“Just my point. It’s the differences that attract Sahara and Cowrie to each other. It’s for them to see which they can bridge and which they can’t. You cannot protect them from pain. It’ll happen anyway. But there’s clearly enough joy to make it worthwhile.”
“Maybe you’re right. Ok. Let’s drop it. What’s the latest on the long-range forecast? Reckon we’ll miss the tropical cyclones en route to Tahiti?”
“It’s closer to the typhoon season. There could be some trouble. But we have to risk it, Piripi says. At least we’ll get to shelter at Rarotonga on the way.”
“So you can check out the local talent, eh, Iri?”
“You’re incorrigible, Kuini. Go and see how progress on Manawa Toa is going and report back before dinner.”
“Aye aye, captin.” Kuini salutes her and saunters off to the harbour.
He pukai to Tu, he pukai to Rongo.
A heap of war, a heap of peace.
Most of the Hokianga region has turned up to farewell the Manawa Toa crew. Representatives from several Tai Tokerau iwi join together to bless the boat with karakia. Garlands and lei of bougainvillea, pukapuka and fern leaves crown their heads and the farewell waiata is sung by Maori and Pakeha alike. Intermarriage in the Hokianga has bred a fascinating mixture of people who, by and large, respect each other’s differences. Native hibiscus flowers decorate the Manawa Toa, which looks resplendent with her green, cream and maroon markings. A koru sits below her new prow carving, depicting a dolphin splashing from the water in freedom, the waves swirling at her tail like fiddlehead ferns unravelling in pride. Along an entire side of the deck and beyond her tail is the mighty carved waka which will be released into the water to symbolically encircle the test zone, reminding the world this atoll belongs to the South Pacific nations, who will not rape her by penetrating her body with gigantic drills nor fill her with explosives of a higher detonation than Hiroshima.
The occasion is both solemn and celebratory. Speeches in Maori and English reflect the determination to carry the struggle for independence in the Pacific and the indisputable link between colonisation and nuclear testing to the world’s media. Sahara tapes the proceedings so she can get Kuini to translate them for her and transmit their essence to the northern hemisphere. An independent telecommunications network has installed the latest technology onto the boat so that the news can be conveyed as it occurs.
Tradition prevailed in the debate over the waka crew. A full contingent of iwi men volunteered, and it was decided that the women’s roles as communicators of news and in overseeing the wellbeing of the crew were just as vital. Piripi whispered to Kuini, however, that if any of the men got ill, Kuini, Cowrie and Iri would have to take their places. Kuini, grinning, murmured to Cowrie that she might think about spiking the food one night with a semi-harmful seaweed, like desmarestia, which would cause a bit of vomiting and diarrhoea, but even Cowrie admitted she would not descend that low. Besides, as she suggested, the weed turns bilious green after reaping from the sea and would probably be unpalatable. And none of them knew if it flourished in the warmer Tahitian waters.
But today, all such debates have been put aside. The crew have vowed to remain united in their cause. As farewell waiata are sung and the boat begins pulling out from the Opononi pier, men line the beach and deliver a powerful haka—a challenge to the crew and world to bring peace back to the Pacific or be prepared for the consequences of the rape of the land. Smaller waka, kayaks, rafts and other craft follow the Manawa Toa to the Hokianga Heads. In a final gesture of defiance and support, they raise their paddles to the heavens. The last karakia echoes back on the wind.
Waves breaking over the Hokianga Heads bear testament to all the foreign sailing vessels which have dared to enter the port, swirling over ghostly graves of sunken material assets and alien skeletons. On board Manawa Toa, the kuia chant to invoke their ancestors for protection, to lay the sunken graves to rest. They clear the heads safely and begin steaming up the Tasman Sea toward the tempestuous waters where it meets with the mighty Pacific at the tip of Cape Reinga.
The inevitable seasickness is treated with native herbs administered by kuia. Sahara fares better than Cowrie or Kuini on this score, her body adapting to the motion well. “Must be the voyager in you, Sah. Maybe Captain Cook was a relly,” suggests Cowrie.
“I don’t think so. But I remember seeing his statue as a child. I thought he was a brave pioneer.”
“We learned the same at school, Sah. The same fellas wrote our history books back then. It’s not that he wasn’t a pioneer. It’s just that the books needed balancing so both sides of the story get out.”
Cowrie is wanted in the galley so she disappears, leaving Kuini to translate the morning’s speeches and karakia for Sahara’s first media message to go out on the BBC’s Alternative Radio. Halfway through their work, Kuini rushes portside to puke over the rail. Sahara joins her to make sure she is all right, wondering why she didn’t run for the closest side. Kuini replies, with a sickly grin, that she couldn’t defile the side of the boat the waka was on, and besides, this way the Aussies get the outfall. Sahara is about to note this on her pad when Kuini grabs it off her, threatening to chuck it in the sea. They laugh.
Life on board settles to a steady routine. As they round Cape Reinga, the old scow’s sails are raised for the journey into the Pacific. The area of turbulence where the Tasman and Pacific oceans meet fascinates Sahara. She never thought it would be so visible, so powerful. As if a vast battle was being fought between the oceans. The white crests of the competing waves smash into each other, creating oceanic eruptions. Overhead, clouds threaten rain and an atmosphere of brooding turbulence casts shadows on the surrounding waters, deepening the dark jade waves with charcoal strokes. Jagged rocks spike the coastline and a sturdy cream lighthouse issues out of the mist on the headland. On a small rocky outcrop, a lone windswept pohutukawa survives. Kuini explains that this is the sacred tree where the spirits from dead bodies rest before flying out over the Pacific to their final destination in Hawai’iki. The kuia chant blessings and karakia as they sail past the pohutukawa.
Sahara leans over the starboard rail to take in the misty atmosphere, imagining a spirit soaring from the tree at dawn, floating over their heads on the flight north. She clutches the piece of kauri gum Cowrie gave her before she left to ensure a safe journey. Suddenly, the boat is hit by turbulence as the opposing waves battle it out for dominance, throwing the crew into each other and the rails. The golden rock flies out of her hand to be captured by the surging seaspray and drawn into its watery grasp. She watches, distraught, while the treasured resin sinks beneath the jade waters. As the boat tips back into balance, a soaring sense of elation rips through her body. The pain that resides in her burned left arm, and which has always invaded her left side at times of struggle, disappears, as if freed by the wave.
Later that night, snuggled in their hammocks on the deck, she tries to communicate the feeling to Cowrie. Her friend smiles knowingly. She explains that the moment the wave hit the boat they were equidistant between the sacred pohutukawa and Kapo Wairua, Spirit’s Bay. That anything could happen in this spiritual realm. She’d heard wild stories from Tai Tokerau fishermen, including one where a huge fish tried to tow the boat out to sea. They had to cut the line to break free.
“But you gave me the kauri gum to ensure a safe journey—so does this mean I’m at risk now?”
“I don’t know, Sahara. We’re all at risk just attempting this voyage in the typhoon season, let alone what the French may do to us at the other end. But it’s a risk we’ve agreed to take. The alternative is living in a contaminated Pacific—and that’s too horrendous to contemplate not acting. Besides, it sounds as if the ocean claimed your place of pain. Maybe you need to learn to make that release, let go of it.”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about that all afternoon. The left side of the brain represents the logical side, doesn’t it? The training of my education, family and career path
. Maybe I need to follow my instinct more. Take risks?”
“Yeah, well you sure are by committing to this voyage, Sah. You’re symbolically diving into the belly of the wave, even if you haven’t worked up the courage to do it physically yet—so take it as a sign of courage. All the same, I’d take care to protect yourself on this journey. Be vigilant if we get caught up in action. You might be called on to test out your instinct in the midst of danger, so be prepared.”
“Thanks, Cowrie. I will. I don’t recall much about my mother, but I do remember her holding me as a baby and crooning into my ear. She told me in letters to the boarding school that I should always follow my heart instinct, never just do what others expect, or I’d end up being disappointed later. She was quite an activist in her time I think, in her own way. My father never forgot that side of her.” Sahara gazes into the clouds, as if expecting to see her mother floating past and winking at her in approval.
“You should listen to her and draw on that strength, Sah. You might need it. Hey, can you hand over my shirt? It’s on the mast hook just above your head.”
“Here it is.”
“Mahalo.” Cowrie dips into her breast pocket and takes out a tiny cowrie shell. She holds it in her palm and closes her eyes, chanting a blessing into the shell, then passes it to Sahara. “Here. She will protect you. Now don’t go throwing her over the deck!” She grins.
Sahara takes the shell, folding her fingers around its curved back. She opens her palm to reveal a beautiful creature with purple markings beneath the mottled brown spots of its shell. She rolls it over to notice a ridge of cream teeth where the shell folds in on herself, disappearing into its interior. “Thank you. I’ve never seen such a gorgeous shell. She has markings like a sea turtle. She reminds me of you.”
“She’s a cowrie shell and I was named after her by Apelahama, my grandfather.”
“Wow! Cowrie is also an ancient word for vulva. Now I can see where it came from. Just look at this exquisite opening, almost inviting us in.”
Cowrie cannot resist teasing Sahara. “You can enter her any time you wish. She holds mysterious power, secrets of the universe. It’s like entering the wave. You have to do it to know what magic can be revealed from her hidden interior.”
Sahara blushes, receiving her message on all levels intended. “Ah, but if I enter her, how will she remain a symbol of protection for me?”
Cowrie had not banked on having to answer for her suggestiveness. She plays for time. “She can hold you inside her folds of protective shell layers.”
“But how would I breathe?”
“Through the opening of the vulva. Like this.” Cowrie takes the shell and turns it on its side in Sahara’s palm. “See, she’s smiling.” Sure enough, there is a huge grin the length of the shell face.
Sahara giggles. “Ok. I believe you. But for now, I think I’ll just tuck her into my pillow and dream on her for protection. What will you have for safety now that you’ve given her to me?”
“Oh, she’ll still protect me. I don’t need her on my body. She’s safe inside my soul. She was ready to be released.”
“Thank you, Cowrie.” Sahara blows her a kiss from her hammock and Cowrie catches it mid-air and places it firmly on her cheek, sliding it sensuously down to her lips. “You are so bad!” Sahara whispers, grinning. It does not bother her that Cowrie is openly seductive since she feels it’s better out in the air than brewing beneath the surface. She’ll get over her crush soon.
Cowrie lies on her back in the wind on the top deck, wondering if Sahara will open out more about her mother at some stage. She folds her hands under her head and looks up into the stars. The Southern Cross seems closer out here on the ocean, a dazzling kite lit by explosions of light. Astronomers say stars are self-luminous bodies. But what makes them shine so brightly at night? She hopes these are the only explosions they’ll encounter, but deep within her belly, a pit of fear is opening, telling her that the battle ahead will be a tough one. She calms herself by letting the joy of this new friendship enter her and sends waves of aroha to the cowrie shell vibrating gently through the pillow under Sahara’s head.
Ko Tahu kia roria.
Let the tapu be removed from Tahu.*
She soars through the night sky, her wings longing to touch the ocean waves below. From a tuft of floating seaweed, the muffled crying of a baby takapu caught in a fisherman’s net. She dives down towards the waves, instinctively, knowing they could capture her in their wet clamp also, but following her motherly instinct. Nearing the mound, she sees a human child floating on a nest of human hair. It stops crying and smiles. Around the tuft of hair, in the shape of a topknot, are protective shells. She soars back on an updraft, knowing the child is protected, and continues her journey home to lay her eggs on the speckled windswept crag at Muriwai Beach, Aotearoa.
“You fellas hungry?” Kuini brings a pile of freshly caught kahawai, smoked over the barbecue, to rest in front of the scientists, activists and crew members. They rip into the thick cream and grey flesh with their hands, eager to taste kai moana again after a few days of abstinence enforced by the rough seas and nausea.
“Ka pai, Kuini. Mahalo.” Cowrie removes the backbone of the fish and exposes the lower layer to the eager devourers.
“Enjoy it while you can,” warns Piripi. “Last time I was on Maohi soil we could not eat from Maohi seas because most of the fish were contaminated.”
* * *
*This is the whakarori ceremony which removes harmful influences from food and destroys tapu.
* * *
“But that was the early days of nuclear testing, eh bro? Times have changed since then.”
“Not really. It’s still risky. Heaps of reports of diarrhoea and vomiting and all sorts of shit, man. Your poo looks like green curry and ya chuck up for weeks if ya get that sea poisoning cigaretty shit.”
“Ciguatera. That’s the name for marine food poisoning, and yes, it is very serious and very common in Tahiti since the testing began,” adds Henry, one of the Department of Conservation scientists. “It’s especially so in the bigger fish that make up much of the Maohi diet, and French Polynesia has over six times the Pacific average of this disease, which cannot be related to anything other than the testing there.”
“So how did the Frogs ever get so much power over these islands? I mean the Poms came and laid claim to Aotearoa and made us sign a treaty, then tricked us into believing they’d honour it. But how can you take over all those islands that make up Tahiti and retain control when they are so spread out and so diverse?” The Nga Puhi crew member screws up his face and sucks on a drag of wacky baccy,staring upwards, as if the heavens might answer him.
“Long story,” answers Piripi. “Short stick is that the French wanted the islands for use of their whaling, war and trading boats, so they forced Queen Pomare IV and a few important chiefs to sign their so-called protectorate treaty—similar shit to te Tiriti o Waitangi—established a government to take over, and by the time the Poms heard about it they were pipped at the post.”
“Bloody good lark. Could be the only decent thing the Frogs ever did—and that was to beat the Poms at their own game,” chuckles one the of crew.
“Yeah, but not so funny when you see the devastation that resulted from their colonisation.
“Similar tactics were used for taking over Hawai’i. This is no coincidence.” Cowrie rips a piece of flesh from the kahawai, wondering if it will make them bilious tonight.
“Same all over the Pacific,” replies Piripi. “All over the world. You can’t look at nuclear issues without looking at the history of colonisation here. They go hand in bloody hand. From nuking Moruroa to digging uranium from Aboriginal soils to ripping up Navajo and Hopi land for uranium at Big Mountain. It’s the same game, and in every case it is whites nuking blacks.”
“Now, now, old chap. That’s a bit rough isn’t it?” Albert, a pakeha from Southland radiology, lights his pipe and looks down the length of his consi
derable nose.
“Sure is, if you are on the receiving end,” mutters Kuini.
Piripi takes in a deep breath and continues. “France has now circled the earth with its military bases, second only to the USA in the range of military hotspots outside their own countries, of course. Tahiti is the heart of all this action, right in the middle of the map, allowing them the ability to nuke anything anywhere and test their weapons as far away from global outrage as they can manage.”
“He’s right there,” adds Albert, not wanting to alienate himself from the group. “I’ll never forget de Gaulle’s words announcing the nuclear testing site. He said, ‘In order to thank French Polynesia for its faithful attachment to France I have decided to set up the Centre d’Expérimentation du Pacifique there.’ Amazing language for a test site.”
“Well, Maohi protested en masse, and de Gaulle replied bombs would only be exploded when winds blew from the north across empty ocean between Polynesia and Antarctica. Imagine that! Empty oceans between the Tahitian islands and the Antarctic. Forget Aotearoa or Aboriginal land.” Piripi slams his hand on his thigh. “So testing began in ’66, three years after the Yanks, Poms and Russians had agreed to limit detonations, and the first test was devastating. Reports emerged from Maohi who saw it that the explosion sucked water from the lagoon and covered the islands with contaminated dead fish, seaweed, junk, you name it. Two months later, de Gaulle visited and could not wait for the wind to change, some party in Paris it was said. Anyway, he demanded the test be held. Scientists monitoring the tests in Niue, Cook Islands, Samoa, Tonga, Tuvalu and Fiji said their instruments recorded massive radioactive fallout. Between ’66 and ’74 another forty-four detonations destroyed the land and sea around Moruroa and Faungataufa atolls, and serious birth defects were appearing in Maohi babies, many born dead. They were sent to France for further tests and disappeared. Many Maohi still do not know where their babies are and mourn them daily. Gradually fallout spread as far south as Aotearoa, though it’s still denied by scientists dependent on French funding.”
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