MAORI HOSPITALITY.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 72, 27 March 1937, Page 8

MAORI HOSPITALITY.

LESSON IN GOOD TASTE. (By F.C.J.) The little group of Maoris who lived in the two whares in the back o' beyond had nothing much to offer in the way of hospitality; but they gave all they had. The whares themselves were scarcely more than rough boards, containing three rooms. The furniture was conspicuous bv its absence, unless you would call several forms and an odd box furniture. For floor covering they had the old-time flax mats, and very serviceable, too. Food? Well, it was wholesome, a term which covers a multitude of deficiencies.

And this was how it all happened. We had gone from Auckland into the "NcvcrNever," the bush between National Park and Lake Taupo, to a spot under the shoulder of a great bush-heavy spur, where, under the direction of Te Puea Herangi, of Ngaruawaliia, a great Maori canoe is being made. But few people go there for interest. The only way a car can get to it is via a road made by a milling concern which has secured the timber rights"of an area, called the Hauwai Bush. How We Met Our Host. This story telle of the succour given us by the Maoris who happened to live near where the canoe was being made. All the afternoon we had been travelling, following the somewhat vague directions given about 40 miles away, near National Park station, and as the afternoen shadows threw the totaraclad spurs into still deeper shade, we began to wonder exactly where we were. The thousands of acres of bush seemed a little overpowering at close quarters when we were looking for so inconspicuous a spot in it all. Just when we were beginning to think of halting and lighting our pipes to go into committee and talk it over, we saw a little weather-beaten house in the middle of a cultivation of potatoes. There was smoke coming out of the corrugated iron chimney, built outside. And then we saw the Maori girl, doing some washing outside. "Heard anything about a Maori canoe?" we called, more in resignation than hope, though we made a lusty chorus. "Canoe ?" came back the answer. "Oh, that's miles back in the bush, a long way from here." "H'm," we said to ourselves, and suddenly noticed that the late afternoon was chill. "But," added this artless dramatist, keeping the news to the last, "the men who made it are inside here." What would you T We were over the fence and through the potatoes and up the slope in a body. We had letters for these men. We had food for them. We were ambassadors. Besides, we were definitely relieved. Our Welcome Began. Tlicn and there our welcome began. We were received with open arms, not only l>y the two old men who were making the canoe —we might have expected that—but by the man who was master of that humble little home. He took us right in to the plain little living room; and he sat us down on the one stool and the box in the corner by the big open fire. He asked us nothing. We talked and learned the main plan of what we had come to find. We produced the food we had brought for the old men, and the letters, and then asked where precisely the canoe was. We were in the middle of being told, and in the middle of thinking that it would be a bit awkward getting there in the dark and that anyway it would be devilish cold, because this coiintrv is high, when our host asked us if we were readv for kai.

Just like that. No formal invitation; 110 liurry-scurry on the part of the womenfolk about food or cutlery or table china. It was just the accepted thing, so we simply accepted without elaborate thanks. We were called to eat. We did—but not all together. Just we three, and one of the old canoe makers.' You see, it is custom that the guests eat first and eat fully, and the rest have what is left. To refuse, or even to comment, would have been bad taste. They did not have enough knives and fork* or plates or for the tea. No one made any excuses or explanation. We ate with our fingers, and were glad to do so. Story of Onr Beds. Bedtime came. We made a move to shift —we did not know where, but we had to move somewhere and sometime. "Bed?" said our host. "You are to sleep in another house down the road, not here." The thing was settled. We did not argue. We simply took our gear and followed. But first we drank more tea. So down the road we went, with the country falling far down to the lake on the one hand, and the bush, dark and silent, close crowding on the other. We found that our next hosts had turned themselves out of their best bed for us. The bed was a surprise, too, we might as well admit. It was a double bed. oak, and finished with a handsome bedspread and pillow-shams. These we removed lest onr unshaven and unbathed condition might damage them, and we turned in. We left those Maoris impressed with their humble pride —a paradox, but true. We wondered how many city folk with a dwelling as lowly would have treated litter strangers so. This was the treatment we received at another Maori stranger's house on the way back, too, so apparently it was not an isolated case. We decided we nad been taught something of a lesson in dignity, breeding and good taste.