Random musings

I told myself repeatedly over the last week and a half or so that I would update this blog more often, so that each individual post was shorter, more digestible, less distinctly novel-like. Ten days later, I have, as in so many other ways, failed miserably at this task. At the very least, I have decided to try to break it all into smaller sections and multiple posts, so that it can be digested in delicious bite-sized chunks of Palauan goodness, rather than crammed down all at once. 

I’d like to start with a correction to a prior post. I have been informed that Yurka’s name is actually spelled Jirka. I apologize for nothing, but I acknowledge any inconvenience, distress, or pain this error may have caused any of you.

This borders on racist, and for that I still don't apologize, but Montoya bears an uncanny resemblance to Turk. No, not just because they’re both black and have the same haircut (none) and mustache – but they talk exactly the same, have the same mannerisms. It’s unreal. If he weren’t so damn tall, I’d swear they were the same guy. James, sadly, is nothing like J.D., or my stay down here would be Heaven.

Speaking of James, I’ve somehow picked up the nickname “Gunner.” This would supposedly be in reference to my “go-get-‘em” attitude and over-achieving status. James obviously does not know me at all. Jodie is “Alaska,” so I suppose being Alaska precluded her from being the gunner, but I suppose relative to everyone else in Palau, I may well be gunneresque. Palau is pretty lackadaisical in general – of course, then the term loses all meaning. At least it’s better than my Top Gun nickname: Fungus. As James said: “There’s no shame in being the gunner, just watch out for the sniper.” Of course, James also said that the most important phrase to learn on the wards is “it was like that when I got here,” so…

I saw two guys with Mariners hats over the last week. One a taxi driver who I damn near flagged down just so I could ask him about the hat, and another at the track just before Frisbee whose son lives in the states and sent it to him – he didn’t even know what team it was. You know your team sucks when people don’t even realize they’re wearing your logo. And you know you miss home when simply seeing someone wearing the same hat as you makes them your best friend. I spent like two hours talking sports with a guy on Peleliu just because it felt patriotic – how sad is that?

We’ve been playing Frisbee a lot recently, since the weather’s been nice – and my ankles/shins are not happy with me. I seem to have suffered some sort of injury on the insides of my ankles/shins, because they’re really tender and it hurts like Hell to run. It was fine on Monday, but Tuesday, for the first time, I had to pull myself from a game (and I’d run on it for a number of weeks, just sort of ignoring the pain – I’m that gritty) – I may be on the DL for a bit. Given that while my cuts and catching have improved dramatically, my throwing is still pretty crummy, I have complete faith in my fellow Frisbeers that their play will be elevated for my injury. In that way, I’m actually a better team-mate for having ankle problems than I am if I actually play. Still, it sucks, because it’s the most exercise I’ve had in a long time (which, frankly, is probably why I’m so pathetically weak – even David could take me at this point). Hopefully some ice and ibuprofen and rest will heal it up and I’ll be back on the field sabotaging my own team in no time.