Ao Toa

by Cathie Dunsford

  ENDS

  And today – in the Western Morning News:

  It would seem that the culling of Britain’s livestock is the key issue here. How it is done and for what reason is irrelevant.

  This is not just a cull of animals but of farmers, for many of them have lost their lives. Many, like my parents, have lost their way of life, perhaps for ever. Some cases have actually left them dead, like the poor farmer who hanged himself the other day, not able to stand the pressure any longer.

  Where have the animal rights people been? It would be logical to think these vegetarian, farm-hating concerns would be happy to see the end of livestock farming in this country. As long as they make no fuss about the cruelty and devastation of foot-and-mouth, they will be guaranteed their precious ban on hunting from “nice” Mr Blair.

  I urge the town dwellers to think about why they like to visit the countryside. Surely, Devon has maintained its tranquil beauty because of its rural traditions. The rolling landscape with its sheep and cattle, the quaint farmhouses and yards full of chickens. The stone walls, the hopeful sighting of a wild animal. Farmers are the guardians of the countryside and generations of them have made this country what it is today …

  We may have lost the battle for my parents but, as far as I am concerned, and I know many are in agreement, the war is not over!

  If FarmCorp get their way, they will cull the last remaining farms in Knowstone. This is mainly due to not one but three separate incidents of bungled culls, which had been carried out by FarmCorp and enabled them to slaughter every animal in the area.

  Am I mad? Am I the only one who thinks this whole episode has been just too convenient for the Government?

  ENDS

  Please note there will be NO MESSAGE tomorrow from us, back on-line again Wednesday.

  Cowrie looks up from the screen. “Kia ora, Mere. You’re right. There’s more to this than the newspapers report. I don’t always support the farmers, but here they are being used as pawns just as the organic growers are. We do have to make a stand. Can you print it off so I can show Iri and Organic Growers? I’m sure they will give their support. Except for the assumption that all vegetarians are ‘farm-hating’. That’s going a bit far. We just prefer organic methods of farming which don’t involve chemicals and pesticides.”

  “Now. That’s more like my Turtle. Thanks, Cowrie.” Mere begins printing off the emails. “Can I tell my UK mates you are all in support?”

  “Yeah, why not? We need to join forces against the bureaucracies who want to destroy small farmers here. Let me hear back from the Organic Growers group first, though.” Cowrie bites into her last slice of the delicious pumpkin bread toast.

  “Okay, Turtle. You’re on.” Mere takes great delight in downloading and printing off all the material. Cowrie watches, amazed. Just a year ago, the internet and email were a foreign agency to Mere, but now she has taken to it like hoki to salt water. In this time, she’s developed a global network of friends and activists from her Peace Movement and anti-Vietnam War days. It has exploded her isolation on the marae and given her perspectives and ways to remain activist in her older years. She has even been in touch with Elizabeth Green, Sahara’s mother, to find out more information against the French Government and military when writing about the protest at Moruroa and its aftermath. Elizabeth and Sahara are currently working together to lobby large supermarkets in the UK and Scotland to buy only certified GE-free foods – and so far, from all accounts, they have been very successful, with even the major chains Tesco’s and Sainsbury’s coming on board. Previously, she’d helped them in the fight against French Nuclear Testing at Moruroa.

  “Here’s some green ginger tea with rewarewa honey.” Cowrie places the brew beside Mere, and she nods in thanks, keen to get back to her screen.

  Cowrie watches Te Kotuku tamariki as they eagerly poke holes into the trays of compost and humus collected from the surrounding bush, then gently place seeds into each of the holes. Pohutukawa, nikau, mamaku, mahoe, manuka and kanuka – all needed to revegetate the nearby coast and forests in order to preserve the bird and animal life that lives under their canopy. Irihapeti wheels over another set of seed trays. The kids place cardboard rolls on end in the trays and then add the compost and humus and plant the seeds of the larger plants inside. That way, they can be replanted without their roots being disturbed.

  “I dunno why all nurseries don’t used reclaimed bog rolls. They’re choice,” pipes up Mattiu.

  “Yeah, and the worms like them too,” adds little Moana. The tamariki have become very excited by the progress of their worm farm after establishing it just a few months ago. They are now supplying other schools with worm farms and helping the kids learn about composting, growing Maori potatoes and the purple urenika yams just months after they lay their first heap. The results have been very satisfying for them.

  “Did you get a chance to read Mere’s emails from the UK farmers?” Cowrie takes another tray from Iri.

  “Ae. I feel for their situation but they also sound like a bunch of redneck farmers who hate Labour and want to see their established plots preserved. I know some of them are organic – but most would not give a stuff about using pesticides on their land and yet still claim to care for it.”

  “Yeah, I know. And Mere knows that too – but I think she is looking at the humane side of this and feeling for the plight of the farmers.” Cowrie reaches for the cardboard rolls to place inside her tray.

  “But you can’t claim to love the land and the animals and then poison them with pesticides.” Iri turns to her. We need to be careful here, Cowrie. We know that once GM is endorsed then we can no longer have true organic farming. There’s no second chance once the field trials begin – so we need to be as careful over any causes we support.”

  “So maybe we should acknowledge their plight but also state where we stand on this. Perhaps they will support us over the GM issues?”

  “Fat chance when one of them said that all vegetarians are ‘farm-hating’.”

  “Yeah – I find it hard to get my head around that one too. We just have to explain our position better and seek coalitions where possible.”

  “Yeah – and you can’t call yourself a vegetarian with all that kai moana that passes your sweet lips, Cowrie. Poor wee cockles boiling in their own juices, mussels and scallops roasted alive over the fire, crayfish pulled from their resting caves and encouraged to leap into the cave of your stomach …” Iri loves teasing Cowrie like this, watching her spring to her defence. But this time Cowrie is quiet.

  “You’re right, Iri. But it is our ancestral food.”

  “So were Pakeha, but I don’t see you eating them up like cockles,” Iri grins.

  “I dunno. Some are pretty sweet if you ask me,” teases Cowrie. “I seem to recall you quite liked that Suzy from the Women’s Centre a few years back. Haven’t seen her in a while. She seemed a very tasty morsel at the time.” She grins. Iri bombards her with loo rolls, and the tamariki laugh as the whole pile smashes around them.

  “She’s back with the boys,” whispers Iri, bending down to pick up the rolls.

  “Well, definitely too much gristle for you, girl. Let them choke on her. Keep to yer lettuce, I’d say.” Cowrie beams, handing over a beautiful frilly lettuce and running her hand along the edges of its skirts, like labia folded over and around each swirl of its luscious greeny-red leaves.

  Irihapeti blanches. “Not here, Cowrie.” But it’s too late. Now the tamariki are all holding up lettuces and feeling around the edges of their leaves, enjoying the sensation without any clue of what preceded the action.

  “Plants like to be touched, eh Iri?” says Moana, running her finger over the leaves. “Mum says it makes them grow better.”

  “It’s true. Even some scientists admit this now,” adds Iri, returning to her nursery role. “They like the touch of the wind on their leaves and respond to it. They like music and being talked to and they will all grow much better if you
talk to them.”

  “Can we sing to them too, Iri?”

  “Sure can, Piripi. Why don’t you try?”

  Piripi looks shy, then begins his favourite waiata. Soon allthe class join in. It’s a love song so it is perfect for the plants. The tamariki each hold up the plants they like best and sing to them. Later they sing to the entire nursery of plants, and the ferns and tall kauri and kahikatea and rimu at the back of the nursery sway in the wind and mingle with their voices as if dancing in response. The tamariki are fascinated and enthralled, and they decide they will sing every time they work in the nursery to help make the plants grow faster and taller and stronger.

  There is a tear in the corner of Irihapeti’s eye. “Well, girl. You’ve really started something here, eh?” Cowrie nudges her and winks.

  “Was you with your seductive lettuce, e hoa,” mumbles Iri.

  “Yeah – well, it makes our work worthwhile and puts all of these debates into perspective if we can raise a new generation of tamariki who feel this way about plants and the soil. So I’m happy to take some credit,” grins Cowrie.

  One of the tamariki pulls out his koauau and plays haunting melodies on the ancient carved bone flute. The sounds shiver through the spines of the kauri and rimu and down into the leaves of the native sea spinach and spicy mustard plants, shimmer through the waves of jade lettuce and perfect blue borage flowers, drip onto the nectar of the orange and gold nasturtiums. A bee lands on a nasturtium flower, humming into its shell, vibrating with the sounds, then flies out over the singing plants and into the seaspray beyond the nursery, taking with her the ancient bone flute melodies, the sweetness of the plants, the purity of the air, and singing them into each new flower she lands upon, dipping her feelers into new nectar, infecting the land with joy.

  “Have you thought any further about support for the UK farmers yet, Turtle?” Mere glances up from her reading. Cowrie relates her discussion with Iri, and Mere seems quite satisfied at the qualified support; she agrees to request help for GE-free issues and a letter to the Royal Commission on GM. In return, she will send their emails to her Pakeha farming friends, especially the rural division of women farmers, and let them provide support. Mere agrees that the GE and peace issues must take prominence for now.

  The daughter of a close friend of Mere’s is now working as a nurse and relief worker in Afghanistan, and she and Mere are both very concerned after she shared some of the terrible stories of their oppression by various governments over the past decades. Even the United States supported the Taliban there when it served their needs. All this is new to Mere, and she has been emailing Katrina and giving support to her and her family. The Pacific anti-nuclear struggles have prepared her for a deeper understanding of some of these issues, and she knows that Western countries often say they support one cause while undermining it with their multinational companies and secret war strategies. She can see that action on the GE issues is as vital as fighting against nuclear testing in the Pacific or war in Afghanistan. In Mere’s mind, they are now inter-linked, so that it is impossible to look at one without considering the others. It worries her that many privileged people still do not make these obvious connexions.

  Cowrie squeezes lime juice over her carefully cut slices of fresh papaya and adds some ladyfinger bananas from the plantation surrounding Mere’s cottage. She then mixes some organic muesli from Hokianga Wholefoods at Rawene, and pours on delicious Verona Farms acidophilus yoghurt. She hands a bowl to Mere and keeps one for herself.

  Mere glances up from her copy of The Listener. “Kia ora, Cowrie.” She places the bowl on her lap and holds the magazine behind it. “Listen to this, Turtle. It’s a letter from Dr Robert Anderson, a member of Physicians and Scientists for Responsible Genetics.” She sips the juice from the muesli bowl as if to whet her appetite and then reads: “Labelling of GE foods will be delayed for yet another year … Should labelling eventuate, as in Europe or Canada, what ‘percentage’ of GE do we get? A recent Canadian article said it all. ‘It’s amazing how a consumer-driven market is extolled when it benefits the sellers, but is blinded by regulation when it does not. To label as ‘GM-free’ food that contains less than five percent genetically modified constituents reminds me of a Swedish campaign ridiculing the idea of ‘designated smoking areas’ in restaurants: it’s like setting aside a urinating section in a swimming pool.’” Mere laughs. “Well, it’s true, Turtle. It will never work. Even I can see this now, after resisting for so long, holding out the hope that genetic modification would help all those with noncurable diseases.”

  “Yeah, but the release of GE materials and field trials will not be reversible. That’s sure like pissing in a pool. It seems so crazy that this same Labour Government devotes a huge budget to supporting our so-called clean, green image, even throwing money at Peter Jackson’s film of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings because it is set in this clean, green paradise and promotes our country, yet they look as if they might now relent and let anyone come and piss in our pool. This country could be a resource for clean organic food for the world if we refuse GE, and for seeds once other countries have learned how wrong it was to let GE go ahead. But now it looks less hopeful by the day.”

  “Don’t lose hope, Cowrie. I have a lot of faith in our Maori MPs and their ability to lobby the Greens, Alliance and Labour. Maori are against GE and most are for an Organic Aotearoa by 2020. And I am sure that Helen Clark would not sell out on us now, after she has courted our support for so long. We didn’t elect a strong woman Prime Minister to let us down on this issue.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mere. I’ve always voted Labour as you know, then switched to the Greens when I saw what an alliance between Labour and the Greens could achieve, with Jeanette Fitzsimons co-leading the Greens and bringing Labour back into line. But I am getting a strange feeling about this Royal Commission. At first it seemed a great idea, really going out and getting involved and hearing submissions and finding out that 92 per cent of New Zealanders are against GE. But as they sift through this material, I know how persuasive the corporates will be, with all their bloody spin doctors whispering into the ears of politicians and making veiled threats of withdrawing money and support if the government goes GE-free. I don’t trust the buggers.”

  Mere sighs. “You might be right there, Turtle. That lobby formed by federated farmers to sell their dairy produce overseas, MagicMilk, have already said if Aotearoa goes GE-free they will take all their money and research overseas. If they withdraw, that will be a lot of money and support. They are something like the ninth-largest dairy company in the world, and the country relies on this primary produce so much.”

  “Yeah, but maybe it’s time we relied more on the potential for our organic dairy future, which will be inestimable once the rest of the world is polluted.” Cowrie digs into her muesli, taking a large spoonful, as if its organic presence might visually reinforce her point.

  “Pity they cannot see you now, Turtle. Who’d have thought a keen Kiwi kid who loved the crackling on the pork and freshly fried bacon would now be gorging herself on organic produce, with some kai moana thrown down the hatch in between? Maybe this is the future of our people?”

  “Maybe,” grins Cowrie. “But not if a power-hungry government has its way. In the end, I wonder any more whether there is much difference between National and Labour. We could always rely on the socialist leanings ofa Labour Party to rescue us from the jaws of an elitist National Party – but maybe it’s power and not policies that feeds them?”

  “Remains to be seen, Turtle. Don’t judge the tiger by its stripes until you see how well it runs.” Mere chews on her bananas, savouring their lemony sweetness.

  There is a shuffling on the porch and a tap at the door. “Kia ora. Haere mai,” Mere calls out. Moana appears, her face veiled in a lavalava with a pattern of hibiscus flowers swirling yellow around the bright purple cloth. “Tena koe, Moana. Sit down here and Cowrie will fetch you a cuppa.” Mere has noticed already that Moana
is very quiet and in need of sustenance.

  “The kids are with me. Can I send them to play outside?”

  “Sure. Cowrie will look after them. Maybe they’d like to visit Te Kotuku nursery and see the new plantings and help out a bit?”

  “Ka pae, Mere. Thanks.” Tears slide down Moana’s face and drip onto the stamens of her hibiscus-flowered lavalava. It is then that Mere notices the bruise on her cheek, turned away and partially covered by cloth.

  “Cowrie – after making us tea – can you please take Moana’s tamiriki to the nursery and amuse them a while? Don’t bring them back until lunchtime. Moana and I have things to talk over.”

  Cowrie is about to protest as she has work to do, but then she reads the seriousness in Mere’s eyes. Something is up. “You want gumboot tea or fresh garden peppermint, Moana?”

  “Peppermint will be fine, thanks, Cowrie.” Moana drops her head low, as if in apology for interrupting them.

  After a few moments, Mere and Moana are alone in the cottage and Mere demands to know what has happened. Moana is reluctant at first but knows she will never pull the wool over the eyes of her kuia. She then asks if she and the tamariki can return to Te Kotuku marae, until things are better with Tony. It’s all got too much for her. First the kids getting so many sicknesses this year with vomiting and diarrhoea. Even the doctors could not pinpoint the trouble. Then Tony getting ill too and taking it out on her and the kids. Every day he could not work he would get morose and depressed and then lash out at one or all of them. They are now behind with their payments on the house, and the power has been cut off. Finally, Tony got drunk and hit her hard last night. He left and said he’d be back the next night. Moana decided to get the kids to a safe place first and intended going back. But when riding to the marae on horseback, she decided it would be better for them to return home to Te Kotuku, lick their wounds and have time to think about the future.