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The Joining Of Cultures

Sonia Stiles


    Mia watched the fishermen as they cast their big nets into the water, securing them to the bank. They pulled out nets that they had put in earlier. Little silver fish leapt into the air trying to get free. Together the men dragged the nets up onto the riverbank and took the fish out. Their chocolate-brown skin shining with the effort, they wore cloths to hide their manhood and nothing else. A few of the men had strings around their necks, with various symbols carved out of bone. There were no women present, Mia thought they might be in the village cooking meals and watching the children.
    Mia hopped off her place on the windowsill and rummaged through a box; under her university books she pulled out a pair of binoculars. Resuming her place at the window she peered through the tiny circles. She could clearly make out the village. A group of women and teenage girls sat around in a group on large mats peeling and chopping vegetables. They had the same dark skin as the men and curly black hair tied back off their faces; they wore full-length dresses, a stark contrast to the almost naked males, and rather stifling in the forty degree heat they were experiencing today. Close by, teenaged boys made a pile of twigs to start a fire. Young children ran freely around the fields, kicking a ball or doing cartwheels. A woman sat on a rickety chair, her silver hair hanging freely near her face, her eyes darting from child to child.
    “Mia, dinner’s ready.”
    “Coming Mum,” Mia said, putting her binoculars away.
    She knew her parents didn’t approve of her obsession with the village people, but she found them fascinating. She looked down at the shorts and t-shirt she had thrown on this morning, her white arms pale against the dark fabric. The meal her mother had prepared sat on the table in front of her: sausages, potato gems and broccoli from a packet. She doubted the people from the village across the river ever ate anything that wasn’t harvested themselves. Her house was completely different too. She glanced around at the modern fixtures, the fifty inch television her dad had recently purchased, the hanging lights, gas stove. It was a generous house for just the three of them, but Mia knew her parents would be paying it off for years to come. It was reflected in the way her parents were always working. Her father was a lawyer, working long hours on behalf of the victims of crime; her mother was a nurse at the local hospital; she would be leaving soon to do the night shift.
    “You all right honey?” Mum asked.
    “Yeah,” said Mia, realising she was just sitting there looking around the room, “just tired.” She picked up her knife and fork and started eating.
    “How was it today?”
    “Great, it was good to be back.” Today had been her first day back at university for the start of the second semester. She was studying art history and sociology and found these subjects intriguing.
    “Oh yeah, there is some mail on the bench for you,” said Dad.
    “Thanks, I’ll have a look in a minute.”
    “Well, I’d better get going,” said Mum, putting her plate into the dishwasher. “See you in the morning.”
    “Bye Mum.”
    Her dad followed suit, putting his plate away too. Mia finished her meal and cleared everything else off the table. She turned on the dishwasher and picked up her mail. Her dad was watching rugby on TV. Mia plonked down in an armchair, opening her letters. There was a lengthy letter from Grandma and another envelope, from the Communities Trust. She could feel her excitement rising as she tore the top off. She scanned the words.
    Dear Miss Jannason,
    We are pleased to announce that your application for the Creative Communities Trust grant has been accepted. Your ‘Build a Bridge’ project has been considered a suitable undertaking for the Trust.
    Please come to our office on Main Street at 4pm Friday 21st May, so we can go over the details with you.
    Kind regards,
    Miriam Smith
    Creative Communities Trust.

    I did it, Mia thought. Containing her excitement, she went to the bedroom and called Jayne.

    “What happens now?” Jayne asked.
    “I have a meeting with them. I guess I’ll find out then.”
    “Are you going to tell your parents?”
    “I’ll have to tell them eventually. But I think I’ll wait and see what happens at the meeting. They are never home till late on Fridays anyway, so they won’t miss me.”
    “I can’t believe they accepted it.”
    “Neither can I.”
    “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, ok.”
    “Yeah ok, see ya.”
    Mia hung up her phone, said goodnight to her dad and hopped into bed.
    The date rolled around quickly and Mia soon found herself standing outside the office. She felt oddly out of place in a white shirt and full-length skirt. Taking a deep breath, she walked inside.

    The meeting went quickly. Everything was going ahead as planned in her proposal; all that she had to do was show up on the day that they started building. Everything else was being taken care of by the Trust. It was time to tell her family. She pulled her Mazda into the driveway and raced inside. She quickly changed into her shorts and t-shirt and went into the kitchen to rustle up some dinner for everyone. Her mum arrived first and sat down with her at the table. Her dad joined them when he arrived. Mia waited until everyone was settled in the lounge to bring up the topic. Her stomach was alive with butterflies as she went and sat down in the lounge. She took a deep breath.
    “Some of the girls at Uni and I have been putting together a proposal for a bridge across the river,” she announced. “The Creative Communities Trust has accepted our proposal and it will begin next week. We get to name the bridge and a plaque with our names will hang on it.” She could feel a grin spreading over her face as she said it.
    The colour had drained from her dad’s face. “How could you!” he roared. “You know how I feel about the idea of a bridge.”
    “There is so much we could learn from them Dad, and so much we can teach them.”
    “They are too different from us, they have their own way of living. It shouldn’t be mixed. I’m disappointed you would go against us on this.” He disappeared into the bedroom and slammed the door. Mum followed behind him.
    The bridge went ahead as planned. Mia’s dad refused to talk about it. Mia sat in her favourite spot every evening and watched as plank by plank it slowly got bigger. Eventually the opening day rolled around. Mia wore a long summer dress that had been sitting in her wardrobe for a while. She ran downstairs to meet her friends. She felt the butterflies return to her stomach as she stood at the entrance to the bridge, explaining to the lady with the microphone how she and her friends had come up with this idea and had won a grant to achieve it. She talked about the different cultures and how they had fascinated her for years, and how she hoped to learn from the people across the river and teach them some of the things she knew. Then the ribbon was cut and a plaque with her and her friends names on it was hung above the entrance.
    Mia stood on the bridge looking towards the other side of the river. Several of the village people looked back at her. They started to approach her cautiously. She met them half way, her friends close behind her.
    “Hello. I’m Mia.”
    “Hello.” Mia instantly recognised the man as one of the fishermen. “I’m Kuna.”
    “I was wondering if I would be able to visit your village please.” Her stomach was tied in knots and she forced the words out. “I live across the river and I’ve been looking over here since I was a child. I’d really like to find out more about you.”
    He studied Mia and her group of friends, then looked back at the entrance to the bridge. He nodded somewhat reluctantly, then led the way.
    The village was every bit as amazing as Mia had imagined. Everything in it seemed to be made by hand. Even the huts were made of clay and straw. There were women sitting on woven mats, weaving flax into baskets or sewing clothes for the children. Girls her own age were making fishing nets or jewellery.
    Kuna introduced her to Ariana, one of the ladies who was making baskets; she showed Mia how to soften the flax with a knife and weave it together. As the weeks went on Mia learned many skills from them. It was what she had been dreaming of. She learned to make meals from scratch using only the resources in the village. In exchange for this knowledge she brought them items they couldn’t forage, imported spices, unusual fabrics, fancy cheeses.
    As the days wore on Mia started to notice more people from her side of the bridge going over to the village, foraging fruit, taking cuttings from trees, paying no heed to the people who lived there.
    Then one day Mia trotted towards the bridge, one of her newly-woven baskets over her arm. This one was full of spices, fresh fruit and delicate cheeses. She had even added some cocoa, and on top was some lace material in bright colours. The sight that met her brought a rock to her stomach. Kuna had his arms wrapped around Ariana, tears were running down her face.
    “Your bridge must come down,” said Kuna.
    “Why?” asked Mia, looking around at the sad faces, wondering what had happened.
    “Your people don’t care about us, all they care about is what they can get from us.”
    “Someone took all our stuff,” Ariana explained between sobs. “Blankets, children’s clothes, jewellery, all gone. It took us months to make all that stuff.”
    Mia looked at them sadly. She knew what she must do. She threw her arms around them. “Thank you for teaching me about your world.” She looked at their sad faces. “I’m sorry it came to this.” She went back over the bridge.
    Mia rang the Creative Trust but they didn’t want to know. So, she sat in the lounge waiting. Finally, her dad walked in.
    “Dad I need your help. You were right about the bridge. The villagers are getting mauled by people wanting their resources. Someone stole all the stuff they had been making for their children and grandchildren. We need to take the bridge down. I rang the Trust but they don’t want to know. They have done their part. I don’t know what to do.” Tears stung her eyes.
    “We could try the council,” her dad said.
    “I only wanted to learn about them. I never thought that it might hurt them. I should have listened to you.” The tears were streaming freely down her face now.
    “You had to learn for yourself. I know you meant well. I’m going to ring the council.”
    He came back with his shoulders slumped. “No one wants to know. It might be in the best interests of the villagers, but not our town. The villagers’ town has attracted too much attention for them to get rid of the bridge.”
    The next day Mia went back to the village. When she was on the bridge she noticed the village side of the bridge had been boarded up. A sign had been fixed to it: You are not Welcome Here, it read. They have done it themselves, she thought, smiling. There was a small gap under the barrier and Mia managed to push the basket under.
    Mia continued to use the skills she had learned over the river. She made baskets for her friends and family and she started freestyle cooking for the family. She didn’t have the same spices as the ones in the village but she did pretty well trying to match the flavours. Sometimes she would go to the river’s edge and wave to Kuna and the other fishermen.
    One night her mother woke her late in the night. “I think you should see this.” She opened the curtains. The air was alive with sirens. In the distance she could see bright orange flames leaping up the sides of the bridge and chunks falling into the river. The next day she went to the river to look. The bridge was destroyed. On the side of the river was a rather sooty plaque with her name on it. She picked it up, remembering how excited she had been about the bridge. It was over. She smiled sadly. It had been fun while it lasted and she had learned so much in such a short time, she reflected. Mia waved to the fishermen and headed home.

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