Gifts given, gifts received
I am eight or nine, in Standard 3 in a tiny rural community just out of Gisborne, still years away from being a famous wine region. My new teacher is very hip - long hair and long legs, culottes and very sporty, a talented hockey player. I adore her, and her husband, tall and handsome and so chilled. When they offer to share photos of their trip overseas, I join the older people in the room, mesmerised by the atmosphere, the anticipation. Slide after slide is full of colour, of dust, of intrigue, of flowing robes. I remember three: a vehicle (car, truck, bus?) stacked high and overflowing with people and baggage; intricate prayer wheels; and women in burka. It is 1973, and here in Aotearoa, these full face coverings are yet to be seen. Later - much later - I will help women in the early morning corridors of Middlemore Hospital, their polished English accents emerging from behind their Muslim robes, their fear and anguish clear at that hour of the day. I digress, as I am wont to do...