by C.M. Iezza

© Copyright 1996

The vestiges of a colonial lifestyle exist on a tiny Pacific atoll for a handful of America's technological elite. They live in a man-made paradise, in which most of the unstructured, undisciplined aspects of tropical life have been overcome by the fruits of civilization.

On the island of Kwajalein, all the greenery is meticulously manicured including the coconut palms, which form vertical rows lining the beach and sidewalks, with stragglers promptly uprooted. For recreation there are six clay tennis courts, a screened picnic area with concrete tables, bug lights and electric barbecues, four theaters, and two Olympic-sized swimming pools -- one saltwater. The air conditioned, concrete-block houses include the latest electronic gadgetry and formal dining rooms that are used frequently, lest the children forget how to act.

Most civilian employees conduct military research. They are well paid, receive generous housing and food allowances, pay no federal income tax, and shop on base. There are no private automobiles on Kwaj. When a newcomer arrives, the family goes to the supply depot and everyone selects a bike, which is theirs until they leave or turn it in for another. The schools are well supplied, staffed with highly-qualified teachers and the average student-teacher ratio is 1:9. There is a company-paid extension program available to all residents for college credit through the University of Hawaii.

Applicants for all positions on Kwaj and their families are carefully screened, so only the right sort of people ever get there. And since the island is under military jurisdiction, anyone suspected of any kind of deviant behavior is immediately shipped stateside. There is no crime on Kwaj. For those who qualify, it's a good life.

Kwajalein is not officially a colony of the United States, which pays the Marshallese government about one million dollars rent per year for use of the one-half-by-three-mile island. Our military say there are no missiles on Kwaj, but they do admit it's a top-secret missile-testing base. Thus, the island's former inhabitants were transported free-of-charge to Ebey, a neighboring island less than two miles away that is about half the size of Kwaj.

The housing and food-stuffs supplied by the military convinced most natives of both islands that this temporary arrangement was to their benefit. And as a bonus, some of the women were given job training and employed as maids by American families for which they were paid thirty U.S. dollars per month. Families of these lucky workers no longer had to struggle with fishing and harvesting to survive.

As rumors of the good life on Ebey spread around the Marshall Islands, people began arriving in droves and asking relatives, who could not refuse, to put them up. Soon living conditions, which were already overcrowded, became intolerable, with fifteen to twenty people living in each of the newly-erected, two-bedroom houses and many more crammed into hastily-erected shelters on the beach. In an effort to encourage visitors to return to their own islands, the military stopped sending food and supplies. The people of Kwaj decided to return home.

The military was not amused when it discovered the Islanders camped on the beach of a high-security facility. When the Marshallese government was asked to remove them, the military was told the Island belonged to these people, and rental agreement or no, the government would not force them off their land. They did, however, allow the military to restrict access to sensitive areas.

About a dozen disgruntled, former inhabitants of the island could not be coaxed into returning to Ebey. They were confined to a small, fenced section of the beach where they lived off the sea. At first, though heavily guarded by a tough, inner-city, civilian security force, the natives would swim out of their prison at night and scour the Island for food and other necessities that weren't being used. But the Islanders' night wanderings abruptly ended when the military started dumping leftovers offshore to attract sharks. Americans' suddenly stopped scuba diving about that time.

Only the most compliant Islanders are offered work and they are transported to Kwaj each morning and returned to Ebey each afternoon by boat. The American wives, most of whom are not employed, stay home and supervise the maids, showing them how to clean and cook.

Not surprisingly, many of the Americans have begun to develop an offshoot of Kipling's fancy. At a cocktail party one Friday evening, a black woman, whose husband is a chief engineer, voiced a half-hearted complaint that no matter how often she has shown her maid how, the girl never has learned to load a dishwasher or to iron properly. Laughing, she said it almost would be easier to do it herself, but the poor girl has got to learn to do it sometime. The other wives joined in the laughter and agreed that the unreliability of the help was a serious problem.

The chief medical tech told his temporary assistant that every time he looks out the lab's window, he is awed by the enormity of the ever-changing sea. "There is no place on earth more beautiful," he said to himself, as he turned to read the stool culture of the three-year-old Marshallese child transported from Ebey the previous morning. "Shigella, again. Damn, why can't these people learn the basics of sanitation?"

The boy is so malnourished and dehydrated he weighs only thirteen pounds, and though he is not conscious, he whimpers pitifully, triggering a cold defensive response from the medical staff, most of whom can not bear to be in the same room with him. His mother is on Ebey, as hospital regulations do not permit Marshallese visitors. If it were an American child, the military would medevac the boy to San Francisco, and he might live. "But what's the use?" the chief tech said, staring out the window. "Even if he survives, he'll end-up back on Ebey."

The military, as usual, has the dirty jobs. They must search the Islanders each afternoon for food, and politely prevent unauthorized civilians from boarding the boat to Ebey. There is a particularly stern-looking sergeant whose boots and buckle always glimmer in the afternoon light. He likes being stationed on Kwaj. The duty is light and the people are friendly, even the workers -- though he never speaks to them when he is on duty.

He is tall, but thin, and many of the men tease him about his enormous appetite, asking him where he puts it all. Each weekday after finishing an early supper, and carefully clearing his plate, glass and silverware, he goes through the line again and piles a take-out plate full, in case he gets hungry after he goes off duty when the mess is closed. He walks to the boat dock, and after the day watch leaves, he places his dinner plate and a handful of paper napkins under the bench where the workers will sit and wait for the boat. When they arrive, he carefully searches their bags for food.

After the boat leaves, he always checks to make sure no trash has been left in the waiting area. It is always clean.