Ao Toa

by Cathie Dunsford

  “Why not? Hop up here.” Cowrie points to the rope ladder dangling from the side of Manawa Toa.

  Kiri hesitates a moment, looks at Eruera, who does not seem to mind what she does, and glances back. “Bugger it, I will. Give me a moment to change.” She flies off indoors and Eruera continues fixing his boat.

  Half an hour later, they chug into a small estuary, shaded by gigantic totara, kauri and pohutukawa sprawling over the water, and drop anchor. Cowrie has been down in the galley preparing the kai and not letting anyone near. Soon they discover why the other bucket seemed to be moving when it was sitting idly on the deck. It had been full of live crayfish swimming in salt water and itching to be free or meet their fate. The wahine lay a flax mat on the deck of the boat and from the galley bring platters made from nikau palm bowls decorated with fresh banana leaves. Crayfish with hot butter and garlic dripping from its white belly and down over its red body; purple urenika boiled to perfection, still firm and covered in herbs; a fresh salad with mustard and rocket greens from their garden dotted with sweet red cherry tomatoes; papaya, watermelon and babacos slit open to reveal their juices and pink, yellow and cream insides. Cowrie places one of Maata’s homemade honey wax candles in the centre and pours out organic feijoa champagne and spring water for all. “Kia ora, Maata. Happy Surprise Birthday.”

  Maata is stunned. “But I thought we were just delivering vegetables to Kiri. I had no idea …”

  The others laugh and after karakia, they feast the rest of the day, sharing wild talkstory. Later they drop Kiri off and then return late in the afternoon to the Hokianga dunes. It is a glorious sunset as they enter the harbour, purple and orange clouds reflected in the water. Mere and tangata whenua from Te Kotuku marae greet them at the Opononi pier with freshly made lei of leaves and flowers, and they feast and sing late into the night. Maata declares it’s her best day ever, and even Cowrie and Kuini managed to forget their activist politics for a few hours – well almost, she tells Mere, grinning.

  Cowrie pokes her nose around the door of Maata’s room in Mere’s cottage. Shafts of sun slide across the bamboo blinds and dance over her face as the wind moves the bamboo. Maata stirs, opens one eye. “Do I have to get up yet?” she murmurs.

  “Not unless you want whitebait fritters with lemon and Mere’s special kumara fries dripping with sour cream, to say nothing of organic orange and mango juice …”

  Maata rolls off her mat and reaches for her lavalava. “So long as I don’t have to do the dishes afterwards.”

  Cowrie grins. “You can’t milk these birthday treats forever, girl! But there is a special treat for you, so hurry. Besides, neither Fisher and Paykel nor AEG have yet come up with a dishwasher suitable for banana leaves, so you may be lucky today.”

  Maata rubs her eyes and raises the blind to reveal dunes stretching out to the rolling breakers. She’s always loved this old cottage and staying here with Mere and Cowrie. She had moved in when Cowrie left to do her PhD in the States and stayed ever since. Mere was like a grandmother to her, and Cowrie an aunty. Her father had abused her as a child, and her mother had returned to Te Kotuku to raise her; she now lives with her new partner in Sydney, glad to be able to leave her daughter in the safe arms of Mere. Since Cowrie came back from Orkney, the three of them have lived here.

  By the time Maata reaches the verandah looking out to sea, the table is piled high with delicious whitebait fritters mounded up like Kiluaea, with a crater in the middle to hold herbs from Mere’s garden. Sliced lemons and sprigs of green rocket swim around the edges of the plate. Beside Maata’s banana leaf platter is a letter propped up against her glass of juice. On the address label, Flyworks Helicopters. Maata picks up the letter eagerly and tears it open. She’s dreamed of working for them several weeks now and has got through two interviews. But what if they do not want her? She hardly dares to look at the page.

  FLYWORKS HELICOPTERS

  We Fly You to Paradise

  RD 1, Opononi, Hokianga

  www.flyworks.com

  Dear Miss Ropata,

  Thank you for your application to join our team at Flyworks. We are pleased to offer you a job as our receptionist. We feel a Maori presence will be advantageous to our company since we are expanding into the tourist trade. We expect a high standard of dress code and will supply you with a uniform to ensure this is retained. Further training in computer accounts is needed and we will give you time off to complete a diploma in computer studies at Northland Polytech in Rawene as discussed.

  Please read the contract enclosed, sign and return to us within 10 days. Welcome to our team.

  Raymond Dixon,

  Director,

  Flyworks Helicopters.

  Maata fights back the tears. She’s been wanting this so much, but is also wary of Cowrie’s response after her reaction to the chemical spraying so near the organic nursery.

  “Well, come on. Tell us the news!” Cowrie nudges her gently.

  “I don’t think they want me.” Maata looks down, trying not to laugh.

  Cowrie’s arm hugs her warmly. “Maybe it’s for the best, Maata. We’ll help you find work.”

  Maata contemplates teasing them further, but fears what Cowrie may say next. She cannot hold it in any longer and throws her arms out like an albatross soaring from a towering cliff. “I got it. I got it! I am the new Flyworks receptionist – and they agree to time off for further study. Whoopeeeeeeee!”

  Mere glances at Cowrie, warning her not to disappoint Maata, no matter what she thinks of Flyworks. They hug her, genuinely pleased she has found a job that includes an opportunity to study. Any work is good work in the Hokianga region – jobs are scarce, with more layoffs than growth in recent years. Cowrie bites her tongue and supports Maata. There are always compromises to be made in this respect, although Cowrie is not one to cave in under such pressure usually. She loves Maata and wants the best for her. Maybe this will be a stepping stone which will lead to better work in the future. Earlier Mere and Cowrie had discussed how to react whatever the letter had in store, and they knew the special breakfast would cushion the blow, whether for Maata or for Cowrie.

  While Maata celebrates, Cowrie reads the letter. She does not like the feeling that Maata’s culture is being used for the company’s convenience, nor the implication that she might not dress suitably if not put into one of their dinky uniforms. But since when did tourist operations, outside those promoted by Te Puna Kokiri, really care about these issues? Maybe this is a chance to have some positive input, and who better to do this than Maata? Maybe this could be a really important opportunity after all?

  “C’mon Cowrie. Bet I can eat more whitebait fritters than you,” Maata challenges.

  Cowrie hands the letter back with her left hand and forks a fritter with her right. “Wanna bet, kid? Who taught you the art of feasting in the first place?” She drizzles lemon juice over the fritters and digs in.

  “Taihoa, you two. Let’s just enjoy this kai, eh? I don’t think we need a race to prove what gluttons you both can be.” Mere pours more of the delicious orange and mango juice into their glasses and proposes a toast. “Here’s to Maata, who, on her sixteenth birthday, got her first job and an opportunity for further study all at once. Congratulations, Maata. You’ve made us feel very proud. Eh, Cowrie?” Mere nudges her daughter with her elbow under the table.

  “You bet we’re proud of you, Maata. Besides, those choppers could come in handy next time we have a political protest. They would’ve been very useful at Moruroa on board Manawa Toa, or when we protested the Springbok Tour at Eden Park. Maybe we can redeem their spraying chemicals with some useful community work? Or teach them to spray seaweed fertiliser instead of agro-chemicals.”

  “You just keep your activist nose out of there until I get established in my job.” Maata steals the last fritter off Cowrie’s leaf. “Or I’ll beat you in our bet.”

  Cowrie grins. “Looks like you’ve done that already, kid. A woman after my own heart. Go for it.�
�� She squeezes lemon juice over the fritter, holds it up for Maata to eat half, then munches into the remaining half before Maata has time to protest. Maata pretends to look shocked, then bursts into laughter. “Bugger! I thought I had you that time.”

  “Good training to remain sharp and on yer toes when you work for that Raymond Dioxin fella at Flyworks.”

  “It’s Dixon, not Dioxin!”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Bet you’d rather name him Raymond Kelp?”

  “Well, yes. Now you come to mention it. I think that name has a much more poetic ring. Maybe you should suggest it to him?”

  “C’mon you two. Stop bickering. This is a time for celebration. What say we invite Kuini and Irihapeti over later and Maata, you should call your mother in Sydney and tell her. She’ll be very proud of you.” Mere eases the papaya onto fresh banana leaves and hands it to each of them, secretly pleased that the morning has gone so well.

  NORTH SHORE TIMES ADVERTISER,

  Tuesday, 7 August 2001, page 7

  GE debate brings back memories of thalidomide

  By Pat Booth

  An old, old story may help committed scientists and members of the Genetic Modification Commission to understand why hundreds of thousands of New Zealanders are angry. They reject the decision to “proceed with caution” on genetic modification.

  It’s a piece of fiction involving an announcement to passengers beginning a long flight. The voice says: “Welcome aboard this historic journey. You are on the world’s first fully automatic flight on this computer-controlled aircraft on which nothing can go wrong … go wrong … go wrong … go wrong … go wrong … go wrong …”

  If that doesn’t strike you as relevant, let me share a few words with you. Words like thalidomide. Like asbestos. Like dioxin. It’s not a word, but add in DDT.

  Each of these had the seal of scientific acceptance – scientists swore on a stack of Bibles and computer printouts that there were no risks, nothing could go wrong.

  It did – in huge and disastrous ways. Thalidomide was one of those wonder pharmaceutical products of the late 1950s, prescribed for pregnant women as a certain and safe sedative and a treatment for morning sickness “with no side effects”, scientists said. It produced a worldwide generation of shockingly handicapped children, babies born without arms or legs, with flipper-like hands at their shoulders – the variations were tragic and endless.

  Its distributors inexplicably denied a link, repeating that “nothing could go wrong” and fighting a well-documented legal battle with Harold Evans, then editor of the British Sunday Times, who risked his career campaigning against thalidomide.

  He won. Its use was banned. But thousands of adults live on as the real losers, their lives permanently ruined by a drug which “could not go wrong.” Latest reported use is as a treatment for leprosy in the Third World.

  For decades, asbestos was a universally accepted building material, particularly as insulation – until its dangers were detected. New experts have named a killing lung disease after it – asbestosis, resulting from inhaling asbestos particles – and they evacuate buildings now, no questions asked, when it’s detected.

  Then there was DDT – or dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane, as its “nothing can go wrong” scientist friends knew it. This insecticide, which was going to rid our pastures of creepy crawlies, had an unforeseen ability to concentrate in the bodies of grazing animals and seriously threatened health and markets before it was banned after years of use.

  As was “nothing can go wrong” dioxin, which revealed itself as a persistent pollutant linked with cancer, nervous disorders and birth defects. Contamination from it forced the evacuation of places like Seveso in Italy.

  The world should have learned by now from these and hundreds of other examples. They are the reason why concerned lay people and some scientists too do not accept well-intentioned assurances. These pledges come from those who honestly but mistakenly believe that terrible variations of Murphy’s Law (“if anything can go wrong, it will”) somehow do not apply to science.

  The evidence is that they have done – and will again.

  Cowrie finishes reading and Irihapeti picks up the paper. “It’s right, y’know. We’ve seen all this before. I reckon we should contact the Far North Organic Growers and mobilise all interested groups and plan a hikoi on parliament to show our opposition to genetic engineering and the dangers involved.” Kuini reaches out her hand and Iri passes the paper to her.

  “Yeah, I agree. But maybe we should wait and see what the Royal Commission Report on Genetic Engineering says first, and save the march on parliament for then, when we can really have impact – especially if they go against us.” Kuini looks to Cowrie for support.

  “We’ve learned it is better to bide our time and have a stronger impact. I’m for Kuini’s stance. I mean, 92 per cent of New Zealanders making submissions were against genetic engineering – so it has to go in our favour, eh? Surely no thinking person who has ever read the literature and research could ever agree to the risks involved with genetic engineering?”

  “If we want a GE-free Aotearoa – where we are organic by 2020, as Organic NZ is pushing for – then we have to oppose GM. It’s simply not feasible to support buffer zones between genetically modified crops and our organic crops. We know they do not work and this has been proved overseas. We simply have to convince them we are right.” Irihapeti moves toward the fire. “Anyone want a brew of manuka tea and our organic pohutukawa honey?”

  “You bet” comes the chorus back as Iri pours rainwater from their filtered tank into a billy and places it over the fire. She then takes a kauri spoon carved by Piripi, its tail like a whale fluke, and plunges it into the white creamy pohutukawa honey, extracting a large chunk which then goes into the ceramic teapot that Maata made them at her pottery class. When the water has boiled, she pours it over the honey, then adds the sprigs of fresh manuka, picked from the tree beside them. It seeps into the waiting liquid, seducing every ounce of its juices and blending with the swirling honey until the luscious concoction is ready to imbibe. “Cowrie, pass over those cups and I’ll pour.” Cowrie grabs the strange and wonderful clay creatures, each shaped by her students into vessels with heads and fins and tails and decorated with koru fern and taniwha designs. Iri pours the steaming hot liquid into the cups and they savour the exquisite taste, mulling over the issues in their minds.

  Cowrie wakes late and plunges into the lounge of Mere’s cottage to find her already hard at work on their shared laptop.

  “What’s up, Mere? Not like you to be at it this early.”

  “What would you know, Turtle? You’ve been a late riser ever since you stayed in Orkney. I reckon they must take about as much notice of clock time as we do.” Mere laughs. Maori time is famous in Aotearoa. It means you just go at the pace needed rather than following Greenwich Mean Time, which is totally irrelevant on an island in the Pacific, as much as an island off the coast of Scotland.

  “Ya got me there. You want some of Iri’s lovely sourdough for brekky?” Cowrie starts slicing into the grainy bread covered with pumpkin seeds.

  “Na. Had some of our oranges, thanks.” Mere gets back to her screen.

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Come and look, Turtle. This is from my old schoolmates, now living in England. Farmers. They say the situation is hysterical there with this foot-and-mouth outbreak. It’s as if the British government, caught out earlier by the crisis over mad cow disease, is punishing the farmers now and wanting to destroy everything in sight, no matter what the risks involved. They’ve gone stark raving mad – and all these farmers are losing their incomes and families.”

  “Serve them bloody right for treating animals as slaves. Maybe it’s time this happened?” Cowrie is plastering her pumpkin bread with Vegemite yeast extract and layers of fresh tomato and basil from their garden.

  “Cowrie, you can’t be so cruel. These are struggling families who deserve our su
pport as much as those who will become victims of your precious GE.”

  “I can’t see how you could make any comparison. Organic farmers respect the earth and all animals. They work in harmony with nature, not against it.” Cowrie bites into her grainy toast.

  “Well, come and read these emails, Turtle. See what yousay then.”

  Cowrie moves toward the screen reluctantly, munching her crisp toast as she goes. Mere brings up on the screen a series of emails from the UK farmers she knows.

  This next item comes from today’s Western Morning News, UK.

  Blood tests reveal foot-and-mouth case

  Another case of foot-and-mouth disease was yesterday confirmed in Devon. Blood samples taken from sheep at Ashley House, Wembworthy, near Chulmleigh, were tested positive with the disease. The total number of cases in the county now stands at 168. The infected livestock had already been slaughtered, on May 28, as part of the contiguous culling policy, when neighbouring East Ashley Farm went down with the disease. But two other premises could now be slaughtered. A spokeswoman for the Department of the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) said that 30 out of 49 of the samples taken had proved positive with foot-and-mouth disease. She said they were now in talks with the two contiguous farmers over whether to slaughter their 130 sheep and 150 cattle. The latest case comes in the wake of a new case in Somerset, which has been dubbed a “bolt from the blue”. It is not known how the disease found its way to Eames Farm at North Newton, near Bridgwater, an area which up to now had largely remained foot-and-mouth-free. The nearest outbreak had been 15 miles away at Wiveliscombe more than a month ago. The first case in Somerset was at Bidisham, near Axbridge, on March 9. The county has now seen a total of five cases. Anthony Gibson, regional director of the National Farmers’ Union, said the Devon case was far less worrying than the outbreak in Somerset not least because it had been dealt with two weeks ago, while in Somerset it was still not known how foot-and-mouth had found its way to Bridgwater. Even so, two neighbouring farms at Wembworthy could now face the culls.