nine brothers and two sisters filled the house with laughter over much exchange of news. “Your uncle's got a new contract”, says father, “he carts all the kumaras to town. We're selling them now you know. They're worth their weight in gold”. “Old Ben's got a new house,” says her brother. “He got it under the Maori Affairs. Jim and I have just finished building it for him.” The village was to all appearances as Marama had left it. There was the wide flowing river to the right of her home. The same green-brown-grey hill rested behind it, looking as though it were a whale resting its body in the placid flow. At night you could hear the swish swish swish of the corn outside her window. No, the place hadn't changed. Her mother was always growing corn outside her window. During the day people trekked to and from their gardens, weeding, weeding; just like the people of any of the other villages along the coast. Half asleep was her village except on Fridays. That was when her brothers dashed off to the public bar, as all the other men did, to drink away their sweat and to talk with friends. —“You hear everybody's business there,” said the local men. Marama walked down the road to visit her numerous relations. It was the thing to do otherwise you were called a “whakahihi”. She noticed a lot of new houses along the way. Things were certainly looking up. Ah! There were a few changes. Here and there were a few neat lawns. Those of her relations who were a few of the proud owners said: “You know Marama, it was alright living in an old shack. Not so much work to do. But we're glad we've got a nice house with running water. No more going down to the river to wash clothes. It's alright when you're young. But when you start getting babies by the dozen. Not too good. Besides, our children can bring any of their friends home from the city and we're not ashamed of ourselves anymore.” There were other new acquisitions in the village. There was electricity at the hall and a feature film every Friday. People were selling their kumaras to pay for their many commitments. And most of the young people were going to work in the freezing works because there wasn't enough land to hold them. Marama forgot to ask her father for the meaning of Maoritanga. There was no need to ask once you got home. Besides, time was short and soon she would go back to the city. She listened to her father's tales about Maori heroes. She practised with him the tribal hakas. “Listen to the pair of them”, her mother would say, “fancy being interested in those cannibal dances after her good education! That's all she can do when she comes out to weed kumaras with us. All I see is arms waving and little else.” Everyone went to church on Sundays. Marama could not feel that fervent flow of faith any more. She had picked up some nonsensical ideas in the city. She had told her father in one of her preambles that part of her course in Anthropology had been the study of man's origin. “You know dad,” she said, “man is said to be descended from the ape, but they can't find the missing link.” “Stuff and nonsense!” replied father. “Man was made by God and that's that. Don't you come home with these Pakeha ideas. The Pakeha taught us that man was made by God and now he tells us that man descended from a monkey.” Her father was a little afraid of what she was learning. She had some queer tales to tell. He was glad that she was still entranced by their tribal dances. ‘It will keep her sane,’ he thought. But church was still a good place to go to. There were always babies to be christened. The mothers laughed at their numerous progeny. The singing of the hymns was always moving. The people sang lustily and the organ couldn't be heard. There was that old man. He was still part of the congregation. Marama was very fond of him. He sang heartily though out of key. Her brothers said he sang like an old tin can, and that he would never do well in a church choir because he hung on to his notes too long. Her mother excused him. “He thinks he's still singing one of our waiatas. That's why he drags those last notes.” Some of her relations would stand at the back to watch the congregation giving during the collection of money for the church. “Now you watch Hori. He's sure to put only three pence in the plate.” Her father on his way round to take up the collection would glare at the miserable offering, but this would have no effect on the reluctant giver. It was good to be home. It was easy to fit in with the flow of conversation. Besides, Marama's people had a deep respect for a little education. One didn't feel as ignorant as one did in the city. You knew tribal history. You could join in with the hakas. You could enjoy a waiata. The other people home from the city were always restless for lots of entertainment. For Marama and a few others it wasn't as bad. They could always read books. But the trouble was you couldn't find anyone to talk to about some of your ideas, and this made Marama restless. All sorts of ideas went through her head. Some she had picked up during her studies … ‘What did it matter if girls got babies before they were married?’ ‘What did it matter if you didn't go to church on Sundays?’ ‘Why couldn't dad see that the Pakeha wasn't so bad?’ … And the green house where Marama lived faded from sight, and she passed the red and yellow school and the red and yellow hall, and she saw the shop where the people waited. And the restless fingers of the city beckoned. ‘I am growing away from my parents. I am going back to the turbulent flow,’ thought Marama, and she grew very sad.