Mo'orea, we learned in Tahitian class the other day, means quite literally 'yellow lizard.' The island's jagged back dominates the horizon as we look out over the ocean from Mama and Papa's place, silhouetted against the warm colors of the setting sun. Up until a week ago, for most of our group Mo'orea was just that: an island across the water, another Tahitian name to remember, a blank page.

Last Wednesday, however, we set out as a group to spend a week on Mo'orea, exploring the island's beauty and learning about its rich culture and history. The 45 minute ferry crossing from Papeete gave us a chance to take a good look at our new temporary home: steep lush mountains rising out of wide turquoise lagoons, rooftops dotted sparingly around the water's edge, a few canoes and motor boats making their way around the island...

The contrast to Tahiti became increasingly apparent, however, as we drove from the ferry dock around to the back side of the island. There were no stop lights, no commercial buildings, no piles of trash lining the streets; just a few little markets and a handful of fruit venders. If Tahiti was taking one step back on the stress scale, Mo'orea was three.

"This is what I thought Tahiti would be like," one of my fellow students commented as we followed the winding road along the crystal lagoon water. "Windows down, radio up, sunglasses on... It feels like we stepped off the boat into a postcard."

Papa, who was driving, leaned over the seat to look back at us. "This is what Tahiti WAS like, twenty or thirty years ago. And what Hawaii was like a hundred years ago." It's amazing, I thought to myself, how much things have changed in just a few short decades, and how often the images we have in our heads can be so incomplete.

Over and over throughout the week, we were challenged to look critically at our perceptions and expectations, and to think about how our experiences and interactions here are changing those perceptions.

One afternoon, for example, we took a trip to Papa's family farm to pick fresh fruit. Driving up into the valley, we came across an open spot in the road where the cars pulled over; from here we would walk. "Look around you as you go," Papa explained, "this is a working farm that is cared for by many different members of my family. They use what they grow to support their family, so be careful what you pick. Only take what you think you will eat."

We spent the afternoon wandering up the valley, climbing passion fruit and pomplamoose trees, and shaking down coconuts and bunches of rambutan. The trees were scattered throughout the valley, and most often not in nice neat rows like we might expect. Rather, they were mixed in with the rest of the vegetarian, meaning you had to hunt, even bush whack a little, to get to them. After tasting a few, our eyes grew big, and by the time the rain finally chased us back down the hill to the cars, we had collected a giant cooler full of fruit. We spent the rest of the week enjoying what collected, grateful for the fresh tropical treats. But at weeks' end, we still had an entire box of fruit left untouched, fruit that now was going to go bad. I remembered what papa had said about taking only what we needed and no more. He told us about Tahitians and the way their community lived in a balance. Fishermen would collect only enough fish for their family for that day, ensuring that there would be fish left for tomorrow. Same with the fruit, and the way families would work together to care for the land to ensure the health of the whole valley. I felt at that moment, as I tossed the rotten fruit into the trash, how easy it is sometimes to see only our own immediate desires and miss the bigger picture.

So often I feel our culture sees things in pieces. We compartmentalize our lives, separating out family and work and hobbies. We break the land into pieces: one section for agriculture, one for heavy industry, one for residential. The American cultural emphasis on Individuality and consumerism seems to stand in stark contrast to the Tahitian values of community and sustainability.

But even in Mo'orea, things have changed, as Papa described. The last several decades have witnessed the influence of western policy and priorities. We read about the changes in education, government, and sustainability practices in our class readings. I am left asking myself "Are the traditions and knowledge that the Tahitians valued and practiced regularly in danger of fading into history? How are organizations in the community working to bridge the growing gap between older generations and Tahitian oral traditions, and younger generations who live in a modern, "westernized" world? What is our role as study abroad students who are seeking to learn and respect Tahitian traditions and knowledge systems?" These are big questions, ones we are still addressing as a group and individually, and ones that we may never be able to completely answer.

There are more stories to tell from Mo'orea for sure, so stayed tuned for part two. But for now I'll say that our time on Mo'orea was both challenging and, honestly, just plain awesome. While we were excited to return "home" to Tahiti after a week away, I know we were all a little sad to leave. I think we came back, however, with a growing understanding and appreciation for Tahitian culture, and a deep gratitude for the people who have so generously shared with us their culture and their home.