It's funny how you don’t know you’re in a life-changing moment until much later.. Nearly 20 years later in my case.
This week I was pleasantly surprised when an old friend from Micronesia crept into my DMs requesting a custom tour consultation and consequently unleashing a flurry of memories I’d long forgotten–dancing hula in my open-air classroom after school, fishing: island style with just an empty water bottle, some string and a piece of coral, and learning to live without many of the things I’d previously thought were essential–internet, makeup, cell phones, cute clothes, you name it! While she and I did talk travel, we spent a great portion of our time reminiscing about the year I spent on her island–A year of non-stop rain, lice, and a whole lot of self discovery.
Sadly, I have next to no surviving photos from that year due to breaking my camera three separate times and losing all the files. Thankfully, I kept a pretty consistent journal, which I have slowly been reading through–the crinkled pages contain a whole lot of sass, notes people sent me while I was away, and little tokens from one of the most challenging, but life-altering years of my life. On the eve of my 36th birthday, I’d love nothing more than to share a little snippet of the year that changed my life with you.
I was only 18 when I arrived to teach a group of rowdy third graders. I was completely unprepared and ill-equipped, but I was excited to spread my wings, experience some independence, and most importantly surf (spoiler alert: it happened a grand total of one time during which I got caught in a rip tide–completely psyching me out, wearing me out, and thus ending my surfing career). Much to my shame, many of my surf idols that I’d only read about in magazines visited the island half-way through the year and I felt the shame of my surf defeat in a way I still feel disappointed about. There’s nothing like the presence of people who are at the top of the game to make you feel the sting of your own shortcomings.
When I arrived in Pohnpei, they gave me an open-air classroom, shoved a bunch of wriggly little 8-year-olds in there and let me have at it. Above is a picture of my third grade crew— who lovingly dubbed me “Senorita Stinky Frog” as a nod to my aversion to the dead toads that would decay in the hot sun all along the sidewalks and playground. I’ll never forget how nervous I was that first day just showing up–magnified by the immense pressure when I realized the parents all planned to stay and watch me teach from the side of the room. Talk about pressure. I’m pictured below completely in faking-it-til-I-make-it mode.
The year got easier at it went on. Together with my new local friends I scaled waterfalls, learned to build shelters out of local plant life, and live a more uncomplicated, peaceful existence than I’d known at home. On the island, everything moved slower, took more time and yet, was somehow easier and better. We would wait weeks for the ship to arrive with groceries, only to find them full of bugs. It would take hours to visit three stores to get the contents of one normal grocery haul–never knowing what you’d find this week and making meal planning next to impossible and yet, there wasn’t anywhere else to be. The journey was part of the excitement–hanging off the back of a retired fire truck and rolling around from store to store–often in the pouring rain. I still laugh thinking about the time one of my fellow teachers got caught in a downpour and reached for a giant elephant ear leaf to keep her dry—only to learn the sap inside was intensely painful to the skin. Little lessons like that popping up all the time.
One of my biggest personal accomplishments was teaching myself to play guitar that year. I had shipped my guitar to the island before I left, and it showed up about 5 months later. I remember on torrentially rainy days, taking it out of its case and stumbling through the chord progressions of songs like “More Than Words” and “When You Say Nothing At All” with nothing but the rain and the toads for an audience. It was rough, and I was by no means good, but it definitely lit a love of learning in me and felt like an immense personal victory to stumble my way through independently.
Half-way through the year I discovered a group of local guys who played soccer daily about a quarter mile from the school. It was great exercise and gave me a sense of community that I’d been missing. I remember going home absolutely drenched in sweat and smelling like something out of the bowels of a gym bag. After the game we would lay under the stars and watch the satellite go past every night at the same time. I’ve never seen a sky so clear in my life. The lack of light pollution makes for some pretty impressive heavenly displays.
A local Sri Lankan family “adopted” me–their kids were friends of mine from the soccer field. Their mom, Auntie Deva, taught me how to make all sorts of amazing curries. She would let the ingredients simmer on the stove while watching reruns of “The Bold and the Beautiful.” Her daughter, Dilushika, taught me all about Bollywood films and actors like Shah Rukh Khan and opened up a whole world I hadn’t known in film. Jona, Andrew and Dilshan were the brothers I never had–driving me places, giving me mean nicknames, and picking on me in the most older-brotherly way possible. Their friendship is something I will cherish until the day I die.