Kiwi Tracks (19 page)

‘Who is in charge here?’

She points to the man hunched over by the fire. ‘Mark Cribb, our chief, used to be.’ The older man is talking with two other elders. ‘He’s the grandson of the land surveyor.’

‘He doesn’t live here any more?’

‘Nah, he’s moved back to Raetihi, but he comes back down here occasionally.’ She talks with her hands, eyes and eyebrows, in the same way that Meri at the Ketetahi Hut did.

A young man sits down next to me. He wears a red T-shirt with the slogan: ‘Death before Defeat’. He immediately dominates the conversation. Gay says nothing. When I ask questions about the Maori, he replies, with a twitch: ‘I don’t know. Ask my uncle’ – pointing at the old man, Mark. ‘He is our
kaumatua
, the keeper of the knowledge and traditions of the tribe. He knows about those political things.’

I ask him: ‘Do you know about Te Heuheu’s gift of land to the government to create Tongariro National Park?’

‘No,’ he replies, taken off guard by my question. Then he adds brusquely: ‘Where’d you get your information from?’

‘From the visitor centre at Whakapapa,’ I reply defensively.

‘Written by pakeha?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Pakeha don’t know nothing. They write books about Maori things in English.’

‘I’m not choosing to hear pakeha versions, all I’m trying to do is learn about the history of the area,’ I reply, already feeling antipathy towards this man.

‘Yeah, from pakeha,’ he exclaims scornfully. ‘How can they know about Maori things when they can’t even speak our language?’

It is impossible to continue the discussion, so when he again refers to Mark as the guardian of the
marae
, I use this as an excuse to go and talk to the old chief. Mark speaks quietly and I have to strain to catch his words. He talks about the wildlife and the abundance of fish and birds when he was a boy. When I remark on the sparse bird life along the river, he replies: ‘DOC drops 1080 poison by helicopter over the river. It kills the possums but it kills the birds as well. They admit 1080 kills some birds, but claims it is less than the damage created by possums eating eggs and chicks.’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘But the 1080 is killing them. There are no birds left here.’ His eyelids droop, adding to his sad appearance.

Mark relates how the Maori took over the DOC hut almost four years ago. ‘Within weeks of us squatting on this site, the police came to remove us, delivering a letter from the Minister of Justice. Our response was: “Take us to court. We’re not moving out.” Then they did their research, and they found out the government had no legal case to remove us.’ He pauses proudly to let that bit of information sink in. ‘We had done
our
research. Although our people moved away from the river decades ago to communities along the new road, which became our lifeblood instead of the river, we hadn’t given up our rights to the old
pas
on the river. The government had unilaterally proclaimed the land a national park, but they had no legal right to do that. This is something that has happened to the Maori all over the country. The government backed off when they realised their mistake.
Now DOC has had to incorporate our
marae
’ – he spreads his hands wide, indicating the tarpaulins and tents – ‘in their literature on the Whanganui National Park, which is mostly on Maori land anyway. Now there’s a sort of truce between DOC and our people who “occupy” the government hut, which in turn occupied a traditional site of a Maori
pa
and
marae
.’ He is silent. Deep creases line his weathered face as he stares at the flames of the cooking fire.

‘Now you’ve established your rights on this site, where do you go from here?’ I ask.

He takes a deep breath: ‘Do the same thing up and down the river. Already there is another
marae
, the one you went by soon after John Coull Hut. Eventually we will have jurisdiction over the whole park again.’

Dinner is ready and as a guest, a
manuhiri
, I am told to start. There is an abundance of food: pots full of cauliflower with cheese sauce, cabbage, mashed potatoes, slices of corned beef and some kind of stew.

Mark gives the blessing and we all help ourselves.

Later in the evening, although there is no formal
paepae
, the place where the male elders sit in ceremonial gatherings, Mark stands in front of the fire and speaks softly and slowly, with authority. As the
kaumatua
, he is the last speaker. He prays, in Maori, pointing a stick at the hills, mountains, sky and river. His lined face is lit by pressure lanterns; he closes his eyes when he prays in Maori, but when he prays in English, he opens them and looks heavenward. Then he formally introduces himself, talks about the long white cloud, and also his lineage. He boasts about working on the riverboats for decades, as a deckhand. ‘It is good to be back,’ he concludes.

Each of us in turn stands up to introduce ourselves, to tell of our
whakapapa
, genealogy. The young ones from Auckland are not so sure of their own lineage. When it comes to my turn, I tell them: ‘My father’s father was Scottish and my father’s mother was French. My mother’s mother was Irish, and my mother’s father was English. They migrated to Canada where I was born
but we left when I was three. I lived in Asia and Africa until I went to university in Canada and France. Now my family live in Bermuda, England and Canada, but I have been living in my adopted country Norway, until now. Like you, I am also searching for my roots.’ No wonder.

The young Maori with the woollen hat stands up. He takes off his cap, nervously wringing it in his hands. Gay whispers to me: ‘He has been here only two days. Some of the Maori boys from the city have so little self-confidence and self-esteem they can’t stand up in front of everyone and say their names in a meeting like this, even after several weeks. It is an emotional experience for me to see them regain some of their pride and self-respect.’ The boy tells us his name, Sonny, and describes his
waka
, or canoe and his lineage. ‘And that’s all I have to say,’ he concludes.

Then the young men do their fierce
haka
again, but it’s slightly different from before. There are half a dozen Maori boys this time; one is unsure of the moves and keeps a watchful eye on the others as they go through their routines, mimicking them a split second too late. Despite his hesitant steps, he appears proud to re-enact this traditional Maori custom. Although the young men are dressed in rags and are barefoot, what they lack in costumes, they more than make up for in enthusiasm.

Mark thanks everyone again and then he leads us in
karakia
, a prayer, mostly in Maori, addressed to the gods who reside in the spirit world.

In the morning, after a huge breakfast, Murray, a big man with tattooed face and arms, dries the dishes with me. He tenderly holds a tiny baby in the crook of his arm, his biceps as big as the baby. The sides of his scalp are shaved, the remains of his long black hair are pulled back in a ponytail and his teeth are discoloured or missing.

‘Too bad you start off looking so beautiful when you’re young and end up being so ugly when you’re older,’ I joke.

He moves the baby from the crook of one arm to the other. ‘Let me tell you a story. A Maori was in Europe visiting a friend and they walked past a monkey-grinder. You know, a man with an organ, and a monkey sitting on his shoulder. The Maori throws some money at them. “Why’d you do that?” his mate asks him. “I thought you didn’t like the pakeha?” The Maori replies, “I don’t like the pakeha, but their kids sure are cute.” ’

As a visitor, I must initiate the
poroporoaki
, or farewell. I contribute a
koha
, a donation of money and food to the
marae
, in return for their
manaaki
, or hospitality. Mark thanks me for visiting. Everyone accompanies me to the river edge and waves as I paddle away. Someone blows a conch horn, the plaintive notes echoing long after my departure.

Canoeing downstream, I pass three inflatable rafts pulled up on the beach beside pitched tents. White men, women and children are spread out on the shore or swimming in the river. One of them shouts generously: ‘Want a tinnie, mate?’

Resting the paddle on the gunwales of the canoe, I reach out for the can of cold beer. As I drift downstream I ask: ‘Hey, did you stop at Tieke Marae?’ I swing my thumb over my shoulder, pointing to where I have just come from. It’s been a highlight of my trip to New Zealand staying at the
marae
, talking to the Maori, trying to understand where they are coming from.

‘No bloody way!’ a big man with a fiery red beard bellows back at me angrily.

Return to beginning of chapter

When I return to National Park, Peter, the owner of the backpackers, invites me to accompany him and his son Paul to Feilding, to watch the car races. Although it is a weekend and their lodge is full, this regular summer excursion to the Sunday races is an activity not to be missed.

At the stadium in Feilding, we sit behind half a dozen men who have staked out their turf in the stands, sitting on a bench seat of a car, covered with sheepskin. They cook sausages and bacon on a portable barbeque, resting their feet on a couple of ‘chilly bin’ coolers, from which they occasionally extract beer.

Formula Vees, flea-like versions of Formula One cars powered by Volkswagen engines, accelerate down the track. At the first turn, cars clash and a cloud of bluish smoke explodes. In the aftermath four Vees lie squashed on the track. The race is a demolition derby, cars all over the place, at times more off the track than on. What the drivers lack in skill, they make up for in determination, yet the Vee jockeys are nothing compared to the Mad Max Mazda RX-7 drivers who follow them. In the first turn, half a dozen Mazdas are left battered and bent, but amazingly the drivers all manage to get back in the race.

‘It’s doorhandle to doorhandle stuff out there,’ the commentator says. ‘Going into the straight, it’s bumper-to-bumper action as the express train comes through to the second turn.’ Two more cars spin out at the bend, one rolling onto its roof. ‘There’s two more in the kitty litter and it looks like one has fallen over.’

The commentator also reminds the audience which island, the North or the South, each of the contestants is from. The sponsorship of these cars is varied: ‘Romena’s Massage Lounge’ has an enticing paint job of two naked women on the bonnet, both of them now with their shapely legs crushed out of shape. Besides Romena’s massages, there are other equally appropriate sponsors, including ‘Foxton Body Parts’, ‘Academy Funeral Services’ and ‘Prestige Smash Repairs’. ‘Robb’s Fruits and Vegies’ seems less appropriate, unless the fruits and vegies are the drivers.

At the end, the winner climbs onto the stand. He says he is ‘rapt’ about winning, and that is the extent of his acceptance speech. He collects a bottle of champagne as a prize, opens it and splashes it around before drinking what is left. Then he gets into his crumpled car and they both gurgle and belch back to the pits.

We buy huge hot dogs covered in batter and fried in oil, then dipped in tomato sauce. A big man, with tattoo-covered arms and
flowing beard, turns to face the stands behind him and makes a big show of lifting up his black tank top to expose a very white, very rotund, furry-red belly. He puts his hands under it for leverage and shakes it up and down, proud of its jelly-like mass.

‘Come on!’ a woman behind me yells enthusiastically into my ear. ‘Take it all off! Don’t be a girl!’

In the morning, while sitting in one of the spotless toilets at the backpackers lodge in National Park, I discover too late that there is no toilet paper. I wait patiently, hoping someone will come along so I can ask them to hand me a roll from one of the other cubicles. Twenty long minutes later, finally giving up on being rescued, I shamble forward in the sitting position to slide the bolt and surreptitiously open the door of the cubicle. There is no one else in the toilet. I pull the door wide open and continue cautiously, still crouched, with shorts and underpants wrapped snugly around my ankles, shirt tail hoisted clear of my bare ass. I am totally out of the cubicle, bent over, about to shuffle sideways to the adjacent cubicle, when Wilma the cleaner walks in. I freeze and we both stare at each other. I shuffle sideways and backwards into the toilet cubicle, like a retreating hermit crab, but in my haste I trip over the tangle of clothes binding my feet together. I collapse on my naked bum, head pressed hard against the porcelain toilet bowl, and kick the door shut with both feet.