“Aunty Daphne always said she’d be looked after, would fall on her feet. Daughter of a princess, she’d say. I never really knew what she meant. After Mother left for France, we didn’t hear from her. I think she sent the odd postcard to Uncle Quentin, and money for our education, but no letters to us. If we mentioned her, it upset Dad when we went home on the holidays so I learned not to ask. He did his best for us.”
“I can see that. I think he’s very proud of you, Sah.”
“Yes. We must get some sleep before dawn, Cowrie.” Sahara stretches out in her hammock and rolls over.
Cowrie lies awake, wondering how Sahara’s mother could possibly abandon such a special daughter. She plays many scenarios in her mind but cannot find one that fits. Eventually, she drifts back to sleep.
Tukua mai he kapunga oneone ki a au hai tangi.
Send me a handful of soil so that I may weep over it.
The next morning they draw up alongside the New Zealand government flagship Tui and are invited aboard for breakfast, and to discuss the conditions of their contact. After a powhiri, they settle down to eat. The captain explains that their official role is to protect the Peace Flotilla and provide petrol and supplies when necessary. However, this only applies to those boats encircling the zone and staying their ground as protest vessels. They cannot help any boat which enters the test zone because it is then in French and not international waters. He makes it clear that they have the full support of the New Zealand government, and adds, as an aside, it could be the first time since MMP that all parties have united in opposition to the tests and in support of the protest. That raises a few laughs.
“I can’t believe your government would provide so much support for a protest group,” Sahara whispers. “Can you see John Major sending government support for the protestors on the Shell rig?” Those nearby chuckle at the thought.
“Finally, welcome aboard. I think Chris Carter, MP, would like to have a word on behalf of the politicians.” Everyone cheers.
“He’s a great MP and he’s openly gay,” whispers Cowrie to Sahara, who opens her eyes wide in amazement.
“And spunky too. Pity all the best men are gay.”
“Poetic justice, kid. You can join the troops anytime,” whispers Cowrie. Sahara blushes and concentrates on her notes.
Chris gives them a moving welcome and reads faxed messages of support from all the political parties in Aotearoa. There is an extraordinary feeling of camaraderie among usually opposing forces—politicians, protesters, Maori activists, the navy, to say nothing of gays on all sides. Sahara has not witnessed such togetherness since her days at Greenham. This unity is a unique angle for her next media release, may help to bring people together in support of the protest back home.
Afterwards, they relax with crew and join a guided tour of the Tui. A few naval officers are taken aboard Manawa Toa to see the mighty waka. Mattiu and Piripi explain the ancestral significance of the carvings on the canoe. The officers are impressed, but worried about the safety of the waka in the tempestuous seas that can whip up here. After all, they are twelve miles away from the atoll, essentially in open ocean, with no protection. Members of the waka crew assure them that they will not be paddling except on days when the weather forecast is reasonable. Piripi reminds the naval officers that their ancestors sailed and paddled their way across the entire Pacific Ocean and the Tui certainly wasn’t around to bail them out then. He stresses, however, that they will not be risking lives or the waka for they must return the canoe intact to the iwi. The naval officers appear worried and ask him to make sure they are alerted when the waka is launched. Piripi agrees.
Petty Officer Pilgrim inspects the equipment, compass and navigational computer on board the Manawa Toa to make sure they are in good working condition. He expresses surprise that such an ancient trawler could be so well equipped. Mattiu cannot resist a sharp reply. “Hey, mate, you’re lookin at Ngati Cyberspace here. We ain’t no pakeha-eating cannibals, ya know. Mind you, wouldn’t say no to a bite out of that muscular politician fella you got on board your waka!” The petty officer is so shocked he stands rigid at the wheel, then, realising it’s a joke, laughs weakly, turning beetroot red. “Hey, you wanna can that cheek colour, man. Wattie’s’d pay ya a fortune to beef up their beet juice!” Matt guffaws loudly, enjoying the chance to make fun of a petty officer under fairly safe circumstances. Pilgrim grins, secretly enjoying the attention, but thinking he’ll get back at this bugger one day.
Sahara interviews some of the women naval officers to get their perspectives on the importance of naval involvement in such protest action. The Manawa Toa crew are reluctant to leave after such a welcome, but by late afternoon they call it a day and let the officers get on with their tasks.
That evening, they sight Rainbow Warrior II and make contact by cell phone. They agree to meet the next morning to discuss tactics. Piripi convenes a meeting of their own crew to debate where the Manawa Toa stands regarding vital isssues like entering the test zone should Greenpeace ask them to. It is agreed that only the inflatable lifeboat should enter the zone, leaving the Manawa Toa and waka safe in international waters.
“But what if the French confiscate our boat because the inflatable gets caught?”
“I’m sure that’d be illegal, Kuini, since the French only have jurisdiction over the waters surrounding Moruroa to the twelve-mile limit. Outside that, we’re protected.”
After lengthy korero, it is decided that the inflatable is their action protest boat and the crew driving it should be willing to be taken into French custody if it gets heavy. That they’ll offer this to Greenpeace so long as it is clear that the Manawa Toa and waka are safe. Debate ensues as to who should crew the inflatable. Many oppose women being in such a dangerous role—but they cannot argue against the fact that Cowrie and Sahara have by far the most activist experience. Finally, they vote that both should crew alongside the most experienced men—Piripi and Mattiu. Should such an emergency occur, Eruera would captain the boat, Kuini would cook and Irihapeti would continue to control the media releases and maintain contact with the Tui and other flotilla craft. Sahara will be given a cell phone to relay messages back to the boat, which Iri will then fax or radio to overseas media.
The hui ended, they disperse to complete the day’s tasks. Drinking tea on the deck later, Kuini, Cowrie, Irihapeti, Marie-Louise and Sahara discuss tactics should anything go wrong. Since three of them are key messengers, it is vital their lines of communication are clear.
“Do you really think we’ll enter the test zone?” asks Sahara.
“Depends on Greenpeace tomorrow. I can’t imagine that they’d come all this way and not enter the exclusion zone,” replies Cowrie.
“How risky will it be?”
Marie-Louise tells them that they’d better be prepared for the worst. “I can assure you the military have rehearsed these scenarios. They will capture you at all costs. Their intention will be to try to board the Rainbow Warrior as early as possible in order to confiscate the media equipment. The last thing they want the world seeing is violent action against protesters or photos of cracks in the atoll. They’ll be praying that Greenpeace, and any other Peace Flotilla members, will cross that line so they can legitimately confiscate boats, equipment and personnel.”
“Yeah, but what would they do with us?”
“Probably not harm you. Too many repercussions. They’re more interested in making sure the tests take place and that any protest is kept out of the media. They couldn’t care less about you as people.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” admits Cowrie.
They discuss possible scenarios, then part for bed. Sahara relishes the chance to be directly involved in the action.
“Steady on Sah. We haven’t talked to Greenpeace yet. Are you scared, deep inside?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
“You rethinking, Cowrie?”
“No way. This is what I came for. I just did
n’t think it’d all happen so soon. I mean, we haven’t even launched the waka yet.”
“I can’t wait to see that. I must get good video footage to send out. Do you think we should suggest a trial run in the inflatable tomorrow after the meeting, and I can film the launching of the waka from surface level?”
“Great idea, Sah. Now get ya beauty sleep, girl. We’re gonna need all the energy we can muster.”
“Ok. I’ll make sure we take the Singing Shell with us Cowrie. For protection.”
“We might need more than that against the French, if the bombing of the first Rainbow Warrior is anything to go by.”
“It’s worked against their gendarmes already, Cowrie!”
“Yeah, but we’re not up against street cops now. We’re up against trained defence forces protecting the military presence of France in the Pacific. We can’t afford to forget that.”
Sahara breathes deeply, letting the air out through her teeth in a whistle. “Did I tell you how a group of us cut through barbed wire fence, crept past armed guards and climbed on top of the silos at Greenham Common? I never thought I’d have the courage. But once we’d cut the fence, the adrenalin rushed in and nothing could’ve stopped us.”
Cowrie grins. “So that was you, eh, Sah? I remember seeing the media pictures and screaming with glee. And, you’ll never guess, but I met a fisherman in Hawai’i, Vile, who told us he’d heard from a fisherman in Aotearoa that ‘his wife and a bunch of Pommy sheilas had got in and painted the silos with peace symbols’.”
“That was us. Oh my God, it must have been Moira Rakete. Her husband was a fisherman and she was always telling us hilarious tales of their exploits. She missed him terribly while at Greenham. Eventually, his relatives raised the airfare for him to join her. I got a postcard from them in Devon. They were working in a pub there. He served and she sang. They wanted to raise enough money to travel to Ireland then back home.”
“Moira Rakete. Well, I’ll be damned. I knew she’d buggered off somewhere. She went to school at Kaitaia with one of my cuzzies, then left for England as soon as she earned the fare. Never heard about her since.”
“Small planet, huh?”
“Getting smaller by the minute, Sah. I wish Vile was alive so I could tell him what happened to his mate. Vile and his mates rebuilt an ancient stone temple, destroyed by the military on a sacred Hawai’ian island they’d taken over. Koho’olawe. They did it in the dead of night, carrying the stones from the water to the peak. On the last night, swimming back to their outrigger, an explosion burst into the sky from the heiau. Some said it was the military blowing it up, others that it was the Volcano Goddess, Pele, showing her fury at the military invasion of their sacred island.”
“Wow! What an amazing story. I vaguely remember Moira telling us something about that, but she missed out the Pele bit.”
“That’s the best part!”
“Yes. But what an inspiration to us, Cowrie! Just the image of courage we need for this protest action.”
“Yeah and so intimately linked, eh? US military invasion of Hawai’i, French invasion of Tahiti, both raping Pacific Islands for their own ends under the guise of paternalistic protection. We’ll stop the buggers yet.”
“And this time we’ve got most of the world behind us, even if their governments are reluctant to affirm their support.”
“You bet! Think about it Sah. We’ve got a Frog scientist, a Pommy media queen, Maori activists, Maohi and Maori paddlers, dykes, queers, politicians and no doubt an international contingent on the Rainbow Warrior. In the Peace Flotilla, there are lawyers, doctors, chefs, teachers, nurses and community workers, among others. This is the new world order in action!”
“Let’s hope so. I’m off to Fairyland.” Sahara slides into her hammock.
“Promise, Sah?” Cowrie jokes.
“Go to sleep, Turtle.”
Cowrie smiles, imagining the celebration when the French announce that they’ll stop the tests. Somehow, despite all her energy, she can’t quite see it happening that smoothly. Fate may yet prove her right.
Uenuku-kopako kai awe whare.
Uenuku-kopako eats the soil from his own house.
Spray splashes their faces, wetting the equipment. “Further up, Piripi. I want a shot of the waka being lowered from beneath,” yells Sahara. Piripi motors closer until the inflatable is alongside Manawa Toa.
“That’s as close as I can safely go,” he shouts.
“Just a bit further,” begs Sahara, sitting astride the rubber prow to balance herself.
“Bloody media wahine!” Piripi whispers.
“I heard that, bro,” warns Cowrie, grinning.
“Well, you’re responsible for her, Cowrie. Just make sure she stays in the boat. She’d do anything for the right shot.”
I wish, thinks Cowrie, secretly. She holds Sahara’s wetsuit belt to stop her going overboard. Wake from the Manawa Toa slaps into them, knocking her into Cowrie. “Steady on, girl. I know you wanna be intimate, but now’s not the time,” Cowrie whispers. Sahara bounces back into position as the waka, paddlers aboard, is lowered with the equipment usually employed for pulling up nets bursting with fish. Chanting from within the waka echoes over the water. Once afloat, the paddlers strike out to get clear of the boat, followed by the inflatable, Sahara and her video at the prow.
They paddle the waka in a slow semi-circle, turning to face the atoll. Pita Tangaroa rises from the helm to lead the haka issued as a challenge to the military invasion of Moruroa. The crew use their paddles to stomp the foot rhythms which accompany the haka and at the end raise the hoea above their heads spearing the sky in protest. Pita blows farewell through the conch shell and the paddlers strike out for their first lap around the exclusion zone. The air is electric as cheers from Manawa Toa, Rainbow Warrior and Tui blast out in support of the waka.
Aboard the Greenpeace boat, media rush to the bow to get footage of the mighty canoe, knowing this will be aired all over the world for its visual impact, even on conservative stations which are reluctant to cover protest action. The All Blacks have cemented the haka, in its crudest performance, as a recognisable challenge. Even redneck sports fans will prick up their ears when this is televised. Manawa Toa follows the waka at a safe distance, keeping an eye on the rapidly changing weather conditions.
The inflatable remains behind to practise manoeuvres with Greenpeace zodiacs. At this morning’s meeting, they accepted the Manawa Toa offer to join forces to enter the exclusion zone should the French go ahead with the tests. The aim is to create enough media coverage and attention to have the tests called off, but none are so naive as to believe the French will bow to even the strongest pressure. Should they enter the test zone, the idea is for Piripi’s boat to act as a distraction for the French to follow, while the Greenpeace inflatables make an effort to reach the atoll and hide. The Rubber Crews, as they are known, must keep plans entirely secret.
After practice manoeuvres, involving getting crew from one boat to another in an emergency, pulling crew from the water, chasing and being chased by imaginary Frenchmen, they board the Rainbow Warrior for further discussions. This time, Cowrie and Sahara get a chance to explore the boat. Stephanie Mills, the Pacific coordinator from Aotearoa, shows them the impressive media room. They intend locking themselves in if they are forcibly boarded, in order to keep sending out information. They’ve reinforced the room especially.
While one of the crew explains how the equipment works, Cowrie remembers the shock and sadness she felt when she first saw pictures of the pioneer Rainbow Warrior listing on her side in Auckland harbour, half sunk after the French government agents attached a bomb to her underside and blew a hole in her hull. Visions of Fernando Pereira’s body floating to the surface have haunted her for years. Blasted apart in the explosion as he tried to grab his camera gear before they abandoned ship. Trapped in an underwater grave for his bravery.
“A penny for them, Cowrie,” Sahara whispers, when the technician has fi
nished.
“Just recalling the first Warrior, Sah. They blasted her apart because she was involved in helping Rongelap Islanders protest nuclear testing. What might they do to this boat, to us?”
“We’ll just have to wait and see. This time it’ll be before the eyes of millions. They wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t underestimate them, Sah. Auckland harbour is not exactly private. Mind you, they had no idea our investigators and public would be so sharp, that we’d eventually nab their top agents.”
“Well, maybe that will warn them against violence this time.”
“Hope so. Anyway, I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather go down with, Sah.”
“You’re not being suggestive again, Cowrie, are you?” Sahara confronts her, grinning. They both laugh as Cowrie realises what she means.
“Not this time. Ya got me on that one!”
They have dinner with the Warrior crew, sharing stories of their protest actions, songs from their countries, late into the night. The Manawa Toa and waka crew are not due back until the next day. Cowrie tries to teach them waiata and they urge Piripi and Mattiu to perform a haka. Traditionally, wahine do not take part in haka, but Piripi motions Cowrie to join them. They explain this one is a powhiri or welcome chant, but can be a haka if issued in challenge. On the third round, the crew join in, their voices echoing through the Rainbow Warrior and out over the still water, the waves carrying their challenge toward the atoll. The Rainbow crew yells out the refrain “te waka … te waka”.
On board Manawa Toa, they can hear the paddlers urging themselves on by chanting. Below deck, Irihapeti smiles as the familiar “te waka” greets her ears.
From the canoe, Pita feels a distant vibration. He asks the paddlers to be silent. They peer into the night air. In the far distance, an eerie rumbling. By now, the Manawa Toa crew are at the rails, wondering what stopped the paddlers.
Aboard Rainbow Warrior, the haka gains momentum. Through it, someone is yelling. A voice blasts out of the radio room. “The bastards!” A second of silence while the operator turns up the volume.
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