Manawa Toa

by Dunsford, Cathie

  “Vrai. I immigrated for the chance to escape to what the French government call ‘Paradise’. Instead, I found a captive nation of Tahitians who’d been made dependent on us for their health and education. It’s really bribery for ruining their islands with nuclear testing. Once the tests are finished, c’est vrai, they’ll offer further bribes as compensation for a few years and then exit, leaving their nuclear waste plugged up behind shafts of concrete. The Americans did this in the Marshall Islands and the French will do it here.”

  Cowrie slices tomatoes and peppers for the salad, wondering where they come from. “So what made you stay and fight for change?”

  Marie-Louise rests her arm on the table and sighs. “I fell in love with a Tahitian, Rua, and through him I got involved in the independence movement. At the time, I was still working on site at Moruroa and he was digging the shafts for underground testing. It was March ’81 when we met. A hurricane blew radioactive waste which had been dumped on the west side of the atoll into the sea. We knew that hidden in the waste was plutonium from an accident in ’79 that killed two of our technicians. There was major panic. The French government insisted that we hide all evidence of the damage and stay silent or we’d lose our jobs. That was the end of it for me. Rua’s life was in danger. He was extracted from the shaft in the middle of the hurricane and very nearly didn’t make it. I helped nurse him back to health. After that, we both decided to get jobs in Pape’ete and live with his family there.”

  “Did that work out?”

  “Rua died three years later. Leukemia they said. Two of his brothers had died of cancer. Both worked at Moruroa. By then we’d become involved in the Maohi liberation movement and we provided them with plans of the test sites and all the knowledge we’d accumulated. After Rua’s death, I was determined to keep fighting to end nuclear tests.”

  “Are you willing to release your information and experiences to the international media? We have a British reporter on the boat who’d be very interested in your stories.”

  “Only if I can trust him not to release my name. The French authorities have ways of dealing with those of us who’ve worked inside and then shared information. Some have simply disappeared.”

  “I am absolutely sure you can trust her, but let’s meet tomorrow, after you’ve had time to think about it, and see what you think of her.”

  “I’d be happy to do so. For Rua and for all the others.”

  “Have you ever suffered any side effects from working at Moruroa?”

  “I have constant headaches and muscle cramps. My white blood cell level is higher than normal, but not in the danger zone. I’ve learned to live with it, like so many of us.”

  “All the more reason it must be exposed. How come the whole world has not heard these stories?”

  “Many people fear the power of the French. We—no, they—are now in thick with Germany and together they rule Europe. England wouldn’t dare question their nuclear power. They are an ally. With this facade of a united Europe, none of the smaller countries would dare either.”

  “Maybe they would if they knew what was really happening down here in the Pacific?”

  “Peut-être.”

  Piripi blows the conch shell to announce lunch and Marie-Louise offers to help serve. The food is laid out on tables folded down from the walls. An appetising and delicious feast. But Cowrie does not feel like eating today. She excuses herself after the karakia and climbs on deck for fresh air. Or is it fresh? Now she wonders about everything surrounding them. They are heading for an atoll which the French declare is entirely safe. International scientists also declare it safe. But what about the stories of the people who live there, who rely upon the earth and sea to provide their food, who cannot afford and do not want to buy imported products?

  Suddenly, she feels sick and rushes to the rail to vomit over the edge. Her bile is caught by seaweed floating on the surface, a dead fish enclosed in its watery grip.

  He iti, he iti kahikatoa.

  Though small, it is still a manuka tree.

  Piripi discovers they got caught in the riot and reprimands them for their carelessness. Lucky he does not know about Sahara’s exploits. They agree they have learned from the situation and that it’s vital to work together as a group, especially now they are entering dangerous territory.

  Sahara has spent most of the afternoon talking with Marie-Louise. She joins Cowrie on deck after dinner. “Delicious kai, thanks. I notice you haven’t been eating much lately. You still upset about Raoul?”

  “Yeah—and his mother—and all the stories I’ve heard from Marie-Louise since. Not sure if I want to eat any of this food.”

  “At least you have a choice, Cowrie. Most of the Tahitians don’t.”

  “You’re right, Sahara. I need to get a handle on this grief or it will immobilise me. I guess the knowledge has been floating around my brain, but it’s in my body now. It hurts.”

  “Remember that lecture you gave me about my British colonial guilt shortly after I arrived in Aotearoa? You said it didn’t help to get caught in fear and shame. You had to work it through and translate it into action.”

  “Yeah, reckon I did, eh?” Cowrie smiles weakly.

  “Well, here’s some action. I want you to check my article about Marie-Louise. I’ve just drafted it and anything can be changed. She’s so brave to share this information. It’s vital we get it out. Once you’ve ok’d it and she’s checked the facts, Irihapeti will transmit it.”

  Cowrie takes the pages from her hands, pleased to be given a set task other than cooking food she suspects could have traces of contamination. They carefully sift through the material. Cowrie learns more. There is enough waste on Moruroa to fill 245,000 concrete containers, each holding 200 litres. Engineers from the Atomic Energy Commission wrote reports indicating that the atoll sank 1.5 metres between 1975 and 1981. The largest crack in the surface of the atoll is over 30 centimetres wide and 800 metres long, and radiation leakage has been detected ever since testing began but, according to government sources, is still under the allowable levels.

  “Allowable levels? What does that mean? Some level made by scientists or measured by its effects on the local population? Sah, I think you should question it here. Go back to Marie-Louise and check that part.”

  “I agree. Thanks Cowrie.”

  Together, they examine the information for another hour and come up with a raft of questions for their guest. “Lucky she’s here or we’d be really stuck.”

  “Yeah, I love it that she’s French too. It’s strongly subversive. Appeals to my sense of justice.”

  “I know. Hey Cowrie, I’ve been meaning to thank you for giving me this beautiful shell.” Sahara presses the shape in her breast pocket. “I reckon that saved me from major harm in the riot. At one stage, a cop gripped my camera in one hand and raised his baton in the other. I imagined crushing him in my grip, the razor teeth of the shell cutting into him, and I knocked the baton out of his hand. He was so shocked he stepped back in disbelief. The leather strap that held it to his hand was ripped in two with a jagged edge. It lay on the ground between us. Then I ran with the crowd. It was only later I remembered all the details. I was in still in a dazed state when I made my way back to where I’d left you and Kuini.”

  “You certainly shocked us with that camera flash. I was furious at the time.”

  “Sorry. It’s the trained reporter in me. Knew I’d never get a shot like that again.”

  “Still got the film?”

  “No. I gave it to Piripi to courier back to the UK when he went ashore for supplies. I may never see it again. I just trust my colleagues will know what to do with it. I inserted a note signing away syndicated media rights. I think I got some powerful shots of the police violence and terror in the eyes of the Tahitians.”

  “D’ya ever worry that you’re exploiting a situation?”

  “All the time. But the media, like it or not, play an important role in getting the information out. I did
n’t see any other reporters at Fa’a’a. No doubt by the time the riot reached the streets of Pape’ete they’d’ve woken up and documented it, but the airport riot was vital.”

  “Why should it be different from the street rioting?”

  “Don’t you see, Cowrie? It was an attempt to close the main system of transport, stop further journalists from entering Tahiti. Most members of the Maohi Independence Movement were with us feasting that night and from all accounts they’ve always resisted peacefully. Don’t you think it’s a possibility that the riot was incited by the authorities? How come so many were there at Tahiti Fa’a’a already decked out in their riot gear?”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Hey, settle down, Cowrie. I just want to get to the truth. Remember you told me Raoul said it was as if the gendarmes were waiting in the wings? It could’ve been staged. Maybe the idea was either to stop media attention or to grab media reaction to the violence. They like depicting the ‘natives’ as warriors, fighters, primitives who need civilising. These pictures could reinforce that or depict police violence, depending on their context. That’s why I wanted the stories from Raoul’s mother and Marie-Louise as well, to show the wider issues.”

  “D’ya really reckon the riots could have been incited by the authorities?”

  “We’ll probably never know. But it is possible.”

  Memories of burning drums and police batons flash through Cowrie’s brain. It was like theatre, in the night, when the reporters were asleep so they did not see the action but would report the devastation the next day. In some ways, it made sense. Since many countries had condemned the resumption of tests, it was up to the French to get them back on side. One way would be to alienate people against the Tahitians. But surely it’d backfire in their faces? Too risky a stunt? Maybe they’ve underestimated what they’re up against this time.

  Sahara’s hand brushes her cheek. “Don’t worry Cowrie. We’ll make sure the real stories get out there.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Cowrie manages a smile. “Hey, I was worried about you in the riot, Sah. Kuini had to hold me back from joining you.”

  “She told me. She said you were like a bellowing elephant ready to rush out into the desert!” They laugh.

  “You know when you said you felt the cowrie shell give you strength?”

  “Yes.”

  “When that cop grabbed you, I flashed onto the shell in my mind.”

  “I’m not surprised. I felt like I had strength I never knew about before. Now I believe that shells have a life of their own too.”

  “They do, Sah. Remember I told you about Hi’ilawe, born to Kakea and Kaholo, children of the cliffs, that night in the hut at Te Kotuku?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, I didn’t finish the tale. She was abandoned by her mother, wrapped in moss and flung over a cliff. Hinauluohia finds the bundle containing the child and she sees it is of chiefly birth and since Pokahi, First Night, has been longing for a child, she brings her this beautiful girl Lau-ka-ieie. Pokahi and Kaukini raise her secretly with birds and flowers and singing shells as her playmates. When she grows up she dreams of marrying Kawelona, the Sunset, so her brother chooses Pupukanioi, Singing Shell, to be his shell carrier for the journey to make his sister’s dreams come true. Many kupua join the marriage party as they travel—Kawelona in his cloud boat, Makani-kau in his shell boat and others. These kupua have leaf, flower, plant, bird, shell, cloud, wind, fish, shark, sea moss, stone or cliff bodies. The feast is celebrated at Waipio near the heiau Kahukuwelowelo. Hina takes the body of a lehua, or pohutukawa tree, and after her death, the child who sang and talked to shells, loved and played with them, became the ieie vine which now wreathes the body of the forest goddess.”

  There are tears in Sahara’s eyes. She curls her arm around Cowrie and leans her head on her shoulder.

  “Well, you warned me not to get so caught up in pain and anger I couldn’t act, Sah. It’s important to remind ourselves of why we must fight so hard to protect our natural environment. Finally, it’s all we have left. After the age of materialism is over, that’s what we’ll return to. Besides, I believe in these stories. I was abandoned as a child, but left with symbols that took me back to my home, my ancestry. I could’ve ignored them. Mere found me and raised me to treat the ocean and sea shells and trees and birds as friends. She breathed life back into me and sent me out on the ocean to discover the islands I came from.”

  “And now you breathe life into me.” Sahara takes the cowrie shell from her pocket and holds it up to the moon. “I name you Singing Shell, and through you, Cowrie and I will always be connected in soul.”

  Cowrie smiles. “Ae, Sah. But you’ll have to sing waiata to her now.”

  Sahara grimaces, thinks a moment, then sings a haunting melody telling the tale of a girl who is drowned by her jealous sister and returned as a swan, then is transformed into a harp which sings of the beauty of the countryside. Cowrie is entranced. “Where does that exquisite song come from?” she asks.

  “It was written by Loreena McKennitt in Annaghmakerrig. She draws on her Irish ancestry in this song. One sister drowned the other for the sake of a man. They lost their soul sister bond. We must be sure to keep ours, Cowrie.”

  “Yes, sweet Sah, yes.” Cowrie cries, letting out the grief of the past few days of tension, knowing she has found a friend, who, like Peta and Koana, understands her connection to the natural world, the spirit world. A fellow traveller who is willing to work for change, another Heart Warrior.

  He toke koe?

  Are you a worm?

  It is a beautiful calm night. She is floating. Waves lap gently and a feather starfish illuminated by the moon dances, splaying its fairy tentacles, touching her shell as it passes. The starfish skims the surface then dips into the belly of the wave, landing on her back. Mysterious singing sends shivers up her turtle shell, down to her fins. She moves gracefully through the water to the motion of the sounds.

  Thwack! “Fou!” Thwack. Voices below. Cowrie wakes with a start. Thwack, more voices, yelling in a foreign language. She swings out of the hammock and rushes to the rail. “Fuck! It’s the French! They’re trying to board the boat. Piripi! Kuini! Sah—wake them.” Sahara pulls on her shorts, grabs her shirt and jumps down the hatch. Mattiu yells something from the wheel. She can’t hear. Then a loud-speaker blasts them in French-accented English.

  “Theez iz a varning from zee French navy. You must stay out of zee twelve-mile leemeet. Ve have a leeist of conditions. Pleeze let us aboard to deliver zem.”

  By now Piripi is glaring over the port side. “Kia ora! Please do not board our boat. We will lower a bucket. Put your parcel inside and we will read it. Thank you.” He grabs the nearest bucket, still wet with salt water from the last of the crew to vomit inside, and lowers it on the abseiling rope attached to the side of the boat. One of the naval officers, dressed in a wetsuit, tries to stand up in the inflatable to reach the rope and a wave jolts him off balance. His nose goes straight into the sick bucket. Chuckles from the deck. On the next attempt, he grabs the bucket, throws in the rolled-up papers, and tugs it to be raised. “Remember, you have been varned. If you try to enter zee test zone, you vill be in French waters and we vill have to confiscate your boat.”

  “Yeah, we understand. Thanks.” Piripi, always the gentleman, wishes them a safe journey, then turns to the waiting crew. “Ok, everyone. Excitement’s over. We’ll examine the document in the morning light. Now get your sleep. You may need it.” He folds the papers under his arm and descends the ladder backwards.

  Cowrie, Kuini and Sahara join Mattiu, Hone and some of the crew at the wheel. As yet, they do not realise that the French navy have delivered a similar message to all boats from the Peace Flotilla who arrive at the nuclear test zone. By Mattiu’s reckoning, they are still three kilometres away and with a slight 12-knot night wind, it’d take them a while to get near the danger zone. They decide to have at least two on night watch from now
, just in case. Gradually, one by one, they slink back to their beds.

  Sahara and Cowrie are wide awake, with no intention of returning to sleep.

  “So whad’ya reckon, Sah? Is this intended as scare tactics, or what?”

  “If it is, it didn’t work. Everyone seems to treat it as a bit of a joke. I can’t wait to get my hands on that document to see what it says.”

  “I’m sure Piripi will reveal all tomorrow. Besides, you’ve got enough media guff being radioed and faxed to sink a bloody ship, Sah.”

  Sahara grins. “You ain’t seen nuttin yet, sistah! Wait till I really get going.”

  “Trust the bloody French to wake me out of a delicious dream,” sighs Cowrie. Sahara begs her to tell. Then she replies with a dream she had at school of making love to the captain of the cricket team on the pitch. All the other kids were watching, egging them on.

  “Ugh. Weird. It must have been so strange being the only girl at a boys’ school. How did you cope?”

  “I loved it actually. I knew I was safe because Uncle Quentin ran the prep school and in some ways it gave me a lot of confidence. I grew up thinking I could do and be anything because boys are raised that way. I always hated that giggly girls’ school stuff.”

  “But didn’t you miss that special emotional bonding you can have with women? I mean, most chaps just don’t speak about their feelings. But you seem quite good at it.”

  “I learned that later. It’s still hard sometimes. I often hold back. I think I’m a bit of a loner because in many ways I was an outsider at school. I was accepted, but I was still different.”

  “Maybe that’s why we connect so well. I grew up feeling different too—culturally, physically, even emotionally. I threw myself into books and spent a lot of time communing with nature.”

  “Singing to shells …”

  “Yeah … hey, Sah. Have you ever caught up with your mother? You must be curious to know how she is.”