The Exodus

The diesel engine started with a lazy growl.  Bags packed to the brim, necks adorned with shell necklaces, the last equatorial sun streaming through the windows of the van.

This is it.  We are going home.

Rolling slowly through the potholes of our little road tugged memories from my mind.  All those evenings running to the ocean, dodging the same puddles in hopes to catch the last of the sunset.  Or the night we went spearfishing, and came back toting our trophies for all the neighbors to see.  Or the local feast that left us so stuffed that we could barely walked down that road back to our house.  Or the time walking back from the water under the full moonlight, thinking to myself that I may never see beauty such as this again, with the palm fronds glazed in silver silhouettes against the deep dark ocean sky. 

The van jostled as we rolled over the speed bumps by the church.  I waved to Kun and Nelly Sonia as we passed their house.  I watched as houses flew past on the way to the airport.  People kept to their daily lives, sweeping breadfruit leaves and frying fish over outdoor fires.  I looked up at Mount Matunte, the mountain that almost claimed my dad.  It stood ominous yet beautiful, its green jungle slopes bathing in the morning sun.  We bumped across the rusty bridge that crosses the channel to the airport, and I thought about the dozens of times we would come out here to cool off after a hot day of teaching.  I thought about the kids playing with us and jumping off with us- being friends with us.

We pulled up to the small, open-air airport.  I felt numb, like this wasn’t actually happening.  I wanted to feel sad, but as I let my feelings adjust, I felt strangely fulfilled. 

And feeling fulfilled is about the best feeling I could ask for after a year like this.

Pastor Tara sat wordless with us for a while.  We both knew it was time to go. 

“Boys…..,” his words trailed off a little.  “Thank you.”

“We shared one last handshake with the man that had taken care of us the whole year, the man that deserved so much more but never asked for an ounce of it. 

I didn’t know what to say.  “Pastor…thank YOU,” I replied.  “We will meet again someday.” 

He smiled and patted us on the shoulders.  As he left, it was as if Kosrae left with him.  Everything from then on was a blur.  Plane landing, random security search, tight seating, dry airplane air, takeoff, blue ocean and green island getting smaller and smaller and smaller and then clouds.  Sleep, iPod, John Mayer, stops at Ebeye and Majuro, complimentary drinks, and then Honolulu at 2:30 AM with escalators and Americans and Starbucks and Burger King and roads with lanes and lots and lots and lots of people.

Home awaits me now, along with everyone I love and care for.  I am excited beyond words to fall back into the life I know, to finally be with all those that I have missed so much.

But something will be different now.  Amid this cluttered and busy mind that will soon be taken over by ruthless nursing school and jobs and life itself, there will always be a little corner that is a little warmer and maybe a bit humid, with a sandy beach and a palm tree overhanging the blue water. 

And I know that I can go there anytime in my mind and remember-

The peace that I once knew,

The strength that I once gained,

The beauty that once filled me,

and the Love that I once experienced on the little 

42 square-mile island of Kosrae, Micronesia.

Peace from the United States of America,

River

p.s.  Thank you for joining with me in this journey to Kosrae.  Its about time I wrap up this blog, but it has been a crazy adventure and I had a fun time trying my best to document it.  If you are curious about any other adventures or stories or want to see more pictures, I would be more than happy to talk!  I will always be anxious to share this adventure; and what an adventure it was.  

Soaking It In

I dunked my head under one more time.

mmmmmmmmm.....so refreshing.....

I sank into the cool, fresh water of the jungle stream we found while riding our bikes up an old dirt road that lead to the interior of the island.  The scene was something right out of the jungle book.

Today is our last day in Kosrae.  The intense equatorial sun shone down on my skin just like it always has, and the moist air filled my lungs and we hopped back on our bikes and started back down towards the ocean.  

I wonder how long it will be before I am on a tropical island again after tomorrow.  

Our plane leaves tomorrow, sweeping me towards a land of cool, dry air and a face-paced lifestyle that would feel insane to the Kosraens.  

And I'm just soaking this in while I can.

Peace from the tropics,

River

In Remembrance

I opened my eyelids slowly at the sound of my watch beeping.

6:00 AM, May 14.

I sat up in bed.  Today is the last day of school.

I lumbered into the kitchen and put a pot of water on the stove.  Daylight was just beginning to seep through our windows as I scooped coffee grounds into the french press.  

The last day of school.

Sitting down with my mug of coffee, I produced a very skillful and convincing "faraway look" and reminisced back to the start of the year that seemed like an eternity ago.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

The pastor led us along the chipped-up sidewalk towards the library.  "Here is our library, you should be able to find some textbooks in here," he suggested.  I peered in.  Stacks and stacks of unorganized books cluttered the dank room, and the air smelled like mold and wet paper.  He then led us to our respective classrooms, and gave us a key.  "Let me know if you need anything else boys!" he said cheerfully as he walked back to his house.  I wanted to say 'can you quick tell me how to be a teacher and stuff before we teach tomorrow?' but I feel like that wasn't appropriate at the moment.

Monday, August 26, 2013

Nervous.  I opened my classroom at 7:00 AM and tried to pound together a lesson plan for the day.  Charades for bible?  Maybe.  How about math?  What do 3rd and 4th graders learn in math? Times tables?  Not yet.  Telling time?  Let's try it.  How about English?  Do they even speak English?  Will they even understand me?  And reading.  How can they read English of they barely speak it?  I know.  I will read to them.  But for 45 minutes?  And we have no books.  How do I teach a classroom without any books?  How do I teach a classroom in general??

Here is my journal entry from the first day of school.

I hear the rumbling of a bus.  My heart rate speeds up.  This is it.  This is the next year of my life.  Pretty soon, 15 local kids tumble into my classroom, each taking a desk.  Its eerily quiet as they lock their dark, beady eyes on their new white teacher.  I "confidentially" take a stand in front of the class and write my name on the board in big letters (that's how they do it in movies I guess) and I introduce myself as Mr. Davis.  This title instantly goes under the rug and I am unwittingly dubbed "Teecha".  My plan for charades fell apart as the kids were unwilling to leave their seats, and I resorted to basically acting stories out for them.  Finally, the bell rang.  Phew.  Then math class came.  I decided to teach them how to tell time, but apparently time doesn't really matter on a tiny island where there is nowhere to be.  I struggled through a grueling 45 minutes on the concept of time and yielded no progress.  Finally, after 7 long classes, the bus comes and takes all the students home.  I march upstairs and collapse on my hot, sticky bed.  There is no way I can do this for a whole school year.  There is literally no way.  There must be a mistake, I am not qualified to do this.  I don't even know what I am doing!  I am a con teacher!  What if the parents find out?  Maybe I'm not meant to do this.

I took a sip of coffee as a cool breeze came through the window.  The bus would soon come and drop off my students for the last time.  I chuckled in remembrance of those first few days.  

Somehow this impossible task became possible, and I can only think of one way that happens.  I shot up a silent prayer with a feeling of overwhelming gratitude, because I know I would have never been able to do this without Him.  

This is it.  We did it.  

We marched down our steps like we always had, nalgene and notebook in hand, and as my classroom became flooded with my kids carrying cookies and cake and soda for the party I checked off the final day in my calendar hanging in my classroom.  

And just like that, the giant has been conquered.  I wonder how the world will treat these kids when they get older. 

Holter, Annesha, Awee, Pertha, Natalie, Mitchigo, Webster, Hudson, Fumie, Jenelly, Murson, Vilana, Heather, and Nelly.

I know it sounds corny, but they all have a little part of my heart now, and I know someday I'll be sitting in a cold library at nursing school and I'll wonder how Awee is doing.  Or if Nelly is going swimming today.  Or if Holter ever found out that Fumie likes him.  

Its a two-week sprint now until our plane takes off from the island of Kosrae and carries us back home.

Peace from the tropics,

River

Stuff My Students Say, Vol. 3

As school comes to a close, I would like to share my final installment of "Stuff my Students Say".  Tomorrow marks the final review week of the year, and bittersweet emotions are are starting to well up in my soul.  When I first walked in my classroom, I saw 15 sets of beady eyes staring at me expectantly, and I felt a daunting task hanging over me.  And now here we are with 9 days of school left, and it all seems so amazing that it even happened.  I made friends with fifteen 3rd and 4th graders, and I start to feel very proud of them when I think back on all the times we had in that little classroom.  Here are a few last snippets of some of my my kids' stunning work.

1.  "Webster Dictionary" approved, I'm sure.

2. Mental images....yikes.

3.  Probably the most disturbing thing I have received in my inbox...

4.  Unbelievable.  Just, unbelievable.  The Word of the Week strikes again.

5.  Eh, close enough.

6.  Nelly is covering her bases while giving an example of a spelling word.

7.  The suspense is killing me...

8.  A sit.  

9.  Oh, the irony.  What a great start to a "Pelling" test.

10.  "Hard cake".  Nice try.

11.  When asked what his favorite food was.  

12.  I guess this is what I get for having mostly girls in my class.  My poor eye-cones.  

26 days left of my life in Kosrae.  I'll be seeing you all soon!

Peace from the tropics,

River

"The Cracker Ladder" And Other Stories

The time was 5:30 pm on a Thursday afternoon.  The air was still and hot inside our apartment as I roamed the "kitchen" looking for something to eat.  Trying to find food within my criteria (anything that can be eaten without having to be prepared first), I reached for a half-empty bag of wheat thins from our freezer.

Not wanting to enjoy these delicious salty wafers in the broiling oven that we call our house, I decided that outside would be a good place to have my snack.  I look out the window.

kids.

Hmm.  I did the math.
kids + teacher with crackers = human vending machine.

Feeling a little selfish about my small stash of crackers, I snuck down our incredibly creaky stairs and casually said hello to the kids.

"Hey guys."
"Hi teecha."
"Having fun on the new seesaw?"
"Yes."

They eyed me suspiciously.

I scanned the area for a good stakeout to eat my crackers.  I needed a high place.  Driven by the intense rumbling of my stomach, I spotted the perfect place.  With long, quiet strides, I reached the base of the slide ladder.  I climbed up the sketchy steps to the top, with my head brushing the leaves of the mango tree above.  Perfect.

Now perched on the top of the slide, I reached into the back of wheat thins.

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLECRUNCHCRACKLECRUNCH.

The whoosh of children's heads turning was almost audible from my perfect little vantage point.  I had been discovered.

"TEECHA GIVE ME SOME!"
"TEEEEECCHHHAAAAAA!"
"TEECH GIVE!"

I made a textbook mistake by giving in and dropping one cracker to Nelly below me.  Instantly I was a vending machine.  Kids started coming out of the woodwork, appearing from behind trees and the seesaw and probably the ground.  I had to be fair, so I dropped a cracker to each child.  Mitchigo's little sister, Thelma, was toddling after the older kids with the promise of a cracker.  Being only 3 years old, her motor skills weren't quite up to par.  I dropped a cracker from my perch and it landed right on her head.  She looked puzzled and disappointed at the fallen cracker, and looked up with her beady little eyes in hopes for another one.  After the 6th cracker, she decided she needed to attack the source.  A small brigade of toddlers started making their way up my ladder, babbling things in Kosraen that I didn't understand.

I was outnumbered.  We signed the peace treaty at the top of the slide, and they each received one cracker.

The End.



At this moment I just made a comment to Ryan about these times when I finish a blog, and then I read it back and wonder why I'm even blogging about this.  But then its too late, so I keep it anyway.


Crackers from the tropics,


River

The Honest Answer

I have a little calendar in my classroom.  Its actually a piece of paper with 10 tiny months printed on it, with little day-sized checks spanning from exactly August 20 to March 24.  

Today we have been here 7 months.  

When we first touched down on the island of Kosrae, everything was brand new and exciting.  I wanted to blog about EVERYTHING.  

"Oh my goodness, the ocean was so warm!  I MUST BLOG."

"Great glory, breadfruit tastes like unsalted play-dough! I MUST BLOG."

"There was a sunset!  I MUST BLOG."

Back then I was a pre-packaged SM sent straight from the wealthy and abundant lands of America, tailored to perfection by the SM department and their community.  I came plowing into Kosrae, toting my little camera and soaking in the culture with the thought "Boy, just wait till the folks back at home here about this!" running through my head all the time.

I see myself now as a tan/burnt dude who goes to eat a care-package pop tart, and decides that its too much work to brush off the ants before taking a bite.

The other day I was skyping my girlfriend Haley Coon, and she asked me the question that I have been terrified to answer.  

"Riv, do you think you have changed at all while you have been there?"

I swallowed.  I could give an "SM" answer, which would go something like this:

Yeah, of course I have.  I have really felt God working in my life to give something back to these locals who don't have anything, but still have happiness.  I've built three churches and started a sabbath school and converted 348 people to Christ and built a well for a village without water and found peace and happiness and realized how we take so much for granted back in the States.  I think I'll probably be a missionary for the rest of my life.

Or I could give my honest answer:

"I don't know."

Maybe as a current SM, I see people come back with these great colorful miracle stories, and can see that dreamy, faraway look in their eyes when you assume they are recalling the hardships they endured back in the wild country of who-knows-where.  And here I am, eating pop-tarts with ants on them.  I had always hoped to develop a legitimate "faraway look" from my SM experience, but maybe that comes later.  Maybe I will see the miracle stories after the fact.  

But after some time to think about Haley's question, here are some little things I can come up with:

1. I go barefoot much more often.  

2. Church services don't seem as long as they used to.

3. I started to like breadfruit.

4. Ants and termites are part of the meal.

5. I can hold about a 6 second conversation in Kosraen.

6. I know how to bake bread.

7. The ocean under the stars never ceases to amaze me.

8. I CAN live without Panda Express (barely).

9. I learned how to say yes to things I didn't want to do.

10. I learned how to say no to things I didn't want to do.

11. I like the taste of lentils now.

12. I've learned that even people living on a tropical paradise have struggles in their lives.

13. I've learned that there are different ways of doing the same thing, and they both work.

14. I can climb a coconut tree.

15. I've started to enjoy the race of trying to finish my potluck plate before getting demanded to go get more food.

16. I'm starting to become a morning person.

17. Swimming in the ocean still scares me a little.

18. I still can't fold a fitted sheet my myself.

19. I've learned that life is delicate.

20. I don't know if I'll be able to eat a meal at home without a side of rice.

21. A cold shower doesn't phase me anymore.

22. I'm starting to learn that God displays beauty all around us, whether we stop and notice it or not.

In about two months, I'll be touching down at the Spokane airport at exactly 8:57 PM on a Friday night.  

Then unpack, pack, summer camp, unpack, pack, Portland nursing school for two years, then real life.

Ugh.

I was reading a wonderful book called African Rice Heart written by Emily Wilkens, a fellow Spokanite and good friend of our family.  Her closing words from the last chapter described her feelings finally touching down back into real life traveling back from Chad, Africa.  She spoke of the feeling of the fast-pace American lifestyle being paraded in front of her as she flew back across the U.S., and sure enough when she landed, everything shook.  

Honestly, I'm kind of terrified of this.  Will I be so different that I can't adapt back into my old life?  Or will I be disappointed at the lack of change I discovered in myself upon returning?  What if I get so overwhelmed by the stress of my new life that I am scrambling to buy the first ticket back to Kosrae?

I have found that the only way to escape these thoughts is to not think of them.  Enjoying the tiny, everyday pleasures have begin to grow into my funny little memorable moments of Kosrae, shaping me and building my little "Kosrae Portfolio" in my memory box.  And on those cold winter nights, I will sit in a warm chair and pull out this little portfolio from my mind and flip through stories and photographs, remembering the grand tales and experiences that seemed so small at the time.  

The gap between March 24 and May 30 is getting smaller everyday, and my memory-box portfolio still has plenty more space.  And if everything does shake when I touchdown at home, that memory box is strapped in nice and tight up there in the attic.

Peace from the tropics,

River

The Case of the Flying Soursop

We have a problem.

For some reason, between the three of us, we can't handle even eating ONE fresh fruit sitting on our counter. 

"Oh, we'll eat it tomorrow, its not ripe yet."

Tomorrow: "We should have eaten this yesterday, its overripe."

This time we let a soursop go bad.  Soursops are green, spiky fruits that taste like sour candy from the gods.  But this one was definitely overripe, and had developed a nice skin of black mush.  Taking it outside, we intended to chuck it in the jungle.

"Teecha."

Little Mitchigo suddenly comes out of nowhere.  An evil little "grinchy" though entered my mind.

"Hey Mitchigo!  Want a soursop?"

She thought for a moment.  "Yes."

She held her arms out in front of her as if she were going to catch a teddy bear.  Standing about 20 feet away, I gently lobbed the soursop in the air, watching the mushy fruit travel down towards the waiting arms of Mitchigo.  And then, as if in slow motion, the soursop made contact.

SPLOOSH.

Arms still extended in front of her, the soursop exploded on contact, sending juicy bits of fruit all over her frontside.  Her brother was nearly rolling on the ground, laughing with delight.  Without even blinking an eye, Mitchigo does an about-face and heads straight for the water faucet. 

I ran after her, feeling a bit bad now.  

I stood at the water faucet and apologized, and noticed she was trying to hide her face.  Oh no.  Did I make her cry?  

Feeling horrible now, I tried to strengthen my apology.  She turned off the water, and slowly uncovered her face.  Turning her head my direction, a sly little smile cracked on her face.

"I'm going to tell on you."

She gave a creepy little laugh and ran off to join her brother.  I have yet to receive my punishment from who ever she told on me with.  

A day in the life,

River Davis