Surviving Paradise by Peter Rudiak-Gould

tree was a machine: a solar-powered, self-building factory that required no maintenance and cost no money—a clean-running, noiseless manufacturer of useful things. In went soil, air, and water; out came food, drink, fuel, building materials, rope, medicine, and, yes, pillows.)
    Then the bwebwenato would begin.
    During our inaugural session three weeks after my arrival, we first had to establish exactly who, and what, I was. They knew my first name—this was easy enough, since two other villagers were named Peter. My last name was a bit more difficult. They asked it only once, and after hearing it they decided it was much more trouble than it was worth.
    They knew I was from America. But why was I here? They asked if I was pijkor . A Peace Corps volunteer? I tried to explain that I was affiliated with WorldTeach, not the Peace Corps, but their eyes glazed over during my convoluted explanations. I couldn’t blame them. As far as they were concerned, a strange American showed up every once in a while and taught in their school. Until about ten years ago, these people came for two-year stints (Peace Corps). Last year, one had come for a one-year stint (WorldTeach). Did it matter to the islanders that the Peace Corps was a US government agency, while WorldTeach was an independent nonprofit organization? No. Pijkor didn’t mean “Peace Corps volunteer.” It meant “American living on the island for a long period of time, trying to help.” So I was pijkor , and I was here to teach school, which was scheduled to begin in a week.
    Next, they wanted to know about America. I described it, trying to pick out the relevant details: it’s big, cold, and mountainous. They asked me about politics: Clinton, Bush, 9/11, Iraq, Afghanistan. Apparently their radios brought in more than just bastardized Western pop music. I realized I could not escape geopolitics, even on a remote island in an obscure corner of a vast ocean.
    â€œAmericans are very smart,” Fredlee declared. “They went to the moon.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. But it was a testament to my improving Marshallese that I could even attempt to talk about these things, although our political discussions were limited to me calling certain presidents emman (good) and others nana (bad).
    When the subject of money came up, I resolved not to lie. Yes, I admitted—the United States was much richer than the Marshall Islands. But I developed a little speech to put that fact in perspective. “Americans have a lot of money—it’s true,” I would say. “But in America everything costs money. Buy a Coke—one dollar. Buy some fish—several dollars. Live in a house—hundreds or thousands of dollars every month. Sometimes you have to pay just to swim at a beach or go fishing. Here, you can pick a coconut and drink it—free. Fish in the lagoon—free. Live in your house—free. Go for a swim—free. There’s little money, but also little you need to buy.” The phrase ejjelok wonan (“it’s free”) echoed again and again, and soon they were giving me the same speech when the subject came up.
    I made sure to tell them other things that were not so great about my country. In America, you often live miles from your workplace. After years, you may not know your next-door neighbor’s name. Worst of all, America’s oceans are a true abomination—compare a deep, rough, frigid, murky California seascape to a shallow, calm, warm, crystalline Marshallese lagoon. I told them of the lamentable absence of reef fish and coral, and I emphasized that it was impossible to fish with a spear. They looked at me like I had been very deprived indeed.
    They were nearly as ignorant of my world as I had been of theirs. I wondered if the islanders were experiencing the same thing I was; while I was discarding the myth of island harmony, they were losing their own treasured illusions