Manawa Toa

by Dunsford, Cathie

  Paddling beyond the breakers, they follow the flight of torea, akiaki and takapu. Giant gannets dive down into the ocean swooping up fish in their beaks. Ahead of them, a school of kahawai leap from the water, thrashing about on the surface trying to escape the beaks of the gulls. Mollymawks and takapu cruise on the wind currents, waiting for the exact moment to skim the surface and pluck a rich treat of kai moana from the sea. The wahine paddle into the centre of the thrashing fish, dragging their lines behind the kayaks. Within seconds, ika are pulling at the bait. Every line has six hooks on it and they wait until they have a few tails crashing from the wake before they reel in their catches. Each fish is gently taken from the paua and bone hooks and killed immediately with a prick to its head. Soon, the kete at their feet are so full they have to chuck one in the front and one in the back to balance the kayaks for the journey home.

  They stroke out parallel with the shore, the sun lowering into the far ocean to starboard. As it sinks, a bright orange glow lights the sky, reflecting off the clouds. Taniwha fly into the horizon, seahorses, feather starfish, crawling octopuses, flying ika change shape as the clouds move and rearrange themselves. They surf in on the waves, the horizon behind them lit with that haunting pounamu shade which signifies an Aotearoan West Coast sunset.

  From: koana@hilo.com

  To: turtle@hokianga.co.nz

  Aloha Cowrie,

  How are you, Turtle? Have been thinking of you lately. Just returned from a week-long Kanaka Maoli gathering. We discussed land sovereignty issues and there were a range of related workshops. Pele Aloha talked about the importance of retaining the ancient art of talkstory which some of our younger ones are losing. You’d have loved it. We’ve decided to make this an important initiative for the upcoming Nuclear Free and Independent Pacific Conference. It’s crucial that haole have our input to this from our perspective.

  I’m excited by the work, but the small actions we each take sometimes seem so minimal. Do you ever feel swamped by the hugeness of the task? Ela and I believe that every small action counts and we teach our kids that too. Nele and Peni are becoming more involved in Kanaka Maoli activities and it’s exciting to see them reconnecting with the traditions of our ’ohana—beyond what Ela and I, Meleana and Paneke can provide for them.

  Can you send us information on how to get our work into print? Community Education at Hilo have provided us free use of their desktop publishing facilities. But we need to know of other Pacific presses that we can network with. We need to know how we can get our work out to a wider readership.

  Mauva emailed from Tahiti Fa’a’a. Tavini Haraatira is getting stronger. They’re sick of the French domination and military presence. Problem is, so many of the men earn income from it. The islands have become dependent on the colonial power. It’s complex. But freedom will come soon. They must get their land back. You know, the same old story through all our islands.

  Nele is completing a school project documenting local ki’i pohaku. She’s recreated some of the rock drawings on paper and Peni is etching some of them into stones he finds on the beach. They’ve included some here for you.

  Malamo pono, Turtle. I’ll hand you over to them.

  Hi Cowrie! Peni and I drew these for you on screen and Koana showed us how to transfer them to email. Remember that day we followed the lava trail at Puako? We went back there on a school trip and showed everyone the magic shapes. Now we’re making up a book of sketches so they will be here for other kids in the future and for those who cannot get to the isolated sites. Some of the other kids are pissed ’cos we get to draw for our project and they have to write essays—but we reckon it’s ok ’cos we thought of it first!

  Mahalo for that video you sent of the kohanga kids surfing down those gigantic sand dunes and into the sea. Awesome! We took it to school and everyone wanted to see it over and over. The best part was watching them zoom out of the ocean and back up the dunes in reverse motion! None of us have ever seen dunes that huge. Like the Sahara Desert in the middle of the South Pacific. We can’t wait to visit. Koana says she’ll bring us over for the next Nuclear-Free Pacific conference.

  Aloha—Neli and Pene

  From: sappho@island.ac.uk

  To: turtle@hokianga.co.nz

  Dear Cowrie,

  Thank you for responding to my letter. I appreciate the depth of your enquiry. I have had to think hard about answering all your questions. They came as rather a surprise. But on further reflection, I see why you’ve asked them. I assure you that my motives are pure. The last thing I want is to appropriate Pacific traditions. My point is to discover for myself what the issues are and find a way to get people here to become more involved. As you know, many Brits still regard New Zealand and Australia as the colonies where we sent remittance men and convicts. There is a kind of snobbery that typifies our perceptions about your countries. Added to this, the rest of the Pacific is seen as an island paradise provided specifically for Europeans to have idyllic holidays. The real issues seldom get aired and it is hard to get through to English people that we are a part of the problem. As a young British person I feel it is my responsibility to address these issues and use my own networks to distribute the information gained.

  As to your other enquiries—no, I’m not a part of the aristocracy! My dad works in the lime quarries near Ashbourne in Derbyshire and lives in a council flat! He reckons the royals are parasites living on the backs of the working class and the Tories have “sold out to the Frogs and other slimey creatures from Europe!” He’s pretty racist really but he’s solidly for the workers. Got his team to go on strike for weeks over the poll tax. Sees immigrants as stealing jobs from working Brits. It’s a confused world out there. One I want to be a part of changing.

  Yes, I did go to university—Birmingham. Completed a master’s in literature, took a journalism course at the Poly. I was an anarchist, ready to burn down the whole bloody Empire! But after Greenham, I saw we could have a lasting effect. I didn’t realise how strong women could be. I never got to know my mum, really. My parents split up when I was a kid and she left for France. I’ve not seen her since. One of my brothers works at the quarry, one is unemployed. I’m closest to Crispin, the eldest, who is a naturalist working in Antarctica. He and I were the only ones who went to university because we got scholarships that paid the fees.

  Anyway, enough about me. Do I get to ask you questions too? How come you left the Fulbright at UC Berkeley and what brought you back to Te Kotuku Marae? What are you doing there now? Can I come and visit you and discuss the project in more depth? The British anti-nuclear group I belong to have suggested I do a series of articles and will sponsor me for part of the costs. The rest I’ll borrow from the Bank of England! I only do freelance work for the Guardian, alas, but they may take a couple of articles. Enough to make a short trip out there worthwhile. I’m happy to stay at the backpackers if you have one nearby. Let me know.

  I’m forwarding further information on our group and a response to the rest of your questions with it. Please feel free to ask me any more questions.

  I’m also interested in your storytelling group, Siliyik. The one you mentioned in the article for the Feminist News. I got interested in storytelling at Greenham. We’d sit around the fires at night or in tents in the freezing cold, huddled up in our sleeping bags, and tell stories. I learned more in that time about people than I did in my whole life before that or at university. I’m sure you know what I mean. I believe that storytelling has a transformative power, is a process that allows people to receive and remember the information. What do you think about this?

  Thanks again for your long letter and for taking my request seriously. I know I have a lot to learn—but I am willing to put myself on the line to do it. One way or another, we’ll drag this old Tory Ship into the late twentieth century. Sometimes I feel I’m on an old creaky sailing ship that still lists in the water in a storm, still relies on servants to set the sails even as they are jumping ship daily. I’m not sure
we always know where we’re heading. Do you ever feel like that? I know I am being very personal here. Far be it for an English person to get personal! But I learned at Greenham how to let down the barriers, ask questions, begin to move forward. It’s essential to break down the old guard. I hope you don’t mind. I feel I know you a little from your articles published here. Do let me know if I have spoken out of turn.

  I must away. Got to do us bits ’n’ bobs in town. I look forward to your reply. I can come in late January if you are able to find some free time then.

  Warm regards,

  Sahara Green.

  He pokeke Uenuku i tu ai.

  Against a dark cloud the rainbow stands out brightly.

  “Hey, Iri, get a load of this! A Pommy journo wants to come out here to suss out our nuke-free movement.”

  Irihapeti is planting new seedlings. “Forget it Cowrie. It’ll be the usual Well gee, how fascinating that you want to keep your quaint Pacific ways but isn’t it time you joined the real world of the late twentieth century.”

  “I’m not sure, Iri. This woman has at least done her time at Greenham Common, which means she’s had the guts to give up her income to fight for the issues.”

  “Yeah—probably one of those upper-class Pommy sheilas who has done a turn at varsity and a few months at Greenham and now she’s wondering how to get her paper to pay for a visit to the South Pacific.” She bends down to scoop up the compost that has slid out the corner of the bag.

  “C’mon, Iri. Shouldn’t we give her a chance? How will we get our voices into the northern hemisphere unless we learn to work with the women up there? At least she’s interested in the issues and we don’t have to start from scratch.”

  “Yeah—or she could be a card-bearing dyke from Leeds with her own political agenda. Can just see how well Te Kotuku would take to that!” Iri laughs, teasing Cowrie.

  “Not likely if she works for the Guardian! Besides, I doubt that she’d want to hang out here. I think she just wants to be pointed in the right direction. I’ll write and suss her out.”

  “Like, how many goddess tattoos she’s got emblazoned on her body and what kind of a labrys she wears around her neck?”

  “Iri, you’re incorrigible. The last thing I want is a lover. Peta still hangs about my soul and my work at Te Kotuku takes up all my time now. That’s enough for me.”

  “Sorry. Cowrie. I was just teasing you! I know you’re passionate about wanting to get our issues north, though I dunno why sometimes. Half the pakeha in Aotearoa don’t give a stuff.”

  “Gotta work on all fronts, Iri. This is an opportunity to advance our work in the Empire—and the coloniser in me, my British whakapapa, cries out for such revenge. This will be sweet work, believe me!” Cowrie leans over to smell the fragrant gardenia revealing its stark white flowers nakedly beside her.

  “Trust you to take it up as a challenge, Cowrie! You’d better suss this Brit out before you pour heaps of energy into the cause. Let me know her reply!” Irihapeti places the last of the seedlings in the row and brushes the remaining dirt down her dungarees.

  Cowrie strolls back to her nikau hut. She drafts a letter to the journalist, Sahara Green. Interesting name. Maybe she’s got African or West Indian blood? She chuckles to herself. Can’t wait to see Iri’s face if a West Indian Brit turns up. That’ll show her! Cowrie drafts a raft of questions that will test the authenticity of the journo—or put her off. Either way, she needs to be sure if she’s going to pass on contacts. She chucks the letter onto her desk—a slice of macrocarpa trunk held up by manuka stumps—and strolls over to the Tainui to see if Kuini’s into gathering mussels for tea.

  Haere i mua i te aroaro o Atutahi.

  When you travel, go ahead of Atutahi.*

  “Hey, Iri, reckon this Sahara Green might be ok!”

  Irihapeti pokes her nose up from the nursery account book and looks blankly at Cowrie. “Who the hell is Sahara Green?”

  “That Pom who wrote about wanting to bring our nuke-free Pacific into the Empire!”

  “Oh, yeah. Her. What’s the story?”

  Cowrie reads the email. Gradually Iri takes more interest as she listens. “Sappho at Island, eh Cowrie? That proves she’s a dyke. Honestly!”

  Cowrie grins. “Yeah—but that’s not the point.”

  “Ok. Read on.” Cowrie reaches the end of the email. Irihapeti plays with the edges of her account book, grinning.

  “What’s that smile for, Iri?”

  “Think about it, Turtle. She’s not just interested in getting these Pacific stories and reading your work. She’s sussing you out too.”

  “Whad’ya mean?”

  “Sometimes you are so naive. She’s checking out to see if you are a dyke and letting you know she is, silly!”

  * * *

  *Atutahi is the star Canopus. So: go before Canopus appears, while food is still plentiful.

  * * *

  “Oh, yeah. Maybe so. But I reckon she’s genuine in her aims.”

  “Oh, Cowrie. Gimme a break. She’s out for a South Sea holiday at your expense and reckons if she can fling in an affair it’d be worthwhile too, ya silly old moo!”

  Cowrie looks puzzled. “No, I don’t think so. I know Brits well enough to know they don’t open out that easily. I think she’s genuine. Besides, she won’t get near me. I’m totally into my work at present. Enjoying my hard-won celibacy and ain’t no Pommy broad gonna do me out of it!”

  Irihapeti grins. “I always know I can get a rise out of you, Cowrie. To be honest, this sheila sounds half-pie ok. For a Pom, that is! And a journo. I’d rather put my trust in a used-car salesman.”

  “Like that creepy oil-smeared Philippe at Hokianga Motors? The one who uses his French accent to chat up the ladies?”

  “You got it! Last week I saw him slide his hand over Mrs Hohepa’s bottom. She flew into a rage and lashed out at him, knocking over the oil can. He had to clean oil from the side of her car while she watched and the other patrons laughed. Serve the bugger right!”

  “Every time I see those ads for holidays in the South of France I visualise a hundred greasy little Philippes with octopus hands all over the place. The holiday from hell!”

  “You racist old tart. Not all Frogs are like that.”

  “Too right. Some of them creep up on us in inflatables in the dark of the night and attach bombs to the side of our boats.”

  “Yeah, then get a holiday on Hau Atoll for their sins and after the break, a hero’s welcome back home in France from that creepy little Chirac who engineered their escape.”

  “It’s hard to trust any of the bastards after that drama, eh? I try not to be prejudiced, but I still can’t buy French wine all these years later.”

  “I don’t reckon they’ll ever know how strongly we feel about them in the Pacific. They’re worse than the Brits in terms of holding onto the last vestiges of colonial power. They’ve got the Tahitians totally dependent on them, working for them and speaking their own language. It’ll be years before independence hits their shores. Hey, help me cart these bags of compost while you’re here, Cowrie. I didn’t expect the boys to pack up 40-pound bags. I can manage the others on my own but these’ll kill my back.”

  “Sure, Iri. So long as you stop teasing me about the Pom!”

  “Sappho at Island, indeed! I’m quite looking forward to meeting her, actually.”

  “Ah, so it was a bit of projection then, eh, Iri? A while since you’ve had a lover.” Now it’s Cowrie’s turn to tease her mate and she launches in relentlessly, enjoying the boot being on the other foot. After half an hour, all the bags of compost have been moved from the storehouse into the nursery and they break for a cuppa.

  From: koana@hilo.com

  To: turtle@hokianga.co.nz

  Aloha Turtle,

  Mahalo for your email. Great to catch up on the news. Have much to tell you. At Kanaka Maoli meeting last night Mauva from Tahiti Fa’a’a spoke. Some of the men working at the Moruroa test site
reckon the French are gearing up for more tests at Moruroa. They should know! Evidently, the official line is to neither confirm nor deny but they’ve dug new shafts and some say it could be a dozen or so underground tests. We’ve sent a letter to Chirac demanding to know the truth of the reports but it’s unlikely he’ll even respond. Have you heard anything down in Aotearoa? Keep it quiet as yet. We’re still deciding what action to take if they go ahead. Some say they simply wouldn’t be allowed to. World opinion has changed so much since their last tests. But then again, you know the French government! Who’d have thought they’d actually assign agents to blow up the Rainbow Warrior? It’s outrageous. Email if you know anything.

  I’ve finally given up my job at the post office. I’m working full time for Kanaka Maoli and we’re steaming ahead. I’m also helping Pele Aloha document the stories of three generations of Hawai’ians. We’re sailing over to Kauai next week to work for two weeks. So try to call me before I leave if you know anything. Otherwise, I’ll assume you don’t.

  Peni, Nele and Ela send aloha—also Paneke and Keo. They came down for dinner last night and we recalled that evening I taught you hula. Did we laugh! Mind you, I’m not so hot on waiata—so I guess I can’t talk! Paneke took Mauva and a small group of Tahitians through the Kiluaea crater. One of them nearly slipped into the steam vent near Halema’uma’u. Close call. Pele never lets us forget her presence!