The director tells us to meet him at the dock. It is behind our hotel. The reception staff point Ken and I through the restaurant and we navigate the closely stacked tables and walls littered with fishing gear to the double door exit. We push through and are struck by the vivid blue of the Chuuk lagoon. It is a blue almost too clear and I shade my eyes. It is a blue that feels almost sharp.
A pier stretches out into the water. The lagoon is busy today. Already there are several skiffs cutting across the water with their white spitting tails behind them. Sunlight and heat bristle off the water’s surface and already I feel the sweat creeping on.
Someone waves at the end of the pier. We walk the wooden planks towards them bowing against the sun. It is the mayor of Fefan. He has a round open face that feels gentle. His hands are in his pockets but he shakes mine when I extend it. The director is down in the boat loading the food and drinks. He waves at me and keeps on loading.
“Thank you for arranging this,” I say to the mayor.
“It is no problem. Will this be your first time on Fefan?”
“Yes, for both of us,” I say gesturing to Ken who is lagging behind to take pictures.
“Okay. I hope you will enjoy the visit then,” he replies and gestures me to board.
We set off and the boat cuts fast across the water. In between swells we catch air and thud against the water like it is earth. A few other boats streak by and shout greetings at the mayor. He smiles at each of them and gives a slight wave that reminds me of the queen.
“I guess you do this trip everyday,” I shout over the roaring engine and churning water.
“No, not really. Most days I stay on Fefan.”
“Oh? Don’t you need to go into town to buy things and for work?”
He smiles and it suits his wide face and thick chin stubble.
“I do need to, but I don’t. I prefer the island.”
We pass the southern headland of Weno, the main lagoon island where we boarded, and it takes the rearview. Fefan fill the front. It is lush green and larger than I expected with the typical bulge in the center where the land rises up to harbour freshwater lakes.
When I planned my visit to Chuuk, Fefan was the only island I wanted to see. In the office they talk about it as the breadbasket of Chuuk. One of the few islands that had managed to toe the line between a reliance on imported canned food and growing locally. Already, I had seen some of the vegetables grown there in Weno’s markets.
The first building we see is the church. The bottom half is hidden by the shore hugging mangrove forest but jutting out of it are two ivory white towers and the triangle roof between.
The director turns the boat in and I see the remains of a pier. The cement is cracked and collapsed in slab like depressions. Weeds and shrubs poke through the exposed soil in the cavities.
“We had a king tide a few years ago that caused this,” says the Mayor pointing, “we will need to dock at the end and walk because the tide is low now.”
The director throttles us to the pier edge. When we were organizing the trip, we needed his permission to visit Fefan but it was difficult. It had taken a week to get a hold of him on the phone and his answer was vague. When we arrived in town we immediately went to his office and he reluctantly agreed to organize the visit.
We follow the cracked stone to a church that the mayor explains is the townhall and venue for community gatherings.
“We have called everyone here for your meeting,” he continues.
“We’ll see what time they arrive,” the director says, “here everyone moves at their own pace.”
“Yes, it’s true,” the mayor says nodding.
We drop everything at the church hall. The mayor’s team has set up rows of pews in a semicircle. In the centre is a recently cleaned blackboard and two folding tables for us to sit.
“Seems like you’re going to be giving a sermon Ken.”
Ken laughs lightly.
“This is fine. As long as people come.”
With everything set up, we sit outside on the steps to wait. The hall is on a slope and we can see the church complex span impressively out with several buildings within the low stone wall perimeter.
One of the mayor’s staff walks over to him and mentions something in Chuukese.
“He told me that people are running late,” the mayor says, “some have not left their houses yet.”
“How long will it take them?” Ken asks.
“I think a while.”
“Are the roads are bad?”
The director laughs.
“They are no roads,” he says, “they will be walking.”
“I suggest you visit a farm,” the mayor says, “it will help you understand how farming is done here.”
I look at Ken, “What do you think? This is your visit in the end.”
“Yes, fine. No point staying here if there is no one.”
The mayor stays behind and the director leads us out of the complex. He points towards the buildings I saw and identifies them as the church dormitory and the kitchen.
“This area is very old. The buildings are maybe from the 1850s. But they are made from stone, so they are good quality and do not have many issues.”
He leads us to a narrow trail skirting off the main path. Someone has laid stones to mark the route and we wind through the overgrowth until a block house emerges. It is rain stained and the concrete floor is coloured with ingrained dirt.
A family comes out and the director shakes hands with them and introduces us. Unlike the main island, none of the family speak English and after a few minutes the director points behind the house.
“The farm is back there.”
It rises on a hill and has been stepped to create three platforms. The plants hang from simple terraces of fish netting, wire, and sticks. The sun bakes as Ken checks everything, reaching out to try the shovel and lifting the budded vegetable stems as they hang from the trellis.
“Where does the water come from?” he asks.
The director is sitting in the shade of the house in an old wheelchair. He smokes with the farmer and points to a small PVC pipe.
“They run the pipe from the mountains. But it has a lot of problems because the pipe is not that strong and often gets broken when the kids step on it.”
Ken and I nod. The pipe is old and cracked in several places at the opening. The rest of the farm feels the same. The terraces seem hastily put together and soil in the garden beds is unsecured and eroded by the rain. Nothing is arranged neatly. They are vegetables growing here but nothing is as organized as I imagined.
The director checks the time and starts leading us back. We return using another route to see a different farm. It is similar to the first with the dirt crusted pipe forming a small stream in front of the cucumber and eggplant crops.
We connect to a wider path that seems to function as a main road on the island. Children pass kicking a ball between them and a few women walk slowly with groceries packed in cloth bags. A shade comes from the trees towering over us and it is pleasant being able to hear the birds skittering above. The idea of cars or traffic seems alien in the moment.
“Wow, this a very old mango tree here,” Ken says pointing at the thickly gnarled trunk Infront of us.
“It is one of the oldest on island,” the director says, “Around fifty years old. Ten years more than me.”
We return to the hall to see people have arrived. The pews are half full with farmers stretching out and fanning themselves from the heat of walking over. The doors are wide open for the breeze and the children have been sent outside so they don’t disturb us. I can hear them kicking a ball around.
The mayor and director start the meeting and give their respect to all the village chiefs present. The chiefs nod at each of their mentions and it is only their attitude, the lack of discern that goes with authority, that makes their high positions clear.
Ken takes over and explains how the project aims to support the farmers and how he is here to understand how we can best do that. Once he finishes the room becomes a succession of speeches as each farmer gives their opinion in the customary drawn-out manner.
We take a break and Ken directs the next session to discuss specific requests. The farmers respond with simple things. Tools, seeds, and better fertilizer. Ken writes them down and asks follow-up questions.
I can see he is trying to convince them to use a more organized method in their farming. He suggests new methods and outlines their benefit. The farmers nod blankly. They are listening but are not convinced. This process goes on and it becomes clear that they are happy with the way they are doing things. They just need the items to keep doing them.
After a while the director indicates we need to start wrapping up to get back to town in time. Ken nods and makes a list of all the requests noted. I review the list and see nothing in the way of a new system but rather just the simple things the farmers asked for at the beginning.
The mayor closes out the meeting and thanks everyone. Some food is brought out, but it is only us eating. Most of the farmers have already started moving back home where they will eat with their families. Only the visitors needed to have the food provided for them.
It is late afternoon now and we wait on the steps again while Ken talks to a few more farmers who want to raise specific points with him. From a gap in the wall enclosure, I see the director has brought the boat closer now the tide is high. It is docked just outside the complex under an evergreen. It bobs gently with a wind I cannot feel but see and the sun shimmers on the water around it.
We go back to the boat. Families come to say goodbye and wait at the edge of the complex wall. They make a line and wave as the director throttles us gently from the shore. As we reach the end of the stone pier they start to disperse back home. I watch them walk away and feel a tinge of regret. Back on the water, they and their way of doing things already feels far away.