Ao Toa

by Cathie Dunsford

  “Okay, Matthew. If you want to be a baby and have your mother keep rescuing you, then be a wimp. See if I care. But one day, you’ll thank me for teaching you to be a man. You can stay in your room until tomorrow. And that means no dinner either.” Tony slams the door against Mattiu’s whimpering and strides back to the table. He knows that Moana will sneak Mattiu some food later. It does not matter, so long as the boy realises who’s the real boss.

  The rest of the dinner is in silence and polite but safe conversation. They know better than to rattle Tony when he is already mad. It’d mean beatings for them all, including Moana. Hemi and Rapata were angry that their Pakeha mates at school thought all Maori men were like violent Jake the Muss in the film Once Were Warriors. Their father is Pakeha and is just like Jake when he gets angry. They know not to challenge him at such times. Survival means being cunning. And Moana has taught them survival. But Mattiu is the youngest. He still has to learn.

  “So, what’re you boys up to tomorrow?” asks Moana, wanting to distract Tony from his argument with Mattiu.

  “Whad’ya reckon, boys? I reckon we’ll dose the farm with Roundup and zap on a bit of Santa’s DDT, eh?”

  “Can we use the sprayers, Dad?”

  “Sure thing, Hemi. You and Rapata can have a spray pack each. And Mattiu if he behaves himself.” He sniggers. He knows he has one up on Moana for using their bloody brownie names. That always gets her on board, thinking he is coming round.

  Moana smiles at him. “Thanks, Tony.” She tucks into her peas. But she is not happy. Finally she gets the courage to say what is bothering her.

  “Tony, I dunno about Roundup or DDT after what Irihapeti has been telling me. Didn’t the government ban DDT in the late eighties? If it’s illegal, I don’t want our boys using it. For health reasons as much as anything else.”

  Tony glares at her, then laughs. He splatters gravy all over the table cloth, but he is laughing so hard he does not even notice. “Bloody hell, woman. Money doesn’t grow on the manuka trees around here, y’know. Jacques at the garage handed me some waste DDT they were trying to get rid of it. Santa’s Helpers, he said. That means we got it for free. Ya don’t look a gift horse like that in the bloody teeth now, do ya?”

  Moana is careful. “I see your point, Tony. But you know the boys have had gastric problems. Diarrhoea, vomiting, nausea. And that happened after the last DDT spraying you all did. I’m not sure I want them around that poison again. Surely the government would not have banned the stuff if it was safe, now would they?”

  This sends Tony into paroxysms of laughter and guffawing, getting the boys onside as he speaks. “Now, look here, boys. You reckon that gut-ache was DDT or Roundup? Bloody hell, it was more likely your mother’s bloody raw pig. Or those bloody rabbit-food salads. Rabbit calici virus. That’s what ya get if ya eat too many of them salads!” He bursts into laughter and gets the boys laughing with him.

  “Or maybe it was Cowrie’s oyster pasta? I reckon she vomited it up and served it raw! Remember that green pesto stuff? Looked like kikuyu grass barfed up for the occasion,” adds Hemi, looking to his father for approval for his story. He is not disappointed.

  Tony reaches for the Watties’ tomato sauce and sprays it over the remains of Babe on his plate. “I wouldn’t wanna eat anything barfed up by that Cowrie chick. Ya could catch AIDS or something far worse than the DDTs, boys!” He laughs at his own joke.

  “Don’t be foolish, Tony. Just because a person is gay it does not mean they have AIDS, for God’s sake. Half the population of Botswana and the rest of Africa have AIDS and not all of them are gay.”

  “Serves them bloody right. They are all activist troublemakers. The Bible warns us against them all. Sodom and that Gomorrah fella and Nelson Mandela – they all come from the same bloody melting pot. All criminals, all diseased. They should stick them on Robbin Island, Waiheke Island, Tasmania, and any other bloody island you like. Let George Speight be their dictator from his own bloody Fijian island prison. I don’t care, so long as they stay there and do not infect my boys here.” He pours more sweetened tomato sauce over his pork, and apple sauce over that, then burps loudly in appreciation of the kai.

  Moana winces, knowing tonight is not the time to challenge him again. Enough for one night. She waits until he takes the boys into the lounge to “watch the Warriors lick the arse off the Ozzie Cowboys”, does the dishes and sneaks some food to Mattiu, who is still crying beneath the covers.

  “Don’t worry, Mattiu. Dad wants to take you boys spraying tomorrow.” Moana caresses his brow with her hand.

  “I don’t wanna go, Mum. Let him take the others. I’d rather stay at home and learn to cook that banana and spice cake for the nursery workers. I was real sick the last time I went spraying. For weeks after. Please let me stay and cook, Mum?” Moana holds his hand.

  “Ka pae, Mattiu. You stay with me and we’ll let the others go poison themselves. But I want to talk to Irihapeti about this. I’m worried about using Roundup, let alone that DDT.”

  “Me too, Mum. I love you.” Mattiu cuddles into her arms as Moana croons waiata into his ear. She knows Tony will be chipper tomorrow. He’ll rise as if there had been no argument at all and get the boys out into the fields spraying by 6 am. And they’ll love it once they start. They just adore being with their father and getting his approval, no matter about the dangers involved. And he likes to keep it that way. If he witholds his love, he knows they are always hanging out for more of it. Tony knows he is cleverer than the missus or anyone else realises. He has worked it all out. He needs them, and so long as they need him, all will be well.

  “Caught anything yet?” asks Cowrie as Mattiu baits his hook with raw mussel and throws it out over the end of the Opononi wharf.

  “Just a few sprats.” Mattiu nudges the bucket at his feet to reveal half a dozen live sprats swimming in salt water. “For Pele.”

  “Your cat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s your bros today? Thought Hemi and Rapata were keen on fishing?”

  Matthew looks down at the sprats. “They are. But Dad’s taken them spraying. They like using the backpacks.”

  Cowrie stiffens. “How come you didn’t go?”

  “Don’t like it. One time Dad used up the end of the spray on a sparrow, showering it with DDT till it couldn’t breathe any more. The others laughed. I didn’t. From that day on he always called me a wimp.”

  “You’re not a wimp just because you don’t believe in killing for the sake of it, Mattiu. Never forget that.” Cowrie ruffles his hair affectionately. Inside, she’s fuming and resolves to try to educate that Pratt bastard if it’s the last thing she does. DDT has been banned for years, but he clearly has a stockpile.

  Moana emerges from the Opononi store along with Maata, Kuini, Irihapeti and other wahine from Te Kotuku marae. They walk down the wharf, laughing and pointing into the distance. A giant hummingbird hangs in the sky then plunges down in front of them, skimming the surface of the sea and swooping up again.

  “That’s bloody Flyworks.” Kuini gestures rudely towards the helicopter.

  “Taihoa, Kuini. I’m thinking of going for a job with them when I leave school. They’re expanding their tourism operation and Uncle Piripi says it will be good for the local economy.” Maata munches on a muesli bar from the store.

  “I’m all for supporting more jobs, but not when they continue spraying poisons on our land,” mutters Kuini.

  “Yeah, most of their work is chemical spraying and that risks all the hard work we’ve all put into making the Far North a viable organic area,” adds Irihapeti.

  “Give it a break, Iri. We’re s’posed to be having a day on the sea. Can’t we give politics a break for a few hours?” Maata complains, ripping into another munchie.

  “Activists don’t get to have days off. If we do not live and breathe our work, then we do not remain vigilant. That’s when the polluters do their worst – when we are off guard.” Iri checks her watch. “
Where’s that damn’ boat?”

  “Yeah – but we can still enjoy the day, or I’m not going.” Maata lays a stake in the sand.

  “Fair enough. It’s pure pleasure as we surf the waves. The revolution can wait until tomorrow,” offers Cowrie, grinning. “Besides, I have the backpack with the kai. You have to agree with me or starve. Simple really.”

  Maata grins, loving her aunty for her ability to always get food into the conversation. “Ka pae, Cowrie! Hope there’s some treats for me there too.”

  “You bet. But you have to wait until later.”

  Maata tries to reach into the backpack but Cowrie swings around, nearly losing her balance. Mattiu glares at her. “Sorry, Mattiu. Nearly lost your kai too.” She grins.

  “It’s okay. Pele has enough anyway. The rest go back into the sea.”

  “Ka pae, Mattiu.” Moana looks pleased with her son for not lashing out like his father.

  “Sustainable catch, I’d say. That calls for a celebration.” Cowrie takes her koauau from her breast pocket and plays a sea waiata on the small bone flute.

  Mattiu is entranced. “Will you teach me how to play?” he asks.

  “Sure thing. Stay after kura kaupapa next week and you’re on. That okay, Moana?”

  “So long as he has time for his homework. Tuesday would be best.”

  “Ka pae. Tuesday it is.”

  By now the old trawler, Manawa Toa, has docked at the wharf, and they clamber on board to ride out to sea while the water taxi takes tourists over to the Hokianga dunes.

  Spray rips into their faces as Manawa Toa sails over the treacherous Hokianga spit. Sun dances through the spray, splashing a rainbow over the bow. The wahine hold onto the front rails, grinning.

  “This brings back a few memories, eh Cowrie?” Kuini nudges her cousin as two dolphins surf the bowspray.

  “Sure does.” Cowrie turns her back to the waves and looks toward the cabin of Manawa Toa, recalling the French officers boarding the ship when they were protesting nuclear bomb testing at Moruroa. “Remember when they were asked to give us the message from the French Government banning us from entering the nuclear test zone waters?”

  “Yeah – and you insisted we lower down the sick bucket, empty this time, to receive their instructions,” adds Irihapeti. “We had a few good laughs, despite the gravity of the occasion, eh?”

  “Yeah. But our protests finally stopped nuclear testing in the Pacific. So it was worth it.” Cowrie addresses Maata who was not on board for that trip.

  “But we learned at kura kaupapa that people are still sick with leukemia and stuff like that,” chips in Maata, forgetting it is she who has banned serious talk for the day!

  “All part of the Pacific colonial heritage, Maata. But I thought you wanted a politics-free day?” Cowrie grins as she reaches for one of the backpacks.

  “We eating already?” asks Maata, her eyes lighting up.

  “Not yet, Maata.” Cowrie retrieves her bone koauau from the pack. “We’re going to thank the dolphins for guiding Manawa Toa so well on that journey and this.” She places the bone flute to her lips and blows into the wind, the flute song beginning to wail hauntingly somewhere between her mouth and the bone. The dolphins keep pace with the boat, playing in the wake. But once they hear these ancient sounds, known to them for centuries past when local fishers played to them, they change course, taking Manawa Toa with them, heading toward calmer waters further down the coast, running parallel with the shore. After they have negotiated the boat wake, the dolphins begin to play, jumping out from the bow and doing flips over each other. Soon they are joined by more dolphins, until the boat is surrounded.

  “Can we stop and swim with them a while, Cowrie? Please?” Maata looks deep into her aunty’s eyes, pleading.

  “I thought you’d be too afraid. Are you sure?” Cowrie holds Maata’s hand.

  “Yes. Besides, so long as you come with me, I have Turtle Protection.”

  “That’s Laukiamanuikahiki – Turtle Woman. Not me,” asserts Cowrie.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Kuini holds up Cowrie’s arm. “Check out these fins, Maata. Look – she’s webbed from shoulder to wrist. Now if that ain’t Turtle Woman, what is?”

  Cowrie makes finning motions with her arms and the dolphins seem amused by this action, jumping high over the bow to get a better look.

  Once in the water, the women leap and play with the small Hector’s dolphins, who nudge close and dive beneath them. Maata is entranced. She forgets she ever had a fear of the sea and fins alongside, trying to catch up with the cheeky leaping one. The dolphin swims past her and then returns, edging close. Maata knows not to catch hold of her fins, as people so often want to do. She floats on the surface, waiting for the spirited one to return. But it has gone. Suddenly she is being carried along, as if sailing. The dolphin has slipped under her and takes her for a ride. It is exhilarating. The others watch in silence. This seldom happens. But the dolphin is heading rapidly out to sea. Maata panics. Then, as if sensing her alarm, the dolphin flicks its tail and propels itself back toward the waiting women, diving deep when it reaches them, releasing Maata back into the arms of her sisters. She shrieks with joy. Cowrie is relieved.

  After drying themselves, they sail down the coast with the wind behind them, making the journey a relatively calm one. Portside are miles of rugged West Coast beaches, jagged rocky outcrops and the rusted ghostly skeletons of old sailing ships that never made it to shore. Many of them sank on unknown reefs, taking their colonial sailors and gold booty from the once rich Empire with them. Beyond the breakers, in the far distance, they can see the mighty Waipoua Kauri Forest, presided over by Tane Mahuta, God of all trees, its girth as wide as a pod of whales, its height towering in their wake. The morning mist still hangs eerily over the lush rainforest and it’s easy to imagine giant dinosaurs crashing through the forest in times past, foraging for wetas and other rich insect life as well as ferny vegetation, maybe even venturing in for a swim. Waipoua is primeval and remains sacred to Maori. By the time they pass the cream lighthouse at Pouto Point and enter into the calmer sea of the Kaipara Harbour, the dolphins have headed back into the ocean depths, knowing better than to enter and be trapped in the shark-infested waters of the largest harbour in the Southern Hemisphere.

  Manawa Toa edges up a small waterway, allowing them to enjoy the bright yellow, beak-shaped leaves of the kowhai trees stretching out over the water. Snow-throated tui hang like skilled aerialists by their claws, digging their beaks deep into the golden flowers, extracting their luscious honey. The rainbow-splashed Manawa Toa, with the carved kauri dolphin at her bow, is reflected in the still water like an Impressionist painting, hazy at the edges but exhilarating in its blend of colours and textures. Blue-grey matuku moana glide over them and land in the branches of pohutukawa trees where they are nesting. One of the herons feeds her young by disgorging a small sprat, its tail still waving, into the baby bird’s beak. As soon as it has swallowed the fish, it cries out for more, sending the mother soaring back out over their heads to the sea to catch her next feast for her young. The wingspan seems huge as she flies over them looking like a pterodactyl escaping from the dinosaur-infested Waipoua Forest.

  Further down the river they glide past the old township of Helensville, resembling a ghost town with its skeletons of old buildings gleaming from the riverbanks, rusted cars and railway tracks, deserted houses and stacks of bins crawling with water rats in the daytime. The city had tried to get rid of the rats and ended up poisoning an old fisherman, it is said – the authorities released poisons into the waterways and left as much damage as the rats had done in their wake. A few more riverbends and they come to a community of tangata whenua who live right on the water’s edge. The locals are carrying all their groceries into shared sheds lined with freezers, bursting with fish. Cowrie spots Eruera. “Kia ora, bro. How’s tricks?”

  “Choice, Cowrie. Good trip down?” Eruera looks up from his work. “Kiri. Cowrie
and the girls are here. You got the goodies?”

  “Ka pae. Be with ya in a minute.” Kiri is hanging out the last of the Warehouse clothes on the line and bends to pin up her knickers. She then strides toward the shed at the end of the pier and calls Eru to help her with the large bucket. Together, they haul it over to Manawa Toa, now docked alongside the wharf, and yell for a rope. Cowrie, grinning, lowers the same rope and hook they used to provoke the French military when protesting nuclear testing at Moruroa. Kiri winks back. “There ya go, girl. Haul her up and have a great day!”

  “Mahalo, Kiri. You too.” Cowrie pulls the heavy bucket on board, releases it from the hook, and then fills it with fresh organic kumara and bright purple urenika yams, Maori potatoes mottled cream and dark blue, topped with fresh orange carrots still sprouting their green dreadlocks. Small golden pawpaws and large yellow and green fleshy babacos, which taste like papaya and lime, mandarins, lemons, oranges and grapefruit from Te Kotuku Nursery are in the last kete.

  Kiri receives the fruit with joy. “Ka pae, Cowrie. Kia ora. Where you sisters off to now?”

  “To a great feast on the waters,” grins Cowrie. “Tell ya about it next trip down. Thanks, Kiri. Your girls doing okay?”

  “Not bad. One’s nearly finished kohanga reo but Franny’s been ill. Vomiting, diarrhoea, nausea, you know all that stuff.”

  “Food poisoning?”

  “The tohunga’s not so sure. We even had medical tests done. Gone on far too long. They dunno what it is, really. Just gotta live with it, I reckon. Come to think of it, we’ve all been ill this winter.”

  “Maybe it’s that rat poison the council dumped on the town which got into the waterways?”

  Kiri grimaces. “I wouldn’t be surprised. But ya can never prove it, eh? They’d just say it was tank water or food poisoning or something. We’ll survive. Anyway, have a choice day. Wish I was coming with you fellas. I could do with a day off.”