Thursday, October 26, 2006 – 4:01 a.m.
It's 4 a.m. and although my opportunities to sleep has been both sparse and sporadic, I'm currently wide-awake. Approximately 30 minutes ago, I had the opportunity to repay the married Peace Corps volunteers that had helped me haul books and computers up two flights of stairs the night before.
(30 minutes ago)
Clunk Clunk Clunk!!! It was the sound of two empty oil drums rolling across hundreds of tiny rocks and pebbles in the middle of the night. No, let me restate that with a bit more emphasis on what actually occurred. It was the sound of two empty oil drums proudly declaring to the entire village of Pangai that they were in fact, two hollow oil drums rolling across hundreds of tiny rocks through the main street and boldly approaching the police and fire station.
Shadows were poking out of recently lit homes as Tongans started peeking out their windows to see who was stupid enough to create that much noise in that brief time of day when it was neither completely night nor morning.
It probably wasn't too shocking when they found their answer; it was two Peace Corps volunteers. It was two Peace Corps volunteers whose muscles ached from carrying the heavy 50-pound oil drums on their backs all the way from the wharf. It was one Peace Corps volunteer in particular, who learned that the empty oil drums weren't exactly empty per say.
With still a bit of sleep deficiency, the adrenaline beginning to wear off, and my hands soaked in some foul grease, I had decided that the oil drums needed to be moved off my back and transported with a bit more ease. While it wasn't our intention to disturb the entire village, we weren't exactly thrilled (or physically capable) of having to lug heavy oil drums for miles in our flip flops. After lugging them as far as we could, we finally decided to simply give swift kicks to the drums until we were at the police station. Once we arrived at the police station, we just decided to carry the barrels on our backs once again for the remainder of the trip to the Peace Corps office.
The oil drums will be used as trash cans on the outer island where the married Peace Corps volunteers currently live. It takes over 20 combined man hours of watching for the barrels, two trips by ship, carrying (and kicking) said barrels through a good portion of town, a taxi, and rolling the drums up a large hill before an outer island sees something as simple as a 'trash can'.
Peace Corps, it's definitely not a 9-5 job in Ha'apai. Over the last few days, my definition of 'a lot of sleep' has changed from 12 hours a day to a full 5 hours a day. I'll try to catch some naps while Windows and Linux is being installed onto the new computers.
As a side note, I went over to the business building and low and behold, there was no electricity in the computer room. For the time being, I'm running an extension cable from the far side of the building so I'm able to work on one computer at a time.
I bumped into my counterpart and asked him if he could turn on the electricity in that room. He nodded, but he gave me an incredulous look that said, "Great... first you want computers and now you're already asking for electricity? What am I going to do with you? How can I keep up with these weird demands?!" You Peace Corps volunteers sure are a strange lot...
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
The application of brute force
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
It was 3 a.m.; roughly 10 Tongans and 4 Peace Corps volunteers stood huddled around 5 massive crates at the Ha'apai docks. The beam emitting from an LED flashlight shined directly onto the group's collective fears; the keys that we held in hand did not fit into the crate's burly lock. It was the only obstacle that prevented us from retrieving our cargo.
Unknown to us at the moment, in those crates were approximately 10,000 books, 37 refurbished desktops, 40 Cathode Ray Tube computer monitors, and the combined admirable efforts of countless individuals who donated their time and material possessions to people they've never met.
Although the cargo had made the trip of over a thousand miles to some of the most untouched parts of the world, we still had to complete the final step of getting everything into the third floor of the business building before vandals or rain could ruin the contents inside. We all momentarily looked at the sky, hoping that Tonga's fickle weather would play nice.
I pondered the predicament. The reinforced steel lock could have been considered one of the finest crafted devices 1000 years ago. On the exterior, a logo of the manufacture had been delicately etched into a thin layer of brass before being encased in hardened steel. In the interior, chamber after chamber of tiny pins determined the current state of the lock. Given only a few ounces of pressure at specific internal locations and we would have been allowed access to the contents of the crates. We momentarily tried bashing the lock from the outside using hand sized rocks, but each attempt only lowered the groups' hopes.
I looked around at the rest of the volunteers. I image we all wore a sort of weary resignation; a look that was half the result of sleep deprivation and half the effect of looking into a high quality deadlock that wouldn't give. I could no longer feel the effects of the coffee that we drank a few hours past and I was just moments away from calling it a night.
Thud!!! The Tongans were reluctant to give up and were already improvising. We turned around just in time to see another clash between technology and primitive raw energy. This time the primitive raw energy came in the shape of a lead pipe that smashed against the lock to no avail. After a few minutes, the Tongans agreed that the lead pipe was virtually useless. However, the Tongans didn't skip a beat before their next plan was hatched.
Another Tongan had run off a few feet to grab a jagged rock weighing in at least 15lbs. I liked their thinking; if smashing something with a rock was ineffective, that means your rock was too small. This specific rock, a crude instrument probably used well over 1000 years ago, still proved to be very effective. With just three strikes, the primitive rock had successfully bypassed the different layers of complex chambers and pins built within the lock. In a final loud clank, the lock released its firm grasp, and hung loosely in defeat.
Over the course of the next few hours, we moved the contents of all the crates up to the third floor (which with our luck happened to be the highest point in Pangai). We had waited there all night and a couple of hours in the morning for the boat. By the time we were finished unpacking, it was 7 a.m and many of us had not slept for over 30 hours.
We all had a meeting scheduled at 10 a.m. and I had another meeting at noon with my supervisor (who just flew in from Nuku'alofa). I believe its karma making me work for all my lost hours in the last month. I have no complaints here; I'm glad I have something to do now.
Ironically enough, the same lock from the crate is still intact and now secures the iron-gate to the third floor of our building. If it weren't for the faint scratch on the surface, no one could even guess that it had a previous encounter with a lead pipe and a massive rock. Inevitably the security that the lock provides, like any sense of security, is only an illusion.
It was 3 a.m.; roughly 10 Tongans and 4 Peace Corps volunteers stood huddled around 5 massive crates at the Ha'apai docks. The beam emitting from an LED flashlight shined directly onto the group's collective fears; the keys that we held in hand did not fit into the crate's burly lock. It was the only obstacle that prevented us from retrieving our cargo.
Unknown to us at the moment, in those crates were approximately 10,000 books, 37 refurbished desktops, 40 Cathode Ray Tube computer monitors, and the combined admirable efforts of countless individuals who donated their time and material possessions to people they've never met.
Although the cargo had made the trip of over a thousand miles to some of the most untouched parts of the world, we still had to complete the final step of getting everything into the third floor of the business building before vandals or rain could ruin the contents inside. We all momentarily looked at the sky, hoping that Tonga's fickle weather would play nice.
I pondered the predicament. The reinforced steel lock could have been considered one of the finest crafted devices 1000 years ago. On the exterior, a logo of the manufacture had been delicately etched into a thin layer of brass before being encased in hardened steel. In the interior, chamber after chamber of tiny pins determined the current state of the lock. Given only a few ounces of pressure at specific internal locations and we would have been allowed access to the contents of the crates. We momentarily tried bashing the lock from the outside using hand sized rocks, but each attempt only lowered the groups' hopes.
I looked around at the rest of the volunteers. I image we all wore a sort of weary resignation; a look that was half the result of sleep deprivation and half the effect of looking into a high quality deadlock that wouldn't give. I could no longer feel the effects of the coffee that we drank a few hours past and I was just moments away from calling it a night.
Thud!!! The Tongans were reluctant to give up and were already improvising. We turned around just in time to see another clash between technology and primitive raw energy. This time the primitive raw energy came in the shape of a lead pipe that smashed against the lock to no avail. After a few minutes, the Tongans agreed that the lead pipe was virtually useless. However, the Tongans didn't skip a beat before their next plan was hatched.
Another Tongan had run off a few feet to grab a jagged rock weighing in at least 15lbs. I liked their thinking; if smashing something with a rock was ineffective, that means your rock was too small. This specific rock, a crude instrument probably used well over 1000 years ago, still proved to be very effective. With just three strikes, the primitive rock had successfully bypassed the different layers of complex chambers and pins built within the lock. In a final loud clank, the lock released its firm grasp, and hung loosely in defeat.
Over the course of the next few hours, we moved the contents of all the crates up to the third floor (which with our luck happened to be the highest point in Pangai). We had waited there all night and a couple of hours in the morning for the boat. By the time we were finished unpacking, it was 7 a.m and many of us had not slept for over 30 hours.
We all had a meeting scheduled at 10 a.m. and I had another meeting at noon with my supervisor (who just flew in from Nuku'alofa). I believe its karma making me work for all my lost hours in the last month. I have no complaints here; I'm glad I have something to do now.
Ironically enough, the same lock from the crate is still intact and now secures the iron-gate to the third floor of our building. If it weren't for the faint scratch on the surface, no one could even guess that it had a previous encounter with a lead pipe and a massive rock. Inevitably the security that the lock provides, like any sense of security, is only an illusion.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Homesick Dreams
The last few days I had these reoccurring dreams. They always take place back in Reedley; this time I’m standing in the front yard just before one of my routine midnight runs. There’s hardly a soul outside and the towns already asleep. It’s the way I prefer it.
The cold night sends chills across my body. Even though it’s only a dream, I have the uncanny knowledge that I’m really half ways across the world. I know that I’m not in Reedley anymore and the childhood scene suddenly reminds me of what I miss.
I start getting homesick in my sleep. I miss being able to see the town at midnight. Who would’ve thought that simple lampposts were so important? I miss the simple freedom of being able to run without a shirt on. I miss running on the solid foundations of blacktop and cement. I miss the midnight breeze on my face when I’m jogging. The weather starts to numb the digits of my fingers and I remind myself that I need to get moving to stay warm.
The iPod that’s strapped to my right arm starts to come alive with music. I stretch a little, although I’m not accustomed to it. I only remember that my little brother keeps telling me to stretch whenever we run together. I smile slightly as I think about our shared sense of cynical humor… maybe that’s why we get along so well… I wonder how he’s doing in his classes…
I brush the thought off and change the track to a more upbeat song just before I begin running. It’s so simple; just place one foot in front of the other. It clears my mind up. I turn around the familiar street corner and soon find myself in front of the streetlight. The light is red and the road lays barren. I wait anyways and secretly catch my breath, using the light as an excuse. The first steps are always the toughest.
The light flashes green and the real run starts. Soon I jog by some familiar houses… I take a quick glance at a friend’s house that I went to for a memorable Fourth of July. So many years ago... I wonder why I didn’t keep in contact with her. I let that thought slip just as quickly as it appeared.
As my body starts to get tired, the endorphins are slowly released and they begin compensating for my lack of strength. Before long I find myself running by my old high school. Breathing is no longer difficult and I find my pace.
And then this sense of urgency snaps in me. I’m in a hurry and I don’t know where I’m going. I’m panicked and confused, yet the setting looks exactly the same. Nothing’s changed… but the world feels slightly different. I wake up filled with questions. I’m left wondering where am I? Where am I going? And what’s the hurry?
The cold night sends chills across my body. Even though it’s only a dream, I have the uncanny knowledge that I’m really half ways across the world. I know that I’m not in Reedley anymore and the childhood scene suddenly reminds me of what I miss.
I start getting homesick in my sleep. I miss being able to see the town at midnight. Who would’ve thought that simple lampposts were so important? I miss the simple freedom of being able to run without a shirt on. I miss running on the solid foundations of blacktop and cement. I miss the midnight breeze on my face when I’m jogging. The weather starts to numb the digits of my fingers and I remind myself that I need to get moving to stay warm.
The iPod that’s strapped to my right arm starts to come alive with music. I stretch a little, although I’m not accustomed to it. I only remember that my little brother keeps telling me to stretch whenever we run together. I smile slightly as I think about our shared sense of cynical humor… maybe that’s why we get along so well… I wonder how he’s doing in his classes…
I brush the thought off and change the track to a more upbeat song just before I begin running. It’s so simple; just place one foot in front of the other. It clears my mind up. I turn around the familiar street corner and soon find myself in front of the streetlight. The light is red and the road lays barren. I wait anyways and secretly catch my breath, using the light as an excuse. The first steps are always the toughest.
The light flashes green and the real run starts. Soon I jog by some familiar houses… I take a quick glance at a friend’s house that I went to for a memorable Fourth of July. So many years ago... I wonder why I didn’t keep in contact with her. I let that thought slip just as quickly as it appeared.
As my body starts to get tired, the endorphins are slowly released and they begin compensating for my lack of strength. Before long I find myself running by my old high school. Breathing is no longer difficult and I find my pace.
And then this sense of urgency snaps in me. I’m in a hurry and I don’t know where I’m going. I’m panicked and confused, yet the setting looks exactly the same. Nothing’s changed… but the world feels slightly different. I wake up filled with questions. I’m left wondering where am I? Where am I going? And what’s the hurry?
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