Manawa Toa

by Dunsford, Cathie

  The silent waka glides over the water. There is static on the intercom. Irihapeti turns it full volume to decipher the voice. It booms out over the water: “I repeat. This is the HMS Tui. We have detected an underground nuclear explosion on screen. We are seeking verification from the New Zealand Geological Centre. This is an alert to all members of the Peace Flotilla. Please stay calm and radio in your positions. It is vital that we can account for everyone. Manawa Toa, please advise if your waka is safe,” then more static. Irihapeti chokes back tears of anger. “Manawa Toa calling HMS Tui. Both boat and waka crew safe. I repeat. We are safe and positioned 12.5 miles from Moruroa Atoll, south-east of Tui.” “Thank you. Calling Rainbow Warrior, can you verify position of smaller craft …” The voices echo out over the water, piercing the night air, reminding them how vulnerable they are, how vital their contact is.

  Later, surging waves created by the explosion send wash over the waka, blasting into the side of Manawa Toa. The paddlers struggle to maintain balance. Anxiety grips the crew. Then calm, as the waves subside. Suddenly, Pita rises and leads them into the most powerful haka Irihapeti has ever heard. It resounds over the water, is heard on the intercom by all the flotilla tuned in. Cheers of angry support and defiance surge through the microphones, out over the black waves, into every piece of floating seaweed, shell, whale and dolphin still alive after the nuclear underwater explosion. Their survival depends on the force of this haka.

  As Pita blows into the conch to sound their defiance an orca whale responds, launching her huge body over the prow of the waka, sounding a haunting cry. The paddlers salute her with paddles raised to the heavens like spears. She responds with another mighty call, flinging herself back over the prow, then dives into the black depths. Pita smiles. It is a sign. Their haka has been heard.

  Ehara taku toa i te toa takitahi engari te toa takitini.

  My strength is not that of the individual but that of the multitudes.

  The Maohi crew members who joined Manawa Toa at Pape’ete share their whakapapa with the Nga Puhi, Tainui and Te Arawa iwi on board and talkstory well into the night. One of the crew mixes up some kava and this is appreciated all round.

  “To all of us who have survived and those who died for the cause.” Piripi raises his coconut cup and bows his head in respect. The sounds of hollowed-out coconuts clinking in the night air are haunting, as if the skeletons of their relatives are returning to collaborate in the struggle, to sing through their bones that their deaths have not been in vain.

  Roimata weeps convulsively, then between gasps, tells of her whanau. “My chile—first born—she die of cancer. Second one has leukemia. Third—he die at two months. Nobody know why. Fourth—she born early—has anudder condition. Fifth—he get so sick we have to bury him and I cry for three weeks until fadder come to collek me and I in white man’s hospital for weeks and weeks. I start to lose memories. I never forget that place tho. One night—all my chilluns come to see me in my dreams. They ask me, one by one, to make it right for next chilluns. That why I am here now. For them, not for me. For all the udders who lost their chilluns to diseases brought by the French bombs. They say we have work and hospitals now—but what use is they when we no have our chilluns?” Kuini slips her strong arm around Roimata’s back, supporting her, as she weeps and weeps.

  How can a mother live when her five children have died? How can anybody pretend this is natural, this is coincidence, when so many similar tales are told? Sahara listens in the background, stunned to hear Roimata’s tale, and shocked that the French have so skilfully kept the stories contained within the islands.

  “How does the world not know these cases?” she ventures to ask.

  Rangi replies. “Heaps of Maohi have cancer or leukemia or some related illness. They usually get sent to Paris and nobody knows what happens to them. But us Maohi—we do not parade our young ones about with their sores and illnesses. It is not our way to do that. So when the scientists and doctors come to ask where these kids are, most families join ranks and hide them. That suits the French fine. They do not want these stories getting out. They still say there are no victims of the tests, that the high death rate is cos we do not know how to take care of our children and we do not use the hospitals enough. Funny thing is, before the French came, we had a much lower death rate and none of these deformed babies with two heads and three legs and four arms. That only began after the testing. But they still deny it. They say it is our lifestyle. Ha. What lifestyle? Nuked fish and now we have to eat canned tuna to be sure it is nuke-free. Fish are our lifeblood. We are islands surrounded by sea—and here we are reduced to eating canned fish. Vraiment—it’s disgusting!” Rangi speaks his adopted language with gruff tones, throwing the words out into the ocean as if spitting them away.

  Marie-Louise confirms the reports of “bébé martyre d’atomique” and says she was asked by the French government to destroy all anecdotal reports and documentation of abnormal deaths after atomic and nuclear testing began. She adds that some of the “genetic abnormalities”, babies born with hideous cancerous growths, were flown secretly by the military to France for further tests to be done. That none of them survived because they were used as experiments to see what drugs might be useful if the nuclear tests ever affected the French military personnel or civilians.

  “So what is to separate the Nazis doing such experimentation on Holocaust victims secretly and the French doing it today—when we all believe such atrocities could never happen again? Are we going to be the witnesses who say we never knew it was happening therefore we are saved from blame?” spits out Kuini in anger.

  “My ancestors have Jewish as well as Maohi blood. My grandmother is a survivor of the Holocaust and she escaped on a cargo boat to these islands, only to be faced with a modern holocaust and the loss of three of her mokopuna to leukemia at the hands of the French. She says only the academics and scientists and governments will make the distinctions in naming. For those of us who are victims—one holocaust is as bad as another. We do not get to choose which degree of suffering we endure. We simply pull together to survive. Our only hope is in mass protest and mass education. And we need all the help we can get in this. That is why I am glad Marie-Louise has jumped ship and joined our side after losing Rua, and that Sahara is here to help record this and get it to a European audience. We must work together for our mutual survival—or we are doomed to suffer endless variations of the Holocaust. All indigenous people have endured some form of extinction by induced diseases, bombs or false treaties. Let the academics debate the terminology. I’m here to fight for my people.” Rangi raises his cup of kava and throws it out to the heavens, adding, “Bear witness to our struggle. We will not be silenced or forgotten.”

  He holds his empty coconut shell to his stomach and lets out a blood-curdling wail, as if enacting a tangi for all victims. The sky answers with a resounding, hollow silence. Then, from portside, an orca leaps from the water, her entire body flying through the midnight air, and they watch until her flukes disappear into the black ocean depths. The crew hold their collective breath in awe. Then Kuini leads them into a waiata telling the tale of Pakake, which Piripi follows with a haka, until the boat shakes with their stamping feet and the skies resound with slapping thighs, as if a collective drumbeat of resistance has spiked the quiet heavens, broken through the colonial silencing.

  Nga kanohi o te rangi.

  Stars, the eyes of the sky.

  The next day, an urgent meeting is held for those from the Peace Flotilla willing to enter the test zone with Greenpeace. They want several inflatables to distract the French while their own craft zoom to the atoll. Action is scheduled for the first night of the new moon, when an eclipse will appear making it difficult for the military to keep track of small vessels in the dark. Everyone is briefed on the danger and some groups drop out because they cannot reach consensus on putting their crew at such risk. All the crews still involved are sworn to secrecy.

  Back on Manawa Toa, I
rihapeti yells for Cowrie. “Quick, it’s Koana and Mauva on the phone.” Koana apologises for not making it to Pape’ete in time for their visit and updates them on progress since. There have been more street riots. Mauva thanks them for rescuing Raoul and says he healing well. They are keen to know how the explosion felt at sea. Koana says that Sahara’s pictures of the riot appeared in local and international papers and caused outrage from supporting groups. Cowrie is bursting to tell them about the planned action but cannot. But when Mauva asks how far they are willing to go, she replies “as far as we possibly can”. She figures they’ll work it out from the hint.

  Later, they call Te Kotuku Marae and Mere senses Cowrie may be getting involved too deeply. “You just be careful, Turtle. I know you’ll be itching to get into the action. Just remember the sunken Rainbow. Be vigilant.” Cowrie promises to take care. Faxes and messages from Aotearoa and the Pacific have reached the marae, and the crew of Manawa Toa are encouraged by their support. Mere tells them that there have been street marches in Aotearoa and a ban on buying French products. French bakeries have had to close down and wine sales are dropping. A television station polled 93 per cent of New Zealanders behind the protest action. Hone grabs the microphone to say that the other 7 per cent are Frogs or Poms! That raises a chuckle, but Mere warns them not to play the nationality game, that they must remember it’s government military action they are protesting.

  Throughout the day, they listen to media reports from around the world. There is protest and outrage in Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, France and England. But the French and English governments support the necessity for tests. Sahara is outraged. The USA denounces the resumption of testing. It looks as if France will be isolated, but for English support.

  The next few nights, the inflatables rehearse their plans on water. The French navy keep an eye on them from a distance. They know something is up.

  Their first mail delivery is airlifted onto the Tui and distributed as crew arrive for fresh water supplies. Cowrie and Sahara lie in their hammocks avidly reading their correspondence. It strengthens their resolve.

  Cowrie learns that Peta and Nanduye are working in New York. The US government is suggesting a kind of bulk funding for all people of colour. They want to cut federal treaty links with Indians and throw a bundle of money at local governments. Each group will have to fight for resources, which pitches Blacks, Jews, Poles, Indians and other nationalities against each other. Peta stresses the importance of their action against colonial nuclear powers in the Pacific. “Indigenous people around the globe have their eyes focused on the Pacific. It’s a symbol for all our struggles. Do all you can, Turtle. We’re with you in spirit.”

  “Cowrie, can I use some of this information for my next article? So few of the newspaper reports have stressed the colonial connection. They’re all busy focusing on nuclear weapons alone. They are not even asking how these weapons ever came into the Pacific, or whether the French have a right to be here.”

  “Please do, Sahara. It’ll get more press coming from you with your UK connections. Here’s Peta’s letter.” Cowrie hands it over. Sahara takes notes and asks questions from time to time. Later, she reads Cowrie part of a letter from her brother Crispin who is working as a naturalist in Antarctica. He describes minke whales feeding at the foot of Endurance Glacier, how they glide hauntingly through the deep blue waters then dive deep to feast on krill. Next to him, a whale has suddenly surfaced through a crack in the ice separating a group of Weddell seals basking on the surface. They slip into the flowing water and disappear from sight. He tells how he spent last December watching young albatross chicks on Bird Island. One of their parents had been caught in a fishing net and its neck was rubbed raw from the plastic string. They managed to rescue her, but many others had been killed this way. He describes the awesome sight of icebergs towering above them in the mist as they float past documenting the currents.

  “Imagine living in the Antarctic. I could do with some of that ice on my body right now. How long has he been there, Sah?”

  “Two years so far. He goes down for the summer season. The meteorologists and a few others stay all winter, but there’s little light and they’re mostly underground.”

  “So what does he do for the rest of the year?”

  “He works in Edinburgh as a naturalist, but he’s also a dancer. Usually does a show for the festival.”

  “Really? An Ice Dancer, eh?”

  Sahara laughs. “No, but he’d like that description. In fact, I think you’d get on well. He’s a loner and a bit of a dreamer too.”

  “Look who’s talking, Sah!” Cowrie laughs. “Send him aroha from us if you write back. Tell him we’ll be down to visit next summer—if we survive the test zone, that is!”

  “Would you really want to go? I’ve been dreaming of joining him as a research assistant for months now. I want to write about the ecology issues and the problem of recycling waste down there.”

  “As well as the wildlife and nature, I’d hope?”

  “Yes, both. Dream on, eh, Cowrie?”

  “Well, your bro made it, Sah. So you could too. But we’ve got work to do here first. Got that article finished yet? I’ll check it if ya like.”

  “Thanks. Here it is.” Sahara hands over her first draft. “Cowrie, you know the orca that Pita described, which crossed the prow of the waka just after the first nuclear explosion?”

  “Yeh?”

  “Do you think it was a sign in some way? You know, like Opo was for the Hokianga?”

  “I’m sure of it, Sah. As real as your singing cowrie shell. You have to believe in the connectedness of nature as our ancestors did.”

  “Including my Irish ancestors?”

  “Absolutely. It was in that song you sang me.”

  Sahara hums the song as an orange glow lights up the azure horizon. Deep beneath them, black and white orca are swimming, trying to readjust their sonar after the underwater explosion several days ago. They have been veered off their usual course. They struggle to get their bearings, may end up stranded on a beach in Tahiti or Aotearoa while humans speculate on why they appear to have these strange suicidal pacts.

  Kua mate te marama.

  The moon is dead.

  Piripi checks the provisions stored on the inflatable while Mattiu inspects the engine and fuel supply. It’s 11 pm and they are due to meet the other crews at midnight. Marie-Louise has predicted the eclipse of the moon will take place at approximately 1.30 am and last for twenty minutes. That gives them time to cross over into French waters in the dark. Once the sickle moon reappears, the Manawa Toa zodiac will lead a chase for the French navy inflatables to follow, allowing the Greenpeace zodiacs to flee for the atoll. With luck, they will not be seen or captured.

  Mattiu has attached a silencer to the engine, which they will take off to attract attention to the zodiac once the others have begun their flight over water. They set out in silence. As if the night before a storm, there is an eerie quietness and calm. Clad in black wetsuits inside a charcoal rubber boat, their silhouettes are barely visible as they skim across the surface of the glassy ocean. As arranged, Cowrie utters the call of a takapu to attract the other zodiacs toward them. Silence. She tries again. Way in the distance, a gannet echoes. Is it them or a real bird? They wait, drifting. Finally, a zodiac slips in behind. Then another. They lie waiting on the edge of the test zone. On the far horizon they can see the lights of the French navy ship guarding the waters. The Manawa Toa crew must keep it in their sights.

  1.30 arrives. Still a faint glow of moon over water. Enough to be seen. 1.33, 1.35 … 1.40. They consider whether it’s worth the risk to radio back to Marie-Louise to check. Suddenly, the eclipse brings total darkness. Idling zodiacs sweep into action and surge out towards the atoll in unison, like a wave rolling toward the waiting shore in perfect motion. The crews are spread flat over the rubber surface with their helmsmen facing the dark. Only the whites of their eyes are visible as they fly over the water,
dark riders on black stallions streaking through the night. Adrenalin, fear and commitment tug at their guts. Sheer speed makes them hang onto their furious beasts pounding the turbulent waters they create around themselves. They must cover as much ocean as possible with the taonga of darkness nature has granted them.

  Cowrie glances at Sahara. She is a sleek seal skimming through sea, her skin tightly woven around her, fins tucked underneath, flippers trailing out the back. A selkie, touched by the call of the wild. The black water is deep with danger. At any moment they could hit a whale or driftwood, a partly submerged container from an abandoned ship. She stares at the lights of the French navy vessel. It doesn’t appear to have moved. Night folds around them with a seemingly endless darkness. Like flying into death, into infinity on the wings of a bird barely skimming the surface of the water, sure of its flight but uncertain of the risks ahead. This must be what it’s like in the Antarctic wilderness in mid-winter. She recalls flashes of Crispin’s letter, sliding down a frozen river in obscurity, not knowing what lies ahead … endless nights listening to the sound of the pack ice forming, the waves being captured and frozen in mid-flight under a cloak of darkness.

  A sickle moon emerges from her blanket, the signal to part ways. The others skim toward the atoll while they veer to starboard where they will cross the path of the French navy searchlights. It is dim, with only a few feet of water ahead of them visible. Still risky.

  They must appear as if heading toward the atoll to distract the navy. Nothing yet. They cut the motor and drift a while in the semi-dark. The naval vessel has remained static. Almost too good to be true. The crew grin at each other, pleased they have achieved the first stage of their mission.

  Then suddenly, out of the sky, a huge whirring bird. Searchlights skim the water and capture the zodiac in full beam. Mattiu crunches her into gear and the chase is on. “Shit! I didn’t realise they had copters on board. This’ll make it easy for them to spot the other crews.”