It is truly a strange thing to leave a new place in which you have lived for a year. Knowing if you will return or not is irrelevant when that place is, or was, so different from where you came from in the first place. A month ago, I looked on my departure from the Marshall Islands with glee. I could not wait to get home, back to the place I knew and loved. However, as the end came nearer, my feelings became more conflicted--I knew I would miss this place. Now, as I sit on the bus, riding through Majuro to the airport for the last time, I find myself trying to figure out what it is that attaches us to a place. What is it that makes a place feel like home?
What first comes to mind is the idea of the familiar. When I first came to the RMI, so many things seemed new and strange. I was on a small piece of land. Brand names and stores I knew and trusted didn't exist here. There was a language I had never heard. There were so many new faces. As I went through my last day here, I was extremely conscious of the faces around me. Upon arrival, I was in the spotlight: I was the new ribelle, the new face. Now, I am a part of the masses. As I went to the post office or to school or to MIR, I saw so many people that I had befriended or shared experiences with over the past year. A head nod, a "Yokwe" or "Hello," or a wave were all that were needed to cement these relationships knowing that we were most likely to see each other again soon. I would walk down the street in Rita and hear so many children say, "Andrew!" or "Mr. Andrew, where are you going?" Other volunteers joked that I was famous but I knew that it was simply because I had walked that road so many times before. The choices I made on where to go on a Friday night or where to eat out or where to get the best this or that were all based on familiarity. Experiences compounding on experiences. Experiences of ribelle and rimajol, of me and you folding into one another. Riding away from all of that on this bus pains me a bit knowing that that which has become familiar will be so far away, replaced by things I have known much longer, some with much less intimacy. Things that aren't as fresh in my mind.
Familiarity breeds comfort. After having lived in Majuro, I feel extremely comfortable there, despite occasionally uncomfortable conditions. Any situation I faced or person I met I could handle because this atoll, this town was my home. I always found it so funny and strange that outer island volunteers would come to Majuro and talk about how crazy or strange it was. Once again, I guess the time I spent there turned what seemed strange or disquieting at first into ordinary and common place. I am glad that wild dogs or cockroaches no longer unnerve me. Why should they? I am a much less high maintenance/picky person as a result of my experiences here. I learn that people in most places don't have thoughts of choices and that living with a few is just as exciting.
Granted, some things never became comfortable. I knew they existed and in exploring them, I was able to try to understand them. In that understanding, or in the attempt, I found comfort. I am by no means comfortable with the high levels of alcoholism or domestic violence. I am not comfortable knowing what goes on in some classrooms and what doesn't go on in others. Even politics and bureaucracy here makes me uncomfortable sometimes. I will not say that I have learned to stop judging, but I have learned that different values, histories, and geographies create different cultures. I take comfort in knowing that despite my discomforts, I was able to settle in and find my place in a world that was not mine. I am happy that I became comfortable enough to be able to seek out dialogue with Marshallese people about their lives.
More base than that, simple comforts like routines have made this place homey as well. Getting up about 10 minutes before school started, walking to school with Mandy, teaching, lunch, teaching more, going to the gym, cooking dinner, and playing cards or watching movies was the path I took almost every day. It does not seem like much, but in the spaces between those commas, worlds shook, lessons were learned, friendships were made, and perspectives were changed. The students, teachers, ribelles, workout buddies, and acquaintances that were part of my routine helped make me more comfortable than they will ever know.
On a grander scale, I think that the Pacific is simply a more comfortable place than the “modern First World.” I remember having a conversation with my field director, Anna, during our mid-service where I asked her why she had stayed out here so long. At this point in the adventure, I was extremely jaded and through all my frustrations could not understand why anyone would choose to stay in the Pacific. She simply told me that she enjoyed the way of life. At that point the answer was unsatisfactory for me, but looking back over the experience, the Pacific is like no place I have ever been. The slow pace, the kindness, the friendliness, the charity, the lack of worry, and the warmth all come together to truly create paradise. It is difficult to live there and not be overwhelmingly comfortable. I think this is the reason that so many ex-pats settle in the Pacific and why Islanders have no interest in leaving. What the islands lack in modern comforts, they make up for in making each other comfortable. To my school family, my host family, my friends, our memories will a part of the stars and the waves in the ocean. Thank you.
Which leads me to my final and most important thought on home, one that I never considered before coming to the RMI--the feeling of nostalgia. I write this final portion from the airport in San Francisco. I am one plane ride away from being home. Here, as I sit in the airport food court eating after having wandered around looking slack-jawed at dining facilities that all served food that was more elaborate than anything served in the RMI (and after having chosen the simplest thing), I am amazed by what I see what and I miss already. Technology like escalators, walking platforms, or water fountains—things that I always took for granted—are a welcome reminder of the world that I left behind for this past year. Still, the onslaught of advertisements, the fact that seemingly everyone has a iPad (why, I do not know) and how cold, impassive, unfriendly, and unfamiliar everyone is makes me long for more golden shores. I think that home truly becomes home when you leave it and you are able to long for it. You long for the way that things were; the comforts and familiar things that you grew to know so well. You long to return to a place where you knew you belonged even if that place doesn't exist anymore in the same way that it used to in the past that you remember. Even a few hours after leaving the RMI I can feel it calling back to me. I do not know when I will answer that call, but to all of you who are there, know that I envy you. I envy the comfort and peace that comes with sunny smiles and the sounds of the ocean lapping the shore. That little island in the sun, though dirty and filled with problems of its own, is a paradise kingdom. Revel in it. I know I have.
I would have liked to make this more political, to have commented on the government, the education system, the state of ribelles, and the like. But, this is not the place for that, and in looking back, those are not the things I will remember the most fondly. I will remember the late night conversations at MIR where Yvonne, me, and Marshallese ministers and senators tried to solve the world's problems. I will remember dancing with Anne, Angela, Lauren, and Kim at the Pub. I will remember the Pinho's porch. I will remember the view from the top of the water tower at sunrise and sunset. I will remember the sunsets and seeing God in each and every one of them. I will remember the walk to Tide Table, the heat of the sun, and the island breeze. I will remember how to open a coconut and what "Yokwe" really truly means. I will remember Thursday Night Potlucks, Kung Fu Tuesdays, Wednesday Meetings, and the Insanity Workouts. I will remember walking across the ocean only to be terrified by packs of dogs on Ejit. I will remember diving into the ocean from a floating island platform on the most beautiful island I have ever seen. I will remember the sunken planes. I will remember the bluest blue I have even seen. I will remember the drives to Laura. I will remember riding on the back of trucks. I will remember the card games and the movie nights. I will remember running from the rain and dancing in it on the street during New Years at Block Party. I will remember my first Christmas and Thanksgiving away from home. I will remember the first turkey I cooked. I will remember all the friends I made. But most of all, I will remember my students. I will never forget you 107 and 104. Remember, "Oh, the places you'll go!"
The Marshall Islands was an incredible adventure. Thanks for journeying with me.
Bar Lo Kom and see you soon,
Andrew
PS: I have started my adventures in Bosnia. I will be keeping my new, more frequent/viral blog on my new wordpress page: http://andrewraynerbih.wordpress.com/ Hope to see you there!
