Wet in Ejit

The Bikinians displaced by the American nuke tests in the 1950s and 60s were relocated to a several places in the Marshall Islands. The island of Ejit is one of them. Two volunteer teachers that Ali and I are friends with both live in Ejit and teach at the elementary school. This past Sunday, some of us walked from Majuro to Ejit, 3 islands away. It’s not that on the holy day we were able to work miracles, though, and walk on water. During low-tide we were able to walk ankle deep across the reef.

Our friends were skipping out on going to church to host us. Ejit’s village has a few hundred inhabitants living in a maze of houses built before urban planning made its way to the RMI. But the village was like a ghost town when we arrived because everyone was in church. One of our friends felt guilty; not going to church leads to gossip among the locals about your morals. In the “big city” that is Majuro, there are enough churches that you can easily get away with not going and no one notices. Or perhaps people care less. But Ejit resembles the outer island communities where going to church is not an option.

So with guilty pleasure we took the long route around the church so as to be less conspicuous. The idea was to go swimming without throwing it in people’s faces.

Before hitting the reef we walked across the Ejit baseball diamond, sporting its very own scoreboard (next to someone’s house).

Then, just as our reef shoes hit the hardened and bumpy coral, the patter of drops began to fall. One of us suggested that we head back, but we were going swimming after all. Our goal was to wade to an island further along the atoll from Majuro.

Before long, the patter turned to a steady drum beat in our eyes. Rather than walk further we decided to just swim then and there, so we found an area between two islands deep enough and got in. By that point we were getting cold and the ocean water felt sublime by contrast.

After 20 minutes or so we decided to make our way back. But none of us really wanted to walk in the rain; the memory of being cold was too fresh. So we tried to swim through the lagoon to Ejit. Making little progress, we finally gave up and walked most of the way. When we got back to our friends’ house, still as soaked as when we were swimming, we decided to pack our bags in white trash bags and walk home.

It was surprisingly fun being wet in Ejit.

Arno: A Tropical Comedy

It was supposed to be a training, not entertaining.

UNESCO was in town to kick off a project to train teachers and MOE staff. In addition to a few meetings to iron out details and set dates, the UN staff was to conduct site visits at elementary schools in Arno, whose teachers would be trained.

You fiends have proven to me that corruption is politics by other means.

Instead, the Saturday visit was scrapped by unrelated events. A political dispute between the mayor of Arno and the Ministry of Education led to cancellation.

You beat your chest and threatened arrest.
Voice buttered by gloat, you forced us to moor our boat.

Indeed, the Arno mayor called the MOE to let us know that a visit was unacceptable and should we set foot on his soil, he would have us arrested by local police. How can this be true? Was not the purpose of the visit to help our children get a better education?

Why must we stoop to this denigration?
Can we not have an enlightened conversation?

It was not to be, and so now, embarrassed, the MOE must consider other locations for the UNESCO project. I don’t claim to understand why this happened. But rather than despair I feign a laugh that doesn’t reach my eyes. This is not fodder for a Shakespearean comedy of errors. It’s more like a comical misfortune that makes you laugh with guilt.

The silver lining is that there’s a November election and maybe this ass will get kicked out of office.

Day in the life

“Woke up; got out of bed; brushed a comb across my head.”
-The Beatles

I’m today writing in response to several requests for an account of a ‘day in my life’.

Shortly after hitting the snooze button once or twice, Ali and I turn on our short-wave capable radio to the BBC’s world news. Living in the middle of the Pacific, I don’t doubt I’m as up to date on the world as anyone back home. Down with military dictatorship in Burma!

Sometimes the toilet doesn’t flush in the morning. Unlike our faucets and shower, it isn’t fed by the cistern tank outside our house. Majuro toilets are fed by a centralized system using salt water. But they turn it off periodically. So after a cup of crappy instant coffee, a bucket flush may be in order. One thing I definitely miss is quality coffee; but Ali and I agreed to put up with it for 7 more months, since we still can get a decent cup at some of the nicer spots in Majuro.

The taxi ride to work takes about 20 minutes. The first half is particularly slow. There’s a lot of traffic. Majuro may only have about 25,000 people, but it also only has 1 road. The fare is a flat $0.75.

The Ministry of Education is on the lagoon side, but only a few offices have the potential for a good view because the building is shaped like a U. I say potential because even the offices with a direct view on the lagoon have air conditioning units that take up much of the window.

My work day is something like a solitary one, though that’s been changing slowly as I get integrated. Every month I’ve gotten to know more people on friendly and professional terms. But both the Marshallese and I are shy, so it’s a slow process.

I’m working on 3-5 projects at any given time. This is necessary because I’m highly dependent on others for information. But other people are often unavailable (or not at work). So when I get stalled on one project I gingerly shift to the next one. It’s something of a juggling act that I actually enjoy, since I have a low attention span for things work-related. I dislike focusing on a single task for an entire day; I’ve become great at multi-tasking.

Right now I’m working on the following:

Auditing the transcripts of 41 teachers doing in-service training at the College of the Marshall Islands.

-Writing a grant proposal for a conference of the 84 school principals in January.

-Thinking hard on justifying 3 flights to outer islands. I’m not being paid for this 10 month internship (other than housing), but my contract does include airfares and stipends to the 3 other atolls with high schools (Jaluit, Wotje and Kwajelein). All I need to do is figure out why the Ministry would actually send me. I have 3 ideas so far, 2 of which have good potential.

-Starting up my Masters Degree project, which will be a cost analysis comparing 3 ways the Ministry can go about printing its Marshallese language materials. Click on the “comments” tab at the end of this entry for a more detailed summary.

After work, I play soccer twice a week, read a lot, watch movies, listen to the radio and have conversations with interesting people, similar stuff to back home, but ocean-side… always ocean-side.

Cover Up!

The Marshallese term for ‘white people’ is not straightforward. In Ghana, ‘white’ means ‘obruni’, and that’s what Ghanaians call caucasians.

The Marshallese refer to white folks as ripalles (prounced: ri-BELL-ies). And no, ripalle doesn’t mean ‘white’ in Marshallese.

The original German colonial masters didn’t interfere too much with local customs. They were mostly interested in taking the coconut meat (copra), which is even today a major export. Following World War I the Japanese took over, opened some schools and made the Marshallese women cover their breasts. Since WWII, the American missionaries haven’t dissuaded the practice of dressing “modestly”. So to get back to why the Marshallese term for ‘white people’ isn’t straightforward, it turns out that ripalle means ‘people that cover up’.

Ironically, it’s now the Marshallese that cover up. We should call them ripalles instead. Marshallese women are supposed to keep their shoulders and knees covered at all times. It’s considered very slutty to walk around in a mini-skirt.

Tradition is starting to crack, however. As the wealthier Marshallese kids go to high school in the U.S., some girls come back wearing jeans. Older Marshallese are a little scandalized, but young people are hard to boss around, particularly with regards to fashion. I had an interesting conversation with a wise Marshallese man at the Ministry of Education. He pointed out how odd it is that originally the whites convinced the Pacific islanders to cover themselves more “modestly”, but today it’s westerners that wear things like bikinis and short skirts.

Editorial cartoon by Bill Bates. Originally posted in the Fiji Sun.

Manit Day

This past Friday marked the celebration of Manit (Culture) Day. From late morning till the end of the afternoon, Marshallese kids got to enjoy song, dance and storytelling. I recorded a few videos but unfortunately can't post them yet (they're too huge!). But when I go to San Francisco in November I'll have a fast enough connection to hopefully share the most EPIC tug of war battle in history. It lasted more than a minute and luckily my digital camera managed to capture the sounds! Wow! So stay tuned for Epic Tug of War by the end of November.



Traditional weaving was on showcase in the form of a couple of huts built to give a little shade to some of the kids hanging out at Manit Day.



This next photo is of a hermit crab in a re-telling of the Marshallese story of the "Hermit Crab and the Needle Fish". It was funny because several large ladies spent about 5 minutes trying to get all these kids into position for the telling of the story. It's about a race between a hermit crab and a needlefish. But the hermit crab is sneeky and gets all his buddies to line up along the route of the race. So every time the needlefish, who's obviously a lot faster, calls out to the hermit crab, "Where are you?" - the hermit crab directly ahead of the needlefish answers. So it seems that the hermit crab is always one step ahead and wins the race. Reminds me a lot of our own story about the Tortoise and the Hare... only there's less of a moral to the story (unless I missed something).

And of course, no event in the Marshall Islands is complete without BBQ chicken!

Ali's blog address

Ali's blog address:
http://alisonlemoine.wordpress.com

Ali's here!

Not quite a week in the RMI & the lovely Ali is perusing a magazine on the island of Enecko. Ali arrived and is adapting to life. We took a couple of days this weekend to enjoy the fruits of her first week here by boating over to a nearly uninhabited island for some relaxation. Ali actually quickly got to work with the Marshall Islands Council of NGOs (MICNGOs) - an umbrella organization for the various NGOs here. Ali is the 1st paid Director of the organization, so there's a lot of organizing for her to do, in addition to setting the direction that MICNGOs will take over the next year. But first she has to learn how to understand the European Union grant that made her position possible - so she can get paid!

It's interesting that I'm the one that's always wanted to manage a not-for-profit organization and Ali's always been interested in education. Our roles have reversed! Or maybe we've come closer together and can take on jobs inter-changeably. You can be sure that we'll be enthousiastically giving each other advice and support.

In the next day I'll add a link to her blog - which promises to be amazing. Not only are her photographic abilities really impressive, but she's also a witty writer.

Lest ye be judged

An alarming conversation was held by the Nitijela in the week before last. The Nitijela is the Marshallese legislative body, like a parliament or senate. Elected senators make the laws. But they decided to have a conversation about religion.

Trying to define what religion is can be really tricky. There are so many different views on spirituality. If we try to capture “religion” in a few sentences, something is bound to get left out. Therefore, defining religion is arguably a slippery slope that can lead to the erosion of liberty. We certainly need rules in society, but the name by which we call our deity seems to be subjective to me.

The conversation in the Nitijela about religion was especially alarming because of its tone. Religious leaders from the almost universally Christian nation were invited to speak to the Nitijela. Comments quoted in the Marshall Islands Journal accused Islam in particular of being a dangerous religion that should be banned from the country. Senators actually in some cases agreed, such that the session was about bashing Islam rather than defining religion.

I wrote the following letter to the editor, which was published in the September 20th edition. My tone is more measured in the letter because I’m still figuring out how wise it is to criticize my elders. In Canada, the Prime Minister can be pied in the face and we mostly have a good laugh because he deserved it (true story). But not every country is like that.


Letter to the Editor of the Marshall Islands Journal

I am writing in response to the articles I read in the September 14th issue of the Journal. When I initially learned that the Nitijela was going to discuss the question, “What is religion?” I admired our leaders’ foresight, because I thought they were trying to anticipate possible problems with terrorists in the future. Every country in the world has had to cope with feelings of insecurity since September the 11th, 2001. If there are more people of a different faith entering your region, it is important to be aware of the implications to your society. But hearing our elders generalize about a “specific religion” (see Nitijela attacks Islam) that is a “threat to the Marshall Islands” (see Religious leaders debate hot topic), I was greatly disturbed. There are 1.2 billion Muslims in the world. Like most Christians, they are peaceful and educated people. We must not allow ourselves to generalize an entire civilization based on the actions of the violent ones, just as we shouldn’t judge one person by another.

September 16, 2007
Steven Courchesne

Under the sea

Let's play a game.
Where's fishdo?



I don't yet know what these two species are, but the two on the bottom I find particularly beautiful. There's several species of yellow and black fish (including the moorish idol I posted earlier) that I love to watch.



The following is not computer animated. This is live coral. Talk about vibrant!

My funny cab ride story

Getting around Majuro means taking shared taxis. This is a foreign concept in North America because the destinations of any two people might be a dozen kilometres in opposite directions. But Majuro basically has 1 road with a few that briefly branch off. The difference between passengers has to do with how far each needs to go in a particular direction.

On my way into town I stuck my finger out to signal the next cab that I needed a ride. He pulled over and let me in. There were already 3 people riding this one, so the 2 in the back seat had to scrunch to the left to let me in. An exchange of greetings followed and we were on our way.

A few minutes later I felt a nudge against my back, like something had just pushed against the back seat. My first thought was, “Strange.” And then it happened again. My next thought was, “Something alive is riding in the trunk.” I glanced to my left to see if anyone else had noticed. Nope, or like me, they were playing dumb.

It didn’t take more than another minute to hear a low-squeal, almost a grunt, but definitely a squeal. I then remembered that this taxi had probably started at the end of the island (I live pretty close to one end) where there’s a pig farm.

But I was afraid to strike up a conversation about it, just in case it was actually somebody’s grandfather. “So,” I’d casually start, “Who’s having a feast tonight?” Abashed, the girl next to me might reply, “Jab jab. Grandfather and I only had the fare for one person.” I pictured one of my grandfathers in the darkness of the trunk; a darkly comical thought.

Then I imagined that I had uncovered an operation by the Majuro Mafia. Unlike the Italian mafia, their business is smuggling fish; a slippery game indeed. Maybe the guy in the trunk didn’t make his tuna quota and was now shark bait.

A few more nudges against my back and I could hear it moving around. More squeals. Yup, someone was having a feast tonight. I almost burst out laughing because there was a pig walking around in the trunk of my cab. But I contained myself. I didn’t want to seem strange. So I acted like nothing at all was amiss. Every squeak and bump against the back seat was perfectly normal.

The absurdity of everyone in the car ignoring the sounds and movements also almost made me laugh, but I’m a disciplined anthropologist.