But I deviate from the reason for this email. I have changed plans so I can come to the South Pacific for a longer period and cover the protest movement from as many angles as possible. I am committed to this. But I will need your help when I arrive in making contacts that can provide an indigenous perspective and maybe in sailing on a protest boat to Moruroa. Greenpeace need independent media since they will surely sail into the exclusion zone and be boarded, even taken captive. It has happened there before.
I realise I am asking a great deal from you. Thank you for your trust in me so far and your long letter explaining the background to the tests in the Pacific. I really appreciate this. And you can tell Irihapeti, no, I am not just coming for a South Pacific holiday! At first I was hurt by the suggestion, but I can see where she’s coming from. I can think of far easier ways to holiday than by stretching myself to understand these issues better, by risking the journey to the edge of the test zone! I’m forwarding some previous work to put your own and Irihapeti’s mind at rest. They begin with the Greenham protests and cover the miners’ strike and a range of other issues. Let me know what you think.
Thanks for everything—Sahara.
p.s. Last night I dreamed I was sailing in warm waters. It was idyllic. Then there was an explosion. Hundreds of dead fish emerged from the depths, floating around us. The smell was horrendous. I woke with a nasty taste in my mouth. I know this has happened before. It must never happen again.
pps. I also dreamed of cooking fish on the beach with you. They were sweet and delicious. That was the night before. We must keep this hope alive too. Your letter really got me thinking. You have set dark barges adrift within me. Thank you for taking me from the safe cocoon of my thoughts into your underwater world.
Warm wishes—and pleasant dreams!—Sahara.
Aroha mai, aroha atu.
Love toward us, love going out from us.
“Warm thoughts and pleasant dreams, eh? Sounds like she’s ready to snuggle up with you already, Cowrie. Very cosy,” adds Irihapeti, trying to get a rise out of her friend.
“Come on, we don’t even know if she’s a dyke, and in any case she sounds like she’s genuinely interested in the cause and she’s done her homework.” Kuini knows what Irihapeti is after and short-circuits the response.
“Of course she is. Sappho at Island, indeed,” replies Irihapeti smiling.
“I don’t care how gorgeous she is. I’m focused on stopping these tests. Besides, I’m not really over Peta yet. She still smoulders away in my soul. Iri, you’re incorrigible.”
“Yeah, but I know you like the sound of this Sahara. I saw the light in your eyes when you read the bit about her dream.”
“Yeah, real romantic sailing amongst stinking fish that have been nuked by the French,” adds Kuini.
“Na, I was referring to the second one—cooking up fish on the beach with Cowrie. She’s probably really cute, spiky mop, and dying to get into a kayak, let alone share succulent kina with our Cowrie! I can just see them now roasting kina and kumara on the dunes, the orange glow of the sun setting on the far horizon, a strange light in the distance. They imagine a dark barge turning into a shooting star, then suddenly, there it is, Moruroa erupting out of the water, flashing up into a vibrant sky!”
“Iri, that’s tasteless even for you,” admonishes Kuini. But they laugh.
“Ok, lay off! This visit is strictly business. Yes—I do admit this woman interests me. She’s intelligent, vibrant, political, has the guts to question the colonial system when she could just sit back and rake in its benefits, and I’m interested in anyone who could write ‘you have set dark barges adrift in me.’ There’s more to her than meets the eye. But I have no desire to get involved beyond our work. I’m overcommitted as it is.”
“Famous last words! Bet you’d love to be one of those dark barges floating around in her sensuous seas. I see a moonlit trip down the English canals toward Stratford-upon-Avon, Cowrie at the helm. I hear Vivaldi in the background—no, Elgar. Has to be a Pom. Sailing toward the roots of civilisation, Shakespeare, nay, maybe even the bed of Ann Hathaway. More likely on reflection …” A spray of sand covers Iri’s face before she can finish and gets between her teeth, causing her to throw more sand back at Cowrie.
Kuini intervenes before her seedbed is splattered across the Tainui. “Whakamutu! That sand holds my new seeds. Settle down, sisters!”
Irihapeti agrees not to bait Cowrie. “Sorry, mate. It’s just that you usually get interested in women when you’re overseas on your studies and this is the first time I’ve seen your eyes light up like that.”
“Yeah—but what you should remember is her beadies light up at the prospect of political action too, Iri. Come on, you fellas, let’s get back to the topic of how we can best make use of the Pom while she’s here. She’ll be vital to get our voices into the UK and she is familiar with the issues already. That’s one hell of a start when you’re dealing with those northern hemisphere broads.” They laugh at her reclamation of familiar terms.
The rest of the afternoon is spent pooling resources and networks to make sure the journalist speaks to a range of people over her time in Aotearoa and seeing how she can fit into their own protest plans. They discuss the wider issues and delegate work for contacting media and checking to see if the local women’s branch of Greenpeace will be sending a delegate on board the Peace Flotilla to protest at Moruroa. Afterwards, they fry wheke over the fire, drooling as the tentacles crisp up in the heat, drawing in the orange and mango juices, preparing themselves for the sampling.
He harore rangi tahi.
A mushroom of a single day.
Two weeks later Cowrie is standing at Arrivals in the Jean Batten wing of the international air terminal, named after a famous local aviatrix who Iri also thought was a dyke. The British Airways flight disgorges pale bodies of people who appear too tired to care. In their eyes, a world-weariness born of inner city grind. So much for the romance of the airline ads. Nice steward though. Very camp. His boyfriend greets him, whisks him away before she can get closer look. A sweet couple emerge, holding photos of their grandchildren. They are immediately enveloped in kisses from the waiting families. Now there’s a spunky woman. Wonder if that’s her? She looks into her eyes as the woman spies her lover in the distance, and runs to greet her. More people spill through customs. Cowrie’s brow creases. God, hope she didn’t bring in any dak. I should have warned her about how strict New Zealand customs are. Then again, she wouldn’t be that naive being a journo, surely? Her eyes trail over the last straggling arrivals when an energetic spiky-haired dyke blasts through the doors, looking about for her host. Sharp green eyes. She feels a jolt within. “Sahara?” she asks.
“Yes. Hi! You must be Cowrie,” she ventures, a pleasant lisp in her speech. Very cute. Cowrie braces herself. She knows, beyond all doubt, she could never fall for a Pom, no matter how bright she is.
“Kia ora. Welcome to Aotearoa.” Cowrie hangs a lei around her neck, a garland of dried pohutukawa interwoven with nikau palm leaves.
Sahara looks pleased. “Wow! Did you make this?”
Cowrie blushes. “No big deal. Hey—let’s get out of here. I hate airports.”
“Yes, I’m bushed. I had a long train ride to Heathrow then a three-hour delay. When I finally got on board, I was next to an overbearing businessman who tried to sell me little painted statues of the Virgin Mary. He imports them from China and sells them to the South Africans. Does a roaring trade evidently. Thought I’d be perfect to join him out there.”
“Oh, Pele preserve me. What did you say to him?”
“Another time, maybe.”
Cowrie is surprised. No dyke in Aotearoa would be that polite. Trust the Poms. I guess it’s in their genes. “Very noble of you. I’d have dropped my hot dinner in his crotch and warned him that was just the first course.”
“Really? I must admit, I didn’t think of doing that.” Sahara laughs nervously, wondering if she’d really do this or
she’d just fantasise doing it.
By now they have walked over to the rows of vehicles. Cowrie points to the van at the end with “Te Aroha, Te Kotuku, Hokianga” written on it. “That’s our wagon, Sahara, so hitch up your camels and we’ll be off. How did you get that name, by the way?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you once we’re on the way. Is it far to the Hokianga?”
Cowrie visualises the long, winding road through the Waipoua Forest and chuckles. “Not far in a straight line, but since I always take the bent route, it could be a few hours. Mind you—it’s a stunning journey. And we’ll need to visit Tane Mahuta to pay our respects before you enter the harbour.”
“Really? Couldn’t we visit her tomorrow? I must admit, I’m really beat.”
Cowrie laughs. “Tane Mahuta is a he—God of the kauri forest, actually—and he’s right on our route. You’ll be ready for a welcome break by then and we shouldn’t pass without paying our respects.”
“Oh, I see. That’s fine then. Sorry.”
“It’s ok. How were you to know?”
“What time is it here? I should adjust my watch.”
“Only nine-thirty in the morning. We’ve missed the rush-hour traffic, such as it is in Auckland. The locals complain but it’s nothing next to two hours on the San Francisco Bay Bridge getting home from work. Now, you gonna tell me how you got that name?”
Sahara settles into her seat and explains how her mother had returned from visiting her father who at that time worked as foreman for the quarry in a township near the Sahara Desert. She named the child Sahara, hoping the birth would bring the romance back into the relationship with Sahara’s father. It did, for a time. Then her mother got fed up and left. “So I was named after the mighty dunes she loved so much. My strongest memory is her talking to me about those dunes. They were like huge mountains of hope for her.” Sahara is silent for a while. Cowrie drives on, amazed at the spirited language of this woman, her recourse to poetry in her speech, even jet-lagged. Like the dark barges of her letter. Beyond the usual journalistic jargon.
Sahara nods off as they pass through the kumara country of Ruawai and the ochre waters of the river running beside them. Before long, they are parked at the pathway to pay homage to Tane Mahuta. Sahara wakes, missing the purring of the motor. “Wow! This looks like virgin rainforest. Last time I was awake we were passing rolling hills that reminded me of England. Parwich, near my dad’s home. But this is incredible.”
“Wanna see the real thing?”
“You bet. Time for a wee walk. Is it far?”
“No—but you might wanna bring your camera.”
“It’s buried deep in my pack. Besides, I’d rather remember it in spirit,” she replies. Cowrie likes her attitude. She’s warming to this Brit by the minute.
They walk along a narrow dirt path, surrounded by native trees which she names for Sahara. They round a bend and suddenly, towering above them, is the gigantic girth of the God of the kauri forest. Sahara gasps. “I have never seen anything like this. His branches are so high up you can hardly see them. He must be as wide as ten cars. More?”
Cowrie nods, as they move toward the huge trunk. Sahara’s eyes widen to take in the massive sight. She bends forward, then suddenly falls onto the wooden platform which protects the tree roots. Cowrie takes her head in her lap, pours water from her hip flask down her cheeks. Sahara does not move. Too jet-lagged. But she is still breathing. After a while, she murmurs, surfacing from the heat, the shock. She looks up. Cowrie notices her jade green eyes are open, vulnerable, beautiful.
Te taepaepatanga o te rangi.
The place where the sky hangs down to the horizon.
“So Tane Mahuta really wowed you, eh Sahara?” Kuini chuckles as she passes kai from the hangi to a rather dazzled Sahara, talk of the marae since her dramatic arrival was broadcast through the community.
“I’d like to think it was jet-lag and heat but I must admit, that Tree God is spectacular to say the least.” Sahara smiles. The last thing she remembered was a silver starfish in the corner of Cowrie’s eye as she drifted out of the forest and into another world. She felt she was swimming, drowning, then she was lifted up, as if onto the back of a dolphin or turtle, and brought in safely to land. She woke up thinking she was in heaven, the sun streaming through the nikau walls of the hut. Cowrie was there at her bedside, pouring mango juice onto her parched tongue from a half coconut shell. Once she drained the liquid, a woman in the shape of a turtle emerged from the interior husk of the shell. Then she fell back into a deep sleep.
“I have to admit, I teased Cowrie about you coming, but I didn’t expect quite such a dramatic entrance, especially for a Brit!” admits Irihapeti. Cowrie glares at her.
Sahara notices. “It’s ok. I’m used to it. I feel the same about England. But we’ll oust the Tories at the next election. I’m determined to look forward with hope.”
“She’s got it sussed,” whispers Kuini. “Just the woman for us!” She swigs the last of the feijoa wine and burps gloriously.
Sahara can more than hold her own with the wild women of Te Kotuku. At first, Cowrie feels protective towards her, but soon realises she is quite capable of looking after herself. Her time at Greenham Common would have prepared her. That community had its own kind of tribal bonding.
After kai, Kuini, Iri, Cowrie and Sahara walk over the dunes to the beach, light a fire and discuss plans for the protest movement. Mattiu has offered his fishing trawler as one of the craft to be witness at the twelve-mile exclusion zone outside Moruroa Atoll and Piripi says some Cook Island rellies are planning to sail a canoe from their shores in protest. He’s keen on paddling a waka over, but knows the journey could be hazardous with the mid-season weather patterns. Meanwhile, Oscar Temaru and others from Tavini Haraatira, the Tahitian Independence Movement, have requested support for marches they plan over the course of the tests, for as long as it takes to retain world-wide media attention on their cause.
“So, where do you see your skills helping most, Sahara?” asks Kuini.
“I’ll be guided by you all in this, but I’d like to report back the issues to Europe and Britain. They only see it as a protest over nuclear testing. The question of French colonisation of Tahiti is not widely known.”
“So, we need to get Sahara over to Tahiti, as well as covering the story from here. That means on one of the boats or by flying into Fa’a’a and joining the resistance movement from the land,” Cowrie offers.
Over the next three hours, they map out a number of possible plans to bring to the meeting in two days time. The fire burns down to bright embers which just keep them warm enough. Irihapeti and Kuini return to the marae, leaving Cowrie and Sahara to walk the beach by the light of the sickle moon. Cowrie splashes her feet in the water, revealing magic shards of silver that spring up from the mercury reflected in the moonlight. Sahara is entranced. Floating in a shallow rock pool is a feather starfish, its fairy tentacles lit up by the spray of light reflected in the pond. “She’s dancing in the moonwater. Look at her, so live and free. I long to be like that.” A tear emerges from the corner of Sahara’s eye. Cowrie is moved by the open tenderness of this new creature who has entered her life, so unexpectedly, so sensitively. She squeezes her hand softly.
They return to the nikau hut refreshed, elated, ready for the challenges ahead. Cowrie drifts off to sleep on the mat next to Sahara, wondering if she has a girlfriend in Britain who is missing her now, but not wanting to ask, to destroy her warm dreams. Not tonight, anyway.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Aloha Cowrie—
I have just returned from visiting Koana and working with Kanaka Maoli movement to find that, despite all their promises, the government is about to blast apart our atoll again. It is bad enough having their presence and language possessing our lands, but they can take their bloody bombs back home. I’m so furious. They rape our land. You know they dig shafts into her, pene
trate her body, then shaft her apart, exploding her, all the time telling us, as if we are stupid children who cannot understand, that it does no harm. Worst of all, I still speak their fucking language. Grew up with it at school. It’s like they invade me from the inside. Tu comprends?
Koana urged me to email you. We need to get indigenous Pacific women here for the marches we plan in protest. We hope to stop the the tests proceeding. Can you help us? Please forward the email following to every group you can. We welcome all people who can support our cause, but especially Pacific women.
Koana also said that you’d made contact with a British journalist who could get our voices into Europe. Can you send us her email? We need to cast our net as wide as we can to draw in all the support needed to stop this insanity. We fear for the future we are raising our children into. I saw babies from Rongelap with deformed limbs, eyeless sockets, some hardly recognisable as human. Once you see that, you never forget it.
They say the tests are safe but all we need is one mistake. We know they’ve cracked the atoll before and we have photos to prove it. Please help us. Spread our message as far as you can.
Koana sends aloha and tells us you are a wonderful swimmer. Like a turtle, she said. Slow on land but swift in the water. We could use you over here right now! Please email and let me know you got this. Aloha from us all,
Mauva Temaru.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Kia ora Mauva,
Mahalo for your email. Ae, we’re furious too! I’m attaching a file here to inform you of our planned action. Same decoding as before. Here at Te Kotuku we want to send a local fishing trawler with a waka aboard to protest. How long do you think we have? Is the date of the first test known yet?
I’m also forwarding information from Sahara Green—the British journo. She’s currently with us on the marae. You can email her as above.
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