Mariul Palau! A Salute to the Belau Whispers

After 8 flights, through 5 countries, over 57 hours of travel, including 2 misplaced bags, I’ve arrived in Chile! I’m camping out in the coastal town of Puerto Montt, just over the bay from Chiloe, my next stop, until I recover my equipaje. The weather is chilly, and each morning I watch the blue Andes push through curdled clouds over the bay. Apart from my limited wardrobe, Chile is wonderful. First thing Tuesday morning I found the warmest-looking wool sweater in Puerto Montt and some socks to wear under strappy sandals. Classy, I know.

Catalina, a new grandmother from Santiago whom I sat next to on the plane, invited me to have a delicious lunch with her family in nearby Puerto Varas today. The small, rosebush-lined city sits on a lake ringed by snow-capped volcanoes. Her family was lovely, muy cariñosa. Waiting isn’t so bad either. It’s nice to have a chance to catch my breath and debrief my journey to Ngulu and my goodbye to Palau. I already miss it!

Here’s an excerpt from the letter I wrote to the Watson Foundation a few weeks ago:

Submerged in green lagoon, off the shores of the state of Ngiwal, there was once an island. According to Palauan legend, on this island there lived an old woman. Each day she would watch hungrily as the fishermen returned home with their catch. Yet not once did they stop to offer her a share, and she was forced to subsist on only taro and breadfruit. One day her son visited from another village, and, seeing his mother without fish, he devised a solution. With a single stroke he lopped off one branch from the breadfruit tree behind her home, and with each successive wave that broke on the reef, a fish emerged through the hole and into her basket. His mother was overjoyed.

Overtime the elderly fishermen in the village began to bemoan her good fortune – here she was, enjoying fresh fish daily – without doing a lick of work! So one day a disgruntled fisherman came to her home with an axe and chopped down the breadfruit tree. As the tree fell, the entire ocean sprang forth through the trunk and the island was flooded, sinking into the lagoon, lost forever.

The legend of Ngiwal is one of my favorites. Its ending is sad, yes, but I think its moral speaks volumes. What happens when the collective sense of community corrodes? When greed overrides compassion?

In the last two hundred years of its history, Palau has been administered by the major world power of each respective epoch. England (if only by influence), Spain, Germany, Japan, and the United States. The gentle terraces that contour the hills of main island Babeldaob suggest that the islands once supported a vast population – archaeologists project anywhere between 50 and 100,000 people. But at the turn of the 20th century, the population bottlenecked at just under 4,000. 100 years later, there are only about 20,000 Palauans worldwide – making Palau one of the smallest sovereign nations in the world.

It’s possible that Palau had its own societal “collapse” as ancestors battled for resources (as in the legend of Ngiwal) in a changing environment. Yet such figures also point to an incredible resilience in the face of change – among Palau’s people, culture and heritage. That such a vibrant and complex culture has survived is a testament to the value placed on knowledge, I think, and the steps taken to protect it.

In Palau, knowledge is power. As a traditionally oral culture, the very foundation of life on the islands is anchored in oral tradition. Family connections are innumerous and friendly ties reach back generations – the kind deeds of your great uncle are remembered even today. Rights to one’s land and title are passed down through story and chant (a tradition that has led to numerous court disputes as western deeds have been introduced), the money beads worn by high-clan women each encompass tales of transition and partnership between families.

Traditionally knowledge was worthy of payment – to purveyors of traditional medicine, to men with knowledge of the currents and the fishing grounds, or those gifted with magical powers. Maintaining the privacy and these “kelulau,” or Belau Whispers, is of extreme importance. Knowledge rests with the rubaks and mechas - older men and women. Who is worthy of knowledge, then, is very critical. Some knowledge may be passed down to only kin and blood relations, and then perhaps to other members of the clan, the state, other Palauans.

As an outsider reared in a Western education of cognito ergo sum, in a family where I was always encouraged to ask questions -- to arrive in a culture in which questions can be seen as indicative of ignorance and impatience was very humbling.

And so it is in Palau that I have learned respect – respect in a sense that is far more than a general reverence for others. Respect is the importance of listening to one’s elders, and in waiting to listen for the answer before ever asking the question. Palau has taught me the importance of groundwork. The more I offer to an interview, the more that I show that I know, the more I will learn. I must choose my questions carefully.

In terms of exploring audio storytelling as a civic tool to unite communities, Palau has certainly offered an important perspective. Part of what I love about audio is that it has the ability to level the playing field – the voice of a world leader rings out with the same levels of that of a 10-year-old. It is very democratic. But in Palau, decision-making is traditionally hierarchical. A community meeting is resided over by the chiefs and together they decide what is best for the community. In the past, the four high chiefs would remain on the stone platform outside the bai, or traditional meeting house, rain or shine, until they reached a decision on an issue. Once agreed upon, the decision could not be questioned. With the introduction of democracy this process is at times challenged, but by in large it prevails. To endeavor to collect stories and give back to a community an audio project that undercuts the traditional head of authority is difficult, then. I have had to temper my idealistic streak and settle for smaller, more realizable goals. I am beginning to think about media more broadly.

I will say again that working in Palau has been a very humbling experience. The culture is extremely well documented and protected. The islands are frequented by anthropologists, archaeologists, biologists, and film crews -- and locals are no stranger to being interviewed. In fact, I found the unspoken question that often lingered over my work with Palauans was “What’s in it for me?” I went to great lengths to cultivate relationships and to thank the people I worked with. Especially at first, I felt extremely amateur, rubbing elbows with established anthropologists and ethnographers. But I also came to recognize the incredible power of what one of my professor’s once termed “the beginner’s zen.” As a young female, I am entitled to a certain leeway in cultural faux pas and people were eager to help or advise me. Interacting with some of these professionals has been a daunting experience for sure, but also a very educational one.

Upon arriving I was asked to register my work with the Bureau of Arts and Culture, providing a list of questions and drafting together with Kelly and Sylvia a release form in Palauan and English. This was a challenging but important exercise – and I think will change the way I work in future communities. In Palau it is customary to bring a gift when interviewing someone. I’ve arrived at an interesting time as the Ministry of Culture and various parties in the Senate are moving to try an pass legislation that would protect Palau’s “intangible cultural resources,” including cultural knowledge and artifacts – ensuring that communities are adequately compensated for their knowledge and protecting against misrepresentation.

I always knew I would encounter loneliness in my travels. But I had pictured loneliness as a physical state - sitting alone on a sandy beach under the stars, an empty feeling that I could surely master with hard work and a positive attitude, surrounding myself with people, seeking refuge in a book. And in some ways this has been true - the nature of my year means that I get out and interact with the local population, and therefore have many acquaintances. My host family was a godsend – Obak, a traditional chief, and Ann, a former Peace Corps volunteer, have been wonderful friends and through them I have met so many interesting people.

But choosing to visit islands also means that I’m experiencing first-hand the brain drain – most people my age are off island studying or working. Making a conscious decision early on to avoid the expat community, initially I struggled to make close friends in Palau, and alongside some of the most incredible moments of my life I endured some of my lowest. To admit this to myself at first was difficult. Maldives was such a dizzying experience that I never had time to think about myself; here, time slows down. I came to recognize and appreciate the beauty of relationships outside of my age group – children, always the first to open up, the group of elderly men and women who have been so kind to me. Overtime I really found my niche among the Southwest Islanders in Eang, joining them in their volleyball league (we came 2nd!), attending Mass, and becoming close with several of the families. Thank you!

And it is in this absence of close friends that I find myself becoming self-reliant. At times I conjure up a chorus of those people who I would normally turn to for advice and weigh what their counsel might be in a given situation. Ultimately, though, I am at the helm, guiding my own journey. When I return to life post-Watson, this skill might be the most valuable one I will take with me. I am my own best critic, counsel, and friend. In immersing myself in solo travel, I have had to answer my own questions – and I am learning to shrug off the need for positive affirmation. The very act of being thoughtful has taken on new meaning.