I mumbled ‘Thanks’, or something stupid. I carefully folded up the bracelet and necklace, and pushed them deep into a front pocket of my jeans. I felt … special. Yeah, I thought again; I’m going to make them proud of me.

Nana Florence stood. ‘Right, I’m going to make a nice big thermos of tea to take with us.’ I couldn’t help grinning. Going on a protest march past cops, barbed wire, and edgy rugby fans with a nice thermos of tea. How hilarious.

Groups of people were moving out of the campground. A couple of women about the same age as my nanas were carrying signs: HALT ALL RACIST TOURS and FREEDOM FOR BLACK PEOPLE. Three young guys in what looked like rugby scarves started laughing. ‘Reckon you’ll do any good, grandma?’ one called out to the women.

‘More than you are,’ I heard myself go. ‘Why don’t you stick up for black people?’ The rugby guys said nothing; walked on. Mum shook her head at me.

The campground manager stood on the porch of his office, arms folded, staring at us as we drove off. Nana Florence and I waved to him; he didn’t wave back.

We found the side street Finola had mentioned. It was full of wooden houses with corrugated-iron roofs, just like our place back home, except the lawns were so small, not even a calf could have found enough to eat. Wonder if I’ll ever live in a place like this? I thought.

Finola was waiting for us. So were a man and a teenage boy. Mum exclaimed as we got out of our car; hugged the man and then the boy, who gave an embarrassed grin. He’d been staring at me until I stared at him; then we both looked away.

‘You remember Uncle Mac, Ailsa?’ Mum said to me. ‘And Robbie.’ Of course: my skinny, boring sort-of-cousin. Except he was taller and stronger-looking now.

We locked the cars, and Dad patted the bonnet of ours. ‘See you later,’ he told it. We zipped up our jackets, Tipene took the bag with our thermos of tea (shame!), and we started off, following Finola.

People streamed along the footpath. Some carried signs: protest supporters. Some carried rugs and cushions: tour supporters. The different groups looked hard at one another as they walked. There was a bit of muttering, but nothing more. Uncle Mac walked ahead, with Dad and Tipene. Not-so-skinny Robbie was behind me, while Nana Florence asked him all about what was happening to every rellie in his part of the world, poor guy. His voice sounded deeper than last time.