Ron Tanner, chair of the Writing Department at Loyola College-Maryland, won a grant from the National Parks Service to help Marshallese college students preserve the oral culture of the Marshall Islands. He’s spending the 2008 spring semester (5 months) on Majuro to direct this pilot program, called the Marshall Islands Story Project. To get the full story of his personal experiences, be sure to check the archives to your left.

Yesterday I got careless and cocky and ate something I shouldn’t have. Today I’m paying for it. I know where it happened, at one of the roadside take-outs, where they grill a meal then wrap it in foil and leave it sitting on the sun-baked counter. It might have been one of the side-dishes: the jellied arrowroot, which is coated in freshly-grated coconut, or the preserved breadfruit, which tastes like pureed yams. I think I’ll be fine tomorrow. Years ago, when I was experimenting with “natural” foods, I got salmonella from raw-milk cheese and was laid up for a few days, unaware that, in my sick bed, I was snacking on the very food that was poisoning me. Which is to say it takes a lot to kill me. My policy out here has been to eat whatever’s put before me. If I’m unsure of it, I won’t eat much of it. The next time I see jellied arrowroot, though, I’ll be sorely tempted.

This afternoon, our students interviewed one of the high chiefs–the guy responsible for the entire Ralik chain of islands (there are two chains). We’re going to try to interview the other high chief (responsible for the Ratak chain) soon. It’s an honor to get time with him and it will really boost the credibility of the Story Project. To show our respect to the high chief, the students presented him with a large bunch of bananas, 15 coconuts (the drinking kind), and a slaughtered (but uncooked) pig. Each was wrapped in ceremonial panandus-leaf basket. The high chief didn’t expect this and, we hope, was impressed that the students could observe so traditional a custom. This, too, will increase the credibility of the Story Project, which is, after all, about preserving customs. Newton worked for weeks to secure our appointment with the high chief and then worked three days preparing for it. He located the pig (and prepared it). It wasn’t easy finding the right pig. They’re not at all everyday eating. Virtually all of the meat grilled at the take-outs, for instance, is frozen imports from the States.

Newton and I have finally got the interview thing down, which is to say we have handed it over to the students. Nobody will deny the students’ request for an interview. Newton wrote out questions for them to ask, so now when we locate a prospective interviewee (which keeps Newton running around), the students can hand over the questions in advance to set the interviewee at ease. The students know how to work the equipment too, so we just drop them off. That’s a good thing because Newton and I are busy all the time now, he with translation, I with the website. Under deadline, we have no free time to ourselves. I’m working on the website every day.

Just last week I realized that the site has to be bi-lingual on every page. Before that, I was focused only on the translations of interviews and hadn’t thought about all the other stuff, like the homepage and the “about” page and the introductions to everything. As a result, I’ve had to re-design the website to give each page two columns, one side for English, the other for Marshallese. The website was supposed to go up yesterday but we’ll be delayed a week (check it Friday, June 6). The translations are going to be coming in for another two months. We also have an historic photo archive and, we hope, a music archive to post.

Every day I get 3-5 students to work but mostly they’re MIA, summer having abducted them. When they work, they’re invaluable. I can’t process everything by myself–there are audio recordings to edit, videos to edit, photos to process and post, texts to transcribe, and website pages to craft. And then there’s the other work I’ve got them into, building websites for other non-profit agencies on Majuro. Their first site is for the National Training Council (rmintc.org). And then there are other preservation opportunities we’re encountering–like the VHS story teller tapes we found at the all-but-defunct cultural museum. We need to digitize those.

I leave in two weeks. So I’ve got to put into place enough instruction and guidance for the students to carry on under Newton’s supervision. Jill’s coming out my last week. I can’t wait to see her and I’m thrilled she’s going to see the Marshall Islands. I’m determined to carve out enough free time to be with her. Typical of me, I’m trying to do too much and half of it’s not even part of the contract. It’s simply there waiting to be done, so why not try to do it?

The photo to the left is of a story teller who accompanied himself with a ukulele. Newton’s dog came running to the story-teller the moment he started playing. The dog is aloof and not taken to strangers, but in this instance music soothed him. I thought he might start howling in accompaniment. Here’s a snippet of the story teller’s song: Binet sings about bananas.

P.S. This week was my mother’s birthday. She’s 80 and “still on foot,” as she likes to put it. Happy birthday, Mom. She worries about me. She says, “You boys were born in a hubcap–you can’t stand still.”

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Ron Tanner, chair of the Writing Department at Loyola College-Maryland, won a grant from the National Parks Service to help Marshallese college students preserve the oral culture of the Marshall Islands. He’s spending the 2008 spring semester (5 months) on Majuro to direct this pilot program, called the Marshall Islands Story Project. To get the full story of his personal experiences, be sure to check the archives to your left.

This week, Newton found Eddie, an old man who was going to tell us the story of the two ladies and the octopus. Like many tales, this one features a chant or singing portion. Eddie has translated the singing portion into “sailor’s English.” This is a find. The value of our project is that we are recording the last of the culture’s oral tradition, showing how it has changed. Or how it looks and sounds in its last permutation.

Eddie’s a tiny man with protruding cheek bones and a dark complexion. We bought him lunch, stopping for take-out at one of the shacks that grill chicken or beef or octopus. It’s the cheapest food on the island and comes with a handful of steamed rice. Newton parked the van just off the road, near the island’s only bridge. The wind is always brisk on oceanside, so I was worried about the sound quality. We capture what we can as best we can, regardless of the conditions. Sometimes we simply don’t have time to be picky. We were sitting on coral boulders in the shade of some coconut palms, just ten feet from the incoming tide. At my feet, and interlaced with the rocks and boulders, were plastic cups and plates and bags and bottles and take-out containers. It’d take hours to clean up the mess, all of which will find its way into the ocean, where much of it will kill turtles and birds that mistake, say, a plastic bag for jellyfish. But litter is hardly better in the States, I reminded myself. The small size of this island only makes the problems–global problems–more glaring.

Finished with our fast lunch, we sat Eddie in the shade, then Newton explained the project. Eddie nodded politely. He looked uncomfortable. The video camera intimidates many of the people we find. Eddie had a small microphone clipped to his shirt-sleeve. Usually I don’t start taking still photos until ten minutes into an interview. You’ve got to let the story-tellers warm up. Eddie had problems from the start. I don’t know the language but I can catch the nuances. Newton gently encouraged him. Eddie’s expression was almost a wince as he talked. Then he stopped and glanced at me apologetically. Newton explained that Eddie needed to recollect the story. He left out the entire first section and wasn’t comfortable enough to offer the “sailor’s English.” So it was a bust. We drove Eddie back to the Bikini Atoll town hall, where he works. It’s right next to the Rongelap town hall–representing the nuclear survivors who have been removed from their home atolls. Eddie promised to see us tomorrow.

But the next day we couldn’t find Eddie. He’d drifted away, maybe in hiding. For every story teller we find, we lose one or two. Newton arranged to talk with an old sea captain, for instance. When we got to the man’s house, he’d already gone to sea again, having left a day early because a delivery was needed on an outer island. I’ve been pushing Newton hard and he’s been scrambling to make things happen. We’re running out of time. Two weeks ago we were sent to an old woman who would tell us about life during World War II. But when we arrived, the woman’s daughter told us that her mother was too senile to talk coherently. That same week, we learned that the oldest story-teller on Arno–the man who was too ill to speak with us when we visited the island–died of diabetic complications. One of every four adults in the Marshall Islands suffers from diabetes. Many people have told us we should have been here two years ago or four or twenty. A few tells us we’re simply too late. But our aim isn’t to capture what’s already been lost but, rather, to capture what’s still here. And we’re seeing some interesting things. For example, the last in a series of stories about Latao, the trickster, traditionally recounts how he left the Marshalls to live in the Gilbert Islands, where he could play his tricks anew. But the version we’ve recorded adds this: Latao then went from the Gilberts to the States. In tricking the ripalle, he made them smarter. That’s why the ripalle have done so well. It’s a joke that reflects both the good humor of the Marshallese and their view on the state of affairs today.

Weeks ago, Newton asked his family if one of its elders would tell us a story that recounts the legend of Lajuan, the renown advisor of kings (Newton’s last name is Lajuan). The elders conferred and decided that they’d let one of Newton’s cousins do the telling. Well trained in recounting this tale, the cousin met with us this week. But he was obliged to leave out some story details that only family members can hear. That’s the custom. Stories are knowledge and power and some parts simply cannot be given away except to a chosen group. In other instances, story tellers have avoided telling us things that are impolite or taboo. So, no matter what we do, the collection will always be incomplete.

Yesterday, in a dwindling rain, Newton and I and two students waded across the reef to a neighboring island. He’d arranged for one of the students and me to interview an elderly couple who survived the notorious Bravo nuclear blast in 1954. The student would conduct the interview. The old couple don’t trust ripalle. Newton himself would stay outside. I told Newton to make sure the couple understood that I’m just here to run the camera. What no one seems to understand is that, once I’m gone in a few months, Newton takes over. Unfortunately, my presence shadows every interaction. I’ve learned to look small. Sometimes I feel I’ve nearly willed myself into invisibility. As I sat on the floor of the elderly couple’s house–it’s a cinderblock house with a linoleum floor, immaculate and stark, built with nuclear claims money–I smiled reassuringly as the student explained what we’re doing. Sweat dripped from my nose. The old woman was beautiful in her day, you can see. She and her husband sat at a picnic table in their dining room. She wore a sack dress of brightly flowered fabric. He wore a t-shirt and long trousers. Both were barefoot, as we were too: shoes aren’t allowed indoors. The woman looked at me with narrowed eyes. Her husband didn’t look at me at all. The student was ever so polite. I could tell he was trying hard. At one point the woman recounted how the fallout burned those who played in it. I could tell by the gestures she made. I’ve seen these before. She was near tears. Then she quit talking and turned away. For the next twenty minutes she didn’t say a word. The old man talked but seemed to ask a lot of questions.

Afterwards, when we were outside, I asked the student how it went. “Not good,” he admitted. “The old man said these were ripalle questions.” “Did they tell us anything?” I pressed. He said: “They said it’s frustrating to be asked how they feel. They will never see their home again. They will be buried in strange soil. Isn’t it obvious how they feel?” Soil is so sacred to the Marshallese that “to plant” and “to bury”–kellip– are the same word: the graves of Marshallese ancestors nourish the crops of their descendants. To be buried outside one’s native soil is tantamount to sending your soul on a journey with no end.

Eddie lives on this same island, among the Rongelap survivors, and so Newton had arranged to meet him. Newton has become adept at tracking people down. Eddie was agreeable, but Newton insisted we walk to yet another island, which is uninhabited. Otherwise, Eddie might have frozen again if he had to perform in front of his neighbors. These islands are so small, there is always an audience for any activity. The next island happens to belong to Newton’s wife’s family. Her ancestors are buried here. But so are many Japanese from World War II. As the Imperial Army’s burial island, it earned the name “Island of Demons.” We found an old log for Eddie to sit on. Nearby, we could see the weathered white tombstones of the family burial ground. Farther out, in the shallows, near the rusted hulk of a half-sunken ship, men were casting nets for reef fish. As we were crossing over, I came upon one fisherman who had just pulled an octopus from a tide pool. He held it up for me while I took snapshots. Every few seconds he had to liberate his hand from its suckers.

After seating ourselves at the edge of Demon Island’s dense jungle, Newton talked gently to Eddie to warm him up. I had the camera and voice recorder ready. The sky was clearing finally, the too-blue sky breaking through mountainous billowing clouds. It was going to be a beautiful day. Eddie told the story of the two ladies and the octopus. Newton and the students laughed as he chanted the octopus’s part. The octopus was telling the two women all the wrong ways to cook him. There are many tricksters in Marshallese stories. When Eddie finished, he attempted to re-tell the story in sailor’s English. But he didn’t get far before he lost heart. He said he was too nervous. Newton laughed and patted him on the back and told him not to worry. “Komool,” he said. “Thank you.” Then one of the students presented Eddie with a gift certificate to a discount store on Majuro. Eddie was very appreciative.

The other student presented us with coconut meat he’d culled from some coconuts he’d managed to husk. Called iou, it’s the dried core of the coconut and has the consistency of angel-food cake and is nearly as sweet. I’m always surprised how the Marshallese partake so easily of the food around them when we’re in the jungle. As we ate, Newton told me he’d arranged for us to talk to yet another old man later in the day. Newton’s getting little rest these days and I feel bad about that, but I’m getting little rest myself.

Graduation

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Ron Tanner, chair of the Writing Department at Loyola College-Maryland, won a grant from the National Parks Service to help Marshallese college students preserve the oral culture of the Marshall Islands. He’s spending the 2008 spring semester (5 months) on Majuro to direct this pilot program, called the Marshall Islands Story Project. To get the full story of his personal experiences, be sure to check the archives to your left.

My motel has satellite TV. When the weather acts up, all 29 stations go out. But that’s infrequent. The transmitters sit in Southeast Asia (Malaysia is my guess), and all programming is packaged for Asia. For instance, I didn’t know that many American rock bands make videos for the Asian market, using Asian models. The VJ’s on MTV-Asia are, of course, Asian. Some speak like Americans, some like Brits, but all are fluent and very hip. Just as we have Entertainment Tonight, so does Asia have its Access Hollywood, with its Asian correspondents interviewing the biggest Western stars. Increasingly, Asia’s got money for everything the U.S. sells. And Asian fans and paparazzi are an appreciative lot. So, increasingly more bands and actors are touring Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Korea, Japan, and Australia.

Here’s the run-down from my set: public TV from Australia, a Fiji station with lots of rugby, BBC-world news, CNN world news, Fox news, ESPN (with lots of soccer), music video station (“V”) from Singapore, MTV-Asia, two Chinese stations, two Japanese stations, two (South) Korean stations, Animal Planet and National Geographic (Australia), Nickelodeon (New Zealand), NOW (hi-tech, British), two all-movies station (one exclusively Chinese, lots of Kung Fu), two Indian stations, two Marshallese stations, and Aljazeer-English, the Muslim international news station.

One of the Marshallese stations plays only music and runs stills of local ads, very basic. The other shows videos of local events—everything from the RMI president’s latest speech to the awards ceremony for the local bill-fishing club. The news stations represent the full spectrum, from the tawdry Fox, with its glossy lily-white newscasters (no woman older than 32 and every one A beauty-queen), to left-leaning Aljazeer, with its globally-diverse correspondents. CNN is centrist. BBC is left of center. Aljazeer is by far the most interesting. You can’t get it in the States. It’s banned. I can’t speak for Aljazeer-Arabic. That’s the station that showed controversial videos—including beheadings–some years back. Aljazeer-English is on par with the BBC. It’s buttoned-down serious, wide-ranging, and soft on no one, not even the Arab nations. The only difference between it and other world-news stations is that it actually talks about the Arab nations and the many facets of Muslim culture.

Only a few of its extremely diverse correspondents are camera-pretty. The network strives mightily to be even-handed, though, as I said, it’s more left-leaning than any other news station. That means it ferrets out censorship and human rights abuses in every nation. Fox news, by contrast, is like a cartoon. I repeat, Aljazeer-English is banned in the States. To whose advantage is that?

Recently on one of the Chinese stations I saw Kung-fu star Jackie Chan pitching an energy drink. Americans became familiar with these concoctions when Red Bull went mainstream in the States. The Chinese invented energy drinks, sugar water and caffeine mostly. There are all kinds in the grocery stores here. Chinese also sell medicinal herbs on TV, which is kind of cool to see. The Fijian station advertises only Fijian stores. It’s like watching a small-town station. Contests and promotionals on the major channels—whether Nickelodeon or MTV—are for Asian audiences only. Announcers have British or Australian accents. Touted vacation spots are Macao (gambling), Korea, Singapore, and Dubai. Many segments on shows like Animal Planet also have an Asian focus. The show about animal rescue, for instance, takes place in Australia.

On Asian TV you won’t find shows about gardening, house repair, consumer awareness, car repair, dog training or just about any other domestic interest common in the States. When you think about it, this makes sense. Dog training? Dogs are food in many countries out this way. House repair presupposes a standard of living that allows not only the leisure to do such repair but also the means to own a house and buy materials to fix it up. Not so common out this way. There are two hardware stores on Majuro, by the way: Ace and Do It Best; both are Stateside franchises. There’s plenty of building going on here, in part because nothing lasts, but every-day folk simply make-do. Most of the Majuro population live in dwellings we would call “shacks.” That’s because 1) they don’t own the land, 2) they spend most their time outside, and 3) they’re poor.

I find comedic characters in Asian movies interesting. They are cartoon silly—giddy, childish, and squeaky-voiced. The kind of characters who would make Jerry Lewis look like a newscaster. In the main, Americans, Brits, and Northern Europeans are fond of fairly staid comedic characters. Mr. Bean is a good example. Will Ferrell is another (he’s silly but not wholly unbelievable). Americas have little patience for the bug-eyed, manic clown. We want our funny men to be wise-guys or the put-upon, can’t-get-a-break guys. It must have something to do with the fact that Americans are workalholics and so-called realists. We don’t suffer fools easily—with the exception of our presidents.

The most bizarre TV hails from India. I’ve never seen anything like it. Keep in mind, the Indians have all of those wild gods and exotic dances and outlandish tales. Every time I flip past the Indian channels I catch glimpses of men wearing eyeliner and sequined turbans and singing in front of a backdrop of swirling stars and sari’d women dancing circles around them and singing their nasally, dizzying counterpoint, the spectacle watched eagerly by lipsticked gods—everybody over-bejeweled and wearing those fancy pantsuits. And there’s always one of those mincing, squeaky-voiced funny men nearby, hopping and rolling his eyes. Heaven forbid you were high and came upon one of these shows.

Updates: It’s been raining hard off and on for days. Streets get flooded. For the first time since my arrival months ago, I heard thunder. I don’t know why thunder is infrequent here. You should see the clouds that make the rain—they rise from the horizon like the Rockies, only taller. The project remains behind schedule, for reasons I’ll discuss next time. Newton and I are seriously considering canceling the trip to Wotje—it’s too much work for too little gain. My students are showing up every day for training but never on time and never all of them at once. Some stay late. Some leave early. I don’t know what it will take to get them focused. They’re building two websites—one for their NGO, the other for their first client. I’m in a terrible rush. They aren’t. Most are preoccupied with graduation this week. They’ll be rehearsing every day. Apparently they have to learn a couple of songs. There will be much revelry and much drinking. I don’t know how long it will take to get them back into the classroom after graduation day. I have four weeks left. Jill still hasn’t received her passport. Today is our anniversary: five years. I am very lucky to have found her. How many spouses would allow their partners (with minimal complaint) to go off on an adventure like this?

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Ron Tanner, chair of the Writing Department at Loyola College-Maryland, won a grant from the National Parks Service to help Marshallese college students preserve the oral culture of the Marshall Islands. He’s spending the 2008 spring semester (5 months) on Majuro to direct this pilot program, called the Marshall Islands Story Project. To get the full story of his personal experiences, be sure to check the archives to your left.

Newton received a visit this week from an officer of the local bank. He said that Newton owes the bank $2500 because Newton co-signed the loan for a friend who has not returned from the States. Maybe Newton’s friend planned it this way. Maybe the temptation to stay in the States was too great. Whatever the reason, Newton is disappointed in himself for not being more cautious. I told him it speaks well of his character that he would be trusting and helpful. He’s remarkably calm about it. Actually, his dilemma is fairly common. Newton knows of four other people who have been similarly used recently. He says the practice of jumping loans has increased in the last six month as the economy has worsened.

Majuro taxi fares have risen to a dollar. Gas is now $5.75 a gallon. A bag of rice is $8.50, up from $7.35. I don’t know how people manage on Majuro. I estimate groceries prices to be at least a third higher than in the States. It’s my biggest expense. A bag of oranges costs me $7-10. I saw a 6-once bag of fresh peas yesterday selling at the grocery for $9.45. Who can afford stuff like that? Your best bet is canned food, but none of it is as cheap as what we’re used to in the States. I hear that stateside business at Starbuck’s is down by nearly 30%. Hard times are upon us. The Marshallese will suffer more than most, I fear. Recently, I attended a church service where most of the parishioners couldn’t afford to contribute to the offering basket. Instead, they pretended to make contributions, each person walking up to the basket and placing pinched fingers inside as if dropping in money. By the time the collection was done, the basket held about six dollars, mostly in small change and a few singles, two of which were mine.

School’s out in a week. Nearly all of my students are graduating and going on to the University of Hawaii at Hilo. But these are the best and brightest—the lucky ones. Only a fraction of the students enrolled at the College of the Marshall Islands go on to four-year colleges. I’m not sure what becomes of the rest. I guess the answer is everywhere I look, at the idle young who are passing the time in the shade of a tree or on the basketball court or on the shore. Whether they go or stay, these students frame a problem for CMI. The government wants the college to focus more on skills and job-training. It just said so last week. But the college’s charter demands that it send its students on to 4-year colleges. Just this week, accreditation visitors from the States told the college to stay the course and secure its accreditation so that CMI students can transfer their credits to stateside colleges and universities.

After a four-year struggle, CMI is nearly accredited. It’s taking a lot of time, effort, and resources. Some argue that it’s a small gain for too great a cost, because CMI is looking to the States for direction instead of looking to its own students. But CMI argues that it’s only living up to its charter. If the government wants to change the charter and relieve CMI of its obligation to sustain the highest accreditation, then so be it. But that would be a messy change, it seems. The best hope among observers is that, after CMI wins its accreditation finally, it will turn its attention to much-needed local initiatives. CMI’s nursing program, for instance, is highly praised by all. Similar programs would be of great benefit to the community and the nation, especially as the U.S. missile site on Kwajalein has cut Marshallese jobs by nearly 20%. The debate is further complicated , however, by a recent report that underscores the nation’s dire need for teachers whose training exceeds a junior college degree. This would seem to support CMI’s current direction.

Just outside my window, fireworks are booming over the lagoon. Today, May 1, is Constitution Day, the republic celebrating its independence. The Marshall Islands won independence from the U.S. in 1986, after forty-one years of being a “trust territory.” Critics have called the time of U.S. “trusteeship” the era of occupation. As citizens of a trust territory, the Marshallese got little or no say in what happened to them. The most egregious example was the U.S. government’s testing of nuclear bombs here from 1946-58.

Today’s celebration started with a parade of school children from the island’s huge auditorium to the Nitijela, the legislative building, where dignitaries did their dignified thing. Noticeably absent was the national orchestra. It remains a mystery as to why the current government will not employ the band. Today’s music was recorded. I hear a lot about the new government attempting to right so many wrongs done by the old government. Newton himself was done wrong by the former government when it awarded someone else a job he had won (through an examination process). Recently, he applied for a job as Consulate General, a position he would serve in Arkansas, where the largest population of Marshallese live (they work in a Tyson chicken plant in Springdale, AK). He’d make a great Consulate General. And I’d get to see him if he moved to the States. But, then, he wouldn’t be here, on Majuro, to direct the Story Project after I’m gone. That would be a loss.

He and I have decided that we’re officially behind schedule. For so small an island, it’s remarkably difficult to get to people. Daily life here is so fluid, something always causes delay or postponement. It’s going to be a scramble to meet our goal of gathering nine stories per category (traditional tales, life stories, and nuclear survivor tales). We’re still planning on taking our final field trip to Wotje. Air Marshall Islands is flying again. So no long boat trip for me, thank you.

The rains have come in earnest and so my motel has turn its water on again—and most of the time I can get warm (never hot) water. I have exhausted all culinary possibilities for daily meals that can be prepared in a motel room with a microwave. I’ve settled into a diet of salads (lots of mung bean sprouts), cereal (Cheerios), soup (Japanese, packaged), peanut butter (organic), pasta (really bad-but-edible when microwaved), and chocolate bars. I’ve gone cold turkey on the cookies. Too many nights I found myself gaping at the TV and downing an entire box of Arnott’s raspberry shortbreads. Thank you to Dave Belz and friends who sent me a second care package. I’m rationing these treats. The Planter’s trail mix my students find most exotic. They’re thrilled when they see something that can’t be found on island. Final note: apparently the entry for “Arno III, Story-Teller Secrets” (April 3) never posted—which is why Mom thinks we didn’t get any stories. It’s worth checking out.

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