Under that photo was a picture of a Maori man greeting another by coming nose to nose in a warm expression of friendship. The words under that photo were, “He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.”
“Are you thinking of going to Rotorua?” a voice behind me asked.
I jumped. I hadn’t seen the man sitting in a side chair when I entered the front room. His dark, kinky hair looked how Mad Dog’s might look, if he ever got it cut.
“I’m not sure. It looks fascinating.”
“That’s because we’re a fascinating people.” He grinned. Then he rose and came toward me with a book in his hand. “I’m Hika.”
I introduced myself and explained that I was visiting.
“I live here.” He grinned again, as if he knew a secret I wasn’t in on.
I assumed he was renting a room. “It’s a charming place, isn’t it?”
Instead of agreeing with me, he thanked me for the compliment and said, “My wife and I bought this house five years ago. It was her dream to run an inn after I retired. Here’s the picture of what it looked like when we started the project.” He pointed to a framed picture on the wall.
“Wow! What a transformation.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s a nice portrait.” I pointed to a pencil sketch of an aging Maori man’s profile. Over his shoulders he wore a cape of some sort.
“My grandfather,” Hika said. “He was a Maori chief. I’m named after him.”
“Really? My great-grandfather was a chief also. He was Navajo.”
Hika’s expression sobered. He tilted his head in reverent acknowledgment. It was as if he were honoring me as a descendant of a chief. I didn’t quite know how to respond. That bit of lineage trivia had rarely prompted a response of respect in the past.
“And you?” I asked cautiously. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and have him stick out his tongue or pop out his eyes like the warrior on the back of the brochure, but I wanted to honor his heritage as well. “Have you always lived in this area?”
“No, I’m from the North Island. From Auckland.” He said a few words that I couldn’t understand, and I supposed them to be the name of his tribe. I didn’t know how to ask further, because I didn’t know if the Maoris were from tribes or clans or what.
“I know very little about Maoris,” I admitted, holding up the brochure in my hand. “Maybe I should go to this cultural center.”
“It’s on the North Island. It will take you a day to get there.” With a hint of mischief in his expression he added, “Since you are staying here for two nights, I don’t think you should check out early to make the journey. We don’t like it when our guests leave early.”
“Don’t worry; we’re planning to stay both nights.”
“Good. Now, if you want to know about Maori culture, I can tell you a few things. And what I don’t know I can make up.”
I smiled and lowered myself onto a chair in the parlor.
Hika took the chair across from me and told me how the Polynesian Maoris had paddled their way through the South Pacific in huge, elaborately decorated, dugout sailing canoes before settling in New Zealand at least a thousand years ago. Dutch sailors were the first Europeans to make contact with the Maori in the late 1600s. But four of the sailors were clubbed to death, and so the captain sailed on without exploring any more of New Zealand.
“A hundred years later Captain Cook and his crew showed up, and none of the sailors were killed this time. That was good for them, but it was not good for us, because the explorers left two things behind we did not need: guns and measles. More Europeans came bringing more civilization and more means of death. But then, I am telling you a story that is familiar to you.”
“No. As I said, I don’t know anything about the Maoris.”
“I was referring to the story of the Native Americans.”
I wasn’t prepared to feel as sad as I did at the impact of his words. “Western civilization hasn’t been good for indigenous people during the past three hundred years, has it?”
Hika pointed to the italicized words on the back of the brochure I was holding and repeated them in a deep voice. “Ki max koe ki a au, he aha te mea nui tenei ao.”
“What does that mean?”
“It is the first part of the proverb. A question. ‘If you should ask me what is the most important thing in the world, the answer would be …?’ ”
He waited a moment for me to respond. If I were in the middle of a Bible study group or a circle of friends from my church, I would know the expected answer. Jesus had made it clear that the greatest commandment was to love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind. I didn’t know what answer Hika would expect here in this place of upside down. My guess was something like land or tribal rights, or freedom.
When I didn’t jump in with a response, Hika said, “The answer is, ‘He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.’ ”
“And what does that mean?”
“ ‘It’s the people, it’s the people, it’s the people.’ ”
Hika sat back, waiting for the proverb to sink in. It struck me that this was the second part of the great commandment Jesus gave to His disciples: love your neighbor as yourself.
That’s it. Love God and love people. Not one or the other. It’s both.
I thought about the extravagant love verse in Ephesians and how the passage said to “learn a life of love.” Loving God and loving people don’t come naturally to any of us. We all have to be taught to value others and to learn a life of love.
Just then Jill entered the parlor and apologized for taking so long. I made the introductions, and Jill asked if I’d found a map yet. She asked how we could rent a boat to take down the Avon River.
Hika rose, reached for another brochure, and handed it to me. This one was of Christchurch with a clear map on the back.
“Thanks. I appreciate the information. Not only the map but also everything you said. Thank you.”
Jill and I stepped out onto the porch. We were equipped with everything we needed for our journey into the fresh autumn afternoon. Meandering down the charming streets of Christchurch, we followed the map to the river Avon.
I thought of how different everything had been for me a few short weeks ago when I was sitting around in sweats or pj’s all day, closed up in the garage apartment. If someone had asked me then if I loved God, I would have said yes, of course. I never stopped loving God just because life had taken such a flip.
But I was in hiding. I wasn’t around people, people, people.
Meeting Jill, kneeling beside Mr. Barry in the garden, holding Dorothea’s hand—these were the treasures of this place. Being in the midst of people was what brought life back to me.
Jill and I continued along the twisting river trail. Well-watered trees rose above us and shaded our path. One after another of the gentle giants stood guard on their thick trunks and stretched out long strings of quivering leaves that they dangled over our heads. Every time the wind blew, a few more glittering gold coin leaves showered over us and tumbled down to the green earth. I selected a collection of them for Dorothea.
“I feel like I’m in Narnia,” Jill said.
“I know. This is a fabulous place, isn’t it?”
“You know what’s amazing to me?” Jill stopped to snap a picture. “Do you remember my saying that Christchurch is the launching point for journeys to Antarctica, because this is the closest major city to the bottom of the world?”
“Yes, I remember your saying that.”
“Well, you would think that for being so close to all that ice and all those penguins it would be much colder here. This is a place of surprises.”
I agreed with her as we strolled past a large arch labeled the “Bridge of Remembrance.” The inscription commemorated the gunners from that region who had served in World Wars I and II.
“Have you noticed a lot of war memorials since you’ve been in New Zealand?” Jill asked.
“No
t particularly.”
“You’ll probably start to notice them now. If I remember correctly, over one hundred thousand troops from New Zealand fought in World War I, and over half of the soldiers were killed or wounded. For a small nation, it was devastating. Everyone knew someone who lost someone. I think it affected that entire generation in a deep way.”
“I never thought of New Zealanders being involved in either of the world wars.”
“That’s because you and I grew up only hearing about America’s part in fighting for world peace during the past century. It’s a little stunning, isn’t it, when you slip into a place like this and realize that we’re not really the center of the universe after all?”
I stopped walking along the river trail and looked at Jill.
“Are you okay?”
“What you just said got to me. It’s true. We’re not the center of the universe, are we?”
“Certainly not the way we think we are.”
I felt as if all kinds of new ideas were coming at me today. Jill’s and Hika’s comments weren’t earthshaking, but they prompted me to think beyond myself. Both of them presented thoughts that were larger than the small, familiar world I’d lived in for so long. I decided I liked being shaken out of my comfort zone every now and then.
We picked up the pace and found the Antigua Boat Sheds without any trouble. Next to the rental stall was a waterfront cafe. The handwritten sign on the front offered pumpkin basil soup with bacon as the special of the day.
“What do you think? Should we eat first?” Jill asked.
I didn’t have to be invited twice to try the local special of the day. We slid onto the bench of a picnic table on the patio and watched dozens of ducks as they paddled up to the river-bank’s edge. They looked up to us, waiting for a snack to be sent their way. Once Jill’s sandwich was served, she shared more than half her bread with them. We laughed as their bobbing white tails wiggled every time they ducked under for the next bite.
Several refined swans arrived, turning their long necks to gaze up at us. Their elegant forms alongside the pale pink roses that had climbed over the wall and lined the railing between us and the water set the perfect fairy-tale scene. The river was as blue as the sky and was all lit up with the sparkling reflection of diamond-cut sunshine. I couldn’t wait to get in a canoe and paddle along with the ducks and swans.
A cocky young man at the boat rental stall greeted us with a tip of his straw hat. He seemed to think it humorous that the two of us “older” women wanted to rent a canoe and take it out by ourselves. He tried to convince us to wait half an hour until Evan, the boatman, returned with the fancy flatboat that most tourists “our age” preferred to take. Evan was, after all, an excellent punter.
Jill and I exchanged glances, and I knew we were of one mind.
“No thank you,” we both said.
“We’d prefer to take out a canoe on our own,” Jill added.
“All right then. You can have the red one there at the dock.”
We paid with cash, picked up our paddles and life vests, and clambered into the canoe while the young man at the boat stall watched.
Not being particularly experienced at canoeing, Jill and I got in facing each other instead of both facing the same direction.
“That’s not the way you should be seated,” the young man said with a snicker.
“This is the way we seat,” I said.
“Seat?”
“Sit,” I declared, settling in with as much dignity as I could at that point. “This is the way we sit.”
Jill was no help. She was laughing, and that made me want to laugh. But the situation wasn’t as funny as she may have thought because the challenge of swinging my legs around without unbalancing the canoe was more of a risk than I was willing to take.
“Do you want to turn the other way?” I asked Jill quietly.
“No, we can make this work. Come on, I’ll paddle us out of here.”
I am happy to report that we pulled off the procedure as graceful as swans and floated with the current into the center of the shallow river.
But once we moved away from the dock, our challenges came to the forefront. That’s when I put my paddle in the water, and Jill and I couldn’t synchronize our paddling. Every stroke I made seemed to cancel hers.
“Right side,” Jill called out.
I paddled vigorously.
“Your other right side!” she said, laughing. “We’re headed for the tules!”
I never was good at determining my right from my left when in a pinch. With four bold strokes, I managed to ram us right into the tall grasses along the riverbank.
“Let me try to back us up,” Jill said. “Don’t paddle.”
I realized then that the current was more of a problem than we had anticipated. In the deeper water toward the center of the river, the current appeared to gently flow back toward the boathouse. Along the side, where we were now wedged, a different, swirling current was at play.
Jill single-handedly maneuvered us out of the reeds and back into the calmer current, which, unfortunately, carried us right back to the dock at the boathouse before she and I had a chance to regroup and coordinate our paddling efforts.
“Hallo!” the smarty boat-boy greeted us from the launching dock where he had no doubt seen our entire escapade. “Does this mean we can sign you up then for the punting tour?”
“Just ignore him,” Jill said under her breath, as if we were two girls at summer camp and the older boys from the neighboring camp had invaded our lake.
I thought she was hilarious to say we should ignore him, but I couldn’t do it. I had to smart off. After all, he was wearing a straw hat and a bow tie like a missing member of a barber-shop quartet. He was begging for sassy comments from the tourists.
“We’re not sissies in this scenario.”
“That’s right. We are managing just fine, thank you,” Jill added politely.
“Yeah. Save your punting tickets for some other old ladies.”
“Kathy!” Jill flipped a sprinkling of water on me with her paddle. “Who are you calling an old lady?”
“Not us!”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “Not us.”
We managed to paddle from the boathouse and successfully move up the lazy river. The secret was for me to paddle backwards from how Jill was paddling, as well as on the opposite side. Somehow this procedure seemed fitting in light of everything else that felt upside down and backwards in this place.
The farther we paddled up the river, the more peaceful and shadowed the river became. On both sides of the water were long stretches of green grass with trees, benches, and concrete bike trails. Women pushing baby strollers smiled at us. Little children waved at us. A man on a bike took such a long look at our unorthodox seating position and paddling that his front tire went off the trail. He wobbled himself back on course and kept going, still casting glances at us over his shoulder.
“It’s nice to have all the boys around here looking at us, isn’t it?” Jill asked with a giggle. It seemed to me she was feeling the lightness of being adorable for the first time in a long time.
I considered reminding her why all the boys were paying attention to us middle-aged mamas. We weren’t a couple of cute, young cheerleaders; we were inexperienced tourists, demonstrating our strange canoe-maneuvering techniques. I thought we resembled Dr. Dolittle’s pushmi-pullyu creature, that endearing, two-headed alpaca that was joined in the middle. But if Jill was feeling young and flirty and having a great time, I wasn’t going to be the one to spoil her fun.
Our canoe slid underneath a charming arched walking bridge as Jill chattered enthusiastically. “Don’t you love the colors on the trees? They are so gorgeous. And that green area on the right must be Hagley Park. I read about it. When the city fathers built Christchurch, they set aside almost a square mile for a public park. A restaurant is at the edge of the herb garden. We might have to include a visit there on our pressing itinerary.”
/>
“Oh, yes, our pressing itinerary. I like the way you think. Eat a little, float a little. Eat a little, walk a little. My idea of a true vacation.”
The river took a turn and came into a sunny area where more bobbing ducks peeked underwater for treats. They seemed to be on the same schedule as we were: eat a little, quack a little. Eat a little, paddle a little.
Floating toward us was a beautifully painted flatboat with a young man standing in the back, wearing a straw hat, white shirt, and bow tie. He was using a long pole to punt his passengers down the river.
“Look, Jill! It’s Evan the punter we heard so much about. Should we wave?”
“We can do better than that.” Jill paddled faster. “Come on.”
She maneuvered our canoe within six feet of the sedate, “older” tourists who were sitting back with terry cloth hats on their heads and cameras around their necks.
“Hi, Evan,” Jill called out.
“Hi, Evan,” I echoed.
We were the two most popular girls on the lake at summer camp all over again.
“You’re doing a great job, Evan,” Jill said coyly.
“You’re the best punter on the river, Evan,” I added.
The tourists were all looking at us, startled at such enthusiasm in the middle of their placid float.
“Would you sing for us, Evan? Please?” Jill was pushing it now, but I remained her faithful sidekick.
“Yeah, Evan. We love it when you sing.”
With one motion all Evan’s passengers turned their heads and looked at him. He had gone red faced under his straw hat.
Evan kept punting, ignoring us and our request for a song. With a few significant strokes of the long punting pole, he was out of range from us and heading around a bend.
“Oh, Evan,” Jill called after him, “you’re breaking my heart!”
“Just one song!” I pleaded in a shout that echoed off the riverbank.
Evan was too far around the bend by then to glare at us. Jill and I leaned toward the center of our canoe and burst into laughter.
“Did you see the look on his face?” Jill said. “It was like his mother had come to check up on him his first day on the job!”
Sisterchicks Down Under Page 8
