Dedicated to: The beautiful South Sea Island of Aotearoa (New Zealand)

C 10 August 2006 – Peter Whittaker

Off to her left she could see the sun slipping back his blankets; small pockets of fog hung around watching. The motorway was quiet; ‘bout the only time of day it was. There was something magical about the morning; ‘was it a morning like this that Venus was born,’ she wondered, ‘Adam and Eve in the garden; what a magical time that must have been.’
She touched her stomach; it was still very tender; when she’d dressed the bruise had been large, purplish; lucky it wasn’t her face. Hine glanced down, 120, she eased up; never know, some jerk may be out trying to fill his quota! She didn’t blame Matt, a cousin on her mother’s side; he was just trying to keep the peace. The word sent a ripple through her, “we come in peace; shoot to kill,” a song she thought.
Jackson, mum’s brother, had too much to drink; Rua, one of dad’s brothers, didn’t like his tone of voice; Matt could see what was coming and then suddenly it was all on ….
“It’s a mistake,” she heard her voice trying to make her parents see reason, “Why can’t we have two parties?”
They wouldn’t listen, “It’s you’re 21st!”
“Couldn’t just the three of us celebrate,” she’d raised her voice.
“Hine, just don’t go there!” Her father said quietly but firmly. At least they apologised afterwards.
Matt was defending; 3 to 1; she stepped the wrong way at the wrong time and stopped his fist; sent her sprawling across the floor. He was the only one that noticed; and Mum. They’d dragged her off to the bathroom where she’d been sick.
Although the sun was up over the horizon the fields were still hopelessly white. It reflected the animosity of her family; the warmth she felt in the centre of her nuclear family; the ice her extended family harboured. Her mother’s family came from South Africa; brain washed in apartheid; a country in conflict where you fought to survive. Dad’s folks were Maori; his grand-mother European. Now Dad’s ancestors came to New Zealand before Mum’s but Mum was born two years before Dad. Who has the stronger claim to be indigenous? Who …? Who cares! The sun was melting the green hills as she passed. The long tree-like fingers had reached into the fields and the fog was vanishing. We all came from Africa, once upon a time; some went east and ended up in India; some went north and ended up in Europe; some paddled great wakas across the Pacific; some pulled barges up the Thames; we were all one once; we are all one now!
At Huntly people were starting to leave for work. She wondered about collecting a coffee-to-go but flagged it away, ‘Ngaruawahia, was close, she’d get breakfast there.
Her family had risen out of the violence; what made the difference? ‘Time, love and tenderness,’ her Dad used to sing, ‘Yuk!’ ‘Can’t buy me love!’ an equally shocking rendition; Dad! His singing might have been out of tune but he lived by that motto; and that made the difference. She slowed as she reached the outskirts of Ngaruawahia. When she was ten they took her to Australia; they couldn’t really afford it but, now … a memory worth a million; there were playgrounds and stories; sport and homework; them just being there as she struggled into her career, “I love you, Dad,” she whispered. “What about me,” her mother close by? She enfolded her mother into a hug; words weren’t necessary.
Ngaruawahia, until recently the home to the Maori Queen, Dame Te Awa; she’d have made a better queen the one in England. She had a heart for the people, all people, and a love for the country. Could she have stopped the fight on Saturday night? Hine pulled into an angle park. She looked up and down. At the far end was a small shop where cars were stopping; people rushing in and coming out with small brown paper bags and takeaway cups of coffee. She walked down ordered French toast and a latte and sat at one of the small tables to wait. The place was painted cream and green. The tables were topped with red and white checked table cloths. The chairs had chrome legs and a padded seat and back. Posters advertising ice cream trumpets and coca-cola splattered the wall. The waitress who bought her coffee was short and plump with a slightly red complexion; hardly any make-up. She was polite and friendly but looked very busy.
Hine, short for Hinemoana named after the ocean maid in honour of her father’s family. Her second name was Diana after the Princess of Wales for her mother’s. Neither was happy! ‘Diana’s not a Maori name!’ ‘Shouldn’t the European one come first, dear?’ ‘But one thing they all agreed on, I was beautiful. They all wanted to own me, she wiped the last drops of maple syrup up with the last mouthful of French toast then stood to leave, ‘sad thing though, I didn’t want any of them with their anger and their hatred!
The road cut through the tall pine trees of the Pirongia Forest. Pine cones and brown pine needles spilt out through the roadside fence; shadows of sunlight flashed across the car. ‘Why do we all fight so much? Are we all so different?’ She answered her own rhetoric question, ‘To prove what idiots we are!’ Above a blue sky so deep; last time she’d seen a sky like that was on assignment at Victoria Falls in Africa.
At the turn off to Wiatomo Caves she stopped and fumbled in her purse for a $2 coin. Heads she visit the Waitomo Caves; Tails she take in her cultural Kiwiana heritage at Otorohanga. Heads! No, actually it was tails but the lure of tranquility and awesomeness of the caves won out; she turned right. The car park was deserted. Carefully she unbuttoned her blouse, “Ooh!” she winced as she touched the bruise on her stomach; it was still very tender. The blue had started to go black. ‘Thankfully I’ve stopped vomiting, she thought as she re-buttoned. Then in a soft whisper to the little swallow that had come to her bonnet in search of crumbs she said, “Why do we have to fight? We’re family for heaven’s sake!”
Her father had learnt to live in peace with the present culture of New Zealand. She walked down an unsealed pathway with native ferns dangling in her face. University educated, he had become a successful business man. In the last couple of years he had done very well but no matter how rich and successful he became his father-in-law still thought of him as a nigger and would always remind his daughter what a mistake she made. And his own family told him he’d sold out to the Pakeha way!
Stalagmites and stalactites, it’s amazing what you remember from school; T for Top the ones that come down. As she walked water dripped from the ceiling. The cave took her back to the early days, ‘and I’m talking about early, girl, like 3 million years ago when man lived in a cave and dragged his woman around by the hair!’ In today’s environment, not politically correct! Interesting, one of the first humans was discovered in her mother’s homeland; the Australopithecine man or woman, she couldn’t remember which, was discovered in a cave in South Africa.
They followed the guide down into this huge black cavern filled with peace and tiny little star-like glow worms. Moving out from the jetty, all she could hear or see was the soft ‘plop’ of the boat’s paddle; she was soon lost in her thoughts again, ‘We all came out of Africa for goodness sake; every race – black, white, yellow, red and all colours in-between! Why? Why can’t we live in peace? Just because some of our ancestors went north and settled in India while others went west and settled in Europe; just because some paddled wakas across the Pacific while others rowed dinghies up the Thames; just because some came first and others came later; what the hell does it matter!’ She was so distracted by her thoughts she hadn’t realized the boat had reached the end of its journey.
She asked in her mind, ‘Can I go around again?’ she smiled her sweetest smile at the guide who glanced at his watch, ‘We’re not supposed to; we’ll have to be quick!’ She clapped her hands and almost scared the glow worms away; ‘Yeah, right!’
Back on the main road she decided to stretch her legs in Te Kuiti; she stopped by the river. Slipping a hand mirror out she checked her make-up; one side of her face was in bright sunshine; the other in shade, ‘Half-caste!’ Then she asked the river, ‘Who am I really?’ It seemed to answer, ‘Not Maori; not European; Not South African; a New Zealander?’ ‘No, that had too many ties to Europe.’ ‘A Kiwi?’ ‘At least that would mean being a part of the land? She opened the car door and stepped into the sunshine and walked to the centre of the bridge, “This is my land!” she shouted defiantly then marched across and back singing, “This land is my land; This land is your land; From Stewart Island, To Cape Reinga; From Young Nick’s head; To the West Coast Gold Mines; This land belongs to you and me!”
The old wooden footbridge had seen better days but was solid enough to take her and her jumping. After marching for ten minutes she settled beside the river bank and began casting stones into the swiftly flowing water! ‘What made her family different?’ Then it hit her, ‘War! Her family was always at war.’ Whenever the ‘others’ set foot on their turf, which was supposed to be neutral, it became a declaration of war, ‘People were happier during a war,’ she’d read, ‘It gave them a common goal and a common enemy; less stress. They worked hard keeping peace whenever relatives dropped in and then bonded like elephant glue once they’d left!
‘What if yous all signed a treaty?’ the river asked. ‘No, that would cause more trouble than it’s worth!’ Perhaps Hitler had it right: create a common enemy and unite your people. Wasn’t that what Bush was doing today with terrorism? She cast a last stone into the river and went back to the car.
What about all the senseless, pointless wars in the world: Ireland; what was left of Yugoslavia; Rumania; the Middle East! All fought over race or creed; with senseless bloodshed and destruction of people’s lives as their outcome! Iraq! What did that achieve? Long ago a Jew had tried to tell the world, ‘turn the other cheek,’ ‘love thy neighbour’. What good did it do him, they strung him up! “They strung up the wrong man,” she shouted angrily at a passing long haul who winked back, “They always string up the wrong man up!”
Mokau beach was secluded and almost deserted; ‘a wild, rugged, windswept coast,’ she could hear the writers describe it. Out in the water a lone surfer made the most of an almost non-existent surf. At the far end, a woman (she didn’t want to say Maori and what would people think if she said ‘brown skinned native’; she daren’t call her a Kiwi) and her 4 year old daughter were gathering mussels into a red bucket. She stepped down onto the black sand. A keen wind caught her arms and she quickly ran back to the car for a cardigan.
America influences our culture. Is that where we want to go? Their violence, crime and media! She thought about media; they seemed to go together! Surely there are better mentors: Switzerland, neutral and rich; Singapore, controlled and safe; Canada; Scandinavia. What did they have that we and America don’t? Strong leadership; sound financial policies and a heavy fine for chewing, chewing gum in a public place! She reached the end of the beach. Above on the cliff side she caught a glimpse of one or two dark caves. She turned and began walking back. A friend had been the victim of a hit and run accident; because it was deliberate we called the police; sitting there in a state of shock they gave her the third degree, “Can I see your license, Ma’am” Their eyes so close to the glass as they checked her WoF & Rego. If anything had been out of order, instant fine of $300. ‘She’s the victim for God’s sake, get out and find that road raging land cruiser!’ “Doubt if we’ll catch ‘im, ma’am, not a high priority.” Another friend was burgled, “Just come in to the station; we’ll sign the insurance slip. It’s not a high priority, sir.” If I’d been caught doing 120 this morning, “No worries, ma’am, $300!” But, if I’d committed a burglary this morning, “No worries, ma’am, it’s not a high priority!” Somehow I think somebody’s got their priorities wrong!
She picked up a piece of bleached driftwood from off the black sand to put in the boot of her car. Her stomach told her it was eating time, ‘To my way of thinking, if we put as much effort into crime, as we do into hitting our speeding quota, New Zealand would definitely be a safer place to live in!’
At a small coffee shop in Waitara she ordered a prawn salad and sat by the window. What New Zealand needed was a new image. What was the name of that marketing book, something about Upside Down Marketing? It criticised New Zealand for its very poor promotional strategy, ‘Wasted opportunity,’ it said. If we did become a South Sea Island, what would we sell? She gazed out at the people of the town; going about their business completely unaware that they were living in an island paradise. ‘Which, Fiji or Hawaii?’, ‘Why not Doubtful Sound?’, ‘Too expensive and you have to walk through mud to get there!’ In New Zealand we have so much! Enthusiastically she signalled the waitress and asked for a pen and paper:
South Seas Island attributes:
Thermal areas; Ski fields; Beaches, where do we start, we have so many; Lakes and Fjords; Hunting; Fishing; Whale Watching; Caving; White and Black water rafting. We’re the home of the Bunjy jump for heaven’s sake! And I haven’t even mentioned the Coromandel; our Art capitol Wellington; the historic river city of Christchurch; and …
Suddenly she meticulously folded the piece of paper and tore it into millions of tiny pieces. As long as we continue to head down this path of violence and death we … Saturday night, she saw the anger, the fists; on the news every night; yesterday’s Sunday Star-Times she’d read, “Two weeks of life in Violent New Zealand,” and it made her sick! Sick! What kind of a country did she live in anyhow? How could a government sit in parliament and say that ‘all was well’ when she knew, even she knew, it wasn’t! “Looking for trouble? New Zealand’s the right place!” Message to the top; ‘Hey you up there; we’re hurting below!”
Unable to stomach the last of her salad she left and drove in silence the 15k’s to New Plymouth.
Her anger began to dissipate as she pulled in alongside the beach. She saw the sun starting to dip in the sky; the mountain’s snow covered peak standing proud and tall in the distance; she saw the gently swelling breast of Hine-Moana; and the tranquillity of the city before her. They were shooting with the mountain in the background. The magnificence of the panorama that lay before gave her renewed her hope. “Enough is enough,” she screamed out at a seagull gliding overhead hoping to scrounge afternoon tea, “Enough … Then she saw it; tall and proud; a Kauri tree; its branches open wide inviting the nations of the world to nest. She saw millions of tourists, nesting, gossiping, ducking in and out of pubs; searching for fun and laughter; seeking the sights; safe and peaceful. She saw it, ‘The Kauri Islands’, two incredibly beautiful islands whose people were totally focused on making the nations of the world welcome.
“Hine, perfect timing,” Grant, the director took her hand warmly and kissed her on the cheek. “We’ve got the shot all lined up; do you have the clothes?”
“In the trunk of the car. Grant,” he paused in his flight back to the action, “Where would you rather holiday, Hawaii or the Kauri Islands?”
“Kauri Islands sounds great; never been there, could be an excuse for a shoot.”
“That’s what I thought,” she smiled inwardly, “Where do I change?”
“We got you a caravan. Change quickly; we start shooting in ten.”
As she changed she stood breathing in her dream: a peaceful land where young women could walk in the streets at night until two in the morning; where the most exciting thing on the news was the new public transport system in Auckland; where people in the street would go out of their way to help people especially visitors; where traffic on the road was courteous! She glanced in the mirror. The woman in the mirror flexed her muscles, “I’m a Kauri, tall and strong, part of a beautiful South Sea Island paradise.
She put the final touches to her face and hair then stepped out into a beautiful South Sea island sunset; to stand in the shadow of a magnificent snow capped mountain; to make the most of a deep blue sky; and there to be protected by the outstretched arms of the giant Kauri Tree; to be shot!


The End

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