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marry the boys of this island. We are all related. We go to Woleai to find husbands. For centuries, during the summer season the islanders would travel to other atolls so that the blood might be mixed.
There was to be dancing in the night, a practice session for the Bishop's upcoming visit. Would we please stay? Sea Quest lay quietly beyond the reef, the breeze having died away. A native had been out to the boat and returned to report that all was well. "Yes, we will stay."
"Would you like a shower?"
A shower," exclaimed Miki. "You have water for a shower?" Traditionally the islanders had only the fresh water lens that gathered beneath the land accessed with wells, but one or two concrete tanks had also been recently built.
"Oh yes."
Behind a shed Miki and I removed our long sarongs, replaced them with the short native ones proffered, but we stopped short of removing our little tops. Instead of being led to a shower however, we were lead instead into the warm shallows of the lagoon where in the dusk other women and a few children bathed and frolicked. As the sunset faded we rinsed the suds from our hair while the stirring breeze raised goose bumps on our flesh. Once out of the water a woman dipped from a bucket, a bowl of water each for us to pour over our head as a rinse. A "shower" was just the native name for a bath.
Miki and I were both presented with newly woven native sarongs in bright stripes, produced on the back-strap looms of the island. We needed assistance though to hitch them up. Less than two feet in diameter they are wrapped around the body once and then caught in a belt at the front only so that the back gapes a little, often revealing a bit of cleavage.
The night became very dark. There was no generator to make artificial light. Under the tree canopy Miki and I stumbled along blindly, tagging close to the native girls who could see like cats to unerringly guide us across the many paths. In a clearing where all the women of the island gathered, the flames of a fire suddenly leapt high sending showers of sparks into the surrounding palms and breadfruit trees. Young boys whose bare flanks glistened, enthusiastically dragged in dead palm leaves to continuously feed the flames. Miki and I squatted on the sandy ground where little ants crawling up our legs. The women lined themselves up with the older and more experienced in the middle to lead. After a few false starts the chanting began, women and girls copying the hand and leg movements of the two leaders. Pre-pubescent girls with breasts like buds stood at one end, slim and willowy as reeds in contrast to the full grown women gone to fat on their diet of coconut. There was a big age gap with most of the high school students away at Woleai, about 100 miles to the east. On this unforgettable evening we
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