by Justin Nobel

Atoll inhabitants come to main Yap for temporary work or treatment at the hospital but often end up staying. When they die their bodies are held in the morgue until the next ship out. (Photo by Justin Nobel)
The rumble of a ship's engine is pierced by a human wail. A topless woman in a skirt woven from hibiscus fiber crawls across a deck strewn with baggage and begins weeping over a simple wood coffin that has been wrapped in a blue tarp and decorated with flowery wreaths. Other women join and a tearful song emerges, sung in a local dialect called Woleaian. The melody contains ear-splitting shrieks, pleasant moans and long undulating wails; it continues for over an hour.
I am on a ship traveling through the atolls of the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM), an isolated island nation on the western edge of the Pacific. The ship, the Caroline Voyager is primarily a cargo ship and the few available cabins have gone to health officials who are aboard to deliver H1N1 vaccinations to the islanders. The several hundred passengers, mostly islanders themselves, homebound, are camped in whatever crannies they can find. People sleep in hammocks hung in the rigging and under tarps tied to the rails. They lie wedged in narrow companionways and atop the heaps of coconuts that fill practically every inch of deck space. Or, like me, they sleep on a wood platform under a large green tent in the center of the ship, amidst a litter of luggage, bins of food and the coffin.




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