Still a beauty, remotely modern Micronesia

July 02, 2006|Robert Verger, Globe Correspondent

POHNPEI, Federated States of Micronesia -- Staring at the ocean from a ridge high above the harbor, it's easy to feel the remoteness of this place.

Below lies the island's airport -- a single runway for the one flight a day -- connected to Pohnpei by a manmade causeway. Beyond the airport, several fishing boats sit in the lagoon, and beyond them, waves crash on the outer reef that surrounds the island. Then, the wide Pacific .

This is an island of rich color, tropical greens and blues, and a landscape exaggerated in scale. Pohnpei's large interior is filled with mountains that climb to more than 2,000 feet and trees that grow to prehistoric sizes. On the hike down from the ridge, I pass leaves larger than elephant ears. This is the second-rainiest place on earth, and everywhere I look the vegetation riots wildly.

I also pass giant rusted Japanese guns , relics from World War II. Some of their double barrels, more than 10 feet long, still point menacingly toward the water. Among them, purple orchids thrive in giant clusters.

Later, I relax with friends at the Rusty Anchor , an open-air bar that overlooks the sea. Suddenly it gets dark, the skies open up, and we watch the rain move in thick , twisting ribbons across the harbor. As I think about the images from the hike, I decide this is the most beautiful place I have ever seen.

I came to the capital of the Federated States of Micronesia as a volunteer with WorldTeach to teach English at a public high school. There is no McDonalds, no Starbucks, no traffic light here. For an adventurous traveler looking for a destination that feels completely off the map, this is it.

Beyond landscape, the best reason to come here is the people. I found most Pohnpeians reserved at first, but get to know them and you find they have almost bottomless grace and generosity. Many seem to have a relaxed yet passionate attitude toward life, and with time, you become more appreciative of the place and the lifestyle.

Not long ago, I paddled an outrigger canoe with some friends across the lagoon to Joy Island, a speck of sand and coconut palms just off the coast of Pohnpei. When we ran out of water, we smashed open coconuts and drank the sweet juice inside. Later, when I told my class about the trip -- the intense heat during the paddling, the taste of the coconut milk -- the happiness must have been written across my face. One student, a white flower tucked behind her ear, smiled and said, ``You're feeling this place now, aren't you?"

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