Palau - Fire and Ice
Part 1 - Fire Written by P.F. Kluge
Photographed by Christopher Sherlock
Even before an iceberg sank the Antarctic Explorer last November,
I worried about my trip. This was something I had to do, I told
my friends; an "expedition-cruise" that I'd enjoy talking
about, after it was over. Then came that front page picture of
a dying red-hulled ship, lying on its side, like a maraschino
cherry in a sea of ice cubes. My friends all called to make sure
I had seen that picture. Whatever possessed me? I could hear them
wondering.
I missed that film about penguins and was never fascinated by
Scott and Admunsen and the race for the South Pole. And I didn't
need to put my foot on every continent. Yet here I was on the
Antarctic Dream, sailing from the southernmost city in the world,
Ushuaia, Argentina, into the roughest waters in the world —
the Drake Passage — and aiming for the highest, driest,
windiest, coldest place on the planet. Why? I guess I thought
of it as a kind of experiment: on myself.
Anyone who lives in a place with seasons knows that he or she
is a different person in summer and winter. It's about clothing,
food, work and sleep and more; it's about moods, dreams, nightmares,
about life and death. So I devised a test, a matter of going to
extremes -- within a matter of months -- from tropical to frigid,
from a place that has no winter to a place that has no summer.
The hot place came first.
It never fails. You'd think that by now, returning for the umpteenth
time to the small Pacific islands the Peace Corps sent me to forty
years ago, I'd be ready for what hugs, smothers and impales me
as soon as I step off the plane. And turns me into someone my
friends back home don't know. Palau is a stunning Pacific archipelago
west of Hawaii, south of Guam. From the first time I saw it –
in 1968 – the thought of not seeing it again, and again,
was unbearable; I couldn’t bear to be permanently separated
from so fine a place, the most artful possible blend of land and
sea. It is, however the most hot-and-humid place I’ve ever
been. The sun comes up with lots of attitude: you do not linger
in it. There is rain, but the rain is warm, as is the water in
the lagoon, as is the sweat that soaks my clothing. It's as if
sky, sea and skin are all on the same page, heat-struck. This
is a place where people break out umbrellas against a blue sky.
Combine daily rain and daily heat and you accelerate life's processes,
growth and decay leap-frogging through time, spring and fall jamming
into endless summer. You smell blossoms, you smell rot, you smell
smoke and mold. You smell the ocean at high tide and when it recedes,
you smell mud and mangroves, primal and septic, sunken and dead
things on a floor of mud. You smell ...that is I smell...more.
I sweat more, shave more frequently, my fingers and toes need
clipping more often. This is a place where everything grows up
— and old — faster. It doesn't take long for a belt
or a pair of shoes to turn moldy, for the pages of a paperback
to swell and curl and kiss the binding goodbye.
Mornings are balmy: the word Paradise applies: You wake up early
bursting with energy: sandals, shorts, t-shirt are all you need.
But Paradise lasts till 10 a.m., at the latest. After that, heat
rules. If you walk around, you'll wilt. If you drive, the inside
of your car is a sauna, the steering wheel a branding iron. So
here's the deal: if you sit somewhere in the shade, sit quietly
and behave, you'll be fine. If you exert yourself, you're punished.
And it stays that way until late afternoon, when the sun backs
off and life begins to stir, a gaudy tropical sunset coming along,
unsubtle as a painting on velvet but still spectacular. And then
it's night. Velvet, liquid, succulent. I'm at ease here, slower,
less linear, less driven, less ironic. And it is a blessing to
be on islands so green, and green in so many ways, surrounded
by an ocean that goes from turquoise to cobalt blue. Every time
I stay in Palau, I imagine myself staying longer, in the zone
of heat. But eventually you worry about staying too long, relaxing
too much, letting go of ambitions that can't be realized in a
small, warm place. You worry what happens to shoes and belts and
books might happen to you. You're happy but you wonder if happiness
is everything, if there is something, somewhere else, that you
are missing. Some notes, somewhere, that are off the tropical
scale.
Books, Journalism and Teaching
- these are the three things P.F. Kluge
loves. A novelist, a professor. He emphasizes that writing
is for an audience of strangers and that, when you address
strangers, it’s important to perpetrate a story. He
tells his students that delaying writing until you feel inspired
is foolishness. And that especially when you’re starting
out, the reading you do is as important as the writing.
