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.