I was preparing to take shelter in the roofless one-room building for the night when an old white pickup truck came roaring across the airfield. Pulling up to the cinder block structure, a nun with an Australian accent shouted, “Do. You. Speak. English?!” from the cab.
Stunned by the presence of a white truck with a white nun inside, I stuttered “Ye… Yes!”
“Right. Are you a Peace Corps?” she asked.
“Yes!” I responded.
“Then tell me, where do you belong?” she replied.
“Unity of Tateta Elementary School.”
Turning her wheel, she yelled “wait here.”
Within minutes I heard the roar of the truck coming back in my direction. As it rolled past me, six teenagers jumped out of the bed. They ran towards my pile of luggage, and proceeded to load all of it onto the truck. In perfect English, one told me to get on the truck so they could take me to my site. I…was speechless. Quickly following his command, I grabbed a space in the bed of the truck and sat with all of the teenagers. I yearned to engage in conversation with them, but timidity stole my courage to try. Instead, we conversed in the form of awkward nods and smiles, making the long trip feel even longer. After a painful, stiff hour, the truck finally slowed down and turned into my new school compound.
A short, round-faced man named Patrick rushed to the truck with his own army of kids. “Hello, I am Patrick, are you Mike?” I was so taken aback by his British accent that I forgot how to say “yes” and “hello.”
“Um Mike…” I hesitated. “I am sorry, my name is Mike, it’s nice to meet you Patrick.”
“Yes, likewise Mike, please forgive us, the Peace Corps did not tell us that you would be coming today, why don’t you come into the school maneaba and we will have the students unload your stuff.” As if on cue, the children shuffled around to create a human chain from the truck. My eyes followed their chain and led me to see a house filled with women sweeping and shaking out multiple woven mats.
Mr. Patrick summoned the rest of the teachers to the maneaba for an impromptu meet and greet. Everyone who came brought trays and trays of food. I was offered tins of corned beef, crackers, biscuits, and heaps of fish and rice. We talked for a while, and when the house was ready, my teachers walked me over. Their kids were waiting outside as we approached.
When I began unpacking, I was surprised to see how much luggage had not made it on the plane. I was not too worried though, since what did not make it on the plane would come the next day via boat.
I slept on a camping chair that night. I had no mosquito net or sleeping bag. At the time, I thought it ridiculous that my dad insisted on packing a camping chair for service. He was never a camper; always insisting on ordering Chinese takeout while the rest of my friends and their families roasted hotdogs. I never would have imagined that his camping foresight would impact me so heavily in Kiribati. That night, and every night after, I slept on my camping chair.
Maneaba – Village meeting hall
When There Was No Money 