Gong Xi Fa Cai (or,
A New Year’s Postcard from the
Haasian Atoll)
A lovely week it’s been (six days
or so) of watery amnesia,
among the half million inhabitants
of sunny Micronesia!
They’ve quite a spread here – from east to west,
about forty-five hundred miles –
seven nations (or semi-nations)
that share a couple thousand isles.
In the west, there’s Palau. They eat bats there.
To the north of that is Guam.
Then up to the Marianas –
you can see where they launched the first Bomb.
Between Guam and Palau is situated
the feisty isle of Yap.
“Feisty” as they’re proud to have never
yielded to Kraut or Yank or Jap.
The Spanish were routinely killed there
when the natives espied their masts.
They still wear loincloths, and their social life’s strung
on half a dozen castes.
Then of course there’s the infamous island
where hydrogen bombs were dropped,
from which the modern ladies’ swimsuit
got its name ere the bombing stopped.
Finally, smack-dab in the midst
of nowhere – the Haasian Atoll.
If you’ve not been here, you cannot say
you’ve been to the region at all.
Its central town is San Gilchrist;
its population, the Jonesorros –
a Pacific Americana,
with its tiny towns and boroughs.
They speak Yankee English, but with purer
vowels, much as in Hawaii.
The cuisine’s mostly grilled – from unshelled prawns
to squid and mahi-mahi.
“World’s most equable climatic zone,”
claims Guinness’ distended tome.
Mostly upper-70’s Fahrenheit,
like mid-May or so at home.
It’s circled by a ring of coral
(from a plane you can spot the marks)
out from the coast a few hundred meters,
protecting swimmers from sharks.
It isn’t a good place for bodysurfing,
as there is no shore break.
But it’s great for kids, and you can learn
to windsurf (not a piece of cake).
Veterans come with their grandkids
to revisit war sites in a van.
There are Japanese touring
all of the region on a ten-year plan,
not to mention pale Europeans
who come to burn (or “get a tan”).
But you’re right – there ain’t no “Haasian
Atoll.” In fact, we’re in Saipan.
For Jonesorros you should read Chamorros;
for San Gilchrist, Garapan.
It’s part of a U.S. commonwealth;
in Congress, they’ve a single man.
But the Chamorros are outnumbered
by vacationing Japanese
and by Filipinas that cater
to them and work in the strip-teaze
(or whatever it is they call it now…
the signs read “Karaoke”).
They cry out in practiced Japanese;
their attire is garish, hokey.
The majority of them look as if
they’re barely into their teens.
It’s right across from the Hyatt.
My daughter wonders what it all means.
For Garapan is small enough
that the “red lights” are in with the eats.
She stared at the row of gaudy dresses
as we bought the kids some treats.
I’m afraid that Stella’s a bit too young
to get my social critique.
“It’s a party, Stella.” That’s quite enough
for her budding sense of chic.
Japanese so predominates
that there’s often no English menu.
They seem unprepared for non-Japanese
at any given venue.
The local kids who wait tables
figure Rebecca for Japanese,
which they attempt to practice upon her;
she exits and mutters “Jeez.”
They’re all quite naïve, for they even
attempt to speak it with my kids,
who respond by staring back quizzically,
smirking and batting their lids.
“Daddy, they’re speaking Japanese.
You said they were all Pennsylvanian!”
“American, you mean.” “Oh yeah.
They’re two places and that’s the main one.
The P-word’s inside the A-word, that is –
or, that’s what I meant to say.”
“They do speak English, but the Japanese
don’t.” “Then why’d they come?” “To play.”
One day we rented a car and drove
to the World War Two sites up north.
A trip up to Suicide Hill will call
your human sentiments forth.
That’s where Japanese civilians
flung themselves from the towering cliffs,
compelled to do as much by the generals’
apocalyptic “if’s”
(“If the Americans capture you,
they will torture you,” and so forth).
It’s only twenty-five kilometers
up Saipan from south to north.
All the cool war stuff is up in the north,
the hotels are in the south.
A half-minute’s fall beneath that cliff
is a cave that looks like a mouth.
It served as the Japanese Army’s
notorious Last Command Post.
General Saito gutted himself,
eyeing the beleaguered coast.
The sites are overrun by Japanese
out touring Saipan by bus.
Five guys asked us to photo them
at the Hill, they did the same for us.
It’s difficult not to get choked up there –
my throat was certainly lumped.
What could be going on in their minds?
“That’s where Uncle Toshiro jumped.”
I’ve an uncle-in-law who was shot there
and received a Purple Heart.
He was not of the five thousand soldiers
compelled from life to depart.
Within a few hundred meters of that’s
a famous divers’ grotto.
It’s quite a treacherous descent
(and they should have posted a motto
to this effect) a hundred and eight
steps down through a limestone cavern.
A bluish glow from underneath
lights up the bash in Neptune’s tavern.
I almost stumbled several times
getting down the steps with the Voo.
We watched several Japanese divers
descending into the blue.
I would like to try it someday myself
and not just act as witness.
Impossible to do with kids, though –
I’ll have to maintain my fitness.
So…
….there was this day of sightseeing
and five or six others of rest.
It would have been nice to see more sights,
but of course I’m family-blessed.
In other words, what “vacation” means
when you’re five is that there’s a pool.
The vacationing Dad unaware of this
is bound to play the fool.
True, these isles are not jam-packed with “culture”
as, say, Bali or Thailand.
But in the end the best place to rest
is in such volcanic highland
(it’s an Everest here, if you count
the distance from the ocean floor),
for they’ve all been blissfully unbusy
for five thousand years or more –
a marine reflection of the busy world
and of its busy-ness,
playing Circe to the global market,
to Capital’s dizziness.
They owe their present-day upkeep
to their role in U.S. “strategy.”
But does strategy ensure against
environmental tragedy?
Indeed, it’s a gloomy possibility
that must be thought upon –
that before long there may be fewer
islands on which our sun may dawn.
To add their disappearance to the list
of history’s sorry pasts…
It’s a great thing they’ve got going out here.
Let’s work to ensure it lasts!
Ah, but romance with kids in tow is a trick –
a battle with the clock.
(TMI? But I’ll remind you,
we’re entering the Year of the Cock.)
We wait till they’re more or less sound asleep,
then we huddle on the floor.
Stella sleeps tight, but not Vinnie,
so we’ve ten minutes and not much more.
But we’ve had a great time – though they both
got sick – first Stella, then the Voo.
And it’s pricey, so I’ve not enough left
to send postcards of this view –
the Beach at the Hyatt, precisely,
where I’m writing to all of you:
Happy Chinese New
Year from Andy, Rebecca,
Stella and the Voo!
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