FINDING NEW ZEALAND.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIII, Issue 19417, 27 August 1926, Page 13

FINDING NEW ZEALAND.

AN AUSTRALIAN'S VISIT. EXPLORING OHINEMUTU. INTRODUCTION TO THE MAORIS,' BY ETHEL TURNER. No. V. Hero I was in Maoriland, but where was the Maori ? When Captain Cook paid his important little visits in 1769 and thereabouts, it is estimated that, tho brown men numbered some 160,000. Their own warm little brotherly wars, together with the fights with the Englisti about 1860, reduced this number bv 1911 to fewer epidemics have brought the number forward again of lato years, and the census of May, 1926. gives tho figures as 62,787. Our own fast-dying, race numbers some 60,000, of which New South Wales has about 1500, and Victoria a hundred, while the Northern Territory, Queensland, and West Australia absorb the rest. It" is about the. north of tho North Island the Maoris to-day mostly live. I walked out to my first- native village, Ohinemutu, the day after I arrived in Rotorua. I went alone for I wanted to see my natives at an independent angle, a thing impossible if one makes one cf a largo party. A Japanese Print Scene. The little village spreads itself along a shore of tho lake that in tho cold afternoon light and later on,, nearer to sunset, had the air of a low-toned Japanese print, A few boats, troutfishing, broke the surface of the grey, blue water; an island, Mokoia, grev-green, rose to a point some 1500 ft. high in the middle. Two churches, red roofed, the meeting house and some whares mado a smudge of bright colour in the immediate foreground. Along the grey sandy lakeedge blew little wisps of steam. About the clayey land on which I was walking hero and there rose up the wisps and spirals; I began to look _ about for <J guide—l had been warned to beware of wisps of steam. The place was very still, the season being almost over. Over there beside their cooking pots, which were in holi pools or steam spots covered with bags, crouched or stood a few Maori women. In the doorways of native huts and small rough European - cottages others leaned or sat upon the steps. Men in old trousers and tattered shirts stood about smoking. Some children, blithely clothed in very little of anything, were playing cat's cradle with a piece of string. Not Picturesque. Long used to comic opera, one vaguely expected the race in their own to be picturesque; were they not reputedly artistic by temperament? But no! TIIO women wore their skirts—any old skirts —hanging draggled about their ankles. Any old blouse or jacket, any old hat or none at all, completed their cosiume, One of the dancing girls who had como to the hotel the night before, to book for a poi dance and concert, had come in a wonderful feather cloak made by plaiting the soft downy feathers of tho kiwi into woven flax; one would have been quite grateful had the women dressed to the part here too, and stirred at their pots in friiiged flax skirts, and fastened their babies on their backs with shawls ornamented with their own dpsigns. But no; the ladies I mot in Ohinemutu mostly clutched their babies to their backs in shawls of Scotch plaid, mill-woven in some crowded industrial centre of England. Outside the Meeting House. I went up to tho edge of the meeting house., walk in it gingerly now, for thcro were little puffs of steam all about. The meeting house door was shut, but on the bare cement floor of tho, wide verandah in front of it was sitting a motley assembly of Maoris—a few bid men—fin? old nien with hawklike noses and eyes; a few old women, unfathomahly old; a few indolent-eyed girls with black hailloose about their shoulders and sometimes a baby in their arms or on their backs; a few little boys and a few little girls playing mysterious games with stones. ■ " ■ ■ One and all wore seated on tho croy cement floor, a chilly, comfortless place it seemed to me this rather biting autumn afternoon. Even the wonderfully carved walls and posts behind and around them could not, I felt sure, compensate for the position they had taken up. Hinemoa and Tatanelsai. CA Maori -woman agreed to act as guide and presently revealed that her chief interests were .psychology and telepathy, that she was a successful faith-healer, and that she was often summoned by tho Minister of ' Education to advise him on questions about her race. However, she was persuaded to relate tho legend of Hinemoa and Tutanekai.] < "Over there," she waved at tho little isle of Mokoia out in the middle of tho grey, blue waters, "lived a young chiefoil, a- fine, handsome young chief Tutanekai was. Over there," she waved at one of the grey beaches of Rotorua, "lived Hinemoa, the most beautiful of maidens. And, they loved one another, as always will love beautiful young maidens and tho handsome young chiefs. But Hinemoa's father was a greater chief by far than Tutanekai and would not have them wed. Oh, the sadness—oh, the running tears: never must they meet, this was tho stern command. Tutanekai would sit high oil tho rocks of his island and breaths into his flute all his lovo and his longing. And Hinemoa on her shore would lift her face and listen as. the sad notes came to her across the water. , "At last, no longer can she bear it. At last she runs to tho water's edge, plunges into the icy waters and swims and Swims and swims. It is dark, but she has for guide the note of-the flute. It is a long; way—look, you can see for yourself—but she has her love to revive her. She is at the island, she stumbles ashore. Ah, she sees a warm spring bubbling up, a warm pool all ready to refresh her. She steps into it. But how can she let Tutanekai know she is there ? One of his slaves comes down to the pool' to fill a cftlabash with the warm water. She asks for the calabash, saying she needs a drink, then drops it and breaks it on the rock. Tho slave climbs back to his chief for another calabash. Again Hinemoa asks for a drink and again breaks it on a rock. A third time and even a fourth the same thing happens and then comes Tutanekai striding wrathfully down from the top of the island to find out for himself who is the wretch who is breaking all his calabashes. , .„ "Darkness is on the warm, silky waters. Hinemoa is hiding now behind a rock. Tutanekai gropes about, touches a wet, little hand—it is her hand. Oh joy, oh happiness, here is Hinemoa. He flings over her his chief's cloak, he climbs with her, her hand in his hand, up, up to his home—she becomes his wife." Tlie Old, Old Story. Yes, yes—the same old story. I have- led her' home, my love, my on'.y friend, There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blood. And sweetly, on and on. There is none like her, none. A delicate and truly poetic tale; all the poets of New Zealand sing it,'altering the tune and time a little here and there, hut I liked hearing it from rny Maori friend as we sat together looking over the lake where Mokoia'? shadow was beginning to grow more and still more black. , ... We walked back to the mcpting house together, without further delay, for tho air came stealing from the !ak6 chillier with every mhiute. It positively upset mo to see all those senseless Maoris still squatting on that cheerless cement floor of the verandah, old men, old, old women, indolent girls, barely-clad tiny children^ For a race as intelligent as these it surprised rne to see such a lack of common Se '"Hbw cold they must be," I said, anfl nulled mv fur collar up. "that baby and your old aunt—aren't you afraid they will catch cold?" "Ha. ha!" laughed my guide, ha, ha, ha! Of course under that floor is a hot pool." nj