Sisterchicks Down Under (10 page)

Climbing into the first cab that was waiting at the curb, Jill told the driver the name of our hotel. The cab appeared to be a family van that doubled as a cab. Delicate, white lace doilies covered the headrests.

“These are pretty,” Jill said.

“Some of my wife’s handiwork,” said the driver.

He was a bald man dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and a red and green plaid vest, and he welcomed us to his hometown by telling us a variety of details about the surrounding area. He had to be at least in his seventies. His grandfather, he said, had come from England and helped settle this province.

“You’ll find my city to be the most English city outside of England. That’s what I tell everyone who comes here. They all agree with me. You will, too.”

“I’m sure we will,” Jill said.

“What do you recommend we do while we’re here?” I asked.

“It’s a nice time of year to go punting. On the Avon. You can hire out a man, and he’ll take you. Don’t know that they’d
let two young ladies such as yourselves hire out a skiff on your own.”

His accent was tricky to understand, but I guessed he was talking about going on a boat on the Avon River so I said, “Sounds like fun.”

The cab pulled up in front of our bed-and-breakfast, and Jill drew in an appreciative breath. “Look at this house!”

“It looks like the Fontaine Restaurant,” I said. “Or I should say, it looks like the house your grandfather built.”

“Did you see the front door?” Jill asked after we had paid our driver and started to pull our wheeled suitcases up the front walkway.

“I love the stained glass.” I admired the attention to detail on this restored charmer. The walkway was lined with bright yellow marigolds and two large chrysanthemum plants at the bottom of the steps. The mums reminded me of Dorothea.

“Jill, let me get a quick picture of you at the bottom of the steps. I want to show Dorothea the mums.”

We took turns posing by the flowers, on the steps, and at the front door next to the stained glass.

“How about one by the railing,” I suggested.

“Oh, this porch brings back so many memories,” Jill said. “I love this wicker furniture.”

“Then let me get some shots of you in the wicker rocking chair.”

She chuckled. “You’re going to use up all your film in the first five minutes of our trip.”

“Don’t worry; its digital,” I said. “This is Tony’s favorite of our three cameras. I think my limit on this one is five hundred shots, so keep on posing!”

Jill rested her hands on the back of one of the chairs and struck a chin-up, noble-woman-on-a-mild-afternoon pose with a closed-lip, contented expression.

“All you need is a parasol,” I told her. “Or a tall glass of lemonade.”

“How about this?” Jill reached for a china teacup and saucer resting on the side table. The cup was half full, as if someone had stepped away and might be returning for the final three sips.

“It’s still warm!” She held the saucer in the palm of her hand and pretended to take a sip. “I feel like Goldilocks. You better take the picture quick before the three bears return.”

The front door opened tentatively. Instead of a bear of any sort, a fair-haired woman in a billowy white blouse looked at us shyly. “Hallo?”

Jill was not the only Goldilocks in this fairy-tale setting.

“Hi.” Jill laughed nervously and quickly returned the teacup to where she had found it. “We have reservations. The name is Radovich. We were just enjoying your beautiful porch.”

“Thank you,” our more relaxed hostess said. “Please come in.”

We stepped onto polished dark wood floors and listened as she explained with a hint of a British accent where the
loo
was located down the hall.

“You are both invited to enjoy the front porch, of course, and feel free to make use of the front parlor and breakfast room anytime you wish.”

We were shown to our room at the front of the house. The high ceiling was accented by a charming chandelier made from a lacy parasol hung so that the open part served as the shade.

“I love this light.” Jill gazed up at the parasol. “I’d like to hang a parasol like this in my bedroom.”

“I saw the idea in a magazine,” our hostess said. “I still have the magazine. You’re welcome to take it with you, if you like.”

“Thank you. Yes, I’d love to see how to hang a light like this.”

From the tall windows flowed sheer ivory curtains. The twin beds were separated by a gorgeous white table where an amber glass vase exploded with purple asters. On the dresser was an electric pot for heating water and an assortment of tea bags along with a china teapot and two matching china cups and saucers. Next to the teacups a plate of fancy chocolate truffles waited for us.

“This is charming,” Jill said. “Everything about your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Our hostess gave a humble bow, as she left us to settle in.

“Does it remind you a lot of the house you grew up in?” I tried out the bed closest to the window.

“Only from the outside. Everything inside is different—the floor plan, the ceilings, the staircase. But I love it, don’t you?”

“I do. Especially our room. It feels as if we stepped into a party that’s all set up and waiting for us.”

“It does! So what are we waiting for? Let’s start to party!” Jill lifted the plate of goodies and graciously offered me first choice of the chocolates.

If I hadn’t already decided that I liked Jill as much as I did, that one gesture of offering me first choice of the chocolates would have cinched our friendship forever.

S
o, what should we do first?”
I was leisurely enjoying the last drop of tea from one of the china cups that had been waiting for Jill and me in our lovely B&B bedroom in Christchurch. The chocolate lifted our adventurous spirits, and we were ready to take on the town.

“We should find a map first,” Jill suggested.

“I saw a rack of brochures in the front room when we came in. I’m sure a map would be there. I’ll go see what they have.”

“How about if I meet you in the front room in a minute? I’m going to change. It’s a lot warmer here than I thought it would be.”

I left Jill and browsed through the rack of travel brochures. The first brochure I pulled out gave information about one of the visitor centers that offered cultural presentations by the Maori.

On the back of the brochure the words, “
Ki mai koe ki a au,
he aha te med nui tenei ao,
” appeared over a photo of a Maori warrior complete with a tattooed face, frighteningly popped-out eyes, and an open mouth in a roaring expression.

Under that photo was a picture of a Maori man greeting another by coming nose to nose in a warm expression of friendship. The words under that photo were, “
He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.
”

“Are you thinking of going to Rotorua?” a voice behind me asked.

I jumped. I hadn’t seen the man sitting in a side chair when I entered the front room. His dark, kinky hair looked how Mad Dog’s might look, if he ever got it cut.

“I’m not sure. It looks fascinating.”

“That’s because we’re a fascinating people.” He grinned. Then he rose and came toward me with a book in his hand. “I’m Hika.”

I introduced myself and explained that I was visiting.

“I live here.” He grinned again, as if he knew a secret I wasn’t in on.

I assumed he was renting a room. “It’s a charming place, isn’t it?”

Instead of agreeing with me, he thanked me for the compliment and said, “My wife and I bought this house five years ago. It was her dream to run an inn after I retired. Here’s the picture of what it looked like when we started the project.” He pointed to a framed picture on the wall.

“Wow! What a transformation.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s a nice portrait.” I pointed to a pencil sketch of an aging Maori man’s profile. Over his shoulders he wore a cape of some sort.

“My grandfather,” Hika said. “He was a Maori chief. I’m named after him.”

“Really? My great-grandfather was a chief also. He was Navajo.”

Hika’s expression sobered. He tilted his head in reverent acknowledgment. It was as if he were honoring me as a descendant of a chief. I didn’t quite know how to respond. That bit of lineage trivia had rarely prompted a response of respect in the past.

“And you?” I asked cautiously. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and have him stick out his tongue or pop out his eyes like the warrior on the back of the brochure, but I wanted to honor his heritage as well. “Have you always lived in this area?”

“No, I’m from the North Island. From Auckland.” He said a few words that I couldn’t understand, and I supposed them to be the name of his tribe. I didn’t know how to ask further, because I didn’t know if the Maoris were from tribes or clans or what.

“I know very little about Maoris,” I admitted, holding up the brochure in my hand. “Maybe I should go to this cultural center.”

“It’s on the North Island. It will take you a day to get there.” With a hint of mischief in his expression he added, “Since you are staying here for two nights, I don’t think you should check out early to make the journey. We don’t like it when our guests leave early.”

“Don’t worry; we’re planning to stay both nights.”

“Good. Now, if you want to know about Maori culture, I can tell you a few things. And what I don’t know I can make up.”

I smiled and lowered myself onto a chair in the parlor.

Hika took the chair across from me and told me how the Polynesian Maoris had paddled their way through the South Pacific in huge, elaborately decorated, dugout sailing canoes before settling in New Zealand at least a thousand years ago. Dutch sailors were the first Europeans to make contact with the Maori in the late 1600s. But four of the sailors were clubbed to death, and so the captain sailed on without exploring any more of New Zealand.

“A hundred years later Captain Cook and his crew showed up, and none of the sailors were killed this time. That was good for them, but it was not good for us, because the explorers left two things behind we did not need: guns and measles. More Europeans came bringing more civilization and more means of death. But then, I am telling you a story that is familiar to you.”

“No. As I said, I don’t know anything about the Maoris.”

“I was referring to the story of the Native Americans.”

I wasn’t prepared to feel as sad as I did at the impact of his words. “Western civilization hasn’t been good for indigenous people during the past three hundred years, has it?”

Hika pointed to the italicized words on the back of the brochure I was holding and repeated them in a deep voice. “
Ki max koe ki a au, he aha te mea nui tenei ao.
”

“What does that mean?”

“It is the first part of the proverb. A question. ‘If you should ask me what is the most important thing in the world, the answer would be …?’ ”

He waited a moment for me to respond. If I were in the middle of a Bible study group or a circle of friends from my church, I would know the expected answer. Jesus had made it clear that the greatest commandment was to love the Lord your
God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind. I didn’t know what answer Hika would expect here in this place of upside down. My guess was something like land or tribal rights, or freedom.

When I didn’t jump in with a response, Hika said, “The answer is, ‘
He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.
’ ”

“And what does that mean?”

“ ‘It’s the people, it’s the people, it’s the people.’ ”

Hika sat back, waiting for the proverb to sink in. It struck me that this was the second part of the great commandment Jesus gave to His disciples: love your neighbor as yourself.

That’s it. Love God and love people. Not one or the other. It’s both.

I thought about the extravagant love verse in Ephesians and how the passage said to “learn a life of love.” Loving God and loving people don’t come naturally to any of us. We all have to be taught to value others and to learn a life of love.

Just then Jill entered the parlor and apologized for taking so long. I made the introductions, and Jill asked if I’d found a map yet. She asked how we could rent a boat to take down the Avon River.

Hika rose, reached for another brochure, and handed it to me. This one was of Christchurch with a clear map on the back.

“Thanks. I appreciate the information. Not only the map but also everything you said. Thank you.”

Jill and I stepped out onto the porch. We were equipped with everything we needed for our journey into the fresh autumn afternoon. Meandering down the charming streets of Christchurch, we followed the map to the river Avon.

I thought of how different everything had been for me a
few short weeks ago when I was sitting around in sweats or pj’s all day, closed up in the garage apartment. If someone had asked me then if I loved God, I would have said yes, of course. I never stopped loving God just because life had taken such a flip.

But I was in hiding. I wasn’t around people, people, people.

Meeting Jill, kneeling beside Mr. Barry in the garden, holding Dorothea’s hand—these were the treasures of this place. Being in the midst of people was what brought life back to me.