Woman Ambae:
A Tale of Peace Corps in the South Pacific

On a clear day in Lovunivili, I wake to a spectacular view of Maewo across the way. Such a spectacular view that one can make out ships, roads and most notably, waterfalls. I’ve made good use of these waterfalls as my Christmas adventures will attest, and therefore have always been in good standing with them, admiring them for their majesty and ignoring the unfathomable amounts of mud they create for the poor souls of Maewo.

I was admiring this view and said waterfalls my first morning back as I went about my morning routine of filling my kettle for the urgent consumption of coffee waking up at five AM in the bush usually requires; admiring it a little more so than usual as absence makes the heart grow fonder. I was admiring it so much in fact, that I failed to realize my kettle remained painfully dry, shining like a warning beacon in the early light of the unforgiving tropical sun. Not so much as a single drip of water made it into my anxiously awaiting kettle. My brow furrowed, a layer of sweat crept over my body, dread filled my heart- I feared this day would come. The waterfalls mocked me.

Ambae is a beautiful island, a wonderful island, a fantastic island I would say; but it is also a very, very dry one. This isn’t to say that it doesn’t rain here, because it does. A lot. And as previously mentioned under my talk of the major water security dilemma us Lovunivilians are facing, we don’t have a lot of water source options. We pretty much have the one, actually- rain tanks. Never mind that the few currently standing tanks, including mine, are dilapidated and crumbling to the ground, infested with parasites (did I mention I’ve been riddled with dysentery for the past few months?)and certainly not enough to support the population- if, more like when, we run out- just climb a coconut tree and drink some coconuts. What’s that, you don’t want to bathe in coconuts too? No problem, swim in the saltwater, it’s only a two hour walk to the beach.

I don’t have any scientific proof to support this, but I get the feeling that the closer to the volcano you get, the less water you have available to you. I base this on the fact that both Megan and Melissa have a running tap in their house, not three hours down the road from me. What’s more, Melissa has a running shower. I kid you not. Manaro: 1; Kara: 0.

I am not bitter. No, do not discern this from the telling of my water woes, I am not simply stewing in self pity but rather reflecting on how this will undoubtedly make me a more well-rounded and better acclimated individual upon my return to the states. I may even go so far as to ascertain that perhaps the tackling of such hardships will in turn allow me to develop such resourcefulness and doggedness that the American government could only hope would emerge in the civility of a returned Peace Corps volunteer. That, or the ache in my girl-ish biceps from hauling one too many buckets of water uphill will be the fire under mine and my villages (respective) asses to get going on a water committee and get a project proposal for a additional water sources in the works. Only time and/or dehydration will tell.