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Published: August 25th 2006
A hundred different shades of green and blue. White foam of surf breaking on the reef, the sapphire blue of the deep and the turquoise green of the shallow. Air that does not have the heavy scent of salt, but the strange and unfamiliar luring sweet of the mangrove blossom. A breeze blows the faintest hint of plummera.
I follow a village elder and a small group of tourists down a mossy stone path, through small taro patches and betel nut palms. This ancient path, made difficult to keep prying eyes from looking up and into neighbors’ homes, is slippery and yet rough at the same time. We are told by a village elder that we must enter the village with respect, as respect for property and rank is extremely important in Yap. We must carry a betel nut purse or a small piece of a green plant into the village as a sign of respect. Men before women, single file. In proper order, pieces of plant in hand, we continue.
Small brown lizards with electric blue tails and mangrove crabs dart out of the way. A myriad of different colored butterflies, small and yellow, big and blue, dance
before us, seemingly unaware of our presence. The sound of a small stream can be heard before it is seen, as to look up from the path would almost surely end in a sprained ankle.
Being last, I try and distance myself from the group, trying to better observe my surroundings, but close behind me is a Yapese village woman clearly instructed to not let the tourist wander. She looks to be my age. Her jet black hair is slicked back neatly into a tight bun. She is bare from the waist of her full rainbow colored grass skirt up. Her skin the color of brown sugar, glowing from the humidity, breasts covered with a layering of grass and brightly colored leis. She has a serious expression and is quite frankly, very intimidating. Adding to the intimidation factor she is carrying a large bamboo pole with great authority and is keeping a close eye on me. I decide not to fall too far behind.
As the two of us walk together, single file, we walk in silence. We are alone for a moment as the others have gone ahead. As we walk, I can’t help but think of
the first Spanish explorers to the island. They must have walked these paths. Did they first land in peace, being escorted to the village meeting house as I am now, or did they come under fire, shooting their cannons from their tall masted ships? What did they think of the Yapese? Did they consider them a primitive and barbaric culture? I have only been on Yap for two days and I have already learned that it is a very complicated and structured society. There are a lot of rules on Yap, so many, my head has been spinning over the course of the day while listening to them explained to me. This is not a simple or primitive society.
The late afternoon sun breaks through the dense coco and betel nut palms, casting pools of warm yellow light on the green moss, creating an almost erethral feeling. We continue to wind our way down the path, the woman starts to talk to me. She explains the growing and harvesting of the taro plant, a staple of the diet here, the rules of property and marriage. Yes, she says, this is her village.
The path gets steeper; down, down,
down to the sea. The laughter of children and the scolding of adults, universally recognizable in any language can be heard. We walk by a small house and the number of voices cause me to sneak a quick peek up from the path. I catch a glimpse of young squirming children getting dressed in streams of yellow, red and blue clothing by tried and frustrated parents. I can only look for the time it takes to take a step, as the path does not allow for any more.
A few minutes more and I am led from behind into a large open stone terrace, surrounded by the giant stone disks Yapese use for money. The community house, a large wooden structure with a steep thatched roof and open sides, looks very much like the longhouses of Indonesia. It is situated on an elevated terrace near the mangrove and above the main terrace. In the house, young women are finishing their preparations for the dance they are about to perform.
Two excited young girls come baring green coconuts with fresh coco water, pineapple slices, sugar cane, and a tart seeded fruit I don’t recognize. We are asked by a
very friendly village elder to take a seat on the elevated terrace where some palm mats have been laid out and make ourselves at home. We are their guests he says.
“Please have patience. The children are preparing to dance.” He says.
The children and teenagers come down and start to assemble in preparation for the show. There is some confusion.
“Looks like one child has not shown up” The Master of Ceremonies says with a good natured smile and chuckle.
The vision of a church Christmas pageant quickly comes to mind. The annoyed and embarrassed teenagers, the squirming children itching in their costumes, and mass confusion of the one, always missing, child. Under the guidance of an adult, the children quickly regroup and start to parade out onto the lower terrace, traditionally used for dancing.
As the dancing begins someone calls out the chant of a story. The village elder explains that the meaning of the words have been lost, but the chants were developed during the occupation of the Japanese before and during WWII. The story and the dance, as far as they know, is meant to symbolize the battle between villages. As
the chant starts, the children lined up in two rows facing each other, start swinging the large bamboo poles they are carrying, simulating fighting. The whole scene takes on a trance like effect, chanting, the sound of the poles hitting each other in rhythm, and the bright colors of spinning grass skirts and ribbons.
Before I know it, it is time to leave. I thank the village elder for the village’s hospitality and the opportunity to observe a performance not usually accessible to outsiders. Village dances are common in Yap on weekends, but this village is the only one that has opened it up for visitors. Yapese are very private people.
As I leave, making the short walk back to the air-conditioned hotel bus that brought us here, I walk by adults and children dressed in western clothing. They are sitting on the porch of their tin house, an abandon white car covered in vines in the front yard. What has the modern world done for these people? Is this really progress?
That as far as I can tell is the challenge set forward for Yap. How to keep all the good of the past while reaping
the benefits of the future.
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Dad
non-member comment
Like being there
K: Like being there only better, without the humidity. Great pics and commentary. Look forward to seing the whole batch.