Bulibasha, p.19
Bulibasha, page 19
Aunt Sarah was standing in the middle of the stage. To both sides of her, the wings of the V formation moved backward and forward, simulating the flying motion of a giant bird. Our long cloaks had been cleverly designed to look like black and white feathers. The women began to stamp their feet. No sound at all except for Aunt Sarah’s voice, climbing to the stars. The men began to slap their chests. Aunt Ruth joined Aunt Sarah, her voice trying to catch up to Aunt Sarah’s and finally intertwining with it to go higher into the heavens. Both men and women began to swing at the hips, our piupiu crackling like static electricity.
Haromi’s sweet soprano came out of nowhere, speeding like a sparrowhawk after Aunt Sarah and Aunt Ruth, carolling up and beyond the universe. The three voices took the lid off the Opera House.
We began to sing: ‘E Ngata e, titiro koe ki a matou –’
We lifted our arms heavenward, following after the three voices as they soared through the night sky. We searched for our ancestor among the stars and moons and, when we found him, we reached for him – Look at us, Apirana, your great work lives on.
This was our trump card. Our action song – a tribute to Ngata himself.
For a moment there was stunned silence. Then whistles of approval and foot tapping was heard throughout the hall.
The women sang – ‘Titiro atu koe e Ngata!’ The men sang – ‘E Ngata e!’
The women sang – ‘Titiro ki nga mahi ora!’
The men sang – ‘E Ngata e!’
We brought the house down.
It would be nice to report that we won. We didn’t. Neither did Hukareka. Hauiti got the palm.
However, both we and Hukareka were commended, and the Mahana action song was singled out for special praise. The judges said, ‘Mahana’s waiata a ringa showed both traditional and contemporary elements. Of particular note was the song’s tune which indicated that Mahana was not afraid to embrace the music of today’s young generation.’
For many years after, Aunt Sarah swore black and blue that even when we were practising the song she hadn’t known the tune was ‘See You Later Alligator’.
Chapter 36
That winter, the competition between Mahana and Hukareka escalated. Apart from the haka competitions and women’s hockey games there were great battles on the rugby field. When Mahana men’s rugby team were drawn to meet Hukareka senior men at Rugby Park, excitement was feverish.
Grandfather’s approach to training was merciless. Two weeks before the game against Hukareka he had the team running every night from Waituhi to Patutahi and back – in hobnail boots.
On the first night of the marathon runs the rest of the family watched and tried to keep the mood light as the men assembled on the road outside the homestead. They were nervous – with good reason. Those from whom the scrum would be chosen were in the front row of runners. They included Uncles Matiu, Maaka, Ruka, Aperahama, Ihaka and Albie, and the sons of Ihaka Mahana. Behind them were the potential backs: Dad, Pani and Mohi – a new inductee – and a good number of the Whatu clan. Grandfather Tamihana sat in the De Soto with Aunt Ruth in the driver’s seat.
‘Keep the speed at five miles an hour,’ Grandfather instructed her.
She started the car. ‘Move out!’ she called.
The men began to run in front of the car. The first half hour was easy as everybody chugged along at a steady mile every twelve minutes. After that, some of the men began to feel the strain. The horn of the De Soto blared. They had to regain their wind pretty fast. The option was to be run over by the De Soto.
Grandfather’s rationale was that if the team could run at normal speed with heavy footwear, they would run twice as fast when they had their lighter rugby boots on. He did not doubt the strength in the men’s upper bodies. Shearing, farming and fencing kept shoulders, chest and upper arms at optimum strength. Put a Mahana scrum down on a field and nothing could move it – the Mahana scrum could push the opposing scrum from one goal post to the other if it had to. The clan’s weakness, however, had always been in motive power. Sure, the Mahana backs were speedy, but they couldn’t keep the speed up. Thus the rugby team learned to apply the same tactics as the women’s hockey team – get out there, hit the other side with all you had in the first half and get all the tries you could while you still had the legs to do it. The infusion of men from the Whatu family, who had more leg power and stronger running skills, was another of Grandfather’s tactics. A third was to hope that some star centre or winger would turn up to work in the Mahana shearing gangs – Tobio had been one and Pani was the latest in line – or graduate like Mohi from junior football. The last hope was to pray to his American angel. Meantime, training was relentless. Sting was needed in the backline.
The night before the game against Hukareka, the family met with the team in the drawing room of the homestead. The atmosphere was strained. Mum was holding Dad’s hand. Pani was standing beside Miriam until Grandfather sent a message via Mohi from the throne that he should take a few steps back. Pani crimsoned.
Grandfather knelt to pray. ‘Oh God our eternal father,’ he began. ‘Tomorrow our rugby team has its big game. Succour our team and, if it be Thy will, bring victory to us, Amen.’
With a sigh, Grandfather stood up again. ‘Okay, boys, get a good night’s rest.’ He gave a slight smile. ‘Early to bed, no drink, no smoke and no sex.’
Later, while everybody was inside having a drink of cocoa, I went outside for air. I had found Grandfather’s prayer and the constant drawing of battle lines to include Heaven somewhat claustrophobic. Did everything have to include God?
I was watching the moon when Grandfather came across to me from the verandah. A mood of arrogance possessed me.
‘Why didn’t you pray for a saviour?’
‘Ae, we need a Jesse Owens,’ he laughed. His voice was good-humoured and relaxed.
I looked at him, incredulous. ‘Jesse Owens is black.’ In our church, black men could not hold the priesthood.
‘So?’ Grandfather asked, puzzled.
‘He bears the mark of the children of Ham. You wouldn’t want a man like that in your godly team, would you?’
Take that, you bastard.
‘E hara, grandson,’ Grandfather sighed. ‘Do you want a fight? You know I’m stronger.’
‘You might be stronger,’ I answered, ‘but that doesn’t make you always right.’
‘Right? What do you know about right and wrong? You live a little longer, and maybe you’ll get to be wiser.’
I wasn’t going to take that one lying down. ‘Why is it that older people always think that just because we’re younger we don’t know something? Your way of being right is to always say we are wrong, to keep us from knowing anything about the world outside Waituhi or to try to deny the world is changing. You can burn all the books you want, Grandfather, but that won’t stop us. Nor will we believe anything you say, for instance, about the mark of Ham, just because you say so. You don’t hold the power of life and death over us.’
Grandfather stared at me. ‘We are a family of God,’ he said, ‘and I am the leader. Whether you like it or not, Himiona, I lead according to my beliefs and my faith in God that we will prosper if we obey His commandments. There’s always got to be somebody who leads and others who follow. I’m the one who decides.’
‘And if I don’t like your decisions?’
A star fell from the sky.
‘Then one of us,’ Grandfather said, jabbing at me with a closed fist, ‘is going to lose.’
The next day Grandfather hired two buses so that everybody from Waituhi, including Maggie and old Uncle Pera, could come to the game. This was how he distributed his largesse. When the buses arrived at the field, Grandfather was there to greet everyone as they alighted. He was like an Italian godfather, his wife by his side, waiting while everyone kissed his hand or embraced him. I marvelled anew at his charisma.
‘They don’t play rugby like they did in our day,’ the old-timers said to Bulibasha as they stepped off the bus.
Grandfather was magnanimous. ‘Let’s see how the youngsters shape up anyway.’
Grandfather was so clever to have the old ones there. Whatever happened out on the field, nothing could damage Grandfather’s mana. If the team lost, the old ones would say, ‘There, didn’t we tell you? These young ones are not as good as Bulibasha was.’ If the team won, the old ones would say, ‘Aha! You see? It’s Bulibasha’s training that has won the game.’ He was the reference point by which all history was judged.
Just as the Waituhi crowd was seating themselves, the Hukareka supporters arrived. Rupeni Poata had travelled on the bus with his people and, as he stepped down, he offered his hand to Poppy. Laughing, she accepted his assistance and bowed prettily to him. At that instant I looked at Grandfather and Grandmother – and I saw Grandmother sway, as if she were a reed in the wind. A slight swaying motion, and that was all.
The Waituhi oldies pretended not to see the Hukareka oldies as they ascended the stand.
Uncle Pera started sniffing. ‘Can you smell anything?’ he asked Maggie.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s coming from that side of the stand.’
The Hukareka oldies weren’t going to take that. ‘Oh is that so!’ one of them replied. ‘How strange that the wind is blowing from your direction to ours. Somebody forgot to wipe their bum before they got here.’
Women could get away with saying such things in a way that men couldn’t, but Maggie’s feathers were ruffled. She scowled and was just about to reply when Zebediah Whatu said, ‘Don’t waste your time, Maggie. They’re not worth it.’
The grandstand soon divided into us and them, a definite space ran right between the two factions. I felt surrounded by refugees from an old people’s rest home.
‘Let’s get outta here,’ I muttered to Andrew.
He nodded and we raced down the steps as more Hukareka people came up. Immediately I barrelled into Tight Arse Junior and Saul, and we began to trade blows. Saul got a lucky punch in and I reeled away, but somebody caught my arm in a vice to stop me from falling. He was short, squat and ugly.
Shit, Rupeni Poata.
‘Hey, watch it, boy!’ he laughed.
I coloured and pushed away from him. My heart was thudding in my chest like a cannon. Before Rupeni Poata could say anything more, I was off and away.
Later I remembered that his face had a scar running diagonally across the left cheek. Yet, in the story that Aunt Ruth had told me, when Grandfather Tamihana stole Grandmother Ramona away it was Grandfather who was slashed across the face. I raised the question with Andrew.
He shrugged. ‘Maybe Grandfather’s scar has faded,’ he said.
The battle began in the dressing room under the stand. Nobody knows who started it, but somebody on one side said, ‘Hey, I didn’t know their cocks were so small.’ His friend only made it worse by saying, ‘Yeah, but their arseholes are huge, man.’
The inference to homosexuality was anathema to Maori men: the first punch-up of the day erupted. The fisticuffs were short, sharp and vicious, and Mohi ended up minus a tooth.
‘Oh shit shit shit,’ he cursed, spitting blood. He had a date that night and would have to keep his mouth closed whenever he smiled.
That was not the end of it. Everything quietened down for a second, then someone on the other side said, ‘I went out with one of their women once.’
‘Oh yeah?’ his mate said.
‘What a dog she was, man, even with a pillow over her head.’
This time, when the fists flew, it was a Hukareka man who was downed by rabbit punches to his kidneys.
‘Cut it out,’ the ref yelled, ‘or the game is off before we even start.’
The ruckus was heard in the stand above the dressing rooms. Grandfather and Rupeni Poata looked at each other, and came down to see what the problem was.
‘Tell your boys to back off each other,’ the ref said.
Rupeni Poata bowed in assent. ‘A truce for the day?’ he asked Grandfather.
‘Yes,’ Grandfather answered.
‘I want a clean game out there,’ Rupeni Poata told his team.
Clean game, ha. He was such a double-faced bastard – just like Scarpia in Tosca, who tells his lieutenant to use blanks rather than real bullets in the mock execution of the hero Cavaradossi. When the squad fires, Cavaradossi falls down dead.
When the teams came out of the dressing room, World War Three was only narrowly averted.
‘Come on the maroon!’ the Mahana oldies yelled.
‘Come on the black!’ the Hukareka oldies responded.
‘Maroon!’
‘Black!’
‘Maroon!’
‘Black!’
The ref threw a coin in the air.
‘Heads,’ Caesar Poata called. Heads it was.
The Hukareka team took the advantage by electing to play with their backs to the sun.
‘You’ll need more than the sun to help you,’ Uncle Pera yelled. He was a cocky little terrier lifting his hind leg against a fence post.
The strong, fierce Hukareka forwards were like racehorses champing at the bit. They grouped around Augie, Tight Arse Senior and Alexander Poata. Caesar Poata took the kick-off. The Hukareka supporters roared their approval.
The game began.
From the very beginning there was no doubt that Mahana was the heavier side. When the ball was kicked off, a solid wall of Mahana men was waiting underneath. The Hukareka forwards, expecting to dent that wall, bounced off like rubber balls.
‘E koe! E koe!’ the Mahana supporters yelled. They loved nothing better than a show of strength.
The ref ordered a scrum-down. Mahana to put in the ball. Mohi, at halfback, zapped the ball in quickly. The Mahana forwards gouged the ground like bulls, goring the ball back through the scrum to where Mohi was waiting. He was downed by his opposite half.
‘Offside, ref!’ the Mahana supporters screamed.
The ref agreed. Mahana got to kick the ball. My father Joshua took the kick. He found touch deep in the heart of Hukareka territory.
Good old Josh, the oldtimers nodded – almost as good as his father at kicking the ball.
Now a lineout. The throw-in was crooked. Another lineout was ordered. The whistle. Another scrum. The suspense was killing as each side tested the other, trying to probe for weaknesses.
Rupeni Poata went down to the sideline. Seeing this, Grandfather followed him down.
‘Wait for the break, boys,’ Rupeni said.
‘Settle down, boys,’ Grandfather said. ‘Settle down. There’s plenty of time. Plenty of time.’
And wasn’t that just the best advice, the Waituhi oldtimers agreed. Bulibasha was the King of Rugby all right.
Out of nowhere Hukareka made the break. A lucky possession at the lineout. Quick spinning of the ball along from first five-eighth to second five-eighth –
Look! Titus Poata at halfback had slashed around as an extra man in the backline, drawing the Mahana opposite number to him before passing the ball out to Alexander Poata at centre –
Alexander kicked ahead and over the Mahana backs and was chasing after the ball. Whu, he was fast.
But there was good old Josh streaking over to get the ball on the bounce and –
Good boy, Josh! Takes after his father all right. Kicking for touch again, way down the side and back into Hukareka territory.
Great rugby, man. Not as good as the old days, but good to see the ball moving around. Somebody better keep an eye on Alexander Poata, though. Man, he was dangerous.
The whistle blew for halftime. The score was nil-all. The frustration on the field and off was reaching fever pitch. The atmosphere was heavy, like a front before the weather changes. Grandfather kept an unperturbed exterior, but I knew he was worried. He had expected Mahana to be up by at least ten points.
‘You’re doing good,’ Grandfather said during his pep talk, ‘but not good enough. I want to see more possession. I want to see more penetration by the forwards and better handling among the backs. Watch those Hukareka backs. They’re opportunistic. They will take advantage of any breaks they can get. Ka tika?’
‘Ka tika,’ the Mahana men nodded.
Two minutes into the second half, the Hukareka backs made another break and executed a scissors movement similar to their entrance on haka night. Titus Poata made a dummy pass and suddenly changed the direction of play by running into the gap between his position and second five-eighths. He cut through the lumbering Mahana defence players as if they were a piece of cloth. Before Mahana knew it, Alexander Poata had the ball and the Hukareka players were through and streaking for a try.
‘Anei! Anei!’ the Hukareka supporters yelled. Some of the women began a hula of delight, their ample bums wobbling like jelly. The stand started to sway with them. There were a lot of heavyweights among Hukareka women.
Caesar Poata took the kick at goal. Hukareka was ahead by 5 to nil.
Clouds began to gather above the space where Grandfather Tamihana was standing. I thought of the scene in The Ten Commandments where Charlton Heston looks up into the sky and calls, ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’ God must have been listening, because four minutes later the Mahana forwards, led by Uncle Matiu, charged down the field with the ball. They pushed through the Hukareka men, knocking them aside like skittles. The try wasn’t the most elegant in the history of rugby, but when Uncle Ruka put his hand over the Hukareka line and touched the pigskin down, bedlam erupted in the grandstand. There were our women doing the hula.
Dad converted the try. Five-all.
That was when the game took off.
Grandfather Tamihana gave a sudden cry. His bad leg buckled under him and he collapsed. The ref blew his whistle for the St John’s men to assist. Rupeni Poata too went to Grandfather’s aid. The whole of the Waituhi part of the grandstand were on their feet in alarm. Bulibasha was more important than the game.
Grandfather waved the helpers away and bravely he stood up. He indicated that he should like to be assisted up into the grandstand. A wave of applause greeted him. Tears sprang to Uncle Matiu’s eyes.
