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Kia Ora Ora

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    Kia Ora Ora

    In the sphere of thought, absurdity and perversity remain the masters of the world, andtheir 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 agood 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 inthe southern hemisphere.

    Congratulations Loren Ipsum, winner of the Round Robin TournamentWorld 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 Gallipolioh those tours ofmonuments dedicated to battles were endless.

    A few minutes later she could see a long shelf of gray gypsum rocksmarking the coast below, then a flat plain of green, then thousands of red tileroofs before the sudden application of brakes knocked her back in the seat.

    Oh, my glass crystal elephant from Seriandore, a high-pitched womansvoice 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.Thats Eideldown the big country across the sea.The first woman murmured an apology. Theres so much to see I dont

    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 airportsduring flight delays to check for mildew growing on her back.

    Boom! The vacuum sealed plane door was opened and passengersbegan 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 brownbriefcase tucked under his arm was answering questions from a bevy ofreporters - or space aliens. It was hard to tell which considering the number ofsilver reception dishes propped up on big, white vans parked outside the maingate window.

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    She watched the tan satchel, roly-poly plaid suitcase, and red plasticbackpack passing by on the revolving, rubber baggage rack while she kept hereye out for her own non-nonsense folding suit bag which carried everything shecould stuff in it. From the lounge she could hear the nasal accent of the Americanresponding to questions from the press. It sounded like a lot of humbug.

    Im here to ensure that our countries find a mutually agreeable solution tothe matter.Yes, a statement will be issued shortly.No, I cannot comment further on that.Of course, we are concernedI will have no further comment on that at this time.Im 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-endingquestions about of free trade, diplomacy, and travel. Clapping the bag over herback and pulling the shoulder straps firmly around her arms, she headed for theterminal exit where the RRT representative was supposed to be waiting for her.

    He was. With the same bevy of space alien reporters who had questionedthe humble American in the stiff suit. He introduced himself as Mr. Eagen, leaderof the local RRT chapter, in a whisper. Then he motioned for her to stand next tohim while the photographers snapped pictures, jotted down her name, asked forthe spelling of her home town Ypsilanti, Michigan, and inquired what she waslooking forward to during a brief hop-over in Zeelandia.

    Twenty-four hours of rest.Dinner with the Tournament hosts.Cravens, I believe.Once beforeIt 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 thenarrow aisle toward the EXIT sign at the edge of the airport.

    Your accommodations are all set, Mr. Eagen told her once they were onthe highway. Youll be staying at the Whangapuri Motel over night. Thearrangements are for me to pick you up at 5, take you to Cravens finest bit ofsirloin youll want to taste - welcome cocktails till 7, then dinner and speakers till10, although some may want to stay longer. More than fifty people are expected.Were 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 officetowers rising up in the distance. The Pacific, she reminded herself. Warmclimate, tropical rain, giant ferns. No snakes. A heliopolis of sun, sand, andvolcanic water geysers. Did the motel have a pool? She turned to ask Mr. Eganwho was spinning the steering wheel sharply towards an off-ramp.

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    *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-agedinosaur on the hunt for food in the middle of the night, its back covered withdense 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. Itseemed a dubious thing to commemorate, but the bonfire bakes were supposedto be terrific.

    Mr. Eagen dropped her off at the motel precisely at 2:14. He wouldreturn exactly at 5:00 to pick her up for the banquet. Oh, just a few plates offried rice, a keg of Bartleys beer, maybe some champagne sherbet. Casualclothes were just fine if.he peered at her folding suit bag.that was all shehad. He was sorry to rush but he had to complete some work this afternoon andthe 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 hestepped 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 manwearing 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 thecounter.

    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 lumbarelements broke when a flock of Hinokatanga flocked in yesterday. They couldmake a mess of things be open in a day or two.

    There was a tide pool over by Portcullis Road if she didnt mind a shortwalk ten blocks straight down the side road over there. A bit deep, mind hotsprings below, spits crickets at night but good for a quick dip. It was just downfrom Kaegora Hill still standing, although theres been talk about razing it for ahelioport. 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 ofblack sedans sweeping by on the outer highway.

    Koloyano motorcade, Ill bet, he told her. Straight from the SolomonIslands, here for negotiations about seasonal workers. Dipsomaniac, saw it in thepapers this morning, rented an entire floor of balcony suites at the Sky Tower.

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    He ushered her down the sidewalk toward her room. Used to be a sleepyplace out here, on the edge of town, but the air corridors 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 bedspreadcovered 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 whohad given her this gift of world travel.

    Ladies and gentlemen, she would begin. Thank you for welcoming meto 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.Thats right. Luck is the key ingredient. Our former president, for example, had adog named Lucky. He was rescued from the pound (sorry you gave up the poundfor the dollar. No more pence, shillings, and thrupence these days.) Lucky got aquick shampoo, a velvet neck ribbon, and went on camera. It tells you that anconservative will do anything to save costs.

    She would continue to describe her inveterate discipline, performancepractice, and steady progress. Then she would express her appreciation to thegroup for her recent experiences on the World Tour. Highlights included ridingcamels with four Berkman in Saz, climbing the parapet in Locanvilla, seeing the

    Percale Exhibit in Mynalore, and rafting down the Pettybog in Mazulapan. It wasan experience no one could ever forget. Finally, she would end with a Latin motto nunquam non paratus! Do something every day! Something she rememberedfrom 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, raffiabrown twine, to enhance the dcor. Motel rooms were dull, dusty, boring. It was ashame to waste the afternoon peering at reruns ofChopper 9, Baywatch, orTandoori Cooking. Better to go out for a walk maybe to the tidal pool where shecould dip her feet in cool water. The islands had every kind of environment snow peaked mountains, an hourglass coastline which hugged dense forests, arapier sword of land at the tip. Shed seen the map in the guidebook on theplane. 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 astraw belt, overflowing with pebbles from Mt. Lihana where she had walked forthree 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

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    no surfing on this trip but she had come prepared. She had a linen shirt with longtails 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 suitand pouring her legs into baggy pants and a shirt (pink polyester with aguarantee 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 stillbathed 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 waitingfor phlebitis to form in the cavities behind her knees. There were two-and-a-halfsteps for every square of concrete which smothered mother earth. Compact carswhizzed 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 akilometer ahead. It came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of a rock cliff wheregraffiti 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 hadnt brought one of those; maybe it was a popular sportout here.

    Portcullis Road the sign hung over the highway said, with an arrowpointing 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 shed seen of a huge,hidden lake in the middle of gigantic mountains near Nepaz. When it froze inwinter, people delighted in bouncing balls off the surface to see if they could hitthe 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 slippedand slithered on her way to the bottom.

    Beulaville! she cried when she got there. It was a big pond with a bunchof thick lotus pods on one side, their green vines spreading across the dark waterwhich bubbled every couple of seconds. It was a subterranean wonder, a naturalpond erupting from some deep, watery channel underneath. Terr-i-bly nice, sheannounced from the bottom of the path. Still unbulldozed, hidden under a hunk ofhuge rocks dropped before the development of multi-fabricated granitemanufactured especially for commercial purposes. It was like discovering anumbilical cord to early mans natural habitat.

    Bing, bang, boom! she announced, stripping off her shirt and baggypants. Diving was her forte. A quick pose on the edge and she would be flowingthrough the water with the swiftest of ease. Cutting through it like a knife, slicingthrough the dark, cool water, feeling her hair ripple out behind her.

    She poised herself on the bank, then dove.*

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    The spume of bubbles floated up before her eyes, a wavering cylinder ofwater gushing out of the ground which seemed to rise to the surface in themiddle of the dark water of the pond. It looked like stars were rising from apneumatic tube in the earths 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 shecould not see. They streamed from the bottom, collected in unseen undergroundchannels, and burst into the water like spray from a whale breaching the surface.She could barely see through the deep, green water around the percolatingbubbles which mesmerized her.

    They were sitting at the tots table on the greensward covering thepromontory whose sharp cliffs jutted over the ocean. It was a tiny table, withthree inch legs, square, cut from untreated wood, with a white table cloth spreadacross 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 thecolor of walrus.They were conducting a ritual dance. The first two men bowed their

    heads, tapped on the tablecloth, nodded exaggeratedly. The second two menshook 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 topwhile the second two waved walrus arms back and forth. Maunihunga, onesaid distinctly, planting his bare foot on the greensward. Onoplungea, a blackhat 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 childs voice cried in the distance. A young girl in

    a pink dress with a square neck and bouffant sleeves came running across thegreensward toward the tiny tots table. The four men turned to watch her, staringat the flying dervish crossing the lawn. Tea, she announced when she reachedthem. 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 littlegirl stared at him, then rose from the ground on a wave of wind and floated offover the promontory.

    The pond water was dense, thick, soft, as if it had been mixed with aconditioner put in a washing machine. Her head was resting on a flat heliumballoon, a lotus pod which felt like a stuffed pillow. Grog, she said, coughing outa splatter of water when she spoke. Crag, she coughed again. The pod waspale green, a vine was climbing over her neck, soon she might be strangled in itif she rolled over too fast. She shook her head above the water like a dog to freeher hair of moisture, but another vine caught on her mouth and wrapped itselfaround her ears when she tried to move. It was like being caught in a web ofintricate 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 youreyour gloves on the street, stand up for the elderly, be polite. It was third form,

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    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 intres partes. Where was it? Lacrosse games at four, playing field with a fence atthe end, drive the long shot into the wire, whoop when you make it, wave the

    stick in the air. Teddy Roosevelts gone!She rolled over in the pond, smelling the heavy scent of putrefaction fromthe banks, slipping onto a cool, watery pod which seemed to hold her suspendedin the water. Her eye lids felt heavy, swollen from the water, and her ear lobestingled 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 aresettled, 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 firstdays at school, punishment for disobeying the rules, big stick, whack on theknuckles. Corporal punishment. Scared to go to school. Hide under the bedclothes, 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 andleaned 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 ofhalvah.

    Where was she then? Her temples throbbed. Where was she now? In thepool at Mohenjo Daro, terraces of water dripping over carved stone, the shrine onthe peak of the hill with silver amulets hanging from the roof? Were there lycheenuts on the trees? Sarongs amid the tea leaves? Water beakers on swayingheads? The answer kept slipping away. Was it Pele Bar? Pickillili Deli?

    Plumbers Restaurant? She felt herself float free, drifting off the soft pillow,skimming the surface of the cool, dark water.Gruesome Americansrulers of the free worldall bowroll out the red

    carpetsecurity is our primary concernwe must not let them defeat usallieswill stand togetherthere is no going backthis is a new worldprosperity willbe oursfree tradeforeign investmentone world unitedthe global village.

    A drop of cold water struck her forehead. Her eyes flashed open for a briefsecond. The pond was blurred, she could see a huge, rotting creeper vinestranded in the center, it looked like a black lagoon with huge green-silver fishlying 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 rockcliff. She raised her head, feeling it touch the rock, feeling ice-cold water streamdown 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, naturalrock, carved by hand, her favorite thing. Gods of the past, gods of the naturalworld, 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 whosaw everything from the upper stratosphere with unblinking eyes..

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    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 BoraBora, Samoa, Tahiti. Was this it? There would be life in a terrarium. Only thevolcanic mountains rising like crumbling, onyx hills from the ocean would survive.

    She could feel something sharp at the back of her neck. She reached upwith her hand to touch the jagged edge of the rock-cliff. Rolling on her side, shelooked 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 upwardsomewhere, up toward the highway, up toward the vast expanse of sky aboveshe needed to find.

    She could almost remember. WaitamereWhanereiWhanapui. Allthose years ago she had lived here. The South Pacific. Paradise. Dreamland.Now on tour. On her way to Japan. After TeipeiThailandZeelandia.

    *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 rugbyduring the season, did a little fly fishing but never read Zane Gray.

    Hes the witchiwholit who camped out on a boat for two weeks to catchMarlin, right?

    American frontier guy went right past the border into unchartedterritory.

    I dimly recall hearing something about him. But hey, we got sail-boardfishing todayhang 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 giantgrotto 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 oflike the old Raffles Hotel surrounded by huge ice cubes. Cocktails on theveranda, 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 meetingthe winner of RRT. Make sure you have a pen to autograph their albums.

    Will do, Happy to engrave on arms if you like.I dont think that will be necessary.Cravens is one of our best restaurants. We meet there semi-annually for

    elections and a soup-to-nuts dinner without herbicides. All organic meals. Weswear by it.

    Look, there goes a skateboard-wheelie being towed by a car in the otherlane. She pointed at the cone-shaped fiberglass white board rolling from oneside of the lane to the other on four, tiny wheels being towed by a car while ayoung man in green-and-white polyester shorts stood firmly on top.

    We frown on it. Too dangerous. But its a popular sport out here.

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    The car park at last! Mr. Eagen exclaimed as he flicked on his left turnsignal and darted into an over-crowded lot. A small group was milling togethernear the entrance - she could see a organza melon-colored, organza gown, asilver lame jacket, a black velveteen tail coat over slim jeans. They were chattingvolubly, as if theyd just returned from swap-and-share with some unexpected

    treasure.They hailed Mr. Eagen with a hearty Halloooo as he stepped out of thecar. Her green-and-blue crinkle dress with the hem cut into triangular scarvesfloating below her knees swayed in the light breeze as they approached theentrance.

    Welcome to Cravens!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-skincloth 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 ofpressing shirts, Rolex watches, open mouths. She covered her face with her arm,blinded by the light.

    Hows it feeltripten dollar winnertouchstone of Ever been herebefore? Torpidtarantulastippling. How long will you stay? What do you planto do? Whats your game-plan? Give us a smile, fashion-bug!

    They were gone in five minutes, shooed away by Mr. Eagen who usheredher to the round table at the rear of Cravens and seated her by his side. Tap-to-roos, he told her, shaking his head, as he pushed the tan metal chair in with agrinding sound. Everywhere these days.

    Theres a gap between reality and fantasy, she replied affirmatively.They tucked into abalone shells filled with seafood, a glint of pearlgleaming on the bottom. A tall man with a pony tail introduced the first speakerwho spoke of recreational velocity, arm-and-pitch movements, wristband weights.Diners clapped and cheered, poured bottle beer into glasses, and hoisted themhigh over the table with occasional shouts.

    Brinnamyna, they began to chant as the mound of ivory rice was loadedonto the tables on leaf-shaped platters. Brinnamyna, Brinnamyna,

    Mr. Eagen nudged her with his elbow. They mean bring her on, hewhispered.

    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 forthe grub. No cholesterol tests tomorrow. Cant say enough about the World Tour.What a rare delight - rent-a-yak in the Himalayas, tour of the miniature pleasuredome in Shangdu, my own personal ride in the Batmobile. Little beats it. And inbetween, I have to thank the players who have welcomed me, pitched a game ortwo, and taken their licks in the greatest sport in the world today.

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    There was thunderous laughter from the bleachers.Raw truth, a mans voice called out.Best in class, a womans 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 totell 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 someadvantage from it?

    She sat down to a long round of loud applause which was followed by atoast 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 continuecelebrating. The rest were invited to rise from their metal seats to sing a chorusof Good Queen Mother Ship before departing for the evening.

    At midnight, Mr. Eagen drove her back to the motel Whangapuri anddeposited her in front of her door. Ill collect you at 11 AM in time for the trip tothe airport, he yelled through the open window as he roared off into the crystalclear night.

    Inside, she discovered she had vertigo. She lay down on the bed spreadwith her blue-green crinkle dress spread out like a doily and slowly slipped intothe deeper realm of the subconscious.

    *

    Mr. Eagen called at 9 the next morning. He had bad news. He was sorryto hear it. Arrangements would have to be made. Something was out of orderwith her visa. The TTR had not been issued. She would have to meet with airportofficials. Temporary Transit Release. Staying over. He would be back in touchlater in the day.

    She stared at the phone in her hand. The receiver was beige, dotted withdark holes, and emitted a high-pitched tone. It said: Your trip is cancelled. Youare 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 days delay. Arriegato, my dear traveler.

    These were the risks of traveling today. Bumped from a flight, hotelreservations cancelled, itinerary in disarray. She would have to deal withbureaucracynow. Telephone calls to the airport, conversations with customsofficials, lengthy discussions with airline clerks.

    What could be the problem with her visa? Did someone mis-stamp herpassport when she arrived? Or left someplace else? Forget to stamp it at all? Orwas there something wrong about her special, temporary visa granted toathletes, artists, or performers which had been overlooked before she started outon the World Tour?

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    Whatever it was, it would have to be cleared up in a couple of days. If itwasnt, her whole trip would be wrecked. She could be stranded here, with non-refundable tickets. There could be cablegrams racing back-and-forth fromAndalusia to Zanzibar about her unexpected, last minute cancellation of aplanned trip. RRT hosts who had set up exhibition games would be furious.

    Stillshe stared at the slim figure in the mirror wearing a long, pale greenT-shirt down to her thighs with TETLEY printed across the top. If she was stuckhere, she might try to reach a few people whose names had been tumblingaround during REM sleep when she tried to remember when she lived here.

    Her sleep had been Lorca-esque, surreal, filled with half-forgottenmemories. There had been Eden, a grassy, green volcanic hill covered withgrazing sheep. A plate of stiff, frosted white cake. A bowl of green curryaccompanied by orange squash. There had been the click of bowls on an openlawn, the barrister with his white wig who lived down the street, the headmistresswith the rubber-soled shoes, and the clerk at the stationery store where shebought a shillings worth of candy every week. They had appeared like aromatic

    smoke from a volcano, figures from the past, figments of memory, weavingthrough 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? Whenshe was picking pouwha shells from black sand? When she was listening tosomeone call co-wee from a distant porch? Sometime once so familiar, thatnow seemed so far away.

    She would have to wait for Mr. Eagen to give her the details about the visaquestion that afternoon. In the meantime, she might try to make a few calls tosee if she could locate some of the strange, haunting figures she had dreamedabout. 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 thestar 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 wasntthere. Fame could do that. But deep in her heart, she suspected it was theorganizers 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 ofattention, cut out any extraneous interest which might detract from her suddensuccess. And before she knew it, there was only RRT, tournaments in city aftercity, and the overbearing resentment of the biggest player in the league Goofball. In fact, she suspected that he had refused to play in the championshipgames hoping that she would win the World Tour and leave the field solely tohimself. But she was here now. She stared at the beige phone for a minute, thengot up to hunt for a phone book thinking how nice it would be to renew oldacquaintanceships.

    *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

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    on the bus, taking the Number 138 to Marenge, switching to the 15, walking fortwo miles, transferring to the 38, and jogging on the last stretch for ten minutesup Pareha Street. Now she stood looking at the rectangular, stucco building withcement steps and a white flag with red streaks flying on a pole by the side of thefront door.

    Inside, it smelled antiseptic. The dcor was Mod Bureau with flyers on thewall printed in bold, black letters, a coffee station on a bleak, gray table at therear, and badges on the tan uniforms of two resident Pakeha.

    Thats correct, the pale-faced man with a bald pate informed her.Temporary Transit Visas must be applied for through your home state consulatein advance of travel. Your date-stamp ended the day before you arrived. You willhave to re-apply through your consulate here. Transit is banned until you havecompleted 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 thenext 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 toOuter 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. Theweather was ripe, the sun burnished, and the fresh air ripped through the openbus door like an aerosol can release.

    Please validate my parking ticket, she told the clerk at the embassy, ared brick building with a Betsy Ross hanging outside next to a one-man, grayguardhouse with iron spokes poking out of the top.

    Our hours are 8:30-1PM. Im sorry. Youll have to come back tomorrow.

    But the TTR is needed immediately. I am an emissary for the RRT on aWorld Tour. My tickets have been scheduled far in advance. A minor mishap witha date-stamp at the home office should be corrected right away. Please sign,seal, and deliver.

    Im 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 theshuttle to the airport. She had time to count her meager NZD bills - whichwouldnt last too long at this rate. Probably she would have to make a trip to abank in the morning to convert USD travelers checks into Zeeland dollars if shewas going to keep taking the bus around the city. She would also have to dig outher green peds with the terry cloth ruff around the edges if she was going to jogso many miles again. It wouldnt do to have blisters when she played her nextexhibition game.

    Hungry and tired, she flopped down on the huge bed with the swirlingmustard-green spread and clicked on the television. There was news! For amoment, she sat up right and cheered - until she realized it was local news.

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    The row over seasonal workers from nearby islands had subsided aclipped voice female reporter noted, adding that the produce season was almostover. The PM would be working with MPs during session to ensure that properdocumentation and health rules would be followed by employers hiring temporaryworkers. 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 questionsabout 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 whenthey couldnt afford to travel otherwise.

    There was a proposal for a Trans-Pacific Trading Pact supported byleaders in several Asian nations which would allow the free flow of capital andenhance the economy through import-export exchanges the PM would beattending. Talks would be talks scheduled for next month about setting up acommon standard for trade but she did wish to point out that rumors about asingle, 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 newgambling casino had applied for municipal approval in Dunwoody which cityofficials were expected to okay after strict scrutiny. In Pauklano, the director ofthe national museum announced a plan to host a new exhibition of ancient ballgames which would be on display in three months.

    TV news concluded with a brief update on an advisory travel warning bythe Americus State Department for neighboring Elucitania where the governmenthad clamped down on smugglers. Such government crackdowns could provokeunrest and put a further strain on free trade in the region which State hopedwould be only temporary. A nebbishy-looking man in a drab suit was shownstanding behind a podium in front of a map of the world highlighting Americus in

    blue. He looked stiff, like a plasticine castShe switched off the TV and got up to collect the brochures she hadpicked up on her trip through Pauklano, laying them out one-by-one on the gaudybedspread. If time permitted, she might go to Kinnewaha Creek tomorrow, assoon as she had verified her change of plans with Mr. Eagen.

    Lying back on the bed she closed her eyes. It couldnt take that long tohave 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 throughher 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 AZPACnations which had been summoned overnight to address the piracy in Elucitania.They were afraid the turmoil might spill over into other Pacific Rim states. Theyhad a picture of a plump black woman next to the short article. It quoted theAmbassador speaking glowingly of optimal rights for all people in the face ofpotential racial conflicts, the need for economic growth spurred by aninternational consortium of states, and the importance of security in an age of

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    globalism. The newspaper report said she would be out-of-town for four days butthe embassy would remain open with a skeleton staff.

    She dropped the paper back on the varnished wood table in the motellobby and walked back to her room with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. The morningsky 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 puffsof 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 autopollution. In usurp-the-planet land the green back held sway over all.

    Opening the motel room door she found herself singing a song barelyremembered from some distant time. Volare.o,ocom sareo,o,o,o. Nel bludel 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 passedthrough her mind, then evaporated. She might not be flying through the blueskies 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 alimited 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 ZNBankrepresentative about wiring money. There was no telling how long she might behere. He would speak to Mrs. Margolis about seeing what could be done. Wasshe alright for the day?

    Asphodel, she replied cheerfully. A little stroll never hurt anyone. Add itto my expeditionary list a lay-over in breadfruit land, counting the number ofbranches in a banyan tree, contemplating hologram cards at the motel. Check inagain tomorrow.

    She stared at the plain, vanilla door of the motel room. Somewhere outthere were crumpets dripping with butte, smeared with homemade jam and freshdairy cream. There were fresh papayas plucked off a tree at 3 AM and sliced intostrips of succulent, sweet flesh ready for a quick nibble. There was the pink fleshof guava ripened to the softness of Camembert cheese which could be dug out ofa 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 werent always available duringthe week when the die-hards of tennis, badminton, and volleyball took up spaceat indoor courts. Ponging was a different thing altogether it required a firm grip,astronomical vision, and quick reflexes. Many years ago she had tried throwinghorse shoes over a ring, tossing a Frisbee, and batting softballs into a net froman automatic feeder - but none had the appeal of ponging. Its one drawback wasthe need for space vast space for bounce-backs, indirect curve balls, suddendeflections, jack jumping, and ricochets. And space was at a premium in mostplaces.

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    The brochures were full of strange things to do in Pauklana. The city had aSnork and Porpoise Restaurant on the ocean-side, The Loft on the other side ofthe harbor which offered fish and chips on an air mattress set out on a balconywith a superb view, and kayak rentals from the Rack Bar to tour the outerislands.. There was also an animated display of an extinct volcano called

    Rapanoa at a childrens museum on the North Shore which lit up at the top ofevery hour.She packed carefully to make sure everything she needed for the days

    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 bagand screwed them onto her earlobes. The South Pacific was calling her. Tahitiwas only a few moments away, Paul Gaugin posters would probably be all overstore windows. And there would be hundreds of jandals on the street. Unlikethose 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 sidewalkleafing through newspapers, gazing at the end of the road, shifting from one footto 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 awoman standing next to him. Theyll be getting new tires next year, shereplied with a slight smile.

    When the bus did come, they rode together in pleasant silence, listeningto 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 theline 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, theres 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 toturn a black, metal lever by the steering wheel. Stepping onto the street shecould see the return stops spelled out in bold letters on a placard above thewindow. Marai, Pahoutou, Motulauwa, Hanakwa. They were Maori names forthe 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 Rangiwho held Mother Earth in such a fast embrace that the world was dark. As theirchildren 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 earthwere separated by a fine, blue line. Earth flourished with the rain fall from theclouds in the tropical climate and created mist which covered the land for whichthey 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:

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    col-our for example, instead of col-or. It was some hold-over from the middleages when they wrote words with capital letters. Their pronunciation was differenttoo: (h)is-olation, not (eye)-solation. A truck was a lorry, a friend was a chum, andsangria was Shangri-la. It all seemed familiar to her but there it was, the oldschool 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 herears full-force as she peered up from the sandy path. Huge cascades of waterpoured over a sheer cliff, swirling together like a transparent dancers scarves,streaming into a whirlpool below. Then it swept down a tiny creek piled withboulders, 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 shehad descended steeply to the gorge and put on the razmataz suit. It was a plumeof 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 thewater 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, inharmony with the elements. Here he bathed, fished with his hands, pluckedchlorophyll from plants, walked barefoot wearing simple flax cloth. Here was theamorphous 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 capover 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 ripplingwhite under the rushing water she let herself slide into the creek. The stream ofwhite water from the falls poured over her, undulating as it passed across herlanguid torso lying on the pebble bottom. She laid her head back, feeling thewater course through her hair and pulse over her shoulders. She was a Kilaniwoman rinsing her hair in the stream, long, black strands flowing through thewater, covered in a flax skirt with red-and-black stripes, coral shells hangingaround her neck, a native.

    She opened her eyes and sat upright in the creek. How natural it had beenonce for those living here. Before the Britcoms arrived. First ships, then tradingcompanies, then colonies to populate the land. There had been Wakefield,dreaming of landed estates in the far off Pacific, sulking in a debtors prison,looking for investors in the South Seas. There had been five hundred years ofempire building all around the world ships traveling thousands of miles to planta confederate flag which said, my country, tis of thee.

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    They had worshipped the gods of greed, slavery, murder under thetrappings of civilization. They had outposts in Africa, forced the opium trade onChina, annexed the Raj of India, and imposed their own culture on defenselessplaces by military might. Even after two world wars they had refused to give upthe 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 royalcrown, the only European state to retain its far off colonies in modern times. Itreeked of internal corruption, persistent dissuasion, ethnocentrism. The top of theworld, subordinate only to the US of A where the almighty dollar reignedsupreme. And their goal was one world, one currency, one system uber alles,everyone speaking the same Americus slanguage, where commerce andconsumerism were they only thing that mattered.

    It meant all glory or obscurity for her. Fate, they called it. Destiny. Moneyor poverty, freedom or captivity, friends or foes. The RRT winner make or breakthe 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 natures paradise, thefulcrum of mans original state, the Eden of mankind. At least she hadexperienced it for a little while.

    She dried off in the sun on the edge of the creek. Then she tiptoed back tothe 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 thetelephone, 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 tomake arrangements for somewhere to stay on her own. He hoped the TTR wouldcome 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 amessage 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 bedto open the motel door and let some fresher air in. She was by herself in aforeign country, had limited funds, was barred from leaving, and her tickets forthe World Tour were in limbo. It was like a bad domino game - if she couldntcatch up by skipping a stop or two she would be stranded in some dismalbackwater someplace looking for mule transport back home.

    The best thing to do was to press officials for release. Usually that meantputting an emolument into their palms until they nodded affirmatively. In her case,it meant pleading her cause. Suggesting some new ideas to officials. Being firmabout what had to be done. Saying things like: there will be international

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    repercussions without immediate release. A slight mistake by governmentofficials should be corrected at once. Budgeting your time on behalf of taxpayers should be an obligation of a civil servant. No one should be heldhostage by bureaucracy. The RRT may withdraw its support for internationalcompetitions in the future.

    They were all positive approaches to the problem. She would have totravel to their offices to ply her case renting a bicycle seemed out of thequestion given the distance between sections of the city. She would have to keeptaking the bus, sit on tan metal chairs in waiting rooms, watch the staff watchingthe clock until it was time to go home.

    Athough she could see the bustling city where she had bought her firstTiki god. Round, plump, treasured. Carved in jade exhumed from natural rockdeep in the recesses of primitive forests. Think of the old beige Austin with thepop-up turn signal arms backing out of the driveway on Allenbert Road. Wherewas it now the old world, the world she had once known? Lemon trees in thelawn, 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. Thedays events floated through her mind like surreal images. When she got up, sheturned on the TV news to see what was going on out there.

    The Asian summit had commenced. There were swimming photos ofleaders smiling and nodding at the TV cameras while a spokesperson describedtheir hope to achieve a multi-lateral agreement to boost trade between allpartner countries. A reporter noted that the current president of the All-Asiagroup of nations was hosting a state dinner which would be served on bananaleaves.

    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 damagestocks, even spread onto vegetation and infect the air. People were warned to becareful about rinsing produce before preparing it to eat.

    In world news, the mother country had spawned a protest over the recentdecision by Parliament to cease investigating the loans-for-peers scandal wherethe PM was alleged to have traded peerages in return for campaign funds.

    The States was busy brokering a deal between China and Taiwan toincrease weapons sales which a Boeing spokesman expressed approval for.Free markets and foreign trade are our lifeline. We must always be sure to backup our policies with force, he told the smiling, female news reporter with thebright pink lipstick and curly blonde hair.

    At the end, there as a picture of a flashing neon sign over a jewelry storefollowed by video footage of a glass case filled with diamond rings, turquoisebracelets, and jade earrings. She turned the TV off, grabbed her key, andsauntered down the sidewalk to the motel lobby to talk to the manager about herreservation.

    *The INS was engaged in a heated discussion about the disposition of the

    seven hundred Somali refugees the government had accepted yesterday. They

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    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 hadsmall children who would need special housing, health examinations, languagelessons, and school counseling while the adults were in transit.

    .cant 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 diplomaticpouches to Washington but that was up to the other government involved.Temporary visas for sports and entertainment visitors were dealt with at thepoint-of-departure. They could stay for ten days or two months, depending ontheir 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. Butunlike the Somalis they didnt offer her shelter, an immigration attorney, ordiplomatic intervention with the native country. She was in no mans land a lostsheep on a big, green volcanic mountain.

    She learned by phone that the embassy was closing early. They wereunder strict instructions to keep daily opening limited while the Ambassador wasaway. There would be no consultations with the host government when shereturned. They could make no provisions for travelers without funds. She wouldhave to apply to a local agency for help.

    She decided to visit Rangitoto when she walked out of the building withthe 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 mountainin the middle of the harbor to see the quiet, sleeping giant resting in the lateafternoon 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 shecouldnt show an ID card. Travellers Aid did not covertemporaryforeign visitors.Red Cross only offered emergencyhelp during natural disasters. Oxnard wasunited against famine. Robotussin was a coldmedicine.

    Food Kitchen was open seasonally but not now. Anglaterra only hadhousing facilities for the lame. Azores Sports Bar only had bottled water for drop-ins. Local churches were tied to answering machines, motels were hooked tomoney machines, airlines required up-to-date flight schedules to offer overnightaccommodations to a delayed passenger. The voices were clipped, accentsprecise, tones impersonal. Yes, no, try somewhere else.

    Calls to former acquaintances resulted in the same.

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    Mrs. Palmerston was cooking dinner when she picked up the phone. Thesound of frying could be heard in the background. Shes abroad, dearie. Hasntbeen here in two years. Old schoolmate? Send her a letter. Im sure shed beglad 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 behindthe Raritango building on Queen Street. Just taking a snooze, she told policewhen they hauled her out with a crane. Immigration has been asked to check herentry papers to see if theyre in order. Falsifying documents is a crime here.

    Passport. Visa. Tickets. She had everything she needed in the folding suitbag but a release document. Quo vamanous? Ad arreste? A scuffle in the parkwith a couple of punks over a bench?

    She exchanged views on the matter with Mr. Eagen in five calls later in theday. 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-payingguests. 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 anexhibition game at Mannepowa over the weekend? Several members hadexpressed 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 withpirates knives in the mouths, a shrieking squirrel running up and down the vinessqueaking at intruders, a man in a toga ruffling a stack of papers in his handswith 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: corporatespecters, flaccid orators, malevolent reporters, pallid officials all promotingopenness, transparency, smoke and mirrors. They popped up to make glancingreferences to the latest international crisis, domestic proposals, unilateralagreements, then faded away into the gray background of the media plane.

    She woke in a sweat. The oglipogly of the sports world: funds restricted forfuture matches unless promotional tour undertaken. The trap of it. Today home.Tomorrow the globe. Big Business meant business. Take that in your hand andeat it.

    She showered. Lay down on the bed to wait for dawn. One stamp awayfrom 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 Kahluatree. She would pick berries from the bushes, bake coconut leaves in a burninglog, spear fish with a stick, lie among the trees in a straw hammock when the sunshone. 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 thethought.

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    She collected all her travel things in the motel room and tossed them ontothe bed. Taking note of her depleted hygiene products, she packed everythingswiftly 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 thecounter where his back in a pale, white shirt could be seen. He bumped his headwhen he tried to stand up, then rubbed it ruefully. Kippers or Coconut jam thismorning? 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 Ive made other arrangements

    for my stay here.Wellyou were an excellent guest. Never heard a peep out of your room.

    We hope youll come back during your next trip.Ill certainly consider it.

    He posted a single overnight charge on her pre-paid invoice and handedher a receipt. She remained leery of deficit spending; despite her success in theRRT she never knew when the next funds might come in from a sport which wasstill on its way to popular success.

    Tasman seas thatway, he called out, pointing east as she walked to thedoor.

    Ive 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 southwesttoward the Pacific ocean. If she was going to go natural, she might as well gowhere the elements were ripe for good habitation.

    There were trolley cars, coffee bars, flower stands, red kiosks straddlingthe sidewalk everywhere. Five story steel buildings sprang up from the center oftown; white stucco houses spread out down long streets with puff-ball purpleflowers, foliage plants with thick leaves drooping over dense grass. It was quiet inthe day-time people off to work, 9-5, bring home the bacon, pay the bills, waitfor 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 theschool wall at recess.

    Sunset threatened to turn the sky into an orange fire ball. It seemed tohover over the edge of the city, sending out fiery tendrils near the horizon. It waslike walking toward the end of the earth, waiting to fall into a deep chasm whenthe 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 stepsforward past the black hole to the other side and ran her hand up and down the

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    grainy rock to ascertain how high it reached. Estimate: five feet. High enough tolet a person enter with only a head bowed.

    There was no way to know how far back the cave reached or how deepit was. Leaning down, she scrabbled her hand over the ground where piles offallen 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 byone she threw them into the dark recess of the cave and listened. One bouncedon rock six times and stopped. A second hurtled into the darkness, bouncedonce, and fell for half-a-minute until it splashed.

    There was deep water in the lower depths, but a rock ledge near theentrance. It seemed a suitable place to stop for the night. Her watch said 12:10AM. If she crawled in on her hands and knees she would be able to feel for theedge 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 blacksand beaches where the waves rolled inexorably toward the shore. Or towardweather-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 wouldbe hidden from the din of intruders, gate-crashers, beach goers who flocked tothe 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 hernostrils, and then was swept away by a gentle breeze. She lay down, crunchingher back into the hollow and rolled back and forth to settle the leaves into acomfortable cushion. Hauling the folding suit bag over her, she closed her eyes.

    A good nights rest in the open aira rest in the open airarrest in the hopingair.*

    She was happy as a water-cave dweller. After four days exploring thedamp regions of mother earth she felt in harmony with her surroundings. Shewas 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 sideto the other with a tweak of her foot, leap up onto a rock, raise her arms to theheavens and shout for happiness.

    She had covered the inside ledge with leaves for a bed, buried her foldingsuit bag in a shallow cavity some distance from the entrance to protect it in caseof vandals, and walked the black sand beach at dawn, picking up shells anddebris 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 gnawingsense 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 priorday by someone on the other side of the equator. Murmured confabs with the

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    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 clickingup to her on high heels to say her flight would have to be rescheduled; her tickethad 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 tripinto town to place a phone call or travel to the embassy seemed dreadful. But asthe days rolled by, she knew deep down she would have to abandon herpeaceful existence at least for a short time and go back to the congestion,bureaucracy, excuses, and evasions of the other world. Renuzit air freshenerwas 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 shedeparted for a meeting in Guanau, capital of Somoa, where more trade talks withPacific 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 destinationquicker.

    The Visa section had faxed a copy of her papers to the Zeeland consulatein Washington, but one of the clerks had come down with influenza and anotherhad 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 herreserved flights. They would be happy to roll over the ticket to a future flight, butrefunds were out of the question. If she didnt check-in every three days, sherisked having the price of the next suspended flight returned to the airline. Lastminute 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 theheadquarters. She could apply for an extended stay visa if she was willing toshow proof of adequate funds and a return ticket home within one years time.The forms only took forty-five minutes to complete, they preferred typedapplications, photocopies of her passport, bank account records. Where couldshe be reached in the interim?

    A sports visa was out of the question. They were issued only to thoseengaged to play international matches, it was up to the sports association toensure that athletes had the required papers before entering the country. Whatorganization sponsored her sport? No, ponging was not on the list of officialsports. The sturdy-looking officer in the gray, short-sleeved shirt leaned over thecounter to talk to hersub rosa.

    Your best bet is to call your pongo organization at home and have themtake care of the problem for you. Youre on tour - they should make properarrangements for their players.

    She nodded. Shook her head. It was out of the question. They had beennotified by Mr. Eagen of her precarious position due to a miscarriage ofinformation and firmly refused to take action for her release. There had been

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    veiled remarks about promotion, exceptional service, positive reports, specialadvantages which let her know they were keeping her in transit for publicitypurposes.

    Tell me She leaned over the counter to speak softly. What happens ifI cant 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 couldnt leave, she couldnt 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 hotwire when it was something theywanted. 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 wouldnot be refunded. Work permits for temporary visitors were prohibited. What couldshe do? Buy an air mattress to sleep on the shores of Coromandel? Purchase arubber dingy and tie it to a tiny, wind-burnished pohutukawa tree overlooking theazure waters of the coast? Set up camp on top of Rangitoto with a white flag toinstigate an international incident the press would actually report?

    She felt trapped, pacing her way up the sidewalk away from the quahogsbuilding. Perhaps that was the ticket though. A campaign against governmentinefficiency. 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, foreigntrade.

    The golden mean, moderation in all things, balance of needs had beenlost to craven ideologies.

    She paused, looking up at a wooden sign hanging above a store with thename Cork and Toggle printed on it. For a moment she stared at the sign, thencontinued strolling down the street. Perhaps it was a good omen. It reminded herof the new Lectronic Revolution which had taken the world by storm. Perhaps itmight help her. What ifwhat ifan idea popped into her head.

    The Logorhythm Shop, she yelled into the wind. Logic, logistics, andlocomotion. They will be my tools for the future.

    A woman in a tight, blue checked jacket with a thin, white scarf around herneck stared at her as she walked past. Two men half-way down the blockstopped conversing as they looked around to see where the shout had comefrom. 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 nobrick-and-mortar shop - only an electronic connection for transmission. She could

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    sell hand-made goods, maintain headquarters at the home address, makeenough money to keep the bank account from hock.

    Maybe she could make recordings of natures call - the sound of a pebbledropped into a deep gorge, the creak of a tree during a tropical storm, the lullabyof 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 shehad 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 quickerpace through the city streets. After ten blocks she began singing an old song withthe refrain we got steam heat. It had risen from some dimly remembered timewhen American music was pervasive and there was snap-crackle-pop in theatmosphere, She kept walking and singing: We got steam heatsnap-snapwe got steam heat.clicking her fingers on the beat.

    It was from a movie about striking workers. They sang seven and a halfcents doesnt mean a heck of a lot while they danced in an empty warehouse inpajamas. She had never seen it, but the song had been played everywhere overthe radio. It was something about picketing for a pay raise through collectivebargaining.

    She had been young when she had heard it then, an innocent travelerabroad. Sweeping past a round-a-bout with a floral clock in the middle of around-a-bout, stacking up blue wool skeins to make a cable-knit sweater, flyingdown 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 therewould be a new dawn, a rocky cave to cover her head, a sun rising from theocean to warm the earth. At least, until the TTR arrived.

    * Copyright, Anne Hiltner, 2010


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