Cowrie

by Cathie Dunsford

  “Na. Used to it. I often go kayaking and camping in Aotearoa. Besides, I always feel like I’m floating when in a hammock, and that’s as near to bliss as possible for me.”

  “Turtle woman rides the waves.”

  “Who’s she?” asks Cowrie, interested in how much Koana knows about her.

  “You,” laughs Koana, and pulls the hammock way out to the left so it swings wildly back again. Cowrie grabs her on the return swing and pulls her into the hammock. Koana is on top of her. They grapple, each trying to tickle the other until they are both weak with laughter. The hammock is still for a moment. Koana looks down into her eyes. Cowrie wants to reach up and touch her cheek, her lips. Koana smiles gently.

  Peni rushes back into the room and grabs Koana’s arm. “Mama, mama, Aka here. Aka here.” Peni runs back to greet his father and Koana sighs, slips off the hammock and goes to the door.

  They talk in Hawai’ian and Cowrie can only pick up a few words that are similar to Maori. Locals here say that Ka Lae, the southern-most tip of the Big Island of Hawai‘i, is the point from which the ancient canoes left for Aotearoa. Cowrie knows that her ancestors were superb navigators, but the distance between Hawai‘i and Aotearoa seems so vast, even for the mighty waka they built.

  Koana brings Aka out on to the back porch. She introduces them and says Aka has offered to take the kids fishing and would she like to go too?

  “Are you going, Koana?”

  “Sure. I love fishing.”

  “Then count me in,” says Cowrie, leaping out of the hammock on to the wooden floorboards with a thunderous crash.

  Even Aka laughs. “You’d make ok local wahine,” he exclaims.

  Koana slaps him across the buttocks with her hand. “You keep away from kiwi wahine, Aka. She’s my friend.”

  Cowrie blushes. She is delighted that Koana protects her in this way. “Where are you going fishing, Aka?”

  “Just here. No transport. I had to hitch a ride to Na‘alehu,” he grins.

  “What’s it like fishing at Ka Lae? I’d love to go there.”

  “Kamaha‘o. Wonderful. But it’s too far to walk!”

  “Well, let’s go in the old truck. The kids love it.”

  “How did you know about Ka Lae?”

  “The local storekeeper told me that this is where the canoes departed for Aotearoa—New Zealand. So I’d like to see the place.”

  “I’ve heard that too,” admits Aka. “But how could they have gone that far? It must’ve been a miracle.”

  “I reckon it was, but one aided by superb navigational skills that took Polynesians all over the Pacific.”

  “Well, let’s see if you kiwis are as good at fishing as your ancestors, then.” Aka throws his nets and lines into the back of the truck, parked below the porch. The kids are already in the tray, pretending to be hauling huge monsters out of the sea, gouging out their eyes and eating them.

  Cowrie laughs, remembering how she used to show the visitors who came into the bay at summer how to gut fish. She particularly enjoyed showing off in front of the bigger boys. She’d make a clean slice down the belly and cut the tendons holding the guts in as she swept back up the fish with one gesture, then her chubby hand would pull out the gut, blood dripping between her fingers. If there was roe in the belly, she’d eat it raw. Then she’d gouge out the eyes and hand them to the boys, making them eat the blood-soaked balls. They were so protective of their fragile egos that they always did as she said. The girls would shriek in terror, but still watch, fascinated. Then they’d avoid the boys who’d eaten the eyes because their breath stank all day.

  The young Cowrie reckoned it was good to have a gutting session at the very beginning of the holiday season so that it established her as the one to whom all fish would come for their final rituals. After the ceremony, the kids would be so revolted, she’d usually end up with most of the fish they’d caught. It also served to keep the boys at bay for the rest of the holiday and the girls stayed in awe of her skills. That suited her fine.

  Peni grabs Cowrie’s arm. “Mai, mai,” he yells. Cowrie reaches for her lavalava. She throws her pack into the tray, lifts Peni back up and climbs into the cab beside Koana. Aka jumps in on the starboard side. Cowrie revs up the engine, sending the kids into screams of glee, and shoves her into gear. She finds using her right hand to do this awkward. Koana seems to sense this and touches her arm lightly. Cowrie smiles, enjoying her closeness.

  The road winds around the Big Island beside the sea. Cowrie loves it. So like the West Coast of the South Island. From Okarito to Westport. Rugged, grey rocks streaked with horizontal sepia lines. Wild pounamu sea smashing against the jagged spires, curving and moulding them to the gothic shapes of its imagination. One of the rock formations reminds her of Punakaiki, dubbed the Pancake Rocks by tourists who saw them layered upon each other in huge piles. Cowrie could almost see the heavens opening, and cascades of maple syrup rolling down the layers of rock.

  “Maybe you’ll come and visit our coast sometime, eh?”

  “Maybe one day, Cowrie. But the airfare is more than we earn in a year,” adds Koana.

  “Yeah, but it’ll be better if they put the satellite in. More jobs,” says Aka.

  Koana glares at him. She starts yelling in Hawai‘ian. All Cowrie can pick up is “fucking American trash.” Then there is silence. She asks what the satellite is. Koana replies that NASA wants to establish a satellite station at Ka Lae, on the southern tip of Hawai‘i and has promised the locals plenty of jobs and a boost to the tourist trade if it goes ahead. She feels they are being bribed. “First they take over our land and we have to buy it back from them, then they want it for their space programme. It’s just high tech spying, really. And then they’ll use us to test their nuclear weapons…”

  “That’s already happening on Kaho‘olawe,” chips in Aka. “The Americans took over the island, have destroyed the heiau and have desecrated our sacred land. They test their weapons on the surface and underwater. It’s meant that we have to be careful where we fish these days. We know they do harm but we need jobs also. Once we could rely on our fishing for income, now we are reliant on them. It stinks. Yet I need a job to help support Koana and the kids, and while I don’t want the satellite station, I reckon it’s better than a nuclear power plant.”

  “Not much difference, Aka. We’ll still be the target for any foreign invasion. We must keep our islands free of this madness. We must not give in to them,” pleads Koana, tears filling her eyes.

  Cowrie wants to reach out and hold her. But she resists. Lucky she needs both arms to drive this old beast. She is appalled. She tells Koana and Aka of the US invasion of the Marshall Islands, which they do not know about, and how the scientists took the islanders from their sacred birthplace and relocated them on other islands. They used their sacred island for testing nuclear devices. Then, when they had finished, they covered one island with concrete half a mile thick and told the islanders that they could move back to their original island at their own risk. The New Zealand Greenpeace boat, the Rainbow Warrior, had intervened to help the islanders. That’s why the French wanted to bomb her. Now, the islanders were suffering the after-effects: children being born with three arms, two heads and sometimes without limbs at all. They were called ‘jellyfish babies’.

  Before Cowrie can finish, Koana touches her arm. “That is enough, Cowrie. I cannot bear to hear more. You see, Aka. It’s not so simple as just finding jobs. You want Nele and Peni’s kids to be jellyfish babies? No, we can’t go that way, nor can we return to what was. We have to find other ways of surviving, but on our terms.”

  They drive in silence, until they hear the kids yelling from the tray and pointing to their left. A long road, not much more than a dirt track, leads down towards the sea. Aka says it’s Ka Lae, so she swings the wheel hard left and turns on to the bumpy track. On both sides of the road are windmills that generate electricity for the island. Further down, the surface turns into lava rock. Beyond this, a
massive ledge surges out over the Pacific with a vertical drop to the echoing sea.

  They walk out to the edge of the cliffs in silence. Below are canoes and old wooden boats, tied to the sides of the cliff. Foot-holes and dilapidated ladders mark the cliffface. The sea is treacherous. One man brings a canoe up alongside his ladder and skillfully grabs the rope. The tide disappears beneath him as the wave swells back out again. He holds the canoe between his feet, dangling from the rope ladder and waits for the next wave to lift the canoe upwards. He grabs its prow rope and ties it up to the ladder, then begins the slow ascent up the vertical rock, his sack of fish tied on to his back. Cowrie holds her breath, praying he will make it. No worries. He’s up and over the edge in less than two minutes.

  “Aloha, Vile,” yells Aka. He goes over and they speak rapidly in Hawai‘ian. Then Aka brings Vile back and introduces him to Cowrie.

  “Vile met a kiwi once. Liked him. You tell her, Vile,” says Aka.

  Vile looks shy, takes the load off his back, sits down on the edge of the cliff and pulls out some tobacco. He rolls two cigarettes, lights one off the other and hands the second to Aka. By now, they are all sitting down, legs over the edge, listening. Vile takes his time. He enjoys a good story. He tells them how he met a fella from Tai Tokerau, Aotearoa. A Maori fella. He and his mates were fishing off a big outrigger they’d sailed over. They called it Ngeru. Both hulls were the same width. Not a canoe with a rigger. Anyway, they had a bit of weed one night and a few drinks and the question of the yankees testing their nuclear weapons on Hawai‘ian soil came up. When the kiwi fella heard about this use of the sacred island, he got real mad and suggested they return to the island and rebuild the heiau, the sacred temple, with stones. The locals explained that the island was guarded by the US military and could not be landed on. The kiwi fella said so was Greenham Common guarded, yet his wife and a bunch of pommy sheilas had got in and painted the silos with peace symbols.

  “We planned to try to land on the island the next night. We couldn’t get near enough, so we anchored out and swam to shore. We each took a large rock and began building up the stone heiau, with Koma leading us. We worked all night. We did this for several weeks until the heiau was complete. On the last night, we lit a fire in celebration. That’s when the guards came. They fired bullets at us as we swam back to the boat. But we succeeded. We rebuilt the temple, stone by stone.”

  “Is it still there?” asks Peni.

  “No, Peni. They blasted it apart. We saw the flames as we headed back out. Some thought it was the yanks. Others thought it was Pele blowing it up in their faces. But it was a good feeling to have done it. And the kiwi fella helped. A good bro.” He laughed, but Cowrie could see the pain in his face. It was a great victory under the circumstances, but it would have to be done over and over again before it had its effect on the soldiers, before it wore them down. Then Cowrie notices him smiling. She wonders if the retelling of the story has the effect of reinventing the struggle, giving it more force each time it is told.

  “Let’s go fishing,” cries Nele at her elbow.

  Cowrie sees Aka crawling to his feet and farewelling his friend. They walk in silence back from the cliff-face of Ka Lae, bearing its ancient secrets in their hearts, along with these more recent tales.

  Tena koe Kuini

  Finally reached the big island: Hawai‘i. So like home: my Rangitoto and your Whakarewarewa combined. Still active volcano at Kilauea with Hawai‘ian Goddess, Pele, inside. She emits an awesome power! Staying with delicious Koana—mokopuna of Tutu Kini, friend of my grandfather, Apelahama. She’s stunning, with delightful twins, Nele and Peni. We get on well as whanau. But also feel attraction for Koana. Having to hold back for now. You know what it’s like, nai? Need to suss out the rellies first.

  Remember Bastion Point? Same issues here—only the yanks want to build a satellite station on native land at Ka Lae (sacred leaving point of waka for Aotearoa). They’ve already destroyed one island, but the locals rebuilt their temple (heiau) after it was desecrated by the US military. Met some fishermen who told me a Ngapuhi fella in a rigger called Ngeru helped them out. One of your rellies, no doubt! (You’re lucky you can claim your Ngapuhi or Tainui whakapapa, depending on the occasion. Good insurance, eh?)

  How’s things at home—and the university? Have they learned to appreciate your treaty work yet? Yeah—and pigs might fly! Love to the Waikato Writing Group—and heaps more for you.

  Arohanui—Cowrie XXX

  PS: See these amazing hula dancers with gourds, animals I’ve sketched on border. They’re from ancient rock carvings —pre Pakeha (haole here!) Koana promises to take me to see some later.

  The fishing expedition is a success. Mostly ‘ula’ula, snapper; but some interesting small fish in the net which Peni and Nele delight in. They seemed to like the huge variety of papa’i, crabs, which they name for Cowrie: a’ama, ‘elemihi, ‘alamihi, ohiki, unauna, ‘ala’eke, mo‘ala and kohunu. Peni likes the ohiki best, Nele, the a‘ama. Cowrie votes for the kohunu. All are gathered, cleaned and roasted over an old piece of corrugated iron on the beach. She could be in Aotearoa. She writes home about the fishing trip, her grandfather and Vile’s tale of rebuilding the heiau. But she does not mention her feelings for Koana. That can wait.

  Koana is back at work in the Na‘alehu Post Office and Keo is preparing tracks in the sugar cane fields, so Cowrie calls Paneke who says she must visit Pele. Locals talk about the volcano goddess as a real, living being. She’s heard the shopkeepers mention Pele and has read enough about her since arriving to know that she is not a woman to be messed around with. A Hawai’ian Hinekaro.

  Paneke suggests that they start out early and walk through the crater at Kilauea before it gets too hot. Cowrie is alarmed, but excited, by the idea of actually descending into the crater. She knows it is still active. Paneke assures her she has taken visitors through the crater before but they must visit Pele first and ask for her protection. Only locals know the correct path. One foot out of place and you’re into an underground lava flow.

  Soon after their conversation, the old truck, which Nele named Honu after Cowrie told her of the turtle on the road to Keo’s place, is rattling up through Volcano National Park, coughing and spluttering as it crawls higher and higher up the slopes of Kilauea. Cowrie is discovering that Paneke is more talkative away from Keo. She knows so much about Pele and the history of the volcano.

  Honu just makes it to the top of the rise and then the road flattens out to reveal a huge crater. Honu’s wheels are nearly on the rim and Cowrie stops to get out for a better look. Paneke tells her to wait until they reach the next crater, Hale ma‘uma’u, where Pele currently lives.

  They park some distance from the rim and Paneke takes Cowrie over the road and into the bush. They are dwarfed by giant mamaku and a tree that looks just like pohutukawa. Paneke explains that it is the ‘ohi’a tree and the blossom is lehua. Cowrie reaches to pick a lehua blossom to examine it more closely. Paneke grabs her arm, just before she snaps off the scarlet explosion. Cowrie is shocked at the power of her action.

  “Mai, uoki!” shouts Paneke. “A‘ole!”

  Cowrie retracts her hand as if scolded by hot lava.

  Paneke looks her directly in the eye. “I don’t mean to frighten you, Cowrie. But you must understand. Hina-ulu-‘ohi’a is the female goddess of the ‘ohi’a-lehua forest. In the shape of the ‘ohi’a tree she protects Hi‘i-lawe, child of Kakea and Kaholo and Lau-ka-ieie, daughter of Pokahi. To both god and goddess the flowering ‘ohi’a is sacred and it is forbidden for anyone travelling to the smoking volcano to take the blood-red flowers or even to gather leaves or branches.”

  Cowrie doesn’t want to invoke the wrath of the gods.

  Paneke takes her hand. “It’s ok, Cowrie. We’ll come here on the way home. It’s acceptable to gather these blossoms on the return journey, after I have invoked the gods and goddesses. I will show you how to make a lehua wreath to crown your head when we’ve been thr
ough the crater.”

  Cowrie smiles tentatively. If we get through the crater. She asks Paneke what would have happened if she had taken the blossom. Paneke replies that the punishment is always different, depending on the intention of the traveller, that she has brought Cowrie into the forest beside the crater to pick ‘ohelo berries to offer to Pele so their journey through the crater is a peaceful one.

  After gathering the blood-red berries, Paneke takes her across the hardened lava to a place on the rim of Hale ma‘uma’u. She invokes Pele in a ritual and together they cast the ‘ohelo berries over the side and down into the vast cavern of the crater. The berry gifts glide downwards until Cowrie can only see black dots before they reach the crater floor. Paneke’s call sounds like a karanga with that soul-piercing cry which feels like it comes from another planet. Its echoes resound through her body, electrifying every part of her flesh and bones and entering her soul. They wait after each call, until it descends into the crater, shimmers across the hallowed cavern and bounces back off the far wall.

  Pele has answered them.

  Paneke smiles, and gestures to Cowrie that they can now begin the journey.

  They walk around the rim of Hale ma‘uma’u, feeling the presence of Pele within. It is eerie and exciting. Cowrie is amazed at how Pele has moved and shifted the land at her whim. As they begin the descent into the crater, the heat from the lava-rocks rolls up at them in waves. She notices small ferns poking out of crevices in the older lava and is fascinated by their survival. The further down they go, the higher the rim rises until they are finally on the crater floor, dwarfed by the massive walls.

  Cowrie follows Paneke’s footsteps carefully. The cracked lava and steam vents make the crater resemble the surface of the moon. She recalls those first photographs relayed back to earth. A crusty planet of rock with human figures bouncing over it in slow motion. The heat makes her lightheaded and she imagines her steps are huge leaps slowed down by video replay.