Bulibasha, p.23
Bulibasha, page 23
Dad filled the car with all our possessions, a pitiful assortment of bedding, pots and pans, clothes and a few ornaments and trinkets, and drove on ahead while the rest of us walked along the road, herding Red in front of us. Glory rode Dad’s palomino and pulled the packhorse behind her. Our dog, Stupid, kept barking excitedly.
Grandmother Ramona accompanied us. When we arrived at the land she asked if she might be given a moment to say goodbye to her bees. Of course we agreed, expecting that even though we lived there she would continue to come down to the meadow to keep her hives.
‘No,’ she said. ‘When I gave you the land I relinquished all claim to it.’ When she said it like that, my mother started to cry again, the tears streaming like a river down her face.
The sun was hot that day and the meadow was brilliant with spring daisies and other wild flowers. A slight breeze rippled the long stems, making waves of yellow and green. Grandmother Ramona was not wearing her beekeeping clothes. She walked into the middle of the field and stopped for a moment, breathing in the fragrance. Then she began to karanga to the bees, to call them hither –
‘Haramai, haramai, e nga pi aroha haramai –’
At first there was silence. Then, from the four corners of the meadow rose a humming sound as wave after wave of bees came shimmering and swarming like golden clouds towards her. Grandmother lifted her arms, her lips and her face to the honey bees. They came to rest in her open palms, to kiss her lips and taste her tears.
Afterward, she said that she had only two requests. The first was that we would never cut the meadow. The second was that we would love the bees as she had loved them. They, in their turn, would give us the sweetest honey in the world.
Then Grandmother turned her back and started to walk away. I swear to you that the honey bees made such a sound, such a loud buzzing, that you would think they would die of love.
Since then, whenever I have had to let go of anything or anybody in my life, I have always tried to remember Grandmother Ramona on that day.
She never returned.
That night we had the earth for our floor, the stars for our ceiling and the Waipaoa rustling at our doorway. Strangely enough, my mother was not as perturbed about sleeping in the open as I thought she would be.
‘No vampire in his right mind is going to turn up when we have all of Grandmother’s bees to protect us,’ she said.
There was a derelict house on a small western rise which Dad planned to restore for us to live in. It had three bedrooms, a verandah which had been partially closed in as a fourth bedroom, sitting room, dining room and kitchen. One wall was completely exposed and would have to be rebuilt, and the roof over the back part of the house was missing. Elsewhere there were areas which would have to be patched. There was no bathroom or toilet, and washing would have to be done in the river. Nor was the old outside windmill operable; we would have to repair the vanes and pump to enable water to be drawn up from the river along the rise to the house.
The next morning, when the sun came up, we were ready to begin. The house had been used for storing hay and old clapped-out equipment – heavy pieces of iron, car and tractor parts, all the junk associated with farming. Sheep, birds and dogs had left copious droppings. Huge spiders’ webs were strung in all the rooms. The first task was to clean the whole place out –
‘Let’s get to it,’ Dad said.
I had been given another job – the digging of a drophole for the outhouse toilet.
Just then we heard the sound of cars driving up the track. Our gang, Mahana Four, had come to help us – Uncle Hone and Aunt Kate, Aunt Ruth and Uncle Albie, Pani and Miriam, Sephora and Esther, Sam Whatu and his sons Willie, David and Benjamin, Auntie Molly, Haromi, Peewee and Mackie.
‘Don’t tell Father,’ Uncle Hone said.
‘My name is Charlie Whatu,’ Aunt Ruth winked.
‘Just keep Mother Ramona’s damn bees away from us!’ Aunt Kate added.
By nightfall, the place had been swept and scrubbed, and repairs made to broken window sashes and doors. David and Benjamin had helped me with the drophole and Uncle Sam had rigged up a small private enclosure as a bathroom. An inventory had also been made of what had to be done to the house – new roofing, replacement of rotten wallboards and floorboards, glass for broken windows, new doors and so on. We also needed some fences; Mum wanted to keep some fowls. The list seemed endless.
‘There’s a lot of work to do, Josh,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘I’m glad you’ve got plenty of money.’
My mother and father tried to keep up a brave front, but the real situation was that we were hardpressed for cash, what with the repairs on the car and the extra tithe we were paying.
Then David said, ‘Hey, I think Dad’s got an old window frame you could have.’
And Benjamin said, ‘What about that old roofing iron stacked behind old Pera’s place? He doesn’t want it any more. That’ll do for now for the holes in the roof.’
Auntie Molly said, ‘I’ve got an old wood oven you could use, Huria. Oh yes, and a bath that is too small now – and don’t anybody make a crack about that, thank you.’
Even Haromi came up with something. ‘I’m going into town next Friday,’ she said. ‘I could steal some curtains from Melbourne Cash!’
One by one the inventory of what needed to be paid for began to reduce. By the end of the first week we had a real roof, doors that opened and closed, windows which had sugarbags over them and – a home.
Visitors began turning up with furniture they thought might come in handy. Maggie brought a coal iron. Uncle Pera brought a kerosene lamp and one day he asked me to go around to his place for a wardrobe with a full length mirror!
‘What do I need one of these for now?’ he wheezed. ‘I only gets a fright when I go past it and see that old man in it.’
The visitors would come to visit, pretend to be looking at nothing, but think, ‘Hmmmn, Huria and Joshua need a rooster for their hens –’ When they came back they would just happen to have whatever it was they thought we needed.
My mother was embarrassed about such magnanimity. ‘I’ve got nothing to give in return,’ she said.
‘Nothing?’ the visitors would say. ‘You don’t think we want anything in return, do you?’ But some of them would pause. ‘Well, actually, if you happen to have any of Mother Ramona’s honey to spare –’
Grandmother Ramona had gifted us not only land but also honey to barter with.
There were some items, however, that nobody could give us – fence posts, glass for the window panes and a new pump for the windmill. These things had to be purchased. I can remember clearly how proud we were, after many hours of frustration, when the windmill vanes began to revolve. We had been just about ready to give up and reconcile ourselves to carting water up from the river by drum when there was an imperceptible change in the wind’s direction. The machinery gave a jerk, loosening all the joints, and there was a wheezing like Uncle Pera. The sound of water came slowly gurgling through old systems and flushing up into the house.
Despite the fact that we began to go into debt with the wood mill and hardware store in Gisborne – and we plunged quickly into the red with Miss Zelda, Miss Daisy and Scott – such moments were magical. The final touch was Glory’s.
‘I want you to put this up,’ she said. She had a hammer and the sign she had given Mum and Dad at Christmas.
‘Whereabouts?’ I asked.
‘Over the front door, silly.’
Chapter 42
Spring came again, and with it the shearing. Once more the family gathered at the homestead with the families of Ihaka Mahana and Zebediah Whatu for the September thanksgiving meeting. The telling of the Mahana shearing history retained all its power and mana. At church, Grandfather gave his usual reading –
The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want,
He leadeth me beside the still waters,
He restoreth my soul –
Shortly afterward Haromi left school, tossing aside her school uniform with one hand and turning into an instant nymphet.
‘Watch out, world,’ she squealed, ‘here I come.’
Haromi tried to get a job in Gisborne, without success. She started to hang out with the bodgies at the Starlight Café. Two weeks later Aunt Sarah caught her sneaking in through the window after being out all night.
‘That’s it,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘You’re coming out shearing. I’m not having you turn into the real Salome and shedding your veils for boys.’
Haromi and Aunt Sarah ended up fighting each other. Haromi moved to Mahana Four.
Dad resumed shearing and I was again the sheriff looking after the one-horse all-women ghost town of Waituhi. Grandfather didn’t let up on me either. One year in a boy’s lifetime, however, can make a big difference in the boy. I was sixteen now, and the ease and assurance with which I tackled the chores sometimes took my own breath away. Without realising it, I had filled out. I had also become taller and muscular and, ironically, seemed to be physically taking after Bulibasha himself. I loved it when old Pera told him this one day.
‘That boy’s the spitting image,’ Pera chortled.
Grandfather hated that. He hated the whole idea that I, the least malleable of his mokopuna, should become the one who resembled him most. I’m sure this is why he really rode me while the others were away.
‘You finished chopping the wood, Himiona? Good. We need three more beasts killed for the gangs. Then after that I want you to shift the cattle to the hill yard. And after that we need a long drop for the new lav –’
He tried in so many ways to run me into the ground. But something else had happened to me. As well as growing stronger and taller I had become resistant to his control and his mind games. Moving away from the homestead to our land had given my family freedom from Grandfather’s constant tyranny. In the wide gap that was developing between him and me, I was able to build a sense of independence, a sense of my own self. It was not just a matter of distrusting his decisions. It was a matter of trusting my own. That, though, did not stop him from hassling me, particularly on the question of my still being at school.
‘You’re useless, Himiona,’ he said. ‘Your father and mother are out there working their guts out. You’re old enough to leave school. What do you want brains for? You’ve got strong hands. Why don’t you help your parents?’
He almost won. One night when Dad came home from the Wi Pere station and our family were eating dinner I tried to give destiny a push.
‘We’ve got big bills,’ I began.
‘The shearing will put us right,’ Dad answered.
‘But we have no savings, and we still have to plant our crops for next year.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Mum.
‘No,’ I answered. ‘It’s time for me to go out and work.’
‘Where?’ Mum asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘In the shed with your father?’
Perhaps the way to win them over was to parrot Grandfather back at them. ‘Look at Bulibasha,’ I said. ‘He’s managed all right. If God had wanted me to have more brains, He would have given them to me at the start.’
‘No,’ Mum said.
‘But –’
‘Kaore. I don’t want you ending up in the shed, son. You deserve better. You and all of my children.’ Mum was trembling. She looked at my sisters. ‘All of you deserve better. Your dad and I want you to stay at school and get qualified. We want you, Simeon, to try for your School Certificate. Then maybe we’ll talk about your leaving school.’
‘But why?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ Mum echoed. ‘You want to know why?’
She pushed her chair, stood up, and got a piece of paper and a pencil. Then she sat down and slashed an ‘X’ with the pencil.
‘That’s why,’ she said.
Apart from not being able to read, my mother was unable to write even her own name. My father couldn’t either.
The next time I saw Grandfather I wanted him to know he had lost. I grabbed him with my parents’ obstinacies and wrestled him to a standstill.
‘I’m staying at school,’ I said. ‘Don’t try to make me feel guilty, because it won’t work. Mum and Dad want to support me.’
‘What a waste of money.’
‘It’s their money and their decision.’
‘And when you all starve over winter, boy? Words come easy when your belly is full, ne?’
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. ‘Why are you so frightened, Grandfather? Do you think I might be better than you?’
Grandfather was enraged at the suggestion. ‘You’ll never be better than me, boy. Whakahihi, that’s your trouble. Whakahihi.’ He raised his fists. I was no longer afraid. Sure he could still beat the outside me, but the me I was inside? He’d have a hard time there.
Our antagonism increased. Grandfather was always in my way, casting his shadow. He was like a giant wall of Jericho. I wanted to take up a trumpet and make that wall tumble down so I could get on with the business of growing up and becoming myself.
At the end of 1958, two events took place which brought competition between Hukareka and Waituhi to a climax and put thoughts of Bulibasha temporarily on hold. One was the seven-a-side Maori hockey tournament. The other was announced in the Gisborne Herald just before Mum, my sisters and I joined Mahana Four for the season:
New Golden Fleece Award
The New Zealand Wool Board today announced the holding of a national competition to select the best shearing gang in the Dominion. A substantial cash prize of £5000 and the Golden Fleece Shield will be awarded the winning gang. A gold statuette, christened ‘Jason’, will be given to the best shearer of the year, not necessarily from the winning gang.
The new competition has been inaugurated to focus attention on the wool industry and to encourage quality in shearing.
‘As a country which relies on its wool production for its overseas receipts,’ Mr Williams, Chairman of the Board said, ‘it is only appropriate that we should recognise the contribution of the shearing gang to New Zealand’s economy.’
Regional finals would be contested in all the provinces, Mr Williams said. Two finalists from each province will travel to Masterton for the semifinals and finals.
Chapter 43
It was the visionary Apirana Ngata who in the 1940s encouraged the seven-a-side Maori hockey tournament. What a man! His fingerprints were to be found everywhere throughout Maoridom – in politics, business, religion, education, culture and sport. A true Renaissance man for the Maori.
‘Tamihana,’ Apirana Ngata had said when he went to see Grandfather. ‘I have done you one favour and now I ask you a favour in return – a favour for a favour, ne?’ Tamihana agreed. ‘Our people need the spirit of competition to keep our pride and mana and to improve and develop our culture. This is the reason why the haka nights were started, and the hui topu for Maori Anglicans. I want the same thing started up in sport.’ Apirana Ngata’s eyes creased into amusement. ‘I’ve already been to see Pera Smiler and his sister Mini Tupara here in Waituhi. They have suggested hockey as the sport for the tournament because it is a game that all can play, men, women and children. Kua pai?’
‘Kua pai,’ Tamihana said.
Apirana Ngata was clever all right. Sport was just the excuse to get Maori together. Once that happened, the protocols of ceremonial gatherings took place and, before you knew it, a hui was happening.
Ngata well knew that Maori people loved to meet each other and loved to talk. In the formality of meeting, genealogies were exchanged so that one person could find the blood connection between himself or herself and another. Once that was achieved entire histories were exchanged. The tournament was therefore the place where the older people could reaffirm their personal and political relationships. Some hadn’t seen each other for years, so it was important to redraw the map of the present by finding out what had happened, who had died and who had been born. Over five days people discussed the past and the present – land problems, cultural issues, old grievances – all in the language of the iwi. At breakfast, lunch and dinner the old people talked and talked and talked. They would say, ‘Now that we have had kai for our bodies, let us now have the food of chiefs.’ They would lie in the meeting house way after everyone else was asleep, discussing and debating matters affecting the history of the Maori.
Meanwhile the younger men and women were playing sport and, coincidentally, falling in love or having sex. The old people were quick to see who was falling for whom. If they were caught sleeping together, there was nothing for it except to get married. The old people were stern that way. They loved nothing better than to sit around a young couple who had overslept in the morning. When that couple woke up: marriage bells.
In some cases the old ones went further. Sometimes a girl was introduced to a boy she had never seen in her life and told she had been taumau’d to him – promised to him as his bride. This was the way political alliances were maintained.
Apirana Ngata was one of the most successful marriage brokers of all Maoridom.
‘Come on, Mum!’ Faith and Hope yelled. Although I had grown taller, my two sisters hadn’t grown any prettier. They lived in hope and wanted to get to the tournament before all the boys were taken.
This year the seven-a-side tournament was held in Nuhaka. Grandfather and Grandmother – everybody in Waituhi – had left already, taking with them the shields and trophies that were stored in either Mini Tupara’s or Pera Smiler’s house. As usual, we were the last ones left to turn out the lights. Why did we still have to go over to the homestead, lock up and check that the stock were well fed? Would Mum and Dad ever finish?
‘Wait your hurry!’ Mum laughed. Her complexion was rosy and she was giddy with delight.
‘All set?’ Dad asked.
‘We’ve been ready for ages,’ Hope moaned.
‘Let’s put our foot down then, shall we?’ Mum said. With a zoom and a bit of a skid we were off.
