tough times...

It seems like I've been breezing through this 2+ years in a dream land where not much changes from day to day, there is little stress and no one close to you dies. My little dream land became very real on March 7th, 2011 when the olfala chief in my village died. A death itself completely changes the dynamic of the village for the week of mourning. The population multiplies as the village becomes inundated with grieving family and friends. Small, intimate meals become mass produced feasts and privacy is nowhere to be found. I once again find myself explaining myself to complete strangers: who I am, where I come from, what I'm doing, and how many siblings I have.

Not only did this completely change the dynamic of my day to day life but I found myself missing my friend. This was a man who was my first hello and my last good night every day. We shared stories and plates of food. He wasn't strong enough to leave the house so I was his eyes and ears and following every event outside the village we'd review the pictures on my camera. Through him, I learned of life in Vanuatu "before, before, before..." and even some village gossip that no one else was brave enough to share. In his last years, I was his care taker. I nursed his wounds, I cut his hair, I occasionally washed his clothes and I even once cleaned his ears. He was a staple in my life and I felt safe in his presence. Though I was sadly anticipating his death, I didn't realize how much I would miss him.

I struggled to find a private place to mourn my friend as the fishbowl effect multiplied. When I wasn't sobbing, I was moping and I began to hear people whispering about how upset I was. People who knew me then whispered back to the visitors and explained how close I was to the olfala chief. As they promised it would, each day got a little more bearable. The population in the village thinned out, my eyes stopped "leaking" and I started feeling as though I could move on through the days.

On March 12th, 2011, in the wake of recovering from the chief's death, my uncle in the village passed. He had been sick but on that day I did not expect him to pass a he was only 44 years old, a father of two small children. He had woken up in pain and a small group of us sat with him in the bush kitchen that morning as he lay by the fire. His wife and sister massaged his stomach and we all quietly shared storied from the previous night's fundraiser and talked about our plans for the upcoming week. Uncle Terry listened, occasionally grunted in pain and shifted in an effort to get comfortable. Without any last words, he took his last breath and we watched as his body went slack. Panic ensued as his wife tried to shake him back to life and everyone else began praying and sobbing. I stared blankly in shock as an all too familiar routine began...making calls to family, preparing the body, constructing the house of mourning, cooking for the masses. Once I was able to blink away some of the shock, my immediate impulse was to get on a plane and go far far away. Instead, I sobbed and simultaneously tried to help and stay out of the way.

I couldn't believe that it was happening to this community AGAIN. I was close with my Uncle. We had taught at the school together and he had taken part in a tour guide training that I had facilitated. We sat together on both the tourism and RTC committees. We had been to the volcano together 7 times and he had guided me around the island on a 7 day camping trip. He loved learning about life outside of Vanuatu and was always game for trying something new. It's hard to explain, but we just shared a bond.

If it's possible, I handled this death better. I knew what to expect in the coming days and I was able to brace myself for the coming of the masses and an emotionally exhausting week of mourning. I think I even embraced this death better...and began to see both deaths as a blessing, an end to suffering. I was appreciative of the intimate look at the Ni-Vanuatu custom and eventually even grew thankful for the opportunity to grieve.

Rest in Peace, Chief Ranleng Wilson and Uncle Terry Bong Rowor. Thank you both for touching my life. I'm thankful for you both and I'm grateful for the opportunity to have mourned your death.