Marama, carsick already at the thought of travelling and a little fearful of what the city might hold. Parents were there for the parting, and as usual some of them echoed what Marama's people said. “Come home with good husbands. We're tired of paying your fares.” Others said, “Get married first before you get babies.” An uncle of Marama guffawed knowingly, “I'll give you two years, Marama, to find a husband.” Her father in haste bid her farewell and the service car pulled out before her uncle could say more. The first year in the city was not so bad after all. Marama went to the university. She took a subject called Anthropology; a study in human relations. Marama was lost in the multitudinous flow of how man was first discovered, of the inevitable descent of man from the ape, and of the different ways of life of different peoples. Now some of the students said that the subject was easy. But Marama understood little of what was said. She remembered only isolated phrases.…. ‘the Maori with lipstick on looks like the pukeko’ …. “Goodness,” thought Marama, “why does he say that? What connection has this with human relations?”.…. and the lecturer's voice droned on.…. “half-way down the page, underline the following statement.…. ‘we have to rely on the arboreal theory.….’ “Oh dear! I cannot follow what he is saying. I'll have to read it up tonight.” And Marama was miserable and longed to go home to the security of the village where thinking was easy. In the city the Maori was being flayed by the Pakeha pen. Marama was soon caught up in the whirlwind of speculation on the meaning of Maoritanga. She forgot her misery for she thought she could contribute to the controversy and enlighten the Pakeha on her rich cultural heritage. But alas! They asked her point-blank, “Can you tell us what Maoritanga is?” And she could not answer what it was. “All my life I have lived in my village; I have eaten and slept on a raupo mat; I have been rubbed in mud to cure my sores; yet I cannot tell these Pakehas what Maoritanga is.” And her misery within her grew strong for her ignorance was greater than she had dreamed and the raupo whispered, “Come home—Come home”. A year went by and there were more Maori students. All were restless in the deep waters of learning and all insecure in a Pakeha world. They banded together for a little laughter and then felt a little better in the cold atmosphere of European learning. One person had high ambition of educating her people. She took her studies seriously and did not waste time. Another was a lad from the back-blocks, breathing the scent of the native fern and was as rich in his cultural heritage as he was poor in the adaptation to a pakeha tradition. All had one thing in common and that was generosity. “I'll lend you a few bob”, says a lucky member and there was no embarrassment at all. Marama fitted in with the pleasant flow of Maori company and the university was a good place after all. The yearning to go home grew less and less and the Maoris at the university increased in number. Some were passing their exams, with flying colours; the majority joined with the fifty per cent of failures. Each one however acquired a little learning—one by accident and another by hard toil. They were all concerned with keeping alive their Maoritanga. It was their strength at the university. Yet, no one could really say what it was. Many of the Pakehas felt that Maoritanga symbolized a picture of Maori characteristics of a century's standing … easy going—good natured—lacking in stability. But most of the Maoris felt that true Maoritanga was reflected in their own language. “If we lose our language we lose our culture.” Perhaps that was the closest answer. But Marama had not made a decision. She had Maori friends in the city who spoke no Maori and yet were as much Maori as she although they differed just a little in that they were far more at home with Pakeha students. And yet, their home was just like any other Maori home. Christmas was near and Marama came home. The service-car was packed with expectant people who were excited about the prospect of spending a holiday at home. As you drew nearer the picture you envisaged of the waiting people proved right. Ah yes! There they were to greet the bus and to do their Christmas shopping. The shop was a great meeting place for the people. They were proud of it. It was a milestone in their history. On its concrete verandah, generous in size, nearly everyone gathered to meet and greet and a few just came to lick ice-cream till they well-nigh busted. The city slickers descended from the bus to the quibs and quirks of Maori humour. “Tena koe! Kia ora! Kei te aha!” There was handshaking, nose-rubbing, and the modern greeting with the Pakeha kiss, and all went hand-in-hand in confusion. “Good-day Heni. What have they been doing to you in the city? You been eating raw meat?” (in allusion to her painted lips). “You shut up!” says Heni, feeling embarrassed. “Kia ora Mate! What's that you are wearing?” Mate teeters out on her pointed high heels, wearing a skirt with slits on either side which reveals enough of her beautiful legs. “Why don't you tear them right up so we can see much better!” suggests one of the local boys. Marama's father was there to greet her. In his slow, ponderous way he put her bags into a waiting taxi. “The boys are all home,” he says, “it is good to have you back. Mum and I could do with a hand in the garden.” Yes, they were all home for the holidays. Her