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Looking For Kelly's Cousin Henio
Culture has many
characteristics and one of the more revealing aspects of culture in
the islands is the practice of tentagó, the asking of a friend or
relative to carry packages of foodstuff, clothing, tools, or gifts
and greetings or messages for friends and family when traveling to
other islands in Micronesia.
I remember carrying
packages or coolers filled with stuffs when visiting family in the
Saipan, Tinian and Rota, I learned
it was a way to relieve the burden of staying with relatives.
Culture dictated that we not insult our relatives by staying at
hotels. Burdening family promoted peace with relatives. Those who
stayed at hotels appeared to family as if there were rich and didn't
want to wash dishes, clean or cook while staying with
family.
 I was in
Palau
recently, and when my friend Kelly Marsh (seated in front of cava
bowl on mat in picture) asked me to be her tentagó
(messenger) and look up her cousin Henio who works for the Police
Department in Palau. She told me she learned that Henio was in
Palau but only after returning
to Guam from the 9th Festival of the Arts in July 2004. She
explained that her aunt and uncle, Shirley & Norvel Marsh
adopted Henio so that he could experience other parts of the world
in addition to his home-island of Palau. I was quite surprised that
Marsh would have a cousin in Palau.
Adoption, I discovered
while conducting Oral History interviews in Palau is a very common practice
and that one’s natural mother could become a stepsister when adopted
by her parents. Different circumstances dictate who is adopted and
family members who are not able to have children of their own often
adopt. Sadly, at times, the death of the mother at childbirth
required the adoption of the child, usually within the
clan.
Before I l eft Palau, I stopped in at the
police station remembering Kelly’s pointers regarding Henio. I walked into the
license renewal office and approached the counter in
front or two
hefty Palauan women, their mouth stuffed with
mama'on (Chamorro for betel nut
ingredients namely, betel nut, lime, mint
leaf, and sometimes cigarette) wadded up and chewing away as fast as
they were typing. They were processing license renewals for two
eager applicants seated on the bench behind me.
Betel nut chewing is more
than cultural in Palau. It’s innate.
Palauans chew betel nut all the time. Rarely do you find anyone in
Palau who does not chew. They stop each
other in the middle of the street, in stores, in hospital walkways,
parking lots, lobby areas, in government offices,
the post office, along the pier and in the water,
aligning their boats to pass betel nut ingredients. They answer the
telephone with wads of betel nut stashed inside the special pocket
of a cheek that only Palauans are equipped with at birth. The cheek
containing the mama'on is probably determined by the gene deciding
whether the person will be left or right handed.
There is no place sacred
enough not to pass betel nut in Palau. Before anyone utters
a word, the
one with a betel nut bag (one version in right photo) will extend an
offer of the ingredients of the prized style chewing. Sharing
betel-nut-ingredients is as effortless as breathing for Palauans.
Chewers relate at a subconscious level and that connectivity is
cultural spirituality.
Going back to my search
for Henio, I stood patiently in front of the women hoping one or the
other would look up and I could quickly ask about Henio. They were
not to be disturbed. Also an islander and knowing how long it takes
turtles to come up for air, I walked away and approached the other
woman in the room wearing a police uniform behind the counter in the
left corner of the office.
“Could you please tell me
where I may find Henio,” I asked as if there was only one Henio in
all of Palau's 16 states. The
officer looked up at me and said, “I recognize that voice.” She
caught me off guard with that comment, as I wondered how a police
officer in Palau recognizes my voice. For a minute, we took a good
look at each other, and came to the realization that we knew each
other all right.
 “It’s Virg. Remember?” She
asked as I quickly sorted through memory files regarding her. “Of
course I remember! You were the assistant for Mark Cornish and the
guys.” After a little reminiscing, we embraced (hugged) each other.
Hugging is another cultural practice among islanders; it is a manner
of greeting and a sign of accepting each other.
Virg told me she knew a
Denio not a Henio in the department but did not give me the “we’re
out of stock” response you'll get from administrative clerks, which
in many government offices in Micronesia, including Guam, qualifies
as cultural. Its literal translation means, “If you want to find him
go for it. I’m not budging.” It is like a self-serve-government
activism.
Virg approached the two
women who were still typing as if sending President Bush the current
poll results from the primary election the day before. She said
something in Palauan to the one closest to her, and then signaled
for me to follow her outside. We walked back around the corner of
the building to a small opened window on the west wall and she
started talking to an officer who appeared to be taking a nap. He
slowly opened his eyes and rambled something to Virg, which I could
neither hear, nor understand. His transistor radio was broadcasting
background noise. Virg waved me on and I followed her to the south
wing of the building, identifying it as, “This is the prison,” when
we walked in.
I was thinking about how
quickly I found myself in prison in Palau and wondered where
our next steps would lead us in our search for Henio.
A woman at the prison told
us that a Henio, who does not speak Palauan, works at the Fish and
Wildlife Division of the Department. It was her identifying mark for
Henio - that he does not speak Palauan. I reasoned his adoption and
living off-island as a youngster for his inability to speak the
local language. Her attitude is another cultural identifier in all
of Micronesia
(except Guam) where the indigenous people speak the local language,
as a guarded heritage.
Without asking, she
called the
Fish and Wildlife office several times, but the line was busy; the
result, she was confident, due to using the Internet. "Take the road
to the capitol building," she instructed, "go straight up the hill,
don’t make any turns and head to the museum. He’s in one of the
buildings off to the side there."
I felt right at home with
those directions. Directions like the one she gave are the only type
of directions I grew up with, and I admit, I still can nail a
location better with local directions than use of street signs and
house numbers. Even at night. When traveling out of Micronesia,
familiarity is still my homing devise. I could see Henio right where
he is supposed to be after listening to the prison lady's
directions.
I said my goodbyes to
Virg, took her email and mailing address, and drove off to find the
cluster of buildings and Henio Marsh.
I drove towards the
capitol building, heading to the museum and found a set of buildings
off to the left of the museum, exactly where the prison woman said
they would be. I asked a man wondering around outside if he knew
where I could find Henio. He pointed to the building on my right and
said, "In there." He directed me to park and then I entered the
building.
I noticed shoes at the
steps just outside the door indicating there were people inside the
building. I wondered which pair belonged to my man. I opened the
door and saw a woman sitting behind a desk directly in front of me.
"I'm looking for Henio," I said to her. Without a word, she pointed
behind the opened door. I peaked behind the door and saw two men
sitting on a couch looking right back at me.
 "Which of you is Henio?" I asked. The man sitting
closest to me on the couch sheepishly admitted, “I’m Henio.” The man
sitting next to him got up and walked away. Even the woman in the
office disappeared before I explained my purpose for visiting Henio.
In fact, it was apparent to me that others were in the offices in
that building, but the silence and scarceness of the staff, after I
found Henio, was deafening.
Disappearing is another
cultural identifier in the islands. Many islanders are taught to be
scarce when adults associate. In Palau, the culture still
dictates and Henio was provided as much privacy as possible.
He was pensive and I
realized later that they must have thought I was there for some
investigative work. I walked up to Henio, extended my hand, and told
him his cousin Kelly Marsh asked me to find him and to send her
regards. That Kelly wanted him to know that she had been in Palau
for the Arts Festival but did not know he was there until she
returned to Guam; and was sorry she missed him.
 Henio signed
and slid back unto the desk disbelieving, "Kelly was here for the
festival?” A bit more relaxed at that point, he peppered me with
questions about Kelly that I was not prepared to answer. Kelly had
not given me her life story, or how long it had been since she and
Henio last saw each other. He was not aware that she was living on
Guam or that
she had married and with grown children.
I felt like an unsolved
mystery reporter.
 After
he caught his breath, he told me that he left Palau  when he was 10 years old
and grew up in the states with his adoptive parents, the Marsh’s
(Kelly’s aunt and uncle.) We talked about his work and it was
evident that a
horticulturalist preserved many of the office residents, starting
with the crane hanging above Henio. At its feet, perched a
Palau Kingfisher. He described a crane as having flown up from
Australia, never to make a return journey. 
On the wall behind him, a
green sea turtle turned brown from shellac or varnish, and hung on
the same wall where a 12-foot crocodile dominated the
middle section. He told me that crocodiles are in limited areas of
Palau, like Peleliu down south and in the thick mangroves at
Babeldaob.
Just a couple of days
before he said he picked up a 15-foot crocodile somewhere in
Babeldaob. I was surprised that anyone would keep a crocodile as pet,
feeding it “chickens,” he said. When the owners discovered that
it had
died,
they called
his office to pick it up and he buried it in the Koror dump down by
the aquarium.
Dumping is another cultural practice
of people in islands. Islanders seldom, if ever, separate their
garbage from their trash; it’s unheard of unless maybe the gurus of
recycling, Paul Tobiason and Barry Straatman live in their
neighborhood. Except for spoiled food that is reserved for pet dogs,
cats, pigs and OK, maybe crocodile too, everything else that
islanders don't want, go into the dump. It's a cultural art and on
Guam, and
it’s been that way for over 50 years now. Even vectors, long time
residents of the Ordot Dump benefit from its continuing growth and
are larger than their cousins from other villages; the result of
accessibility to excessive garbage in the Ordot Dump, breeding a
super vector breed.
Culture is an ever changing facet of
tradition and as islanders look outside their reefs for ways to
improve themselves, they must adopt only practices that will enhance
the use of their language and traditions. Guarding against those
that will erode the island's social fabric.
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