There is silence among the crew, all of whom recall relatives who have lost their kids to pakeha medicine or science, who heard stories about their island relatives but never knew the full implications of French military control of the Pacific.
“Shit. We could’ve become French-speaking clones if we hadn’t’ve gone anti-nuke, eh bro?”
“Still could, Rewi,” replies Piripi thoughtfully. “All the more reason for our solidarity now, bro.” He touches Rewi’s shoulder, remembering his grief when his first son was born with a degenerative bone disease, knowing the strontium fallout could have caused it in Tahiti.
Manawa Toa continues her journey. Each day they share talkstory and gradually the extent of French domination and the realisation that they are a part of something much larger and more insidious than nuclear testing in the Pacific dawns on them. Piripi stresses that this resistance is not just for Maohi or indigenous people of the Pacific, but for all who have signed treaties in good faith and been used as military or economic targets in return. That it is a holocaust of a different name, but again enacted in silence and oppression, where even those who know about it dare not speak out.
Sahara, who has taken notes throughout, is in a state of shock after they disperse. She fears for their safety and for that of the crew, now knowing this is not just a friendly protest as most of the media paint it to be. Much more is at stake here. Cowrie calms her, telling of her dream the night before of flying like a giant takapu, thinking she must rescue her chick from the deathly contaminated seaweed bed, then realising, on flying closer, it is a human baby, that of Maui-Potiki, the last-born child of Taranga. She explains that after Taranga gave birth to Maui, she thought he was dead, so she snipped off her topknot, coiled it around the body and floated it out to sea. Because the hair was from a tapu or sacred part of her body, it possessed protective powers, would take care of her floating child forever, just as they would be protected if they believed in the sacredness of their resistance and remained heart warriors to their cause.
He nui maunga e kore e taea te whakaneke, he nui ngaru moana ma te ihu o te waka e wahi.
A great mountain cannot be moved, a giant wave can be broken by the prow of the canoe.
The passage across the southern Pacific Ocean is turbulent and squally. Most of the crew have been sick. Messages from other boats in the Aotearoan Peace Flotilla bound for the test zone reveal that two have been caught in the tail of a typhoon. They refuel at Rarotonga, where they are greeted by a large contingent of Cook Islanders who provide a welcoming feast. The next stage of the journey is in rough seas, with only a lone albatross to keep them company. They sing waiata and offer karakia to Tangaroa, God of the Oceans, to ease the way.
By the time they reach the Tahitian Islands, the crew look forward to setting their feet on land. The waka survived the journey with only a few dents and bumps in the heaviest seas. A mile from the Pape’ete harbour, the canoe is lowered into the sea with paddlers aboard so they can enter the harbour in traditional style. Irihapeti radios through to Oscar Temaru, leader of the Tavini Huraatira, and Maohi are lining the shores to welcome them.
Sahara gasps at the awesome beauty of the towering pinnacles rising violently from the ocean below. She videos the entry into the harbour as the mighty waka leads them and is greeted by Tahitian canoes, outriggers, and a resounding haka from the shore. The harbour is dotted with craft guiding them in. As the waka reaches the shore, Tahitians move down the beach and shower the paddlers with bougainvillea, hibiscus and frangipani lei. The colours of the flowers shine in the brilliant sun. Manawa Toa ties up to the wharf and its crew are festooned with garlands and waiata.
That night, the speeches of welcome before the feast outline the gravity of the situation. Former workers from Moruroa Atoll, who had to sign a secrecy agreement in accepting their jobs with the French government to work at the nuclear test zone, risk their freedom by explaining how the military base works and the history of thirty years of nuclear explosions in the Pacific. They hand over diagrams of the nuclear plant which show extensive underground drilling has eroded several old test sites, and photographs which clearly indicate massive cracks in the surface of the atoll, visible from the water. Cowrie and the others have heard most of this before, but Sahara is shocked. “Little of this has filtered into the European media,” she whispers, as the speeches continue.
“Who’s going to make an enemy of France in the new economic union?” Cowrie replies. “Even if they knew this stuff, no government would risk peace with their neighbours for the sake of an island in the Pacific. You wait, I bet England doesn’t denounce the tests. They’re too close, with too much to lose.”
Sahara is silent, listening to the next speakers who outline the colonial history. Over the years, the Maohi people have been exploited by France, England, Spain, the Netherlands, Chile, Peru and Russia. The one hundred and thirty islands of Tahiti, covering an area the size of Europe, have been subjected to colonial force and slavery, despite vigorous opposition. In 1797 the London Missionary Society sent a contingent of religious men to Tahiti but they were forced to move on to New South Wales. Then the French sent their missionaries. They wanted the islands to service their merchant, fighting and whaling boats. In 1842 they seized control, establishing a government. Then the Brits and French fought over the islands until 1843 when hundreds of French soldiers took Queen Pomare’s palace by force, ripping down the Tahitian flag and raising the tricolour, which has presided ever since. Despite powerful Maohi resistance, they used material bribes and religion to take over the islands. Decades later, they established nuclear testing zones in return for schools and hospitals. In 1957, the islands became “French Polynesia”.
Oscar Temaru, leader of Tavini Huraatira, continues the history. By 1962, de Gaulle proclaimed, without consultation, that the islands would be used as a nuclear testing site. Formerly, Fa’a’a had been a community of two thousand living off the rich resources of the land and sea. Suddenly they were invaded by the military. Then French civilians flooded in, lured by large wage packages and the prospect of living in Paradise. “The French tell us they are here to protect us. But we have no enemy! We are living in the Pacific! And that’s what we want: to live peacefully in the Pacific. The French are doing their nuclear tests here to protect themselves, not us!”
The Aotearoan crew respond with waiata and tales of resistance from home, then food is offered. After the feasting, korero stretches long into the night. With bellies full of spit-roasted pork and juicy mangoes, Kuini, Iri, Cowrie and Sahara follow the shore line of Fa’a’a, leaving the negotiations for Piripi and the tacticians in the group to resolve. The warm night wind caresses their bodies beneath their lavalava.
“It’s a matter of life and death, and everyone feasts as well as making speeches. This is so different from home.”
“Who knows, Sah. What about your Irish ancestors? Bet they feasted over the odd battle or two. Ate beef before battle and washed it down with honey mead or mulled wine.”
“Whisky probably! Here, the connection to the earth, the land, seems to fire the spirit. Most of us have lost our ancient links to the land in the UK. Massive deforestation has robbed the earth of its power and made it arid and inhospitable. Hard to celebrate that.”
“Yes—but imagine if Maohi believed the nuclear blasting had totally ruined their islands? They have more reason than most to be devastated, but they know the fight is still worth the effort. In your land, forests can be replanted, as is happening in Aotearoa where farmers raped the earth of its trees for their cattle.”
Sahara is quiet as they walk. In the distance, the lights of Tahiti Fa’a’a airport gleam out from the shore. They debate issues raised by the speakers and discuss the huge task ahead. It looks as if France is determined to go ahead with the testing, no matter what form of protest takes place.
From the far trees, a muffled drumming. The airport fires, lit to guide the planes in, rage into the night sky, forming a mist over the
land. As they draw closer, voices are heard above the usual drone of an airport. Suddenly, massive flames light up the sky and the crowd roars as the bonfire rages. Somewhere from behind, a police siren. They duck for cover under vegetation. “Shit! I think there’s a riot going on,” whispers Irihapeti.
“Good on them!” grunts Kuini. “Let’s get closer.”
“But if we get involved, we might be carted off to prison and then we’d be no use for the anti-nuke protest. You know how long the French have incarcerated Green-peace protesters before. Could be weeks or months of negotiations.”
“Yeah, or some sort of treason offence they’ll manufacture. They’re not likely to be lenient when the world’s media are sleeping in the hotels of Pape’ete.”
“Don’t see too many media out here now.”
“They probably don’t even know it’s happening. I mean, we thought the fires were to mark the tarmac.”
“Sahara’s here.”
“Yes. I vote we go on. I need to cover this, especially if the other media remain tucked up in hotel beds. Who’s with me?” asks Sahara.
They agree that Irihapeti should return to the boat to let Piripi know where they are, in case they get caught, and to make sure Manawa Toa does not leave without them. The others will go on. Sahara has a surprisingly fiery spirit for one so gentle. Maybe it’s her media training. She is not afraid to lead them on even though she is least familiar with the territory. Kuini and Cowrie wink at each other behind her. “Imagine a Brit leading us into the war zone against colonial oppression, sis. Here’s one for the books,” Kuini whispers. Out loud, she urges Sahara on. “Go for it, sister!”
Sahara creeps through the undergrowth in front of them until they reach the edge of the tarmac. By now fires are raging over the airport base and the terminal is blazing. Police cars have driven out to protect the planes, and fire engines are desperately trying to quell the blaze. Riot police are violent when they grab the Tahitians. Many are beaten to the ground and others are rounded up for the prison trucks. The protesters flee in all directions, but in the background a powerful drumbeat urges them on.
Sahara rushes out into the fray to get photos of the action as Maohi light fires in drums on the tarmac and the police struggle to capture them. Cowrie feels a tug at her heart and prepares to make a dash as a cop grabs Sahara’s arm. Kuini pulls her back harshly. “Have you lost your mind? Our job is to prevent nuclear testing. We have allegiance to the iwi. If we get involved here, we won’t help the Maohi cause, and we’ll let down our brothers and sisters.” Cowrie knows she’s right but she can’t bear to see Sahara hurt. There is a sickly crunch as police truncheons make contact with human flesh and screams are heard above the sound of the drums. Sahara is lost in the fray.
Crowds rush into the bush to disperse. Nearby, a group of three gendarmes bashes a young Tahitian boy until he is bruised all over. They leave him in a pool of blood. The protesters and police surge on. After they’ve moved closer to the terminal, Cowrie and Kuini drag the youth into the bushes and tend to his wounds. Turns out his name is Raoul and he was with his older brothers marching on Tahiti Fa’a’a airport. The organisers insisted it be the usual peaceful march but a few angry members said it was time to give up non-violent action and let the world know how badly they’d been treated. By the time they’d reached the airport, several other groups had joined the march, some armed with fire bombs. But it was only when a youth lit a fire inside a drum that the riot police swooped down on them. It was as if they were waiting in the wings for violence to erupt. Everyone got caught up in it then.
The boy looks about fourteen. His story emerges between gasps as they clean the blood with sea water and dress the wounds by tearing his lavalava into strips. Kuini asks where he lives as he’ll never make it home alone. He is scared to move lest the police attack him again and put him in prison. His older brother was in a protest two years ago and he’s still in police custody. He points in the direction of the hills behind Pape’ete.
“Hey, Cowrie. You got any cash? I reckon we’d get there faster by taxi and I know there’s a stand outside the airport. Most of the drivers are Maohi, so we’ll be safe.”
Cowrie shakes her head. They try lifting the youth, but he cries out in pain. Could be internal. Just as they get him in an upright position, one arm slung over each of their shoulders, there’s a rustle in the bushes. They freeze. A flashlight blinds their eyes. The boy struggles. Sahara bursts from the vegetation, her face and body covered in soot and a wound bleeding from her temple. Carefully, they lay Raoul down and attend to her, telling her never to leave the group again, or to at least tell them if she plans to take such a risk. Sahara apologises and explains she had to act on the spur of the moment. “Besides, I survived, camera intact.” She holds up the beast gleefully.
“Sahara, we need to get Raoul home safely. Can we use your money to get a taxi? Are you strong enough to come with us?”
“Yes.” Sahara adds, “I’m not so much hurt as exhausted.” She slowly gets to her feet and Kuini indicates where the taxi rank is. “If you can nab a taxi, we’ll bring Raoul.”
“Ok.” Sahara moves ahead and they follow.
Police and firemen are too busy trying to extinguish the fire in the terminal building to notice them. By the time they get to the taxi stand, Sahara is holding the car door open. The driver knows Raoul and takes them right to his home.
Te whare o te matata.
The home of the fernbird.
Raoul’s mother invites them into the corrugated iron and palm leaf hut hidden in a community of similar makeshift homes not far behind the affluent main street of Pape’ete. They lay him on a woven mat and she cleans the wounds and applies papaya leaves to the bruises. Kuini suggests taking him to the hospital but she indicates it’s not a good idea, that he’ll be fine after resting. She wants to know what happened and gestures them to stay while she dresses the wound on Sahara’s temple. They accept gratefully. They tell her what they know from Raoul and ask her about her family.
Her name is Toi and she explains Raoul is special because the three children before him all died, one from violent muscular contractions and one from leukemia. The third was malformed and died stillborn. Her husband, Jacques, died from cancer after working at Moruroa through the years of atmospheric nuclear tests. The hospital never confirmed the causes of death officially, although the nurses and doctors told her in each case. That was common practice. She’d been given a widow’s pension for two years; then the terms of contract with the workers changed, many thought because of the high incidence of cancer-related deaths. Injured workers were flown to hospitals in France. But many never came back. She manages to convey this information in a mix of French, Tahitian and English. Between them, they translate enough to understand.
Sahara asks Toi more questions in French, only some of which the others understand. Sadly, this is now her adopted language. Turns out her sister lived on Tureia Island, less than a hundred kilometres from Moruroa. The entire population, except for one man who refused, was removed to conduct tests there in ’68. When they were returned, they were told not to eat fish or drink the water or grow crops on the land. It was contaminated. But how could they survive otherwise? Then there was her cousin who lived on Moruroa before testing began. The lagoon was a favourite fishing place. But only a couple of years after the blasts began in ’66, the seafood was poisonous. People vomited and began to suffer all sorts of ailments. Now they live on canned food brought to the atoll.
It is now very late and they thank Toi and say they will check on Raoul before they leave. “Better you not come. They will ask questions. Too many questions.” There is a look of pleading in her eyes. They agree to part here, and wish her well, saying they will do all they can to help stop the testing.
It is a short walk back to Manawa Toa and they make it in silence, not wanting to attract attention. It’s nearly dawn and evidence of rioting in the township alerts them to the volatility of the situation. Broken
shop windows are patched up with wood, and burned-out garbage cans litter the street. Signs telling the French to go back home and stop testing are pasted over shop facades, and a ripped banner of Chirac holding a malformed child with the words “Meutre!” beneath hangs between two power poles. As they reach the boat, a violent red sunrise appears on the horizon, deepened by smoke still hanging in the air. Like blood bursting from the water, spreading a cancer over the ocean. Their hearts are heavy and their bodies exhausted. After Sahara faxes in her report, they creep into their beds and sleep until they are woken by Irihapeti, who is relieved to see them safe.
A few hours later, with fresh supplies, Maohi paddlers and a French anti-nuclear scientist aboard, they slip anchor to sail to Moruroa. Only a handful of Tahitians are there to see them go. The mood is sombre and the sense of their mission is tense. Many witnessed the violent action of the riot police on the streets the night before and wonder how much further the French authorities will go to protect their most valuable asset at Moruroa. It is their entire defence system at stake. Suddenly, the issues become more complex, the danger more intense.
Cowrie wakes too late to cook breakfast but she is not let off the lunch shift. Preparing kai down in the galley, she asks the scientist, Marie-Louise, if the food is safe.
“Oui. Much of it is vacuum-packed and sent from France, which is why it’s so expensive. Fresh fish is usually from islands at least a hundred kilometres from Moruroa. Most of the French eat imported food, so they’re relatively safe. But Maohi have to rely on their local fresh supplies because they can’t afford or don’t want to eat the imported goods.”
“How did you get involved in activism? I mean, as a French scientist, you’d be paid well to work for the military, I gather?”
Manawa Toa Page 8