Tales of a Female Nomad (36 page)

“Do you know Ray Richards?” I ask.

Keith tells me that it was Ray who turned him into a writer. Keith was still in bed one morning, years ago, when the phone rang. It was Ray Richards. They’d never met. “Keith,” said Ray, “have you ever thought about writing a book?” Keith had never written anything before, but by the time the conversation was over, Ray had convinced him to try. Keith tells me that Ray walked him through every page of that first book. Keith would send Ray yellow, handwritten sheets and Ray would call with his comments and his encouragement.

So Keith Quinn, national icon, and I talk and eat and sleep and finally exchange e-mail addresses. “If you get down to Wellington, call me,” he offers.

When the plane lands, we stand by the baggage rack and watch a lively little beagle sniffing the incoming baggage for “risk goods” like apples, meat, honey. Every year New Zealand’s Biosecurity Authority intercepts around 4,500 organisms and 86,000 “risk goods.” Island ecosystems are fragile. An official of the Ministry of Agriculture is quoted in the paper as saying, “In my personal view, a biosecurity defense system may be more important than traditional defenses such as an army or airforce.” I’m going to like this country.

I am a little concerned that I might not recognize Barbara; all I know about her is that she has white hair. And all she knows about me is that I’m wearing a purple jacket and carrying a yellow book. Then I remember the connection.

“Keith,” I ask. “Do you know Barbara?”

“Of course,” he says.

“Good. Will you find her for me?”

Later on Barbara tells me that she was out there focusing on jackets and books when she suddenly saw Keith walking toward her.
Oh, dear,
she was thinking.
If I talk to Keith, I might miss Rita.
Nonetheless, she greeted her friend warmly.

“Hello, Barbara, how are you?” he said. “Rita will be out in a minute.”

After dinner that night, Barbara sits at the piano, and as she plays, Ray and I sing Cole Porter and George Gershwin songs. We are eons away from the mountains of Irian Jaya, an ocean away from the
salsa
of Nicaragua, and yet, once again, I am connecting with new friends through music.

The next morning I tell Barbara that I have to buy a car.

“Just yesterday, we traded in a wonderful car,” she says. “There’s not a thing wrong with her. Ray bought Old Blue in 1985; he loves that little car. Maybe we can get her back. The dealer is a friend of my son-in-law.”

We do get her back. She’s a 1985 Mazda who has never had another owner. She’s perfect. I pay Barbara and Ray what the dealer paid them, five hundred U.S. dollars, and Barbara takes me to get insurance and to register Old Blue in my name. As we drive, she tells me that Old Blue was named after a little black robin with a blue band on her leg who was singularly responsible for saving her entire species from extinction. Old Blue, the car, will serve me well for more than a year, and when I am finished with her, she too will make a significant contribution to her community. (More on that later.)

So, after only twenty-four hours, I’m all set, except for one problem: I’m terrified to drive. New Zealand drives on the left.

The next morning at 7:30, Barbara takes me to a supermarket parking lot. By 8:30 I have parked about twenty times, pulled over to a curb dozens of times, and only once, on the way home, do I nearly get us killed when I try to turn right into oncoming traffic.

Later that day and the next, Barbara takes me to look at neighborhoods for possible house rentals. A beach community, Warkworth, an hour north of Auckland, and Devonport, a charming suburb, are both too middle class and homogeneous for me. Ray suggests I look in Rotorua, a community three hours away that has a considerable Maori population.

So, on the third morning, I’m ready to seek my fortune. Anticipating that I will probably rent an unfurnished house or apartment, Barbara packs my trunk (the “boot” in New Zealand) with things from her garage (they have just sold and moved out of a beach house): towels and blankets and pillows and sheets, pots, an iron, a kettle, placemats, a picnic basket filled with plates and cutlery, and a gorgeous, fluffy white sheepskin.

Nikki, Barbara and Ray’s daughter, Bron’s younger sister, comes over to say good-bye. We are all worried about my driving. The thing that worries me most is, if there’s an emergency and I have to rely on my instinct, it’s going to be wrong.

We’re about to leave when Nikki says, “Wait! I’m going to put an ‘L’ for ‘Learner’ on your rear window. It’s what they do in driving schools.”

She runs inside, makes me a big red “L” on a white background, tapes it to Old Blue’s rear window, and we take off.

Barbara drives Old Blue for more than an hour. Ray follows. It’s a weekday morning. They both take more than two hours out of their workday to get me out of city traffic for my maiden voyage.

We wave good-bye as I take off for Rotorua, knowing that with my scarlet letter, the world will be wary around me.

The city of Rotorua, with its sizable Maori population, its bubbling sulfur baths, and a friendly bookstore, where they look me up on the computer when I introduce myself and drop Ray’s name, is an interesting place. When I first arrive in town, I meet a woman, Lee, and her daughter, Erica. Lee, originally from the Philippines, immigrated here about ten years ago. When I tell her I am looking for a place to rent for six months, she gets excited. She has just arrived from Auckland to get her weekend house ready to rent. I am certain this is another of my serendipities until I see the house, a tiny trailer with no yard, no view, and very close neighbors. We say good-bye and I check into a B&B.

Later in the day I am walking down the street when I hear people calling my name. It’s Lee and Erica. How fabulous to be newly arrived in a strange city and have someone calling to me in the street. We tour a bit, wander around among the steamy sulfur hot spots, and visit the Maori craft center. At the end of the day we stop in a supermarket and buy bread and cheese for dinner. That’s when I notice the poster announcing a concert in a Maori meeting house at seven o’clock.
Powhiri
at six. Lee explains that a
powhiri
is the welcoming of visitors.

“Let’s go,” I say, buoyed by having someone to go with.

We take a taxi and walk together through a carved wooden gate. There are people gathered outside a wooden building with dark beams crossed in an
A
above the entrance.

A handsome man in his thirties approaches. He has dark skin and deep eyes, and his facial features remind me of the Balinese, who, like the Maori, are thought to be of Polynesian descent. I recognize the man from the poster; he is the singer.

“Welcome,” he says, smiling and introducing himself. Then he explains that the purpose of this concert is to keep the young people involved and active in the Maori culture. “Most of the songs I sing are in the Maori language, but they’re original, not traditional.”

Like indigenous people all over the world, the Maori are struggling to maintain their cultural identity.

A young couple come over and introduce themselves. He’s a brother of the performer. We talk. Then, after observing the circulation patterns, I walk from group to group, as they are doing, and introduce myself. There are children and elders, men and women. I am the only
pakeha,
light-skinned westerner. I spend considerable time talking to an elderly man who has eight children, all of whom are running around on the grass. He is very heavy and dark, with long hair, high cheekbones, and a ministerial voice. His wife tells me he is an elder of his tribe.

“I arrived in New Zealand three days ago from the U.S.,” I tell him. “I am honored to be here.”

We enter the building, which is decorated with carved wood and geometrically patterned designs, typical of Maori art. Lee sits in front of me; Erica sits onstage with the other children. Raewyn, one of the women I talked to outside, sits next to me and explains the significance of the opening chorus of singers, which includes women and children. And she translates parts of the welcoming speech given by the elder I had been talking to.

Finally, the concert begins. Most of the songs are about Maori pride and about anger at the way they’ve been treated historically by the colonizing
pakeha.
From time to time Raewyn translates a song for me. For one stretch, I hold one of Raewyn’s kids on my lap. Dozens of children are sitting on the stage, both listening and talking to each other. No one reprimands them. They are an integral part of it all.

About halfway through the concert, Lee turns around and says she is leaving. I’m not ready to go. I probably wouldn’t have come if I had been alone, but I have no problem staying. Five minutes after she walks out the door I realize that I don’t have the address, name, or phone number of my B&B. I do, however, have the phone number of the taxi. At the very least I can ask the driver to take me to the park in the center of town. I can probably find the B&B from there.

Toward the end of the concert, the singer invites friends and family to perform. And finally, to close the entertainment, the elder returns to the stage and gives another speech in the Maori language. Then, as I am drifting, I hear my name. “Rita from the United States has been our guest tonight. We hope she enjoys her visit in New Zealand.” I acknowledge his welcome.

I approach the elder when he steps down. “Thank you for letting me share the evening.”

“I hope you will join us in the school for the reception,” he says.

Then he leans over and takes my head in his hands. “This is our greeting,” he tells me, pressing his nose and forehead into mine. “It is called a
hongi
.”

A year and a half later I will watch on television as President Clinton is welcomed to New Zealand with a
hongi;
but here, on my fourth night in the country, I am startled by the intimacy. After an initial millisecond of surprise, I realize that I am being honored, and I smile, nod, and thank him.

Raewyn shepherds me across the green and into the school. It is what they call an intensive school. All the subjects are taught in Maori. The pictures on the walls are labeled in Maori. There are Maori words on the blackboard. Maori sentences on posters. And Maori legends depicted in the art that is hanging on the wall.

It was only a few generations ago that the Maori language was prohibited in schools, and children and adults were taught to be ashamed of their heritage. Today most Maori between twenty-five and sixty-five years old cannot speak the language. But with the enlightened seventies, Maori pride was reawakened and the New Zealand
pakeha
government was forced to admit it had made a mistake when it attempted to “disappear” a heritage. Today the Maori language is taught in all schools; and the “intensive” schools, like this one, teach everything in Maori.

Everyone gathers in one of the classrooms, where women are serving tea and coffee, until they run out of clean cups. Low tables, designed for six-year-old children, are filled with snacks: little sandwiches, dozens of different kinds of cakes, stuffed hard-boiled eggs, and squares of homemade pizza topped with spaghetti from a can. It is the first of dozens of “potluck” receptions I attend in New Zealand.

I bite into a small square of spaghetti pizza. It’s a new experience, canned spaghetti on bread. I take a second piece, mashing the spaghetti against the roof of my mouth and remembering lunches I ate as a child.

Then, uninvited but welcomed, I help wash cups.

“Raewyn,” I ask my protectress half an hour later. “Is there a phone here? I have to call a cab.”

The phone is locked up.

“Let me see if I can get you a ride,” she says. “Where are you staying?”

I laugh and tell her I’ve forgotten both the name and the address of my B&B, and I vaguely describe the neighborhood. I do remember that it is across from a park in this city full of parks.

“You’ll find it,” she says, unconcerned, and walks away. She returns with two men. “This is my brother and his friend. They will take you home.”

“Hey, if we have to, we’ll drive around until you see the place. Don’t worry,” says the brother. I don’t.

Once again, I am trusting strangers. There is not even a flicker of fear . . . as there wasn’t on that first night in Mexico when I dined with the Englishmen. Or in the Zapotec village when I asked if I could stay. Or when I arrived in Kerambitan with a bunch of words on a piece of paper. Or when I got on that missionary plane with the man from the mountains.

People often ask me how I have managed to have so many interesting people-experiences in my nomadic wanderings. It’s because I trust; I always have. It’s not something that has developed with experience, though perhaps with constant reinforcement I do it more often. I’ve never been disappointed, though I’ve sometimes been surprised. I know there’s a risk, but it’s one I’m willing to take. My life is constantly enriched because I trust people.

So, five minutes after I meet them, I go off with these two Maori guys in their twenties. I describe everything I remember about the B&B, the view from my window, the bright pink color of the house next door, even the place I’d had lunch. Half an hour later we are there.