The Final Hop

The final hop of Continental Air Micronesia's ("Air Mike") westbound Island Hopper route is Truk to Guam, although it wasn't actually THE Island Hopper that I boarded in Truk. I had spent a week on Truk (see My Crazy Relatives corresponding post dates) before continuing on to Guam. This flight was the dreaded Monday 2:20AM flight. Living right off the runway, I was able to get a few hours of sleep that night before being awakened by the thunderous roar of the Boeing 737 touching down right outside my window. And off we went, with a minute to spare before the doors were closed for boarding. (Actually, they would have waited for us; they would have even sent a messenger to wake us up if we hadn't showed up at the airport. Yes, the island is that close knit.)

I was shocked to see this brand new departure lounge. Compliments of the Chinese, I hear. 

(Ahem! Um, nevermind...)

 

This map of the lagoon was donated by Truk Stop Hotel & Restaurant where I received my diver's certification, home of the Hard Wreck Café where I've dealt a few beating blows in a game of nine ball.

 

I was a zombie walking onto the tarmac. Thank goodness Yvette was there to keep me straight.

Next thing I know the runway is rushing at me at 300mph.

And this is all remember before being jolted awake at touchdown.

We're not in Truk anymore, but I know we're definitely still in Micronesia. Nowhere else in the modern world do folks dress identically as a fashion statement.

Good bye Truk.

Hello Guam.

Downtown Truk Lagoon

The first thing I crave in Truk is fish. So we drive into town for supplies to stock up the fridge and pantry.

I noticed billboards everywhere, promoting anti-drug, good health, and eco-hygiene.
 This particular signage literally translates: [phrase in white letters] cherish, care for the cleanliness [of Chuuk]. [In red letters] Don't be a creature of littering.

And off to the side, piled about eight feet high is a mountain of trash. I think to myself *at least it isn't littered everywhere!*

That's Yaya and Papa B. 

The bucket is for this exactly:

Fish.

Fresh caught reef fish.

Caught mere hours ago.

Selling for up to $3.50 per pound, depending on the type of fish.

Across the street from the fish vendors is B's Store & Gas Station. There are more fuel containers filled than cars. Because...

Of these: outboard skiffs. Which is how the fish end up at the market.

While at B's Store, I visit a family friend, Amor.

Aside from fish, vendors sell pounded breadfruit or taro wrapped in bread fruit leaves. My favorite is apwet, breadfruit pounded, and buried in the ground for at least a year to ferment. Once exhumed, it is glazed with coconut milk for a scrumptious, finger-lickin' meal.

Speaking of coconut, fresh young coconut water is the perfect thirst quencher on a hot humid day.

For those with more sensitive tastes, there are string beans and delicate bananas.

For those who crave sour - yours truly is guilty - there is green mangoes. Once, when I was a kid I ate twenty too many mangoes, which sent my stomach in a sour frenzy. You'd think I'd learned to stay away from green mangoes. Nope. I crave it so much I salivate thinking about it.

Here is a mwaramwar weaver. Mwaramwars are very aromatic, mostly used to welcome or see off friends on travels. They're also laid on Catholic mass presiders (the priests, alter boys/girls, readers, acolites) at the offering presentation.

And for a taste of the outside world, there's the post office. This is where the hassles of modern living wake you from your island reverie. Cell phone bills. Cable bills. Credit card bills. Amazon.com deliveries. 

That's my cousin, MJ's, Kyle's, and Lana's Mom. She, like me, was born and grew up right here in Truk Lagoon.

More to come...

The Island Hopper

Continental Air Micronsia flight 957 from Honolulu to Guam is dubbed the Island Hopper. Depending on the winds and ground time, the journey may take anywhere from eleven to thirteen hours. The Boeing 737 literally "hops" through five specs for islands before reaching her final destination.

The longest leg of the flight is from Honolulu to Majuro. The four hour flight is hardly a jaunt, especially if you're the type who cannot sleep in flight. We took off from Honolulu at 5:30AM, the sky barely lit.

Of the islands we hop through, Majuro is my favorite.

Because it is the most perilous looking runway of all.

Majuro is a single thin line seen from the air. Indeed, we are flanked by a pristine azure ocean as our plane touches down.

Only once have I stayed in Majuro overnight. There is only one road, which neither turns left nor right, nor is it intersected for that matter.

Her airport facility is one of the better ones.

I was surprised to see this poster in the departure lounge.

But alas, judging by how disdainfully this passenger put away his iPad, WiFi ain't flying' here.

Second island en route is Kwajelein, my second favorite.

It is a US Military installment, and as such passengers whose final destination is not Kwaj or Ebeye remain on board.

But I don't mind. There is enough going one outside to keep me entertained. You can't see it from this shot, but alongside the runway is a golf course, where players always wave at us as we land/take off. And around the runway and tarmack is a path regularly occupied by runners or bikers passing a humdrum day in exercise.

If I had to live on an island indefinitely, I'd love to live in Kwaj.

Five hours since getting on the plane in Hawaii, I was very grateful to my friend James for his gift of roasted almoonds, on which I munched on throughout the journey. And even now as I type, I'm munching on almonds. Thanks James!

 

Third island, Kosrae.

I forgot to mention that Continental Air "Mike" conducts a security sweep through the cabin at every landing. The left side of the plane takes turns disembarking with the right side, while security personnel search through overhead bins and front seat pockets. I have no idea what exactly they search for, and I cringe to imagine the worst. At any rate, you must take all your carry-on with you if you choose to disembark; anything left behind will be confiscated.

Then you hang out in the departure lounges, basking in a blanket humid air that you might feel thick enough to slice with a butter knife.

In the meantime, luggage is unloaded and loaded for homecomers and new passengers respectively.

I have no comments about Kosrae's airport facility. Amen.

I will say though, on the Kosraeans' behalf, that they have some of the most beautiful art made from some of the most primitive tools.

A necklace strung of gorgeous shells.

Skirts embroidered with manually pedaled sewing machines

Sea creatures' likenesses carved into wood, and woven rafia.

And this now is the only Kosraean word I know. Oayak. Although I couldn't tell you what it means.

Fourth island, Pohnpei. Aka Ponape.

The island of rivers, waterfalls, and colorful birds. The Sokehs rock is always a welcoming sight for arriving visitors and residents alike.

My family stayed in Pohnpei for a long, long time once when I was very little. I remember speaking the language, but alas can regurgitate only Kaselelia maeng! Kapan kola-ia? today.

Pohnpei, being the captial of the Federated States of Micronesia, has the best maintained facilities, like this departure lounge.

Even so, I prefer to stand outside in the butter-thick air, catching up with old acquaintances I encountered on this journey. Hello friend! Where are you going? (In case you haven't figured, this is the translation of the Ponapean phrase I wrote above.)

Continental Air "Mike" uniforms have changed from the white background with blue print shirts to this new tan background with black print.

There was a group of divers from New Jersey - yes, as in Newark, The Soprano's, Empire Boardwalk, Born in the USA (is Bruce from New Jersey?) New Jersey - who by now were on their last drop of patience on this seemingly endless flight. Their destination is the same as mine, home of ghostly Japanes fleets sunk in WW2's Operation Hailstorm.

By this point the cabin of our plane is thick with the aroma of tropical flowers, ylangylang, plumeria, seur (seh-uhrr), the head pieces here worn by Ponapeans.

At long last, home, sweet home.

Mount Tonachao, the octopus head. I have climbed this granite mountain more times than I can count on my fingers and toes. What a welcoming sight.

My first childhood home was behind that tall building to the right of the shot.

Just like every island on the Hopper, friends, family, and onlookers peer through cyclone fences in wait for their arriving party. That smiling, little lady is my cousin, Miko's mom.

Home, sweet home Chuuk. When I was growing up, it was called Truk. Not truck. Truk, with no C. The westernized name for Chuuk.

Allow me translate: the place for taking the belongings of travelers. Literally. It's amazing how quickly the language comes back to me as soon as I step on home soil.

While the "foreigners" continue to shed water weight in this butter-thick atmosphere, it no longer phases me.

Those divers are wishing this piece of machinery was working. One thing about Chuuk that might be a shocker to new-comers is that everything here is "broken." Remember this for my upcoming posts. BROKEN.

Without further ado, my welcoming party. Miko's Dad, Miko's Mom, a very tall Miko, and Papa B.

A mwaramwar (lei) weaver.

Miko gave me a mwaramwar smelled like home. Sweet home.

Rananim!

(Good day!)