Pigs, Cars, and Bureaucracy!

Sunday we took a 30 minute boat ride to a small island on the other side of the atoll for an afternoon picnic. The island is owned by three or four of the wealthy families here and is uninhabited except on Sundays when they open the island to their friends and have a potluck picnic in the middle of the afternoon. One of the families helped start the Coop School thirty years ago and most of their children have attended the school. There is a standing invitation for any Coop teacher to come out to the island and on this Sunday, the entire school and their significant others were invited to the island and there was a roasted pig on a spit to add to the potluck. The food was great but the snorkeling was spectacular. Beautiful coral and amazing fish were twenty yards off the shore. About fifty yards off shore was a World War II era airplane and a helicopter in about twenty feet of water. Very cool.

This island is about a quarter mile wide and a half mile long with a picnic area on the lagoon side with the rest of the island in palm groves. The only full time inhabitants were about 30 or 40 pigs of all sizes and colors. They wander around like they own the place and are not shy about being around people at all. As different size pigs strolled through the picnic area nobody seemed to notice them at all unless they got too close to someone’s food.  I wonder if they knew that one of their kin had joined us as the guest of honor at the pot luck.  Another 30 minute boat ride and we were back on Majuro before dark. A point of interest for any educators reading this, Becky said it was the best in-service training she had ever attended.

Monday I resumed my search for a car. I have been looking for a car since arriving on the island three weeks ago.  There are several things to consider when buying a car here. Number one is that apparently the Marshallese do not sell their cars. Once purchased, the Marshallese drive their cars until they stop running and are not worth repairing.  The only cars I heard of for sale were from people who were leaving the island and those cars were already sold when I heard about them. Second, generally, the Marshallese do not get their vehicles serviced or repaired unless they vehicle stops running. Third, the salt air and water makes rust the preeminent color on many vehicles and the electronics on most cars is the first thing to go.  The last thing to consider is all vehicles are imported and taxed. This adds about four to five thousand dollars to anything that runs. I was able to touch base with a dealer last week who was expecting a shipment of used cars any day and on Monday he showed me a base model, 2006, Chev, Aveo. Nothing powered, manual transmission, no AC. It was at the high end of our budget for a vehicle but it was new to the island and should give us good service while we are here.

Tuesday morning at about 10:00 I began the process of registering my new vehicle. First I took the paperwork to the police station where they started the process. But because the vehicle was new to the island they needed to do a safety inspection on it. So I had to go to the dealer pick up the car and drive it to the police station without plates for the inspection. When I returned with the car, the office clerk had to find the officer who did the inspections. This took half an hour and the inspection consisted of checking the turn signals and brake lights. After the inspection I returned to the clerk who took my paper work, gave me my new plate, and then gave me a bill to take to the cashier located up island at the government building. He told me I would get my new registration when I brought back the receipt. He also told me to come back after lunch (it was 11:30). Then he added that after lunch meant after 2:00 PM. So having two and half hours to kill I took Becky to lunch. After lunch I thought I would swing by the government building and see if the cashier’s window as open. Much to my surprise the window was open and there was no line. I was in and out in ten minutes.  I got back to the police station a little before two and a different clerk took my receipt and then told me that the Commissioner had to sign the registration and could I come back before five. So I left again and was back at four thirty to pick up my new registration with the scrawl of the Police Commissioner prominently displayed.

So this week we’ve picnicked with pigs, purchased a car, and danced the bureaucratic shuffle of car registration. I guess I better take the rest of the week off. Don’t want to get overworked. Life’s tough when you’re a Cabana Boy!

Willard