East Coast Christmas

New Zealand Listener, Volume 26, Issue 654, 18 January 1952, Page 8

East Coast Christmas

be

PIC

Pouri bus arrives on the marae. It is an old bus, its colour invisible under dust. The engine stops and it sinks into the evening quiet.It’s cool down here on the flat. A light wind sounds softly in the macrocarpas round the church on the other side of the road. There is no sun, only a pale wash of rose on Mount Hikurangi and on -the tops of the eastern hills, just enough to make it look-warnfer outside the bis than it teally is. Women and children pile out. The children run abbut the marae, shouting thinly. They scramble on to the hall porch, or hang, creaking on the wire, over the fence that separates them from the school grounds. The women go into the hall, Some of them shiver in satin blouses, or in thin over-stuffed frocks. The older ones-a few have moko on their chins-are warm under blankets.. They make loud comments on the clothing of the others, and laugh shrilly at the stilt-heeled shoes the younger women wear strapped on their bare feet. "Aee, you fall down soon!" one of them screeches as a girl slips on the hall floor. The girl sniffs an answer, regaining her balance and her dignity, and minces into the kitchen with one hand onthe plastic slides in her. hair. There, with her friends, she bursts into a fit of giggling. HE copper is lit, bread and cake sliced and piled on plates. Talk is incessant, mainly about men and food, in Maori with occasional mutated English words or phrases. "Ka kite koe e a Tami e purei football ana i te hatarei nei," says a young woman in an outlaw blouse, boastfully A o’clock the first Ngati-

But nobody cares about Tommy and last Saturday’s play. A bottle of Christmas port is being handed round. They drink it without glasses or cups, making faces. The taste is not very good. The talk becomes louder, By the time the second bus arrives the copper is boiling, and the floor has been polished by the feet and clothing of the children. Two Tilley lamps hang hissing under the roof, filling the hall with hot air and the smell of kerosene The men are well primed with beer, and they come in arrogantly. Although they sang or squabbled in groups in the bus as it wrenched and jostled them over the potholes, here, in front of the women, they find themselves united. Yet, at the same time, they are not quite sure what they should do. The younger women, hearing the bus, have crowded out of the kitchen through the small door behind the piano. As the men come in they flow, like mercury in a tilted box, into a corner. For a moment the two groups face each other self-consciously. The women titter and watch the men out of the corners of their eyes. The men jostle each other, the bottles in their shirts clinking, and whisper private jokes. Then an old woman in a black coat and gumboots, with a white satin scarf over her head, calls, Aue’ You feller goin’ a stand there all night? How about givin’ us some music." For a second everyone is still, white eyeballs and brown faces tinged bluereen by the light from the lamps. louses and frocks, coats and pineapple shirts are drained of their colour, Even the children are quiet, standing, holding the benches along the walls, their eyes moving from one group to another.

There is a movement among the men. Three of them, in Hawaiian shirts and paper leis, cross the floor to the piano. Two carry guitars; the third is the pianist. Without preamble or fuss they begin to play a Western swing tune. The groups disintegrate, mingle. Some dance; some stand round the walls or by the door. Two or three sing. ALF an hour later the truck with the keg arrives, There’s an exodus from the hall. Those who have bottled beer hide’it or swallow it as quickly as they can. Everyone drinks, standing round the truck. Even the children try a sip or two, making faces at its bitterness, and then go back to running

through the dark.. The music starts again, a little louder, a little wilder. A troop of horsemen gallops into the marae, whooping. The riders dismount, tie their horses to the fence, and swagger into the hall. Even the harsh light cannot dull the colours of their tartan shirts and blue denims; it catches on spurs and elaborately riveted knivesheaths, and shows up the hopeful stubble that may one day be a beard. They settle their hats-broad-brimmed, with fancy bands to match their belts -and pick out their women. The music. and the dancing go on, The keg gets lighter, the hall hotter. The air smells of sweat, beer and smoke. There is a pause for supper, but no one wants tea. The food, though, goes quickly. Then there is more dancing. The tunes from the hall are ragged now. The new pianist is not an expert, and there is only one guitar player. The couple in the corner get up and go into the night. An old woman watches them and laughs harshly, What dancers there are on the floor move unsteadily, their sense of rhythm confused. The children sleep on the benches. N Christmas Day there is always a hangi down at Charlie Topu’s. The women get up about eight to start getting things ready. The men sleep oh. It is raining today, so the fire is built in the big chimney at the back of Charlie’s barn. Boards are set on trestles for tables, and boxes and stools fetched to sit on. Some women cut up pork and peel kumara ready for cooking, while others set out trifles and jellies and cake. When the stones under the fire are hot enough, they pack kumara, pork and puha on top in a nest of damp sacks and fern, cover it with more sacks, and pile earth and embers over everything. By now the men are up, a sorry for themselves and behaving as if their sore heads are more the women’s fault then their own. They wander into the barn and pick at cake and trifle, or stand, dull-eyed, watching the preparations. ee About midday everything is ready. Although it’s raining hard and the river is high, nobody stays away. They ride or drive buggies across the ford, or walk across the swing bridge. The children are out again, with sacks or old coats (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) over their shoulders, splashing in single file through the mud. They stop occasionally to catch the little green frogs that hop across the road in front of them. ... HE last sack has been dragged back from the pit and the pale cloud of steam has risen to join the smoke and warm breath under the iron roof. There is no light in the barn. The one window has a manure bag stapled across it, and the only entry is the small doorway through the closed double doors. The men move about restlessly in the dimness, talking only a little, thinking of food. Children crowd round the chimney, watching as the women pile pork on plates and surround it with puha and kumara. Somewhere a baby wails. Charlie Topu pounds the table with a knife. The men sit, either at the table or on the ground, suddenly content. Speeches are as much part of the hangi as the food. Charlie speaks in Maori for twenty minutes. Only the women and the baby are indifferent. There are more speeches, and then the food is handed round. Three men go and draw beer from the keg on Charlie’s verandah; they come back with it. in buckets and set them along the table. Eating begins in earnest. Plates go back to the hangi, return, and go back again. When the buckets are baled dry they are refilled. There is plenty of talk, but only as an accompaniment

to drinking and eating. Trifles and jellies begin to disappear; so does the Christmas «cake, Then there is a slackening of pace. Nearly everyone talks more, picking, at the food on their plates. A few lean on the table silently, too heavy to move or even speak. Down by the fireplace the women begin to eat. T two o’clock some pakeha from the school-house arrive. Everyone shakes hands with them. They are given seats at the head of the table and plates of food. One of Charlie Topu’s sons starts on a speech of welcome, partly in English and partly in Maori. The guests listen politely; nodding their thanks when a bucket of fresh beer is put down in front of them. At the end of the welcoming speech one of the men speaks in reply. Then they eat. Three young men talk to them while the rest watch. Their plates are taken away by a slim, ageless woman with the face of an Egyptian queen, who moves about the barn in a man’s. sleeveless pullover and a pair of pyjama trousers. When she has served plates of trifle and jelly she dresses her baby at the other end of: the table. Time goes on. The rain stops and the visitors leave. The last bucket of beer is drawn, the last of the pork eaten, The men drift out of the barn and go back to their beds, while the women, sleepily, gather up the plates and glasses. The children play outside in the grey dusk, Ce ene Dis Rick