A Conversation with Surangel Whipps

Two years ago, I went with a few friends to have ice cream on the second floor of Surangel and Sons supermarket.

We were sitting in the dining area, chatting, when suddenly we noticed a man pushing a wheelchair slowly toward us from a distance.

Seated in the wheelchair was an elderly man with a gentle face. At a glance, you could tell he had lived through much. Time had left its marks on him, but not in a harsh way. Both the young man and the elderly man were quiet.

My friends and I instinctively turned our attention to them. We found ourselves wondering what the old man had been through. There seemed to be burn scars on his legs.

I leaned in and quietly told my friends, “That’s Surangel Whipps, the founder of Surangel and Sons, and the father of the president. The man pushing him is probably his youngest son. They look alike.”

My friends took a few more glances, their eyes filled with respect. Surangel and Sons is, after all, the largest company in Palau. It’s hard to imagine how much effort it must have taken to build something like that.

Soon, we returned to our conversation. Then, as the wheelchair passed by us, he seemed to gesture for his son to stop. He reached out his hand to me.

“How are you, my friend?”

I was caught off guard for a moment, then shook his hand. “I’m good. How are you?”

He smiled. “Good. Everything good in your life?”

“Yes,” I replied. “We have more customers after the pandemic. The hard times are gone. I wish everything goes well for you.”

“Thank you,” he said.

We exchanged a few more simple words. Before leaving, he said, “Enjoy your time.”

The whole interaction lasted no more than a minute or two. My friends, as well as his son, simply watched in silence.

As the wheelchair moved away, one of my friends asked excitedly, “Are you friends with him?”

I smiled. “You could say that.”

They seemed genuinely impressed. From the moment Surangel appeared to the moment he left, he had only spoken with me. Others who passed by mostly offered respectful glances; some greeted him, and he would respond with a smile or a brief word.

“He came over just to talk to you,” my friend said. “You must be someone important.”

I laughed. “I’m just a small potato.”

As we were about to leave, we noticed more people gathering in front of a nearby ramen restaurant—likely his family, along with some Americans. It seemed like a family gathering or a reception.

After that day, my friends often asked about my “story” with him. Their curiosity would always take me back in time.

I can no longer remember the first time I saw him. The new Surangel and Sons supermarket is close to where I live, and I go there often. One day, a friend pointed him out to me—the old man quietly walking through the aisles.

After that, I saw him many times.

He would walk alone through the supermarket, calmly looking around—at the shelves, at the customers. Sometimes people would greet him, and he would respond kindly. He didn’t feel like the owner of a business, but more like someone tending to something personal.

I always had the feeling that the supermarket was like his child. Perhaps that is why it bears the name “Surangel and Sons.”

Every time I saw him, I would glance at him a little longer, with a sense of respect. Occasionally, our eyes would meet, and he would offer a gentle smile. But we never spoke.

Until that day.

And that brief exchange became our only conversation.

Later, I saw him less and less. Life moved on, and the memory of that encounter would occasionally resurface in conversations with friends, carrying a faint sense of coincidence.

But I never told them the truth: that we were, in fact, strangers.

As a foreigner, I have often told my friends that Palau is not always a friendly place. At times, you can feel distance, even prejudice.

But Surangel Whipps was different.

To me, he was always a quiet warmth.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons I have come to like this place. His gaze was always kind and sincere. You could feel it.

On April 25, I read in the newspaper that he had passed away.

I felt a quiet sadness, and a trace of regret.

I could have spoken with him a little longer. I would have liked to hear his stories—stories that must have been rich, and perhaps warm.

But that chance is gone now.

I have been thinking about it these past few days.

So I write this, in my own way.

Mr. Whipps, may you rest in peace.

You will be remembered.