The Potion

Author: Jeff Hicks /

Our house was located on the edge of a bluff overlooking the lagoon. You would never know it though because the tall trees and thick undergrowth completely hid the view. We threw our garbage out the back door and it was very quickly consumed by the jungle greenery like a huge Venus Fly Trap. We also used the back door whenever we had to go “number one” since it was much more efficient and also saved precious water. One would automatically think that a huge collection of refuse would begin to pile up and cause an unsightly mess, but that never seemed to happen. It was a freak anomaly of nature, I guess.

This habit of throwing garbage into the jungle was practiced by every Yapese that I knew. Everyone had their own personal dump. Incidentally, one had to be very careful around our back door, the gateway to our dump, since the doorway was about twelve feet from the ground. There was no porch or stairs.

One day, we came home for a rest during the hottest part of the afternoon. I was bored and decided to make a potion. Potions were an art form that my brother and I perfected from the time we were very small children. More than once, mysterious odors from the creation of these potions permeated our home, with which my mother and father could never seem to find the source of stink, in spite of intense investigation. Of course, in the aftermath and during interrogation, we remained mum.

I took an old frying pan and began to add every chemical and ingredient I could find in the house. This included bug spray, Pinesol, toilet cleaner, aspirin, lice shampoo, a boonie pepper, salt&pepper, cooking oil, and a bit of water for good measure. I stirred the solution until all the ingredients were well mixed. I then decided that it would be well to heat up my concoction.

I stood at the stove and stirred my experiment very carefully. Pita came in and wondered what I was up to, but the smell drove him away. Suddenly, my cooked concoction reached its flash point and flames shot up nearly to the ceiling! Luckily I got out of the way in time and did not singe any of my hair or eyebrows – I only suffered a minor flesh wound on my forearm.

I took the remains of my science project and threw it all out the backdoor – pan and all. In an instant, the neighbor’s dog came to investigate the source of the new and mysterious odor. It must have suited him because he immediately began licking all the leftover chemicals out of the pan. Alas, he did not respond to my commands to “Get lost.” Within two minutes, he keeled over dead.

The neighbor was somewhat dismayed because that dog was going to be his family’s supper in a few days. I apologized profusely and bought them some fish to take its place. That was the last potion I made while living on Yap. The value of human and animal life was too great.

Wealth

Author: Jeff Hicks /

One morning after we ate breakfast, Pita announced that we had a service project to perform. He explained that Be’Nug needed a new house built and we were going to be the builders. I didn’t really feel like building homes on this particular day and wished there was a way to postpone the project, but Pita said it needed to be done today because Be’Nug was desperate. He had begged, borrowed, and stolen all the materials needed for his new home; all he wanted now was manpower to put it all together.

Be’Nug was kind of a simpleton and he had a club foot. One foot was pointed backwards, so when he walked and moved about, it took a lot of extra strength and energy. So many activities, which included home-building, were nearly impossible for him.

Pita and I found Be’Nug at the designated location. He was sitting under a tree and had a stick in his hand, waiving it around and chanting. He was performing a Black Magic spell which was designed to ask the underworld if his guests were going to be on time. Black Magic was part of the Yapese tradition and many people used it, especially the older generation.

Anyone not familiar with Black Magic or think it is hocus-pocus have probably never witnessed its affects. It is very real and very dangerous. I kidded Be’Nug, telling him that we had forgotten to call in our daily schedule to the underworld, thus, they wouldn’t know it. He gave me a concerned look and said, ‘Oh no, the spirits said you were coming; you were just going to be a little late.” Chilling…

Anyway, Be’Nug had some odd sized sheets of rusty corrugated roofing, four or five wooden posts, a coffee can full of bent and rusted nails, a few 2x4’s, and a ball peen hammer with a broken handle. Be’Nug showed us where he wanted his house positioned, and Pita and I went to work.

We sank the posts in the ground, tamped rocks and mud around them for strength, laid out a floor and toe-nailed it to the posts, put in a top plate, studs, and rafters, nailed the tin to the walls and roof, and finished the project in about three hours. When we stepped back to admire our work, Be’Nug started to cry saying he now had the nicest house in the village and was very thankful. His new home kind of reminded me of a fort my friends and I built back home when we were kids.

At that moment, I had a sudden epiphany. I realized wealth was a relative thing. I felt a tinge of guilt for the huge place I had grown-up in back home – and we were far from being rich.