Kiwi Tracks (20 page)

‘Need some toilet paper?’ Wilma asks, correctly assessing my plight.

‘Ah yuh,’ I reply, from my prone position, screwing up the Kiwi pronunciation yet again.

Wilma’s hand reaches discreetly under the door with a roll of toilet paper. ‘By the way,’ she says, deadpan, ‘this is the ladies.’

Later, discreetly ignoring our earlier encounter, Wilma tells me she is driving into Taupo with her husband, Lani. I catch a ride
with them. Although I have seen Wilma working every day cleaning the lodge, I have not had a chance to talk to her. She sits with their son Didi in the back seat of their big four-wheel drive.

‘I’m employed at the local sawmill as a supervisor,’ Lani tells me. ‘I’m a Maori from the north, while Wilma is a Maori from this area.’

Driving along the two-lane highway, we pass the Englishman walking along the side of the road, on his way from Invercargill to Cape Reinga. Why would anyone do that to himself? I turn in my seat to look at him again. His face is determined, eyes focused on the ground in front of his feet.

‘Shall I pick him up?’ Lani asks.

‘Uh-uh,’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘He’s walking all the way from Invercargill up to Cape Reinga. He doesn’t take short-cuts or lifts. He’s going to walk every step of the way.’

I admire his determination, but have to wonder what drives him.

Wilma leans forward from the back seat and asks: ‘Do you mind if we call you by the Maori equivalent of your name?’

‘Sure, no problem.’

She tells me: ‘Anaru, we spent yesterday with Sir Hepe Te Heuheu, now seventy-nine years old, and the direct descendant of Horonuku Te Heuheu Turkino, who donated the volcano summits to the British Crown. Did you climb the volcanoes?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I was disappointed.’

Lani, a huge man with fists the size of bear paws, looks over at me. He asks, in a deep voice that seems almost to echo in his chest, ‘Why? Bad weather?’

‘No, I had beautiful weather, just like today. That was probably part of the problem. Tongariro was swarming with close to a thousand trampers. It’s hard to get a sense of the
tapu
and
mana
of the volcano when there are so many people around. The next day on Ruapehu, a chairlift took me most of the way up the mountain. Doesn’t exactly instil a sense of awe. It is sad to see the park desecrated by chairlifts, dynamited slopes and sculpted ski fields.
There’s no sense of sacredness, or power.’

Lani’s eyes widen as he listens.

I continue without any prompting, giving vent to my feelings: ‘I’d close all those ski resorts down and make the mountain a holy place again. Maybe the mountain agrees, maybe that’s why it keeps blowing its top. It’s hardly my place to say this, but even as a visiting tourist, I get upset seeing the obvious exploitation of the volcanoes, especially when I learnt why they were gifted as national parks in the first place. But I guess there is too much money invested now to turn it all back.’

I’m not exactly an unprejudiced observer. I have a reconstructed knee from a ski accident many years ago, and haven’t downhill-skied since that mishap. I have no wish to, either.

Lani has been quiet but he cannot restrain himself any longer. He says: ‘We laughed with joy when the mountain erupted last year and the year before, as if the spirits of the volcanoes were telling us something.’

He turns the radio off, although the music was barely audible. ‘You know, when a tramper dies on the volcanoes, it’s business as usual with DOC. They don’t close the mountain down in respect for the deceased. That is not the Maori way. For us, there has to be a decontamination process.’

Wilma says earnestly: ‘We look upon the mountains with reverence.
Te ha o Taku Manawa
. The breath of my mountain is my heart. We are proud they were given to the nation, whose people, being nature-lovers, should accord them respect. Maori respect for the mountains goes deep. In our genealogies, all life originated from the same parents, Papa the earth-mother and Rangi the sky-father, so that man and all life forms are in harmony with one another, in the bonds of kinship. We look upon those volcanoes as ancestors, and this relationship is also a reminder of our forefathers who settled in the mountains’ shadows centuries ago. In these memories the past and present mingle, ensuring continuity. That is why we pay the mountains homage.’

Both Wilma and Lani are movingly eloquent on the subject of Maori history.

Wilma continues. ‘Our people want to go back to the feet of the mountain, as part of relearning our Maori way. But we are not sure how to approach Tongariro now; it is difficult to know which way is right any more. We organised a bus trip some time ago and some of our elders were not keen on going because of the
tapu
. Others did not want to go far up the mountain. You must understand that although most of us are Christians, we have not forgotten our Maori ways. The ladies on the bus, they recited Maori prayers. For some it was the first time they had been in the park, although they have lived near Taumarunui or Turangi most of their lives. This matter of
tapu
is important. We want people to enjoy the mountain but we do not want it desecrated. Some of our people feel more strongly than others. Some do not want commercialism on the mountains at all; to others it is no problem because it is the pakeha doing the skiing anyway. The
tapu
is still there, but it is no longer the kind that kills. The gift was a Maori–pakeha thing, and we want it to stay that way, but the commercialism is dividing our community.’

Lani adds: ‘When our ancestors, the first Polynesians, arrived here in New Zealand, they found a rich and empty land. As they settled, one tribe would confront another in the search for good agricultural land. Warfare became a way of life, although the fights were mostly small and often only ended in injuries. Before the pakeha arrived, the whole of Maori culture, from song and dance, to the choice of leaders and living places, depended on the culture of war. War was the highest inspiration, but it was limited because of the crudeness of our weapons.’ He glances at me. ‘You’ve heard of the Treaty of Waitangi?’

I nod.

He glances back at the road, his massive fingers curled around the padded steering wheel. ‘At that time the Bay of Islands was a den of sin. European sailors, loggers, deserters, criminals – all were corrupting the local Maori, trading muskets for land, taking our women. Then when there was total disorder and lawlessness, the British authorities persuaded a few of the Maori chiefs in the
area to ask the British for protection, from the whites as much as the Maori, who went on the rampage with newly acquired British muskets. With this bit of paper, which they called the Waitangi Treaty, the British went over the whole country and confiscated any land belonging to Maori who didn’t recognise British sovereignty.’ He laughs with irony. ‘Can you imagine it, the Treaty of Waitangi was signed by thirty-nine Maori chiefs around the Bay of Islands area, yet that piece of paper gave the British monarch sovereignty over all of New Zealand! Most of the Maori didn’t understand English anyway.’

Lani is facing the windscreen, but that does not reduce the intensity of his words: ‘A minister of the church translated the original English treaty but he couldn’t properly translate the text into Maori. Five hundred Maori chiefs eventually signed that document, but the Maori version ceded only the right to govern, not the Maori’s right to chieftainship. In any case, the treaty had no legal basis.’ He turns to look at me, emphasising the point. ‘No basis in legality whatsoever.’ He stares at the road in front of us again, driving slowly, in no rush to get to Taupo. ‘Imagine if Japan invaded pakeha New Zealand now, imposing their own laws and religion and confiscating land if anyone rebelled against them, and then they resettled Japanese immigrants on the confiscated land … Imagine how the pakeha would react.’

He pauses, and I think about what he has said. Then, with a glance at the volcanoes, he returns to the subject of our earlier discussion: ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that those ski fields will no longer exist in the future. The ski chalets will go, the chairlifts, the shops and the caf�s. The volcano still has its
mana
, it’ll destroy everything, maybe not now, maybe not even in our lifetimes, which is nothing for a volcano. But eventually all the man-made stuff will disappear.’

‘And the income?’

‘And the income.’ He shrugs. ‘That’s been the problem: money and greed. But the
mana
and the
tapu
of the mountain will have been preserved and that is more important.’’ He turns to his wife. ‘All these things will come about, the changes will be
made.’ She nods in agreement. ‘All this land here’ – he indicates with a sweeping motion of his hand as we pass the volcanoes on our right – ‘belongs to us. It will come back to us.’

‘You must be kidding? Given back to you? All the land around the park, or the national park itself?’ I find it hard to share his belief.

‘Mostly the park.’

‘Are you sure?’

He laughs: ‘I am very sure. It may take time, but that is also the Maori way. Real Maori are patient. A year, many years, mean nothing.’ In many ways Lani reminds me of a North American Indian, but it seems to me the Maori have a lot more reason for optimism than do the aboriginal peoples almost anywhere else in the colonised world. They have become a lot more integrated into the mainstream, without necessarily losing their culture or identity. ‘The land will come back to us, I know. It will all fall into place. Maori believe; we have faith that things will always work out. It is our tradition.’

‘When you get all that land back, with all that power, it’s going to open a whole new can of worms.’

He laughs: ‘Yeah. Too true.’

‘Then it will be all about money and greed again, except this time it will be in the hands of Maori, not pakeha.’

‘True.’

As we drive over the crest of a hill, we can see Lake Taupo in front of us.

I break the ensuing silence by telling them about my canoeing on the Whanganui. ‘I was impressed with the Maori occupying the old
pa
at Tieke Marae.’ Lani knows it well and knows Mark Cribb too. ‘A precedent has been set,’ I continue. ‘It was great to see the reoccupation happen successfully, but I have my doubts in the long term.’

‘Why?’ Lani asks, looking at me again.

‘Mark Cribb is an elder and it was easy to talk to him. He’s conciliatory, he believes Maori and pakeha are all Kiwis. The land issue is just redressing some of the old imbalances. The
young Maori boy who, I was told, will succeed him, is a real firebrand and it didn’t seem to me that he had any use for the pakeha at all.’

Lani nods pensively and stares out the window. Two cyclists pedalling the other way work hard to climb up the long hill. He waves at them. ‘We have a lot of problems with young Maori who don’t know their own history or culture, shouting down elders, being too radical. But Greenpeace had to be radical to get people to pay attention, so I am not sure that it is all so bad. Anyway, the youth all over the world are often angry and ignorant, not just the Maori. But yes, when they don’t know their own history, when they aren’t patient, don’t listen, don’t do things by consensus, then they are not acting in the Maori tradition.’ He shakes his head. ‘Many urban Maori have never been to a
marae
. Many have almost no contact with their cultural roots. That is bad.’ He takes his hand off the steering wheel to emphasise his point. ‘But I am sure that young man will learn. Just by being there, he will learn about his people’s history. Even talking to visitors like you will help him to understand what he doesn’t know. It’s not so hopeless. He can’t stay ignorant forever.’

I like Lani’s ability to see the positive side to things.

‘You did the
hongi
greeting?’ Wilma asks from the back seat.

‘Yes.’

‘You know why they rub noses?’ Lani questions.

‘To share the breath of life?’ I reply.

‘No, that’s what everyone thinks, even many Maori. Originally it wasn’t the touching of noses at all, it was the touching of foreheads.’ He pats his forehead for emphasis. ‘The noses just touched by coincidence.’

‘What was the symbolism in touching foreheads?’

‘The exchange of knowledge. For the Maori, the head was
tapu
. At ceremonies the heads of ancestors would be brought out, as if they were still alive, to add their wisdom. It has nothing to do with the touching of noses.’

‘All the guidebooks I’ve seen say it’s the sharing of the breath
of life.’

‘That’s wrong, and I am sure of it.’ He places a hand on his head again. ‘Traditionally, it was the touching of foreheads as a symbolic exchange of knowledge.’

He pulls off the road at a point overlooking Lake Taupo and switches off the ignition. ‘You know, Lake Taupo is one of the world’s largest active volcanoes. When it erupted in 186 AD, creating this lake, it was one of the most violent eruptions ever.’

He moves his outstretched palm in a semi-circle. ‘The land before you is important in Maori culture. Traditionally, tribal occupation of an area had to be defended against other tribes. That was how a particular tribe held communal rights over that land. There was no “individual ownership”, as we know it today. European law undermined this traditional relationship, by imposing individual title and rights. It was because of this that Horonuku Te Heuheu Tukino gave his “gift” of the volcanoes. It was a final attempt to prevent the pakeha from taking everything we had.’