It is a truth universally acknowledged that a bachelor ex-pat with spare time and money must be in search of romance.
Though Jane Austen fans will no doubt cringe at my crass adaptation of one of literature's classic opening lines, I find it an apt (if generalized) characterization of the single-and-searching mehnwei men that, on the eve of the millennium, frequented Pohnpei's drinking establishments hoping for a fling. (Lest readers interpret this characterization as a critique, let me state for the record that I include myself among the ranks of those hapless souls, and probably indulged in more embarrassing foolishness than most. You won't get any holier-than-thou moral missives from me.)
At first, love-lorn expats did not apply much selectivity when choosing a target for a passionate plot. Some called it the "rainforest effect"--influenced by the primal nature of our surroundings, we gave in more easily to the primal nature of our libidos. With time, however, even the most wide-ranging libertine succumbed to the gravitational pull of the women affiliated with the JOCV (Japanese Overseas Cooperation Volunteers). To cast these women as Oriental playthings in a Western fantasy overstates their innocence. They knew full well the power of their allure, and for socio-cultural reasons of their own, often made targets of us.
A dozen or so of these ladies made the dim booths of Club Flamingo the center of their weekend nightlife. Located just off the waterfront road, Club Flamingo commanded a view of the harbor and boasted an electric sign, status markers that added to its panache as the largest bar in the FSM. Weekend crowds might overwhelm the parking area, spilling the overflow vehicles onto the road and contributing to the sense that Club Flamingo offered Pohnpei's closest approximation of a cosmopolitan experience.
The following excerpt from Islands on the Fringe recollects an evening that began at Club Flamingo and shows that when pursuing romantic flings with the ladies of the JOCV, the scammer sometimes got scammed:
In line for the bar at Club Flamingo, I meet her, the Japanese girl with the jasmine perfume. She wears stiletto heels and a jade pendant that invites a glance toward her neckline. Apart from her nose, of an aquiline variety slightly too large for her face, she exudes a refined beauty, a blend of Western style and Eastern mystique, and from the way a table of elder ex-pats eyes her, I can tell her effect extends through the room. Seeing the empty glass in her hand, I offer to buy her a drink.
"Oh, you genterman!" she says, her accent transforming l to r. "From time I first see you, I know you genterman."
"Well, I try," I say. "What's your poison?"
"Po-san?"
"What would you like to drink?"
"Oh. I rike Bruddy Mary!"
Together, we sidle up to the bar, and wait for the bartender to finish his prior orders. As we wait, we exchange names. She leans toward my ear. "You my kind of man," she whispers.
Eventually, I place the order, but get bad news: no Bloody Mary mix. The bartender advises us to visit the Village Hotel, purveyors of the best Bloody Marys on the island, all from fresh ingredients. The recommendation excites Akane, who coyly transforms my drink offer into a dinner date.
Though beyond my budget and a bit of a drive, the Village Hotel promises a romantic setting, and I acquiesce, lured by Akane's petite figure and flattering comments.
Once at the hotel, I feel more like a charlatan than a gentleman. Our table in the dining area places us alongside the upper-echelons of island visitors: retirees on round-the-world trips, businessmen seeking deals with island moguls, and perhaps a few diplomatic types mingling with representatives from the FSM legislature--in short, people who spend in a day what I earn in a month. Then, remembering the credit card in my wallet, I settle more easily in my chair, order two Bloody Marys, and pretend not to notice when Akane orders the most expensive dish on the menu.
"You my kind of man," Akane tells me again, when the waiter departs. "You treat girl right." Her smile, engineered for flattery, could make even the most committed cheapskate abandon his budget.
But later, when the dinner arrives, I find Akane strangely changed. Instead of flattery, I now only hear the clink of silverware. The glances that she once reserved for me she now directs only to her plate. And, later that night, after I pay the bill and drive her back to town--a drive which she seems to endure in awkward discomfort--my goodbye kiss meets only a grudgingly presented cheek.
A week later, during a gathering at the Australian embassy, I see her by the pool, an empty cocktail glass in hand. She pretends not to recognize me, instead reserving her attention for a dapper young member of the embassy staff. Seeing her empty glass, he offers to get her a drink.
"Oh, you genterman!" I hear her tell him. "You my kind of man."
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