NOWHERE SLOW, etc

On the island of Pohnpei there is no such crime as Grand Theft Auto. All that can be charged is Joy Riding because the thief cannot form the intent to permanently deprive his or her victim of his or her vehicle. The borrowed vehicle is driven around until it runs out of gas, then abandoned, and eventually recovered by the owner.

On an island the size of Pohnpei one can only drive in circles. And on a island that size one can only drive slowly. One exception being the half-mile causeway between the airport and the town -- pictured here on an airplane day with everyone returning to town. On non-airplane days, when the strip was empty, I could floor it, easily reaching 60mph before stomping the brakes and down-shifting to make the sharp right-hand turn up the hill to the town proper. My excuse: it blew the gunk out of the carburetor. The real reason: I like driving fast.

I was reminded of all this because of a recent book: Nowhere Slow: Eleven years in Micronesia. The author, Jonathan Gourlay, taught at the local college. My mama taught there, too. A couple of times I subbed for her when she was off-island. One of Gourlay's pieces celebrates the illustrious typewriter of a deceased fellow teacher. He calls him Pete -- but I know who he means. Another is a funny piece on when girls must wear trousers so as not to break the great taboo against showing their panties. Another is a lexicon of dirty words. And another gives advice on raising children there: "Your kid may be with a troop of other mostly naked children in the jungle, but she is safe. Just remember to de-worm her regularly."

Gourlay went native and I did not. He had insights into the culture I had no access to -- he married there and had a child. He had in-laws; he was a participant in local feasts. I was merely a guest -- my nose pressed to the glass of the aquarium. There were things I could see, but could not understand.

I rank Gourlay's book with my other favorite "gone native" books: James Hamilton Paterson's Playing with Water (about the Philippines) and J. Maarten Troost's The Sex Lives of Cannibals (about Kiribati).

It seems harder for women to go native and come out the other side and write about it. I love Geisha by Liza Dalby, Marjoire Kinnan Rawling's Cross Creek, and Karen Blixen's Out of Africa. But these women did not go native. Dalby spent only a short while as a pretend Tokyo geisha; Rawlings kept one foot in literary NYC while running her backwoods-Florida orange grove, and Blixen lived in pseudo-European luxury as she managed her Kenyan coffee plantation.

Nearly a decade separated my being in Micronesia and Gourlay's being there, but some things didn't change much. Gourlay bounced around in a pickup listening to Juice Newton at full blast -- my sister and I bounced around in a pickup on the same rutted roads listening to Juice Newton at full blast:
Playing with the queen of hearts
Knowing it ain’t really smart
The joker ain’t the only fool
Who will do anything for you.

Gourlay loved the island and left. I loved the island and left.