Kia Ora Ora

“In the sphere of thought, absurdity and perversity remain the masters of the world, and
their dominion is suspended only for brief periods.” Arthur Schopenhauer

A stentorian voice came over the loudspeakers in the plane.

“We will be descending in ten minutes. All loose luggage must be locked
in the baggage compartment or stored under your Doctor Doolittle feet. Have a
good day.”
Questo-Presto. They were almost there.
She kicked her black velcro travel bag under the seat and peered out the
porthole at the sky outside. There were puffs of clouds in blue space floating in
the southern hemisphere.
Congratulations Loren Ipsum, winner of the Round Robin Tournament
World Tour, on your way to the next place! Zeelandia, land of mountains, mist,
and hot water springs. Or so the tourist brochures said. To her, it was just a stop-
over for a couple of hours. But one better than Gallipoli…oh those tours of
monuments dedicated to battles were endless.
A few minutes later she could see a long shelf of gray gypsum rocks
marking the coast below, then a flat plain of green, then thousands of red tile
roofs –before the sudden application of brakes knocked her back in the seat.
“Oh, my glass crystal elephant from Seriandore,” a high-pitched woman’s
voice cried from the back of the plane.
“Blinking lights ahead,” a man called out as the plane began to bank left.
“Bleeding fast,” another exclaimed as the plane dove toward the runaway,
its engines roaring for a minute before it hit the tarmac.
“Home of Ugg boots,” the woman behind her murmured to her companion
as the plane taxied to a stop.
“That’s Eideldown – the big country across the sea.”
The first woman murmured an apology. “There’s so much to see – I don’t
know how anyone could keep it all straight.”
Package tours could have that effect, Loren told herself. She ought to
know by now. Thirteen stop-overs, trips to every rest area in how many airports
during flight delays to check for mildew growing on her back.
Boom! The vacuum sealed plane door was opened and passengers
began to file out onto the ramp connecting it to the terminal.
*
There was an international crisis in the main lounge adjacent to the
baggage pick-up area. A man in a gray suit with gray-flecked hair and a brown
briefcase tucked under his arm was answering questions from a bevy of
reporters - or space aliens. It was hard to tell which considering the number of
silver reception dishes propped up on big, white vans parked outside the main
gate window.
 She watched the tan satchel, roly-poly plaid suitcase, and red plastic
backpack passing by on the revolving, rubber baggage rack while she kept her
eye out for her own non-nonsense folding suit bag which carried everything she
could stuff in it. From the lounge she could hear the nasal accent of the American
responding to questions from the press. It sounded like a lot of humbug.
“I’m here to ensure that our countries find a mutually agreeable solution to
the matter.”
“Yes, a statement will be issued shortly.”
“No, I cannot comment further on that.”
“Of course, we are concerned…”
“I will have no further comment on that at this time.”
“I’m sure we will find a solution which adheres to the spirit of international
law soon.”
“Our government will issue a statement on that shortly.”
“I cannot give you details on that now.”
Her black folding suit bag with the red Aztec logo on the side came into
view and she stepped quickly toward the revolving baggage rack to retrieve it.
Hum-Vee America had sent a representative here to address the never-ending
questions about of free trade, diplomacy, and travel. Clapping the bag over her
back and pulling the shoulder straps firmly around her arms, she headed for the
terminal exit where the RRT representative was supposed to be waiting for her.
He was. With the same bevy of space alien reporters who had questioned
the humble American in the stiff suit. He introduced himself as Mr. Eagen, leader
of the local RRT chapter, in a whisper. Then he motioned for her to stand next to
him while the photographers snapped pictures, jotted down her name, asked for
the spelling of her home town Ypsilanti, Michigan, and inquired what she was
looking forward to during a brief hop-over in Zeelandia.
“Twenty-four hours of rest.”
“Dinner with the Tournament hosts.”
“Craven’s, I believe.”
“Once before…”
It was short, quick, and over before it started. The mocha-colored compact
car with the thin wheels backed out of the parking space and darted down the
narrow aisle toward the EXIT sign at the edge of the airport.
“Your accommodations are all set,” Mr. Eagen told her once they were on
the highway. “You’ll be staying at the Whangapuri Motel over night. The
arrangements are for me to pick you up at 5, take you to Craven’s – finest bit of
sirloin you’ll want to taste - welcome cocktails till 7, then dinner and speakers till
10, although some may want to stay longer. More than fifty people are expected.
We’re delighted to have you in the land of white clouds. “
She looked out the window at the passing cars as they drove by the city –
square, white stucco houses, foliage plants blanketing grassy lawns, a few office
towers rising up in the distance. The Pacific, she reminded herself. Warm
climate, tropical rain, giant ferns. No snakes. A heliopolis of sun, sand, and
volcanic water geysers. Did the motel have a pool? She turned to ask Mr. Egan
who was spinning the steering wheel sharply towards an off-ramp.

2
 *
The black, volcanic mountain of Rangitoto protruded over the horizon on
her left. It floated in the harbor of the city built around it, looking like a stone-age
dinosaur on the hunt for food in the middle of the night, it’s back covered with
dense vegetation. The guidebook said it was the site of strange rituals in the
spring celebrating the hanging of a man who tried to overthrow Parliament. It
seemed a dubious thing to commemorate, but the bonfire bakes were supposed
to be terrific.
Mr. Eagen dropped her off at the motel “precisely at 2:14.” He would
return “exactly at 5:00” to pick her up for the banquet. “Oh, just a few plates of
fried rice, a keg of Bartley’s beer, maybe some champagne sherbet.” Casual
clothes were just fine if….he peered at her folding suit bag….that was all she
had. He was sorry to rush but he had to complete some work this afternoon and
the trip to the airport had taken him half the day.
She waved as he drove off, his little car making tiny putt-putt noises as he
stepped on the gas to merge onto the highway. The motel lobby was an
ostentatious affair with bright green vinyl club chairs set around a highly polished,
varnished wood table cut from a probably now vanished tree species. A fat man
wearing a short-sleeved, lime-green shirt came out of a door behind the counter.
“Do you have a reservation?” he asked her, opening a huge ledger on the
counter.
“Sure do,” she told him, pulling out a slip from her slouch bag.
“No trouble getting here, I hope?”
“There was someone waiting at the airport.”
“Good show!” he said approvingly.
He took her reservation slip and ran his finger down the side of the huge
ledger while he searched for her name.
“Ippie, “Ipsilam, Ipsum,” he muttered when he found it. “Humerican, is it?”
“Right-ho,” she replied smiling.
He asked her to sign the register, then handed her a key to room 14, right
off the lobby. How sorry he was to tell her that the pool was closed – lumbar
elements broke when a flock of Hinokatanga flocked in yesterday. They could
make a mess of things – be open in a day or two.
There was a tide pool over by Portcullis Road if she didn’t mind a short
walk – ten blocks straight down the side road over there. A bit deep, mind – hot
springs below, spits crickets at night – but good for a quick dip. It was just down
from Kaegora Hill – still standing, although there’s been talk about razing it for a
helioport. Traffic gets heavy here because of the airport – international arrivals,
cruise ships, cargo ships, a big increase in immigrants.
“We had Leif Erikson – but he left. Too cold,” she told him smartly.
He handed her the keys and waddled out from behind the counter to show
her to her room. Outside the lobby door they stopped, looking at a caravan of
black sedans sweeping by on the outer highway.
“Koloyano motorcade, I’ll bet,” he told her. “Straight from the Solomon
Islands, here for negotiations about seasonal workers. Dipsomaniac, saw it in the
papers this morning, rented an entire floor of balcony suites at the Sky Tower.”

3
 He ushered her down the sidewalk toward her room. “Used to be a sleepy
place out here, on the edge of town, but the air corridor’s changed all that.”
“I know what you mean,” she responded. “Congestion everywhere.”
“Ring zero if you need anything,” he told her, pointing to number 14
painted in pale green on the door. “Matahuana - Bye.”
“Metaponga – See you later,” she replied.
*
Absorbent towels. Packets of freeze-dried coffee. Tea bags. The motel
room was loaded with amenities. A florescent olive-green and yellow bedspread
covered the queen-size bed, its spiral glory reflected in the huge, ornate, vine-
painted mirror which filled a quarter of the front wall.
She could see herself in lurid color standing in front of the bedspread.
Tonight she would have to speak to the assembled Tournament supporters who
had given her this gift of world travel.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she would begin. “Thank you for welcoming me
to the Round Robin Tournament banquet this evening. There will be no banging
on the plates before dinner.”
“I owe my success to the solid principles of practice, hard work, and luck.
That’s right. Luck is the key ingredient. Our former president, for example, had a
dog named Lucky. He was rescued from the pound (sorry you gave up the pound
for the dollar. No more pence, shillings, and thrupence these days.) Lucky got a
quick shampoo, a velvet neck ribbon, and went on camera. It tells you that an
conservative will do anything to save costs.”
She would continue to describe her inveterate discipline, performance
practice, and steady progress. Then she would express her appreciation to the
group for her recent experiences on the World Tour. Highlights included riding
camels with four Berkman in Saz, climbing the parapet in Locanvilla, seeing the
Percale Exhibit in Mynalore, and rafting down the Pettybog in Mazulapan. It was
an experience no one could ever forget. Finally, she would end with a Latin motto
– nunquam non paratus! Do something every day! Something she remembered
from her school days.
*
The television set looked like a crate ready to be taken to the warehouse.
It took her several minutes to discover it was decorated with climbing vines, raffia
brown twine, to enhance the décor. Motel rooms were dull, dusty, boring. It was a
shame to waste the afternoon peering at reruns of Chopper 9, Baywatch, or
Tandoori Cooking. Better to go out for a walk – maybe to the tidal pool where she
could dip her feet in cool water. The islands had every kind of environment –
snow peaked mountains, an hourglass coastline which hugged dense forests, a
rapier sword of land at the tip. She’d seen the map in the guidebook on the
plane. It was conch color with pockets of pale green dotted in the middle.
The Razmataz suit was at the bottom of the folding bag, wrapped in a
straw belt, overflowing with pebbles from Mt. Lihana where she had walked for
three days in a row. It had red stripes with muted purple waves running across it
– an advertisement for a surfboard if ever there was one. So far, there had been

4
no surfing on this trip but she had come prepared. She had a linen shirt with long
tails which could be used as a sail if she ran across anyone with a flat board.
“Whahini-girl,” she told the mirror, stepping out of the bathroom in the suit
and pouring her legs into baggy pants and a shirt (pink polyester with a
guarantee of a hundred washings before it shredded.) “Time waits for no man,”
she announced to the door, pulling it open to see the dreary parking lot still
bathed in artificial light from the street lamp overhead.
She jogged, tip-toed, strode, back-jacked, and crawled down the sidewalk
away from the motel. Her calf muscles were tight from sitting on the plane waiting
for phlebitis to form in the cavities behind her knees. There were two-and-a-half
steps for every square of concrete which smothered mother earth. Compact cars
whizzed past, windows wide open, faces with ruddy tans rushing across town –
business, work, meetings - the weekday bother.
Idling at 2 MPH she saw the sidewalk start to peter a thousandth of a
kilometer ahead. It came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of a rock cliff where
graffiti had been painted on the lower right. She could just make out the faded
words, worn by wind and weather, possibly the exhaust from the airport nearby:
WIFFLE BALL. She hadn’t brought one of those; maybe it was a popular sport
out here.
Portcullis Road the sign hung over the highway said, with an arrow
pointing toward the right. On the left of the rock cliff, there was a slender path -
sandy, with ferns growing on the side - which seemed to dip steeply downward.
She inched her way up to the edge and peered over the edge of the sidewalk.
“Bonga Basin!” she exclaimed. It was like the photo she’d seen of a huge,
hidden lake in the middle of gigantic mountains near Nepaz. When it froze in
winter, people delighted in bouncing balls off the surface to see if they could hit
the peak of a mountain. The trouble was, very few people could get to the basin
because there were only donkey trails through the mountain gorges.
She peered down at the sloping path again, hitched up her baggy pants,
and started down the twisting, steep, slippery path, gaining steam as she slipped
and slithered on her way to the bottom.
“Beulaville!” she cried when she got there. It was a big pond with a bunch
of thick lotus pods on one side, their green vines spreading across the dark water
which bubbled every couple of seconds. It was a subterranean wonder, a natural
pond erupting from some deep, watery channel underneath. “Terr-i-bly nice,” she
announced from the bottom of the path. Still unbulldozed, hidden under a hunk of
huge rocks dropped before the development of multi-fabricated granite
manufactured especially for commercial purposes. It was like discovering an
umbilical cord to early man’s natural habitat.
“Bing, bang, boom!” she announced, stripping off her shirt and baggy
pants. Diving was her forte. A quick pose on the edge and she would be flowing
through the water with the swiftest of ease. Cutting through it like a knife, slicing
through the dark, cool water, feeling her hair ripple out behind her.
She poised herself on the bank, then dove.
*

5
 The spume of bubbles floated up before her eyes, a wavering cylinder of
water gushing out of the ground which seemed to rise to the surface in the
middle of the dark water of the pond. It looked like stars were rising from a
pneumatic tube in the earth’s core toward the sky. Molten rock lay there -
burning, smoldering, melting - waiting for something to release it into the open
air.
She held her breath in the water, watching the bubbles rise to the surface.
They were tiny cells, clear crystals, baubles blown upward by hot air, a force she
could not see. They streamed from the bottom, collected in unseen underground
channels, and burst into the water like spray from a whale breaching the surface.
She could barely see through the deep, green water around the percolating
bubbles which mesmerized her.
They were sitting at the tot’s table on the greensward covering the
promontory whose sharp cliffs jutted over the ocean. It was a tiny table, with
three inch legs, square, cut from untreated wood, with a white table cloth spread
across it. Two men in brown jodhpurs, one with a horse whip, sat on one side;
two men in striped ruby-turquoise straw robes on the other, their big bare feet the
color of walrus.
They were conducting a ritual dance. The first two men bowed their
heads, tapped on the tablecloth, nodded exaggeratedly. The second two men
shook their heads, pointed at the lawn, and stomped their feet on the ground.
The first two men were wearing giant, black, hard hats with red tassels on top
while the second two waved walrus arms back and forth. “Maunihunga,” one
said distinctly, planting his bare foot on the greensward. “Onoplungea,” a black
hat replied, cocking it to the right and looking straight at the edge of the
promontory where it dropped off into the sea.
“Olli-ollie-ossin-free,” a child’s voice cried in the distance. A young girl in
a pink dress with a square neck and bouffant sleeves came running across the
greensward toward the tiny tot’s table. The four men turned to watch her, staring
at the flying dervish crossing the lawn. “Tea,” she announced when she reached
them. “Tea and crumpets, please.” “Ten pence,” the black hat said, putting his
palm out. “Petty foie gras,” the girl declared, glaring at him. He laughed. The little
girl stared at him, then rose from the ground on a wave of wind and floated off
over the promontory.
The pond water was dense, thick, soft, as if it had been mixed with a
conditioner put in a washing machine. Her head was resting on a flat helium
balloon, a lotus pod which felt like a stuffed pillow. “Grog,” she said, coughing out
a splatter of water when she spoke. “Crag,” she coughed again. The pod was
pale green, a vine was climbing over her neck, soon she might be strangled in it
if she rolled over too fast. She shook her head above the water like a dog to free
her hair of moisture, but another vine caught on her mouth and wrapped itself
around her ears when she tried to move. It was like being caught in a web of
intricate creepers. She yanked it off and closed her eyes.
There were tiny blue flowers on the frock, a straw hat with a blue insignia,
a pair of flowered blue pantaloons. A prefect told them: “At all times –wear youre
your gloves on the street, stand up for the elderly, be polite.” It was third form,

6
they had to print neatly, color the map, practice sewing stitches. Where was it?
Kneeling in chapel, and your mouth shall shew forth thy praise. Domine deus,
conjugate the Latin verbs in class: amo, amas, amat, Gallia est omnis divisit in
tres partes. Where was it? Lacrosse games at four, playing field with a fence at
the end, drive the long shot into the wire, whoop when you make it, wave the
stick in the air. Teddy Roosevelt’s gone!
She rolled over in the pond, smelling the heavy scent of putrefaction from
the banks, slipping onto a cool, watery pod which seemed to hold her suspended
in the water. Her eye lids felt heavy, swollen from the water, and her ear lobes
tingled as if they had hundreds of tiny, silver charms from a bracelet on them.
The school had sent the letter, how nice to hear from you again, we are
settled, the garden is doing well, thank you for writing, tomorrow is another day,
we will go abroad. Her school chum. Who answered once and not again. Her first
days at school, punishment for disobeying the rules, big stick, whack on the
knuckles. Corporal punishment. Scared to go to school. Hide under the bed
clothes, hide in the corner, hide in the closet. Punishment. Banishment now.
The newsletter by an ex-pat working on the radio, together we shall win.
The cool, dusky water seeped into her ears. She raised her head and
leaned over to let the water run out of her ears. She was drifting on a water-
borne carpet, silver-blue-turquoise threads from the sky keeping her afloat,
arms resting on soft vines, pale green mixed with nougat candy or pieces of
halvah.
Where was she then? Her temples throbbed. Where was she now? In the
pool at Mohenjo Daro, terraces of water dripping over carved stone, the shrine on
the peak of the hill with silver amulets hanging from the roof? Were there lychee
nuts on the trees? Sarongs amid the tea leaves? Water beakers on swaying
heads? The answer kept slipping away. Was it Pele Bar? Pickillili Deli?
Plumber’s Restaurant? She felt herself float free, drifting off the soft pillow,
skimming the surface of the cool, dark water.
Gruesome Americans…rulers of the free world…all bow…roll out the red
carpet…security is our primary concern…we must not let them defeat us…allies
will stand together…there is no going back…this is a new world…prosperity will
be ours…free trade…foreign investment…one world united…the global village.
A drop of cold water struck her forehead. Her eyes flashed open for a brief
second. The pond was blurred, she could see a huge, rotting creeper vine
stranded in the center, it looked like a black lagoon with huge green-silver fish
lying on the surface, puffed up, bloated, still. A second drop fell on her forehead –
plop – and rolled over her temple into the pond. She had drifted under the rock
cliff. She raised her head, feeling it touch the rock, feeling ice-cold water stream
down the back of her neck.
She had worn the Tiki god around her neck, squat legs, arms akimbo,
round face with big cheeks, a tiny hole for a chain necklace, jade green, natural
rock, carved by hand, her favorite thing. Gods of the past, gods of the natural
world, where were they now? Under ground gods, gods of the rivers, the creeks,
the streams, gods of the deep, dark cavities in the earth, gods of the sky who
saw everything from the upper stratosphere with unblinking eyes..

7
 The steady drip of water kept beating on her head.
Antarctica was melting. A giant glacier was going to break off, an ocean of
water would swell the sea, the earth would drown. The water would swamp Bora
Bora, Samoa, Tahiti. Was this it? There would be life in a terrarium. Only the
volcanic mountains rising like crumbling, onyx hills from the ocean would survive.
She could feel something sharp at the back of her neck. She reached up
with her hand to touch the jagged edge of the rock-cliff. Rolling on her side, she
looked up at the razor-sheer cliff, rock cut sharp like quartzite with a machine,
plunging down into the cavity of the pond. There was a path leading upward
somewhere, up toward the highway, up toward the vast expanse of sky above
she needed to find.
She could almost remember. Waitamere…Whanerei…Whanapui. All
those years ago she had lived here. The South Pacific. Paradise. Dreamland.
Now on tour. On her way to Japan. After Teipei…Thailand…Zeelandia.
*
Mr. Eagen had on a dinner jacket – black silk lapels with a rainbow-striped
bow-tie, reddish hair, cut short, thinning at the temples, slicked back with cream.
He was an avid sportsman – hunted golf balls on weekends, coached rugby
during the season, did a little fly fishing but never read Zane Gray.
“He’s the witchiwholit who camped out on a boat for two weeks to catch
Marlin, right?”
“American frontier guy – went right past the border into uncharted
territory.”
“I dimly recall hearing something about him. But hey, we got sail-board
fishing today…hang a toe off, dip a stick, pull up a fish. Works well.”
They drove in silence for a minute. Pauklano was laid out like a giant
grotto plugged up by one-storey, white houses. It looked like a colonial outpost
with a big, raffia-covered clubhouse hiding somewhere in the distance. Sort of
like the old Raffles Hotel surrounded by huge ice cubes. Cocktails on the
veranda, red coats on parade, company commanders in the dining salon.
Colonialism at its finest. The Financial Times, mutton-chop whiskers,
harrumphing at news from home.
“Dinner tonight is to be local specialties. Red snapper, tourmaline soup,
apricot tart, I understand. There are forty seven registered – all keen on meeting
the winner of RRT. Make sure you have a pen to autograph their albums.”
“Will do, Happy to engrave on arms if you like.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Craven’s is one of our best restaurants. We meet there semi-annually for
elections and a soup-to-nuts dinner without herbicides. All organic meals. We
swear by it.”
“Look, there goes a skateboard-wheelie being towed by a car in the other
lane.” She pointed at the cone-shaped fiberglass white board rolling from one
side of the lane to the other on four, tiny wheels being towed by a car while a
young man in green-and-white polyester shorts stood firmly on top.
“We frown on it. Too dangerous. But it’s a popular sport out here.”

8
 “The car park at last!” Mr. Eagen exclaimed as he flicked on his left turn
signal and darted into an over-crowded lot. A small group was milling together
near the entrance - she could see a organza melon-colored, organza gown, a
silver lame jacket, a black velveteen tail coat over slim jeans. They were chatting
volubly, as if they’d just returned from swap-and-share with some unexpected
treasure.
They hailed Mr. Eagen with a hearty “Halloooo” as he stepped out of the
car. Her green-and-blue crinkle dress with the hem cut into triangular scarves
floating below her knees swayed in the light breeze as they approached the
entrance.
“Welcome to Craven’s!”
“No place better to dine!”
“Spelunking permitted on the outer court!”
The chorus of voices followed them into the restaurant – a huge,
cavernous hollow with round tables covered by polka-dot, pink-and-white, oil-skin
cloth shimmering under tiny light bulbs set in silver candelabras.
A mass of fotogs with big, black cameras came rushing towards her –
video shooting, digital recording, ambylopying in front of her, a half-circle of
pressing shirts, Rolex watches, open mouths. She covered her face with her arm,
blinded by the light.
“How’s it feel…trip…ten dollar winner…touchstone of… Ever been here
before? Torpid…tarantulas…tippling. How long will you stay? What do you plan
to do? What’s your game-plan? Give us a smile, fashion-bug!”
They were gone in five minutes, shooed away by Mr. Eagen who ushered
her to the round table at the rear of Craven’s and seated her by his side. “Tap-to-
roos,” he told her, shaking his head, as he pushed the tan metal chair in with a
grinding sound. “Everywhere these days.”
“There’s a gap between reality and fantasy,” she replied affirmatively.
They tucked into abalone shells filled with seafood, a glint of pearl
gleaming on the bottom. A tall man with a pony tail introduced the first speaker
who spoke of recreational velocity, arm-and-pitch movements, wristband weights.
Diners clapped and cheered, poured bottle beer into glasses, and hoisted them
high over the table with occasional shouts.
“Brinnamyna,” they began to chant as the mound of ivory rice was loaded
onto the tables on leaf-shaped platters. “Brinnamyna, Brinnamyna,”
Mr. Eagen nudged her with his elbow. “They mean ‘bring her on,’” he
whispered.
She looked around at the rose-flushed faces, talcum-powder cheeks,
bright magenta lips smiling as they beat silver knives on the polka dot pink -and-
white tables and rose from her metal chair.
“Hullaballoo and thank you,” she called out above the din. “Thank you for
the grub. No cholesterol tests tomorrow. Can’t say enough about the World Tour.
What a rare delight - rent-a-yak in the Himalayas, tour of the miniature pleasure
dome in Shangdu, my own personal ride in the Batmobile. Little beats it. And in
between, I have to thank the players who have welcomed me, pitched a game or
two, and taken their licks in the greatest sport in the world today.”

9
 There was thunderous laughter from the bleachers.
“Raw truth,” a man’s voice called out.
“Best in class,” a woman’s voice cried.
“Good on you,” a table group yelled, tapping their beer glasses with
knives.
She smiled, waved, blinked when the cameras flashed, and continued to
tell them about her favorite moments from the World Tour. Until she saw Mr.
Eagen out of the corner of her eye pointing at his watch.
“In conclusion, I would like to bestow these words of wisdom upon you.”
She pulled a white index card out of her dress pocket and held it up to the light.
“Ut enim ad minima veniam, quis nostrum exercitationem ellam corporis sscipi,
laboriosam, nisi ut aliquid ex ea commode consequato?’ Or, to put it briefly -
which of us ever undertakes laborious physical exercise, except to obtain some
advantage from it?”
She sat down to a long round of loud applause which was followed by a
toast to “the great lore of Loren.” A table mate said there were rumors of a shot
glass on the way with a hint of liqueur for those who wanted to continue
celebrating. The rest were invited to rise from their metal seats to sing a chorus
of “Good Queen Mother Ship” before departing for the evening.
At midnight, Mr. Eagen drove her back to the motel Whangapuri and
deposited her in front of her door. “I’ll collect you at 11 AM in time for the trip to
the airport,” he yelled through the open window as he roared off into the crystal
clear night.
Inside, she discovered she had vertigo. She lay down on the bed spread
with her blue-green crinkle dress spread out like a doily and slowly slipped into
the deeper realm of the subconscious.
*
Mr. Eagen called at 9 the next morning. He had bad news. He was sorry
to hear it. Arrangements would have to be made. Something was out of order
with her visa. The TTR had not been issued. She would have to meet with airport
officials. Temporary Transit Release. Staying over. He would be back in touch
later in the day.
She stared at the phone in her hand. The receiver was beige, dotted with
dark holes, and emitted a high-pitched tone. It said: Your trip is cancelled. You
are not departing this morning. Your next stop is the ticket office. She felt upset.
A hop-over turned into a stay-over, a heavily ticketed schedule interrupted,
another day’s delay. Arriegato, my dear traveler.
These were the risks of traveling today. Bumped from a flight, hotel
reservations cancelled, itinerary in disarray. She would have to deal with
bureaucracy now. Telephone calls to the airport, conversations with customs
officials, lengthy discussions with airline clerks.
What could be the problem with her visa? Did someone mis-stamp her
passport when she arrived? Or left someplace else? Forget to stamp it at all? Or
was there something wrong about her special, temporary visa granted to
athletes, artists, or performers which had been overlooked before she started out
on the World Tour?

10
 Whatever it was, it would have to be cleared up in a couple of days. If it
wasn’t, her whole trip would be wrecked. She could be stranded here, with non-
refundable tickets. There could be cablegrams racing back-and-forth from
Andalusia to Zanzibar about her unexpected, last minute cancellation of a
planned trip. RRT hosts who had set up exhibition games would be furious.
Still…she stared at the slim figure in the mirror wearing a long, pale green
T-shirt down to her thighs with TETLEY printed across the top. If she was stuck
here, she might try to reach a few people whose names had been tumbling
around during REM sleep when she tried to remember when she lived here.
Her sleep had been Lorca-esque, surreal, filled with half-forgotten
memories. There had been Eden, a grassy, green volcanic hill covered with
grazing sheep. A plate of stiff, frosted white cake. A bowl of green curry
accompanied by orange squash. There had been the click of bowls on an open
lawn, the barrister with his white wig who lived down the street, the headmistress
with the rubber-soled shoes, and the clerk at the stationery store where she
bought a shilling’s worth of candy every week. They had appeared like aromatic
smoke from a volcano, figures from the past, figments of memory, weaving
through her mind.
When had that been? In the paradise of a previous life? Sometime when
she was fermenting ginger beer in glass bottles in a bach on the beach? When
she was picking pouwha shells from black sand? When she was listening to
someone call “co-wee” from a distant porch? Sometime once so familiar, that
now seemed so far away.
She would have to wait for Mr. Eagen to give her the details about the visa
question that afternoon. In the meantime, she might try to make a few calls to
see if she could locate some of the strange, haunting figures she had dreamed
about. They had exchanged letters for years, kept up with Christmas cards, some
even visiting when they traveled to the States – at least until she had become the
star of RRT when news suddenly stopped.
For awhile, she felt as if she had been put in a vacuum-sealed jar where
people stared at her, snapped pictures, and talked about her as if she wasn’t
there. Fame could do that. But deep in her heart, she suspected it was the
organizers who had put her on a different plane, separated her from ordinary life,
and made her only an item in the pages of sports news.
They wanted to wrest money from her stardom, make her the center of
attention, cut out any extraneous interest which might detract from her sudden
success. And before she knew it, there was only RRT, tournaments in city after
city, and the overbearing resentment of the biggest player in the league –
Goofball. In fact, she suspected that he had refused to play in the championship
games hoping that she would win the World Tour and leave the field solely to
himself. But she was here now. She stared at the beige phone for a minute, then
got up to hunt for a phone book thinking how nice it would be to renew old
acquaintanceships.
*
“Ad alta!” she told herself, staring at the steps of the Polungi office of the
INS. It was time to get things straight about the visa. She had spent the morning

11
on the bus, taking the Number 138 to Marenge, switching to the 15, walking for
two miles, transferring to the 38, and jogging on the last stretch for ten minutes
up Pareha Street. Now she stood looking at the rectangular, stucco building with
cement steps and a white flag with red streaks flying on a pole by the side of the
front door.
Inside, it smelled antiseptic. The décor was Mod Bureau with flyers on the
wall printed in bold, black letters, a coffee station on a bleak, gray table at the
rear, and badges on the tan uniforms of two resident Pakeha.
“That’s correct,” the pale-faced man with a bald pate informed her.
“Temporary Transit Visas must be applied for through your home state consulate
in advance of travel. Your date-stamp ended the day before you arrived. You will
have to re-apply through your consulate here. Transit is banned until you have
completed the paperwork.”
It was a Tasmanian trap. In situ orbitas. Here today, still here tomorrow,
who knew after that? She would have to have Mr. Eagen notify her hosts at the
next rendezvous that she was delayed. Then she would have to contact the
airline to reschedule her ticket. That would create a domino effect: Astro-Asia to
Outer Mongolia to Impetigo pushed back by an unknown number of days.
Damn the bleeding blighters who had stamped her visa wrong.
She was getting more familiar with the buses, after taking the Number 39,
transferring to Number 42, and skipping to the other side of Pauklano. The
weather was ripe, the sun burnished, and the fresh air ripped through the open
bus door like an aerosol can release.
“Please validate my parking ticket,” she told the clerk at the embassy, a
red brick building with a Betsy Ross hanging outside next to a one-man, gray
guardhouse with iron spokes poking out of the top.
“Our hours are 8:30-1PM. I’m sorry. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“But the TTR is needed immediately. I am an emissary for the RRT on a
World Tour. My tickets have been scheduled far in advance. A minor mishap with
a date-stamp at the home office should be corrected right away. Please sign,
seal, and deliver.”
“I’m sorry.”
She left disconsolate.
It took her several hours to return to the Whangpuri motel taking the
Number 118 to Onawhehu, changing to the Number 13, and picking up the
shuttle to the airport. She had time to count her meager NZD bills - which
wouldn’t last too long at this rate. Probably she would have to make a trip to a
bank in the morning to convert USD travelers’ checks into Zeeland dollars if she
was going to keep taking the bus around the city. She would also have to dig out
her green peds with the terry cloth ruff around the edges if she was going to jog
so many miles again. It wouldn’t do to have blisters when she played her next
exhibition game.
Hungry and tired, she flopped down on the huge bed with the swirling
mustard-green spread and clicked on the television. There was news! For a
moment, she sat up right and cheered - until she realized it was local news.

12
 The row over seasonal workers from nearby islands had subsided a
clipped voice female reporter noted, adding that the produce season was almost
over. The PM would be working with MP’s during session to ensure that proper
documentation and health rules would be followed by employers hiring temporary
workers. A video of a lean woman in a sky-blue track suit shaking hands with a
group of men in neon-colored shirts was shown. She would address questions
about holiday workers from abroad in the near future in the capital Wellstone.
She wanted to be sure that young people could work during school breaks when
they couldn’t afford to travel otherwise.
There was a proposal for a Trans-Pacific Trading Pact supported by
leaders in several Asian nations which would allow the free flow of capital and
enhance the economy through import-export exchanges the PM would be
attending. Talks would be talks scheduled for next month about setting up a
common standard for trade but she did wish to point out that rumors about a
single, world currency were untrue.
On the local level, a ketch had struck a reef in a lagoon near Oswego
trapping a sailor in the hold whom rescuers were still trying to pull out. A new
gambling casino had applied for municipal approval in Dunwoody which city
officials were expected to okay after strict scrutiny. In Pauklano, the director of
the national museum announced a plan to host a new exhibition of ancient ball
games which would be on display in three months.
TV news concluded with a brief update on an advisory travel warning by
the Americus State Department for neighboring Elucitania where the government
had clamped down on smugglers. Such government crackdowns could provoke
unrest and put a further strain on free trade in the region which State hoped
would be only temporary. A nebbishy-looking man in a drab suit was shown
standing behind a podium in front of a map of the world highlighting Americus in
blue. He looked stiff, like a plasticine cast
She switched off the TV and got up to collect the brochures she had
picked up on her trip through Pauklano, laying them out one-by-one on the gaudy
bedspread. If time permitted, she might go to Kinnewaha Creek tomorrow, as
soon as she had verified her change of plans with Mr. Eagen.
Lying back on the bed she closed her eyes. It couldn’t take that long to
have her visa application approved. Then she would be off -Calypso land,
Kuromano, Djakarta. Images of mountains with white peaks, valleys of lush,
green grass rustling in the wind, and crystal clear creeks began to float through
her mind. Then somnolence overtook her.
*
She saw the news in the main newspaper called The Messenger. The
Americus Ambassador to Zeeland was going to attend a meeting of AZPAC
nations which had been summoned overnight to address the piracy in Elucitania.
They were afraid the turmoil might spill over into other Pacific Rim states. They
had a picture of a plump black woman next to the short article. It quoted the
Ambassador speaking glowingly of optimal rights for all people in the face of
potential racial conflicts, the need for economic growth spurred by an
international consortium of states, and the importance of security in an age of

13
globalism. The newspaper report said she would be out-of-town for four days but
the embassy would remain open with a skeleton staff.
She dropped the paper back on the varnished wood table in the motel
lobby and walked back to her room with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. The morning
sky was blue. Vast, ephemeral, deep blue. It made her want to sing, “Blue skies
smiling at me, nothing but blue skies do I see.” There were a few scattered puffs
of white clouds drifting overhead but nothing like the smog in LA, fog in Iowa,
smoke in Detroit. Carbon shirking was a favorite pastime in the US of A – facts,
statistics, and data disappeared into a black hole at even the mention of auto
pollution. In usurp-the-planet land the green back held sway over all.
Opening the motel room door she found herself singing a song barely
remembered from some distant time. “Volare….o,o…com sare…o,o,o,o. Nel blu
del pinto del blu.” The fleeting image of a young girl leaning over an ancient,
wooden radio in the corner of a simple parlor filled with wicker furniture passed
through her mind, then evaporated. She might not be flying through the blue
skies this morning but she could still see the crystal clear heavens when she
went out later.
Mr. Eagen was concerned about her stay-over. The organization had a
limited amount of funds to keep her at the motel while the TTR was processed.
Did she have ready funds of her own? Perhaps she should speak to a ZNBank
representative about wiring money. There was no telling how long she might be
here. He would speak to Mrs. Margolis about seeing what could be done. Was
she alright for the day?
“Asphodel,” she replied cheerfully. “A little stroll never hurt anyone. Add it
to my expeditionary list –a lay-over in breadfruit land, counting the number of
branches in a banyan tree, contemplating hologram cards at the motel. Check in
again tomorrow.”
She stared at the plain, vanilla door of the motel room. Somewhere out
there were crumpets dripping with butte, smeared with homemade jam and fresh
dairy cream. There were fresh papayas plucked off a tree at 3 AM and sliced into
strips of succulent, sweet flesh ready for a quick nibble. There was the pink flesh
of guava ripened to the softness of Camembert cheese which could be dug out of
a thin, yellow-green skin with a spoon. The day stretched before her like a tan-
and-white conch shell with twisting paths to a black sand beach.
*
She would have to consult with Mr. Eagen about ponging practice if she
was going to stay through the weekend. Facilities weren’t always available during
the week when the die-hards of tennis, badminton, and volleyball took up space
at indoor courts. Ponging was a different thing altogether – it required a firm grip,
astronomical vision, and quick reflexes. Many years ago she had tried throwing
horse shoes over a ring, tossing a Frisbee, and batting softballs into a net from
an automatic feeder - but none had the appeal of ponging. Its one drawback was
the need for space – vast space for bounce-backs, indirect curve balls, sudden
deflections, jack jumping, and ricochets. And space was at a premium in most
places.

14
 The brochures were full of strange things to do in Pauklana. The city had a
Snork and Porpoise Restaurant on the ocean-side, The Loft on the other side of
the harbor which offered fish and chips on an air mattress set out on a balcony
with a superb view, and kayak rentals from the Rack Bar to tour the outer
islands.. There was also an animated display of an extinct volcano called
Rapanoa at a children’s museum on the North Shore which lit up at the top of
every hour.
She packed carefully to make sure everything she needed for the day’s
outing would fit in her purse. There was the razmataz suit -scrunched, crinkled,
and quashed into a tight wad. She pulled purple earrings out of the folding bag
and screwed them onto her earlobes. The South Pacific was calling her. Tahiti
was only a few moments away, Paul Gaugin posters would probably be all over
store windows. And there would be hundreds of jandals on the street. Unlike
those ugly, brown rubber sandals they wore at recess, she thought suddenly.
Brown leather, big straps around the heels, punch-holes on the top. Made for
people who had wide feet because they had gone barefoot all their lives.
The Number 92 was delayed. Thirteen people stood on the sidewalk
leafing through newspapers, gazing at the end of the road, shifting from one foot
to the other. They were in a hurry, late for work, impatient, but conditioned to it.
“Tearing round the corner now,” a man in a seersucker jacket muttered to a
woman standing next to him. “They’ll be getting new tires – next year,” she
replied with a slight smile.”
When the bus did come, they rode together in pleasant silence, listening
to the engine grind when the driver shifted gears. They got off in small numbers,
hardly racking up frequent travelers kilometers. Her stop was at the end of the
line where the bus drove to a dead-end and came to a sudden halt. “Pangiano –
last stop.” The driver turned his muscular neck to the right to look back at her
sitting on the left of the aisle six rows down. “Bus only picks up every three hours.
Service ends at seven,” he called out. “If you miss it, there’s none till tomorrow.”
“Got it,” she replied, slinging her purse over her shoulder, stepping
cautiously through the narrow aisle toward the open door at the front of the bus.
As she walked down the rubber-lined steps she could see the driver beginning to
turn a black, metal lever by the steering wheel. Stepping onto the street she
could see the return stops spelled out in bold letters on a placard above the
window. Marai, Pahoutou, Motulauwa, Hanakwa. They were Maori names – for
the natives who arrived in 1300, were invaded in 1600, and colonized in1800.
This was Te Aotearoa. Land of the Long White Clouds.
There was a creation myth by the natives. It told of the Sky Father Rangi
who held Mother Earth in such a fast embrace that the world was dark. As their
children grew they decided to separate them in order to shed light on the earth,
and one of them pushed the Sky Father up with his feet until heaven and earth
were separated by a fine, blue line. Earth flourished with the rain fall from the
clouds in the tropical climate and created mist which covered the land – for which
they named it Te Aoteraroa.
She followed the signs marked with a tiny arrow toward Kinnewaha Falls.
At least the spelled that the same way. Out here they spelled things differently:

15
col-our for example, instead of col-or. It was some hold-over from the middle
ages when they wrote words with capital letters. Their pronunciation was different
too: (h)is-olation, not (eye)-solation. A truck was a lorry, a friend was a chum, and
sangria was Shangri-la. It all seemed familiar to her – but there it was, the old
school was cut off, the friends severed, the Archbishop who sat on the school
board attending racial consciousness workshops in Tago Tago every other week.
There were no Christmas cards now. Success in a nutshell she supposed.
The dappling wind blew the deep green ferns into huge, waving fans when
she reached sign 6 at the edge of the gorge. The sound of rushing water hit her
ears full-force as she peered up from the sandy path. Huge cascades of water
poured over a sheer cliff, swirling together like a transparent dancer’s scarves,
streaming into a whirlpool below. Then it swept down a tiny creek piled with
boulders, leaving white water in its wake to spray over the rocks.
She slipped her clothes off at the bottom of the rock path on which she
had descended steeply to the gorge and put on the razmataz suit. It was a plume
of color amid the gray rocks, green ferns, rushing wet water which sent mist into
the damp air. Dipping her toe in the creek, she slowly felt for a solid footing in the
water and stepped in.
In a second, she felt like she was in Eden, the original world of man. This
was the well-spring of life, where man had once lived in a natural state, in
harmony with the elements. Here he bathed, fished with his hands, plucked
chlorophyll from plants, walked barefoot wearing simple flax cloth. Here was the
amorphous place where his simple needs were fulfilled and he grew luxuriantly,
basking in the warm sun..
She closed her eyes and swayed back-and-forth. The image of a big, seal-
colored man wearing a flax-skin, Tutoelo bird feathered cloak with a brown cap
over his head flitted through her mind. He was chanting a prayer over a huge,
hollowed-out bowl: reretaunga nanu watu eina kamo. We pray for wisdom,
health, plenty. Bow your head, raise your face to the sky, pray for the mauringi,
the gods favor. Bola whangei kano eina. It was the prayer to the gods.
Stepping farther out into the creek with a layer of gray pebbles rippling
white under the rushing water she let herself slide into the creek. The stream of
white water from the falls poured over her, undulating as it passed across her
languid torso lying on the pebble bottom. She laid her head back, feeling the
water course through her hair and pulse over her shoulders. She was a Kilani
woman rinsing her hair in the stream, long, black strands flowing through the
water, covered in a flax skirt with red-and-black stripes, coral shells hanging
around her neck, a native.
She opened her eyes and sat upright in the creek. How natural it had been
once for those living here. Before the Britcoms arrived. First ships, then trading
companies, then colonies to populate the land. There had been Wakefield,
dreaming of landed estates in the far off Pacific, sulking in a debtor’s prison,
looking for investors in the South Seas. There had been five hundred years of
empire building all around the world – ships traveling thousands of miles to plant
a confederate flag which said, “my country, tis of thee.”

16
 They had worshipped the gods of greed, slavery, murder under the
trappings of civilization. They had outposts in Africa, forced the opium trade on
China, annexed the Raj of India, and imposed their own culture on defenseless
places by military might. Even after two world wars they had refused to give up
the empire, only changing its name to Commonwealth to support the continuing
goal of exploitation, trade, and profiteering.
There was the home country – still ruling distant nations with the royal
crown, the only European state to retain its far off colonies in modern times. It
reeked of internal corruption, persistent dissuasion, ethnocentrism. The top of the
world, subordinate only to the US of A where the almighty dollar reigned
supreme. And their goal was one world, one currency, one system uber alles,
everyone speaking the same Americus slanguage, where commerce and
consumerism were they only thing that mattered.
It meant all glory or obscurity for her. Fate, they called it. Destiny. Money
or poverty, freedom or captivity, friends or foes. The RRT winner – make or break
the future by acquiescence to promotional practices. She must be a chipper
dipper yes-man, a happy player in the lily of the valley field. Do it or drop out.
Dance to the tune. Give them the money bags. Nothing else counts.
The water splashed over her ankles when she stood up in the creek. Birds
with colorful feathers flew over the branches of billowing trees covered by pale-
green, dim sum leaves. The ferns rustled. Here was nature’s paradise, the
fulcrum of man’s original state, the Eden of mankind. At least she had
experienced it for a little while.
She dried off in the sun on the edge of the creek. Then she tiptoed back to
the path, climbed the steep path on the hill, read the signs pointing to Paungi,
and waited alone for the last bus. It was back to the bureaucracy, back to the
telephone, cablegrams, faxes, television news. But the oracle of time had
spoken. Ramapaho was now her god.
*
Mr. Eagen called that evening. Mrs. Margolis, Treasurer, said the group
did not have extra funds to pay for the hotel after tomorrow. She would have to
make arrangements for somewhere to stay on her own. He hoped the TTR would
come through in a day or so – then she would be off on the World Tour again,
safe and sound. It would all work out, he was sure of it. He would leave a
message at the desk about her plans in the morning.
The room seemed like a fungus-spa when she hung up the phone.
Steamy from the late afternoon sun, rife with stagnant air. She got up off the bed
to open the motel door and let some fresher air in. She was by herself in a
foreign country, had limited funds, was barred from leaving, and her tickets for
the World Tour were in limbo. It was like a bad domino game - if she couldn’t
catch up by skipping a stop or two she would be stranded in some dismal
backwater someplace looking for mule transport back home.
The best thing to do was to press officials for release. Usually that meant
putting an emolument into their palms until they nodded affirmatively. In her case,
it meant pleading her cause. Suggesting some new ideas to officials. Being firm
about what had to be done. Saying things like: “there will be international

17
repercussions without immediate release.” “A slight mistake by government
officials should be corrected at once.” “Budgeting your time on behalf of tax
payers should be an obligation of a civil servant.” “No one should be held
hostage by bureaucracy.” “The RRT may withdraw its support for international
competitions in the future.”
They were all positive approaches to the problem. She would have to
travel to their offices to ply her case – renting a bicycle seemed out of the
question given the distance between sections of the city. She would have to keep
taking the bus, sit on tan metal chairs in waiting rooms, watch the staff watching
the clock until it was time to go home.
Athough she could see the bustling city – where she had bought her first
Tiki god. Round, plump, treasured. Carved in jade exhumed from natural rock
deep in the recesses of primitive forests. Think of the old beige Austin with the
pop-up turn signal arms backing out of the driveway on Allenbert Road. Where
was it now – the old world, the world she had once known? Lemon trees in the
lawn, crimson Pohutukawa blooms at Christmas, tree tomatoes in the vegetable
garden?
When she reached the hotel, she lay down on the bed for a short rest. The
day’s events floated through her mind like surreal images. When she got up, she
turned on the TV news to see what was going on out there.
The Asian summit had commenced. There were swimming photos of
leaders smiling and nodding at the TV cameras while a spokesperson described
their hope to achieve “a multi-lateral agreement to boost trade between all
partner countries.” A reporter noted that the current president of the All-Asia
group of nations was hosting a state dinner which would be served on banana
leaves.
Locally, there was a fear that a shift in ocean currents might bring in an
unwanted infestation of bright-mites. They could plug fish gills and damage
stocks, even spread onto vegetation and infect the air. People were warned to be
careful about rinsing produce before preparing it to eat.
In world news, the mother country had spawned a protest over the recent
decision by Parliament to cease investigating the loans-for-peers scandal where
the PM was alleged to have traded peerages in return for campaign funds.
The States was busy brokering a deal between China and Taiwan to
increase weapons sales which a Boeing spokesman expressed approval for.
“Free markets and foreign trade are our lifeline. We must always be sure to back
up our policies with force,” he told the smiling, female news reporter with the
bright pink lipstick and curly blonde hair.
At the end, there as a picture of a flashing neon sign over a jewelry store
followed by video footage of a glass case filled with diamond rings, turquoise
bracelets, and jade earrings. She turned the TV off, grabbed her key, and
sauntered down the sidewalk to the motel lobby to talk to the manager about her
reservation.
*
The INS was engaged in a heated discussion about the disposition of the
seven hundred Somali refugees the government had accepted yesterday. They

18
were to be flown here in three charter flights over four days and prepared for re-
settlement. The majority of them were young males, but a hundred and fifty had
small children who would need special housing, health examinations, language
lessons, and school counseling while the adults were in transit.
“….can’t work on dairy farms,” one official was saying when she walked in
to the main office. “No agricultural skills. No animal herding skills. ”
“UN mandate,” a second official told him with a stiff face. “Famine,
disease, civil war. Yearly allotment. Our quota of refugees.”
They were distracted when she inquired about the TTR.
One official told her she could stay for three months while her papers were
re-processed. He was uncertain about whether there were still diplomatic
pouches to Washington but that was up to the other government involved.
Temporary visas for sports and entertainment visitors were dealt with at the
point-of-departure. They could stay for ten days or two months, depending on
their performance needs. Perhaps she should consult a lawyer.
Even though she was a Westerner – white, female, a skilled worker – she
could be stuck here with limited funds because of a bureaucratic mix-up. But
unlike the Somalis they didn’t offer her shelter, an immigration attorney, or
diplomatic intervention with the native country. She was in no man’s land – a lost
sheep on a big, green volcanic mountain.
She learned by phone that the embassy was closing early. They were
under strict instructions to keep daily opening limited while the Ambassador was
away. There would be no consultations with the host government when she
returned. They could make no provisions for travelers without funds. She would
have to apply to a local agency for help.
She decided to visit Rangitoto when she walked out of the building with
the gray, wooden guard house by the sidewalk. It would only take her an hour to
walk to the esplanade overlooking the rangy, olive-green, bush covered mountain
in the middle of the harbor to see the quiet, sleeping giant resting in the late
afternoon sun. Somehow, the prospect comforted her.
*
“Hello. No? I am sorry. Yes. No. Nothing can be done? Thank you for your
time.”
It was hang-up time on the telephone. Serial rejections. She felt like she
had been thrown against a brick wall by a bouncer at a night club when she
couldn’t show an ID card. Traveller’s Aid did not cover temporary foreign visitors.
Red Cross only offered emergency help during natural disasters. Oxnard was
united against famine. Robotussin was a cold medicine.
Food Kitchen was open seasonally but not now. Anglaterra only had
housing facilities for the lame. Azores Sports Bar only had bottled water for drop-
ins. Local churches were tied to answering machines, motels were hooked to
money machines, airlines required up-to-date flight schedules to offer overnight
accommodations to a delayed passenger. The voices were clipped, accents
precise, tones impersonal. Yes, no, try somewhere else.
Calls to former acquaintances resulted in the same.

19
 Mrs. Palmerston was cooking dinner when she picked up the phone. The
sound of frying could be heard in the background. “She’s abroad, dearie. Hasn’t
been here in two years. Old schoolmate? Send her a letter. I’m sure she’d be
glad to hear from an old girl.”
She closed her eyes, imagining the news report. “The winner of the RR
Tournament on vacation here in Zeeland has been found in a dumpster behind
the Raritango building on Queen Street. “Just taking a snooze,” she told police
when they hauled her out with a crane. Immigration has been asked to check her
entry papers to see if they’re in order. Falsifying documents is a crime here.”
Passport. Visa. Tickets. She had everything she needed in the folding suit
bag but a release document. Quo vamanous? Ad arreste? A scuffle in the park
with a couple of punks over a bench?
She exchanged views on the matter with Mr. Eagen in five calls later in the
day. His house was too small for guests – they practically lived in the main room.
Members contributed dues but they had no obligation to put up non-paying
guests. If only she would be patient and stay at Whangapuri for a few days,
things would be straightened out. In the meantime, would she consider an
exhibition game at Mannepowa over the weekend? Several members had
expressed interest in seeing her style of pong.
Yes. No. And maybe she told him.
She slept like a deflated balloon. In her dream, she was entangled in
strangler vines that kept climbing around her body while she tried to pull them off.
There were strange faces which peered out of the vines – swarthy men with
pirate’s knives in the mouths, a shrieking squirrel running up and down the vines
squeaking at intruders, a man in a toga ruffling a stack of papers in his hands
with a nasty expression on his face.
She could see them – ancient, young, cruel, popping in and out of the
python-like green vines. They were the same figures she saw at home: corporate
specters, flaccid orators, malevolent reporters, pallid officials all promoting
openness, transparency, smoke and mirrors. They popped up to make glancing
references to the latest international crisis, domestic proposals, unilateral
agreements, then faded away into the gray background of the media plane.
She woke in a sweat. The oglipogly of the sports world: funds restricted for
future matches unless promotional tour undertaken. The trap of it. Today home.
Tomorrow the globe. Big Business meant business. Take that in your hand and
eat it.
She showered. Lay down on the bed to wait for dawn. One stamp away
from liberty. When would the release form be issued?
*
Eco-tourism. It was her salvation. She bounced off the bed. She would
return to nature, dissolve like dew drops on the succulent leaves of the Kahlua
tree. She would pick berries from the bushes, bake coconut leaves in a burning
log, spear fish with a stick, lie among the trees in a straw hammock when the sun
shone. She would prepare herself for a long siege, pick up beer bottles to resell,
weave baskets to keep her supplies in. There was a modicum of joy in the
thought.

20
 She collected all her travel things in the motel room and tossed them onto
the bed. Taking note of her depleted hygiene products, she packed everything
swiftly into the folding suit bag. Bidding farewell to herself in the mirror – in
propria persona – she marched firmly down the sidewalk to the motel lobby.
The green, rubbery vegetation was still winding itself around the tan vinyl
couch when she stepped in. “Kia ora,” the tubby clerk called from below the
counter where his back in a pale, white shirt could be seen. He bumped his head
when he tried to stand up, then rubbed it ruefully. “Kippers or Coconut jam this
morning?” he asked cheerfully.
“Neither, thank you. Departure. Here to check-out.”
“Certainly. Your flight reservations have been made?”
“There still seems to be a slight mix-up. But I’ve made other arrangements
for my stay here.”
“Well…you were an excellent guest. Never heard a peep out of your room.
We hope you’ll come back during your next trip.”
“I’ll certainly consider it.”
He posted a single overnight charge on her pre-paid invoice and handed
her a receipt. She remained leery of deficit spending; despite her success in the
RRT she never knew when the next funds might come in from a sport which was
still on its way to popular success.
“Tasman sea’s that way, he called out, pointing east as she walked to the
door.
“I’ve got my bearings,” she called back before the glass door shut.
A map, compass, directions would be helpful. But in her present
circumstances, she would just have to wing it. She was heading southwest
toward the Pacific ocean. If she was going to go natural, she might as well go
where the elements were ripe for good habitation.
There were trolley cars, coffee bars, flower stands, red kiosks straddling
the sidewalk everywhere. Five story steel buildings sprang up from the center of
town; white stucco houses spread out down long streets with puff-ball purple
flowers, foliage plants with thick leaves drooping over dense grass. It was quiet in
the day-time – people off to work, 9-5, bring home the bacon, pay the bills, wait
for the weekend. School children in uniforms – the gray socks with blue bands,
stiff blue woolen vests, by crickey black shoes, off with hockey sticks hitting the
school wall at recess.
Sunset threatened to turn the sky into an orange fire ball. It seemed to
hover over the edge of the city, sending out fiery tendrils near the horizon. It was
like walking toward the end of the earth, waiting to fall into a deep chasm when
the thin line between land and air disappeared. A few birds darted over the trees,
preparing themselves for twilight by scavenging in the branches. She waved.
Fellow spirits, harbingers of happiness, flyers in the night.
*
It was pitch-dark at the entrance. The faint light from the crystal sky barely
reached through the trees guarding the coast. She put her hand on the cold,
clammy rock and ran it up and down the southern side. She took four steps
forward past the black hole to the other side and ran her hand up and down the

21
grainy rock to ascertain how high it reached. Estimate: five feet. High enough to
let a person enter with only a head bowed.
There was no way to know how far back the cave reached – or how deep
it was. Leaning down, she scrabbled her hand over the ground where piles of
fallen leaves formed a soft carpet and felt for something hard. Digging into the
rotten underbrush she grasped a few small rocks and hauled them out. One by
one she threw them into the dark recess of the cave and listened. One bounced
on rock six times and stopped. A second hurtled into the darkness, bounced
once, and fell for half-a-minute until it splashed.
There was deep water in the lower depths, but a rock ledge near the
entrance. It seemed a suitable place to stop for the night. Her watch said 12:10
AM. If she crawled in on her hands and knees she would be able to feel for the
edge of the ledge and know how wide it was. Then she could either make a leaf-
bed inside or - if it seemed too damp - punch a soft pouch outside in the leaf-
piles and sleep there overnight.
In the morning she would explore the cave. Perhaps it had tunnels leading
through the volcanic cliffs. Intricate networks which would lead her out onto black
sand beaches where the waves rolled inexorably toward the shore. Or toward
weather-worn holes high in the rock where she could see the length of shore,
sun-worshippers in plastic lounge chairs, bottled pop, shark toys. Here she would
be hidden from the din of intruders, gate-crashers, beach goers who flocked to
the coast.
She punched down the mounds of leaves on the ground with her fist.
Scattered flakes flew into the air, a sudden burst of rotting vegetation filled her
nostrils, and then was swept away by a gentle breeze. She lay down, crunching
her back into the hollow and rolled back and forth to settle the leaves into a
comfortable cushion. Hauling the folding suit bag over her, she closed her eyes.
A good night’s rest in the open air…a rest in the open air…arrest in the hoping
air.
*
She was happy as a water-cave dweller. After four days exploring the
damp regions of mother earth she felt in harmony with her surroundings. She
was a nymph, a sprite who could dive into the dark, watery depths of the pool,
rise up, and float on the surface. An unearthly being who could flit from one side
to the other with a tweak of her foot, leap up onto a rock, raise her arms to the
heavens and shout for happiness.
She had covered the inside ledge with leaves for a bed, buried her folding
suit bag in a shallow cavity some distance from the entrance to protect it in case
of vandals, and walked the black sand beach at dawn, picking up shells and
debris from the sea. If time allowed, she would build a shell castle with lace walls,
tumbling turrets, gossamer feather windows. There was only food and a gnawing
sense of discontent that she must flee the wilderness to check on her status.
She tried to imagine what might happen.
“Flight 942 now departing at Gate 3. Please line-up for boarding passes.”
Perhaps there would be a mix-up then too. Boarding pass stamped for the prior
day by someone on the other side of the equator. Murmured confabs with the

22
airport personnel at the gate. A wave of the hand ushering her to a row of gray,
plastic chairs where she would be told to wait. A uniformed, female clerk clicking
up to her on high heels to say her flight would have to be rescheduled; her ticket
had been issued for the preceding day.
Still, the one thing that worried her was that she was so far away from the
city. If there were news, no one could relay it to her here. The long, onerous trip
into town to place a phone call or travel to the embassy seemed dreadful. But as
the days rolled by, she knew deep down she would have to abandon her
peaceful existence – at least for a short time – and go back to the congestion,
bureaucracy, excuses, and evasions of the other world. Renuzit air freshener
was on the horizon.
*
The Ambassador had returned home for top-level discussions with the
Zeeland government. She would only be here for a short time before she
departed for a meeting in Guanau, capital of Somoa, where more trade talks with
Pacific rim countries were to be held. She had been briefed on the situation,
informing the staff to “hold fast, there are no kon-tiki boats on the horizon,
kidnapping is a state of mind.” Huck Finn probably reached his destination
quicker.
The Visa section had faxed a copy of her papers to the Zeeland consulate
in Washington, but one of the clerk’s had come down with influenza and another
had home leave. There would be word soon. She was advised to wait patiently.
The airlines were resistant to a full ticket refund for the remainder of her
reserved flights. They would be happy to roll over the ticket to a future flight, but
refunds were out of the question. If she didn’t check-in every three days, she
risked having the price of the next suspended flight returned to the airline. Last
minute flight changes were difficult on fully-booked routes. She would have to
notify them of her flight plans as soon as possible.
The quahogs at INS hid their heads in the sand when she arrived at the
headquarters. She could apply for an extended stay visa if she was willing to
show proof of adequate funds and a return ticket home within one year’s time.
The forms only took forty-five minutes to complete, they preferred typed
applications, photocopies of her passport, bank account records. Where could
she be reached in the interim?
A sports visa was out of the question. They were issued only to those
engaged to play international matches, it was up to the sports association to
ensure that athletes had the required papers before entering the country. What
organization sponsored her sport? No, ponging was not on the list of official
sports. The sturdy-looking officer in the gray, short-sleeved shirt leaned over the
counter to talk to her sub rosa.
“Your best bet is to call your pongo organization at home and have them
take care of the problem for you. You’re on tour - they should make proper
arrangements for their players.”
She nodded. Shook her head. It was out of the question. They had been
notified by Mr. Eagen of her precarious position due to a miscarriage of
information and firmly refused to take action for her release. There had been

23
veiled remarks about promotion, exceptional service, positive reports, special
advantages which let her know they were keeping her in transit for publicity
purposes.
“Tell me…” She leaned over the counter to speak softly. “What happens if
I can’t produce proof of adequate funds for an extended stay?” she asked in the
same confidential tone he had used.
“You will be held in indefinite detention at government expense.”
“Cozy nook, I suppose. No charges against officials responsible for the
delay?”
“No sentence lasts forever.” He stood up behind the counter. “You muck
about for awhile and things will work out fine.”
He turned his back to return to his desk. She tromped dejectedly out the
door. It was the dog-gonest thing. She couldn’t leave, she couldn’t afford to stay,
no one would help. Was there ever anything like it? Government to government,
embassy to embassy, agency to agency – news spread like brush fire over a hot
wire when it was something they wanted. But for her –stranded in limbo in
Waimatea, there was no fix.
She would have to apply for an extended stay. But it might be denied.
There might be bank overdraft notices, insufficient funds. Her ticket fare would
not be refunded. Work permits for temporary visitors were prohibited. What could
she do? Buy an air mattress to sleep on the shores of Coromandel? Purchase a
rubber dingy and tie it to a tiny, wind-burnished pohutukawa tree overlooking the
azure waters of the coast? Set up camp on top of Rangitoto with a white flag to
instigate an international incident the press would actually report?
She felt trapped, pacing her way up the sidewalk away from the quahogs
building. Perhaps that was the ticket though. A campaign against government
inefficiency. A public scandal over bureaucratic incompetence. The systematic
rejection of personal rights. Public officials were all alike. Yes men. Ministers-on-
wheels. Panderers. All in the grip of the economy, expansion, growth, foreign
trade.
The golden mean, moderation in all things, balance of needs had been
lost to craven ideologies.
She paused, looking up at a wooden sign hanging above a store with the
name Cork and Toggle printed on it. For a moment she stared at the sign, then
continued strolling down the street. Perhaps it was a good omen. It reminded her
of the new Lectronic Revolution which had taken the world by storm. Perhaps it
might help her. What if…what if…an idea popped into her head.
“The Logorhythm Shop,” she yelled into the wind. “Logic, logistics, and
locomotion. They will be my tools for the future.“
A woman in a tight, blue checked jacket with a thin, white scarf around her
neck stared at her as she walked past. Two men half-way down the block
stopped conversing as they looked around to see where the shout had come
from. It was like looking at a snap-shot titled: Still Life: Lunch Hour in the City.
She would start her own business. A portable business which required no
brick-and-mortar shop - only an electronic connection for transmission. She could

24
sell hand-made goods, maintain headquarters at the home address, make
enough money to keep the bank account from hock.
Maybe she could make recordings of nature’s call - the sound of a pebble
dropped into a deep gorge, the creak of a tree during a tropical storm, the lullaby
of waves on a summer night. She could write lyrics, add a soft wind instrument,
orchestrate a new kind of music. And she would receive money for the time she
had to spend living in limbo, palms empty.
That was the ticket. She would alter the sound of the universe, rectify it to
harmonize with nature. Purify the overbearing presumptions of political rhetoric,
media publicity, corporate monopolies..
Pleased with her plan for survival in the wild, she walked with a quicker
pace through the city streets. After ten blocks she began singing an old song with
the refrain “we got steam heat.” It had risen from some dimly remembered time
when American music was pervasive and there was snap-crackle-pop in the
atmosphere, She kept walking and singing: “We got steam heat…snap-snap…
we got steam heat.” clicking her fingers on the beat.
It was from a movie about striking workers. They sang “seven and a half
cents doesn’t mean a heck of a lot” while they danced in an empty warehouse in
pajamas. She had never seen it, but the song had been played everywhere over
the radio. It was something about picketing for a pay raise through collective
bargaining.
She had been young when she had heard it then, an innocent traveler
abroad. Sweeping past a round-a-bout with a floral clock in the middle of a
round-a-bout, stacking up blue wool skeins to make a cable-knit sweater, flying
down a steep road on her bicycle on the way to school.
A new world awaited. There would be cool, dark water to dip in,
subterranean underground channels to explore, environmental alternatives to
develop. The bubbles would surface, percolate in the air, float off into space –
eco-harmony would prevail over the gods of exploitation.
She kept walking steadily toward the coast. The future lay ahead. Nymph
of the seas, native of nature, musical scores on the cave walls. Tomorrow there
would be a new dawn, a rocky cave to cover her head, a sun rising from the
ocean to warm the earth. At least, until the TTR arrived.
*
Copyright, Anne Hiltner, 2010

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