The Island of the Colorblind

‘Cycads – this is the place for them, Oliver!’ he boomed. ‘We have them all over the island; the Chamorros love to eat the flour made from their seeds – they call it fadang or federico…Whether this has anything to do with lytico-bodig is another matter. And on Rota, north of here, a short hop in a plane, you can see absolutely untouched cycad jungles, so thick, so wild, you’d think you were in the Jurassic.

‘You’ll love it, Oliver, whichever hat you wear. We’ll go around the island seeing cycads and patients. You can call yourself a neurological cycadologist, or a cycadological neurologist – either way, it will be a first for us on Guam!’

As the plane began its descent, circling the airport, I got my first glimpse of the island – it was far bigger than Pohnpei, and elongated, like a giant foot. As we skimmed over the southern end of the island, I could see the small villages of Umatac and Merizo nestled in their hilly terrain. One could see, from a height, how the entire northeastern part of the island had been turned into a military base; and the skyscrapers and superhighways of central Agana rapidly loomed as we descended.

The terminal was teeming with people of a dozen nations, scurrying in all directions – not only Chamorros, Hawaiians, Palauans, Pohnpeians, Marshallese, Chuukese, and Yapese, but Filipinos, Koreans, and, in vast numbers, Japanese. John was waiting at the barrier, an easy figure to pick out among the bustling crowds, for he was tall and fair, with very pale hair and a ruddy complexion. He was the only person in the entire airport, as far as I could see, wearing a suit and tie (most were dressed in brightly colored T-shirts and shorts). ‘Oliver!’ he boomed, ‘Welcome to Guam! So good to see you! You survived the Island Hopper, eh?’

We walked through the steaming airport and out through the parking lot to John’s car, a battered white convertible. We skirted Agana, and started toward the southern part of the island, to the village of Umatac, where John lives. I had been somewhat taken aback by the airport, but now as we drove south, the hotels, the supermarkets, the Western bustle, died away, and we were soon in gentle, undulating country. The air grew cooler as the road climbed higher and wound along the slopes of Mount Lamlam, the highest point on the island. We stopped at a lookout point, got out, and stretched. There were grassy slopes all around us, but higher, on the mountain, a thick cloak of trees. ‘You see those bright green dots, standing out against the darker foliage?’ John asked me. ‘Those are the cycads, with their new foliage. You’re probably used to Cycas revoluta, the bristly, low Japanese cycad, which one sees everywhere,’ he added. ‘But what we have here is a much larger, indigenous species, circinalis  – they look almost like palms from a distance.’ Pulling out my binoculars, I scanned them with delight, glad I had made the long journey to this island of cycads.

We got back into the car, drove a few minutes more, and then John stopped again at a final ridge. There, spread out below us, glinting in the sun, was the Bay of Umatac, the bay where Magellan had anchored his ships in the spring of 1521. The village clustered around a white church by the water, with its spire rising above the surrounding buildings; the hillside sloping down to the bay was dotted with houses. ‘I’ve seen this a thousand times,’ said John, ‘but I never get tired of it. It is always as beautiful as the first time I saw it.’ John had been rather formal, in manner as well as dress, when we met at the airport, but now, as he looked down at Umatac, a different aspect of him appeared. ‘I have always loved islands,’ he said, ‘and when I read Arthur Grimble’s book, A Pattern of Islands  – do you know it? – anyhow, when I read it, I knew I would never be happy unless I lived on a Pacific island.’

We got back into the car and started the winding descent to the bay. At one point, John stopped the car again, and pointed to a graveyard on a hilly slope. ‘Umatac has the highest incidence of lytico on the entire island,’ he said. ‘That’s how it ends.’

There was a large cantilevered bridge – ornate, gaudy, startling – spanning a gulch as the main road entered town. I had no idea of its history or function; it was as absurd, in its way, as the transplanted London Bridge in Arizona – but it looked festive, fun, as it leapt into the air, a pure effervescence of high spirits. As we entered the village, and drove slowly through, people waved or called out greetings to John as we passed, and with this, it seemed to me, the remaining reserve fell away – suddenly he looked completely at ease, at home.