“We are Alamein,” said one rather plump granny with a kindly face. “I am Alamein the First and my sister here is Alamein the Second.” She indicated an identical plump granny with an identical kindly face.
“The Battle of El-Alamein,” I said rather stupidly.
“Sure. I was born first and was named after the First Battle of Alamein. Sis here, she was born a few minutes later, she was named after the Second Battle of Alamein.”
“Me, I’m the baby sis,” said the latter. Everybody in the room laughed out loud, us included. “I’m called Elly and my sis here, she’s called Ali. Makes it easier.
“Our great uncle fought in both battles, he died in the Second Battle of El-Alamein. And so our mum named us to honor him.”
There was a respectful silence from everyone in the room. Only a fly or two buzzed around in the quiet, taking our minds faraway and long ago, to a desert in North Africa.
Desert flies buzzing around the still corpses of German soldiers, American and British and French and Italian soldiers. South African, Indian and Australian soldiers. New Zealand soldiers.
Māori soldiers fighting against Rommel and Hitler.
Why did the Māori develop such a violent society, constantly at war amongst themselves, replete with cannibalism, while the Moriori developed a pacifist society in which warfare was rigidly outlawed?
Why did the Europeans develop such violent societies, constantly at war amongst themselves?
I wondered if we should have brought our archaeologist to this meeting.
Most European societies were built for war. Europe was presently in its sixth decade of peace since WWII. The longest span of peace in five centuries.
None of us that day dreamt that just two decades later Europe would be once again at war, but we should have known. This time in the Ukraine.
Or that Israel and the Palestinians would once again threaten world peace. But we should have known.
Why did the Europeans develop such a violent society, constantly at war amongst themselves, and dragging the entire world into their conflicts of capitalism and colonialism and fascism? Mike Helmsley had asked.
While a society like Tibet developed a pacific society in which love and wisdom and compassion were elevated and sought after as the means and the end of human life? Beau had added.
Not exactly, I had said. All that was mostly aspirational. Ask the Bhutanese about Tibetan theological and political disputes and bloody incursions, battles, and wars.
And the many wars among the various Tibetan sects over the centuries.
Not to mention the several assassinated Dalai Lamas. Assassinated by rival factions.
War seems to be a defining element of nearly all human societies. The Moriori are a great exception. Out there in the Chatham Islands, so far from the rest of humanity.
“So, we open this meeting with a short karakia. A short prayer. Adalina Lu will do the karakia ’cause she speaks the best Te Reo.”
Māori means Ordinary People.
Te Reo means The Language.
Adalina Lu, an Ordinary Person, would speak the Language.
Beau and I looked around for Adalina Lu. Who had struck such fear into the heart of Igor the earthmover.
A slight woman, probably about twenty years old, perhaps five feet tall, a mere wisp of a girl, as pretty as — as we say in New Zealand — stood up from the seat next to us and recited a kind of musical chant in Māori.
Yes, Adalina Lu was as pretty as. And her karakia was lilting and peaceful.
“Amen,” said everyone around the table when Adalina Lu sat down.
Next, we were invited to speak on our own behalf. Beau talked about his work at IBM and our desire for the tranquility and peaceful life close to nature that New Zealand offered.
I spoke of my years of teaching and my students from over eighty countries around the world. I spoke of my experience concerning the pa when Beau and I chose the site for our house.
Of cultural differences and respect for the living and the dead, of respect for the land and the fact that Beau and I had already planted over four thousand native trees on our farm, on our way to seven thousand, planted them with our own hands, to beautify and protect the land. I told them of my dream.
The name of this farm is Sacred Gifts—
“I don’t believe we have a problem with this couple. Our problem is with the descendants of the Reverend Matthews who sold this land contrary to the Reverend’s original agreement,” said one of the Alameins.
“You see,” said the other Alamein, “this land was given to the good Reverend, by our ancestors, for his use and for the use of his children. And the land on both sides of it was given for their use.
“And the land all along the Karikari Peninsula, most all of Tokerau Beach, and the land all along Puwheke Beach, hundreds and hundreds of acres.
“This land was to be used by the descendants of the Reverend and if ever his children or his children’s children stop using it, they are to return it to the Iwi, the local tribe. To the Tangata Whenua, the People of the Land. That’s us.”
“No, we don’t have a problem with these gentlemen,” said Alamein.
“No, we don’t,” said the other Alamein. “Our problem is with the Reverend’s descendants and that has nothing to do with you Boys.
—We were hardly boys, but everyone in New Zealand referred to us as such—
“Thank you two for telling us who you are and what you want to do here. Thank you for planting four thousand native trees. So I recommend that we invite these Boys, these gentlemen, to the marae. Next month at the marae.”
Thus ended the Third Battle of Alamein. Not a drop of blood was shed.
Powhiri, the Ritual of Encounter, breaks down the barriers between the living and the dead and between the mortals and the immortals.
The Powhiri began as Beau and I approached the marae, the Māori meeting house. The karanga, the high-pitched welcoming song, almost like a beautiful lament, was offered by Adalina Lu. She sang us onto the marae grounds and into the meeting house itself.
Haere Mai-i-i-i! Haere Mai-i-i-i! Come forward, visitors from afar, Welcome! Welcome! Bring with you the Spirits of your Dead, that they may be greeted, that they may be mourned.
Ascend onto our marae, ascend the sacred marae of our people. Welcome! Welcome! Haere Mai-i-i-i-i-i-i—
Once inside, Beau and I were placed in the middle of the room about the size of a country church and the welcoming Māori were seated around the sides of two walls facing us. Speeches were made in Māori by various members of the Tangata Whenua, the People of the Land, led by Alamein the First and Alamein the Second. Long speeches we could not understand.
Songs were sung, gentle, melancholic-sounding songs, prayers were offered in Te Reo, and then a final song was sung by Adalina Lu. As I observed her beautiful face and listened to her angelic voice as she sang the last song, I could not imagine that she had faced down the terrible and mighty Igor and his earthmover.
Obviously a side of Adalina that we were not to see that day. Or ever. After today’s welcome, after this Powhiri, the blood and souls of the ancestors who had trod this land would be joined forever with the blood and souls of Beau La Joie Rodrigue and Aaron Allbright.
We were invited to make speeches to the group and were informed that we could do so in English if we wished. I am not sure how moving our little impromptu speeches were but I can assure you that everyone present could see and feel that both of us were deeply moved by their welcome.
And then everyone stood up and we filed along the line of people for the hongi, the sharing of life breath. With the women and girls, kisses on the cheeks were exchanged. With the men, hands were joined and noses and foreheads were pressed together as our breath of life was literally exchanged with each man.
Afterward, we all went next door to the Whare Nui, the Big House, the Eating House, for a simple meal. And for talk and laughter. And teasing from the Māori children about our lack of Te Reo and about our American accents.
The mingling of breath, the hongi, is often performed three times. You press your nose and forehead to the nose and forehead of the other person, exchanging each other’s breath of life.
The first hongi is a greeting.
The second acknowledges and pays homage to the ancestors of each person.
The third hongi honors life in this world.
A few days later, we drove Dee to Auckland and she flew back to California, back to her home at the Sunrise Country Club in Rancho Mirage, near Palm Springs.
“Oy. Thanks but no thanks. I’m too old to move all the way around the world, Boys, I can’t schlep everything I own all the way to New Zealand. And too old to start driving on the wrong side of the road.
“Anyway, all the cops in the desert know me, those bubkes don’t stop me anymore for speeding, that’s for sure, and I don’t want to start over, training up New Zealand cops to leave me alone.
“Their Kiwi English makes me feel like a putz, a yutz, and a pisher. Who can understand ’em? Who?
“And I can’t stand to watch you go through the construction process. It’d drive me meshugge for sure. Just be thankful you came here so early. You can’t do such a big thing when you’re old.
“Thank God I made the big move to the desert when I was young and healthy like you two.”
Beau and I looked at each other.
Luke. Leukemia looked at us both. Silent.
“It wasn’t easy, Boys. You can’t do such a thing when you’re old.
“I’ll come back to see the house when it’s all nice and done. We’ll have a party and I’ll make all the Little Basque Dough Boy desserts! Your friends will love you for it.”
Two years later, our house is built. One of the most difficult projects we have ever undertaken, Beau La Joie and I. But I won’t belabor the difficulties of construction in New Zealand, one hundred ten kilometers from the nearest stoplight.
Those sorts of accounts are plentiful and interesting enough, whether taking place for a year in lovely old Provence or in Tuscany or now, here in beautiful Aotearoa. But suffice it to say that we moved in on my birthday.
If we get to live there together on Vara Prasada Farm for five years, or only one year, I want to live there with you, Beau had said. That is when we decided to go ahead with the construction of our dream house.
The name of this farm is Sacred Gifts
That is probably another reason we went ahead with the building of the house, in spite of the diagnosis, in spite of the leukemia.
The house was almost completed when we moved in on my birthday, December 1, but Beau said we were moving in on my big day come hell or high water.
We didn’t know that we were going to get two for the price of one.
Hell and high water.
END OF CHAPTER THIRTY
Wait for the next chapter on Substack or buy the whole book on Amazon
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Aaron Allbright’s novel in five parts will be published soon.
IN A DESERT OR A CITY
BOOK I
‘PRINCE CARTIER’ or HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE BEING GAY WITH MY SAUDI PRINCE AND TO START WORRYING
BOOK II
MONSIEUR LE PRINCE, PARIS
BOOK III
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS
BOOK IV
TYROMANCY AND LUCIFER
BOOK V
WHY WAIT FOR THE LIGHT?