"You are either on the bus or you are off the bus..."

-Ken Kesey in Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test

As the leader of his group of "Merry Pranksters," Ken Kesey was known to break down his ideas and take on life in a simple metaphor relating to the bus, and bus trip, he and his troupe embarked on in 1964. In an attempt to break the social norms of the day, while at the same time engaging in a sort of oneness with one another, Kesey and his group hightailed it across the United States in a dilapidated bus painted with glowing paint and disguised in grandiouse costumes that fit their LSD trips. The bus became a symbol of oneness. You can get off the bus, and still be on it, but if you choose to truely leave and individually rift oneself, you can no longer be on the bus. 

It was the last day of summer school when Matt Miller, my JV compatriot, Gonzaga alum and Micronesian promise brother,  ran into our Saramen Chuuk apartment with one simple question, "Are you ready for an adventure?" The summer in Chuuk had been refreshing, re-vitalizing, and the perfect way to get ready for my second year in Pohnpei. Matt and I, freinds from college, would sit for hours discussing our time in Micronesia, problems and successes, and amidst a light course load of summer school classes where immersed in the stark beauty of the Chuukese landscape and the Chuukese people. Intertwined in our time in the Lagoon a pervading sense of security enveloped us. Of course, spending two years in a foriegn country is an adventure, yet, our summer routine was allowing for a sense of stagnation. 

The breakdown of island states, from Yap to Kosrae, in the FSM follows that each state is made up of large reef islands, with lagoons and series of outer atolls, or small reef islands outside the larger lagoon. As Jesuit Volunteers we focus most of our attention to the larger lagoon islands and don't get to spend much, if any, time on the outer islands. The reality lies that as the larger lagoon islands develop, a certain limbo strikes in which most of the traditional culture is preserved on the outer atolls. This was communicated to Matt and I time and time again throughout the summer, and it was a dream of ours to get out and see these outer islands, not just for adventure sake, but to gain a better understanding of the Micronesian landscape, to diversify the picture in our mind of this area, country and people. It was with this goal in mind that Matt and I started to pursue routes to make it to the outer islands before I left for the summer, to educate ourselves and engage in the sense of Micronesian oneness we had glimpsed and hinted at time and time in our year here.

It should also be noted that boat schedules, if they can be called that, are inconsistent at best. With so many people unable to afford air-travel, boats remain their only way to transport themselves and goods to some of the most remote places in the Pacific. We routinely asked around but were somewhat dismayed with the reality of schedules with our schools, and my return to Pohnpei, it did not seem like the trip would materialize. My mindset was such as Matt streaked into our apartment to let me know of the opportunity awaiting us. 

The boat, a 45 foot transport, was leaving for the Hall Islands, in 2 hours Matt said, and if we wanted to make moves, move we must. The Halls, I found out, were located a 12-15 hour boat ride North by Northwest of the Chuuk lagoon. We knew no one there, but the captain informed us at the least we could sleep on the boat for the duration of the trip if no one took us in.

After deliberating for a few minutes, the adventure seemed too much to pass up and after a small amount of food, an even smaller amount of clothes, and a large amount of reading materiel were stuffed into a bucket Matt and I sprinted down to the dock. We were on the boat.

Much like Kesey's bus, the boat serves as a central metaphor to life in Micronesia. It was with dual-rigger canoes the first Micronesians ventured the open spaces of the Pacific to reach the Philippines and central Asia to inform Western explorers of their existence. It was with boats that entire islands would establish networks of trade, communicate, and conduct war. It was with boats that foreigners came and stayed in these islands and it is with boats today that the majority of Micronesians travel amidst the vast ocean surrounding them. Thomas Merton explained that "no man is an island," when discussing the individual in context to the collective. It is with boats that Micronesians were able to establish a sense of oneness to the extent that "no island was an island." Boats served as the connector, the path, and the binding that brought things, people, and ideas together.

After explaining, with difficulty, to those waiting on the dock who we were, what we were doing, and why we were coming to their home, our fellow travelers warmed up to us. Kids started to laugh and joke with us, and the roaring engines struck water as the bow lead us out of the safety of the Chuuk lagoon and into the vast expansion of the Pacific Ocean. Finding space on a few ice chests stacked next to one another, Matt and I decided to try and rest, despite our excitement, of finally being on the boat. As we tossed and turned, the Pacific graciously stilled ourself for her new travelers. The water, much like its namesake, calmed and sat as we put distance between our past and our new adventure. To put us to sleep, and elderly Chuukese man sang in a deep baritone to the dark ocean around us. The whisk and clap of the waves on the bow served as the perfect back-drop to this man's native tongue and soon enough sleep enveloped us.

We woke up with tiny islands on the horizon, and as kids passed us a makeshift breakfast, Dorito chips and Kool-Aid, we watched the sun eclipse Bafun, known to us as the Hall Islands. The day served as a ferry of islanders from island to island. Amidst the fray Matt and I were introduced to the Mayor and the the Captain. For our entire trip, their real names would never be revealed, however, they served as our saving grace and their hospitality was unceasing. As mid day approached, we made more friends, were given local foods, and as the hot sun illuminating the clear blue we relished in the fact that we were truly on the boat.

At sundown we reached our final destination, the island of Ruo, where we were informed a room was prepared for us and we would be staying as the boat, we found out, would be collecting fish to be sold on its return to the Chuuk Lagoon. The mayor, awaiting us, already had fish cooked and breadfruit pounded to us as we progressed amidst a bevy of children awestruck but un-pensive to the foreign visitors. The boat remained anchored outside the island but the oneness and connectedness of everyone enveloped us. We were on Ruo, but we were still on the boat. 

We slept like babies and awoke to the silent greetings of our host, Dougie, who simply pointed downstairs with a grin to indicate breakfast was ready for us. We ate and drank coffee and set out to explore Ruo. Unceasingly, we were asked to come join families to eat, if there was anything we needed, our if we could be helped in anyway. Despite communication barriers, what was always given was a warm smile, a calm hello, and an overriding sense of togetherness. We spent the day with the people of Ruo after attending mass in the one church where, symbolically, the captain also served as the priest. 

For the next two days the people of Ruo treated Matt and I as family, we enjoyed meals together, joked, and simply sat and watched the waves crash on the reef, or the stars illuminate a sky void of street lights, neon signs, or candles for the most part. In Ruo, simplicity was a state of mind, and it was accompanied by a togetherness felt rather than told of or describable. By the time it was time for the boat to leave the lagoon and venture the ocean once more, our hosts had stacked piles of food for Matt and I the same as families sending off brothers, sisters, sons and daughters; we were still on the boat. 

Possibly seeing our luck, upset with our choice to leave, or simply as unpredictable as she can be, the Pacific did not grace us with the gentle ride returning home. Not to mention the close proximity of a packed boat full of not only passengers of the human variety, but pig, turtle, and an amass of fish caught to be sold in Weno. Matt and I entertained ourselves with talk of the trip, memories from home and despite a long trance, saw the sun rise over the Chuuk Lagoon before we knew it. We scrambled to get our things as the boat docked and as quick as we had decided to embark were outside our apartment again.

We were off the boat, but the boat was still with us.