A Sleeping Lady's Arm

      My internal alarm has been working pretty great lately, and it didn't fail me when it woke me at 6:02. From then until seven, when Pa Cooper arrived, I was preparing myself and my bag for the adventure ahead.

      After a quick prayer, we took the shortcut out to the construction farm road. This shortcut goes out behind my apartment, crossing through two growing fences. The locals will cut a branch off of almost any tree, stick it in the ground, and eventually the branch grows where it was shoved in the ground. How great is that.

      Taking a right at the farm road, a left at the paved, a right just before the elementary school, and a right up a driveway, we soon found our trail. The trail was overgrown so much in certain parts, that we were, I'm sure, not following it perfectly for much of the way until we reached the ridge. Soon after beginning, Pa Cooper cut a nice straight tree and then shoved it in the ground. That looks like a great walking stick, but he must be marking the trail somehow, I thought to myself. After that one he cut another, and kept it. We made it to the first muddy part of our adventure, always heading up, and Pa Cooper asked where my hiking stick was. “Ah, so it was for me!” I told him my lame excuse for not grabbing it, and he handed me his. Looking back over it all, as he said at that time, he didn't really need his.

      We reached the first part of the ridge an hour after starting, 8:00, and I received my first great view. The closer we came to the ridge the higher the angle of incline, until it was a near 90-degree incline. If it were a rocky mountain, it would have been mightily nerve racking. However, it is a muddy, shrubbery-covered mountain, and I was going up a path that had plenty of literal, and therefore, mental padding along it's narrow sides.

“Don't look back, Travis, until you reach a safe standing place,”

      was what I sang to myself then, and many times after. Again, this was not too bad, mostly because of the availability of things to hold onto. Other times, such as the steep places, not part of the ridge itself, involved plenty of false holds, like those dead vines, roots, and trees that I mentioned in a previous blog. Don't be confused, though: Tofol to Okat was a piece of cake in comparison. On that trip we were generally using only our feet. On this trip I remember thinking to myself, more than once, that I could use another hand. Even with that, due to the false holds and sometimes overly-muddy conditions, I would have slipped if I wasn't so sure-footed. I must give much of the credit to that hiking stick, though. I don't think anyone– and I hadn't before– has truly used a hiking stick for it's full potential until they've done a hike like that.

      I said before, in the aforementioned blog, that we hiked along a ridge that didn't have much play room on either side. A great amount of the following hour and forty minutes was, until we reached our destination, very similar to that. Sometimes it would widen out, sometimes get really small, other times we would be going on a rounder part, but in general there was always something to grab on the way down (if it was so needed). It was also not wet like that last trip. Of course, wet is a relative term, because the dirt is never fully dry here, not like back home. As well, I think that it is more clay-based, so that it sticks together better, unlike the dirt that used to get in my eyes if someone was climbing above me.

      One thing that I haven't mentioned, that is really rampant in the mountains, is the ferns. They are everywhere and with so many different kinds, some being tree-sized. At one point, where the ridge opened to the air and turned, it was covered by smaller ferns, a different kind than what grows among the trees. The ferns themselves were what made up the ground, if that's what you could call it, that we walked on for about forty feet. It was really spongy, and … it's actually hard to explain. It wasn't like a wet sponge, but a dry one. The ridge was turning to the left, and our trail followed it left slowly, until we had to slide down this sponge about ten feet. It was as if it was all one big fern covering that part of the ridge.

      We continued on, most of the time under the cover of trees along the ridge. We encountered, and walked through, five banyan trees, with me staring in wide-eyed wonder at each one. At our third banyan tree we took our first break. I had brought some food along, and we enjoyed a couple tangerines that I had picked on Friday. Up to this point I had been vaguely aware that sweat was dripping from my nose at least every few minutes. Both my shirt and shorts were recognizably soaked through with sweat. In fact, the bottom half of my shorts had that sheen that board shorts get after being out of the water for a couple of minutes. I had a good laugh about that, since I have never sweated quite like that.

      Soon after this stop we did some more mountain climbing, and reached the caves of unimaginable sincerity and beauty. No, sorry, that was a lie. But they were quite awesome. At the time of the Japanese hold of the island during WWII, the Japanese built a small network of tunnels in different mountains to keep watch on the beaches around the island. They are made out of knobby-looking concrete and tall enough to walk comfortably inside of. The network that I was able to see had tunnels going both up and down in elevation. One tunnel, the only one I didn't explore because I couldn't see (I lamely forgot my flashlight), had stairs in it, and we passed the entrance to that about twenty or so feet up.

      One thing that was seen before this point, and further on up until we reached the first peak, was some very interesting trees. I had forgotten my walking stick after stopping for a picture, and caught up to find Pa Cooper sitting and eating something. All around were perfectly straight trees, not showing any branches until higher up the trunk. All along their trunk– not like a blanket, but spaced out, up and around–were small, fire-engine red fruits. They were perfectly round with a large, round seed inside (two seeds with the bigger ones) and grew in small bunches, starting at one and then on up to at least bunches of ten. It was so strange picking fruit off a tree trunk as if you were simply picking cherries. I grabbed some once I was through with my moment of awe, and they tasted similar to one of the local apples, giving a cottonmouth feeling, slightly sweet, but mostly good for their water content.

“Wow, what are you doing? That is pigeon food. Did you ask the pigeons?”

      “... No, but I didn't hear you ask,” I responded. He proceeded to jokingly make some bird sounds. Every time after I made sure to thank the pigeons.

      As the elevation increased, the bigger trees decreased and the smaller bushes and ferns took their place, covering much of the ground except the worn trail. We had to squat-walk multiple times to get under various tree parts in the way, both living and dead (roots, branches, trunks); three times we walked across a root or fallen tree to cross a dip in the path. Again, as we came to the first peak, we were climbing closer to ninety than forty-five and the view became better and better. When on top of that, the path changed quickly to beaten-down ferns and there was even regular grass. We discovered, on the way back, the old cellphone antenna that someone had put up. Nature had said no to that idea, and it was now, literally, part of the path.

      We walked down from this peak towards the second into, what looks like from down here, a small bowl. This was a thinner part of the ridge, and I am not sure how to emphasize how much it was completely covered by ferns. Possibly, it would help to say that if it weren't for Pa Cooper, I wouldn't have been able to tell where to walk exactly. It would have been a bad idea to fall here, but, because of the fern network of support, I would have been able to catch myself quite easily. I planted my stick at the beginning of the bowl so that it wouldn't hinder me for the last bit– all hands and feet.

      When we came to the second peak, we walked down to the right of it, literally walking next to the side of the peak, with our feet level on the ferns. I was decently nervous because the ferns were the path, and I'm not used to trusting plants like that when I'm looking down on the world. It works, though, because they grow so thickly. We finished our ascension by climbing our last, padded, near-vertical path.

      We emerged, around 9:40, almost as if coming out of a porthole or trapdoor. The view was amazing, all the way up there at 1946 ft. It was blessedly overcast, with the sun shining on the important parts down the mountain, and it passing over us now and then. We stayed up there for about thirty minutes, eating tangerines, a cucumber, Japanese onion rings, rice triangles, and usr pie, and trying to spy on people with my small pair of binoculars. The tide was low, which allowed an even better view of the surrounding reef from the edge of Tofol all the way over to Walung. I haven't summited many mountains in my time, so I tried my best to soak all of this in– except the sun– as much as I possibly could.

      There was a metal pole stuck in the ground– Who in their right mind would go through the effort to carry that up there?– with an old, weather-worn sheet tied to it. I didn't recognize it as such until Pa Cooper said it, for it was gray-white and shredded. He took it down, tore a rectangular section, and made it look like a flag again. With that finished, we headed down.

      Under normal hiking circumstances, or what I am accustomed to, hiking down is easier. In this case, it is not all that much easier. The padded parts that I mentioned on the way up were probably the easiest on the way down, because, for the most part, we actually slid down those on our backsides. The rest of the steep, muddier parts were not so easy, though. Obviously, the hands can't assist as much when one is facing away. Also, the slippery parts become more slippery, because you are contacting them with greater force than on the way up. Unless, of course, your muscles are working great for you, and you are better able to control how much force you are stepping with. Normally, I do great with that. Unfortunately, forgetting to eat breakfast– literally in my excitement to start– was finally catching up to me. Couple that with the fact that we summited more than two hours faster than previous trips of his, my legs were starting to suffer from fatigue.

      I'd be lying to you if I said that the mentioning of an upcoming stream, that we were taking a different route back, was a huge motivating force. The further we went, the more fatigued my legs became. My right leg was taking more of the heat– I was favoring it because of the left-toe issue. I was also not wanting to stop until the stream, because I knew that my legs might decide to turn in early; I wanted to get there as soon as I could. In fact, to affirm that belief, at some point I started to recognize my right leg shaking whenever I paused for the briefest of seconds. In the least, I knew that my body really needed that water.

      At some point I recall telling Pa Cooper, “My head is on fire right now,” because whenever I tilted my head towards my chest I would notice an extreme heat in my head. I also know that I was sweating plenty again.

      “What do you mean?”

      “I am so hot right now, that if the temperature randomly became very cold, I would create enough steam to cover this mountain,” and we had a good chuckle. I am still convinced that I could have filled at least a room with the steam, though.

      Finally, I started to hear the sweet sound of a bubbling brook, and Pa Cooper and I reached the tiny little thing. He told me that it was a small shoot-off from the main Mutunte River, which was over the hill beside us– we weren't to the paradise just yet. No matter, after he took a short gulp from the stream and washed his face, I went down on my hand and knees. Let me be the first to tell you that there is nothing like putting your face full in a stream, when you are so fatigued that your legs are shaking, and taking airless gulps of water from it. Absolutely nothing. Normally, whenever your face is fully submerged in water, you aren't in water that is drinkable.

      One of my favorite places to hike in Oregon is around Clear Lake, about forty minutes from Sisters; I have hiked it every summer since 2007. One of the main reasons that I hike it is because it is spring fed, and I drink out of it at a part where water is simply coming out of the rocks. The difference here is that it is freezing cold and rushing quickly.

      Back to the brook here in Kosrae, it was running at a calm pace, at a very calm temperature. I suppose you could say that it was the perfect, soothing combination: cooling my face while at the same time quenching my thirst as if I was drinking calmly out of a cup.

      This was just a short respite, and I had to get to the true resting spot, so I stood back up and continued behind Pa Cooper. Not too long after, we discovered that we were actually following a wild pig trail, and the bushes closed in on us near the top. It was here on this slope that I started talking to myself. My legs were having a true problem complying with my commands, not to mention the lack of a human-made path. It came to the point where the stick was no longer helping me, but hindering me on this incline. For the last stretch, I'd shove it in the ground, reach up with both hands, stick them into the ground and pull myself up, not using my legs nearly as much, and grab the stick. And repeat. I really enjoyed climbing in this manner, using my hands and all. I can't deny that I felt pathetic, though, the way my legs were seizing up. “Come on, seriously,” “This is stupid,” and, “Dadgummit,” were a few of the things I said angrily at myself.

      Once we reached the top, we were pushing through bushes for a while, similar to if I was following a deer or rabbit trail at home. From this point on, not many things registered except for where I was and the path ahead. Due to this, I believe this is also when I acquired most of the fifty cuts or scrapes along my hands, arms, legs, and ankles. When I was asked if I wanted to follow the path along the ridge or cut down, I chose the faster option. There was a lot of stumbling here and very much slowing down on my part– in fact, I know I deviated multiple times from Pa Cooper's path because I was so far behind. Thankfully, there was another, even smaller stream to follow down. The sound of the river was getting louder, and just before I reached the bottom of the hill (maybe a hill in comparison to Mutunte), as I put my left hand back to support myself, I felt two, very sharp pains in my hand.

      Very early on, and in my previous hike, I had noticed that very large black or gold ants help decompose dead branches of certain trees. Simply by looking at these ants, I knew that I didn't want to come in contact with them. Sure enough, I had put my hand right into one of those branches, and two ants had taken the liberty to bite my hand. The pain was indeed very sharp, and lasted for the next thirty minutes. I call it the Kosraen Bee Sting.

      I stumbled to the river, dropped my bag, and practically fell into the water. Again, I experienced the wonderfully refreshing taste of the Mutunte River, and washed off what I could that I'd collected on the trip: sweat, plant seedlings in my leg hair, dirt everywhere visible including my face, and sweat. There was an orange tree right along the bank, so Pa Cooper nabbed some of those with a handy piece of bamboo. We rested there for what seemed like a very quick thirty minutes, and then headed back on our merry way. (We took the same beaten trail we used coming back from the Mutunte Falls two weeks prior).

      That was by far the most exciting and exhilarating hike that I have ever participated in. I believe it is easy to see that by how much I've written about a morning adventure (we finished around one). I must say that it can be bad to become too excited about something. Obviously, I regret not eating breakfast, but that certainly made the walking more... challenging. However, it did not help in any way that I forgot the battery for my main camera in its wall charger. Thankfully, I have a backup camera, even if it doesn't take as good quality stills as the other– its video quality is unchallenged, though. It was due to this mishap that I forgot to capture the most important picture: the one of Pa Cooper and myself overlooking Kosrae.

      I received a sunburn from that little bit of overcast exposure I experienced at the top (as much as I hoped against it), my left ankle and recently-harmed toe became temporarily worse, the right-middle toenail is ready to be pulled off, and my whole body is sore. Though, I do really love that muscle soreness. I can't forget all those scrapes, either. These last two are things that make me feel truly alive, however strange that may seem. I love being out there so much, and I don't get to experience that much anymore. One of the conversations that Pa Cooper and I had was about his dream to go live up in the mountains, away from everything, quietly living off of the land, farming– and that's it. That sounds familiar. Perhaps he and I will go hiking one day and disappear.

"S" is for

      I've mentioned before that I play basketball on Sundays with the locals and Filipinos. I don't play every Sunday, usually because I am working in the classroom. This past Sunday I played. It's a funny irony that a tall white guy here is assumed to be good at basketball. Similar to in the states, that a tall African American may be assumed to be a good basketball player. The Filipinos have this automatic belief and they've actually taken to calling me “Import.” “We have the Import.” I've heard that I can play good defense, but that magnetism that happens between the ball and the hoop just doesn't work for me. Of the three games that I played last Sunday, only one shot was successful– and I must say that it was a perfect swish.

      Due to my height, I am put in center, which means that I get to participate in the jump at the start of the game. I'll concede that it makes me feel good when I win most of those jumps. It was at the start of my fourth game that, when gravity pulled me back down, I felt my left, second toe get stubbed. You know that feeling when you forget how to walk and you stub your toe on a rock, or other foreign object? The only difference is that it was more thorough. As well, when my foot was flat on the ground, the middle knuckle of the toe, instead of the pad, was touching the sole of my shoe.

      I knew this was the wrong feeling, so I carefully walked over to the side. Kneeling down, I tried to feel the problem through my shoe.

      “Something is wrong,” I said to Pa Cooper.

“Do you need to get some icecream over there?” he replied, pointing away.

      People say things like that over here. I remember Pa Rol saying at a recent basketball game, to one of his players that missed horribly, “Kom masrinsral?” which means, “Are you hungry?” Anyway.

      “No seriously, something is wrong with my toe.”

      He then made a motion telling me to step on my toe with the other foot, and pull out.

      “What?? No way.”

      I took my shoe off, and saw something quite familiar: an S. In highschool, I had a similar stubbing in football with my right, middle finger, in which it was dislocated in the shape of an S. To draw it clearly: the second bone went under the first knuckle (counting from the hand), this caused a pulling of the tendons connected to the last knuckle, which made a V, between the second and third bone, opening down.

      The finger injury thankfully pinched a nerve, but my mom had to get off work and take me to the hospital for that one. This toe injury wasn't actually that painful, sort of dull, but mostly the fact that my foot was trying to spell something was what “caused” me pain. Everyone crowded around, but they weren't seeing something wrong, they just figured something happened to my foot. Two Filipinos made an effort to help me to a seat at the local house, but I could tell they didn't see it. “No, look at my toe.”

      “Oh, [swear word],” was said by one of them when they finally recognized the problem. Pa Cooper sat down and started carefully feeling it. He made me to sit down. He was feeling my toe, and I knew what was coming, so I did the reflexive look-away. I felt pulling, and resistance from my toe, but finally a resounding– both in sound and throughout my foot– pop. I believe that I was again lucky, in that a nerve was pinched, similar to what happened with my finger. Again, like the last time, then the pain became real. I walked carefully to my apartment, grabbed ice and a towel, and walked back. After sitting for a while, still trying to be apart of the fun, I recognized my stench. I went back, took a shower, and have tried to disguise the limp ever since.

      The first two thoughts, and their order, that came in my mind when I realized something was wrong are interesting. First, I wanted my camera so that I could take a picture of what I knew to be something worth remembering. It was away in my apartment, and I don't think I will stop regretting not having it on hand. Second, I really did not want to go to the hospital. Thankfully, people here are resourceful, almost to a fault. I know, too, that Pa Cooper has most likely dealt with his fair share of dislocations, since he has been in the various athletic programs here for so long.

      My toe was a pretty purple for most of this week, and is still rather swollen, but it becomes much better each day. It felt great when I swam around in the Marina at the picnic on Monday; it gave my toe a much needed weightlessness. Unfortunately– maybe for my toe, but not really– I plan on hiking Mt. Mutunte tomorrow. (I can actually credit this accident to my hiking in wet places, which has caused my soles to start coming unglued). My time here is running low, and I still have certain goals to achieve (i.e. hiking said mountain and Mt. Finkohl, laughing with my kids as much as possible, swimming under the Mutunte Falls again, snorkeling more, and learning how to make doughnuts, among other things).

     Add another one to the books.

Nga Lungse Orek Mongo

      “Come catch this,” Pa Cooper said to me tonight (4/25) after I set down the plate of fried chicken I had made. He grabbed one of his many long, straight fruit-picking forks and walked over to his papaya tree. Most families– families being one house or many separate related families– have at least one. It is a long branch made from bamboo or hibiscus with another, smaller branch tied to it at an angle near one end, using whatever they can find to fix it: plastic cable, rope twine, or even the local hibiscus bark. They use this fork to get breadfruit, papaya, tangerines, oranges– basically anything off of a tree without needing to climb it. Handy.

      I walked over barefoot because it was just across the way, and to my dismay discovered that there was broken glass around the base. No time to worry about that, just catching the fragile papaya. With a little twist of his wrist the elongated fruit dropped to my hand like a hollow, thick-shelled egg.

      “It's yours.”

      “What?”

      “It's yours.”

      Stutter, stutter, “Thank you!”

      I think these are the best kind of surprises. The surprises that you unknowingly play a part in making. Not to mention, the best gift is an unexpected one.

      I made rice triangles for the second time tonight. I wish I knew the original Japanese name for them, but sadly, I don't. I learned how to make them during my Assistant-Head-Cook summer at camp. I recall being part of a conversation where I was informed that if a guy can't make a good rice triangle then he won't be a good husband. I think that's kind of silly; nonetheless, I believe my rice-triangle-making skill has improved since then.

      Ever since I saw nori at some of the local stores, I have really wanted to make the triangles again. They are simple– given that you can make a triangle out of rice– and I love the taste of seaweed. Yesterday, I finally bought some, walked back, and started two cups of rice in the cooker. After thirty minutes, it popped, and I set up my workstation in front of my computer. (Here, I do everything with music). It was in the midst of my fourth triangle that I realized I was making more than what I need.

      I do this frequently because I like making food. I don't really think about how much I can or can't eat, I just want to make it. Once I realize that it's too much for me, I usually decide that I will eat a little of it and give the rest to some family here. As I've said before, I really enjoy making food for people, especially when it is something that they have never tried. I remember one of the mothers saying earlier in the day how much they liked sushi. So, I decided right then to make a plate of rice triangles for her family. In the center would be a small bowl of Wasabi Soysauce and a smaller bowl of delicious, Japanese fish seasoning. (It has three names in English on it: Urashima, Furikake, and Katsuo Mirin). In my head it looked awesome. When I finished, it looked even better. That's exciting.

      I foiled it and took it down to the store where they are staying. Turns out that they had taken Sensrasra– fellow teacher's nickname, also meaning “penny”– for a check-up to the hospital. So, I waited. While waiting, I had to scare off some hungry people, and I took a nap on Pa Cooper's hammock. During this time, I had doubts about them liking it. This is a normal occurrence, and I just deal in hopes that they will tell me how they feel. This works out pretty well for me here, because I can understand what they say in Kosraen to others about my food. Yuh na paye, allac yuh, wo na paye, or lungse are really delicious, very delicious, really good, or love, respectively. If I hear koluk, dena moule, or dena wo I hear bad, not done, or not good, respectively.

      Larry, Wanda's husband, really loved it, and I think Wanda was simply unsure about it. Various other people tried and liked it, so tonight I made it again for a different family. I heard lungse multiple times, and even made a deal to trade rice triangles for sasimi on Sunday. I'm fine with that.

      In the past three weeks, I have made fried chicken for the Cooper's twice, doughnuts once, a cake for little Sean's first birthday (without eggs and the other cakes were made with mayonnaise), and I made tempura for both the Cooper's and Nellie, the 1^st and 2^nd grade teacher, once. I plan to keep making food for the different families around, and it was comically said that when I leave they are going to be waiting for dinner some night and won't get it. Maybe when I get home I'll make some food for my family; we'll see.

Twelve Cans of Jam

      This quarter my fourth-graders were learning about story writing in English. They learned about the title, characters, setting, and plot. After that they had a couple of assignments where they had to write their own story. We took it one step at a time, creating the story by answering the questions, Where? When? How? Who? How many? Which ones? and so forth. The book guided us through this process and they seemed to be doing pretty well with it. They could have been doing worse, but they were doing as expected, mostly taking too long thinking about each part. I did my best to help them use their imagination to just write what came to mind.

      As expected, their first short stories were generally lacking the plot and the problem. The book's next lesson was about revising the story, so that was helpful. Last quarter we learned dialogue, so I brought this into the picture as well. They rewrote their stories and more were better, but still lacking some. I was okay with that, because, after all, they were just learning about it and I can't expect perfection. After our second writing I let it sit, and continued with our next English lessons. It came up a little later when the whole class (third and fourth) read Mr. Popper's Penguins and did a book report together, because that is essentially how you write the summary of a book. I think this helped them understand what the plot of a story is even better.

      Midterms were this week and not until review started on Tuesday did I come up with the perfect way to study and test them on story writing. For studying, I simply told them to create a story with a title, two characters, a setting (where, when), and a plot (main event, a problem, and how it gets fixed). I didn't get around to checking all of their stories because I was busy with the whole midterm thing, answering questions and such.

      Come Thursday, for their midterm, I wrote on the board:

“Choose one of the titles to write a story about.

Titles: The Dragon That Could Talk OR My Pet Elephant

Characters (three):

Setting:

Plot:”

      I randomly came up with those titles on the fly to help them come up a story, quicker than they previously had. When I was checking the papers Thursday evening, I was completely baffled by what I read: all of the stories far exceeded my expectations, most being very detailed, and some even including dialogue (which I did not expect whatsoever). To say that I was (am) proud of my fourth-graders would be an understatement.

      Anyway, I figured I would type up the stories (from the pictures that I took of them), so here they are. I will admit that I have a favorite story, but I void the shame by saying that it is the most detailed. Of course, some of the sentences, or what transpires sounds strange. An interesting, and great thing is that because I know each individual kid so well, I know exactly what they meant. Meaning, when you read each story, you will miss words that I didn't miss. Isn't that something. (I corrected the spelling but not the grammar).

Michael: The Dragon That Could Talk

      Long ago three men climb the mountain. They saw a cave and they go in the the cave and turn on the flashlight and they saw a Dragon. It a fire-breathing and the Dragon said, “Turn the flashlight off!” and the three boys was scared and Timmy said, “A Dragon that could talk.” The Dragon and the three boys were friend and a Knight come to slay the Dragon and Billy said, “Let us go to the back.” The Dragon and they fly away out to the city and sometime they have trouble and sometime they have fun.

Logan: My Pet Elephant

      Once upon a time there was a Elephant and a man name Logan. In that time 2:35 am the Elephant and Logan walk to this city is Mango City. They walked they saw Kaytan and Kiyus were walking. Kiyus said to Logan, “You are trap. There is a trap there you have to run.” The Elephant cry and cry. Logan said, “Let's run down there,” and the Elephant run and they made it in time.

Prandson: My Pet Elephant

      There once was a girl named Suzy who owned a put elephant. And this elephant's name is Starfy. They lived in a beautiful and large hotel. And one day they went outside and saw the tall man who catches elephants. And the tall man saw the elephant got it with elephant catcher. So the he to the elephant to the zoo. So they went to the zoo and find him and so Suzy took the elephant and take care of him.

Kiyus: The Dragon That Could Talk

      Once upon a time there was a dragon name Billy. Billy live in a cave close to the sea. And there is a family there too. One day Billy went outside his cave and he saw a little boy on the grass. And the boy's name is John. And 3 boys try to kill the boy and the dragon kill them. The End.

Kaytan: My Pet Elephant

      Its about a Elephant and three boy. There name is Billy, John, Max. They meet a Elephant. They saw that he was alone so they brought the Elephant to there house. The Elephant become there friend. The End.

Monalisa: The Dragon That Could Talk

      Once upon a time there was a king and a Queen. And they have a daughter. They're daughter always want to talk to dragon. So her mom and dad was so busy. So they tell her to go play outside. So she went to her friend house to play with her but her friend mom don't want her to play. So she play and play. She saw a dragon cave. She went inside and then she saw the dragon sleeping. So she step on a stick and fell and then the dragon wake up. She stand up and tried to talk to the dragon and the dragon talk. So she ask if the dragon can play with her in the cave. The dragon said, “Yes.” So they play and play. The End.

Andrea: The Dragon That Could Talk

      Once upon a time 3 girl name Sue, Lou Ann, Shara. They have a dragon. They live in a town. One day they where talk to the dragon. The dragon also talk to them. It was so fun for them. One day the dragon was gone. They look for the dragon. The dragon die.

      I am of the mind that every kid is jam-packed full of imagination and creativity; these things cannot be created or destroyed by another. I, as the teacher (mentor figure), can either suppress them or encourage them. I am the can opener by which the jam can be released. To think that I have achieved this to some extent makes me overjoyed.

      Since I know that God has had a big part of my teaching career – which started seven months ago, and is ending soon – I can't ignore the analogy before my eyes. In the same way that every kid is full of imagination and creativity, every kid is also full of good. It can be either suppressed or encouraged, and I hope that I have been that can opener for them this year, teaching and showing God's love where I could.

Tofol to Okat

      I woke up to my second alarm at six-thirty. I can wake up early just fine, but on Sunday my body likes the half rather than the whole for some reason. I rushed to get things done: shower, pack some things, and wolf down a large bowl of instant oatmeal. The only healthy thing about that meal was the handful of dried blueberries and agave nectar. The pastor and I left, picked up Pa Cooper at the end of the road, and headed to Tofol.

      Pa Cooper and I were dropped off next to Pa Robin's house down a gravel road. The first interesting thing of the day was the series of roots from surrounding trees that made up the steps down the steep bank to his house. As far as the average American goes, house is certainly an overstatement. As far as a Kosraen is concerned, it's nothing out of the ordinary. After walking across a makeshift bridge over a small creek is the house. His house is a cluster of open, tin-covered structures (four). On the right and back, his sons, Bob and Joshua (pronounced “So-swa”), sleep under one on an elevated piece of plywood inside a bug net. Veer to the right, him and his wife sleep under a larger house with the sides covered up to waist height. Half of that is also where the dining table is. About two feet from there, towards the creek, is a post with a hood. This post has the electricity meter, one outlet, and a phone jack. Left of the bedroom is another building with cord strung from side to side for hanging clothes out of the rain. Directly across from that is the cook house, where the dishes and stove – from bottom to top: cinder blocks, tin, ash/wood, cinder blocks, a couple rebar, and the pot – reside. I can't forget the hose next to the river, where they wash their dishes and also have a rain catch.

“Kom kang?” (You'll have?)

“Sure.” (I still haven't figured “sure” in Kosraen).

“Kom mongo rice na won boil.” (You'll eat nice and boiled chicken).

      I enjoyed that with some kimchi sauce and soysauce. Once I finished my meal we headed down the road. We stopped not too far away so that Pa Robin could climb and grab some oranges from a cousin's tree. Quickly the road went from used road, to overgrown-used road, to unused road, and finally ended in the bushes. One thing that is evident everywhere on the island is this blanket of leafy vines. They seem only to grow where there is an elevation change, which is more than half the island. Just like everything else they are vivid green, but what really defines them are the large leaves. They are shaped like a spade and as big across as a basketball.

      Don't get your picture all wrong, though, these vines don't grow by themselves on the ground. They grow on top of the shrubs, grass, banana, breadfruit, and coconut trees. They grow up the power lines and cascade down from the big trees along the mountains. It's kind of amazing to look at. Once you get inside the trees (or jungle; I'm not quite sure what you'd call it) and into the untamed mountains, though, it's quite different.

      Firstly, the vines change. They aren't the leafy ones anymore, but the vines without leaves that grow up the trees and across the ground. The younger ones will trip you every ten feet if you're not vigilant, and the bigger ones are coming down from the trees as creepers. Remember the vines that Tarzan swung on? Yeah, I did that (it wasn't from tree to tree, but I'll get there). They aren't everywhere; in fact, some of them are firmly planted in the ground.

      The banana and coconut trees disappear because those are cultivated. Breadfruit trees are here and there. Unfamiliar trees appear that bear fruit which only the birds eat: a large-looking blueberry and an oval-shaped neon orange fruit. Also, a tennis ball sized fruit that evidently used to be mashed up and used for glue. At one point along one of the rivers I also discovered trees bearing nuts. These trees grow perfectly straight, termaphilia (a certainly incorrectly spelled scientific name that Pa Cooper told me), showing no branches until the top of the canopy. Their bark is completely smooth and the roots leave the trunk like walls, the biggest I passed having walls as tall as me. As far as I can tell, these get to be some of the biggest trees on the island. I also learned that they used to be used for the best of canoes. The biggest tree is the banyen, which has multiple, smaller trunks that come together at a main trunk high in the air – and if you have ever read Robinson Crusoe, you may recognize the tree. You can walk through these trunks, and they cover a very large area. These two trees are the most incredible to look upon.

      Once we ascended our first small ridge we took a short break to enjoy our first round of Kosraen-Japanese oranges (a tangerine trunk is grafted to a Kosraen sapling). The peel of the Kosraen orange is very strong, so we used the machete to cut the peel into quarters and go from there. This ridge was coming from the mountain that we headed up next. Right after stopping we saw signs of many wild pigs, but we never ended up running into any. When we finally made it up this mountain we took our second break (I'd guess the elevation at 1000-1500 ft). I forgot to mention that it was quite wet and rainy in the mountains, so there was just enough danger of slipping down the side. Anyway, this mountain, like some of the others, finishes in a point. We sat on this point, had our second round, and if it wasn't for the overgrowth we would have had a great view of Lelu harbor. About an hour had elapsed since beginning.

      We headed down the other side and this turned into a long ridge, where both sides went down at a very unsavory angle. Understand that there is no barren mountain here, all being covered with trees and vines. So, sure, I'd have something to catch myself, but don't forget that it was very wet and slick. More than likely I would have slid down on a combination of my feet and behind until a vine caught me. Many of the smaller trees are also deceiving in that they rot where they are standing – something unexpected happened three times along the way due to these. Not to mention all the roots that show themselves and are slick as well. It was even better when the ridge turned while at the same time descending, pointing the trail (and a probable fall) directly down that large, muddy slippin' slide. Thankfully, I chose the right trees/branches for this (sometimes) three-foot wide ridge to hold on to.

      Once down from this ridge we were walking along a mountainside for a time, and Bob ended up catching a pigeon chick. Over the next hill we had our halfway stop at a small stream. By now we had already walked through some streams and small swampy areas, so my shoes were wet through and through. Since my shins were also muddy from various vines and mud splashes, I casually walked right into the stream, and washed my legs off. Even though everything was damp and cold, I was far from the cold part. Refreshing. We had our final round of oranges and to add to our picnic of sorts, Bob pulled out a loaf of fresh bread from his bag with some butter. Hmm, carbs.

      Now full, we continued our journey, walking along and over other smaller hills. Eventually, it flattened out and we forded (I believe) the same river multiple times, along with various tributaries. Many parts of the riverbed, and whole tributaries, were a squishy, mossy sort of soil, like the whole stream was one big mossy plant. Whether due to the recent raining, or them normally doing this, walking through these small streams' “moss” brought forth orange-ish, muddy water.

      As we progressed along the river, a trail became more developed, and around eleven-thirty we found ourselves at Okat, at the left shoulder of the Sleeping Lady. The river was calm here, no rapids, so perfect for us to rest and wash off our sweat. I took off my bag and went all in. I tried my best to rid my shirt of sweat as well. That was all very nice, however we weren't done yet.

      What we did was hike through the mountains, from Tofol to Tafunsak. Okat is far from the SDA, though, and Okat itself is far from the paved road. We came out on a well-used gravel road, and walked two or three miles to the paved road. This is about the time where I started realizing the condition of my ultra-soggy (or pruned, whichever you prefer) feet, and so did the nerves in them. Once to the paved road we walked three miles to the SDA.

      Arriving there, around one-thirty, I finally took my shoes off and saw that my feet had turned into perfect raisins. I've never had my feet so pruned before, and for the next hour it hurt to walk. All my toes were very sensitive and since then both my middle toe nails have continued towards a darker existence – they will fall off soon. My shoulders were sore for a day, my left heel has scabs all over it, my wristwatch is now a pocket watch, and I proved that you can get a sunburn on a cloudy day (walking from Okat to SDA).

      Was it worth it? No doubt about it. It was all so new. So new, in fact, that I feel I missed parts because my mind was overloaded with the natural, untouched beauty of it all. Next time – we have already planned it – I will carry less, and go with my gut feeling to bring my slippers (flip-flops) for after hiking. I plan to summit as many mountains as I can before I go. This coming Sunday (4/22), Pa Cooper and I have a Plan A and B. If it doesn't rain, Plan A will be in effect, and we will go see the Mutunte Waterfalls. If it rains, Plan B will be in effect, and we will either snorkel or walk along the mangroves (depending on the level of the tide) to the bridge at the airport.

      I just reached my seventh-month marker, and I have a bit over a month left. I'm kicking it into top gear. Nga lungse na paye Kosrae. Fara, kuht som.

Snowy With a Chance of Penguins

      I don't recall exactly when it was, possibly sometime in February, but we were learning about weather patterns in Science. The book also shows weather maps and tells what the different symbols on those mean. I had a random creative thought somewhere among the teaching of this. The thought consisted of me thinking how awesome, and helpful for the kids it would be to have them make their own weather maps. Then, let's make these maps of Kosrae. Finally, how fun would it be for each of them to be a weather man/woman!

      I found a map of Kosrae and drew it on the chalkboard, separating each municipality with a line. Then I proceeded to draw in cold/warm fronts, clouds, sunshine, and even snow, each with the temperature, just as you would see it on TV. Once it was time, I started.

      “Good Morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to your 11 o'clock news (it was). I'm your host, Travis Sandidge, and here is your next-day weather forecast.

      “In Tafunsak, we will be having a warm front coming in from the north. So, it will be sunny with a high of 85ºF (pointing at the picture on the board). Over in Lelu there will be a cold front coming in from the East, so it will be cloudy with a high of 68ºF. Malem is further West; it will be partly cloudy with some sunshine mixed in. High of 75ºF. Go a little more West, and Eastern Utwe will be a bit warmer, sunny, with a high of 79ºF. Looking to the Western side of Utwe, kind of strange, but... it looks like there will be snow with a high of 25ºF (pointing at an awesome snowflake drawing).

      “Thank you for tuning in. I'm your host, Travis Sandidge, and have a good day.”

      At first the kids didn't really know what to do; they seemed a little confused at what was happening. Then, all at once, they realized they were watching the weather channel, and they started clapping, laughing, and saying, “Ohhhh.Yeeeaaaahhh.” At times I had to pause because they were making me laugh. They were making all sorts of sounds, thoroughly enjoying their personal weather forecast. It was heartening (a heart, what?).

      After I finished that, I explained to the kids the requirements of their own weather map and forecast: two fronts, four weather symbols with temperatures, and it had to have some color. There were a few other requirements, such as subbing their name into the beginning and end of my forecast, and having it memorized. Pretty simple. I recorded all of them, and all the kids had a good time with it. One of them even brought in his own pointer stick, causing other students to regret not having their own. This was one of my better – actually, best ideas for class thus far.

      I have always been an avid reader. I read all of the fun, classic elementary books plus some more when I was younger, and I still read when I can. In fact, it's been a very long time since I haven't had a book marker in at least one book somewhere, saving my page. We owe thanks to books more than many people realize or acknowledge. They have helped me in all the well-known ways: vocabulary, knowledge, creativity, imagination, and the small ways that individual books may have influenced me, possibly by altering my ideals or morals for the better. If there is anything that I really want the kids to have when I leave it's a love for reading. I'm not saying a complete introvert, but a respect for and understanding of the good use of books.

      Two or three times since I arrived I had the kids read a book and write a report from it. As far as I can tell, they had never done so before I came along. I did some talking about it, but didn't commit a whole lot of time to explain it. With each successive report I explained more, and their understanding increased. I had plans to do a weekly thing, but I kept forgetting and didn't have time for the explaining. To make it less for me to remember, I decided on a challenge:

      “From now until the end of the quarter, the person who reads the most books will win a prize. They have to be at least fifty pages (earlier, some had used ten-page books) and you have to write a book report on each.”

      I spent a period the next day to explain writing a book report very clearly. I started this challenge, I believe, two Thursdays before the end of third quarter. Over the weekend I even made a super-awesome-looking poster, titled “Rad Reading Race,” to display the racers' current standing (I was included on this). When a student would give me a book report, I would check it. Then I would put a star by their name and the number of pages in the book (they had to put that at the top). By the end of third quarter, two of my students had read many a book, and one had filled every box next to their name. She had actually read four books in one weekend.

      After reading each book report and trying (and failing) to help them improve their successive reports, I decided I really need to take it to the basics. At the start of fourth quarter I told them that they had to hold on reading, because we would be reading a book together. I miraculously found a classic: Mr. Popper's Penguins.

      For the next seven days I read (sometimes a student did) the book to the class, until it was finished. Then we wrote the book report together using the method of, one by one, recalling the main characters, setting, and plot. I asked the kids, “Who were the characters in the book?”

“Mr. Popper! Mrs. Popper! Janie and Bill! Captain Cook! Admiral Drake! Greta! The policeman! The repair man!”

      Each of these were shouted by one or multiple kids. Then I asked them who the most important characters were, the people who were in the whole book, and we narrowed it down very well. Next the setting: Stillwater; Fall; in a city. Finally, plot. Again, many different things were shouted out, and I had to help more on this to point out the very important things that happened in the book. Quite a lot of important things happened in the book, actually. “What were the problems in the book?” Again, various random problems, with the most important ones mixed in. We narrowed this down to Captain Cook almost dying and later, them all being put in jail. We finished with how the problems were fixed.

      I had wrote all this information on the board, and they had written it as well. I told them that they need to take it home and write a book report from it, including the most important things from all the things we had talked about. I think one or two of them actually tried it and had something the next day. I ended up writing the book report, with them listening as I said what I wrote and pointed out why I chose what I had wrote. I allowed them to write what I wrote or do it themselves. It was about half and half. With this all done, I started the race again. Now, they are required to do at least one a week. The book reports have improved greatly, and I finally put up an extension table next to the original.

      I know that I am temporary, especially in these kids' lives, but if I can teach them to love enduring things, take God and books for example – obviously God exceeds books – then I know that I will have made a lasting difference.

Taro Hunting

     Last week we had a week a prayer at the church. Meetings were Sunday through Friday night, and I'd say that they went pretty well. We didn't have any baptisms at the end, but we won't always have that. Besides, at the end of the last Evangelism-type series that we did, we had 13 baptisms. So, I can deal.

     After the Monday meeting, I was talking to some of the locals (both farmers, growing bananas, taro, cabbage, watermelon, etc.). One of them, Pa Robin, is a hunter, so he knows his way around the mountains pretty well. He said he would take me hiking sometime. Later, on Thursday, I asked him when would be the best time to go for him. “Any time that you want to go.” That's one of the great things about being a farmer here: you pretty much make your own schedule. (And you get all the fresh stuff for free). He then asked if Sunday would work. “Yes, that would be great,” I said out loud, but in my head, “YES! THAT WOULD BE AWESOME!” I was pretty excited.

     I then asked where we would be going and he said starting at his place and coming down at Kiokat (spelling error for sure). It would be about a six hour hike through the mountains. I wanted to know, as far as the map is concerned, where we would be going. Conveniently, the island is in the shape of a sleeping lady: we would be starting just under and left of the left breast (mountain), hike through the middle of those two mountains, more on the left, and come back to the road at the left shoulder. Pa Cooper was there and he traced it on my chest. Honestly, how great is that, the shape of the island? 

"Where are we right now?"

"Oh, I'd say we are right at the belly button."

     Friday was Good Friday, so no school. It helped me not feel guilty, that I didn't work out Friday morning, that I was doing a huge hike on Sunday. I even made an effort to get more sleep, mostly only working because I didn't have anything immediately distracting me from sleep. Charged up my cameras, and emptied their chips.

     I woke up at 6:37 on Sunday morning (planned to wake at six); my ride was planned to leave at seven from here. I was also planning to pack my bag (with all the survival essentials), shower, wash my laundry, hang it up, and eat breakfast, all before that time. I quickly showered, and started breakfast and was packing my bag when Febson came over and said that Pa Robin had called and asked if I still want to go. He said that it was raining quite a bit on his side and up in the mountains. I asked Febson what he thought, and Pa Robin as well, but neither offered any advice. I knew that I could go next weekend, so I ended up canceling. That was really saddening; my day was shot. The scrambled eggs that I made, and the dull egg-salad sandwiches that Febson made were pretty good, though.

     It was now 7:30, and I didn't have anything better to do – I suppose I could have been writing people or a blog – so I walked down to the beach. This is something I do when I don't want to be an introvert and sit in my apartment, not being part of the community. The tide was pretty low, so that was cool (later in the day I went shelling). On my way back I stopped at the Cooper's to see what Pa Cooper and Sepe were doing outside. Sepe was grinding coconut for local soup (specifically for the bad weather) and Pa Cooper was getting ready to go get some taro at his taro patch. It's probably better described as a farm/plantation, though. From a distance it is hard to tell that there are (guessing here) 3-5 acres of taro with some coconuts mixed here and there.

     Even since I arrived and learned of taro I was waiting for him to take me with him. So, with the go from him, I went and put on my swim shorts, a dirty t-shirt, loaded my camera in it's water-proof case, and left my slippers (flip-flops) at the apartment. It's just behind the school and church, so not a far walk. From my apt. to the big wetland-type grass is normal short grass. Then after the wetland grass, which we've burned out for the most part, the swamp starts.

     It starts shallow at first, just covering the top of your feet, with a nice soggy, grassy bottom. This part doesn't always have water. As you go further in, or if you take certain pathways (through the taro plants) the water is anywhere from covering your ankle to just above your knee. It varies quite a bit, and it is really hard to tell from the surface. I imagine that you get to know your own farm, though. The deepest I walked through was a third the way up my thigh. Pa Cooper told me that in the bigger swamps it gets to your waist. In these the taro uses this extra space by growing up to fifteen feet tall and needing two people to carry out. One thing that is also tricky in the swamp is that a layer of soil – vines, roots, and broken down vegetation – actually floats in the parts that don't have moving water (most of Pa Cooper's). Once you step through that, which is really soft, it's water and then a lot of mud.

     He had a machete and was doing a lot of clearing, cutting the vines that grow all over the place and the unneeded taro leaves. I was following a safe distance behind, carrying the local basket for taro and taking in all the new sights to me.

     Once a desired plant is found, the leaves are cut off. Then, with the help of a long wedge, you separate it from its brothers and sisters. If you are going for an older one – five years all the way to up to twenty – then you separate some babies from the mother (center of them), clear a spot in the mud wherever you want and plant those. (As the plant gets bigger, more simply grow off the side of it. Kind of like an edible hydra, I suppose. … Not really, but in a way). Then we use the wedge to separate her from the rest and pull it out of the swamp. Next, cut the stem into pieces, putting these in the now empty spot.

     Pa Cooper cleared out quite a bit extra, looking for the right taro. It was great getting a look around the taro swamp. He even showed me the mangrove tree (older than him) that is the marker between his and his uncle's land. Such a simple thing. He also made a couple barricades out of close-by branches. Someone has been stealing his coconuts.

     After getting out with our three taros, we headed back to his house. He washed them up a bit, then peeled them. Yes, sort of like a potato, but with a machete instead. Finally, he used his wooden machete (which he made out of mangrove tree) to break the taro into wedges to be boiled. Quite the process. I told him later that by time I leave I hope he can ask me to go get some taro, and I will make it happen.

     We weren't done yet, though. We went down to the beach and soaked, washing off as much mud as we could. That was followed by a shower and clean clothes. Walked back to his place and had four bowls of local soup in a local bowl (coconut) and quite a bit of boiled breadfruit. Ah, can't forget that I didn't use any utensils. Second best part is that, the first being the local bowl.

     Being out in the swamp with it raining most of the time and then cleaning up and eating some hot local soup was utterly satisfying. There is nothing like it. Sure there are swamps back home, but do they have giant edible plants growing in them and no small or big predators to worry about? Yes, there are all sorts of different soups back home, but are they made with fresh coconut oil and banana (and I mean right off the trees)? This is both positive and negative: positive because I am getting to experience these very unique things, but negative because I will be leaving these very unique things as well. Great, another reason to miss this place when I leave. That's the trouble with great memories: they are both great to look on and sadness invoking.

A Trip Through the Roof

      It's interesting, the things that motivate me to write a new blog. Many times within the past... month I have felt that motivation. There was the boat trip to Walung, Week of Prayer, Spirit Week, The Weather Channel, our Rad Reading Race, finals for third quarter and the party, some yard cleaning with machetes, getting Linux in the lab, and this week (Spring Break), to name many of them. Did I ever mention when I fell through the roof?

      For most of these, not always right after they happened, I had plans write about them. The biggest problem is that when I came to having time for writing I couldn't find the right words to start. I have to have a good way to start the blog – whether you thought any were is a different conversation. The beginning is what I spend the most thinking on. This does seem absurd. After all, I'm simply recounting events that could be considered highlights of my life over here. Shouldn't be that hard, right? In my mind, though, I guess you could say that it's just the same as a first impression: for best results, it has to be great.

      I've been thinking, even more so, this whole week that I need to write. Not worrying about school (per se), and I have the time. I guess I can't always wait for that perfect start.

      I never mentioned that the old principal transferred to the high school. Starting at the beginning of third quarter (January), the Pastor of the church became a sort of stand-in, interim principal. He has made himself the Manager, though, not the principal. Due to the original plan of eventually finding a principal, this is what he prefers. Then the GMM (Guam Micronesia Mission) said to make Iris the head teacher. Things have changed even more recently, and now there won't be a principal anymore, but the job will be split up among a church board and the head teacher.

      Since the beginning of third quarter, and the step-in of the pastor, things have started getting done faster. Part of the old building was demolished (two classrooms), a cover for the “breeze way” built, the tearing out of termite-infested bookshelves and various other things, and the needed reorganizing of the office (including the records, which were in a bad state). Basically, things are getting done instead of sitting stagnant somewhere, whether physically or mentally. I'm not trying to say that the principal was bad. In fact, he is really effecting the HS for the better.

      It was at the demolishing of the two classrooms that I had quite an experience. We were taking it apart, top down, salvaging what we could; tin roofing, timber, nails (to be salvaged later), light fixtures, and whatever else could be saved. The ceiling and walls were simply quarter-inch (guessing here) plywood. The ceiling boards were nailed into a checkerboard of 2x2's. Then the tresses on top of that, which were connected to each other with more 2x2's. The tin roofing was nailed onto these 2x2's. I hope I'm drawing a good picture.

      I wasn't part of the roof-stripping crew. I didn't really feel up to pulling out nails from tin on a shaky roof in flip-flops. However, half of the guys on the roof did and the other half just went without shoes. Wow. I sat along the wall of my apartment to get pictures. Once that crew was about done, I decided it was my turn to help out. I set to pulling the tress-connecting 2x2's up, and getting them to the ground. I was dual-wielding hammers for this.

      Due to the roof not being a choice place to walk – Did I mention that almost 100% of the plywood in the classrooms was infested? – I had to one-foot-in-front-of-the-other across the tresses. When I came to a 2x2 I had to put both feet on one side. It was in the midst of doing one of these maneuvers that the fun started.

      It's an interesting feeling, knowing you are about to fall, and not being able to do anything about it. I had just put my left foot on the other side of the tress, and before I could settle by balance, I felt myself going to the right. I managed to hook my heel on the top (remember, I'm still in flip-flops), and my hands while still holding a hammer in each. To the onlooker, I fell sideways looking like a hinge. My body went right into the only open rectangle in the ceiling, with my feet and hands still on the tress. I folded in half.

      I knew I had a pretty firm grip, so I checked myself and let the hammers fall away first. Then I got, I think, only one of my flip-flops off. Looking around below for options to step/drop on, I found a desk stacked with papers and books a couple feet away. With a complete grip on the tress, I lowered myself onto the desk.

      When I realized that I had saved myself from falling ten feet, back first, onto concrete, I also recognized the huge amount of adrenaline pumping through me. “WHOO! WHOA! WHOOOOO. WHOOO. WHOA!” and many more of those. It's hard to explain the feeling, but with all that adrenaline, and the close call, I had to get that out. Once most of that had gone, I could a tingling on my back, so I pulled up my shirt for someone. I had close to a foot-long scratch down the center and a shorter, deeper one on the right. Oh, and my shirt received dime-sized hole – poor shirt.

      After getting cleaned up by the pastor with a part-local concoction (rubbing alcohol, and a local herb, which they tell me helps heal things faster), I wanted to get back into the work. They really wanted me to rest and take a break. They like to rotate workers. They do this for the people working to rest, not to give everyone a chance. I wasn't done, though. Now they were done with the roof, so we were on to various other things at once, one being tearing down the plywood on the ceiling and walls. As a side note, there were termites everywhere, and the frogs were loving it.

      I had a crowbar, and was finally getting into the work when the thing I was being so careful to prevent happened: a nail in the foot. Right in the heel. I'd say it went in anywhere from a quarter to half inch. I was actually pretty embarrassed by that happening, so I sneakily escaped. It helped that people were still telling me to rest. Cleaned that one off myself, and put on a band-aid that quickly fell off. I reluctantly decided that I was done helping on that project.

      I fully expect this to be a story always worth retelling. However, I have to make sure and not build up expectations when I say, “I fell through a roof.” Yes, I did, but sadly it wasn't anything like you were hoping for, was it? You might have imagined me walking along a roof and a weak section giving out. I plummet thirty – you were really hoping for that. Instead, making it more (or less, depending on how crazy you are) exciting, I plummet only five feet, catching myself on a rafter with only one hand. I now hang twenty-five feet above open air and various classroom objects. My other arm is disabled from coming through the roof and the rafter is cracking. Then someone gets a ladder and I walk down.

      Bad ending to that one, too. (I can embellish later on, though). The truth is that the worst part about it was what my mind did and falling through two, very large spider-webs, with their very large spiders included. Still lame, I know.

Love Through Laughter

      Before I arrived, even as I was still getting settled in, I had all these thoughts in my mind about teaching the kids all these cool things that they had never heard of. I kind of forgot a couple of things pertaining to kids. First, just because you know something that they don't, doesn't mean that they will think it is cool. Second, unless it concerns their current life – which nothing in school does because a kid's life is fun and games, usually – they don't care a whole lot. They don't care beyond the point of them being at school (because they have to be there). This was hard for me to realize/see, because I have actually always liked school. Yes, that is abnormal. Third, it's very key that the kids respect you. Lastly, kid's need love. The kind of love that is obvious, in kindness and smiles and laughter.

      This last one is probably first on the list of “Need to Do Better.” I believe that the respect comes only after a kid knows that you care for them. Otherwise, that would be first. I think it's safe to say that the way I show “love” is not in an obvious way. I'm sure there are many that could agree.

      By time first quarter was over, I felt like I was ready to start adventuring within the class. I had observed when I arrived, and so I was just going the same way until the quarter was over. Then I was going to start fresh. That felt good. At this point I started coming up with those new and creative ideas that I mentioned. The “Trash for Treasure” was one of them. When I came up with a new idea, say for homework, or for something for the kids to do in class, I would get excited about it. Thinking ahead, “This will be better; the kids will really like it.” Then, the worst happens, it is a complete failure. Talk about crushing one's hopes and dreams; kids can do it very well. I learned after a couple of failures that I was very vulnerable when I came up with a new idea for class. I would be all excited, and then it wouldn't work out. This made me really sad, and sometimes angry. It might not work out for many reasons. For good or for bad, I narrowed it down to ungratefulness.

      It's true, I feel, that many of these local kids are very ungrateful. Some are worse than others. Even now, though, I realize that it might not fully be ungratefulness. They are kids and so they don't tend to think about the consequences – whether good or bad. When presented with a new thing, they judge it for its current value, which could be based on how fun it is right now, especially relative to what they want to be doing at that time. So, when the kids come back from Computer, they are rowdy, and really needing PE, most don't want to sit down and learn how to draw their initials to look 3D – at least not right at that moment. Eventually they may settle down, but again, that is dependent on the focus of their short attention spans.

      I've realized and learned, that it really helps if they know that you mean well for them. In my slowly-fading way of showing the kids that I care for them, they weren't really seeing it. I figured they would be just as excited about my new ideas. They would see that I care for them by how I was teaching them, by the new things I was coming up with. I didn't consciously think about this. It's just something that was automatic.

      I think it was somewhere during Christmas break that I realized that the kids didn't feel that I cared for them. I could tell by the lack of respect and kindness. Coming to the end of second quarter, it was pretty well falling apart. I also can tend to be very serious and apathetic when I want something done. Again, this came naturally. If the kids were complaining (unreasonably, I might add) I would become very apathetic because I knew they could do it. As well, I've never been one for complaining. Along with this Christmas epiphany, came the realization that being apathetic with the kids is alac koluk (“very bad”). Kids + Apathetic Teacher ≠ Working Teacher-Student Relationship. The more I thought about it the more it made sense, too.

      Apathy is defined as a lack of interest in or concern for things that others find to be moving or exciting. While apathy does have its uses, and it is still a fun hobby, this comes right back to the kids needing to see that I cared for them. Being apathetic showed that I didn't care at all – kids don't usually look past face value or in depth – especially when combined with my my no-nonsense, serious attitude. It also helped, in dealing with my serious nature, when I realized that I was teaching Adventure campers. Big Lakers know what age group I mean: seven to nine. That was actually a very surprising revelation. I still cared about the kids, in my own invisible way, but I realized that I was focusing more on making sure that they were learning – I was all business. I knew that they could do an assignment, and so when they complained about it I would become very apathetic.

      This quarter I've made a dramatic improvement on the class. The kids still complain every now and then, but not nearly as often. I thank God for my analytical mind, and helping me realize what I was failing at. I'm making a conscious effort to show more kindness to the kids. When I contemplated all of that over break, it was sad to realize that I really hadn't had a good, genuine laugh with the kids yet. Considering class time, I really didn't smile that much, either. I'm really trying to laugh and smile more, because kids really need that.

      My “Words of the Year” are patience and perseverance. Patience is in a straight-up match against my serious nature. Perseverance is just what's required when my patience is tried, and I need to remember to smile. I remember pretty well the first two times that I laughed with the kids. One was with one of my tougher boys, Logan. The other was when I was showing the fourth-graders all the different kind of laughs that I could think of for an English assignment. The assignment was about exact verbs. So, instead of writing, “I laughed when Billy told a joke,” you would write, “I giggled when Billy told a joke.” It felt good, and they really enjoyed it.

      Each week since the beginning of the month the class environment has seemed to get better. It is even better than it was on Monday. I'm hearing more “Sorry, Teacher” when they do something wrong, and more respect is being shown. Every now and then there is a lapse into an old attitude, but we are all getting there. I'm smiling more, and having better patience, and the kids are responding in kind.

On the Road to Locality

A Tropical Christmas: Part II

      I also spent a good amount of time in Utwe (“oot-way”) at the Pastor's house there. They have their store and gas station there, as well. Right across from those is the famous white-sandy beach of Kosrae. I learned that the whole island used to have white sand. Then they built the airport, and it altered the beach around the whole island. It shrunk the beach and in many places changed the white to a reddish-brown color. This particular beach is very rocky along the whole way. So, swimming in higher tides can be treacherous.

      One of the things that I was looking forward for a month was net fishing. Finally, it was here. We walked down a quarter-mile or so from the house and had a prayer before starting. Mrs. Tara and Tekla, the Pastor's wife and young niece, walked out and set the net among the rocks while the rest of us watched. Once it was set, BeeWee and I started throwing rocks into the water. We threw them in, aiming from the shore to about five feet from the net, to scare the fish into the net. Then, we walked out to check our catch. When the fish are found stuck in the net they have to be silenced before untangling them so that they can't swim away upon release. BeeWee and Mrs. Tara quickly used their teeth to crack the skulls of the little fellows. “Woah!! Haha! That's awesome!” Much surprised laughter followed from myself. I plan to do it myself next time.

      We repeated this process two more times, finishing right in front of the store. During this process I found some sweet coral, failed at handstands among the waves with Tekla, and learned about a fish that I've already eaten before. If a person happens to get poked from the bones that protrude from the top of its fins, depending on the person, they will experience some extreme pain. It is felt throughout the entire body, and can last for a day, days, or a week. Usually, they have to go to the hospital to stop it. Being the person that I am, I thought first of the great defensive weapon that would be combined with a blow-dart gun. Anyway, thankfully the toxin is destroyed when you cook it. It is a tasty fish.

      When we finished we had sixteen decently-sized fish in a bag. “Wow! That's a lot!” Then they told me that they usually get a 20-lb rice bag full of fish. That's a lot. It would be for trout, anyway. Mrs. Tara asked me to pray when we all got back to shore.

“Dear God, thank you for this day. Thank you for helping us catch these fish. …”

      I don't remember the rest of the prayer because my mind was stuck on the meaning of what I had just said. How often do we include in our prayers, “Thank you for this food”? Myself, I have become so used to saying it that it's not as meaningful as it should be. I do always thank God for my food, but how can I not thank God when I have to rely on something like the chance that there are even fish in the netted area? It brings a new meaning to the prayer when we are relying on the land, on nature, to provide for us, especially when we are the ones doing the gathering. It's not very often that most of us do any gathering for ourselves anymore. Not as if we need to, since Walmart or Fred Meyer are just around the bend. I'm not saying that they are bad, per se, but it helps one to be very thankful for what they have, or what they catch, when one has to do the work to get it.

      Once we got back up to level ground we pulled some coconuts off their trees that are along the beach. We cracked them open on the rocks and drank happily. Once we were finished, we threw the empty coconut into the ocean; that is a true, classic soft drink.

      Last week, on Monday (2^nd) and Thursday (5^th), I attended two different family Christmases. On the Monday I witnessed a rather large chicken-grease fire. I also learned how to make a local plate. They are made, out of woven coconut leaves, and used for special occasions. Mine was really sad looking. I learned about women jobs in Kosrae (which infuriated me because they wouldn't let me help make something). I picked some fresh chilies. (Oh, I should probably use those. They are still in my refrigerator.) Then I ate a huge dinner on one of the plates.

      On the Thursday I learned the cultural background and reasons behind the original distinction between male and female jobs (I felt much better after this). I learned how, and helped make, a version of local soup: ground banana, coconut oil, and fish. Ate some more fish eyes; I learned that they taste better with salt. Helped make some local plates; these were far worse than my first try, somehow. Then I ate a ton of food, including but not limited to: chicken, cow, kang kong (a local plant that you might use in place of spinach for a salad), turkey tail, tapioca, soft taro, hard taro, banana bread, and breadfruit. I also learned that if someone doesn't eat very much food at a party, the maker(s) automatically think that person didn't like the food. In other words, it's good that my eyes (have always been) bigger than my stomach. In other news, Pa Cooper is determined to have me obese by time I leave here. “Your mom won't recognize you.” Yes, he did say that.

      There you have a good outline of my tropical Christmas (Part I & II). Obviously, I won't forget not doing anything on Christmas day. However, I believe the thing that I will remember most from this Christmas is that I became more Kosraen through my different experiences. As more than one local put it, though, “You're becoming local.” Now that is exciting.

A Truly Worthy Loss of Sleep

A Tropical Christmas: Part I

      My Christmas break was filled with interesting new experiences and a generous amount of learning more about Kosraen culture. There was also a good amount of lazing around. For the most part, I'm satisfied with how the break went, especially since I feel clear-minded and fresh. Third quarter starts tomorrow, and I'm ready to tackle it.

      The bulk of the “Christmas Spirit,” or feeling that Christmas was here – as opposed to somewhere else – came to me in the form of letters and packages. I honestly can't believe how many packages I received. Every package that I opened was opening a Christmas present, no matter what it contained. Not only was it like that for the Christmas-themed packages, but any packages and letters that I have received thus far, or will receive before I leave. I'm very thankful for my support group back home: my family, church, school, and all the friends in between. It's very obvious that I'm not the only one thankful for it. I see it in joy that the locals get from eating my chocolate/candy, Nutella, and Sriracha, among other things. (The two latter are going onto the list I'm composing of things that I will send them after I leave.) It was fun watching Sonia, the seven-year old daughter of Pa Cooper, last Wednesday night chug water to sooth the after-burn of Sriracha on fish (which is super tasty). That night I portioned out a baby jar of it for their family to use. Then yesterday Pa Cooper told me that they had already used it up!

      My Christmas day was really a sad thing. It marked the first year of doing absolutely nothing on that day. However, there was a good reason for it. On the Friday before, a 14-year old boy, Ichiro died. Even sadder was that his birthday was on Christmas. The original plan for Christmas was that our church was going to have a big Christmas dinner at around seven in the evening. During the hours before would be food preparation, for which I was excited to make two different things for, and playing different games with the kids. Due to the death, the pastor wisely post-poned the party till further notice.

In the week that followed I learned, and experienced a very valuable Kosraen tradition: the way that they mourn over a death. Firstly, because this is a small island everyone knows each other, and therefore a death is a big event. This island has always been a peaceful one (their are still no guns here), and so death usually comes from old age or a medical illness. In other words, it doesn't happen often. Then, because everyone knows everyone, many people come to support the family. In American culture this generally happens in the form of some type of formal service with a reception following sometime in the future. Happy memories are exchanged and then guests leave that day. Some relatives may stay around at the home for a couple of days, depending. In no way am I discrediting, or underrating this form of mourning. In no way. Here, though, I see them take it a step further.

      The day that someone dies, since it is normally as I mentioned above, they don't move the body out of the house. They may not move it at all, or they move it to the living room. (Most of the houses are a large center room with the small bedrooms off to the side.) For the next day the body stays there, and so do all the neighbors and members of their huge families. When the death is announced, before the people arrive, they buy something that they feel the family will need while they mourn for the next couple of months.

Something to consider is that originally food played a huge part in giving gifts. One family may have had a certain type of banana that another didn't. So, that was a reasonable gift. This has been carried over the generations and most of what is brought to the house is food. Rice, flour, sugar, fish, breadfruit, and much more. To this particular funeral somewhere around sixty 20-lb bags of rice were brought, 5-foot coolers of fish and/or chicken, and one night someone brought a 60 lb yellow-fin tuna they had caught that morning, to name just a few. It is part of their culture that the family that is suffering the loss has to feed everyone that comes. (As well, when a child is born, or a marriage happens, the receiving family has to cook for all the attendees. The basis of this is that a party/celebration/get-together is not this without food in their culture. Period.) However, because of the traditional giving, they don't have to get hardly anything themselves. That's the first part of this good tradition.

      As I said before, when a person dies, the neighbors and relatives stay there for most of the next day until the funeral. They stay up all night with the mourning family to mourn with them, help them through it, and eventually to keep their mind away from it. Different people that are there tell stories, one after another. Others may play games such as checkers (which they are champions at) and Rooke. (WHAT?! Non-Adventists playing Rooke? They really cherish Rooke when they have it because it's around $20 at the store.)

      Sadly, I didn't know about this until the day after. I would have willingly stayed up all night for this good cause, and to (selfishly) experience another part of Kosraen culture. Here comes the best part of the tradition: it doesn't end there! For at least the next two weeks people (again relatives and friends) come and hang around to help the mourning family, to keep their minds away from the heart-breaking loss. After the first night no one stays up all night (they may but aren't obligated to), but many will stay there playing games and talking until three or four in the morning. Everyone is there to support the family, whether they are playing games, talking with the family, or otherwise.

      They rent awnings, and plastic chairs and set them up around the house; rain or shine, baby. People cook at different times at the house, or somewhere else to be brought there. Always local soup, sasimi, breadfruit, chicken, rice. The bulk of the people trickle in from seven to midnight, most coming around ten.

I went the second night, and was set to stay up all night, but Pa Cooper informed me that they only do that the first night. I was sad that I missed that; we left around 11:30. The next week I went three more times. I'd get there around six, play games until leaving around two in the morning, wake up, laze around, then start over again. I was getting to know some more locals. I taught some young-in’s Dipstick (AKA King Queen Popper, which they loved), ERS (they loved more), Spoons, Nuts, and rather unsuccessfully, Monopoly Deal.

      Yes, one might think, I was just playing games. However, everyone present knows and remembers what we are there for. Most people may or may not admit that sometimes they just need someone there to comfort them. Imagine having thirty to fifty people just there, knowing they are there to support you in your loss, every night for two weeks. Now compare that to knowing the same amount of people support you in your loss from all different places. See the difference? I don't deny that it's a cultural thing, yet I can't help but appreciate it.

      This brings me to a sobering realization about this holiday: it's not about what you get, or what you see, but who you are with. (One can never realize this too many times.) At the first, this Christmas, really every Christmas, was about what I saw. In essence, the Christmas Spirit: the tree, the lights, the decorations, the snow (ah, how I miss it still), the cold. (Thank you very much to people who sent me some of those.) What I received instead of my “Christmas Spirit” was far better. I received a new Christmas Spirit; one that's adaptable to any Christmas, in any place. With it I can appreciate what I had this Christmas, and appreciate something more than I may have before back home.