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A car successfully obtained from the incognito hotel manager, Maria, the Norwegian, my friend, and I spent the afternoon, our last in the Pacific, driving the length of the atoll, stopping to buy cold drinks and dried fruits and fish, to snap pictures of beaches, to scout smooth stones.
The town of Majuro itself was small and quiet. Outside of town, we came but upon shacks and dilapidated houses with one exception: dotted at least four times along the road beaconed pristine Mormon churches, with blindingly reflective white walls, expertly cut green grass lawns, and the deferred promise of strong air conditioning.
We reached the end of the atoll and the road’s pavement turned to sand. Dogs scurried to us as we approached the waves. In the distance, more boats sagged, abandoned.
Everything is scarce on Majuro: food, water, Wilson’s “new money.” It’s flown in, daily, on the plane that had brought me, too, though, mostly, from the opposite direction, against the wind. I couldn’t quite believe it. I’d looked at this place, this dot, for years in the back of that magazine, for decades. I’d imagined…something else: an American Gauguin, perhaps? I’d longed for so long to be here, to experience this necklace of jewels across the Pacific. I never considered that the jewels might be plastic. I never considered instant ramen. I never considered the lack of land or electricity or how hard it is to dispose of garbage in the middle of an oceanic nowhere in any fashion other than throwing refuse of all sizes into the once, at least presumed, pristine lagoon. I knew I was ignorant of life in the Pacific, of its hardships; I remain so. But as I stood there, like a bright-eyed Japanese tourist in smutty Paris, the cognitive dissonance of what I’d so longed to see with the reality of life at the verge of humanity caught in my mind, a CD skipping, mutating an old favorite song. Here was the true intrepid, brutal edge, shorn of mystique. I looked to the sky: these airline routes, these veins, crossed the Pacific carrying but enough blood to draw a shallow breath. We wheezed.
Back in town, we three shared the largest pizza I’d ever seen while overhead TVs shouted boxing. We left for the one room airport early. I thought of the hotel manager. Why would he leave Boise, surely not the world’s greatest city but still, not this? I thought of my own geographic relative rootlessness, of my ancestors and their flights. I thought of Chilis and salivated.
Around 2am we landed in Honolulu and, after the innumerable plastic wrapped Igloo coolers, some bloodied by the melting fish inside, fell onto the baggage claim carousel, we collected our things, cleared customs, back in America, and slept the entire day while Waikiki kept watch.
About Travels with Charlie
Name a country, city, island, restaurant or ballet performance and you can bet Charles Rudish has been there. Follow along as he documents his adventures around the world with this ongoing series. Charles offers a humorous and insightful perspective on travel, culture and exploring the world around you.
