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from
R. T. Kohere
East Cape
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Maori Proverbs and Sayings
It is a saying of the
I have lived a long and varied life, consequently this volume is also long and varied in its contents. In The Story of a Maori Chief, I describe the life of a chief who emerged from savagery to occupy a seat in the Legislative Council; in the following pages, I describe the life of a Maori boy, ignorant of the outside world, to become, as a young man, an undergraduate in the university, and, later in life, to live his old age in a very isolated spot, there to divide his time between gardening and writing.
I express regret that owing to restrictions the Autobiography is not a full record of my life; for instance although I have been a member of a local body for over thirty years, there is no reference to that phase of my life. After reading the proofs, I find that in writing an autobiography, one may lay oneself open to a charge of egotism. Be that as it may, my main purpose is to show my people that one can live a happy life under the most adverse circumstances and if the telling of my story is not couched in happy terms, the fault is that I have not learned the art of simulation.
I wish once more to express, as I did in regard to the publication of The Story of a Maori Chief, my thanks to the State Literary Fund Advisory Committee for their aid in the publication of The Autobiography of a Maori. Were it not for that aid my effort to write in a foreign tongue would have been frustrated. And, although I am well on in years, I live in hopes that my next manuscript, Thornton of Te Aute, will also be published. I have spent much time and thought in the production of the manuscript and I think that it will be appreciated by the people.
I wish also to tender my thanks to the publishers, Messrs
Sir James Carroll.I was born at Orutua, near
The Orutua valley was then closed in by wooded hills on three sides, open to the Pacific Ocean on one and in the middle of it, fed by several mountain torrents, the Orutua winds its sluggish course to the sea. A bar of papa rocks stretches across the mouth of the river, holding back the water and turning it into a strip of a lake. Both banks of the river were lined with large and gnarled pohutukawa trees, which when in flower enhanced the beauty of a beautiful valley.
Not a week ago I had crossed the Orutua. Piled up along the beaches were logs of all sizes, brought down by flood, and boulders and debris hurled over the rocky bar by the force of flood waters had filled up the space between the bar and the sea. I noticed with deep regret that the beautiful pohutukawa which grew on the left bank of the river near its mouth, and others further up, had wholly disappeared, torn up from their roots by the weight of the logs piled up against them by the flood. All my life, I had known these trees, and one of them I had particular reason to remember. Now, my trees are gone—gone for ever. They were strewn on the beach, like dead soldiers on a battlefield.
Here in this valley I was born, and here I spent the earliest days of my life.
Before I write down my recollections of this period of my life, first, I should explain why my people came to
My mother,
Here sub-tribes who sympathised with the Hauhau movement came to swell its number. Wai-o-Matatini, just across the Waiapu river, had been the centre of the Kingite movement, and therefore readily threw in its lot with the rebels. I give a more detailed account of the incident in The Story of a Maori Chief.
Mokena Kohere took upon himself to pardon the rebels, to resist confiscation of the
At the conclusion of the campaign on the East Coast there was a shortage of food and both rebels and friendlies suffered alike. It may be mentioned here that Maoris who fought for the Government were not paid anything. My grandfather and his family moved to Horoera where sea-food was plentiful. They later moved to Orutua, where my grandfather built a weatherboard house. My second birthday was a great event and people in hundreds attended the celebration at Orutua. The principal food eaten and enjoyed was what is called doughboy, that is, flour boiled and stirred in water and sweetened with sugar or wild honey. Potfuls of the preparation were poured out into canoes around which sat the guests, each armed with mussel and paua shells. My
My grandfather was the only one for miles around who owned a flock of sheep which had survived the war on the East Coast. The flock provided us and our neighbours with meat. It was my father's habit when he went round to look at the sheep, to put me on the back of a favourite horse while he led it. It was on one such occasion I had my first fall off a horse and my father was so anxious about me that he kept me in cold water until I suffered more from the cold than from the effects of the fall.
When I was about four years old, I had a more serious fall which nearly terminated my young life. One of the pohutukawa trees I have already mentioned grew aslant over the Orutua. I climbed up this and fell into deep water. My young companion had sense enough to realise I was in mortal danger. He hurried into the house and, seeing my mother, began pulling her skirt; at the same time pointing towards the river. My mother instinctively gathered I was in trouble. She arrived just in time to save me, although there was grave doubt whether I would come round.
People have often asked me the cause of the large scar on my right wrist. I was watching a man putting a rope round the neck of a new-born calf and, as the calf cried, its mother became very excited and kept running about. I ran into a shed and instead of standing on the flat ground, of course, I stood on a round log. As the cow became excited, I grew more excited and lost my balance and, in falling, I put out my right hand to support myself and put it on the broken bottom of a bottle. The broken bottle with its sharp edges stuck into my wrist. When my
I must relate the battle that was fought between my dog, Taake, and, of all enemies of a dog, a young octopus. (By the way, I have already written in the present volume two stories about octopuses) I had been sailing my little boat in a pool in the rocks when I saw an octopus in a small round pool. Its eyes were almost dropping out of its ugly head with fright. The creature looked so hideous that I felt a very strong repugnance to it. With delight I set my dog on to it. The dog seemed to share my animosity for the octopus, for it leaped on the enemy, his and mine. There was a battle royal and I was the sole eyewitness. As the octopus entwined the dog with its tentacles, the latter became more furious and began tearing the body of the octopus until the water of the pool became discoloured with matter from its torn body. Taake was conqueror, and he was lucky the octopus was no bigger than it was or it would have gone hard with him.
My grandfather left for Wellington to take his seat in the Legislative Council in 1872. I was too young, of course, to remember the occasion of his departure. The Government steamer Luna picked him up, otherwise, I do not know how he could have got to Wellington. When I was a little older, I remember standing on the beach and gazing seawards at a small steamer coming in. The vessel was the Luna, bringing back my grandfather. The arrival of the boat always excited the people for it not only brought back my grandfather, but also, with him, a large quantity of flour, biscuits and sugar, much of which was given by the Government under
My family, for Maoris, were remarkably free from superstitions. My grandfather had one pet superstition, that was the itching of his nose. His nose led him.
I was often told how my grandmother rebuffed my grandfather when making love to her because he was older than she, and, besides, she did not like his tattooed face. When grandfather waxed persistent in his advances, my grandmother thought her safety lay in flight; thereupon, without letting anybody know of her intention, she fled to some unknown spot where she could remain in hiding and unmolested. When my grandfather found out that his stubborn sweetheart had given him the slip he betook him to a tohunga who could cast a spell over the fugitive and so bring her back to him. My grandmother often related how she was caught in a whirlwind which turned her right round to the way in which she came and suddenly she felt her soul yearn for her despised lover.
Here I would introduce the legend of Te Aoputaputa In another version of the legend,
The tide was good and women were diving for crayfish where the dainty crustaceans were usually found in large number. When the other women's kits bulged with crayfish, they left the water and warmed themselves with a fire on which had been thrown small crayfish. Meanwhile, Te Ao was desperately looking for crayfish for she dreaded going home with an empty kit, but not one could she find. Everywhere she looked even in caverns, where crayfish were usually found, the only object that met her eyes was a solitary periwinkle. To return home with an empty kit would be a disgrace and would form a lively topic for gossip. The tide was coming in fast and she had not a crayfish. She dived once more and, sure enough, the periwinkle was there. Disgusted and ashamed, she put it in her kit and waited for her companions to leave for home, lest they should see her empty kit. She walked slowly towards the fire and, pushing the sticks together, she threw the fateful periwinkle on the fire. As it became heated, it began to sing Readers may be aware that shell-fish, like a periwinkle, when heated in the fire, do sing.
The story of
The name, Nihomakuru, appears amongst those of my ancestors. The ancestors of
When my grandfather went to Wellington, my father and mother moved to
There was an abortive attempt to open a school, about the year 1878. I remember how I listened with amazement to what I now learn to be a recital of the Lord's Prayer and the singing of the song, "Pull for the Shore, Sailor," from Sankey's collection.
At last, I was old enough to go to school. The master's name was McMahon, and he wore a long beard. Two long, double desks ran almost the whole length of the room, and, as the children sat on each side of the desk and facing one another, there was irresistable temptation to talk and make faces at one another, but the greatest commotion took place under the desks, where dangling legs, on one side, waged continuous warfare against the legs on the opposite side, for it was the easiest thing in the world to go over the frontier. Fortunately for the legs, the feet they carried were not encased in shoes and boots.
The children did very little work at school. The most we did was to look out for the approach of an old man called Boyle. He lived out in the country, where he had a hops garden and he often came to the school. His visits were too frequent, especially when they were timed to coincide with meal hours,
When watermelons were ripe, unless a strict watch was kept over them, the owner might wake up in the morning, to find his or her crop of watermelons depleted. It was easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye than it was for a Maori boy not to steal watermelons. If a patch of watermelons happened to be near a road, melon thieves, armed with wooden lances, mounted their ponies at night and, after stabbing large melons with the lances, galloped away as fast as their horses could go, carrying the watermelons on their lances. To find your patch of watermelons, which you had tended for several months, robbed overnight was indeed exasperating, and yet Maoris as a rule regarded melon-stealing lightly and a melon-thief was never prosecuted. Only recently did I read in the press of a prosecution in the Police Court for melon-stealing and several elderly natives were surprised to hear of it.
After an old woman's crop of watermelons had been raided at night, all the boys in the village were called for an examination. An old man named Ihaia was
A more kindly and a more upright man than Sir Apirana Ngata.
I am complaining now of the inadequate wage of one boiled lolly, but in the good old days, it never entered our heads to grumble, for lollies were very rare. The one lolly was as good as a feast. It was not licked out of existence in one operation—it was made to last, if possible, until the next lolly was earned. A lick now and then was sufficient, and often the lolly was passed round to be licked by the younger members of the family, who were, unfortunately, not old enough to have joined the union of green-branch carriers.
This puts me in mind of a habit amongst the elders of passing round the pipe as we youngsters passed round the boiled lolly. Only clay pipes were in vogue then. After a Maori had been using a clay pipe for years, a semi circular groove was formed in his teeth, into which the mouthpiece of the pipe fitted. Old women stuck their clay pipes in the lobes of their ears as gay women put gold earrings in theirs. In The Story of a Maori Chief I relate the incident, how my grandfather and grandmother, after the capsize of their boat, swam for their lives, my grandmother landing with her precious clay pipe still between her teeth.
One incident in connection with the school I must place on record. All that the boys had to wear were shirts; trousers were a luxury in those days. Some of the shirts, having been inherited, were too long and impeded the movement of the legs, especially in running and jumping. During lunch hour a number of boys, some distance from the school, were having a keen competition in hop-step-and-jump. One boy, because his shirt interfered with his jumping, took it off. His example infected the others and, in a few minutes, half-a-dozen little boys were stark naked. For this lapse, each of them received cuts with the cane.
Mr. J. H. Pope, inspector, paid one visit to the school before it closed. I do not know what I learned at school, but at least I knew what a lake was in English. Mr. Pope held up a large piece of paper and, pointing at it said, "Land is here, land is there, and land is all round, what do you call the piece of water in the middle?" Nobody knew or understood, but I had an idea of what he was driving at, so, after some hesitation, I cried out, "Lake." I was correct and I have never forgotten my triumph.
That was my first meeting with
With the school closed, spring, summer, autumn and winter were one long holiday, for the children roamed everywhere, looking for peaches which were then growing wild, for kotukutuku or konini berries, and squeezing the sweet juice of the tutu.
I was a victim of tutu poisoning and I might have died from it. Our elders had not forgotten to warn us repeatedly against eating the kernel of the karaka and the fruit of the tutu, I was not ignorant, for my mother and I had often gone out to pick tutu berries tutu berries in abundance and ripe. While the others carefully strained the berries, I, out of sheer bravado, began filling my mouth with the delicious fruit and challenging my companions to see me "drop down dead." On our way home I felt queer and then I felt dazed. My companions and I had parted and there I was, like a drunken man trying to find my way home. I could hardly see when I was near our house. My mother found me looking underneath the house. By the purple marks on my lips she gathered at once that I had been poisoned with tutu. Then I lost consciousness. My father took me down for a dip in the sea and the cold water brought me round a little. He then lit a fire on which he put piripiri (native burr) and as it smoked he hung my face over the fire so that I might inhale the smoke. The treatment seemed to have done me good for I revived. For days I lay in bed feeling weak after my strange experience.
During hot weather, the children practically lived on the bank of the Awatere river. After being in the water too long, we rolled in the hot sand, as did our grand ancestor, Paikea After the sinking of Huripureita, of all Uenuku's sons, Paikea was the sole survivor. A taniwha in the form of a whale took Paikea on its back and brought him to Aotearoa, landing at Ahuahu. By rolling in the hot sand he revived himself. Paikea married Huturangi, a descendant of Toikairakau and the issue of the union is the Incantation.karakia
It never occurred to the reciter that the sun was severely impartial; that it shone alike both on the just as well as the unjust. Invariably the losers always murmured that the winner must have been sparing in his spitting.
When a mother appeared carrying a big stick in her hand, it was not then a case of imploring for mercy—there was only one thing to do, pick up your shirt, or even without it, and make a bee-line for home, there to await the tyrant and her big stick.
The opening of the Latris ciliaris.moki
The cooked fish was tapu and could be eaten only by the fishermen, even the mere woman who had been good enough to get things ready for them must be content to look on, although she had been fasting also. In their hunger and greed the men gorged themselves and entirely forgot the mere woman, even though she might be the wife of one of the eaters. Other fish which were not moki were not eaten, but were suspended on a tree as offerings to Pou, the god of fish. No other persons besides the fishermen should tread on the landing-ground and I have been compelled when riding along the beach to turn aside and pass the holy ground by some other way. I have always suspected that these rules were formulated by some greedy ancestor or hapu.
Fishing grounds belong to particular hapus and some of these fishing-ground-owning hapus are notorious for their stinginess. The Treaty of Waitangi recognises the claims of the Maoris to their fishing-grounds, even though these grounds may be outside territorial waters.
When rights under the
I have treated with levity the customs relating to moki, and some ethnologists would probably take exception to my remarks. If they do it is because they are superstitious themselves and lack a sense of humour.
I wish to insert here an account which I wrote some time ago of a Maori case over a dispute regarding the ownership of a fishing-ground a few miles south of
For years a serious dispute as to the tribal ownership of the Maunga-whio hapuku ground, seven miles off
The committee arrived on the scene on the day fixed, Whakatihi, with keen perception, took in, as it were at a glance, the whole situation, and practically arrived at a conclusion as to the ownership of the disputed hapuku ground. He observed that in the
Whetu-tawere, one of the elders of Ngati-Puwai, sprang to his feet and, poising his spear over his head, threatened to strike Whakatihi, who, unperturbed, cooly remarked, "E, e mate e au, e tangihia, e nehua," "If I should be slain, my death would be mourned and I would be given a decent burial," but "E mate e koe, e taona, e kainga," "But you, you would be killed and eaten."
The dispute was finally settled by both sides accepting the committee's judgment.
While we were living at A fabulous monster that lives in deep water.taniwhataniwha—I could almost feel myself being sucked into the monster's maw. My father came to the rescue and carried me to land. We could not put out to sea so we pushed the boat along the beach until we came to the mouth of the Karaka-tuwhero, where we were able to pull out. We arrived late at
The two elders and I planned another fishing expedition, and this time we went farther afield. When we rounded the
Pawa was the navigator of the canoe Horouta which the
In his pursuit of Rongokako, Pawa left behind him, near his "stingaree" his little daughter, Maroheia, and, on his return, found her petrified and clinging to a rock called Ihu-toto, and even today you may find remnants of the forsaken little maid still clinging to Ihu-toto.
In Hinetawhirirangi's well-known song, wherein she mourns the death of her relative, Hamaiwaho, who jumped into the sea in order to escape from his Ngapuhi captors when near the
It was probably the casting of Hamaiwaho on the rocks that suggested to the Maori lyric, Pawa's neglect of his daughter, Maroheia, which led to her death as she hugged Ihu-toto rock. The poetess, in a sense, blames herself also for the neglect of her relative whose body was found on the Rurima rocks, as Maroheia's was found clinging to Ihu-toto rock. The weaving of the idea of neglect into the two incidents, her neglect and Pawa's, is clever and displays high imaginative powers and a decided poetic turn of mind.
Maoris are fond of naming children with names
Maori mothers and grandmothers, in entertaining little children, delighted in telling stories of giants and giantesses, particularly of the latter. I don't know why they preferred giantesses, unless they considered them uglier and more wicked than giants. Giantesses are certainly, from all accounts, diabolical.
Let me give a brief, typical story of a giantess, told me by my own mother:
A little boy wanders into the forest and loses his way. After wandering about for a few days and subsisting on wild berries, he hears a peculiar noise, like the snorting of a wild horse. He looks for the cause of the noise and suddenly he espies a nanakia (ogre)—a terrible-looking giantess, whose gray dishevelled hair covers her rugged body, and who, with her long tapering fingernails, could pierce wild pigeons as they perched in the trees. The next day, curious to find out the home of the nanakia the boy climbs to the top of a high hill, from which he can survey the country around and find out his bearings. In the valley below he notices puffs of smoke rising above the trees. To investigate the mystery of the fire, he hurries down into the valley and, warily approaching a dark mass in the wood, he notices it to be a rocky cave from which the smoke is issuing, and by the fire with her back towards him and the gray hair covering her recumbent body and her long fingers pointing in a heap towards the back of the cave, the nanakia is fast asleep. Judging by the heap of fresh pigeon bones lying near the fire, the boy gathers that the giantess has devoured several pigeons nanakia should wake up too soon. As he nears the edge of the forest he hears the cracking of broken trees and the same unmistakable snorting he had heard the day before. He knows that the nanakia is after his blood. Instead of walking through the bush, the monster is stepping from tree-top to tree-top and gaining on him rapidly. He is now in the open and crossing a plain. He again hears the snorting. As the giantess snorts she throws her terrible fingers in front of her as though her little victim is within striking distance. The boy can almost feel the hot breath of the gigantic hag as she snorts and lurches forward. The boy now cries, "Te kohatu nei e matiti, matata!" ("O rock, split and crack"). It opens sufficiently to let him in and then closes. After travelling along the channel revealed by the opening, he comes to the surface, but the nanakia, bewildered by the boy's disappearance, is some distance behind. The race once more continues. When the nanakia is again within striking distance of her victim, the boy once more cries, "Te wiwi nei e, matiti, matata" (O rushes, split and crack.") As the rushes open out the earth opens also and the boy leaps into the opening and is safe once more. The nanakia, fearful lest she should be too near the abode of mortal man, stands and hesitates and then turns back to disappear into the dark and lonely forest.
The chief, Houkamau, my father and myself, spent a very enjoyable time in my father's life-boat at Whanga-a-rumia, near Lottin Point. It was the Ditremus aureus.maomaomatarau, about five feet in diameter and seven feet in depth, and stretched out on a supple-jack frame. About half-a-mile off shore we let down the net and, as it was being lowered we threw into it pieces of crayfish shell. It was most exciting to watch scores of the dainty fish swarm into the net after the bits of crayfish. As the net was pulled up I craned over the gunwale to see the small sparkling fish struggling and tumbling helplessly in the large meshed bag. After letting down the matarau two or three times we had caught enough fish for the day.
An elderly couple had ridden overland specially to cure the fish for us. They also acted as our cooks. The evening meal was eagerly looked forward to, for it consisted chiefly of broiled maomao. A green pointed stick was thrust through the fish and with the other end stuck in the ground it was bent over the embers. After being out at sea for hours, to watch a maomao sizzling over the fire and the juice running down the stick and falling into the fire, is most appetizing, and only those who have tasted broiled maomao could appreciate the deliciousness of the fish. In addition to the fish we had potatoes and kumaras roasted in the hot ashes, and, to wash down the fish and vegetables we drank pure, icy-cold water from a nearby mountain torrent.
The bush grew to the water's edge while pohutukawas grew on rocks and rocky banks. A little bay ran for chains past our camp into the bush. Wild honey was plentiful.
A period of sixty years has intervened since I visited that lovely spot although, I am afraid, all the virgin bush has been destroyed. Even so, the coves and caves must still be there, and the sea, and the maomao in the sea must still await one's pleasure. What a pity it is, we are too busy to claim nature's goodly gifts strewn at our feet.
A few years after, as a member of a whaling crew, I spent several months on this same coast. The whole coast was then still in its virgin loveliness. Besides the whalers' camp there was not a sign of human habitation. While the men were on the look-out for whales, it was my duty to look after the boat which was then moored to the rocks in a sheltered cove. The water was so clear that I could see a fish swallow my baited hook. In this way I provided fish for the evening meal. My father was the skipper of the boat, and although I was really too young, he had taken me as one of his crew. I had the stroke oar which was regarded as an unimportant position. Although for a boat to be fast to a whale was very dangerous, it was never my fortune to undergo the experience. Several times we got fairly close to as many as three or four whales, but never near enough to fasten on to one with the harpoon. That was all the whaling I ever did in my life, but I enjoyed the simple life immensely—sleeping at night in caves, catching fish, and even vainly chasing the monsters of the deep in the day-time.
There was dense bush everywhere during the years of which I write. I don't think there was one cleared acre of bush except where the people had their cultivations. Wants were very few. Sheep-farming and dairy-farming had not been thought of. After the crops of potatoes and kumaras had been gathered in, the only employment during the winter was fishing and hunting.
Shooting the wild pigeons was a popular business. Pigeons were found in large numbers everywhere and the natives did not spare them, for, like fish, they were one of their chief articles of food. The birds fed on the ti (cabbage tree), miro, kahikatea and hinau. Pigeons are most delicious when they are miro. It is my opinion that there is nothing more delicious than a fat wild pigeon. Maoris as a rule never open or clean a wild pigeon before cooking it and there is a very good reason for this practice, though strange it may sound. When a pigeon is opened it is found that the berries inside it are still fresh and their flavour has permeated every bit of the bird. A Maori would be quite indignant if he saw a fat pigeon cleaned before it was put into the pot.
Pigeon-snaring and piercing was an art in the old days, but in these days of guns, shots and powder, pigeon-shooting is downright business. I always went with my father on his shooting expeditions. At Takapuwahia we found hundreds of pigeons feeding on the berries of the ti (kouka). As'the berries cluster amongst the long leaves, the birds, with wings spread out, just flopped on the leaves. The noise they made with their wings was great, but it was nothing compared to the thunderous noise made by hundreds of birds on the wing after a shot had been fired, and the sky became darkened with them. Often a shot was fired into the flock of birds on the wing. The birds would only lift for a few minutes, then once more they would flop down to feed, and again a few of their number would be brought down. The destruction would be greater when half-a-dozen guns were at work. A shrewd native could fill a bag with pigeons without firing a shot by simply picking up dead or wounded birds at the edge of the bush. The sight of hundreds of pigeons feeding on the ti and then lifting in the sky was, to me, most exciting and, the little savage that I was, I never had the least compunction in regard to the shameless destruction of the beautiful wild pigeons, but that came in later years.
Friday afternoon was the time for leaving home so as to be near the bush. The camping ground was a small cave about eight miles up the Awatere river. The sportsmen, if they could be so designated, always allowed themselves sufficient time to secure a bird or two for the evening meal. The camp rule was one bird to every person, and even I had a whole bird allotted to me. Anyone who was unfortunate enough not to have secured a bird was given one. Only a hurried breakfast was had early on the Saturday morning, after which the party broke up into sections, each section going in a different direction. I always followed my father, my duty being to pick up and carry the birds. Late in the afternoon, all met again at the cave and together rode home satisfied with the day's shooting.
It was the custom at
The meeting-house, called Hinerupe, was not carved, but it holds for me very sweet memories. There, daily morning and evening prayers were read and on Sunday evenings a Bible Class was held. It was there that I first learned to like my Bible and my earliest religious impressions were then planted in my heart.
In the year 1938 the second Hinerupe was pulled down and a fully carved one took its place.
On Anzac Day of that year the third Hinerupe was
When, owing to ignorance and petty jealousy, a clique at
Though I am now an old man and my father died fifty-two years ago, one memory will ever be green in my mind, and that was the night we spent in the forest. When the hinau berries were ripe and falling to the ground the kaka (native parrot) was fattest. The bird descended to the ground to eat the fallen berries and became so fat and heavy that it could not fly from the ground. When disturbed it could only climb up a small tree or a supple-jack, and, to bring it to the ground, one had only to shake the tree or the supple-jack. All kakas, of course, were not as helpless as this. It was to shoot or catch the kaka that my father and I penetrated far into the forest at Tauri. Our expedition was so successful that nightfall found us still in the forest. After our evening meal, my father heaped up some dry, dead leaves on which we could lie. I crept close to my father and, turning my back to his so that I could face ghosts and wild animals if they should happen to come along, I gazed into the impentrable darkness. But for the cry of the morepork, perfect stillness tui and of the bell-bird heralded the dawn and dissipated all my childish fears and imaginations.
In early spring it was the habit of the kaka to fly about in large numbers. Because some have been found exhausted near the coast, the natives say the kaka, like the shining-cuckoo, is a migratory bird, and it is on its return to New Zealand that it is seen in large numbers. This view is, of course, incorrect. It is probable that a bird was blown out to sea by a strong gale and, in flying back to the land became exhausted. I have never troubled to find out why the kaka did fly about in large numbers and very often over grassy and bare hills where no berries could be found.
Snaring the kaka was a very fascinating practice. Strangely enough, my father did not take any interest in snaring the kaka, one reason, I suppose, was because at this season the bird was not in good condition. I generally accompanied Pepene on a kaka-snaring expedition. A prominent hill where a large tree grew was chosen as our base, and here a little hut of green branches was erected Just outside the hut, and between it and the tree, a perch was provided and tied to the perch was the decoy. As soon as a flock of kaka was seen, the hunter would imitate the cry of the bird and the flock, hearing this, would make for the tree. He at once concealed himself within the hut and urged the decoy to entice its unwary fellows to come nearer. A large flock filled the tree and in response to the invitation of the decoy, the more curious ones left the tree and alighted on the perch. The hunter adroitly snared one of the curious birds and pulled
Usually a flock of kaka had a leader, or manu-whakataka-pokai as it is called in Maori, and when its plumage was redish it was called kaka-kura. An experienced snarer always tried to catch the leading bird, for if he succeeded in doing that he could catch the whole flock for there would be no one to give the command to move on. A kaka-snaring spot was always regarded as private—it belonged to the family and for anybody else to use it without permission was to trespass.
A method by which I was fond of catching fish was by the use of the hinaki. The term is also used for the eel-pot. It was usually about eight-feet long by three-feet wide at its mouth and was conical in shape. The frame was covered with net made of flax. The entrance, which was suspended about half-way inside the pot, was also made of flax. The pot is placed in a long channel that runs out into deep water and it is then fastened with ropes to a bar laid across the channel and driven into the rocks. As the tide recedes, fish naturally get into the channel on their way out to sea and are thus caught in the hinaki. It was my pleasure to empty the pots and I have counted as many as half-a-dozen in one pot. It was a simple and cheap method of catching fish and of replenishing the family larder. Usually, of course, whenever there hinaki has fallen into disuse because people nowadays are much too busy and chiefly because poachers empty the pots at night time. I do not remember my fish-pots ever being interfered with when I was young.
I have said just now, we shared the fish with our neighbours, and, of course, our neighbours always returned the compliment whenever they were in a position to do so. An ancient law of the Maori—the law of aroha—is generosity. It is an astounding custom. Generosity is always regarded by the Maoris as one of the highest virtues—it is a characteristic of a rangatira, and the absence of it is a sign of the low-born. When carrying food like fish, birds or mussels, a Maori would rather wait for darkness before passing through a settlement. It is the correct thing to part with your best. For instance, you must give away the larger and fatter of two fishes. To give a neighbour a hog's head instead of a portion of the body is to insult him. A stranger is never refused hospitality. A chief would give up his bed to a visitor and lie on the hard floor. To place a poor meal before visitors is considered a disgrace.
I want to write a little about old Heremaia. He and his wife lived at Horoera, near
Before the time for sowing and planting arrived, when the little The grey warbler.riroriro's
It was generally known how often Heremaia went out at night to dive for crayfish so his guests would have a nice breakfast. There was heartfelt mourning when Heremaia passed away.
Before the Hauhau war broke out on the East Coast in 1865, the Maoris sowed wheat extensively. With the surplus wheat, the
When my family first went to
My father and another Maori, Reihana Moari, took a trip to Auckland by a vessel which called to take a quantity of maize. At Auckland they met
Captain Skinner sold the maize at Auckland and brought back goods for the Maoris. The people did so well that they began building weatherboard houses for themselves, and everybody was anxious to become a
I always admired Kaeo, the finest ship in the fleet, was wrecked in the islands, and the Aotea, with the loss of the crew, including
In summer, hundreds of the
For years, a feud was kept up between the
The contest was kept up for some years, until an old man stepped into the ring and stopped the inter-tribal fights.
Today, the The Story of a Maori Chief, much may be learned of the
When Mr. McMahon, the schoolmaster, and his wife left because the attendance at the school had so decreased that it was considered hardly worthwhile continuing it, only two white men remained in the district, but they also left soon after. The two were old Mr. Boyle, who had planted a hops garden at Tokata, and
When my father suggested that I might go with him to Gisborne, I was filled with joy. The local tribe had decided to call a big A gathering of any kind.huimoki and wild pigeons. It was, of course, necessary to procure a large quantity of shot and powder, if a large number of pigeons was required, and, to do this, a trip to Gisborne had to be undertaken. To ride there on horseback would take about a week and there was also the difficulty of
Early one morning we put out to sea, my father being in command of the expedition. I was still very young when I found myself actually on the way to Gisborne. I had heard much about the town from Maoris who annually visited A shell-fish, or mutton fish.kumaras and pauapaua more than I did that evening.
We started very early the next morning and there was promise of a fair breeze. While our boat was speeding along a flying-fish flew across our bow. The sight delighted me immensely as I had heard of flying-fish before, but this was my first glimpse of one. Later in life I learned the Maori saying: "He maroro kokoti ihu waka"—"the flying-fish that cuts across the canoe's bow"—signifying an unexpected obstacle to one's progress. Being young, of course, the incident meant nothing to me, but I think the elders expected some trouble that day. Another flying-fish was startled and it dropped into the boat. I watched the beautiful creature as it lay helpless before me. To see such a fish with pretty, delicate wings was a novel sensation. I handled it fondly and wished I could keep it for a pet. Off Tolaga Bay the wind increased considerably and now and then we shipped some water, but, with my father in charge of the boat, I was not
Off Gable End Foreland, or Pari-nui-te-ra, as it is called in Maori, the wind moderated, and by the time we entered manuka sticks stuck in the solid rocks and on the top of each stick was a kerosene tin, upside down and awry. I was told that these were beacons to guide boats entering or leaving the river.
By the way, the name Poverty Bay Herald (now the Gisborne Herald). The opponents of the name
The sight of a schooner tied to a wharf interested me
We turned up the Waikanae creek and landed at a small Maori settlement. It was some distance from the town and thick with sweet-briars. We camped here for fully a fortnight and the day after our arrival we went into town, this being my first experience of being "in town." I was delighted with everything I saw, but what delighted me most were the shops with large windows in which wares of every description were displayed to attract customers. In country stores there were no such windows; in fact, what were meant for windows were guarded like gaols with iron bars. The people who served in the shops were, I thought, perfection itself, with their charming manners and neat clothes. And the fruit shops!—I revelled in these. My father also introduced me to
We learned that permission to buy ammunition had to be obtained from Wellington and before this could be done we had to wait fully a fortnight. Naturally I did not regret the delay. With an indulgent father supplying me with money, I was as happy as the day was long.
It was on this visit to Gisborne that I first tasted butter, baker's bread and sausages. I dreamed about sausages in my sleep. It was an unkind pakeha who in later years disturbed that dream by remarking that he did not like sausages for he always liked to know what he was eating. As for bread and butter, I could not eat enough. The two articles are, in a figure of speech, regarded by the white people as the staff of life, but not so by the Maoris, as these articles were unknown in the early days.
Even today, the Maoris of Wairoa regard rohi (loaf, rohi, which they enjoyed as a great delicacy. On returning home they told the rest of the tribe what a wonderful food rohi was, and so impressed them about the quality of this rare food that it was decided to sell a block of land, Raua Block, at a price that would enable them to discard the common bread of their own baking and to buy the rohi of the pakeha. Of course, when all the money from the sale of the land had been spent, they had to return to their own bread and so had neither rohi nor the block of land—a calamity indeed!
With regret I bade farewell to Gisborne. Since that time I have visited all four main centres of New Zealand, as well as other towns; I resided for three years in Christchurch, and spent nearly a month in Sydney and
On the trip home from Gisborne, we camped at Cook's Cove, near Lockwood, who married a Maori woman and the progenitor of a well-known
We decided to camp in the cove which was on the mainland and took the opportunity to look for Cook's well. We found a small round hole cut into the rock over which water fell, and above the hole the word "Cook" was graven in the rock. According to Canon Stack, who as a boy visited the cove in 1842, the name "Cook" Read Canon Stack's description of the locality in Early Maoriland Adventures.
The Maori name for Cook's Cove is Opoutama. The whole locality, with its narrow passage, its precipitous little island, its cove and peculiarly shaped rocks standing out of the sea near the entrance to the passage, its isolation and wildness, was strikingly beautiful and romantic. I don't wonder why a wealthy sheep-farmer a few years ago tried very hard to persuade the natives to alienate the island to him.
Pourewa, like Opoutama, is historic, for here, in this fastness lived Hinematioro, the grandmother of mana was paramount throughout the whole of the East Coast.
The following morning we resumed our voyage and
With so much ammunition procured, a good slaughter of pigeons was assured. The hui was a great success because of the amount of pigeons and moki provided for the guests who attended in large numbers.
I shall now give an account of my second trip to Gisborne, if only for the purpose of showing the tedium and the difficulties of the overland route. My father and I undertook this journey on horseback and it took us four days to do it and that was considered quite good going.
My father had his doubts about taking me for the reason that I had not learned to ride. However, to be sure I could go, I at once began to learn riding. One day, when going through a simple lesson in horsemanship, I fell from my pony and though I was not hurt, I was much afraid lest my father might hear of my simple fall and so refuse to take me with him. I told some boys who witnessed my mishap to tell my father, should he inquire, that I came off the horse because it had shied. It was a lie, perhaps—a boyish lie—but I have never forgotten it.
The day we set out was cold, for a southerly wind was blowing. Along the Hautai beach, near
As I observed the ruggedness of the land behind
It has become a habit of mine on awaking in the morning, to step out on the high verandah, to admire the beautiful view that can be seen from there. In the foreground is a fresh green paddock, on the left is a wooded hill, on the right is another hill on which a lighthouse is situated. Beyond the green paddock is the broad Pacific Ocean, and to the right lies East Island. Overseas vessels pass fairly close to the island practically every day and night, but coastal boats pass between the island and the mainland.
Before reaching Rangitukia we rode over the highest point of the Kautuku hill, on which is a perfectly round tarn, where, centuries ago, Paikea found Hutu bathing in its still waters. It was Paikea who was rescued by a taniwha from drowning and brought on its back to New Zealand. To make a long story short, Paikea married Hutu and the issue from that union is the
We started out very early the following morning. We had to be ferried across the dangerous Waiapu in a canoe and our horses were towed behind. Our route— it could not be called a road—then followed the beach and was very rough in places. Often, where it was impossible to follow the beach, hills had to be climbed and usually we were unable to descend without first climbing practically to the summit—it was not just a matter of going over the brow of the hill. An example of this was our climb over Tawhiti Hill, between Waipiro and
We spent the night at Te Puka, the home of the loyal chief,
On the next stage of our journey, between
The next morning we again made an early start. Coming upon the
The Pakarae and Waiomoko rivers and the Pouawa and Turihaua streams were always dangerous when in flood. They could be forded only near their outlets to the sea. I once knew a promising young man who
We arrived at Gisborne on the fourth day. We both had fine horses and had been fortunate in regard to the weather. Had it rained we might have been delayed for days or even weeks. The above is an account of the East Coast main road over seventy years ago.
At that time, Cook County included what are now Uawa, Waiapu and Matakaoa Counties. When Waiapu County was instituted road facilities began to improve and an enterprising firm inaugurated a coach service. This service had a very up and down career and was finally run off the road by the introduction of a motor service. I have said that my father and I took four days to ride from
Before returning home my father and I attended the races. I had been to Maori races at home, but this was my first experience of big racing and all its glamour. The race-course was at the "Island" near Waerenga-a-Hika. There was a very large crowd and the day was delightfully fine. The ladies paraded in their pretty frocks, but what most took my fancy was the brightly coloured costumes of the jockeys. The racehorses were the most beautiful that I had ever seen. Used as I was to seeing the mongrels on the coast, I had had no idea that horses could be so beautiful.
On our way to Gisborne we passed a Maori mounted on a fine-looking horse. He was wearing riding breeches and Wellington boots and I guessed that he was a shepherd for he dismounted to pull a sheep out of a drain. I believe that the adjacent land was then in the possession of a Maori, and this dandy was his shepherd. It was many years after this incident that I again met the same man in a Maori pa. Gone were the splendid riding-breeches and gorgeous
A little further down the road, at
Later on in life, I came to know intimately
I accompanied my father and others to hui,