at the school were distressed and I wanted to do my best to leave it better than I had found it. One thing that I became known for at Pohnpei Catholic School was discipline. Luckily, I had packed that in my carry-on and brought it to St. Cecilia. Caroline and I arranged morning assembly, created the schedule and tried to bring order to the students who just couldn't stay in their seats.

During the first week, we were without a principal and operating as best as we could when we were visited by 25 students from the College of Micronesia. They had arranged to sit in on our classes and learn teaching techniques, but no one at school had any knowledge of the arrangements. My initial thoughts were to cancel and move on with the day. And then I realized that a great opportunity had just been served on a silver platter. I had spent the last week complaining about how hard it was to improve the education system in Micronesia and now I had 25 eager Chuukese students who wanted my help. It was a wonderful feeling to work with rather than for these local teachers for the two weeks that they joined us.


We reviewed lesson planning techniques, classroom management and assessment strategies. One student gave a speech at a closing party about his time working with the staff and students that I will never forget. Joyful was his name and he shared what a powerful experience it was to receive a mwaramar (flower necklace) from his first students. He was deeply touched and that was evident in his speech.

From their, the days became very scheduled. We passed the lagoon to the West in the morning and gazed at it from the East in the afternoon. I fell in love with my students and the way they pronounced my name.
"Good morning Mr. Pinip!"
"How are you Mr. Pinip?"
"Mr. Pinip, I know the answer!"
(There is no l for Chuukese inside the lagoon, so it sounds more like an n.)

My most meaningful experiences happened on other small islands inside the lagoon - Eot and Udot. I was able to see the pure generosity and care of the Chuukese families that welcomed us to their islands and their homes. The dusty roads and dangerous nights of Weno just didn't compare to the utopia that seemed to exist on these even tinier islands.

One of the staple foods in Micronesia and especially Chuuk is breadfruit. They even bury it underground to preserve it when it's not in season. They prepare it very differently from the breadfruit I had eaten in Pohnpei. In Chuuk, they pounded it into loaves known as kon. This pounding of breadfruit is traditionally men's work and a very important process for their culture.

The first step is harvesting the breadfruit. I felt like I was in a tropical Frogger game as I dodged back and forth to avoid the falling green edibles. Our leaders who called themselves "Rambo" and "Jet Li" were entertaining and warm with their back and forth antics. They even taught Tyler, Caroline and I how to pound the breadfruit after it was skinned and cooked at very high temperatures.



It was the most tiring work I have done on the islands, and that includes managing a classroom full of eighth graders. Just across a small pass from Udot is a tiny island known as Eot. It was there that I got to try my hand at spear fishing with Peace Corps John (Diehl) a few weekends later.

Other weekends, our community stayed in the dark nights of Weno reading books by candlelight or annoying each other with ridiculous questions.

After my adventures with breadfruit and spears, I realized that my place was in front of a chalkboard. And I was beginning to miss my chalkboard in the brick building of Pohnpei Catholic School. It was the first time I felt like PNI was home and that I couldn't wait to get back to my life, friends and new community there. I whispered a sincere "kinisou chapur" (thank you very much) through the Plexiglas window as the Continental plane lifted off the disappearing runway. I left confused by the negative sentiments some people have for Chuuk. It has its problems just like the other islands in the Pacific but it has a radiance that overpowers its struggles. The simple beauty in the Chuukese men, women and children I met and the warmth I felt from my coworkers and temporary families made it hard to leave. I was still in the same country but it felt like a different island altogether.