Visiting Roi-Namur

 

This is an island most will never visit. In possession of the US Military since WW2, it houses top secret radar and optics facilities in the middle of the Pacific. Because I am employed as a government contractor, I am allowed access for R&R from my nearby home of Kwajalein. The flight in is free, although there are no flights at all on weekends. I can only take advantage of this getaway if I leave after the work week is over on Saturday, and return before work on Tuesday. I travel there as "space available".  Those who work daily on Roi take precedence when the flights are boarded. There is a sort of hotel room for visitors, which is in fact a dorm room, with attached bathroom.

We are grateful of the bus service which takes us around the runway to our quarters. The island is actually two islands, Roi and Namur, that have been joined by filling in the gap between them. On Roi you will find the airport, runway and 'downtown'.  Namur houses the radars and other working facilities. 

As usual, the weather is rainy, and so we head to the nearest beach shack to relax before dinner. There is the mess hall, or a snack bar serving pizza and burgers. I am always curious to talk with those who call this place their home.  It is both remote and rustic. Much of the island is overgrown, chickens range during the day, and rats swarm at night.  A walk under the stars may also bring out the coconut crabs.  

Now I invite you to take a tour with me, of an island you will never visit. 

In the morning we walk anti-clockwise around Roi, stopping first at the Gabby Shack.  This platform deck looks ocean side, a great place to watch the sunset.

At high tide the palm trees lean out over the water, at low tide there are tide pools to explore. We find clam shells, old Coke bottles and what looks like an aircraft wing. There are also bullets and shell casings to be found, although we are not encouraged to remove them.  Crabs seems to sleep in the shallows, and sharks pass close to the beach. Everywhere there are palm fronds and coconuts littering the beach. 

At the end of the runway we pass the incinerator. This is the same site that housed the Japanese incinerator during their stay in WW2.  We find old bottles, canteens and sea glass from those days. 

A spit of sand reaches out toward the next islands in the atoll, but we turn and walk along the lagoon side of the island to the airport. Here the beach is sandy and wide, perfect for swimming and families with small children. 

We walk the rest of the way around the island passing the old Japanese headquarters. Their bunkers are crumbling now, and safe only for rats.  The US bombed the islands before invading, taking out all existing vegetation.  The palm trees that now line the road ways were all planted post war. 

After lunch we get a ride on a golf cart to the marina on Namur. Today is a special day because families with children have been invited over to 'trick-or-treat' from neighboring Third Island. About 300 Marshallese will come over by boat and ferry, and walk around the work facilities for candy.  From our chairs at the Dive Shack, we watch them arrive. Many of the parents work on island, and this is a family day out for them. Although this is not the only time they have access to American products. The base runs a grocery store for Third Island residents that sells American food. 

'Trick- or-treating' over, we head out for a swim. The reef between the islands provides a shallow channel where water rushes in with the tide.  We waded in ocean side, and let the current carry us along the shore to be deposited on a spit of sand lagoon side. I was ill equipped for such a ride, and managed to scrape along and clamber over the coral reef. Still, I was better off than our friend who had brought his dog.  The animal quickly decided against the rapids and took off into the jungle. After we found everyone, we headed back to Roi, a shower and a hot meal.

Roi Namur is a the ideal island for a weekend getaway, despite the fact that there are no flights to and from on the weekend, and most of the facilities there are closed as well.  One is forced to hike, relax in a hammock, dive or snorkel.  There is nothing to spend your money on, no souvenirs, restaurants or hotels.  I was fortunate to have some night life on my visit, as I was traveling with the band, Anywhere Atoll. They provided great music for partying each evening.  It was quite an anticlimax to have to wake up before dawn and take the flight back to work.

"I know my father did his part to secure the freedom I now enjoy — with the 23rd Marines, 4th Division, and the battles to secure Roi-Namur, Saipan, Tinian and Iwo Jima." B Stone

Meeting Nature Halfway

 

The Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew, in London, are open all year round and draw crowds to see their displays, structures and landscaping.  There you can visit a Japanese garden, an orchid house, a giant bee hive and every other imaginable collection of plants. Where to go first? I always go to the Kitchen Garden.  It is hard find, as traditional kitchen gardens are, hidden behind tall brick walls. You enter through archways covered in climbing roses and clematis.  One long wall is the backdrop for a bed of different salvia (sage) plants that vary in color from purple and white to red and orange. Each type is neatly labeled with a printed sign. 

The lavender is in bloom, covering the roots of the pear trees.  The apple trees are carefully pruned to stand no more than 4 foot in height, and already laden with fruit. There are peas on poles, flowering herbs and decorative lettuces. Far from being planted in rows, they are allowed free roam of the beds, separated only by a grassy walkway. The result was a cornucopia of color and abundance. I found one bed with a sign: 

Bee Nutrition

The crops in this bed are being grown for their flowers.  Kew Science will be collecting the flowers and analyzing the nutrient content of the pollen as a food source for bees. 

The bed seemed to be growing herbs and vegetables. Interesting that only the flowers would be harvested!  This neither fit with my idea of a vegetable garden or a flower garden. 

Before I had time to dwell on the true purpose of this garden, I spied another fenced area behind a bank of daisies so thick it became a mound of white. Inside I spied more flowers, and large leafy vegetables all tumbled together. The fence was covered in grape vine, with some raspberries peeking through the gaps. Wild flowers like cornflower and

poppies were allowed to grow where they wished. Here, too, I found colorful sweet-peas growing up makeshift canes tied together with string. On exiting this lovely corner I discovered it was connected to the School of Horticulture, and these were the students' gardens. Imagine this being a school assignment! 

A traditional kitchen garden, which grew herbs and fruit for the household, was always enclosed by a high wall. I initially thought this was to protect the more delicate plants from the elements and rabbits.  However, it turns out the walls were to hide the garden from the family when they used the formal gardens. Gardeners could continue to work unseen throughout the day, and, this is what really intrigues me, the beds

did not have to appear immaculate or tidy. Wild flowers, and some weeds, were allowed to grow for no reason other than their fresh natural look. Experiments could fail, without anyone knowing. Lettuce and sunflowers were allowed to go to seed, providing a later crop and food for the birds. Flowers could be cut for the table, or simply left to brighten up the beds. Nature was allowed to thrive behind closed walls. 

I had to look hard, but I knew I would find nasturtiums in the students' kitchen garden. These flowers are seldom found in formal flower gardens despite their vibrant beauty. They tend to be untidy and break the rules of what makes a showy display. They cannot be cut for arrangements, but the flowers are edible (tasting like radishes) and can

be added to salads. They do not have a strong stem, but tend to climb and clamber over whatever is nearby. If you try to stake them up with a cane, they rebel and grow down, rather than up. This is because they lack tendrils and flop in the breeze. The flowers change color on a single plant, from yellow to orange to red, and quickly seed down to pop up in the wrong places. I love them. I let them do their thing and marvel at their natural way of bringing beauty to unexpected spots.  I have stopped trying to cultivate them, I just let them be, and occasionally nibble on their flowers. 

One October I visited the kitchen garden of a manor house in southern England. Most of the beds had been cleared for winter, but the

nasturtiums still grew haphazardly around the borders, in their last hurrah. Their straggly flowers, blazing with color, were such a contrast to the carefully tended empty beds. I like to think that I allow nature to delight in my garden, without my interference. 

History of a Moat

 

Going into London is always an adventure, and I don't try to see too much in a day. This time I headed to the Tower of London, which I haven't visited since the boys were young.  It is known for housing the Crown Jewels, but I had heard of an experimental garden being started in the drained moat. One look at the expanse of wildflowers prompted me to pay the £ 33 entry price and join the queue of tourists.

As you can imagine, the moat was originally built by William the Conquerer as a defensive ditch. It was flooded by the Thames at high tide. Various kings after him extended the moat so that the Tower was surrounded by water.  This water moved in and out with the tide and supplied fresh fish and washed away sewage from the inhabitants.

More building cut off the moat's access to the river, and the trapped water became a fishery.  However, by the 1840's, the smell of the stagnant water full of sewage became so bad that the Duke of Wellington was forced to have the moat drained. It has been dry ever since.  At times food was grown on the flat bottom of the ditch, including during WWII when the residents of London were encouraged to turn their lawns into vegetable gardens. 

At other times the moat became a camp for soldiers ready to go into action. It also doubled as a training space for royal guards.

Then in the 1970's the idea of creating a very prominent garden became a reality as flowers were planted in shape of the Royal Coat of Arms and Cipher of Elizabeth II.  This can easily be seen by anyone crossing the Tower Bridge. Different displays have been exhibited here to commemorate royal events. When I visited last summer, I noticed there was some construction going on, but nothing growing, just piles of dirt. 

The new project was to celebrate the Queen Platinum Jubilee with a wild flower garden throughout the moat. Pathways and art pieces were placed, but nothing was planted in the hope that nature would take over. Nothing grew. So this year the moat was plowed over, fertilized, sowed with seed, and watered. This resulted in the beautiful expanse of colorful "wild" flowers I wandered through on my visit to the Tower instead of queuing to see the jewels. There is a great diversity of color that might not be found in the country. Poppies and cornflowers of many colors spilled over into the path, ornamental thistles and Queen Anne's lace towered above. The bees were busy moving between the foxgloves and daisies.  There were no gardeners at work weeding and snipping,  just hoses being used to water the area.  This is not a native wildflower field, it is a field carefully cultivated to look wild. 

I don't mind that these flowers needed to be seeded and watered. I love the mass of color reminding me of how beautiful messy gardening can be. 

Since most people were queuing to get inside the Tower, I had the moat garden to myself. I wandered through the pathways beneath the walls, into the shadow of Tower Bridge.  I was tempted to finish my visit there, but felt I needed to get my money's worth and at least find a Beefeater to photograph. Nothing else, not even the Koh-i-Noor, left me with more of an impression than the flowers in the moat. 

Eccentric & Exotic

 

In the UK, there is no lack of large country houses, originally owned by Lords and Ladies. And although these are now open to the public, as exhibits of a golden age, their interest is more than just as a museum. Many of the aristocratic families had lifestyles that provide the real interest. The Museum of National History at Tring is primarily a collection of stuffed and mounted animals. Over the years it has grown to hold more animals, skeletons, insects and eggs. However, the story of how the museum and its collection came to be, and its owner Walter Rothschild, adds color and interest.  In acknowledgment of this curious life, the museum has opened another exhibit: the Rothschild room.

The sheer number of animals stuffed and staged in glass cabinets is impressive. The size of larger exhibits like the bears and elephants are also worth a visit.  I was pleased to find unusual creatures like deep sea fish, rare specimens like a coelacanth, and a South American Screamer. The screamer is a large bird I was attacked by in the Brazilian Pantanal, running for cover as it aimed to harm me with the sharp bone spurs on each wing. 

A few of the specimens do not look lifelike to those of us who have had ample opportunity to view footage of these animals in real life. But when the first of the collection where stuffed, most people had never seen the real animal.  This collection is certainly extensive with many specimens that were new to science.

But who collected all these animals from far off and dangerous lands? Walter Rothschild, son of the first Earl Rothschild, started collecting insects as a boy.  By the time he was 10, he opened a 'museum' in his parents' garden shed. He also kept live specimens on the family land, Tring Park.  The menagerie of exotic animals included emus, zebras, kangaroos and a large number of giant tortoises. The zebras were trained to pull a carriage that took Walter to Buckingham Palace.

Walter's family did not appreciate his interest in natural history, and to get the specimens out of the house his father built him a museum for his 21st birthday. That was the beginning of the Tring Zoological Museum.

Walter himself did not go off around the world, he had many collectors that went to over 48 countries and brought him back specimens. One collector was his brother, Charles, who collected fleas, looking for the flea that spread the bubonic plague. I'm not sure how he knew he had the right one!  Another Charles, recored a disastrous exhibition to the Galapagos. The ship's captain died of yellow fever, one man was sacked for drunkenness and another ran away. All funds were spent on undertaker and doctor fees, so the remaining two men had to abandon the expedition. Both caught yellow fever and only Charles Harris survived to try again. That in itself would make a bestseller! 

Another sailor was sent to Hawaii, (then the Sandwich Islands) to collect birds. He documented the harvesting of thousands of eggs which gave Tring the biggest egg collection in the world.

Walter's endeavor was not without its troubles. More than once he encountered money problems and was forced to sell off parts of his collection for cash.  His prized bird collection went to New York. Only after his death was it revealed that he had been blackmailed by a former mistress and her husband for 40 years. 

Many might have found Walter Rothschild odd, and certainly eccentric.  But his single mindedness created the largest natural history collection assembled by one person. Researchers and film makers around the world have continued to use the Tring museum in their work for the 125 years that it has been open. Walter's story certainly made it memorable for me!

And then there is AMI

 

Travel has become so automized. We book flights on an app, receive updates as texts, and can even track our bags as they fly from place to place. So we instantly know when a flight is cancelled, as it is just as quick to rebook on another flight. I am used to this way of traveling and was caught unawares when my flight home for the summer was canceled, due to a typhoon in Guam, with no clear chance of rebooking another within weeks.

I was delighted to find out from a parent of a student in my class, that there might be another way to fly out, with Air Marshall Islands. The only catch was that I had to be at the AMI office, packed and ready to go, within 2 hours. She could only hold the plane for me so long.

To make things more difficult, it was raining hard, and my only transport to the airport was my bike. I packed hurriedly, grabbed my passport and headed out into the rain, pulling my suitcase behind me. Because of the rain, all the hopeful passengers were crammed into the small office, where I waved to my parent contact to let her know I was here. No one asked for my name, my passport or any ID. The only actions taken were to weigh me and my bags, and accept payment for the flight in cash. No ticket was issued and no receipt was given. I wasn't even sure the time of departure or destination.

I waited to board in a small room piled high with boxes. Names were being called out and passengers walked out to the plane with umbrellas. The plane was ready to take off when someone notice me in the  waiting room, and said, "Why didn't you get on?" As I ran out to the plane, I noticed my bag sitting by the exit.  I grabbed it and carried it to the plane with me. As it didn't fit under the seat or in the overhead compartment, the flight attendant took it to a door at the back of the cabin where the cargo was held. 

Only after take off did the same flight attendant come by to tell me we were headed for Wotje Island, but not to worry, after that we would go on to Majuro, the capital.  I appreciated the heads up as we came down to land on the tiniest speck of an island with no visible run way.  The flight was what my father would call a "puddle jumper".  It flew in low over the island and came down on a strip of grass.  No passengers were picked up, only a few coolers were loaded on. I appreciated being allowed out to look around, but was told not to go far. After about 10 minutes, the flight attendant called us back with a wave of the hand. Then we were off to Majuro, where we hoped to make a connecting flight.

This island is really a strip of land 30 miles long, but it has a proper runway and can receive international flights. The airport is far from efficient, and I was glad of the help of some fellow passengers who spoke English. They told me where to go to get my bags, which turned out to be wrong, but was a nice gesture. Of course there were no signs that said "Baggage Claim this way".  We all wandered around the terminal until we finally found the bags in a garage.  I'm glad I didn't have to prove the bags were mine, because I had no claim tags.  I was very grateful to AMI for getting us here. I later found out that they had bumped several other passengers so some other teachers and I could take the seats.  A friendly passenger had a pickup truck and offered to take us and our bags along the island's only road to a hotel for the night. 

Not at all what I expected, but AMI did the job!

Sea Glass Treasures

 

My life stories often incite the response, "Poor Anne." You may feel sorry for me at times, but my life choices are my own. I choose to keep moving, to live in the Middle East or Africa, to take time off to travel. The simple fact is that I am escaping sadness, looking for greener grass elsewhere. 

I have suffered from depression all my adult life. My happy memories can be counted on one hand, most of my experiences have been trying to cope with my recurring feeling of dread. A few years ago I finally gave up trying, acknowledged my brokenness, and asked for help. Through therapy I came to the conclusion that I should leave teaching and pursue another profession. So I went back to school and trained to be a librarian. Now, after an unexpected twist of fate, I find myself back in the classroom teaching. 

I love the kids, but the responsibility I feel for each one in my care overwhelms me. My happiness depends on their success and wellbeing. If something bad happens: a failing grade, tears or outbursts; I blame myself, parents blame me and administration blames me. And because I cannot be perfect, succeeding with everyone, I live in dread of my next failure. I also know I am not alone, and that every teacher feels this to some degree, but it destroys me and robs me of peace and pleasure. 

That is probably why I love sea glass. The pieces of glass were discarded, thrown out, broken. They have been crushed, displaced and tossed about by life's storms. Yet I go out in search of these worthless pieces of glass, seeing their beauty and collecting them for no other purpose than to have them with me.

I see them as gems that are just waiting to be found, seen, appreciated and valued.  These thoughts connected me to a book I read recently about the mentally ill. Many of them suffer in isolation, not receiving the help they need, but instead are punished for being different. Sometimes, all it needs is one person to see their worth and potential, then help them towards a more meaningful life with purpose and love.

I have taken this to heart, not for the mentally ill, but for the students in my care. They also are in need of someone to believe in them, to encourage them to be their best. 

So, instead of trying to conceal my brokenness, I am now looking out for others who may need a little love and attention. I am careful to "see" each student, look at their beauty, and let them know they are a rare gem who can make others happy. 

Since I started this new way of looking, I have also a new set of memories: a hug from a child who challenges me everyday; a kind note from a parent; the excitement of a student who now sees science all around them; chats with students who are not in a hurry to go home after school; a proud student taking their work home to show mom; a small gift; an "I'm sorry!" and a "Thank you!"  I pick these up and ponder over them, and remind myself to let the givers know how much they mean to me.

The Gift of Time

 

I certainly didn't ask for five weeks off work at home in snowy Minnesota. Being told that I couldn't go back to work until I was medically cleared seemed more like a punishment, or failure. For those who read my last blog, I could add this as another cost of living on a remote tropical island. There is no quick way to return to work. The doctors on island wanted nothing to do with the paperwork, saying that their job was to treat people, not decide when and where they work. 

I was once told by a medical professional, that the reason for the increase in mental illness these days is due to the lack of time allowed an individual who is healing, grieving or isolated. We are encouraged to "get back on the horse", "get back out there", and "not to dwell on it."  There is a danger of wallowing too long in our setbacks, and never getting back to living.

I was also frustrated by the workings of an HR of a large company. They requested form after form, medical checkups, doctor's reports and all with the tag line: "You have 5 days to comply or you are fired!"  The stress was too much and I feared I would not be able to meet all the demands, or persuade a doctor to act in a timely manner. My manager misunderstood my cry for help as a resignation, and the next email I received told me of my termination. By the time the misunderstanding was corrected, I was without health insurance.  So what was I to do as the management decided my fate... whether I was worthy of a second chance?  I took some time off.

I baked cookies, and read, and painted. Morning became my favorite time because I received no demanding emails at that time. HR preferred to send their ultimatums in the evening, and the island is 7 hours behind me. I could relax, knowing that any ding on my phone was nothing more than a Google reminder or what happened years ago. I started to relax and accept that I may never get back to work.

 After all, no one died, it wasn't the end of the world.  I was at home, with family, reacquainting myself with housework and decorating, sleeping late having a glass of wine by the open fire.

Then, out of the blue, I received an email telling me that I had been cleared to resume my duties on Kwajalein, starting immediately, or next shift. "Immediately" is pushing it.... I am three days away by plane, and flights are once a week.

So now I have some things to consider: Are there flights available? Can I plan a lesson that will get me back into teaching? Will the students even remember me? Will the staff, that stayed the course and worked hard, see me as a prodigal loser and resent my time away?

But I have learned one thing: Time is a gift. Taking time off, away from normal duties and responsibilities is a rare gift, not to be squandered. I will not spend my next few days fretting, I will take the time I have to appreciate time with family, time by myself, time to reflect and learn. 

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Matthew 6:34