Fat Man, Little Boy, and the Tinain Blowhole

Do the names “Fat Man” and “Little Boy” ring a bell? They are the code names of the two atomic bombs that Harry Truman dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan to end WWII. They were loaded onto B-29’s on the small pacific island if Tinian, a few miles south of Saipan. My grandfather once told me that one of his most vivid memories from the war was sitting in the officer’s club on Kagman Point on the southeast corner of Saipan and watching the planes take off from Tinian. Occasionally, Granddaddy said, one of the planes wouldn’t build up enough speed on take-off and plummet into the water. Fortunately this never occurred to him - a B-29 navigator - or it’s highly likely that I wouldn’t be writing this right now. Tinian was actually the busiest airport in the world in the mid-1940’s. It has a large grid of runways on the north end, most of which were built by the US to allow the allied forces to stage aerial attacks on Japan. LeeAnn and I took an hour-long boat ride to the island last weekend to explore the sights and get a taste of modern history.

Tinian is a sleepy island. Only a couple thousand people live there. It’s mostly farmland, has two gas stations, a schoolhouse, and a gaudy hotel/casino called the Tinian Dynasty. Like almost every other resort in the Marianas, it caters to wealthy Asian tourists, and has more marbled floors and fake Greek statutes than should ever be allowed under one roof. After an overpriced meal of teriyaki steak and seaweed salad, we decided to hit the casino. LeeAnn got 20 bucks in coins and hit the slot machines, and I headed for the blackjack tables. I too only planned to play with $20, but decided to get much more than that in chips to make it appear as though I was a serious player. I hit the low-stakes tables, and was up $60 in the first five minutes. In all honesty, I don’t remember losing a hand. Due to a lack of funding, and a low blood-alcohol content, I wisely decided to walk away at this point. Our steak and seaweed dinner had paid for itself, so LeeAnn and I called it a night.

The next morning we rented a 125cc moped and went exploring. After a fifteen minute ride north on “Broadway,” the only road to speak of, I noticed a large spray to my right that resembled a geyser. There was no beach, only a 20-foot high limestone cliff that ran the full length of the eastern side of the island. We came upon a dirt path that led in the direction of the spray and took the scooter off-road. On the top of the cliff was a hole about the size of a basketball. At this particular spot the cliff had a slight overhang, probably due to waves eroding the bottom section of the cliff away. However, Mother Nature had, at some point, drilled a vertical hole in a particularly thick section of the overhang. When the waves would crash against the side of the cliff with enough force, a large amount of water would shoot up through the hole. I stood over it and got drenched within a few seconds as LeeAnn laughed and took pictures.
We drove a couple more minutes north and arrived at the old airfield. I can only describe it as one of the most eerie sights I have ever seen; there was a clash of images and emotions that hit hard. Here I was, in one of the most historic locations of the twentieth century, and there was nothing but concrete runways overgrown with weeds and wild brush, and dilapidated and hollowed communications buildings. Thousands of missions embarked from these airstrips, including the two most violent and deadly the world has ever seen, and there were no signposts guiding tourists, no landscaping or memorial plaques, no sign of life other than a gecko lizard scampering across the pavement and into the thick brush. It looked as if everyone packed up and left about 70 years ago without looking back. After a few moments’ reflection, I realized that this is exactly what happened.

What once looked like this:

Now looks like this:


We rode around on the scooter, purposely getting lost in the maze that was the staging ground for missions that brought WWII to a close. We would zip down runways at full throttle, then creep through the overgrown perpendicular paths that connected barracks and communications towers, all of which are now crumbling. As we passed one parking lot-sized area along the paths, LeeAnn caught glimpse of something off to one side and told me to turn around and check it out. In opposite corners of this space were the loading pits where “Little Boy” was loaded onto the Enola Gay at 2:45 am on August 6, 1945, and “Fat Man” was loaded onto Bockscar exactly 72 hours later.

Although I am surprised at the lack of funding and attention the government has bestowed upon these grounds, I’m glad I was able to see them in their current state. I can’t help but think that that a fancy museum would have cheapened the area and taken away from its dramatic, yet unintended effect. I know of nowhere else in the world where one can stand in the thick of such an important location, one that has been ignored to such a great extent, and simply wander unsupervised. I was able to imagine the rows of B-29’s neatly lined along the runway, and then open my eyes to the crumbled concrete and wild pacific brush. Indeed, this was a one-of-a-kind experience.

The Saipan Hash House Harriers

Warning: if you are offended by the general use of foul language, stop reading now. My apologies to those loyal fans of the Saipan 2008 blog. It’s been a couple of weeks since I last contributed, but I fell into a daily routine consisting of breakfast, work, lunch out, work again, an evening swim, takeout Thai food, a cocktail or two, then bed. Not that I didn’t enjoy the daily grind, it just didn’t provide me with anything to write home about. That was… until the hash.


A coworker from upstate New York, who I can only describe as the coolest nerd I know, kept pestering me about joining him for a Saturday afternoon ritual he religiously attends called the hash. He has lost about 40 pounds since coming to Saipan, and he attributes much of it to this commitment. You may be asking yourself, as was I, what the hell is the hash?

The Saipan Hash House Harriers are a group of people, I’m not sure the how many in number, who show up at 4:30 every Saturday afternoon for a romp through the jungle for three to five miles, and then participate in an hour or two of good clean debauchery afterward. In case you’re wondering, there isn’t actually any hash smoking, it’s just the name of the group. Here’s how it generally works: each week one member is designated “the hare,” as in the rabbit. That member spends time throughout the week setting a trail for the Saturday hash. Much of it goes through the jungle, some along the beach, some along mountain ridges, and usually a little bit on the road when necessary. After arriving at “the box” a.k.a. the staring point (which changes location each week), the hare gets a five-minute head start. He or she carries a bag of flour and randomly drops some to mark where he or she has run. Everyone else then follows that trail, running, in theory, and then ends up at the designated place where religion occurs (more on religion later).

That being said, my hash experience was actually at night. Each quarter there is a full-moon hash, which starts at sunset. We caravanned up a mountain to an isolated cemetery with a westward view of the ocean. As soon as the sun went down the hare, a 28 year-old female schoolteacher, took off into the jungle. Five minutes later the rest of the group was off like a pack of hounds following close behind. I followed my colleague, who is another clerk at the court, and we soon hit the thick jungle as well. I couldn’t help but feel as though I was Sawyer from the television show “Lost.” He’s a Georgia boy who is stuck on an isolated island in the middle of the Pacific and constantly runs through the rainforest looking for someone or being chased by something.

The run was actually very nice. We jogged when we could and slowed to a walk when trail conditions and fading light warranted. As I mentioned, we started up on a cliff, and three and a half miles later we were down at the ocean. There was a campfire, 10 or so bags of chips and cookies, and a truck bed full of icy beer. My friend and I finished close to last, but still within 90 minutes. The hashers ranged in age from mid-twenties to a woman in her sixties. There were an equal number of men and women and most were from the mainland with a couple Russians scattered about. The hashers who have been around for a while have hash names, nicknames that derived from incidents on their hashing adventures. My friend’s hash name is Goat Bitch. Once while stopping to tie his shoe on the trail, a couple of goats wandered up and apparently one tried to get fresh with him. The hare’s name was simply “Ass.” Again, this is a 28 year-old female schoolteacher. I’m not sure how she got her name, but being the hare for the week, there were quite a few “ass hare” jokes. Among others were Yukon Pete, Blowjob, PeeWee, and Dog Leg. My name was FNG, but just for this particular run. It took me a few minutes, but I finally figured out that it stood for F**kin New Guy. Ironically, there were also 3 other Aggies present – myself, an engineer on a merchant marine ship, a radiologist, and a tourist who was here visiting friends. Collectively we made up about 15 or 20 percent of the group.

The most memorable part was Religion: the after-run festivities. It’s a bonding session, wherein a bedpan full of beer is passed around the campfire, dirty jokes and stories are told, and traditional hash songs are sung. Obviously, I was not able to sing along, as I was the FNG, but it was humorous nonetheless.

I sincerely hope that this is not one of those “you had to be there” type stories. I had a blast while I was participating and hope I can do it once more before I leave. If you ever find yourself in Saipan and want to meet some friendly locals, most of whom are not true locals, I recommend hashing. Just remember to bring your earmuffs if you don’t want to hear a barrage of cursing, some of it inevitably in your direction!

Pictures

KSPN Interview

Courtroom

Suidice Cliff: where thousands of Japanese soldiers and their families jumped to their death during the US invasion

The beach in front of my condo

Bessie

Bonzai Cliff with a flametree in the foreground

My first ride

Bird Island: A wildlife refuge on the north end of the island

"The Grotto"

The strip in Garapan

Veterans Cemetary: "Operation Iraqi Freedom" plot

Living room view

Balcony view

"House of Justice"

Low tide reveals some interesting things!

Southern view from Mt. Topachou (Lau Lau bay to left, airstip in background)

The best of times, the worst of times

All things on the island seem to have a polar opposite literally around the corner. Run-down, crowded, and polluted city roads lead to isolated white sand beaches that one would expect to find on the front of a postcard. A radio station plays gangsta rap on Saturday night and quirky church music on Sunday morning. A herd of wild mountain goats crosses the street and blocks traffic in front of the Louis Vuitton and Prada stores. Elderly Chamorro women in tribal garb order grilled stuffed burrito supremes at taco bell. Everywhere I turn there is a clash of cultures and a conglomeration of images that leave my neck sore from endless double-takes.

Just as the island seems to routinely vary from one extreme to the other, my first few days have also been somewhat of an emotional roller-coaster ride. I arrived very early Thursday morning and Peter Yao, my supervising attorney, picked me up from the airport and took me to my condo. Overall the accommodations are pretty good. The interior of the building could use a facelift, but it’s right on the beach and very near the court and restaurants. My 10th floor balcony overlooks the Pacific Ocean, making it hard to justify any complaints. Thursday was basically a travel recovery day. I went for a swim and read on the beach for about an hour. The rest of the day consisted of Sopranos reruns and catnaps.

Friday was my orientation day at work, and by far the most fun to date. Peter picked me up around 9:00am and took me to me to get my car, a 1991 Haundi that has already died and been traded in for a sweet minivan (more on that later). He then introduced me to the Justices, clerks, and administrative staff. The camaraderie was immediately apparent and I felt very welcomed by all. After taking care of administrative duties such as a local drivers license, passcodes to the Justices’ chambers, computer accounts, etc… the guys took me out to lunch at a local resort.

There are 4 full-time clerks, all males between the ages of 26 and 32. I had the feeling that I was initially being sized up, as the guys were curious about the guy they would be spending countless hours with over then next six weeks. I’m the only non-ivy-leaguer, non-lawyer, and the youngest, so some slight intimidation would have been in order. However, just being myself has generally worked for me in the past and it didn’t fail this time either. At the end of lunch, Jon, from Connecticut, said, “one of our biggest fears is that the incoming intern is going to be uptight and negative and spoil out little family, but I think we all agree that you aren’t that guy.” It was a compliment that still makes me smile coming from such neat guys.

Following lunch my initiation into the “fraternity” began. I was served a bowl of ice cream and told it was a local delicacy. I immediately knew something was up when I was the only one given a bowl. The dessert smelled wretched. It was made from milk and durian, a fruit native to Singapore that tastes like a mixture between rotten oranges and dirty feet. I’ll try anything once, so I played along and sucked it up, not wanting to get the “wimp” label from the get-go. It was bad, very bad. The worst part is the aftertaste; it lingers no matter how much coffee you drink or gum you chew. Avoid it like the plague. The hazing got better after that though. After work we went for happy hour at a beachside café, then moved on to an expat bar called Godfather’s for a hamburger, and ended up at place called Flair which is famous for bartenders blowing fire and tossing bottles around like acrobats at a circus. The guys wanted to take me to a variety of locales to give me a taste of what Saipan has to offer. I was very impressed to say the least.

Saturday came and the rollercoaster started rolling downhill. I was very excited about seeing many of Saipan’s famous sights, but my little sedan wouldn’t start and I couldn’t go anywhere. I guess a red flag should have gone up the day before when I discovered that three of the four doors wouldn’t open and the glove box wouldn’t stay closed. I went back inside and turned the TV on. Even though I would’ve probably been doing the same thing at home, homesickness set in because I had no one (LeeAnn specifically) to share the time with. I spent the better part of the day wishing I was with her back on my own comfy couch in Atlanta. I felt somewhat silly moping, seeing as though I was in one of the prettiest places I have ever seen, but it’s not nearly as special when you don’t have your pretty girl by your side.

Thankfully the rollercoaster started going back uphill on Sunday. I got my first good night of sleep and was able to swap the Haundi for a ’94 Toyota minivan. All of the doors open, the glove box stays closed, and the air-conditioning is frigid! I ventured to the mountainous north end of the island to explore Suicide Cliff, Bonzai Cliff, the veteran cemetery, Bird Island, and the grotto. Most of these have some historical significance tied to WWII; the veterans cemetery is especially moving and beautiful (see photos). I would encourage you to do a Google search of each of the above-mentioned points of interest, as each has an intriguing story.

Later in the day the press secretary of the court invited me to watch a beach volleyball tournament at the Pacific Island Club, a resort about one mile south of my condo. I’ve never been much into volleyball, but watching good players is enjoyable (especially if you have a bucket of cold Carlsberg beer!). A funny thing happened though. About three beers into the bucket one of the contenders, a Koran named “Tiger” needed a new partner for reasons I was never able to discern due to the language barrier. Never being one to shy away from a challenge, I communicated to him that I could step in. I’m tall and relatively athletic looking, so he fell for it and let me play. Long story short: he had happened to draw a rather weak opponent for the round and we were able to squeak it out by a score of 15-12. Tiger and I then split the last two Carlsbergs and spent the next half hour trying to communicate using elevated voices and hand gestures. Overall it was a great day, and I realized that the dips on the rollercoaster made the peaks that much better.