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.