THE TRUE MAORI STYLE.

Taranaki Daily News, 22 November 1929, Page 5

THE TRUE MAORI STYLE.

PLEASANT. MEMORIES OF OTAKI Otaki races this week. What memories they recall! The first time the Writer tripped down there Charlie Jenkins was in his prime; the star horseman of the successful Porirua stable, and the idol of the white, brown and piebald sports of the district. It was said that the starter always waited fjr Charlie, the story running (in brief): “You ready. ‘Tarlie?’” “Yes.” “Then Go!” And the late Arthur Olliver -was 0, prominent rider then, but somehow Or other he could rot get on with that starter. . One day, when Olliver was particularly anxious to get away well m :i five furlong flutter, he broke, the capes. “Pine you five poun’, Orriver,” shouted the native. “Make it a tenner,” replied Olliver cheekily. “Orrite,” returned the starter, “Fifteen poun’ Orriver!” “Gee!” Said the now subdued Olliver, “111 have to see you at fifteen!” That day the writer was not on business bent and did not possess a complimentary. Bill Arnott was with us, and Bob McManus; and several others. Bill was the greatest expert at.pigeon-Maori that you could meet anywhere, and to him was left the task of getting the Crowd in-r-free. Tearing the back blank! page out of his correct card, Arnott proceeded to write - fictitious names such #9 “Pungarehu Times,”- “Uronui Bi.stor,” “Oeo Chronicle,” etc., and distributed the (Blips to members of the party. ■ Then, approaching the gate-keeper, he began a harangue something like this: VTenakoe, Captain. To wcrra fine day for the races, isn’t it? Te big crowd come fzQ see te Maori race. T’ey come from jail over New Zealand. Aotea Roa, Captain, isn’t it ? Hero- te editor of te Pungarehu newspaper. He come to write jip all te news of te racing” (I was passed in), “and here te editor of te Urenui Buster” (another went through the gate), and so on until all had entered the sacred precincts of the “ten bob” enclosure. Then, with a final flourish, Arnott shook the astonished gatekeepers hand, and (with a knowing shake of the head) he added, “You te goot ferras, you rangitiras; te arikinui, I think it you! Kia Ora!' Good Day!" And things haven’t changed very much at Otaki in all these years. The gate-keeper still greets you as a long lost brother. One, a. couple of years ago, recognised me as a Taranaki-ite, and although nearly a hundred persons were Clamouring for admission through the narrow gato he shook my hand for several minutes, the while inquiring after (the health of one-half of the residents Of New Plymouth, Opunake, Urenui and ft dozen other places. However, the genial Bill Russell had a rough one put over him just two yeai-s ago and one that he is not likely to forget. Bill was judging there that day, but on arrival at the gate ho could not unearth his ticket from anywhere. The writer arrived five minutes later hnd a queue of nearly 500 passengers from the Wellington race “special” clamouring for admission prompted investigation.

Bill Russell, looking hot and gesticulating wildly at the head of the' queue, caused me to push through the impatient crowd and look into matters. My assurance was of no avail because my old friend was not on the gate, but I proffered my “Press pass’’ and jogged along to the secretary's oflice. Secretary Wiaiata was profuse in his apologies' and camo back with mo bringing a pass,

while the gatekeeper stepped back and added a further string of apologies. Mr. •Russell quickly appreciated the humorous side of the situation and all passed off smoothly. One used to wonder how many Maoris were employed at Otaki meetings. Just take the Press room. A race is about to begin. Up comes a native lad, face shining, white collared, and bursting with importance. He has a slip of paper in his hand and proceeds briskly to read: “There are seven starters in the Something-in-Vowels Handicap. They are, etc.” He bows and departs. Hot on his heels (on the upward track) comes another lad, only younger and fatter. He also has his paper and rattles off, “The scratchings in the Something-in-Vowels Handicap are, etc.” Then another arrives, even younger and fatter than the last: “The riders in the Some-thing-in-Vowels Handicap are, etc.” But that is not the finish. A wee toddler, resembling a five gallon keg, and perspiring loudly, races in with the information that “So-and-So has 31b overweight, Such-and-such 51b; and Thingimy 51b allowance.” The Press take it all quite seriously, and thanks each youngster ceremoniously. Some of the “information” is correct, and some isn’t. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The Press, had acquired all the details half an hour previously from the secretary I But Otaki did not hold the sole rights for the comic elements in years gone by. ' Karioi ran a similar meeting, and the only items on" the bill of fare were “Goose and Pig.” Remonstrated with on this account, the head serang promised a change “next year,” and, marvellous to relate, the change did eventuate. But- it was not a success. An elderly Pressman with many years experience on a “toney” Home paper accompanied the writer* to the luncheon room. There, surrounded by about a hundred natives, stood a rusty milk dish on a bare table. The dish contained some stew, chops and pieces of beef floating in the gravy. My esteemed confrere took one look and began to retch. I “reached” for my hat, and the pair, of us collided in getting out of the doorway!

And the serious manner in which the Maori goes about his racing is another feature of these gatherings. A slashing big black horse is led into the birdcage by a diminutive stable lad. The Maori owner, fat and important, follows stately. The horse is led carefully round and round, the owner following him with his eyes as if the “weed” was another Phar Lap. The horse stands and gazes over the fence at the crowd. A spectator' reaches over and strokes the horse’s nose soothingly. With a howl of rage the owner dashes over and snatches the bridle from the astonished attendant’s hands. “What's wrong?” whimpers the lad. “Wrong?” shouts the owner, “didn’t you see t’at ferra stroke it te nose? Werra, don't you let it do it again. Might be lie have something in te hand!” And with visions of “dope” the large Maori glares at tho man who had the temerity to touch his “Carbine,” and with a parting “Berra look out!" leads the horse round himself, Maori brass bands were once a feature of these meetings, but like most things which Brown Brother takes up, the started with a fortissimo slap bang, and ended in a dull, flat thud. Flash uniforms and silvery instruments were necessary adjuncts, and things went well for a time. Then somebody backed a winner; the day possibly was hot; defaulters slid off to tho bar, and some stayed there; the rank? became thinner and thinner; and Jong before the last race the once glorious full brass “combination of in-

strumentalists” had dwindled to a solo, a very serious looking native (alone in his glory, with hat askew and cornet “waterlogged”) doing his best to tripletongue “Tho Death of Nelson,” with only moderate success. For impromptu variations he could give the average circus footer six lengths and a hollow beating! . Still, ono likes the Maori and his quaint little course. The carved Maori figures seen everywhere, and particularly those which serve as posts where the birdcage leads to tho racing track, are very- striking, if not beautiful, and always attract tho writer’s attention,