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The Marshalls, Charley by Geoff Edwards
I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. I was some 2,300 miles West of Hawaii and a good 4,930 miles away from our home in Palm Springs. A while back, at a cocktail party in Waikiki, I met Dennis Allesio, an American expatriate living in the Marshall Islands. Dennis has what he calls "the sickness". We call it boat building. Several years ago, he convinced some elders on the islands to resuscitate their historical boat building skills, and, again create the outrigger canoes that were a faded part of their Micronesian culture. The idea spread throughout the islands, the old taught the young, and the Outrigger Marshall Island’s Cup race was born. Dennis invited my wife and me to visit the Marshalls and attend the race, now in its second year. I was well into the party. I accepted. The race features individual champions from their home atolls competing in one man outrigger sail canoes made of hollowed out breadfruit trees. Although clumsy sounding, these are fast, cleverly designed boats. The shape of their hulls, one side flat and one curved, gives them the ability, when called upon, to sail very close to the wind. In 1824, the Captain of U.S. Schooner Dolphin said of the Micronesians, "their canoes display the greatest ingenuity. They move through the water with astonishing velocity, and in turning to windward, no boats can surpass them." When I mentioned to friends that I was going to the Marshall Islands, the few that knew their precise location. Those few had served in the Pacific in WWII, and names like Kwajalein, Bikini, and Eniwetok, brought less than pleasant memories to the surface. Draw a straight line from Los Angeles through Honolulu, and just across the International Dateline you will find the 1,225 islands and atolls that are The Republic of The Marshall Islands. Only inhabited, with about half of the 52,000 Marshallese living on Majuro, the capitol of, and location of the Marshall Island’s Cup. Unless there is another war in the Pacific, Continental Micronesia, or Continental "Mike", is only way to get to the Marshal Islands. Continental Mike flies a DC10 from Honolulu to its hub in Guam. Three times a week, they also fly a 727 island hopper from Guam to Majuro (8 _ hours including stops), then on to Hawaii, (5 more hours). Three times a week they reverse the route back to Guam. We opted to spend a day in Guam, and then take the island hopper, backtracking to Majuro. Our plane approached Majuro at twilight, as the 60 mile skinny atoll, surf on one side, lagoon on the other, was just beginning to shadow the breaking waves. Not much in the way of shadow though, because the island, shaped like a boomerang with two bulbous ends, is only twenty feet at its highest point. The headquarters for the race was the Marshall Islands Outrigger Hotel, the only full service hotel in the Marshall Islands. Because of an El Nino caused drought, the term "full service" only applied to certain hours of the day. Water flowed two hours in the morning, two in the afternoon, and two at night. There must have been a fuel shortage too, because several of the two-hour periods provided only cold water. Water aside, the hotel opens on a beautiful view of the lagoon, and boasts an energetic young American chef attempting to concoct a new Asian/Marshallese cuisine. At our farewell feast, he served Oso Buco. Old habits die slowly. Our first full day in Majuro was spent getting acquainted with the island, a fairly uncomplicated task. Except at the ends, Majuro is no wider than two interstates. Houses, mostly small and of cinder block, are strung along the sides of the one road that runs the length of the atoll. At either end, are Rita and Laura (sic), two towns named by our troops for Rita Hayworth and Lauren Bacall. English is the official language, but most prefer one of the two native dialects. There is no public land in the Marshall Islands. Even the government leases the land it uses from private landowners. Property is owned by the women and passed from mother to daughter. The fifteen chiefs, however, have the local power, and power is passed from father to son. About five years ago, the chiefs on Majuro decided to collect a twenty-dollar fee per month from each homeowner. It is easy to tell a chief’s house from the others. Our guide said, "We like to keep our chiefs happy." Sadly, there is graffiti on many of the buildings and signs. It is drawn by young kids (over half the population of the Marshall’s is under the age of 14), but only crudely copied from what is seen on satellite TV, without any real gang reference. Actually, gangs did exist for a short while, but the chiefs wearied of the hooliganism and one day said, "no more". The next day the gangs were gone. Remember, I said the Chief’s have the power. If you don’t obey a chief, a bulldozer shows up and levels your home. It is a good idea to keep a chief happy. Although the Marshall Islands are a sovereign nation, the United States provides the money to run the national government. The government then levies a second tax on the populace to get more money to run the government. The big homes not owned by chiefs, belong to the President, the former President, the President’s daughter, the former President’s daughter…well, you get the picture. The only sign of manufacturing we saw was a Chinese owned garment factory with a Chinese labor force housed behind barbed wire. The Chinese are used for cheap labor, but because the plant is in the Marshall Islands, the label "Made in the USA" appears on the goods. The factory makes apparel for some of the top names in America. That evening the sailors were briefed, and a buffet was held in their honor. Coconut and breadfruit were dished up in salads accompanied by warm taro rolls, brown on the outside; purple inside. Lifting the metal tops on the hot chafing dishes, we found rice, pork, chicken and fish. Well, actually fish heads, cleanly separated from their better halves, beady eyes staring blankly through the onion rings. I believe in "waste not, want not." I wanted not. Race day! Marshallese singers and dancers performed as onlookers began lining the shore. A powerful launch, referred to as "the dive boat", just returned from ferrying the sailors to the starting point down the beach, was dockside. Because this was a six mile race with much of it taking place far from shore, a Marshallese race coordinator would follow the canoes in the dive boat. His job was to call the participants’ positions in to the race desk at the Outrigger Hotel. These rankings would be continuously updated on a large "race board" for all to see. A video cameraman, and a local sports announcer would also work the race from the dive boat. A major problem delayed the starting of the race; the two way radios needed to report from dive boat to hotel were broken. Since I travel with a pair of two way radios (don’t ask), I volunteered mine to the race desk. Major problem number two; the race coordinator, figuring his job was over, was last seen heading towards the bar "Geoffrey", a large Marshallese woman dictated, handing me a radio, "get on da boat." Be assured, this woman had the power. At first glance, it looked easy. I had a list of participants; each participant had a shirt with a number. What was not included in the mix was that each participant would immediately take his shirt off. I had no clue who anyone was, and back at Outrigger the crowd and the large Marshallese woman were getting impatient. With help from the video guy, the sports guy, and my creative imagination, I started sending information. At this distance, who was to dispute my reporting? "Dive boat to Outrigger, Namdrik is in the lead, Ailinglaplap
is second, over" When the race was over, and the winner, Namdrik, (thank the gods I had that one right) declared, the dive boat returned to the pier. My companion radio was handed back to me. No words were spoken. I am not sure, but I think the silent "thank you" is a Marshallese tradition. Next year they are offering a prize for the most creative presentation of a number placed on a sail. Except for the Outrigger hotel, this is third world territory. It is also a chore to get to any Marshallese destination. So why make the extra effort? Well, if you are a diver, incredible underwater experiences are waiting there. Bikini atoll is now open. One can dive on sunken WWII ships, including the aircraft carrier Saratoga, the battleship Arkansas, and the flagship from which Admiral Yamamoto directed the attack on Pearl Harbor. In Majuro, there are so many trucks, tanks, and jeeps at the bottom of the lagoon, they call it "The Parking Lot". On our way to a desert island picnic, we stopped to stand on the wing of a downed B-24 resting in only eight feet of water. The water here is 88 degrees and crystal clear. If you are a history buff, you will find all sorts of relics of WWII throughout the Marshall Islands. And if you want some of the best deep-sea fishing in the world, drop a hook in front of over eight hundred species of fish. The marlins here are known world wide for their size and abundance. Or you could be like me. You could love being far, far away from most everything, sitting cross-legged on a deserted beach, scooping up rice balls and breadfruit from a newly woven palm frond "eating bowl", waiting for your agent to call with an offer for next year’s race.
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"Dive boat to Outrigger, Namdrik is in the lead,
Ailinglaplap is second, over."
