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.
By the time we arrived in Nuhaka the main meeting house was packed to capacity. Other marae were taking people in, and it was a matter of going from marae to marae to find our own iwi.
‘Where’s Waituhi sleeping?’ Dad asked.
‘Down the road at Hemi’s pa,’ we were told.
Before we even got there, Mum’s sister, our Aunt Jackie, saw us and screamed a welcome to Mum. ‘I’ve saved a place for you with us!’
As soon as Mum saw Aunt Jackie they burst into tears. They hadn’t seen each other for years. It was so embarrassing to see adults acting like children. Oh, the shame.
‘Didn’t Bruce come with you?’ Mum asked. Bruce was Aunt Jackie’s fourth husband.
‘Him! I think I might trade him in. There must be another man here for me. The local people are expecting to feed a thousand.’
‘Where have they all come from?’ Dad asked.
‘Palmerston North, Whakatane, you name it and they’re bound to be here. I saw Ruatoki and Murupara arriving earlier this afternoon and —’
‘Excuse me,’ someone said. A red-headed young man blushed as he walked past.
‘He’s come with the team from Auckland,’ Aunt Jackie said. ‘If there’s any red-headed kids born next year we’ll know where the shotgun wedding will be held.’
We unpacked, made our beds on the straw mattresses and hung our clothes on the line which ran down the middle of the meeting house. People always brought three or four outfits — hockey clothes, formal wear for the dance, and informal wear for lounging around in. The women took the socialising very seriously, making beautiful dresses of tulle or organza and painting their shoes with glitter. The men wore sports jackets to the dance — literally a white sportscoat and a pink carnation.
Glory started to sneeze — oh no, hay fever.
‘Kia ora!’ people called. ‘Kei te pehea koe?’
Within the melee I saw more dazed blond Pakeha wandering around the meeting house wondering what had struck them. They had been brought to the tournament by whanaunga who were now living in the cities of gold — Auckland, Wellington and Christchurch. They were just ripe to be caught by some young Maori girl or boy. My cousin Moana met David, her naval officer husband, when her brother brought a team from the naval base at Devonport.