Manawa Toa Page 3

  Thank Kuini for the email about Te Aroha. I’ve passed the information to Ela and the group at Hilo. They reckon the programme could be adapted successfully here. Many similar issues. Ela is becoming more involved with her women’s group for survivors. Her friends in Texas say Chad’s got back into the booze in a big way and is totally into denial. Ela, however, has used the experience as a springboard into a new future. Her confidence grows daily. But she is still fragile inside. Some days she’s like a nautilus shell, papery thin and easily crushed. The kids are pretty good about it though. They see the signs and tend to steer clear or go quiet. We usually give her space when she needs it.

  We live together well. Nothing romantic—which I may have wanted once—but she is a superb person to share a house with and all our kids get on. Meantime, I’m getting quite close to Kehaulani. Remember, she was the woman who first took me swimming where Pele’s lava gushes into the ocean? The same place I took you on your last visit. We’re working together on documenting historical land rights. Her job as a guide at Volcano National Park has helped because she has access to all sorts of government documents we might find it hard to get our hands on!

  We’ve both joined the Punalu’u canoe club. We keep our canoes in the lagoon and race off shore. All sorts from original waka to modern versions and even some outriggers from Samoa and the Cooks. It’s kamaha’o. Hey—you know those seeds and plants Irihapeti sent through for Paneke? Well, the US customs thought they were dak and confiscated them. What a joke! Imagine someone sending marijuana from Aotearoa to Hawai’i? This is the home of the best dak in the world. Many of our people are now reliant on it to earn a living, thanks to the US colonisers. And they imagine we’d all be silly enough to send it in a bag marked “Rare plants—Do Not Open!” We had a good laugh though! Eventually, Keo had to go to the Federal Drug and Alcohol Unit to collect what was left of the seeds. The plants had karked it! So tell Iri to send more— but make sure she gets customs clearance at that end so they don’t hassle us! Mahalo!

  Hope life at Te Kotuku is kamaha’o. Sounds like you’re working hard but managing to fit in some fun. Do tell us more about that English haole! We could send her information but Pele Aloha wants you to suss her out for us first. We don’t want our words mangled into British English and splashed all over the Guardian. Or the Sun! I bet they don’t realise we know about all their sleazy little tabloids. Hard Copy is the most watched programme on the island! We reckon they sent out the missionaries as the first point of indoctrination and the television sets as the next!

  Hey—when are you coming back to see us? We’ll have fresh ahi cooked in banana leaves and poi ready! I know the way to tempt you is through your sensuous tastes, Cowrie! I can’t wait to savour that smoked kahawai you keep raving to us about. The fishing trip you did recently with Kuini sounded fantastic. We love being out in the canoes at sunset. Last week, we had turtles swimming alongside us as we came back into the Punalu’u lagoon. I thought of you!

  Aloha to all at Te Kotuku,

  Koana.

  He peka titoki e kore e whati.

  A branch of the titoki tree will not break.

  At the next iwi gathering, Piripi confirms reports from Tahitian Maoris working at Moruroa Atoll that the French will be resuming underground nuclear tests. The iwi are horrified and korero focuses on the effects this will have for the entire Pacific. Plans are made to set up a group to monitor the situation. Cowrie, Kuini, Mere, Irihapeti, Piripi, Hemi and Eruera are elected.

  The following day, Cowrie emails Koana to confirm the reports and ask her to stay in touch on Kanaka Maoli action. The Indigenous Peoples’ Network is already buzzing with information and yet there has not yet been an official announcement from the French, who are still maintaining their neither-confirm-nor-deny tactics.

  Kuini returns from a Te Aroha case at Kaitaia and after work they roast kumara over the fire with a group of women from the writers’ hui. Their meetings are only twice monthly but none of them would miss the sharing of stories for anything. They discuss possible action if the French resume tests and agree that a contingent of local iwi should sponsor a boat, possibly a waka, to protest at Moruroa, to enter the exclusion zone if necessary.

  “I’d like to see women on board even though it has traditionally been men,” suggests Irihapeti. “Women have long been the peacemakers, in the war against pakeha landgrabbers and invaders, in two world wars. We have a trusted tradition of peaceful protest.”

  “Yeah, if Greenpeace has a mixed crew, isn’t it time we came on board also?” Kuini points out.

  All but two of the women agree. They decide to put it to the larger iwi protest group.

  After the hui, Kuini, Irihapeti and Cowrie meet in the Tainui housetruck for manuka tea.

  “My dream is to see a waka entirely paddled by wahine from all the Pacific Islands enter the test zone. Imagine the response. The world’s media would be hovering above in awe.”

  “Yeah—and we’d have half of those missionary-sodden Tahitians, the ones indoctrinated with French Christian values, telling us we have betrayed indigenous Pacific roots. That’s not such a good idea,” adds Kuini.

  “But just imagine the power of the image! That’d speak more than words.”

  “It’d sure have impact!”

  “Yeah, but remember that the twelve-mile exclusion zone is quite a way from the atoll. It’d be helluva rough out there and risky unless we had a support boat.”

  “Like the Rainbow Warrior?”

  “Maybe we should link in with the Greenpeace women as a women’s solidarity issue?”

  “But that’d alienate many of the local iwi. I think we need to hear what actions are planned, then discuss where we go from there.”

  “And we’re not totally sure that the tests will take place. I mean, it’s only rumour right now. None of the French have confirmed it.”

  “Yeah, but since when was bush telegraph wrong on these issues? I trust the fellas at Moruroa. Most of the Maohi working there hate the nuclear test site but know it’s the only way they can feed their families while the French remain. Maybe this’ll be the turning point?”

  Cowrie lights up the gas cooker for a second round of the sweet fragrant tea. She takes several sprigs of manuka flowers and leaves, and places them in the bottom of the clay pot, ready for the boiling water to seep through.

  “Well, I don’t think we should abandon the idea yet. Let’s keep it brewing huh?” Iri suggests.

  They sip their manuka tea, letting it seep into their blood. The moon hangs high above the dunes and a lone ruru call spikes the night air with its echo.

  E ai o harirau?

  What wings do you have with which to fly here?

  “Tell us how Maui got the bone fishhook, Cowrie.”

  The kohanga kids have heard this many times before, but never tire of the story. Cowrie settles them down after a day of learning to fish using traditional bone and paua hooks. They are entranced and ready to rest since they’ve been cavorting up and down the dunes all morning, throwing their baited lines into the sea, pretending to catch a huge octopus and various other taniwha and sea monsters.

  Cowrie explains how Maui-tikitiki-a-Taranga had been with his parents in the underworld and how he learned to cheat his ancestor Muriranga-whenua of food in order to get her jawbone, which he knew was enchanted. Once he had it, he carved it into a fishhook and went out in his canoe and fished up the Great Fish of Aotearoa—the North Island. “See the ika? Here’s the tail and here’s the head,” says Cowrie, showing them a map of the island in the shape of a fish.

  “Didn’t he also make a mere from the bone to slow down the sun?” asks Maata.

  “Ae.” Cowrie finishes the tale and asks them each to tell a story about Maui, whom they all know and love because he is the trickster, the wise fool, the coyote of their ancestry. They like it when he assumes different shapes and especially when he does so to spy on his parents. That is always calculated to get their attention.


  The afternoon rolls on, the kohanga kids eventually retiring to draw their own impressions of Maui fishing up the land from the ocean and pulling back the sun to slow it down.

  After kohanga, she strolls to the Tainui to see if Kuini is back from the Te Aroha session at Rawene. Kuini arrives just as she enters the housetruck.

  “Cowrie. It’s all on. The bastards have done it. I can’t believe it. Bloody rapists!”

  Cowrie is stunned, wondering if it’s a local case of gang rape. Unusual for Kuini to loose her cool. She deals with this stuff every day.

  “They never bloody learn. You’d think multiple rape would teach them, but it’s had no effect at all.” Kuini is distraught and angry at once.

  Cowrie guides her to the housetruck and lights the gas for a cuppa while Kuini gets her breath back. “Who’s upset you so much? A local fella?”

  “Shouldn’t bloody be anywhere near our shores, let alone with his dick inside them.”

  Cowrie holds back, knowing Kuini will calm down and tell her soon. She’s not sure she wants to hear which monster has done this to a local wahine. She pours hot water over the sliced ginger and adds a teaspoon of pohutukawa honey to the brew. By this time Kuini has calmed down a little.

  “Kuini. Who is it? Do I know him?”

  “Not personally, but you bloody well know his kind.”

  “Well who? Local iwi?”

  “Na, bloody foreign iwi. It’s that fuckin’ Chirac. First he insults us by letting the Rainbow Warrior French agents free after they bombed us—and now he’s at it again. It’s all true. Heard it on the truck radio on my way back. The French have announced they are resuming nuclear bomb tests on Moruroa Atoll between September this year and March next year. I never really believed they’d have the bloody gall to do it.”

  “De Gaulle! He started it all!” Cowrie can’t help herself. “Jeez, so the bush telegraph was right. I knew it. I must talk to Koana and see what they know. Mauva and the Tahitian storytellers are still in Hawai’i with her.”

  “They’ll know by now, Cowrie. It was on every news station I tuned in to. They even interrupted a bloody rugby match to announce it—and you know how sacred that is. We can’t let it go ahead. We have to do everything to stop the tests. Bugger the protocol. I’m ready to sail a waka right into the test zone now …”

  Cowrie sits in stunned silence. She’s been preparing herself for this—but she never thought that even the French would have the arrogance and disrespect to resume nuclear testing in the Pacific. They’d agreed to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty along with most of the rest of the world, finally—and everyone thought that’d be the end of it. Except the Tahitians, of course. They always said it was just a break, that they didn’t trust their colonisers. Now it’s true.

  Kuini is still muttering and swearing as she makes notes about whom to call and what action to take. Irihapeti joins them, having just heard the news up at the wharenui. “Hey, Cowrie, you’d better get that Pommy sheila down here for some action. The English were masters in the art of colonisation. Taught it to the rest of the world. Reckon it should be right up her alley, her responsibility, as her letter implied, to come and report it back to her people.”

  “Too bloody right,” agrees Kuini. “Reckon she’d be on board, Cowrie?”

  “I dunno. She was going to come in the summer.”

  “Yeah, for a bloody holiday and to escape the British winter, eh?” says Iri.

  Cowrie shoots her a glare from the corner of her eyes. “This is a test for us. I reckon we need all the support we can get from international media for this battle. We need to work together as women too. Remember how we distrusted the women at Greenham initially but many of them lasted longer out in the cold than we expected.”

  “Spoken like a real trooper, Cowrie. You should be a bloody politician!” Kuini laughs.

  Iri and Kuini agree that it’s worth giving Sahara a chance if she’s willing to come. Maybe Greenpeace UK will chip in for her fare? They discuss other courses of action, then split to organise a meeting at the wharenui after dinner. Everyone will attend. There’s not a single family living on the marae and surrounding villages who’d miss the action. Everyone feels strongly about the rape of te whenua—the earth, about the fact that it would not be happening if it weren’t for a foreign government which has outlived its stay in the Pacific.

  Tunu huruhuru, kei wawe tu ana a Pu-whakaoho.

  Cook it with its hair on, lest you be interrupted by Pu-whakaoho.

  She strolls over the dunes in the haunting moonlight, toward a cave at the mouth of the harbour. From within, voices, waiata. Then silence. She enters the cave, drawn by a power from within. At the far end, a pinpoint of light. She walks toward it. Nearing, she sees a rounded piece of bone, light shining from its centre. It appears suspended in mid-air. She moves closer. The bone hovers at eye level. She reaches out her hand. The bone is placed in her palm. It is in the shape of a fishhook. Light shines through the ribs of the old kuia. A piece of one rib is missing.

  Cowrie looks down. Her own hei matau lies safe on her breastbone, next to the carved turtle. She clutches it in comfort. A warm glow emanates from the bone, heating her hand. She lies awake, the moon slanting down through the nikau trunks, lying across her body like bars. Then she remembers Moruroa. Invasion. Rape. They tunnel shafts deep into Papatuanuku, put nuclear explosives capable of another Hiroshima into them, blast apart the atoll, and say that the tests are totally safe. She moans, turns over, but cannot sleep. She tries to imagine sailing a waka into the test zone, women from all the islands on board. Gradually, her body begins to relax and she falls into a deep sleep.

  This time she is fishing. Using the bone hook given to her in the cave. She feels a tug at the other end of the line. Imagining a beautiful fresh ika, she reels in her catch. It gets heavier and heavier as she pulls the fish to the surface. The ika struggles wildly, flops out into the waka, its mouth open, gasping for breath, then releases a baby from its gullet. Cowrie bends down to examine it more closely. The fish has no tail, no eyes. It looks like an amoeba. She holds it up to the light and gasps. It is a half-formed human baby with no arms or legs. Just a belly and traces of a human face. She screams, dropping the baby. It sinks to the ocean depths.

  Cowrie wakes, disturbed. She cannot go back to sleep. She gets up and throws on her lavalava. An ancient weta watches from the foot of her bed, casting its antennae out to see what her reactions will be. She takes a deep breath and walks past the creature toward the Tainui. Kuini is reading by candlelight. She taps at the window and Kuini lets her in.

  Cowrie recounts her nightmare. Kuini sits in silence. “However you interpret it, Cowrie, this is a call to action. We can’t ignore it.”

  “I was telling the kohanga kids about Murirangawhenua giving her jawbone to Maui today—so I think that was swirling around in my head. And the testaments given by the elders who visited Rongelap after the last tests and saw the jellyfish babies. I don’t want to go back to sleep alone. Ok if I stay here?”

  “Sure thing, sis. Come and cuddle up.” Kuini holds open her tapa-patterned sheet and Cowrie nuzzles in beside her. They discuss stories about the tests until they are so exhausted they drift into a deep sleep.

  From: sappho@island.ac.uk

  To: turtle@hokianga.co.nz

  Dear Cowrie,

  I am shocked to hear the announcement from President Chirac that the French are planning a series of nuclear explosions in French Polynesia. I feel called to action. We cannot just stand aside and do nothing here in Britain. Our own conservation and anti-nuclear groups in the UK are pressuring Major to respond, but so far he refuses to commit himself. There are messages of outrage coming from Germany, Holland, Belgium and the rest of Europe but still our government remains silent. Hopefully, public pressure will change that.

  I’ve approached the Guardian for funding to cover events in the South Pacific since there will clearly be a long period of protest if the tests go ahe
ad. Let’s hope we can stop them before that occurs. They said they’d take freelance articles if I make it over there. And the women’s support network of anti-nuclear and political lobbies are pooling resources for campaigns of protest here and say they’d be willing to donate something toward the trip.

  Dad’s managed to borrow funds against his home. He bought it back from the council three years ago. He’s all for me coming. I’m surprised, since some members of his union still believe in weapons as a deterrent. However, they’re against colonial power. See it as an extension of the regime of the bosses over workers. They had a rally on the weekend and the funds raised will go towards their union campaign against the tests—but they’ve earmarked 10 per cent for every article I write opposing the tests. I was so touched when I heard that, I cried. You have to know them to realise what a commitment this is. Most of the quarry workers live hand to mouth, work long hours and just manage to support their families. It’s made me more determined to come, to cover the issues as best I can and try to motivate Britain into action. No small task, I can tell you! Mind you, Dad did say the fact that the French have major shares in the quarry and have made working conditions worse since taking it over has helped motivate their anger!

  Dad’s quite strongly anti-French. Partly because of that and maybe since Mum took off to Paris after they split up. I tried to argue that us Brits have as bad a record of colonialism but he reckons we did it without the arrogance of the French. The quarry workers held a demonstration when it was revealed that the French government had ordered their own agents to sink the Rainbow Warrior. Mind you, as he said, it was as much against their new French bosses as the frogmen downunder!