The Karoo
 |
| photograph by les roberts |
His grandfather came to this place
and hammered pegs into the hard flint
marking out the boundaries of his dreams
staking the wide limits of his audacity
and hammered pegs into the hard flint
marking out the boundaries of his dreams
staking the wide limits of his audacity
His father came to this place
and thirsted for more than it offered
pierced its skin and gristle and sinew
a cannula for manna from below
He came to this place
and drank of the diluted blood
of his father
and of his grandfather
Tusk!
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| photograph by les roberts |
A one act play with no dialogue.
Scene: A stall at a busy city flea market.
Scene: A stall at a busy city flea market.
The
moment she saw him, felt his eyes on her and looked up at him, she
wanted to reach out for her husband. It was like that moment when a
great jetliner first roars and rushes down the runway for takeoff.
Exhilarating and frightening and right on the very brink of feeling out
of control.
That
was the moment when she would always grasp her husband’s hand and
squeeze it, drawing from him that predictable answering squeeze. He
always smiled then, a condescending kind of smile, as if to say it’s all
right dear it’s all perfectly normal but I will squeeze your silly
little hand anyway. If he only knew that she just needed something
deadly dull to hold on to, not for any kind of comfort but to keep her
from audibly gasping out her carnal excitement at the dangerous but
irresistible thrill of that wild overlapping rush of noise and speed and
mad vibration. It was the only part of the whole flying experience
that she liked, anticipated with quickened breaths and secretly curled
toes.
And
now here it was again, in the steady gaze of this strange man with his
brown gypsy skin and his white teeth and his long dark hair still damp
and dragged back and tied behind with a scrap of scarlet cloth. Her
toes curled and her breathing shifted. But there was no dull hand to
squeeze this time.
He
moved his own hand across his body, slowly and theatrically like a
stage illusionist, two fingers slowly unfurling, eyes holding her still,
pinning her from across his display of beautiful hand‐made leather
belts. Her own fingers stiffened. Oh please somebody hold my hand
now. Anybody. Anybody perfectly normal. But there was nobody. Only
this dark man, and he was as far from perfectly normal as could be,
further than she had ever been and she knew it.
His
extended fingers reached down to a portable stereo on an upturned
wooden crate, trailed lazily across the row of black buttons on top.
Paused, his pupils widened a fraction like some predator creature that
knows the decisive moment, and the fingers stabbed down. Click.
[faint sounds of conversation.
An odd rushing noise.
A voice suddenly exclaiming something unintelligible.]
His eyes narrowed. Just wait, wait, wait, they directed her.
[12 seconds …
Drums began, quickly swelled and grew.
A rhythm, a primitive repetition.]
His head nodded fractionally in time with it, seeming to transfer the rhythm to her through this terrifyingly frank eye contact. She knew this music; Tusk by Fleetwood Mac. A strange, twisting, formless, voodoo thing that rises and falls and writhes and won’t stay still. She felt her stomach muscles and the muscles of her thighs begin to shift slightly and she realised that it was happening in time to the drums. Her eyes widened, why are you doing this, there are other people all around, where are you taking me?
[29 seconds …
the bizarre lyrics begin, over the pulse of the drums:
“Why don’t you ask him if he’s going to stay?
“Why don’t you ask him if he’s going to stay?
Why don’t you ask him if he’s going away?”]
Oh God, her husband. This man knew! About the jetliner takeoffs and about all the rest of it too. He knew! How could he know?
His
other hand slowly swept back the edge of the curtain screening the
small space at the back of his stall. His office? A standing‐room‐only
office. He nodded, just the smallest movement, but she felt as if he
had flung back a long cape and bowed to her.
[50 seconds …
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?
Why don’t you tell me who’s on the phone?”]
She
went to him. All in one breath she followed herself past the table
with the belts, past his arm holding the curtain, and stepped to the
side of the small space against the back of his tent. He watched her
all the way, never loosing her from the hold of his eyes, as if his gaze
were some kind of insulating blanket, enfolding her and holding her in
isolation. His body remained still but his eyes moved with her, and
when that movement was all used up,
his head turned at the same pace. Then he turned, stepping inside the tiny secret space in one easy movement, the curtain falling closed behind him. The drums, the rhythm, seemed to grow as he looked steadily at her and she felt her fingers curl at the armrests of an imaginary seat.
his head turned at the same pace. Then he turned, stepping inside the tiny secret space in one easy movement, the curtain falling closed behind him. The drums, the rhythm, seemed to grow as he looked steadily at her and she felt her fingers curl at the armrests of an imaginary seat.
[1 minute 10 seconds …
A bass line began in the music,
a throbbing, teasing, fluttering thing, tugging at her,
adding another layer of engagement,
discarding another layer of resistance.]
She lifted forward to him, yet didn’t physically move, as if her internal organs were determined to escape the restraint of her skin. The runway rushed past her, the vibrations became alarming, and she hung for a delicious instant at the edge of a heart‐stopping balance between flying and crashing.
[1 minute 22 seconds ...
“Why don’t you ask him what’s going on?
Why don’t you ask him who’s the latest on his throne?”]
How
did this man know? Why did he ask her questions that terrified and
thrilled her like this? She did not want these questions asked, let
alone answered.
[1 minute 37 seconds …
“Don’t Say That You Love Me!”]
Out
of nowhere, this whispered shout. Don’t say that you love me! Of
course not. She could not love this man; a stranger she would never see
again. And yet he said that to her, or his music had: Don’t say that
you love me! And she knew that she did. Impossible, absurd, but in
that moment she did love him.
Her
lips parted, a sharp inwards breath that made her tremble with the
shock of it. His hand brushed her thigh, his wrist lifting the folds of
her layered skirt. Then his fingers were on her skin, soft and
shockingly high on her leg and she felt his touch radiate up into her,
into her core. Her toes curled inside her shoes and she involuntarily
contracted, knowing that his nearby fingers must sense the movement within her.
[1 minute 48 seconds …
“Just Tell Me That You Want Me!”]
Her
breath now gushed back out over her teeth, her eyes wide and
desperate. Oh God I do, I want you! I do! Forgive me, please forgive
me, I do!
He smiled. He heard! She hadn’t spoken it (had she?) and yet he heard her. He nodded slowly, giving his permission, releasing her from all her fears and restraints. His fingers moved on her and he touched her, touched her warmth and moistness through the thin cotton. Everything surged and the mad shuddering rush suddenly ceased. The wheels left the ground and lifted, everything lifted into amazing flight.
Her
chest rose with the first full breath she had taken for nearly two
minutes, and his fingers drew her upwards to her toes. She hung there, a
ballerina relevé, and then slowly, nearly reluctantly, her body
subsided onto his hand. His fingers moved, found her and split her
easily, and she eased herself down onto him.
[1 minute 56 seconds …
“Tusk!”]
She
was impaled, pinned like a butterfly to a board. Her eyes closed and
her head slumped forward, chin to her chest, shoulders dropped, her
spine slightly hunched back and then arched hard forward, driving this
thrill deeper.
[1 minute 59 seconds …
“Just Say That You Want Me!”]
She
hung there, a doll, a marionette in his sway. She felt, heard him move
and opened her eyes, looked at him. He had used his free hand to loose
the scarlet cloth and now his hair fell long and wild and dark onto his
shoulders. She felt a great shock surge through her, knowing that this
was the most deeply erotic and intimate act she had ever seen, ever
experienced. As if he had ripped open his chest and showed her his
beating heart. She responded immediately with a chaos of savage
contractions and tremors.
[2 minutes 11 seconds …
The drums suddenly lost their insistent rhythm and
descended into an unrestrained, formless urgency.]
descended into an unrestrained, formless urgency.]
She felt this new disconnected sound match her own internal decent into chaos. She could not catch herself; her body abandoned itself to this madness, to this arrhythmic fluttering feeling. Her eyelids closed and flickered half open again, and she saw only impressions of a world she had left; glimpses of his dark, swaying hair; his shoulder bare and wet where her desperately sucking mouth had pushed his shirt back to bite into him, marking his flesh.
She
was aware that he had not come with her; she was in this place alone.
He was the conductor and also her instrument, but she, and only she, was
the music.
[2 minutes 22 seconds …
The lost rhythm abruptly clicked back into place and reformed itself.]
She
matched herself again to the resurrected rhythms and returned to him.
Now she moved against his hand in repeating waves, like sets of breakers
in the sea, arriving seven at a time. He held, patient and attentive,
as each successive set of her movements abated and was replaced by a
lesser set. And in this way, by way of these diminishing circles of
passion, she gradually regained herself. She became aware of the music
again, rather than just the rhythm. She heard for the first time brass
instruments playing a triumphant fanfare, some musical salute to her
journey and return, and she felt the familiar relief as the jetliner
regained the earth with a gentle jolt, aligned itself square with the
runway with a small sideways slew, and began to slow to a more bearable
pace.
His
hand moved away as she accepted her own full weight again, and she
looked up at him. He held her eyes, his own eyes crinkling at the
corners as he smiled for her, and then his fingers lifted and found his
own mouth as he first tasted her and then toasted her with a small
gesture as he lifted his moist fingers from his lips to in front of his
eyes. His free hand reached back and drew the curtain aside.
A woman looking at the leather belts glanced up briefly and then away again, disinterested.
[3 minutes 35 seconds …
the music had repeated and faded with her, or she with it,
but now it was gone into nothingness.]
She
walked out past the curtain, past the display of belts, past the
disinterested woman and into the passing throng of shoppers. And she
never looked back. For she feared that if she did, he would be gone.
Or even worse, that he might not be gone.
Talkback
He was about the biggest man Rick had ever seen, except for Sumo wrestlers on television. Way over three hundred pounds, shaved head, tattoos on both forearms and even on the backs of his hands. But wearing a pressed short-sleeved white shirt, and holding a small blackboard on which was lettered ‘Mr R. MICELI, USA’. A plastic badge over the shirt pocket identified him as ‘Boy’, a name that didn’t fit his intimidating appearance. It was also a name Rick wouldn’t feel comfortable using.
“Hi there, sir. Rick Miceli, that’s me,” Rick said loudly, pointing first at the blackboard and then at himself. And immediately realised he sounded like an explorer greeting a native chief. Embarrassed, Rick glanced back over his own shoulder, as if someone else might have spoken. No one had, so he turned back again with a weak smile, and shifted his bag from right hand to left, then put it on the floor between them.
“I’m Boy,” the huge man said, his broad, brown face bursting into a spectacular smile that crinkled his eyes into slits. His voice was unexpectedly soft and high pitched. “Welcome to Aotearoa New Zealand. The Rotorua Rocket departs in two minutes. I’ll take your bag, OK?” Boy reached down and effortlessly lifted the heavy bag, and headed for the exit door. In spite of his bulk, he moved easily through the crush of people, and Rick had to stride out to keep pace.
“Hi there, sir. Rick Miceli, that’s me,” Rick said loudly, pointing first at the blackboard and then at himself. And immediately realised he sounded like an explorer greeting a native chief. Embarrassed, Rick glanced back over his own shoulder, as if someone else might have spoken. No one had, so he turned back again with a weak smile, and shifted his bag from right hand to left, then put it on the floor between them.
“I’m Boy,” the huge man said, his broad, brown face bursting into a spectacular smile that crinkled his eyes into slits. His voice was unexpectedly soft and high pitched. “Welcome to Aotearoa New Zealand. The Rotorua Rocket departs in two minutes. I’ll take your bag, OK?” Boy reached down and effortlessly lifted the heavy bag, and headed for the exit door. In spite of his bulk, he moved easily through the crush of people, and Rick had to stride out to keep pace.
The Rocket turned out to be a comfortable eight-seater mini-bus with ‘Rotorua-Auckland Shuttle’ on both sides. “Take the front seat”, said Boy, as he headed for the back with Rick’s bag, “there’s just you an’ me, bro.”
Rick opened the front door and was startled by the steering wheel. Quickly he checked the other cars nearby. OK, they were all right hand drive. He left the driver’s door ajar, as if he’d just opened it to be polite, and went to the other side.
“How come I’m your only passenger?” asked Rick as they drove away from the airport terminal, apparently on the wrong side of the road.
Boy giggled. “Hehehe.” A light, almost manic sort of giggle, full of fun and mischief. Rick could hardly believe that this massive man could make such an adolescent sound.
“I just dropped off a full load of Japanese. Been at Rotorua playing golf. So your hotel got me to collect you. Better than going back empty, an’ you can keep me awake, eh? Hehehe. Why you going to Rotorua? Not golf too?”
“Hell no,” said Rick, “divorce. Not to get a divorce. I just got one of those, in New York. In my lawyer’s office I picked up a travel magazine. About New Zealand. Steam pools and trout fishing and sheep ranches. Different from New York as you can get. Right away I knew that was what I needed. Something different.”
Boy considered that for a moment. “Yeah, me too bro,” he said. “Maybe I should go to New York. I could get a divorce! Hehehe”.
In twenty minutes they were in the country. Not just the suburbs, the real country, like the photographs in the magazine. Green fields marked out with trim hedges. Black and white cows. Farmhouses with pickup trucks and four-wheel ATV bikes outside. Smoky blue hills, or maybe mountains, in the distance. And light. Rick had never seen this light. Clean and deep and clear, like clear was a colour. How the world looked without make-up. Not like New York at all. Maybe someplace at home looked like this. Iowa? Probably not these days. Twenty years ago? Forty?
Boy provided genuine entertainment as they drove south. Stories about the history of the big river beside the road, and about the land and the towns and villages they passed. Hilarious stories about his many relatives, who seemed to be represented in every one of those towns and villages. And also stories about the land wars of the nineteenth century. Just up here was a big battle, over there was another one. English boys got their arse kicked there. Hehehe. Rick tried to imagine the Indian wars with 300-pound tattooed Sioux warriors. Bye bye Custer.
They stopped for gas at a tiny roadside cluster of tired houses bracketing a glittering new gas station. While Boy talked and giggled with the owner, who was apparently a distant cousin, Rick browsed the magazines. One had a cover photograph of an unshaven young man in a thick checked shirt that hung down to his knees, holding a dead fish as big as a coffee table. The caption read “Snapper Hot Spots Exposed”, which Rick briefly imagined might be a guide to the erogenous zones of fish. No wonder it had those Mick Jagger lips.
“Hit the road, eh?” Boy said, handing Rick a soda and a candy bar. It was a Mars Bar, just like home, but the soda was unfamiliar. As they pulled back onto the highway, Rick took a sip from the bottle.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, looking at the label in surprise.
“That’s L & P, bro. Lemon and Paeroa. Don’t you have L & P in New York?”
Rick was still studying the label. “Well I’ve sure never heard of it”, he said.
Boy appeared deeply shocked. “And I always thought L & P really was world famous”, he said. Then, after a few seconds, he allowed his dismayed expression to dissolve into another big grin. “Hehehe”, he added. Then Rick chuckled too, although he was not really sure why. So he took another sip. This stuff wasn’t all that bad, once you got used to it.
“OK if I turn on the radio?” Boy asked. He jabbed a button on the dash. “I always listen to this talkback. Muzza. Real funny bugger, eh. ” He turned up the volume.
“… on your wish list. Now, what else is happenin’ out there? What’s gettin’ up your nose? Other than ya finger, I mean. Give Uncle Muzza a call. We’ve got a couple a’ lines free. Do you come here often? … that’s one good line. And here’s another one; it’s line two, with … who? With Bruce? So, Brucie, what’s happening?”
“Hey Muzza. Bruce here…”
“Yeah, Brucie, go for it. You’re on the air.”
“…about the All Blacks. Bunch of bloody fairies, if you ask me. How much do these jokers get paid? They can’t even beat the bloody frogs. Jeez, I was absolutely gutted. Couldn’t even watch the last ten minutes. And what about that pommie ref? Doesn’t even know the rules of the game.”
“Brucie, you’re on to it, son. At the end a’ the day, if New Zill’nd can’t beat the frogs, how we gunna go against Oz or the Boks? I’ll tell ya, Brucie. We’ll get totally dicked...”
Rick looked at Boy in confusion. “What in hell are these guys talking about?” he asked.
Boy lowered the radio volume and leaned towards Rick, as if preparing to reveal something of great importance. “Rugby, bro”, he said in a deeply reverential tone, like a cautious mourner at a funeral. “The national game. It’s religion down here.”
“It is? Not soccer? Rugby? Kinda like football, but they wear shorts and no helmets? You really like that down here?”
Boy laughed, his eyes all but disappearing again. “Bro, we don’t like rugby, we love it. Our All Blacks are the best team in the world.”
“Then who are the frogs?” Rick asked, with a sly smile.
“Hehehe. Yeah, that’s what we all want to know. They’re the bloody French mate”.
“You’re kidding me. France plays rugby?”
“They can beat anyone on their day. Not consistent, but brilliant backs. Beat the USA by fifty points in the last World Cup.”
“Now I know you’re kidding”, Rick said. “The USA has a rugby team? And there’s a World Cup in rugby? Really?”
“Course there is!”
“Wow. I thought rugby was just one of those weird ethnic sports, like that game where they slide big stones along the ice in Canada. I didn’t know anyone played rugby as a proper sport. Like a major sport.”
Boy looked at Rick, for the first time with a serious expression. “Better keep that to yourself down here, bro.” Said very gently, and with no giggle. He reached for the radio.
“… stupid politicians. Couldn’t organise a booze-up in a brewery, any of ‘em. Anyway, let’s hear from Frances. Whadda you reckon, love?”
“Is it me? Am I on? Are you there?”
“Yes Frances, what’s on yer mind, sweetheart?”
“It’s not just the politicians. What’s wrong with this country is the Maoris. Now I’m not saying it’s all of them. I’m not. I know some good ones. Work hard, pay their bills, just like you and me. But there’s an element. That’s where the problem is with the Maoris. An element, and they give the rest of them a bad name. Dole bludgers. And crime. Do you realise ninety percent of the criminals in our jails are Maoris?”
“Aw… yeah, no… I don’t think it’s that high, Frances.”
“Yes it is, don’t tell me about Maoris. Look at the Raglan racecourse, they …”
“Golf.”
“What?”
“Golf course. You mean golf course.”
“No I don’t. It was the Raglan racecourse, thank you very much. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Gone to rack and ruin it has, now that the Maoris have got it. They all want something for nothing, and then they …”
Rick glanced at Boy, who was looking as cheerful as ever. “Look,” he said, “you’re a Maori, right? Doesn’t it make you mad to hear people say this kind of stuff? Wouldn’t you like to knock some sense into her head?”
Boy turned towards Rick again, and suddenly widened his eyes in an alarming fashion and poked his tongue out. Way out. The effect was so ferocious and unexpected that Rick rocked back in his seat in momentary fright. Then, just as suddenly, the fearsome mask was replaced by the familiar huge grin. “Sorry bro, just kidding. Once were warriors, eh? Hehehe. That lady, she won’t change her mind anyway. Doesn’t matter what I say. Anyway, I’m here working, running my business, and she’s sitting on the couch bitching on the radio. Probably got a little fluffy dog on her lap, you know, the ones that looks like a slipper.” He gestured towards the radio, where Frances was still whining.
“… all I’m saying. One country and one set of rules for everyone. That’s what we went to war for. And look at the Maori battalion. They were in it with our boys, side by side. They did very well, too. Of course, all their officers were Europeans.”
“Um… no. I don’t think so, Frances.”
“Oh yes they were, everyone knows that. You’re too young, I suppose, so you wouldn’t know anything about it. But they still did very well in the war, considering ….”
“OK, fair enough, Frances, good as gold. Thanks for callin’ and havin’ your say. And next we’ll have Margaret, on the other side a’ these messages …”
Boy dropped the volume again. “Hey Rick, you have talkback like this on the radio at home?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Rick. “Well, I guess we do. Tell the truth I don’t listen to much radio. Radio’s a driving thing, and I don’t own a car.”
“What? No car? True?” Boy was astounded, and clearly a little doubtful, at Rick’s admission.
“You bet. Anyway, I guess our talkback stations get callers like that too. You know, racists and bigots.”
“Aw, that lady’s not really much of a racist, bro. Just a bit lonely, that’s all. Calls Muzza when she gets sick o’ talking to that fluffy slipper.” Boy was clearly delighted at this image; the little dog getting interminable lectures about lazy Maoris, and drunken teenagers in loud cars ("Where are the parents, that’s what I want to know"), and about law and order. Hehehe, Hehehe. His belly bounced against the wheel as he stretched for the radio controls.
“… got absolutely no idea, Margaret. Why d’ya say that?”
“Because they brought it all on themselves, the Americans. They shove their culture down the throats of the rest of the world, but when they get some of their own medicine, well they can’t take it, can they? You’ve only got to look at that awful World Trade business with those terrorists crashing those planes. If America wasn’t always running around the world telling everyone else what to do, that would never have happened. And look at that Gulf War. They only went because of the oil. America wouldn’t have cared what that Saddle Hussein did to Kuwait, if they didn’t have oil. And he’s still killing his own people. You know, those Turks. But America doesn’t care about the Turks because they’ve got no oil.”
“Ahh … ya mean the Kurds, dontcha Margaret?”
“That’s what I said. Kurds. And it’s all very well, having a McDonalds on every corner, but in some of those poor countries, a Big Mac costs a months’ wages. Do you know, for the cost of one nuclear submarine, AIDS and world hunger could be completely …”
Rick pointed at the radio, finger quivering with his sudden anger. “I don’t believe this. I’ve been hearing this same liberal garbage ever since September 11. I live in New York. I saw the World Trade Centre. I see it every goddam day, when I go to work. Why do people blame America?”
Boy concentrated on the road, saying nothing, wishing Margaret was finished. She wasn’t.
“… makes America think they’ve got the right to bully everyone else? America could learn a lot from those third world countries.”
“Yeah… what would that be, Margaret?”
“Everything. Alternative medicines. Respect for the environment. And cultural things. But no, America just says have some Coca-Cola and Hollywood movies. Well, life’s not a Hollywood movie.”
“Yeah, that’s right” Rick shouted at the radio, “all Americans really think life is just a Hollywood movie. You stupid, ignorant old bat!”
He realised he was yelling at a dashboard, and looked sheepishly at Boy. “Sorry, man” he said. “It just really burns me up when I hear people blame America for everything that’s wrong with the world.”
“Well, call Muzza and say so,” Boy said, pointing at the cell phone in its cradle on the dash. “Tell him what you think, eh.”
Rick waved his hand from side to side. “Oh no, I can’t do that. I just got here.”
“So what? You can still have your say. Here, I’ll dial the number for you.” Boy punched the digits into the phone, and then stopped, finger poised over the ‘SEND’ button. He looked across at Rick, eyes wide, eyes putting the question: Money where the mouth is, bro? Hehehe.
“OK, why not? Do it.”
The finger jabbed once, and Rick heard the ringing tone amplified through an unseen speaker. Boy pointed to a small microphone clipped to the sun visor. “Hands free, see. You just talk.”
A bored voice answered the phone.
“Welcome to Talkback with Muzza. Before you go on air we’ll need your first name and the subject you want to talk about.”
“It’s Rick. I want to reply to the woman who’s knocking America.”
“And you’re a Yank yourself are you, Rick? You sound like a Yank.”
“Yes, I …”
“Righto, Rick, just hang on a sec.”
Then they could hear Muzza through the phone speaker. Boy turned the car radio off.
“… all the way with LBJ. Speaking of which, we’ve got an American on line one. Rick. Yer on the air, Ricky.”
“Thank you, sir. I want to respond to the last caller.”
“Ahhh… Margaret.”
“Yes, sir. Her view of America is a little unfair, and I’d like to say why.”
“Yeah… OK, Ricky, go for it.”
“Thank you, sir. First, she says the World Trade Centre was America’s fault. And that just is not correct. It was an unprovoked act of terrorism, committed by fanatics on the orders of an international outlaw. It wasn’t in response to anything America did; it happened because extremist maniacs have cast the west as the enemy of Islam. And America is their only worthwhile western target, because it’s the only western country the terrorists can count on to fight back. Which is exactly what they want.”
“Ahh… yeah. No. Yeah. Is that it, Ricky?”
“No sir. The lady accuses America of always meddling in other countries’ affairs. America tried to stay out of two world wars, and a whole lot of lesser wars since. We don’t start these situations, but mostly we turn out to be the only country that can end them. But when we step in, we’re meddling.”
“Ahh…”
“ And my final point, sir, is that Coca-Cola and McDonalds are not agents of the devil. They’re just businesses, providing things that people want, all around the world. They buy local goods and services; they pay taxes and provide jobs. Just because some people in a country can’t afford a Big Mac right now doesn’t mean we shouldn’t go there. If we don’t go, they’ll never be able to afford it. And that’s about all I have to say right now. Thank you, sir, for the opportunity.”
“Yeah… right, Ricky. Ahh… how long did ya say you’ve been here in Godzone?”
“I just arrived today.”
“Today, eh? And where’ya from in the States again?”
“New York, sir”
“New York, New York: the Big Banana, eh? Well good on ya. So tell me, Ricky, whaddya think of New Zill’nd?”
Rick couldn’t think of a thing to say. Boy reached over and jabbed the phone off, glancing at Rick and quickly looking back at the road. Rick breathed deeply and listened to the soft rush of the tyres on the asphalt. And then he heard something else. Hehehe. Hehehe.
Rick opened the front door and was startled by the steering wheel. Quickly he checked the other cars nearby. OK, they were all right hand drive. He left the driver’s door ajar, as if he’d just opened it to be polite, and went to the other side.
“How come I’m your only passenger?” asked Rick as they drove away from the airport terminal, apparently on the wrong side of the road.
Boy giggled. “Hehehe.” A light, almost manic sort of giggle, full of fun and mischief. Rick could hardly believe that this massive man could make such an adolescent sound.
“I just dropped off a full load of Japanese. Been at Rotorua playing golf. So your hotel got me to collect you. Better than going back empty, an’ you can keep me awake, eh? Hehehe. Why you going to Rotorua? Not golf too?”
“Hell no,” said Rick, “divorce. Not to get a divorce. I just got one of those, in New York. In my lawyer’s office I picked up a travel magazine. About New Zealand. Steam pools and trout fishing and sheep ranches. Different from New York as you can get. Right away I knew that was what I needed. Something different.”
Boy considered that for a moment. “Yeah, me too bro,” he said. “Maybe I should go to New York. I could get a divorce! Hehehe”.
In twenty minutes they were in the country. Not just the suburbs, the real country, like the photographs in the magazine. Green fields marked out with trim hedges. Black and white cows. Farmhouses with pickup trucks and four-wheel ATV bikes outside. Smoky blue hills, or maybe mountains, in the distance. And light. Rick had never seen this light. Clean and deep and clear, like clear was a colour. How the world looked without make-up. Not like New York at all. Maybe someplace at home looked like this. Iowa? Probably not these days. Twenty years ago? Forty?
Boy provided genuine entertainment as they drove south. Stories about the history of the big river beside the road, and about the land and the towns and villages they passed. Hilarious stories about his many relatives, who seemed to be represented in every one of those towns and villages. And also stories about the land wars of the nineteenth century. Just up here was a big battle, over there was another one. English boys got their arse kicked there. Hehehe. Rick tried to imagine the Indian wars with 300-pound tattooed Sioux warriors. Bye bye Custer.
They stopped for gas at a tiny roadside cluster of tired houses bracketing a glittering new gas station. While Boy talked and giggled with the owner, who was apparently a distant cousin, Rick browsed the magazines. One had a cover photograph of an unshaven young man in a thick checked shirt that hung down to his knees, holding a dead fish as big as a coffee table. The caption read “Snapper Hot Spots Exposed”, which Rick briefly imagined might be a guide to the erogenous zones of fish. No wonder it had those Mick Jagger lips.
“Hit the road, eh?” Boy said, handing Rick a soda and a candy bar. It was a Mars Bar, just like home, but the soda was unfamiliar. As they pulled back onto the highway, Rick took a sip from the bottle.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, looking at the label in surprise.
“That’s L & P, bro. Lemon and Paeroa. Don’t you have L & P in New York?”
Rick was still studying the label. “Well I’ve sure never heard of it”, he said.
Boy appeared deeply shocked. “And I always thought L & P really was world famous”, he said. Then, after a few seconds, he allowed his dismayed expression to dissolve into another big grin. “Hehehe”, he added. Then Rick chuckled too, although he was not really sure why. So he took another sip. This stuff wasn’t all that bad, once you got used to it.
“OK if I turn on the radio?” Boy asked. He jabbed a button on the dash. “I always listen to this talkback. Muzza. Real funny bugger, eh. ” He turned up the volume.
“… on your wish list. Now, what else is happenin’ out there? What’s gettin’ up your nose? Other than ya finger, I mean. Give Uncle Muzza a call. We’ve got a couple a’ lines free. Do you come here often? … that’s one good line. And here’s another one; it’s line two, with … who? With Bruce? So, Brucie, what’s happening?”
“Hey Muzza. Bruce here…”
“Yeah, Brucie, go for it. You’re on the air.”
“…about the All Blacks. Bunch of bloody fairies, if you ask me. How much do these jokers get paid? They can’t even beat the bloody frogs. Jeez, I was absolutely gutted. Couldn’t even watch the last ten minutes. And what about that pommie ref? Doesn’t even know the rules of the game.”
“Brucie, you’re on to it, son. At the end a’ the day, if New Zill’nd can’t beat the frogs, how we gunna go against Oz or the Boks? I’ll tell ya, Brucie. We’ll get totally dicked...”
Rick looked at Boy in confusion. “What in hell are these guys talking about?” he asked.
Boy lowered the radio volume and leaned towards Rick, as if preparing to reveal something of great importance. “Rugby, bro”, he said in a deeply reverential tone, like a cautious mourner at a funeral. “The national game. It’s religion down here.”
“It is? Not soccer? Rugby? Kinda like football, but they wear shorts and no helmets? You really like that down here?”
Boy laughed, his eyes all but disappearing again. “Bro, we don’t like rugby, we love it. Our All Blacks are the best team in the world.”
“Then who are the frogs?” Rick asked, with a sly smile.
“Hehehe. Yeah, that’s what we all want to know. They’re the bloody French mate”.
“You’re kidding me. France plays rugby?”
“They can beat anyone on their day. Not consistent, but brilliant backs. Beat the USA by fifty points in the last World Cup.”
“Now I know you’re kidding”, Rick said. “The USA has a rugby team? And there’s a World Cup in rugby? Really?”
“Course there is!”
“Wow. I thought rugby was just one of those weird ethnic sports, like that game where they slide big stones along the ice in Canada. I didn’t know anyone played rugby as a proper sport. Like a major sport.”
Boy looked at Rick, for the first time with a serious expression. “Better keep that to yourself down here, bro.” Said very gently, and with no giggle. He reached for the radio.
“… stupid politicians. Couldn’t organise a booze-up in a brewery, any of ‘em. Anyway, let’s hear from Frances. Whadda you reckon, love?”
“Is it me? Am I on? Are you there?”
“Yes Frances, what’s on yer mind, sweetheart?”
“It’s not just the politicians. What’s wrong with this country is the Maoris. Now I’m not saying it’s all of them. I’m not. I know some good ones. Work hard, pay their bills, just like you and me. But there’s an element. That’s where the problem is with the Maoris. An element, and they give the rest of them a bad name. Dole bludgers. And crime. Do you realise ninety percent of the criminals in our jails are Maoris?”
“Aw… yeah, no… I don’t think it’s that high, Frances.”
“Yes it is, don’t tell me about Maoris. Look at the Raglan racecourse, they …”
“Golf.”
“What?”
“Golf course. You mean golf course.”
“No I don’t. It was the Raglan racecourse, thank you very much. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Gone to rack and ruin it has, now that the Maoris have got it. They all want something for nothing, and then they …”
Rick glanced at Boy, who was looking as cheerful as ever. “Look,” he said, “you’re a Maori, right? Doesn’t it make you mad to hear people say this kind of stuff? Wouldn’t you like to knock some sense into her head?”
Boy turned towards Rick again, and suddenly widened his eyes in an alarming fashion and poked his tongue out. Way out. The effect was so ferocious and unexpected that Rick rocked back in his seat in momentary fright. Then, just as suddenly, the fearsome mask was replaced by the familiar huge grin. “Sorry bro, just kidding. Once were warriors, eh? Hehehe. That lady, she won’t change her mind anyway. Doesn’t matter what I say. Anyway, I’m here working, running my business, and she’s sitting on the couch bitching on the radio. Probably got a little fluffy dog on her lap, you know, the ones that looks like a slipper.” He gestured towards the radio, where Frances was still whining.
“… all I’m saying. One country and one set of rules for everyone. That’s what we went to war for. And look at the Maori battalion. They were in it with our boys, side by side. They did very well, too. Of course, all their officers were Europeans.”
“Um… no. I don’t think so, Frances.”
“Oh yes they were, everyone knows that. You’re too young, I suppose, so you wouldn’t know anything about it. But they still did very well in the war, considering ….”
“OK, fair enough, Frances, good as gold. Thanks for callin’ and havin’ your say. And next we’ll have Margaret, on the other side a’ these messages …”
Boy dropped the volume again. “Hey Rick, you have talkback like this on the radio at home?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Rick. “Well, I guess we do. Tell the truth I don’t listen to much radio. Radio’s a driving thing, and I don’t own a car.”
“What? No car? True?” Boy was astounded, and clearly a little doubtful, at Rick’s admission.
“You bet. Anyway, I guess our talkback stations get callers like that too. You know, racists and bigots.”
“Aw, that lady’s not really much of a racist, bro. Just a bit lonely, that’s all. Calls Muzza when she gets sick o’ talking to that fluffy slipper.” Boy was clearly delighted at this image; the little dog getting interminable lectures about lazy Maoris, and drunken teenagers in loud cars ("Where are the parents, that’s what I want to know"), and about law and order. Hehehe, Hehehe. His belly bounced against the wheel as he stretched for the radio controls.
“… got absolutely no idea, Margaret. Why d’ya say that?”
“Because they brought it all on themselves, the Americans. They shove their culture down the throats of the rest of the world, but when they get some of their own medicine, well they can’t take it, can they? You’ve only got to look at that awful World Trade business with those terrorists crashing those planes. If America wasn’t always running around the world telling everyone else what to do, that would never have happened. And look at that Gulf War. They only went because of the oil. America wouldn’t have cared what that Saddle Hussein did to Kuwait, if they didn’t have oil. And he’s still killing his own people. You know, those Turks. But America doesn’t care about the Turks because they’ve got no oil.”
“Ahh … ya mean the Kurds, dontcha Margaret?”
“That’s what I said. Kurds. And it’s all very well, having a McDonalds on every corner, but in some of those poor countries, a Big Mac costs a months’ wages. Do you know, for the cost of one nuclear submarine, AIDS and world hunger could be completely …”
Rick pointed at the radio, finger quivering with his sudden anger. “I don’t believe this. I’ve been hearing this same liberal garbage ever since September 11. I live in New York. I saw the World Trade Centre. I see it every goddam day, when I go to work. Why do people blame America?”
Boy concentrated on the road, saying nothing, wishing Margaret was finished. She wasn’t.
“… makes America think they’ve got the right to bully everyone else? America could learn a lot from those third world countries.”
“Yeah… what would that be, Margaret?”
“Everything. Alternative medicines. Respect for the environment. And cultural things. But no, America just says have some Coca-Cola and Hollywood movies. Well, life’s not a Hollywood movie.”
“Yeah, that’s right” Rick shouted at the radio, “all Americans really think life is just a Hollywood movie. You stupid, ignorant old bat!”
He realised he was yelling at a dashboard, and looked sheepishly at Boy. “Sorry, man” he said. “It just really burns me up when I hear people blame America for everything that’s wrong with the world.”
“Well, call Muzza and say so,” Boy said, pointing at the cell phone in its cradle on the dash. “Tell him what you think, eh.”
Rick waved his hand from side to side. “Oh no, I can’t do that. I just got here.”
“So what? You can still have your say. Here, I’ll dial the number for you.” Boy punched the digits into the phone, and then stopped, finger poised over the ‘SEND’ button. He looked across at Rick, eyes wide, eyes putting the question: Money where the mouth is, bro? Hehehe.
“OK, why not? Do it.”
The finger jabbed once, and Rick heard the ringing tone amplified through an unseen speaker. Boy pointed to a small microphone clipped to the sun visor. “Hands free, see. You just talk.”
A bored voice answered the phone.
“Welcome to Talkback with Muzza. Before you go on air we’ll need your first name and the subject you want to talk about.”
“It’s Rick. I want to reply to the woman who’s knocking America.”
“And you’re a Yank yourself are you, Rick? You sound like a Yank.”
“Yes, I …”
“Righto, Rick, just hang on a sec.”
Then they could hear Muzza through the phone speaker. Boy turned the car radio off.
“… all the way with LBJ. Speaking of which, we’ve got an American on line one. Rick. Yer on the air, Ricky.”
“Thank you, sir. I want to respond to the last caller.”
“Ahhh… Margaret.”
“Yes, sir. Her view of America is a little unfair, and I’d like to say why.”
“Yeah… OK, Ricky, go for it.”
“Thank you, sir. First, she says the World Trade Centre was America’s fault. And that just is not correct. It was an unprovoked act of terrorism, committed by fanatics on the orders of an international outlaw. It wasn’t in response to anything America did; it happened because extremist maniacs have cast the west as the enemy of Islam. And America is their only worthwhile western target, because it’s the only western country the terrorists can count on to fight back. Which is exactly what they want.”
“Ahh… yeah. No. Yeah. Is that it, Ricky?”
“No sir. The lady accuses America of always meddling in other countries’ affairs. America tried to stay out of two world wars, and a whole lot of lesser wars since. We don’t start these situations, but mostly we turn out to be the only country that can end them. But when we step in, we’re meddling.”
“Ahh…”
“ And my final point, sir, is that Coca-Cola and McDonalds are not agents of the devil. They’re just businesses, providing things that people want, all around the world. They buy local goods and services; they pay taxes and provide jobs. Just because some people in a country can’t afford a Big Mac right now doesn’t mean we shouldn’t go there. If we don’t go, they’ll never be able to afford it. And that’s about all I have to say right now. Thank you, sir, for the opportunity.”
“Yeah… right, Ricky. Ahh… how long did ya say you’ve been here in Godzone?”
“I just arrived today.”
“Today, eh? And where’ya from in the States again?”
“New York, sir”
“New York, New York: the Big Banana, eh? Well good on ya. So tell me, Ricky, whaddya think of New Zill’nd?”
Rick couldn’t think of a thing to say. Boy reached over and jabbed the phone off, glancing at Rick and quickly looking back at the road. Rick breathed deeply and listened to the soft rush of the tyres on the asphalt. And then he heard something else. Hehehe. Hehehe.
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