Letter from Saipan: Tom Humphries finds the Ireland party picked the best of times to visit this tranquil heaven

On Saipan, life changes quicker than in most places. In the past 100 years the island has been German, Japanese and American. It's been heaven and it's been hell. The flame trees have seen the worst things man has to offer.

And some things never change. The Irish team entertained the local kids at training yesterday. Autographs were signed, little heads were tousled, first kicks were taken.

Just across the azure water, lying dark and impassive and weedy in the sun lies the world's longest airstrip. The world's longest and most infamous. It was from just there, a swim away to the island of Tinian that the B29 Enola Gay took off for Hiroshima.

The team trained lightly and then Mick McCarthy summoned John White the Summerhill native whose presence on the island wound up being the lynchpin of the whole trip.

"Hey John, have you got those kids?" And John White did the work of a patient sheepdog rounding up the little ones who could spend the rest of their lives on this island and never cross paths with any more substantial brands of celebrity.

The Mams and Dads cooed around taking photos and calling to the kids while they watched Mick McCarthy juggle a football, or Niall Quinn throw them balls to head back to him or Damien Duff shuffled his magic feet through their midst.

To the north of the island, if you drive a few miles you come to a spot you would never want children to see. Suicide cliff. Ragged and sheer and shocking.

When the Americans came here at the end of the war, invading the island with a vengeful fury, the advance propaganda of war told the Japanese that terrible things would befall them if they didn't surrender.

So, instead of waiting, instead of risking humiliation and fear, thousands and thousands of Japanese climbed this cliff and threw themselves off it.

The front of the cliff is pockmarked with holes from shelling from boats the Japanese couldn't even see somewhere off on the horizon. The noise and explosions can only have added to their terror.

They went off with a chilling and dignified sense of order. The oldest in a family would push the youngest, second oldest would push second youngest till at last only the oldest male remained. He would step off the cliff backwards.

Through the lobby of the Hyatt Hotel here Ian Evans and Packie Bonner trooped yesterday. Same old routine. Toting bags of balls and bags of bibs. The Irish bring an odd and reassuring permanence of ritual to the island. Joe Walsh and Johnny Fallon come through the lobby next. More gear. Drinks. Medical stuff. A small sporting army on the move.

Some time later, moving leisurely like cattle, the players begin padding through. Tony Hickey escorting the team. Mick Byrne trailing along with jokes. Their society broken down into the familiar groupings. Senior players together. Goalies together. Youngsters, the DVD and video game set all together.

The old ones roll their eyes these days. There aren't enough card players to make up a decent poker school anymore. Time was when you served your apprenticeship in a lesser school and worked your way up through the squad.

Permanence of ritual you say?

One by one they killed themselves. Below, the Americans belatedly realised the sheer awfulness of the situation and in one of those useless gestures of war they set up large speakers through which they hectored, cajoled, persuaded, advised the Japanese to come down and surrender. There was too much fear and loathing to dissolve, however. Too much.

Today, you can see the tops of American tanks rising out of the clear blue sea not far off the beaches. You can tiptoe to the quiet monuments to the dead of both sides and stick your nose into the slit-windowed bunkers where soldiers shot uselessly out into the dark at anything which moved.

The sounds of training are always the same. Taff Evans with his drill sergeant's voice driving the proceedings. "Alright, alright alright. WHY DON'T WE JUST GET ON WITH IT INSTEAD OF MOANING LIKE LITTLE OLD LADIES. THEN".

And the nicknames called into the soupy air. The names provide their own poetry. Carso and Keano, Stan Whack and Quinny, Breeny and Dino, Duffer, Trig and Finny.

When Damien Duff needs a pass he roars: "Send me, send me!" Like a 60s hippie.When Roy Keane loiters on the ball he hears the same chorus every time. "Keano wide. Keano wide."

And when Gary Breen makes a run forward in training he hollers the same thing as he goes in search of the free header. "Dink it! Dink it!"

Yesterday, they had it easy, or as easy as you can have it given the humidity and the still, still air. They made lay-offs and whacked shots at the goalies, got half an hour. Then they had a game of one-touch without, controversially, the keepers.

Mick McCarthy's sweatshop down here on the pitch which the locals built especially for his team, is nothing compared to the local variety.

When Saipan became part of the Commonwealth of the North Mariana Islands it did so in the late '70s at a time when red scares had a curious news value.

The island became a self governing protectorate of the United States, granted all manner of tax breaks and immunities and tax grant schemes. The haves feasted on Saipan and a while ago the island tipped the $1 billion mark in terms of the turnover realised from cheap labour.

One billion was enough to interest the labour unions who came to town with a whole new set of ideas - decent wages, decent conditions, decent conditions of employment. Saipan gulped. And then the Japanese economy went bang and the tourists who flew in their thousands from Tokyo just stopped coming.

So, at present, despite all the stand up, hold me back name-calling elsewhere in the world, the people on tiny little Saipan struggle on, freer than they have ever been, but bobbing up and down helplessly on the waves of the world economy.

One day, when Ray Treacy finished loading a long, long line of punters on to an airplane, he went home to his bed and before climbing in realised that he'd scribbled a suggestion from a punter on the top of a cigarette box. He fished the box of fags from his trousers. There were the words. Saipan. John White.

He let that percolate in his brain for a few days, then pulled down the internet pages. He was intrigued. More so than with anywhere else that had been touted. He mentioned this to Mick McCarthy who agreed to fly all the way to see the place.

Ray and Mick played golf. Mick shot a 74. Love Saipan? What's not to love? Perhaps the tacky clipjoints across the road from the team hotel are the only blemishes Saipan has today. The Irish passing through have sweat to shed or beer to drink depending on their profession.

Either way, the services of the masseuse are not needed. It's been a good week, gentle and with substance. The feeling of work getting done, of time drawing nearer, and, though he refuses to accept it, a suspicion that things are badly wrong in Germany. He'll look back on Saipan as the best of times.