I AM THE WORST BLOGGER IN THE WORLD

It has come to my attention, suddenly, as I lay on the cool concrete floor of my room, alternating between supine and the fetal position, or sometimes simply letting my extremities collapse where they may, the silent whirring of my crimson miniature electric fan by my side, propped by Hawthorne’s Moby Dick, ‘short’ stories by Dostoevsky, and McCormac’s All the Pretty Horses for a better angle for supplying turbine-emitted wind, meanwhile the dusk slowly turning to full blown dark, gradually cutting the light that shines through my windows to nil — all a part of my semi-regular weekday-winding-down routine — during which it dawned on me that I ought to scribble a few choice words to put up on this severely outdated blog. The last entry I’d crudely etched was some squib about bicycle riding on Pohnpei, in the attempt to write something more suited to the format of a blog, more bloglike, if you will, in the sense that it is brief, helpful, and informative of a) the subjectline on which the blog was conceived, and b) full of insight and reflection from my interactions and experiences with said line of subject. My problem, however, has always been that my style of writing never really quite suites the context of online viewing, some even having deemed it too literary, whereas to me, the obstruction it constitutes is more paradoxical, given that I write in the mindset that a blog is essentially a journal made public, so with that approach, I am presented with urges to post private thoughts, however find myself quelling those urges for fear of posting private thoughts on public space, which leaves me in a state of conflict. I’m not one to splay my brain’s edibles like an open-faced patty melt on the wretched cafeteria tables of the interwebs. So I end up doing nothing instead, neglecting the whole venture of relaying valuable and possibly insightful information back to (very few) readers abroad (or wherever the hell you all are), thus depriving my (again, almost non-existent) audience. And anyway, I have like, three or four different journals I scrawl on on a semi-regular basis, more semi-regular than posting on this webspace, at least, so it’s not as though I’m letting myself down by not recording the day-to-day goings on of my Peace Corps Island Living. Still, the webspace does exist, so I may as well use it, not let it go to waste, because if there’s anything that irks me to no end, it’s letting things go to waste, so for the benefit of the viewer, I’ll keep the private stuff private without sacrificing style, and do my best to give some sense of what this, what all of this is like. After all, that IS one of the all-important goals of Peace Corps, #3, I believe, IIRC, to inform Americans of what life is like in the host country, or at least that’s what I write in that portion of the VRF, that one of the ways I accomplish this goal is by maintaining a (poorly maintained) blog. But what do I write? What shall I share? How do I leave an honest account and a genuine impression of what the past two years of my life has been without divulging private details regarding the source of my frustrations that would render me disillusioned and cynical by anyone who wanted only to get a general sense of what this experience has entailed? Because to traverse to the other end of the spectrum and relay only the positives would be disingenuous, and would invalidate all the struggles I’d faced and overcome, as well as the struggles I continue to face to this day. Cultural adaptation is a bitch, I tell you what. Where would I even begin? Where could I even begin? In the last six months alone I’d gone through so much, from feeling like I’d lost my sense of purpose, my sense of belonging, my sense of a home, to rediscovering that sense of purpose, then losing it again, and gaining it again, only to repeat the cycle, sometimes on the same day, then learning to use mind games and trickery to make myself hang on, knowing that I’d be better for it if I did, and I’d come this far anyway, so I might as well finish it. Already this is erring on the side of ‘private stuff’ so I better go into some specifics, give a few concrete accounts of what I’ve ACTUALLY BEEN UP TO, rather than divulge the internal crises. The school year is coming to a close, yet I’m keeping my 8th graders occupied, probably the only teacher in the entire school still doing any sort of academic thing that’s worth a damn in the last few weeks. Their erratic attendance (both the students’ AND the teachers’), however, is a constant source of annoyance, especially in these last few weeks. But because my library (really, the school library, but really, it’s my library) is finally ready for a trial run for lending out books ever since I’d finished putting labels on all the fiction books and organizing them on the shelves, I decided to lend a book to each of my 8th graders (on the condition that they sign a contract agreeing to return the book in more or less the same condition I’d lent it to them by May 31st, lest they pay me $5 for the cost of loss or damages) for a final book report project. The pedantic me is reading that last sentence and thinking, God, I wrote ‘book’ a lot in that one, didn’t I? but the carefree shrugs his shoulders and gives the pedantic me the finger. I have my doubts about a few of my students’ capability to even finish a book, much less write and present a report on it, not only because of their staggering reading levels, but that compounded by their sheer and utter laziness and lack of discipline (though to no fault of their own, since this sense of discipline has never been instilled in them from the start, unlike your average American student), and I’ll be lucky if some of these troublesome ones even return my books, much less return them unfinished. Such is life for the Pohnpeian student. Meanwhile, my co-teacher has already given up doing anything that even resembles some form of academics and has rather prematurely resorted instead to having the students practice their graduation songs. Over and over and over and over again. From the time recess ends past when it’s supposed to at somewhere around 1040h, till school ends earlier than it should at about 1423h (minus, of course, a lunch ‘hour’ that always seems to outlast its due). Instruction doesn’t technically end until May 31, graduation not until June 13, a solid two weeks after that, which, if you ask me, is more than enough time to prepare everything you need for, including the schedule of events, the entertainment, refreshments, whatever. Besides the school, I literally have nothing else on my plate. Cultural immersion has already reached its apex in my particular site, which leaves only diversions to fill the idleness, and there is SO. MUCH. IDLE. NESS. Never in my life will I (hope to) again experience the sense of having more time than I know what to do with; literally more time than I am able to fill. You’d think I’d use it for self-improvement, but I’m actually improving myself as much as I can (well, ALMOST as much as I can) at a sensible pace, yet I still have extra hours to fill. So I read. And I watch media. I have more media on my terabyte-sized external hard drive than I care to own, yet sadly, even its sheer gargantuan amounts will be depleted quicker than I’d like it to last, leaving me with heaps of media I’ll have been bored with. Being here also lowers your movie-viewing integrity. I have watched countless things I never would have otherwise allowed through my eyeholes if not for the desperation for any kind of mental or audiovisual stimulus that this environment endows you with. But mainly I read. I’ve read so much since being here, I now need reading glasses (although that might also be due to late nights in a dark room in front of the computer, LCD light ruining my oculars). And I grow. And I learn. It’s surprising the amount that I’ve learned since being here. If I think hard enough and really put my mind to it, I bet I can recount all the things I’ve learned, at least the important ones. I’ve learned that a Chlorox bottle in Pohnpei can possibly contain not only Chlorox brand bleach, but also water, sakau, gasoline, or kerosene, at any given time, though it’s easy to guess by the context which (eg. If out of the freezer, it’s probably sakau or pihl takai (ice); if it smells like it belongs in a stove or in your car, then it’s probably gasoline or kerosene). That the same Chlorox bottle, if empty and cut at a diagonal angle to remove the bottom while retaining the end with the handle and keeping the cap screwed on has a multitude of practical uses, such as baling water out of a boat, pouring water atop one’s head in a bucket shower, or as a spade for digging and gardening. That although there is no modern evidence of any Pohnpeians drinking cider, the word for a carbonated sweetened cold beverage is saida, which if a loan word, very closely resembles ‘cider’, leaving one to wonder why they wouldn’t just have picked ‘soda’ as it’s the proper name of the thing and just as easily Pohnpeianized. That an empty can of saida makes for a handy betel nut spit holder, granted that you widen the mouth, either by carefully pushing the aluminum opening, causing it to tear, or if you’re badass enough, biting the top off altogether with your gnarly cavity-ridden betel nut teeth. That old broken down cars make for beautiful lawn ornaments, in a post-modern kind of a way. That seatbelts are for chumps and you insult the driver by wearing one. That the government, as well as certain governmental bureaucratic institutions, like most governments (and certain governmental bureaucratic institutions) in third world countries, is unsurprisingly corrupt and rife with nepotism. That cars, especially taxis, run by a gallon of gas at a time. That Mormon missionaries look more ridiculous and out of place here with their starched white shirts, tucked in and buttoned up to the top suffocating button, armpits undulating with sweat, than anywhere else in the world. That Pohnpeian females develop and blossom early, then sort of just expand like balloons in their early-to-mid-twenties, especially if they are with child(ren). That likewise, Pohnpeian males, who traditionally perform all the labor intensive chores, will retain their physical health longer, until finally succumbing to growing huge beer tumors in middle age. That Milwaukee’s Best is an acceptable and even ubiquitous drink of choice. That likewise, Spam Soup, a concoction of luncheon meat chopped to cubes and added into a piping pot of instant ramen, makes an acceptable and even ubiquitous home-cooked meal. That you should never pee under a coconut tree, because even if a coconut hasn’t fallen on your head the last 100 times you pissed there, probability will get you eventually. That you can push a fish bone which has stubbornly lodged itself in the back of your throat by swallowing balls of rice, unless the obstinate thing has penetrated itself behind your uvula, thus necessitating medical attention. That semi-domesticated animals and livestock make for excellent waste disposals. That pigs are not only incredibly smart, but also incredibly resourceful indeed. That you beckon cats with ‘mimimi’ and beckon pigs with ‘bessbessbess’ (food also works). That the key to a stronger immune system is eating with your hands and sharing everything you eat and drink. Also, never covering your mouth when you sneeze or cough, shooting snot rockets and flinging excess snot with your fingers, never washing your hands, and surrounding yourself with people who do the same. That eventually, a night of sakau will settle to a silence only broken by the sound of occasional throat-clearing, hawking and spitting, coughing, chewing betel nut, and if you’re lucky, the soft pitter patter of rain. That although more common here than 90% of the earth (or at least WAY more common than in California, barring of course the gay symbol), rainbows will never fail to put you in a good mood. That although it’s cliché, there’s nothing better than the sound of rain on a tin roof while you’re safe and warm inside watching a sappy rom com and drinking a hot beverage next to someone whose company you enjoy. That it’s by some great measure of injustice that although you live on a goddamn island, due to which part of that island you live, you only get to see the ocean at most once a week, and swim in the ocean even less than that. That it’s possible to live in a domesticated household without the modern conveniences of basic furniture (bed, table, chair, couch) and appliances (refrigerator, toaster, oven). That even though a part of you is going to regret that you’ll have lived here for 2+ years without ever spearfishing, a more rational part of you accepts it due to your awful, almost nonexistent swimming ability, chalks it up to fate, and moves on. That no matter how many days you’ve ridden your bike to school, kids will always stare at you as you put it in the office and make comments they think you don’t understand about how thin your tires are, how fast you go, and how much they want to ride it. And you’ll never let them, not out of selfishness, but out of reverence for the one thing that’s kept you sane, that’s allowed you peace of mind and a sense of autonomy and freedom. That some relationships reach their culmination early on and sort of just plateau and then gradually disintegrate, and there’s nothing you can do except silently accept it as a part of life. That other relationships will carry more meaning for you that you can possibly hope to understand, and you secretly bank on everything becoming clear, that you’ll have a crystallizing realization about it and everything else when you go home and this is all over. That even though some days you think you’ve had enough and wish it would just end for the love of god and all that is holy, you know that once it does, you’re going to miss it, all of it — the smells, the fauna, all the beautiful and colorful flowers whose names you’ll never learn, how the rain creeps up on everything, the sound of pounding sakau by your bedroom window, the dogs when they chase you on your bicycle, the taste of seawater on days when it’s especially salinated and you think you can kind of get a hint of mangrove, your students’ eyes lighting up when they understand (or at least think they understand) something new that you’re teaching them, the feel of a cool, hard, tile floor and the wind of your electric fan after a long hot day, bucket showers, showering in the rain when it’s especially pouring hard, pooping in a hole when your flush toilet isn’t working, drinking fresh young coconut, sashimi, cheap glorious sashimi, that BBQ stall down the hill that marks the beginning of the causeway, clear starry nights, the sky behind Sokehs Rock — and you’ll feel grateful. Grateful that you got to be here and see it all, feel it all. And you’ll know it was all worth it, that it was real.