Chapter 21: THE FLIGHT.
People congregated at the front of the plane, appearing familiar with the four hour commute from New Zealand to Niue. I listened to the passengers discussing something about returning for someone’s funeral and returned my focus to lip-reading female actors in the B-grade romantic comedy about neurotic rich girls obsessed with marriage. I glanced through the window while the plane tacked lower beneath the clouds and into the line with the Alofi Airport. A dense green tropical edge offset against the deep blue and turquoise sea. All the visible clearings were pitted with clusters of rusty iron rooftops bordered with dark grey cliffs smashing huge barrelling swell. My thoughts paced with the possibility of being stood up, or left to my own just like arriving in New York.
‘That was then. This was now.’ I reassured myself.
The Aircraft door opened to a salty overcast sky almost ready to burst with rain. The chirpy tourists and ex-locals talked happily at the escape from the cold New Zealand winter. Everyone walked across the tarmac to the Small Shed to check in and go through customs. Various locals looked on waving, kids grasped into the Cyclone wire fence while others huddled outside the open shed at the Airport. A small Quad-bike with a trailer, deposited our bags on the concrete floor, I lugged my backpack and drawing paper up to an old Blue Vinyl bench. I was the first through Customs, which consisted of a worn wooden bench, no X-ray, no metal detectors, no fingerprinting, no digital cameras, no cops riding on Segues or sniffer dogs.
“So what are you going to do here for three weeks?” The official looked surprised at my entrance card and Passport.
“Paint.” He shrugged at my comment and handed back the roll of paper and minimal luggage. I walked towards a pretty Niuean Girl with long black hair in thick plaits handing out information pamphlets about the island. She reminded me of Juni. But the last I’d heard she shaved her head and went to work in a remote Roadhouse in Western Australia.
“Welcome to Niue.” Her smile somehow read my sense of urgency. “Are you looking for someone?” She added while handing a pamphlet about tourist activities.
“I am to meet Mark and Ahi?”
“Oh ... Look, they are just over at the corner.” She
pointed through a small crowd of eager locals.
“Hello.” Ahi put a garland of sweet smelling leaves
around my neck “Do I get a kiss?” With a kiss on the cheek and hug, I turned and shook Mark’s hand.
“Hi.” Mark seemed indifferent. They looked exactly as their picture on the Web page. Marks had Anglo white skin with that semi-permanent rosy cheeks, dressed in paint smattered shorts and torn Mambo T- shirt. He starkly contrasted Ahi’s dark Polynesian skin and smiling eyes and frangipani print dress of bright Yellows against deep deep Blue.
“Well we have taken Ahi’s car so we are over here...Is that all you have brought?” Mark inquired while looking for luggage. I made small talk about travelling light while walking to the small station wagon.
The airport was only a few minutes drive from the capital Alofi as Mark gave a running commentary of the various sparse buildings, history and politics.
“That run down building used to be the Bakery, that door next to that one is the old studio and where Ahi runs her Massage Business ...The huge building that looks all new and expensive is the Niue Government, ‘Of Course?’ and if you continue on...there are the shops up further...and this is the Police station.” We turned past the miniscule white washed Police station building and drove into the shrouded dense jungle along a small track barely covered in bitumen. The wagon sped along the road only wide enough for ‘one-and-a-half’ cars.
Somehow every car negotiated the head on collision with a fast paced game of Mexican standoff. People appeared to be very adept by driving at breakneck speeds and on approach at the last minute, peel off two wheels into the gravel dirt on to the jungles edge.
“How was the flight?” Ahi asked.
“No turbulence and very quick.” I placed my backpack down on the spare seat and began to relax.
“Well, I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” Ahi added.
“He might not want to stay with us. He might think we are Crazy.” Mark raised an eyebrow glancing sideways to me from the road for dramatic emphasis.
“Oh stop it Mark.” Ahi let out a guttural. ‘huuhh.’ Which sounded playful yet intimidating disapproval.
The transition of landscape zipped past with large swathes of rainforest, dark pockets of cropping land and tall grass. I imagined a Jungle Hut I’d be living in for the next three weeks. A dirt floor, palm fronds roof in some woven circular construction like I’d seen in the movies.
After a good fifteen minutes the winding roads curvature and pothole dodging. The road opened to an intersection. Houses stood idle, no windows; the moss and vines beginning to reclaim the empty shell structures of the asbestos clad houses. The Village Green sat at the centre of Liku with manicured grass, houses encircling the large whitewashed Church. Mark swerved onto a muddy small driveway between two houses, appearing quite busy with blue Tarpaulins, slatted glass windows billowed with steam and cooking smells. The sky clouded even darker shade than overcast as the car approached a sign resting against the wall of a nice light blue clad house with beautiful maintained gardens.
“WELCOME TO LIKU.” Ahi read the sign.
“Well this is it.” Mark said, pulling the car into the grassy compound at the back of the two houses.
“That small little hut there used to be my studio but is now the Kitchen and that house is our place. This one has the studio and the residence we recently added at the end.” The round table with wooden chairs sat outside the Kitchen under the small veranda, the wall tacked with fishing gear, woven fans and various tools.
“Through those Art-Deco glass doors is the new
residence where you’ll be staying.” Mark opened the doors of the studio.
“Here is the latest piece I’m working on.” I followed his lead and walked past the large canvas with three female figures blocked in colour between the pencil lines vaguely outlining the background. Mark explained the initial outlines of the working title Leaf gatherers in the Season of Entropy. I stood back to admire two coloured female figures in the foreground clearly blocked in definite contrast to the sketch outlines of other female figures’ middle ground and junk garbage outlines that filled the horizon across the expanse of the large canvas.
I followed Mark passed the studio and through a small corridor and tiny area where the stereo, Computer, printer and various storage of photos and papers were stacked and strewn on the centre workbench. This short rectangular room opened through a mustard yellow door into what Mark explained as the old gallery. I noticed the directional lights and various prints of Marks Paintings decorated the inside walls. It was all beautifully self contained with a double bed, futon couch, modest library of books, fridge, sink, oven and stove in the one room. It stepped down to look in the brand new tiled bathroom Laundry and toilet. The smell was of the fresh garland of scented leaves hanging on the windows, a deep earthy rotting leaf matter entwined with the building humidity. Various bugs and tiger- striped hornets beat against windows and light fittings with a hypnotic odd rhythm mixing with that winding sound of Cicadas.
“Are you hungry?” Ahi asked from the decked veranda outside the Art Deco doors.
“Yes. I think Airline food is getting smaller.”
“Good.” Ahi smiled, walked towards the kitchen as Mark unlatched the glass door bolts and set about explaining the importance of latching the doors to the wall just in case the wind might shatter the glass panes with a frosted deco style sailing motif. I nodded and lumped my gear onto the futon couch and changed into something more suitable than jeans and a jumper I’d worn in preparation for the cold Auckland winter.
We all sat under the studio’s Veranda next to my room while Ahi delivered various dishes onto the long table. We talked cautiously over a feast of coconut Chicken steamed inside hibiscus leaves layered with sliced mango, a large roast pork and crackling offset with paw-paw and Taro.
“Takihi is a traditional dish consisting of Talo (Taro) pawpaw and fresh coconut cream layered like lasagne.” Ahi explained.
“This is the first time I’ve ever had Taro.” As I chewed the large dense potato, brown like a starchy boiled flavourless Pear. It was hard to chew and filled my stomach after a couple of small pieces. The beer and wine continuously flowed between Mark and myself. I began to feel more relaxed as I handed Mark a Rothmans cigarette from my pack.
“I only smoke when I drink.” He added while lighting the cigarette.
“Don’t you go take all our guests cigarettes?” Ahi pointed to her packet of cigarettes. Ahi collected the plates and hauled the leftovers back to the Kitchen before the rain set in. We all lit up, watching more ominous dark clouds deepen until a few cracks of thunder signalled the onset of a massive downpour. I swigged back the remaining beer as Mark poured a nice Dry White for himself, Ahi returned and relaxed with a woven fan in one hand and cigarette in the other.
We all sat there, quietly admiring the dense jungle backyard filled with thick sheets of rain. I noticed a large chicken wire cube bordered the back of the jungle and four large coconut trees towered away from the House. We talked in small questions and answers as I could feel there was a lot of gauging into my unknown personality. I was a guest at their place and the first to stay at the Artist’s Retreat, I just kept talking and drinking to dispel any lack of questions.
‘It is all a part of the adventure’ I told myself.
“What is that tree there? The one with that piece of yellow fruit at the top.” I asked.
“That is Breadfruit. I will cook it up one day for you. You know there was four on that tree?” Ahi looked to Mark.
“But someone stole them?”
“If someone is hungry, they need it, they should have it.” Ahi countered.
“That is another thing, always keep your door locked. We have had some stuff stolen a while ago.” Ahi said.
“Sorry about the weather?” Mark changed tact and passed me another beer.
“I actually like it. South Australia is mainly dry Desert and it hardly rains.”
“Rain is a good omen to bring.” Ahi smiled and drew back on her cigarette. “It was another good omen that you came today as the fisherman caught fish.” Ahi’s comment eased the momentary silence.
“Yeah, Ahi likes all that wacko stars and hoodoo stuff.” Mark spoke directly to me while twisting his hands either side of his head, like weighing imaginary grapefruit next to his ears.
“It’s not wacko....Huhhh.” Ahi’s guttural disapproval emphasised with a deft whack of the woven fan killing a fly dead on the table. Mark smiled quietly amused at the reaction and cracked another can of beer open with a grin.
“So if you don’t mind me asking what is the local name you have here for tourists? I Just like to know when I am being talked about.”
“Palangi. It means Whitey!” Mark said with a laugh.
I tried my best to keep pace with the beer as a glass of wine was poured for me.
“Sure, I will listen for it ... Anyway it was a nice time staying with Renata and Staci.” I added while opening the beer.
“Yeah I hope you didn’t mind that email crap before you arrived. Those kids need to get some imagination...Be DYNAMIC.” Mark rolled his eyes in disbelief. I shrugged thinking back over the last two days of living at Renata’s.
The night continued and slowed into more slurred drunk conversation until it became very late and the beer ran into the final cans and all bottles of white were exhausted. Mark dished out half of his fresh raw sushi grade tuna marinated in sesame oil, soy sauce and mixed with fresh spring onions. It began to absorb some of the white wine and Lion Red beer cans we had consumed. The fish tasted so fresh and pure.
“I am going to have a shower, Good night. You will be okay with Everything?” Ahi added while butting out her cigarette. I nodded and could feel the time difference of crossing to Yesterday on the date line. Even though only four hours ahead in normal New Zealand time, yet it was the day before and somehow it messed with my head. I felt drunk while I grappled with yet another can, lit a cigarette and continued to shovel the raw fish mix Mark had offered.
“So if you are a psycho.... Don’t worry ....we’ll kill ya
and eat ya!” Mark’s wide eyes joking stare in jest. I gave a smile and shrug. Mark laughed at the comment with some soy dribbling down his chin and onto his tattered shirt. We both began testing each of the beer cans to find the remaining full one across the vast wall of cans covering the table.
The romantic ideals expressed in his eloquent written words and ornately detailed paintings seemed to be in direct contrast to Mark in party mode.
‘At least he was a happy drunk.’ I thought.
“Could we go to the Booze shop tomorrow? I have duty free I haven’t used yet.”
“Sure...you mean the Bond store... You just have to show the stub of your ticket to get Duty Free.”
“Mark... you leave the guest alone... He is probably tired.” Ahi yelled across the grassy driveway from
their house next to the studio-residence with her fan and cigarette.
“That is my call...His Master’s Voice...” Mark laughed and grasped his can and lunchbox of Sashimi that triggered my memories of beautiful Cerviché that Josh had made one night in Brooklyn. Mark stumbled back across the grassy driveway that divided their house from the studio. I finished my cigarette, went inside and fell into a deep sleep on the bed between my bag and winter clothes drenched in the smell of cigarettes. The Beer mingled with the sweet perfume of the garland of leaves Ahi left hanging on the windows.
Chapter 22: DAY 2.
I woke up at twelve nursing a headache where time and resolve seemed irrelevant to the amount of drinking we’d done the night before. I cold showered and changed into blue work shorts and a blue polo shirt. I decided on a few slices of bread, Banana’s and Paw-Paw that Ahi had freshly picked and left in the fridge. I waved to Ahi having a cigarette and coffee out the front of the tiny kitchen next to their house separated by a large grass compound and the driveway. Three undersized Ginger striped Cats ate leftovers in the bowl next to Ahi’s feet. I only knew that the affectionate Female cross-eyed cat was called ‘Fish’ and the larger male cat that could never be touched was called ‘Chips.’
‘or was it the other way around.’
‘Hello Fish and Chips’ they ran at my advance almost wary of any human interaction.
They were all identical to their mother yet the one cross-eyed cat with one bung eye looking directly at her nose seemed to be the dominant Female.
I walked past the Huge Breadfruit tree to the Chicken coop that was the size of a small house. The rectangular cube of chicken wire with skinny white and brown chickens and piles of coconut husks and the white shredded fresh coconut scattered around for them to eat.
I saw a stocky man in overalls with white skin and freckles husking the white coconut flesh into a bowl.
“Hi.” I said
“Hi.” He replied looking from under the brim of a baseball cap. His eyes were ice blue and pale skin pitted with light coloured freckles.
“I am staying with Mark and Ahi...You must be Vili.”
“They have a new guest house?” He pointed at the house.
“Yes. I am their first guest.” I looked back towards the periwinkle blue Studio and Retreat.
“Who are these two?” I pointed to the skinny dog with large nipples and a tiny black pup that played a game of trying to bite his mother’s legs.
“The pup is ‘Hammer’, She is called ‘Boy’.”
“Why did you call him Hammer?” Not alluding to the
obvious strange name of a female dog I’d ever heard. “It was a Hammer in my hand. I looked at the dog,
called him Hammer.”
“Cool.” I added while Vili continued on husking, halving and scraping the coconuts with one hand. I walked through the plantation of Vanilla trees and the fragile yellow and white flowers.
“These are long Vanilla beans.” I turned back to Vili for an answer.
“That is the companion Plant.” He squinted.
“Oh? I don’t really know tropical varieties.” I continued walking through the overgrown compounds with no idea of who’s compound or land belonged to. The rusty old Jeeps and cars left harbouring grass, vines and spiders webs cast across every surface. I had reached the jungle edge and turned to walk back into the room for a swig of Fruit juice, ate some Paw- Paw and lay down.
“I’m going into town to do some banking. You will need to buy some supplies and go to the bond store for your Duty Free?” Mark seemed to be quite morose in his hung-over state, a polar opposite of his jovial drunk of last night.
“Yeah sure.” I grasped my wallet and sunglasses and hopped into the Skoda utility.
Chapter 23: MARKS ART.
DIARY ENTRY SAT 20th 4:11 Liku Niue.
In the centre of an island, in a lonely quadrant of the Pacific ocean just above New Zealand.
Hung-over I listen to the now familiar chiming roosters exchange from backyard to front. I was welcomed with a kiss and handshake. I am on another island rock. Somehow the nice elements of Fresh water, good food and that old sense of retiring to that place. Beer lusts for conversation. A timeless contrast of small houses crammed like concrete tissue boxes in the overgrowth of this ghost town. Each road going to a place sparse and dense with plush green.
Time appeared as a slippery theme in the world’s moving ice-caps, oceans and glaciers. Here the rock moved an inch a year towards the trench beneath the ocean. Time dog legged around a simple ancient rock where most things were unhindered and fenceless. Animals roam looking for a safe refuge or something to eat. The world here is simple with just the day to day, Sea, sky and Land that could easily conspire into something like a cyclone or storm at any time.
MARK – the Artist -
I had followed Mark’s work from his web page where the amazing fluid photo realistic water colours and alien rock formations of Niue’s coral skeletal geography had a visceral appeal. The different themes exploring the surreal landscapes and the often harsh contrasted themes of interaction between environment and people. His explanations engaged many aspects of life and of art, politics, the use of natural resources, life, death, nature, music and loss. His oil paintings were colourful and photorealistic in the miniscule detail. The paintings displayed a human empathy and point of relation to connections; I loved the suggestive state of dream like subconscious in each of the paintings. Even small blades of grass were given painstaking detail and devotion. It was the images that displayed the war humanity has with the natural world that were most powerful. I could see certain landscapes that Mark had done previously that showed the infinite land without interruption. Using both mediums of oils and watercolour for a contrasting effect. Then there were landscapes that represented the turmoil and struggle of being human. Mark sat at his canvas using a multitude of magnified reading glasses to focus on the minute detail of leaves, coral or rocks in the painting. I viewed the pallet and each of the brushes were the tiniest sable and finest products available. The studio doors open to the Yard and stereo system playing Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, Tool or BBC radio. It was a relaxing place of creation and far removed from any distractions of Modern life.
“I come here to stop getting interrupted. If I am in the Riverhead Auckland studio there are always people coming around and no work gets done.” Mark said while clearing space in the studio’s storage room. The Niue Studio had been overrun with the family of undersized inbred cats that Mark referred to as very exclusive Niuean Miniatures. They lounged around preening and licking their fur in the warm sun.
“Why are all the animals on the island perpetually hungry?” I asked Mark.
“They all have worms, that’s why they eat all the time and stay so thin.” Mark returned to pencilling in various shapes on the painting while referencing photographs pegged on the canvas. Once I got over the frustration that everything had its own strange Island opening and closing time for business I started to relax. I couldn’t believe how free it felt to know there were no shopping centres, No ATM, No Fast food, No 24hour anything. It was the bare essentials and ordered products that arrived by boat once a month. .
After Mark had finished his session of painting we sat with a can of beer as he explained the virtue of being self-taught and not constrained by academia, or having a Degree hanging on his wall. I could see how living in Niue and New Zealand had an element of capturing a life between the two alternate islands with different levels of conveniences.
Mark showed me his prints of various outer Suburbs encroaching on nature, with vast tracks of tilled farms and urban lands and serene New Zealand Landscapes owned by private collectors. We discussed for a while about how there was a definite stupidity in the Industrial world and its destruction of nature. We agreed it made no sense of appreciation for life when it was all for profit and not much else.
“Just a bunch of human made systems that deemed everything to be extracted and exhausted until they run out.” I said.
“This painting I did took 18 months to create.” Mark pointed to a print on the desk. The centre of the painting had a pregnant woman dressed in a simple one-piece cotton sheet holding her unborn baby in her stomach with an engaging pensive stare.
“Nice, Very powerful image.”
“How about we get a drink?” Mark added.
“Sure.” I shrugged and we drove off in the rusty Skoda to the capital Alofi.
“Well Stafford... he is always good for a laugh. But first we’ll have a look at the Sculpture Park.” Mark drove the rusty Czechoslovakian Skoda at breakneck speed towards the thick grass to the side of the road not far from the edge of Liku.
“She’s a bit thick. I’ll need to get the mower in here soon before the jungle takes over.” We both got out of the car as Mark grasped a bush knife and began to slash through the grass towards the wooded totem sculptures.
“These Totems looking things were done by a friend who stayed for a while, he is quite a talented artist, but got married to a crazy woman... and now its
complicated.” Mark continued slashing the grasses and cursing his neglect of the project explaining that the jungle grasses had started to become a part of the two main sculptures.
“I have named the Park, Protean Habitat.” Mark then muttered about some comment made about the overly phallic structure that resembled a wooden rocket that he had no idea of how to finish.
“You could put a sculpture up here if you want?” “Sure where is the nearest hardware store?” “There is one rule ...It has to be made from found objects.”
“Flotsam and Jetsam?” I added as Mark agreed with
a nod of his head. I walked past the Totem sculptures to inspect the tall structure and the precise wooden symmetry and shape.
“Anyway enough of this, let’s go to the Bar to see who is in town.”
Mark’s grand tour of the most visually and intellectually entertaining places to drink on an island.
Stafford’s was an interesting Pub on the edge of the cliff with a par one golf course that had a flag and hole on a slender outcrop of rock in the middle of the sea. It was about four school buses away from the cliff top bar, complete with a square artificial turf T- off .
The Bar consisted of open veranda and picnic tables with ornate pink sea-shells as ashtrays. It had a magnificent view of the cliffs and dropped into the ocean just five meters away. Mark talked at length with Stafford as we sipped at our beers. I decided to wander around the outskirts of the bar. Mark pulled out a guitar and told me to play something. I nervously started to sing one of my Jazzier ballads.
“It’s different.” Mark slugged at his beer.
One of Mark’s friends who owned a Noni fruit farm appeared through the front entrance with his acoustic guitar, Ukulele and songbook. He started singing and drinking next to me eventually handing me the Ukulele and demanded that I play along. More people arrived and joined in the drinking and singing songs from the sixties and seventies era. I was the youngest person there and could recall most of the songs were from around the time I was born. It was fun jamming and listening while trying to figure out how to play along. Night fell and I went for another walk and sat alone on the stairs cut down the cliff. It was beautifully relaxing listening to the ocean all lit up in moonlight forty foot above the sea level.