Uvea: Part 2

History lesson 

After visiting Lake Lalolalo we picked up Joe for the school visit. I watched as he cupped his hand under his knee to hoist himself into the car. “These damn legs are too long,” he sighed. The children were running around barefoot on the playground. Curious faces surrounded us. The school principle was wearing a flower tucked to the side of her bun greeted us with a warm smile. 

I asked where I could change into my mu’umu’u for my hula lesson and was escorted into the principle’s office. This was a first. I chuckled as I bent down behind the metal desk. “Make sure you put a flower in your hair,” mom handed me one as I rolled my eyes. Twelve boys and two girls were seated. With great seriousness their teacher Eduardo with introduced Joe as a WW II veteran who served in Uvea. Joe whispered to me, “Gosh, I’m so nervous.” 

“You’ll be fine, you have so much to share,” I assured him.

"Bonjour," he began. He walked with confident determination, just slower and his hand trembled as he spoke. As he pointed to the world map, he traced the routes of armed and naval forces, blockades, battles and military strategies. His hand stopped trembling and glided over the Pacific Ocean with excitement. When his speech ended with long applause 10 year old hands shot up in the air for questions:

“Have you regret your participation in the war?”
“Was it emotional?”
“Did Wallisians participate in the war?”
“Was it difficult to forget?”
“Did you shoot anyone?”
“How did you find Uvea in those days?”
“Were you afraid?”

“Why did you sign up to fight?” asked one of the boys.

Joe turned the question to him. “If someone was attacking your country, would you fight to defend it?”

“Yes,” the boy responded. Joe smiled satisfaction and patriotism.

Joe bent down and a student presented him with a lei. Another presented a pointed wooden spear that looked at though the 5 pointed ends were singed from fire. I wondered if he had carved himself. A blond boy gifted him with a jar of preserved fruit, probably prepared by his mother. A coconut was offered to us. Coconut water tastes so refreshing when the outside temperature is 90+ ! We sipped the sweet water and ate sunset papaya. I took in the moment thinking about the preparation of picking flowers, papaya, and coconut.

For the hula lesson, the desks were pushed to the back of the classroom and we were joined by a class of younger students. To the giggles of the children, I wiggled my 'okole with much exaggeration. The boys sat in the back no doubt enjoying the sight of so many okole's doing an ami circling 'round the island. 

 

Fosio's Recollection

Our final day in Uvea was spent visiting Fosio, whose father had befriended Joe during wartime. Fosio, 85 and his wife took care of my mom when she visited Uvea two decades after Joe. This return trip was to thank Fosio and the Taukapa family for their kindness.  They embraced each other for a long time. An embrace that perhaps comes with time, wisdom, respect, and lives lost.

I was asked to read the introduction to the chapter on Uvea and Joe translated into French. I was acutely aware of hearing the voice of three generations: mine, my mother’s, and Joe’s. Joe came because of his duty, mom came for self-exploration, and I came for the adventure.

My mother had made 5x7 prints of photos that she had taken during her time in Uvea to present to the family. In one of the photos she is wearing a 60's yellow shift dress and stands in the middle of Fosio and his wife Sapolina.

With the book open, Fosio placed the photos on the page. He did not speak and looked at them over and over. His wife Sapolina had passed away a few years ago. Reverence hung in the air. 

I watched Fosio and wondered what he might be thinking, perhaps traveling back in time to when the photo was taken near the stalks of banana trees. It was evident as his finger gripped the photo that he missed his wife. It was a private moment that I felt I shouldn't be watching. 

As we talked and reminisced with his granddaughter and caregiver, Fosio's eyes did not leave the image. These moments you cannot describe—you feel them and they touch you. This was what we came for.

A day at the Motu

The family wanted to take us swimming at a Motu (a small atoll). It was the day before a big rugby competition and the children were let out of school early. At the end of the road was a small inlet of water. Not a harbor in the formal sense, just a place where the road met the water and we could jump in. 

“Is this Lahi?” Joe asked. “This is where I first arrived in Uvea. He saluted and I took a photo.

We piled into a fishing boat. Myself, mom, Noella, the captain of the boat, and six children. Swinging one leg into the boat, I felt the excitement of my childhood. 

When you grow up near the sea you search for where the horizon separates the blue of ocean and sky. You guess how deep the water is by looking at its color. The darker the blue, the deeper you are. You giggle when you see flying fish. At any moment you feel like you can jump out of the boat because you have spent years swimming, playing with the water, hopping over mini waves and riding on their crests. 

Grown ups describe you like a fish in water. On field trips you go to the beach, on weekends you build castles and your friends practice burying you in sand with just your head peeking out. Things are magical. The sparkles of sunlight dance in the ripples of current. When you walk on the beach, you pick up worn sea glass, pop Portuguese man-o’war with sticks and rescue stranded bees.

I know I’ve mentioned this before but let me say it again. My mom was unconventional. During my growing up days it was mandatory to walk the dogs each morning on the beach at 5:45. We were allowed to swim at dusk under the full moon. When my sister and I would do lopsided cartwheels, even if we fell—beach walkers would clap…My childhood looked at me from the eyes of the children on the boat.

They jumped into the water once we anchored the boat off the Motu. As the men lifted mom out of the boat, I kicked off my slippers and pushed down into the white sand. Pineau, Noella’s husband was standing beneath a coconut tree fanning the flies. He came in the morning to prepare for our visit, grilling freshly caught fish, plantains, and steaming taro.

A woven basket held bananas and fruit. Sometimes I am truly caught off guard and ask myself—how did this happen? This was one of those moments when I remind myself where my feet have carried me am grateful.

Farewell to Uvea

It was time for us to move to the next stop on our South Pacific journey. Joe planned on staying in Uvea longer. I had one of those toss and turn nights worried that we wouldn’t wake up on time for our 6 o'clock flight. Joe stumbled out of his room at 4:30 to say good bye as we stood under the stars.

“I feel like I have a new lease on life,” he thanked us. If Joe can say this at 86, you and I have a lot of learning and living.

When we arrived at the airport, the French immigration officials in their short blue navy shorts were wide awake and cheery. We were called to board and Marie Michelle and her sister Noella presented us with seed and shell leis. Tears flowed from Marie Michelle’s face, her stoicism uncloaked. I can’t pretend to know what she was thinking but I know that there was that inexplicable feeling that comes with deep love.

Uvea: Part 1

67 Years Ago

Living in a tent for fifteen months at the edge of a lake filled with eels is a memory Joe Mullins hasn’t forgotten. He came to the island of Uvea a self described green eighteen year old from Chicago’s South Side in 1942, one of 5,000 U.S. Marines sent to serve during World War II. Joe was stationed at Lake Lalolalo in Uvea’s interior with twelve other Marines. American forces were deployed to this remote South Pacific island to protect the region from a Japanese invasion. Uvea, also known as Wallis Island measures nine miles long by five miles wide 

Mom met Joe in Hawaii when their journalism paths crossed. One conversation with Joe about the exotic faraway island where he served during the war and you guessed it she was off to Uvea, arriving 27 years later.

What would it take to realize our dreams? At 86, Joe’s dream was to return to Uvea. Between mom’s forty year reunion in Keiyasi and Joe’s 67 years—I allowed myself to contemplate the passage of time, grateful for being a witness and a participant to history.

We met Joe in Nadi, Fiji. I was startled to find a sleek Czech Airlines aircraft sitting at our gate and asked if we were on the correct flight. Ah! One of the pleasures of traveling are these startling moments, along with completing your immigration form when you’re half asleep and jetlagged that asks have you ever committed a felony or are you bringing in food of any kind, or have you been on a farm in Africa or South America in the past seven days?

Yes, we were on the right flight, I was told. But…the single aircraft normally used for this route, operated by Air Caledonie and based in Noumea was undergoing an annual inspection in Hong Kong.

The Czech Airlines aircraft had been rented for the month, staffed by French and Czech flight attendants. We couldn’t be farther from the Czech Republic sitting on a runway in Nadi, Fiji heading to a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, I laughed wondering about the journey of things. What an interconnected world!

Joe gazed out the window busy clicking the snap button on his camera from 32,000 tropical feet and forwarding the film spool. I observed him. The veins in his hands like ridges, his craggy profile and eyes the icy blue of a menthol vapor drop. His hair--white shadowed gray and straight, fell to one side. His posture straight with slightly hunched shoulders from carrying his six-foot lanky frame. He wore a white long sleeved shirt and putty cargos. I imagined what he looked like in his youth. Have you done this -- imagine what older people look like in their youth? One day it will be the reverse.

Mom requested wheelchair assistance at the airport but Joe refused: “I will not return to Uvea with help, I want to walk on my own.”

What a remarkable privilege this is, I thought. 67 years. It is incredible to grasp. I’m still collecting and cataloguing my experiences. Hope I’ve got the spunk to travel when I’m in my 80’s. Seems like there’s so much to learn between the bookends of each decade, much to read, and many dots to connect in our quest for the meaning of our lives. How many experiences are waiting for each of us.

As we came into view of the narrow air strip, Joe turned to me. “I helped to build this runway,” he smiled.

Arrival

When we arrived at the tiny air terminal in Wallis, I could tell how hot (temperature wise) it was by looking at the uniforms of the French immigration officials. Pale baby blue short sleeved shirts and very short navy blue shorts.

We walked into a sea of relatives greeting each other. A few women and children walked towards us gently placing Tiare Tahiti leis around our neck. The lei was a bundle of white, interspersed with red flowers, heavy with the scent of love. Tiare Tahiti is one of those prized gifts from nature that I hope you have a chance to experience. There is something very sensual about this flower—maybe it’s an island thing but I loved wearing one tucked behind my ear in high school and strolling down the beach with my friend Mapu, hoping for a double take from the surfers...

There were no words exchanged except for the quiet recognition of Sosepho, Sosepho (Uvean, for Joseph). We piled into two trucks (luggage and kids in the back of the open bed truck) and headed for the section of the island known as Mata Utu where we would be staying. A girl of about nine or ten with wavy brown hair sat next to me smiling. I realized if I wanted to have a conversation with little Mele and her cousins I’d have to recall my high school French which surprisingly came back albeit a little fractured. Thank goodness children are forgiving, correcting my faux-pas when I tripped over my words.

Some friendships are born of the most unique circumstances. We were hosted by the family of Marie Michelle one of the daughters of Fosio Taukapa. During wartime, Joe was befriended by Fosio’s father who worked on a plantation and supplemented his income by washing the marines’ laundry. The friendship developed and Fosio’s father taught Joe the language of Uvean. And the young man from the South Side of Chicago became one of only a handful of marines to master the language at that time.

We had been invited for dinner that evening. The house of Marie Michelle appeared as though it was carved out of the forest. We took our seats; children at one table and adults at the other. For a moment, I wished I could sit with the kids. No joke. There was giggling and a lightness that I was drawn to. The table was a feast of fresh fish, sausage, barbecue chicken, taro, potato, corn, and crab salad, made by Stella, (another daughter of Fosio), a crisp green salad, and a bottle of smooth French red wine. “Do you always eat like this?” mom asked. “No, we have prepared this especially for you.”

This is something I’ve experienced with islanders, their hospitality and gracious spirit, with playful delight, without expectation. One truly feels you will be taken care of. The security of that feeling is precious. After reminiscing and marveling at Joe’s speaking Uvean and French, we topped off the evening with French vanilla ice cream. In the hot tropics it tasted extra nice. Eduardo, a son in law of Fosio, asked if Joe would come and speak to his class about his experience in Uvea during the war. Mom volunteered that I would be happy to give a hula lesson (thanks mom). Eduardo jumped on it acknowledging that the kids were big fans of Disney’s Hawaiian themed Lilo and Stitch.

The Lake of Mystery

The next morning, Marie Michelle’s sister Noella picked us u

p for a visit to Lake Lalolalo. I was anxious to see the mysterious place that Joe described in the Uvea chapter of mom’s book and happy to be on a new adventure. My mind tried to piece together the thought of young marines camping out here. Far, isolated, from their lives back home. How different my life was when I was their age. I was enrolling in classes for college, where the hardest decision was how heavy a course load I could handle. The young Marines decades ahead help build basic infrastructure for a community.

The lake was a perfectly round deep crater filled with clear pine green water. Black birds flew across the sky. My eyes traced the edges and I thought about how scary it might have been for Joe. He shared with me that for security reasons he was not allowed to burn fires, take photos, or use lights at night. The men took turns patrolling the camp at night alert to the slightest movement amidst fruit bats, birds, boars, wildlife, and thick jungle. The slightest movement or hint of rustling in the darkness of night would be frightening especially to a young marine unused to the sounds of a jungle.

I fumbled with my Nikon digital SLR which I am forever learning to use. “You take too long to take a photo,” mom chastised me. “You’re going to lose the photo op messing with all the settings.”

I know. I know. But maybe I’ll get one good shot. I cursed the viewfinder and LCD screen. Can you imagine the days when our parents had to just risk it, not knowing whether it was a good picture until the film was developed?

Noella, smiled patiently. “Before you could not drive here, now you can drive almost up to the edge of the lake.” That was a definite change since my mom and Joe had been here. During those days— you had to hike to reach the lake. And if you were really brave you slid down on a rope and went for a swim.

Noella and Levani

Earlier that morning I shared a coffee on the veranda of our hotel with Joe captivated by his stories and wisdom. The memory of his times in Uvea are close. He doesn’t live in the past, but respects it. “Many of my colleagues still live as if it’s 1942,” Joe shared with me. He was glad to be keeping with the times learning to use the Internet, (in fact he researched the flights for us to get to Wallis). 

In addition to a lifelong study of the Uvean language and culture, he speaks fluent Polish and is studying Catalan and French. Joe decided to stay back during our visit to Lake Lalolalo because he wanted to prepare “some notes for my lecture to the class.” Like a college student, English-French dictionary in one hand and a red pen in the other—I watched for a few moments as he hand wrote a short course in the history of World War II for a class of ten year olds... (continued on the blog titled Uvea: Part 2)