from my old travel journal, 3rd week into life in the Peace Corps, a nice moment in time, looking back, and forward.
I sit around the sakau stone, watching the village men pound the pepper root into a mash with circular boulders in a rhythmic, beating mood that both puts me on edge, and settles my mind. Waiting while the mash is strained through the stripped bark of the hibiscus tree, and fills up the bottom half of a coconut shell. Observing while the village chief takes the first sip, with his eyes closed, of course, or else he would go blind. Taking note of the village hierarchy as the cups passes from the lips of one man to another. Not being able to understand the local language, I sit and smile, trying to be cordial, yet attempting to hide the nervousness that bubbles under the pale surface of my skin. Sit, smile, dont make eye contact (this is frowned upon). The cup is passed to me. I close my eyes, and take a strong pull of the muddy, snotty concoction. My lips and mouth go numb. The narcotic effect of the sakau takes hold. Sitting and smiling will work for only so much longer. The chief, who is also my uncle who lives in my compound, has a surprise for me. Though I have no spoken more than a word to him, and my hand gestures have has limited success in conveying complex thoughts, he has chosen to mark this gathering my giving me a title. "Maron Pe Lille," he announces to the silent gathering in his old, gravelly manner. And points at a surprised, startled, and overwhelmed me. The men pat me on the back, and countless more bowls of sakau are consumed well into the darkened night.
I am now a Pohnpein man, with a village title. This is a sign of respect, and a sign that I am ready to take a Pohnpein wife, as the men in the village seem intent on making happen. They cannot seem to fathom that a 26 year old man does not have at least 5 children. That is not the way of things here in Kitti (Kee-Chee). The most rural of rural towns, on the backside of a beautiful, lush, tropical, island, carpeted with the greenest plush rug you have ever seen, that spills over mist-enshrouded mountains, feeding countless waterfalls that tumble into the turquoise sea. It is truly a wonderous place.
I bath in a river that runs past our house with the village children, who splash around with an innocence that you would not think still exists in todays fast paced world. Kids who still play outside all day, who climb coconut trees and hack the ground with machetes for fun. Kids who are all part of my new, extended, wonderful family. It has only been 3 weeks in Royi (pronounced Roy, as in Rogers, as in mmm that would be good right now...)but this place has mesmerized my heart, mind, and senses. The pace of life is so slow that it is almost nonexistant. However, the days are always full. When your mind and senses slow, you can start to appreciate the smaller things that we usually miss.
And there is plenty to admire.
"As his pace slowed down, his heart quieted. He was wholeheartedly immersing himself, and this was his path. He turned around for one last glimpse of the only land and people he knew, and he saw them as distant specks merging with the shadows."
-Thich Nhat Hanh
