A Different Kind of Man

Te Ao Hou, June 1964, Page 6

A Different Kind of Man by Riki Erihi This was to be the great day. For three weeks now, everyone in the little district, all of them kinsfolk, either by marriage or by birth, had been discussing this big event. Never in all their lives had anything quite so scandalous happened. Well, not quite; the last time being when the local visiting clergyman had been found in bed with Hemi Heiwari's youngest daughter Ruihi, who was now the proud mother of a blue-eyed baby daughter. Oh yes, they had got over that one quick enough. That scheming old Hemi had betrothed her to his brother-in-law's son Rangi. Now Rangi, being a bit simple-minded and a full-blooded Maori at that, could never get over how kind the gods had been in blessing this betrothal with such a beautiful fair-skinned child, his pride and joy. When his wife Ruihi deceitfully told him that their third child, who was born fair also, was an act of God, he said his prayers religiously. But many were the times he spent wishing that the good Lord above would let all his children be the same colour, for their second child was dark and brown like the bark of the rimu tree. It certainly wouldn't do to have a baby like that piebald mare of old Hawea's. Rangiheke was a pleasant valley, surrounded and sheltered by bush-clad mountains. In the summertime the green patches were highlighted by the millions of snowy white flowers of the climbing clematis. From the hills there flowed a wide river, which glided its way through the lush fields until it mingled some miles away with the moody waters of Te Moana Nui a Kiwa. Sometimes at night one could hear the call of the sea as it pounded on the rocky shores. Especially on a clear night, we always knew what the weather would be like. When the noise sounded like distant drums, you could be more than certain that tomorrow's dawning would be golden and bright. It was predominantly a Maori district, the only Pakehas being the two school teachers and Mr Long. Mr Long was a prosperous farmer and also the local forest ranger. It was often said that the holes in his old peaked army hat didn't only come from the teeth of his little mongrel puppy. Funny thing though, we always classed him as a Pakeha, yet he was related to many of us. His Maori blood had been bedded away by marrying back into that race, so that his brown ancestry showed only in his nose and protruding lips — not forget-

ting his cunning ways and love of aromatic pork from our huis and tangis. However, to get back to the tale of those great days, I must relate the circumstances that led to it. I remember it well, as it was the week of my fifteenth birthday. Hemi Heiwari was my uncle. My mother Maria, his youngest sister, had married the local postmaster. As we were now living in Auckland, to please my tupunas my mother always sent me to spend my school holidays with her people. My sisters and brothers were loved by my mother's family, yet they never forgave her for marrying Father, who was a Pakeha. It used to take a whole day and most of the night to get to Rangiheke; in those days we didn't have the good highways of today. They were mostly unmetalled and plain mud. Well, a couple of years after the Second World War, or maybe a little later, there came to my uncle's district a minister of God who didn't wear a stiff white collar but dressed like any other man, except of course that he always wore a black tie and a spotlessly white shirt. He was a slightly built fair-haired person, who used to speak like the announcers from the BBC when they told us the war news. Ruihi used to say that he was very cultured. His eyes were deep and like the colour of the sky on a fine day. Travelling with him was Huia, one of our many cousins, who spoke to us all in Maori, telling my mother's people how good and kind this man was. ‘Ai! he had better be different’, said my old grandfather slyly as he smoked his ancient pipe. There was laughter from his old kaumatua friends, who had all gathered at Uncle Hemi's home. ‘Why isn't he like the others?’ queried old Whetumarama. ‘I certainly hope he isn't like the school teacher we had before.’ She scratched her long grey unplaited hair, adding as an afterthought, ‘You know, the one the police took away, for using …’ ‘Heoi ano te korero pena’, shouted her eldest daughter, who had gone to Queen Victoria in Auckland, and was classed as very educated by the people of the district. ‘Yes, yes, all these Pakehas are very different’, said Whetumarama rather quietly, sorry that her daughter had interrupted her choice piece of gossip. ‘That's what one gets for going without things to educate one's children. As soon as they get a bit of the Pakeha's matauranga they become very cheeky. Why, if I had said that to my mother, I would have been whipped till my body was black and blue.’ She muttered to herself. Then loudly, ‘Ai, all these Pakehas are surely different’, while her hands scratched all the more. ‘Aue e tama ma, you must listen to me’, cried cousin Huia in desperation. Huia, I secretly thought, was already fancying herself as a prophetess and saviour of our tribe. The cause of it all, Pastor Elliot, calmly sat reading his Bible. He looked to me like the holy picture of God that a Catholic priest had given Rangi, who had hung it in his fly-spotted kitchen. ‘Yes, do you know why this minister is different?’ The speaker paused. ‘I'll tell you why. His church keeps the seventh day as the Sabbath Day.’ ‘Ho, ho, but you foolish woman do you think we are all heathens. Of course we all keep ourselves holy on Sunday the Sabbath,’ spoke up Wikitoria, Whetumarama's educated daughter. ‘Yes, but if you look in the Bible, you will find that the Good Book says that we must keep the seventh day, which is the Lord's day.’ ‘Well now, what's different about that?’ cried Whetumarama, jumping up. ‘Ah, here is a calendar, will you count the days please James’, said Huia, looking straight at me. ‘Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.’ ‘No! No! Sunday is the first day of the week, look can't you see, so you must start from it.’ ‘Well, strange it may be but it's true,’ spoke Ruihi quietly for the first time. Now that she had showed them something, and was sure of her ground now, Huia became bolder. ‘And not only that, but they don't believe in eating pork, shellfish, or fish without scales, and they don't drink tea or partake of any liquor or alcohol whatsoever.’ ‘Aue! He aha te tangata nei’, sharply cried Hinewai, her fingers caressing her moko. ‘Whoever heard of such rubbish! Why, I've given birth to sixteen children and reared them all on such food. Yes, yes, and have they not given me a bunch of happy mokopunas? Many is the time your parents and I have sat beside the hangi savouring the white meat and the crisp crackle skin of some slaughtered poaka.’ ‘Perhaps this Minister has a special kind of meat that he gives her’, maliciously cried a young girl not much older than I. ‘Ha ha! Ho, ho!’ laughed the others. ‘Perhaps so.’ ‘Turi turi e hoa ma!’ shouted my uncle for silence. ‘I have decided that I will study these things with Pastor Elliot, for if his way of teaching can change the wayward life of our

cousin here, then, my people, he has done good. He informs me that she has given up living in sin. But also I say, let us see, let us wait and see. My wife and I have asked him, this man of God, to be our guest for as long as he likes. Then he can explain these things to us.’ No one said a word. Through this all, Huia sat with head bowed and downcast eyes, whether in modesty or guilt I did not know. ‘Of course, we will have to sell our pigs at the sale on Wednesday, I suppose, now that you have decided that.’ This was from Grandfather who all this time had said not a word. Now I could see he was angry and standing up he began pacing backwards and forwards, while his carved tokotoko twisted and whirled in the air as if he were fighting off some invisible spirit. Slowly he walked over to where Huia and the minister sat. ‘My people, e te whanau ma, it is indeed hard for us to understand this new talk about religion and other things this man of God tells us.’ Here he paused to wipe his brow with a large coloured hankie. ‘It is not that I doubt the wisdom of the Paipera Tapu (Holy Bible). But have not our people from time immemorable, deep back into the misty past of Kupe and faraway Hawaiki, relished such delicacies as pipi, kutai, paua, kina, tuna, and the other treasures that the Ariki of Te Moana Nui a Kiwa provides to nourish the children of Tangaroa? Aue, I cannot believe it is sin to feast on pork, for truly it is one of mankind's sweetest meats. I will never change my religion or my church, but I will wait and let my son explain these things as he has said.’ What happened during the conversation between Uncle Hemi and Pastor Elliot must certainly have been startling, for his letters to us in Auckland became more brotherly and loving towards my mother. They were more frequent, and more flowery in poetic praise of the Bible and its teachings. Mother began to worry about him, ‘I hope he doesn't take too much to this new religion.’ ‘I'm afraid he'll end up at the mental hospital as a religious crank,’ said Father. ‘That will be enough about my family thank you. Some of yours’ could do with some religious teachings,’ Mother said. ‘Ha, ha!’ gaily chuckled Dad, ‘Perhaps that Pastor chap will find them something else to do with their corn instead of turning it into that muck they call rotten corn.’ The Christmas holidays couldn't come quick enough for me, and as I left Auckland for Rangiheke in the old service car I was filled with all sorts of ideas. Once there I was soon to find out. I noticed the difference in our meals. There was ground wheat for breakfast and plenty of brown sugar and honey at each meal. Cheese, stewed fruit and brown bread were in abundance. No more shell fish or pork was eaten in Uncle's presence. Wonder of wonders, he had even given up smoking also. Once when I came back to the house unexpectedly, I smelt the smell of burning rubber, and going into the kitchen I found my cousin. Rata throwing pieces of rubber tubing into the stove. But I more than suspected it was her way of ridding the kitchen of the smell of the bacon which she had been frying while everyone was out, for I had seen the chooks fighting over something which I was sure was the thick rind of bacon. Where once Uncle was the life and soul of the parties he now no longer went to parties on Saturday nights, nor even drank spirits during the week. Now, this was all evilness. He was forever quoting Biblical texts. A favourite one, repeated so many times that I even had nightmares about it was, ‘The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.’ Pastor Elliott was now a regular visitor, bringing wise and learned people with him on each visit. They introduced new ideas and plants into some of the families' vegetable crops. Straggly overgrown orchards were pruned, and fruit was preserved with honey. Pastor Elliot was now a respected personage. When it became known that he could heal as well as lecture, people turned Uncle's home into an out-patients' clinic. We later found out that he was a qualified chemist, who had turned his back on riches to become a missionary for his faith. Most of the local Maoris treated him with respect and there were few of the sly digs that he had once received. A few still talked about his new converts and often called them carrot-eaters, as they had been told to drink as much carrot juice as possible. But they soon stopped this when the district nurse pointed out that the children of these carrot-eaters never suffered from hakihaki. Bella was an attractive young widow, with a family of four, whose husband had met a tragic death. Tall and beautiful, she was the main dish of many a scandalous recipe. Many of the stories were no doubt true, but what can one do when one is young and has tasted the fruits of a happy marriage. Though she never lacked ardent callers, none would care to take on such a handicap of mass-produced children. Often the thought of her widow's pension and her family allowance was more

than tempting to some of the handsome but lazy young men. But good as this was, the poor young widow had one handicap that so far she had been unable to overcome. You see, she was an epileptic. The tohungas had come from far and near but still no cure had they found. One day Uncle Hemi had told her about Pastor Elliot's treatment of a sick child. She had begged and pleaded with him to speak about her illness to the good man. After making Bella promise to attend some Bible studies, he agreed to speak to him. Uncle Hemi was more than pleased at the way things were going. The thought that Bella might become a new convert made him ever so happy, for Bella possessed an excellent sporano voice and at one time she had helped to teach Sunday School. After Pastor Elliot had examined her soundly, he gave her some new tables which he had recently secured from Australia. These she used with great success. However, after a time she missed a few Bible meetings and from what we heard she was slipping back into her old ways once more. My, but wasn't Uncle Hemi up in the air about this. He declared that he would tell Bella in no uncertain manner about her wanton ways, and spent a whole morning looking up texts in the old family Bible that would more than make her shake in her shoes, or gumboots, or whatever she happened to be wearing at the time. The next Sunday after this dawned bright and clear. The sun lazed its way into the blue, cloud-quilted sky. For the first time, Pastor Elliot's new converts had decided to make use of the white-washed church which my ancestors had lovingly built as their temple to Christianity. The cemetery, with its marble and elaborately carved wooden tombstones and its quaint poetically worded epitaphs, bore testimony to the faith of every family in Rangiheke. Standing on a small hill overlooking the valley, it was surrounded by flowering shrubs that bloomed the year round. In the spring-time the whole cemetery was a beautiful floral carpet of millions of freezias of every colour imaginable. The air at night and in the early morning was heavy with their fragrant scent. Right at the far end was the old part, with graves of the unfortunate victims of the Spanish flu that swept the world after the 1914–1918 war. Outside the vestry door grew a very tall stately cabbage tree and from its lower branches hung a rope to which was tied a bell. Sometimes at night, if the rope had not been securely knotted, the wind would play tag with the long rope. Then into the night would ring the tolling of the bell, bringing fear into the hearts of the young ones and sorrow to the old. It was a ‘tohu’ or a sign that something bad would happen and all would be silent. This whare karakia was so situated that the first sleepy rays of the early sun warmed the resting-place of the tangata mate, and at eventide the fading sunlight caressed the millions of plants that wove themselves into this picturesque scene. Now towards this place of worship we made our way at about 10.30 a.m. There was Bella, her head covered in a gay scarf, and her four children, spick and span in their Sunday best. Trudging slowly behind was her father, whom she had managed to bribe into coming. There were Uncle Hemi, his wife, their daughter Rata, their youngest son Hoani, who was my age, and Rangi the sometimes simple one, whom I suspected of just doing this so that he could draw a social security pension. There were also Ruihi and the three youngsters, Whetumarama and six of her mokopunas. Altogether there were four adults accompanied by their families, Pastor Elliot, and two Pakeha church brethren with their wives from town. As we neared the church house, I had a funny feeling of danger if I could term it that. I thought of how the rest of the kids around would tease me when I went to the store tomorrow. They would laugh at me for going to church, instead of fishing for her-rings like they did on Sundays—well that was what they were expected to do, but I knew the fishing was an excuse to get away from their elders and smoke and kiss the young girls amongst the clumps of wiwi and raupo bushes. Looking ahead I saw Uncle Hemi carrying his old black Bible, that belonged to my great-great-grandparents. That gave me courage. Surely this must have been how the Children of Israel felt as they marched out of Egypt. I got the feeling of pride that the older people had, or seemed to have by the way they talked. ‘Why, it's so long since this church has been in use, it's a damn mockery to the good Lord.’ ‘I feel just like a missionary in the wilds of Africa,’ said the widow Bella. ‘Yes, yes’, spoke up Aunty, with a look I'm sure she hoped was pious, ‘when these bells ring they will sound all over the valley.’ At the church gate there stood a group of old people dressed in long coloured robes like the ones the priests wear. I glanced around,

thinking Uncle had more converts, but at a second look, I grew uneasy. One of them, an old kuia whom I knew by name, barred the way into the churchyard. ‘E noho koutou ki kona, you cannot defile our church. What kind of God is this who doesn't like people to eat kai moana or pork. And he aha te kino o te waipiro. As for that man (she pointed an old long wrinkled finger at Pastor Elliot), you are a bad lot of people, he and his people are after our lands, just like the Komihana (Maori Affairs)!’ ‘E tika ana ae, e tika ana’, chorused the other robed people. ‘Ae e rongo ana koutou’. ‘So be off, you hear me, be off. Do not insult the memory of our tupunas.’ Her energy spent with all this outburst, the old kuia clasped her hands around the gate latch. Uncle was amazed. Although he had had an idea that trouble was brewing, he certainly hadn't expected it in this manner, nor at this time. Everyone started shouting at once, screaming and hurling abuse. This was too much for Pastor Elliot. ‘Peace, let us have peace, brothers and sisters, let us not forget we are at the threshold of the Lord's House.’ In the silence that followed everyone looked uneasy. Uncle, taking advantage of this, spoke up. ‘Na wai, na wai—who was it, yes, who was it who cut and hauled the logs from the bush? Who pit-sawed them, and who was it that was responsible for building this, this church.’ Oh, how proud I felt of my uncle, standing magnificently there. Mentally I pictured him as a proud warrior of old, standing before a neighbouring war party. ‘I'll tell you, you people have very short memories. My grandfather, yes, that's who did all this work. And what about the carvers that came from Rotorua, yes, all the way from Arawa, to carve the altar and communial rails? Waata Heiwari paid it all from his own pocket and fed them all the time it took. Now let us through. There will be real trouble if you don't.’ The old kuia meekly moved aside. Uncle bade us enter, and we silently filed into the church. The widow Bella's father consented to ring the bell. Its ringing pealed out into the valley, echoing around the bush-clad hills. It rang sadly I thought, yet at least it was bringing the news of the service to all. ‘What a friend we have in Jesus’, we sang to commence our service. It was a wonderful sermon and the way Pastor and the other Pakeha brethren prayed, it made everything so simple and clear. He told us that we knew that his church kept the seventh day as their Sabbath. Did not the Bible and the commandments say such. ‘You all know that this day is what the world calls Saturday; if we want to be children of God, we must keep this day as he has seen fit. That, my brothers and sisters, is up to you. You must decide.’ (Why, what will happen now? No more movies, or dances at the marae—I won't be allowed to play in the tennis matches on Saturdays.) A few seconds' pause while he fiddled with his books. ‘The decision must come from you, and you alone.’ Then he spoke of loving one's neighbours — ‘Spiritually of course’, whispered Rata, loud enough for the widow Bella to hear. It was a

wonderful sermon and we all stood up to close the meeting with a hymn. It was sung in Maori. ‘Come to the Saviour.’ Hauntingly sweet, all voices blended as one as we came to the chorus, ‘Nei te hari, tino hari nui. Joyful joyful will the meeting be.’ I sneaked a look at the older people. It seemed to me as if they could already glimpse the Promised Land. Just then there was a loud explosion, Bang! Glass fell and splintered everywhere. There was a hushed ghostly silence. Someone had fired a shot at the windows. Bang! went the gun again, crash went another window. Then hell broke loose, the children screamed and cried in fright. ‘Lie down everyone, remember God is with us’, said the calm voice of Pastor. ‘It's that silly old kuia, and she has a gun’, called Rangi as he peeped out of one of the broken window panes. We could hear her screaming wildly. I could make out some of the words, and they weren't very nice, mostly about Pakeha ministers. Now and then I heard her mention Bella's name, which was followed by a word I had not heard before. ‘Taua wahine puremu.’ Amidst all this came a clear pure soprano voice, carrying on the remainder of the unfinished hymn. It was Bella, her youngest child clinging to her skirts. She had assumed a virginal beauty about her, as she stood singing to the tinkling of falling glass. ‘Lie down please sister’, pleaded Aunty. ‘This is no time for heroics.’ During all this noise Uncle rushed out. Once more there was a loud bang, and all shuddered in fright. There was a loud crash and the old bell toppled from the cabbage tree. ‘Aue, ko nga mahi a Hatana, ko Hatana—its the work of Satan, Satan!’ I heard a cry of pain and peeping out I saw Uncle struggling with the old kuia in her robes and veil. He wrenched the rifle out of her hands and smashed the butt on a nearby rock. Crying and performing, she was led away by some of the women. My, there was a big meeting at the marae that night. People came from miles away. Of course, by the time they got the news the story was that the old lady had shot six people. Even the newspapers sent reporters to get news and a good story. After Uncle had threatened to pull down the church and rebuild a new one on his own property, the other people agreed to let any religious group use the church. That happened a few years back now, and only the old folk speak of it, in hushed voices. The flock has spread far and wide, while the good Pastor has returned to his own country to be replaced by another. Uncle Hemi, old and grey but young in faith, is still a staunch pillar of the Church. He still seems to have more energy than his own children. Perhaps it's the vegetarian diet, I don't know. Ruihi's little golden-haired daughter is at university. Her husband Rangi is ill in a mental hospital, suffering from a religious mania. Oh, the new religion was certainly good for the widow, Bella. For on a church tour of Australia she met a fellow Pakeha member from New Zealand. Now they live in a large brick home in Auckland, her former way of living cloaked in respectability. No more does she have the need for pills. Me, I'm like the Biblical text, ‘All we like sheep have gone astray’. You see I strayed one time too many, right into the arms of the Law. I'm in jail. ? The annual reunion of the Hokowhitu-a-Tu association (the organisation of Maori veterans of the First World War) was held this year at Manukorihi Pa, Waitara. This is the first time that the reunion has been held in Taranaki. ? Since last October the Maori Education Foundation has received more than 1,200 applications for financial assistance. Of these applicants, 443 have benefited from the Foundation. The awards made have cost £45,000. Most of this money has gone toward paying the boarding fees of secondary school pupils, but many university students have also received help. ? The New Zealand Maori Council wants a full inquiry into Maori land. In a recent newsletter, the council says that there is a crying need for more facts about Maori land and that apparently no-one knows just how much of the country is still owned by Maoris, much less how much is unproductive. It says that a study of Northland made a few years ago by a university graduate showed that in the area surveyed, there was just as much Pakeha and Crown land lying idle as there was Maori land. The newsletter says that there has been too much patching up of the law dealing with land titles and too many temporary remedies.