“Yeah.”
“You ever been married, Cowrie?”
Cowrie has been dreading the question. “Yep. We were together five years. Raised a son from my partner’s former relationship. Choice kid actually. He still comes to visit me up North in the holidays.”
“Do you see him often?”
“The kid? Once a year.”
“No, your husband.”
Cowrie takes in a deep breath. Why does this always have to be such a big deal? Every social occasion, at the workplace, everywhere people gather together, social welfare forms, census, all government departments. Always, it feels like covering up. And they say it’s no big deal these days. But it still wears you down, having to explain all the time. Or not explain and feel left out.
“Well, he’s a she actually. I was in a relationship with a woman and we raised a child from her former marriage.” Cowrie pauses.
Koana is silent. She remains looking down at her feet. Finally she says, “That’s a shame, Cowrie. Every woman deserves the love of a good man.”
Cowrie is furious. If this wasn’t Koana she’d walk out. Or argue. But she cares about this friend and wants her to understand. So, every woman deserves the love of a good man? Like Aka, who left? Like Koana’s uncle, who abused her own kids, like Cowrie’s stepfather, who tried to touch her and had his hand bitten by her in self-defence?
Koana sits quietly for a long time afterwards. Cowrie decides to call it a day and excuses herself. She goes for a long walk down to the lava-rock beach and curses the oceans for allowing such beautiful feelings to be turned into ugliness through ignorance.
She must figure out a way to be able to communicate feelings to Koana so that she understands better. Of course, it’s a lot easier to do with a relative stranger. But Cowrie doesn’t care what the general public thinks any more. She does care that those around her understand and accept her as she accepts them. The problem here is that het women always think you’re going to hit up on them, like men do. And this is seldom true. Cowrie had been lulled into a false sense of security. She’d felt so at home with Koana, like a sister. And she also feels attracted to her. Here lies the problem. How to communicate this experience, the sense of alienation and not seem like a threat to the other person.
Cowrie thinks back to her childhood, how often she’d sat at the edge of the Pacific Ocean and wished she could dive in, be carried away by a dolphin or tortoise to a land that was more accepting, more loving. But there were no tortoises off the coast of Aotearoa and maybe there was no such land either. Sometimes she’d wished to be carried into the deep, black waters. To feel the relief of their wet darkness embracing her, taking her to their depths where she could be released from this agony. Sometimes the water would ripple as a fish swam by and Cowrie would then think her wishes had been answered and feel strangely relieved. After several hours of midnight meditation on the rocks, she’d walk home and slink into bed, unnoticed. Mere would never ask where she’d been. She always had the feeling Mere knew, and accepted.
When Cowrie returns to the cottage, she is relieved to find Koana asleep on the woven matting, Nele and Peni curled up around her. She creeps out to the porch with a candle and her notebook and writes until she feels ok again. Between the writing and the sea, she always manages to survive.
The night is hot and sticky. Cowrie drifts in and out of nightmares. The giant wave that haunted her childhood dreams returns. She is captured and sucked out to sea, then rushed in as the wave gains momentum. She cannot breathe. The surf has the weight and power of all the oceans behind it. It is angry. It tosses her up into the air then crashes her back down on the jagged rocks. She smashes into pieces like a coconut falling on to hardened lava and her insides splash thick, white milk on to the black volcanic rock. The next wave carries her remains back out to sea. No one notices the wave or her death. People mill about on the beach as if nothing has happened.
After the nightmare, she pulls on a loose shirt and jeans and rises to get a drink. The dawn is beginning to urge its weight across the shuttered windows. Cowrie is unimpressed. She gulps down her half shell of water and steps from the porch to the backyard. Purposefully, she heads for the fish pond. Peni’s net rests against the scraggy kiawe tree. She flicks it from the branch and tucks it under her arm. At the pond, Cowrie places the net on its side in the water, jaws wide and facing out. She then dangles her left foot in the wet space directly in front of the net. The pond remains still. She can see dark shapes at the shaded end but cannot make out individual fish.
Impatient, she reaches into her hip pocket and takes her Joyce Chen fish-gutting knife from its polished wooden sheath. She cuts a small gash across the soft flesh on the inside of her thumb, wipes the blade across her shirt and places it on the rock beside her. She dangles her bloody thumb in the water just in front of the net. There is a sudden ripple from the far end of the pool. Like fire sizzling up a lit fuse, fish rocket swiftly through the water, fighting to be first to the blood. By now, half a dozen fish are struggling in the mesh, turning on each other in frenzy. Blood still oozes from her thumb, but Cowrie will not let go of the net. The fish try to drag it into the murky depths of the pond. With a sudden flick of her wrist, she lurches it from the water and on to the rocks. Two fish escape back down the slithery lava. But one is caught thrashing wildly.
The fish is cut free and spins on to the dry earth. Its tail and then whole body flick from side to side violently. Its gills open and shut with rapid movement. Cowrie remembers the nightmare. The water surging through her lungs as she is dragged back through the ocean and then flung high and dry, gasping for breath. It is time to act. She picks up the knife and launches it into the gills. With a swift flick, she beheads the struggling beast so that it cannot sink its teeth into her flesh. The head lands in the dust by the bushes. One of the mangy cats ventures out for a feast. The eyes are still moving. They seem to follow her as the cat mauls into the bones and flesh.
She turns the remainder of the fish on to its back and kneels astride the body. With her knife, she makes a clean incision in the soft, light flesh between the gills and runs her blade down its belly. The tip of her blade hits a hard backbone, but the gut is soft and bloody. The knife stops short of the tail and Cowrie reaches her hand inside to rip out its entrails. Blood oozes down her arm and on to her shirt as she tears out the guts and flings them towards the bushes. The rest of the cats pounce on to the wriggling mound to devour it.
The flesh is tough and grey inside, like stingray. Cowrie slashes it into chunks, hearing the backbone break as each slice falls off. The remaining fish in the pond are strangely silent. The sun cuts its way through the dawn and stabs into her rounded back as she bends over the fish. The stench is hideous. This is no ordinary ika. When she has finished, she throws the rest of the meat to the cats. That should last them a while, she thinks, running the knife between a folded banana palm leaf to clean its blade. Then she wipes it across her jean thigh for good measure, places it back in its shiny wooden sheath and moves to the side of the house.
The bloody deed over, Cowrie strips off her clothes and stands under the makeshift shower—a hose coming out from the house and suspended over the branch of a tree. She lets the already-warm water trickle down her face and then gush through the valley between her breasts and out over her wide and beautiful belly. It has formed itself into tiny rivulets by the time it reaches her thighs and drips down between her legs and over her calves. She sobs tears of bitter pain that has accumulated over years of having to confront prejudice.
Cowrie is surprised that she could act so violently. Normally, gutting a fish isn’t a big deal, but this one was a sacrifice. It was utu. She felt driven to complete it. At least it has been in private and brought the repressed pain and tears to the surface. She has been waiting a decade to let this out and now it is done. Her body begins to relax. She washes her clothes under the hose and hangs them on a branch. In this heat, they’ll be dry by the time she leaves.
&n
bsp; Dear Suzy—what shall I do? You’re my oldest mate and I need to talk to you. I think I’ve just committed rape. Or murder. That’s what it feels like. I attracted a fish into my net with the bait of blood and than I kneeled astride its wriggling body and gutted and beheaded it alive, then slashed it savagely into chunks and threw it to the shrieking wildcats. Yes, me, the non-violent protester, who sailad to Muroroa to protest nuclear testing. Can you believe it? It was no ordinary ika. No ordinary act. I did it deliberately and I wanted it to hurt.
Why? Well, there’s a het woman here I’m attracted to. All she did was raise that bullshit about how every woman needs a man and I want troppo. She’s very intelligent and strong but also traditional. She’s only been apart from her hubby for a short time and hasn’t yet questioned heterosexist assumptions. But it was enough to heat my blood into boiling lava-sizzling, hot rage! The pond fish here are like piranha. They’d already attacked one of Koana’s kids. I’d been thinking of netting one. But when it happened, I was so shocked at the way I exacted revenge.
As you know, I’ve always been against violence in any way, shape or form. So what does this mean? Could I ever rape or murder? Or was I symbolically refusing to remain a victim? No one knows I did it. There’s no way I’d hurt Koana or the kids. But what’s the difference? How can people butcher animals daily and not be affected by this? Or do you end up doing it so often you get numb to the feelings?
Don’t worry—I’m not about to go on the rampage—but as a shrink—let me know what you think. Please pass on my love to Marewa, Sandi, Penny and all the others at Rape Crisis. You can drop me a line c/- Koana at Na‘alehu P.O., Hawai‘i. You always said to write if in need. Well, I need you now, Suzy.
Thanks, dear friend.
Cowrie.
The journey up the coast from Puako to Waikui then across the northern tip of the island to Honoka‘a is quiet. Nele sits next to her, while Koana has a turn in the tray with Peni. Cowrie is relieved that she will not have to make small talk with Koana and is delighting in Nele pointing out the sights. Koana was withdrawn at breakfast. But thoughtful. Cowrie relaxes enough to let go of her pain and knows that Koana will either talk about it when she is ready or distance herself and never refer to it again. That’s usually the way it goes. In the meantime, she does not want her forced revelation to spoil the trip for the twins or for Koana. She knows they have picked up on some tension because they are much quieter than usual and go to great lengths to try to please the adults.
Nele points to a dilapidated church. It is surrounded by palm trees and looks incongruous out there in the fields. Cowrie is surprised at how like Tai Tokerau this farmland is. Gently rolling grassland, greener than she’d expected for the heat, and dotted with familiar cabbage-tree groves.
Honoka‘a lies ahead and from there, according to the map, it is a straight run down the coast to Hilo, where they will stop for lunch with Koana’s aunty Meleana. Cowrie is already planning how she can get out of it. She has let go some pain, but she still needs space. She will drop them off and shelter under a beach palm to have some quiet time alone. But she must find a way to do this without offending them. Maybe Koana will be glad not to have the dyke friend from New Zealand with her. Who knows?
Cowrie decides to concentrate on enjoying the coast drive. They travel roads high above the sea nudging vertical cliffs that dive perilously into the crashing surf below. The vegetation is lush. Mist hangs in the valleys and through it, scarlet lehua blossoms brighten up the dense shades of the pounamu slopes. It’s as if some huge hand issued out from the heavens and sprinkled red stars over the green tree tops. Cowrie recalls odd lines from New Zealand poetry, where the bright red pohutukawa blossom becomes a symbol for the blood-shed on the beaches, the rite of passage as a new breed of colonial breaks through the crusty exterior of the British colonels and farmers who first took the land from its original inhabitants. Captain Cook was finally eaten on a beach in Tahiti. Cowrie bet the pohutukawa were in full blossom that day.
Recent lava trails cut a black river through the valleys amongst which small trees and new growth battle to replace the flow of Pele’s fiery anger. From Pape‘ekeo, it is an exhilarating drive on roads cut into the vertical cliffs which reveal surprises at each bend. The cream and yellow insides of the wild ginger flowers, ooze their sap on to the grass below, while fiery orange bird-of-paradise spikes thrust out inviting purple tongues. Startling yellow stamens erupt from the sticky interiors of stark white lilies that lap up the bright sun. Water bursts over the edges of bulging cliffs sending spray twenty-feet out from the rocky ledges and thundering into pools below. The sweet smell of frangipani hangs in the wind as they sail past and the landscape explodes with erotic energy. By the time they reach Hilo, Cowrie’s desire is satiated and she is beginning to feel human again.
Hilo is very different from Kona. Older and more run down. Yet it has a certain charm. Some of the buildings are reminiscent of Hollywood western sets, with large verandahs that hang out over the streets. It is easy to imagine local cowboys tying up their horses to the shop-fronts. Cowrie stops the truck and Koana climbs into the cab to direct her to her aunty’s house. Koana is careful to have Nele remain between them. She had wanted to get out to join her brother in the tray, no doubt to impress her cousins when they arrived, but Koana tells her to move along the seat and she’ll climb in beside her. Cowrie glances into the rear-vision mirror. Peni looks pleased to lord it over the open back of the truck.
They meander through back streets and turn into a narrow road with old settlers’ cottages patched up with corrugated iron and canvas awnings. Chickens and dogs wander about the volcanic rock pathways, apparently oblivious to traffic. Koana points to a run-down cottage with large overhangs and scattered garden sheds made from bits of pink corrugated iron. Outside, the porch is framed by cabbage trees and giant tree-ferns grow either side. A dog that looks like a pig lunges towards the truck and Cowrie swerves to avoid it. “Fucken hell!” she exclaims. Koana glares at her for swearing in front of Nele. The dog races towards the truck again and jumps up on the back as they grind to a halt in the driveway. It splashes licks all over Peni and, behind it, a large woman with handsomely greying hair and an armful of purple hibiscus flowers ambles up to greet them.
“Aloha, Meleana,” says Koana, stepping out of the cab to hug her aunt.
“Tutu Meleana. Tutu Meleana,” cries Nele and slides down into her arms.
Cowrie glances behind to check that Peni has escaped from the licking embrace of Cerberus. A tell, handsome Hawai’ian man is lifting him off the tray. Must be Mr Meleana, she thinks. Sure enough, he comes around to the front and embraces Koana. His name is Hale. Then a much older man limps over. The twins obviously adore him and they hang on his every word. Cowrie is about to excuse herself and graciously back Honu out of the drive, when the old man comes up and opens the cab door.
“So you’re the wahine from our far islands, eh? Koana’s told us much about you. She said you were strong and beautiful. And so you are.” He laughs wildly, admiring her ample body.
Koana looks shy. Cowrie is amused.
Koana introduces the New Zealander to her relatives and they gather round and ask questions about the “little Hawai‘i of the South Seas.” Cowrie can hardly refuse them. They make her feel so welcome and, after all, this connecting is why she came in the first place. She follows them into the house and is overwhelmed with nostalgia. Everywhere are pictures of family members – grandparents, parents, aunties, cousins, sons and daughters, in frames draped with flower lei. Cowrie is surrounded by beaming, laughing faces. Round faces on large bodies. Like hers. She can sense them move with the laughter. Suddenly she feels absurdly happy. The events of the past twenty-four hours move into a more distant place in her emotions and she is pleased to banish them. She knows they will resurface the next time she is honest about herself. But for now, she is content to relax with the voices, music and laughter.
A feast has been cooked for their arri
val. There is roast pork and boiled kalo, dishes wrapped in leaves, steamed potatoes and carrots and, of course, plenty of poi. The dinner is superb and Koana’s family treat her as whanau. They ask many questions and seem genuinely interested. Like Mere’s family, they are great talkers and great listeners at once. Before dinner, they give thanks to Pele, bless the meal and afterwards sit around on mats under the shelter of the overhang to talk and sing.
The old man, who Koana introduced as Ika‘aka, has taken a particular fancy to Cowrie and shows her his room. All his furniture is outside under a roof of corrugated iron, with his bed in the corner. He insists it is the best room in the house. A butter-churn sits next to his bed to hold the old tobacco tins and papers. Hand-carved furniture takes its place alongside old beer crates. Broken coconut shells litter the floor. It is like a museum of one man’s life. Turns out his wife died a few years ago and the family took him back in when the ’76 lava flow destroyed his house. They knew it was coming, borrowed a truck and managed to rescue most of the furniture.
Cowrie finds Meleana’s father intriguing. Perhaps Apelahama was like this? He was as tell, in the photos, and as handsome. Was he an old character or a tyrant? Why did he desert Hawai‘i for a few miserable extra dollars in New Zealand? Did he ever have family here before meeting her grandmother? Were they in love or did he do the best with what he had in the new country?
She points to a ‘ukulele hanging from one of the kiawe trunks that support the roofing iron. A turtle is etched on its shiny wooden belly. She asks about the instrument. Ika‘aka says it was made by one of the masters—a real craftsman, Apelahama.
Cowrie is astounded. “That’s my grandfather,” she utters.
“‘Ae, I know,” he replies.
“How do you know?” Cowrie asks, and wants to demand why he didn’t tell her earlier that he knew her grandfather.
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