May 2008: I set out in search of an island in Oceania that still clung to its old way of life. In a world shaped by globalization and rapid change, I have always felt that seeking out the world’s last traditional cultures is a race against time. This is especially true in regions affected by missionary activity. While I am not opposed to missionaries themselves, I do take issue with the transformation of indigenous cultures in their wake. I don’t believe that God requires all cultures to become Westernized in order to be saved.
This quest led me to the island of Yap in Micronesia. Like all places, Micronesia is evolving, yet Yap and its outer islands have preserved more of their traditional customs than most Pacific islands. This is the story of the four days I spent in Yap.
About Yap
Location of Yap
Yap, an island archipelago home to the Yapese people, is one of the many islands that make up the vast nation of Micronesia. Due to its geographical isolation and a deep-rooted resistance to change, Yap has stubbornly held on to its traditions. Another reason for this cultural preservation is the island’s inaccessibility. When I traveled there, only a few flights serviced Yap, and the only option—a Continental Airlines Island Hopper flight—was prohibitively expensive for most tourists. Fortunately, I had accumulated enough airline miles to cover my journey, allowing me to visit without purchasing a ticket.
One of Yap’s most distinctive features is its use of stone money—massive, donut-shaped limestone discs, some as large as 12 feet across. These stones are still used for ancestral transactions, such as land exchanges and dowries in marriage. Traditional structures, including meeting halls, remain commonplace, and villages are connected by ancient stone pathways.
Many Yapese people continue to wear traditional attire. Men wear a thu, a type of loincloth, while women wear sarongs with beaded necklaces, often leaving their breasts uncovered. Beyond their customs and dress, the Yapese also hold onto deep-rooted beliefs in spirits, ghost stories, and even legends of magical underwater cities.
Getting There
I flew to Yap from Palau on a Continental Airlines Boeing 737, arriving in the middle of the night. With only a handful of flights to Yap each week and no direct routes from Asia or North America, reaching the island was no small feat.
The airport was small, and all passengers disembarked via stairs, walking across the tarmac to the immigration hall. Most of my fellow passengers were Micronesians, with a few foreigners among us—mainly scuba divers drawn to Yap’s famous waters.
As we exited the plane, we were greeted by a group of teenage girls performing a traditional welcome dance. Dressed in sarong skirts and bare-breasted, they sang and swayed in unison. The sight caught me completely off guard. Given their young age, I couldn’t help but think that such a greeting would be considered controversial, even illegal, in the U.S. I might have taken a photo, but my camera was packed away, and fumbling for it in that moment felt both impractical and awkward.
My Bungalow Guesthouse
There weren’t many places to stay on the island, and I had no interest in booking a sterile diving hotel in Colonia, the capital. Instead, I found a small, traditional thatched-roof bungalow called DJ Bungalow, perched over the water at high tide.
Owned by a Yapese family, the bungalow was part of a small cluster of burets they had built on their ancestral land in hopes of earning extra income from tourism. It was located in a remote part of the island, accessible only by a series of dirt roads and within walking distance of traditional villages.
For meals, the family prepared traditional dishes using fresh fish caught from their ancestral reef, along with local staples like coconut, taro, and tropical fruits. It was exactly the kind of place I had been searching for—immersed in nature, rich in tradition, and far from the influence of mass tourism.
My bungalow
My bungalow
The beach along the village where I stayed
Outside my bungalow, I wandered along a network of dirt roads winding through coconut palms, dense jungle, and lush family-owned gardens filled with tropical fruit trees. The island felt untouched and serene, with only the occasional villager passing by.
During one of my walks, I was startled to come across a small jeep lying upside down on the roadside. Inside, a woman was trapped, flailing her arms in distress. There was no one else around, and I couldn’t fathom how a vehicle could have ended up overturned on such a quiet, isolated road.
Acting on instinct, I pulled her out through the window. She was in a state of shock, struggling to process what had happened. As I sat with her, another passerby appeared, immediately running off to find help. Within minutes, a group of villagers arrived and carefully escorted the woman to get medical attention.
She thanked me, and later, I learned she was the wife of the village chief. News of the event quickly spread, and to my surprise, I became somewhat of a local celebrity. People would stop me to express their gratitude, and as a gesture of appreciation, the chief’s family even invited me to a special dinner in my honor but unfortunately I had to return home and never had the chance to attend the dinner.
Inter-island roads
Scuba Diving with Manta Rays
Manta Rays
Yap is well known for its thriving population of giant manta rays, which can often be seen just offshore. One afternoon, I ventured about 100 yards from my bungalow and spent hours scuba diving among these incredible creatures.
Unlike stingrays, manta rays have long tails but no stingers, making them completely harmless. In fact, they seemed almost inquisitive, swimming close to me as if inspecting my presence. The dive site was only about 30 feet deep, but the current was strong, so I held onto the reef at the ocean floor to keep from drifting away.
Nestled between coral formations, I watched in awe as massive manta rays—some with wingspans of up to 10 feet—glided effortlessly above me. Cleaning fish darted along their bodies, nibbling away parasites as the mantas hovered in place. Their enormous, almost alien-like forms moved with breathtaking grace, passing within just 5 to 10 feet of me. I remained there for an hour, mesmerized, as they circled back and forth overhead—a truly unforgettable experience.
Exploring the Island on Foot
I absolutely loved purposely getting lost on the small trails and dirt roads that connected Yap’s villages. Most of the island’s people live in rural villages linked by jungle paths, and from my bungalow, I wandered endlessly, meeting friendly Yapese locals and admiring the traditional thatched architecture of their homes.
Many homes featured an open, wall-less room designed for families to gather and spend time together. Each village also had intricately crafted meeting houses—some for the entire community and others exclusively for men, where important customary affairs were decided. Yap still holds onto many traditions, and certain customs remain strictly followed. The meeting houses, for instance, came with specific rules and cultural protocols. As tempting as it was to explore one, I didn’t dare enter without permission, wary of inadvertently offending a deeply rooted tradition.
Superstitions also remain strong in Yap. One of the most fascinating places I stumbled upon was a completely abandoned village, overgrown by the jungle. Following a few walking trails, I discovered crumbling houses being slowly reclaimed by nature. Later, I asked some Yapese locals why the village had been left to decay. Their answer was simple: the village was full of ghosts, and no one could live there anymore.
On an island where land is scarce, I was amazed that this valuable patch of land had been completely abandoned—all because of spirits. It was a striking reminder of how deeply tradition and superstition still shape life on Yap.
Customary thatched home
Meeting house
An open room in a traditional Yapese home for family’s to gather with a tradtional fabric weave
Interisland roads
Little girl
Yapese man with the tradtional flower band on his head
Kids in thules playing in the road with a tire
A man wearing a thu in Colonia
Stone money
One village in Yap is particularly known for having the largest collection of stone money—the island’s famed currency, once mined from distant islands and transported across treacherous seas by daring Yapese sailors. Though U.S. dollars are used for everyday transactions today, stone money remains an important part of ancestral exchanges, especially for land ownership and marriages.
These massive stone discs are deeply tied to the cultural identity of the Yapese people. Before World War II, thousands of them were scattered across the island. However, during the Japanese occupation, many were repurposed for construction and even used as ship anchors. Despite this loss, stone money is still a common sight in Yapese villages, often placed near men’s houses or beside family homes, serving as a visible link to the island’s enduring traditions.
Airplane Wrecks
Yap is home to numerous wrecked airplanes of varying ages, many of which can be explored near the airport. Some date back to World War II, when intense battles between Japanese and American forces took place in the region, while others are from more recent times. One notable wreck is a Boeing 727 that crashed in 1980—remarkably, with no fatalities.
These relics, scattered across the island, serve as both historical markers and fascinating remnants of Yap’s past, blending the echoes of war with more modern aviation mishaps.
Random jungle wreck
Me under the 1980 Boeing 727 wreck
WWII Wreck-many of the Japanese planes that crashed were on suicide missions to attack American aircraft carriers in the region with no intention to return alive
Japanese WWII Tunnels
During World War II, Yap was occupied by the Japanese and saw some aerial combat, though it never experienced the major ground battles that devastated other islands in the region. The Japanese left behind an extensive network of deep tunnels, which remain scattered across the island and are still easily explored today.
In addition to these wartime remnants, Shinto shrines built by Japanese descendants can be found throughout Yap. These shrines were erected to guide the spirits of fallen soldiers toward the afterlife, serving as solemn reminders of the island’s wartime history.
Shinto Shrine
Japanese WWII Tunnel
Rumung Island-the Forbidden Island
I spent half a day on Rumung Island, a place that, until recently, was forbidden to outsiders. Isolated from the modern world, Rumung has no phone service and only a few small generators for electricity. The residents are fiercely traditional, maintaining many Yapese customs, and the island can only be visited with permission from the chief and by boat.
Occasionally, the people of Rumung hold customary dances and ceremonies imbued with deep spiritual meaning, which are strictly forbidden to record or photograph. Their traditions are intertwined with a fascinating legend: they believe they are the guardians of a lost island of ancestors—sorcerers—submerged beneath the sea, much like the Lost City of Atlantis. According to the chief, this hidden island deliberately sank beneath the ocean centuries ago, choosing to vanish in order to protect itself and its traditions when the first Europeans arrived in Yap. He explained that only the people of Rumung can still communicate with the sorcerers through their ceremonies. I didn’t ask how this communication occurred, but in my mind, I imagined the chief speaking to them through a giant seashell.
When we landed, the island felt eerily empty. No people were in sight—just abandoned houses and dense jungle. We followed ancient stone paths, built generations ago to connect villages, until we reached the chief’s village. He seemed surprised to see us but was happy to receive us. As he led me through the island, he showed me stone money, a traditional men’s house, an old stone graveyard, and some of the village homes.
Yet, despite its deep traditions, Rumung is slowly fading. The chief told me that many residents have already left, moving to the main island in search of jobs and schools. The island is dying, he admitted. Standing there among the silent stone paths and empty homes, I could feel the weight of a disappearing world—one still clinging to its past but uncertain of its future.
Beetle nut
My boatman, who took me to Rumung Island, was chewing betel nut—the island’s equivalent of cigarettes. A widely used stimulant, betel nut produces a mild high when chewed, but it is notorious for its harmful effects. Prolonged use can severely damage teeth and the throat, leading to serious health issues, including cancer.
Beyond its health risks, betel nut chewing also leaves a visible mark on the island. The red-stained spit from chewed betel nuts is splattered across public streets and gathering places, creating an unsightly mess. In response, many areas have posted “No Chewing Betel Nut” signs in an effort to curb the habit, though it remains deeply ingrained in daily life.
Beetle nut
To show respect I wore the traditional yapese dress when visiting Rumnung Island
Boat ride
Japanese WWII Plane Wreck
Me Drinking coconuts on Rumnung island
Ancient stone paths connecting villages on Rumnung Island
Me and the chief at Rumnung island
The chief in front of his house. We seemed to catch him by surprise
Mens meeting house
Mens meeting house
Stone Money
Graves of ancestors
Stone money
Mad Man with a Machete
My departure flight on the Continental Airlines Island Hopper to Guam was scheduled for 2 a.m., which meant only getting a few hours of sleep in my bungalow before heading to the airport. The Yapese man who owned the bungalow had agreed to drive me there, so I set my alarm for an ungodly hour, grabbed my pack, and stepped outside into the quiet, moonlit night.
Yap’s sleepy villages go completely dark after 8 p.m., and I expected a routine walk to the owner’s house. Instead, I was met by a frantic foreign couple—the only other guests staying on the property. Breathless, they explained that they had just fled their bungalow after a crazed man with a machete tried to break in, waving his weapon and threatening them. The flimsy thatched walls of their bungalow offered little security, so they had chosen to escape rather than risk confrontation.
Hearing that the machete-wielding man was still on the loose made our walk through the dark jungle path along the beach far more unsettling. We stuck together, eyes darting through the shadows, listening for any sound beyond the crash of the waves.
When we reached the owner’s house and told him what had happened, he sighed and apologized, admitting that a family property dispute was behind the incident. The man with the machete, he explained, did not agree with the current arrangement of the land. Since I was leaving for the airport, the foreign couple were given my bungalow, which the owner assured us was not part of the dispute. With that, we parted ways—I headed off into the night for my flight, hoping they wouldn’t have any further machete encounters.
A Yap Villager Reporting in the US Military
The departure lounge at the airport was stiflingly hot and humid. There was no air conditioning, just a few fans lazily spinning overhead, barely making a difference. As I sat in a plastic chair, beads of sweat forming on my skin, I watched families saying their goodbyes to loved ones.
The crowd was a mix of people in Western clothing and Yapese dressed in thules—the traditional loincloths worn by men. Some women, in keeping with custom, were topless. It was a scene that encapsulated Yap’s unique blend of tradition and modernity, a place caught between the past and the present.
One particular farewell caught my attention—a moment so raw and powerful that I wished I could capture it in photographs, but I didn’t dare intrude. Micronesia has a special pact with the United States, allowing Micronesians—including young Yapese men—to enlist in the U.S. military in exchange for economic opportunities and a potential path to citizenship. I had been told that for many young men who had never left their small, sleepy island, the military offered not just a career, but an adventure, elevating their status back home.
At the time of my visit, the United States was involved in two wars—Afghanistan and Iraq. Before me stood one such young man, likely no older than 18, dressed in a crisp U.S. Army uniform despite the oppressive heat. He was proud, polished, and composed, standing with a quiet strength that made it clear this was the most significant moment of his life.
His family had come to see him off—his mother, a middle-aged, heavyset woman wearing a thule, topless as is tradition, and his father, a large man with a bare chest and a massive belly, embracing his son in unrestrained emotion. His father wept openly, clutching him as though unwilling to let him go. The young soldier, clearly touched, did his best to remain stoic, standing firm as his family poured their love into him one last time before he left.
I could only imagine how exotic and overwhelming his journey would be—leaving this remote Pacific island for the deserts of the Middle East, thrust into a war he likely knew little about. I would have loved to follow his story, to know what became of him. Did he return home? Did he survive? I’ll never know. But in that moment, I could only hope that this young Yapese soldier, standing so proud in his uniform, made it back to his island, to his family, to his home.
Yap airport scene