Whaaki

Te Ao Hou, November 1973, Page 19

Whaaki by Arapera Molenaar I could see him from our driveway striding in and our of his house, shoulders bent forward, with his old straw hat set on his head and thought to myself … I'll go and see old Whaaki—he's always fun to talk to. So I dashed over the road, climbed the fence and trotted to where he was squatting. He was fixing a gaff for eeling. His chocolae brown hands roughened with outside work knew just what they were about. His face was one of those ageless yet time-worn masks that just don't have enough wrinkles to say I'm old and then again not enough softness to say I'm young. His hat sat flat on his head shading those grinning brown eyes. It was made of kiekie and looking old and worn unlike the owner, bits of straw hanging all round his face. Dangling from his lips was the ever constant companion, a cigarette. Looking down at the cigarette made me wonder if he really did smoke those things or whether he just chewed on them, because he rolled it from side to side biting and chewing as he worked, like it was a piece of straw. ‘Hello Whaaki,’ I greeted. He looked up at me and grinned, his whole face just beaming. ‘Kia Ora, Arapera. How you being? Too good on you coming to see me.’ He began to chuckle and say too good too good, again. It was a warm chuckle, just like when you placed kindling wood in the fire and then light it and it's cold outside yet the crackling wood seems to say, ‘come closer I’m warm and friendly even if the weather is cold.’ ‘Well, I just making now a gaff for the eeling, you sitting down while I just going inside for the knife, e Arapera. Too good

too good alright,’ he muttered to himself as he strode inside, stooping to avoid the door. He was tall and gangly like Gary Cooper, well a Maori Gary Cooper if you get the idea. ‘Yes and last night, Arapera, I throwing my hinaki into the racoon so in the morning you coming for some eels,’ he said, bending over his gaff again. He grinned at me and rolled his cigarette round in his mouth. His teeth were all stained brown and chewed down like he had grown them back to front. ‘Funny teeth you got Whaaki?’ ‘Yes, I’m the only fullah with a teeth like this Arapera,’ he laughed. Whaaki was tying the string round and round to secure the hooks at the ends. Auntie Wai only used bits of rag, usually white, when we went torching. The eels would bite on the rag and get thrown onto the riverbank where we had to bash their heads in quick because they were slithery like lightning. But Whaaki was an expert, he lived out of the river, so I didn't say anything. Sometimes we gave him mutton. This was tahu'd over the open fire in his camp oven half full of fat. He did the same with pauas, just threw them into the hot fat to boil. As soon as they were cooked he took the pot off the bars that sat over the fire and let it set with the meat inside it. The eels and fish he caught in the river were split, smoked and hung out to dry. When he wanted a meal all he had to do was gather a kit of puha, put the pot onto the bars to boil with the tahu'd meat, throw in a spoon of salt and let it boil away for an hour or so. The potatoes and kumara went on top with a nice fat piece of eel added at the last minute. You always had to muku the puha first. Tea was made in the old billy can, now blackened by the flames that licked the bottom and sides. When the water inside began to boil, a big spoon of tea was tossed into the billy, then it was put onto the hearth to settle the leaves. The tea smelt like the bush, all leaves and damp moss and grass, but Whaaki never used sugar so it tasted like water which was tainted. That was the only thing that spoilt his tea. I never accepted it from him. I loved sugar. ‘How's the kumara, e Arapera?’ he asked. ‘Spreading like the weeds.’ I hated planting kumara. We had to cart all the water to the patch from the river in kerosene tins and water each individual plant as it was pushed into the ground. It would have been much easier to plant in the rain. Afterwards it was a good splash about in the river to cool off. ‘Only one way to planting the kumara,’ Whaaki was saying. ‘That's with the moon.’ ‘Don’t know too much about the moon planting Whaaki,’ I answered. Then he was telling me how one should plant with the phases of the moon. ‘That's the Chinese way,’ I retorted. ‘No. Is the only way to get a big kumara.’ The next lot of kumara was put in by Whaaki, but I didn't notice any difference myself. We still had a lot of weeding to do by hand. ‘Kaete Kati Kati a Arapiu?’ Arapiu was my father. ‘Yep, shearing at McIntyres.’ I loved the shearing season, but Dad took me only when they were really short of fleecos. I was a pretty good fleeco too. Mum taught us how to throw a fleece and pick it up from the board, by using a tea towel. ‘Now this is the shearing stand—one, two, three, four shearers flat out. This is the shearer and this is the sheep being shorn. Don’t put your hand under the wool when the handpiece is busy. Just pull the wool like this.’ She would tug gently at the wool, demonstrating how it was done. ‘Now you pick up the wool as soon as it has left the sheep's back, fold it under and over, tuck in the sides, and hold the fleece firmly under your chin while you walk to the table. You can pick up a second fleece in the same way, holding it under the other. ‘If three shearers finish at once, you take the one furthest away, then the next along moving towards the table. By the time you get along to the last fleece the shearer will be coming out of the pen with another sheep, so you’ll only have time to kick it towards the table.’

Man, I thought, this sounds impossible, and so it was for the first two weeks. Then all of a sudden everything fell into place and it was as easy as falling off a log. I used to have them wooled up all over the place. Two women usually worked the table while another two worked on the floor. Those on the table did the skirting, taking the belly wool off and placing it into a bale. Then while one worked from the belly to bottom the other worked from neck to belly, cleaning the edges of the wool and putting pieces into different bales. The fleece landed on the table dirty side up, so after cleaning one half it was folded over and the other half cleaned in the same manner. Then it was rolled from bottom to neck end over end until it met in the middle. Then the beautiful clean fleece was placed into the cubicles to await pressing. On the floor one girl worked with a broom, usually of straw. As soon as the other one picked up the fleece she would sweep away the left-over wool into a corner, separating the good wool from the dags and throwing them into the bales provided. The girl that picked up the wool had only that job to concentrate on, but you had to steer clear of the shearers and their hand pieces. Whenever a shearer called for the tar, whoever was nearest did the tarring, but that was usually the job of the sweeper. After every break we had to get in amongst the dags with pairs of shears to cut away the good pieces of wool. Morning smoko we always looked forward to. If Auntie Wai was cook she would bake a batch of scones up and send them down dripping with butter and raspberry jam. She loved baking Maori bread too, the real rewena one made with potato water. She was my favourite aunt and cook. Some of the farms were so beautiful … with waterfalls … lakes … bush … and fernery spilling over into the water. After a hard day's work it was a pleasure to swim in the rivers, and lie on one's back just drinking in the surroundings and sounds that echoed round the area … goats and sheep bleating, horses whinnying, tui birds singing in the bush … it was heavenly. Whaaki was slapping his sides hunting for his tobacco tin. ‘Too good alright,’ he muttered. He found the tin, heaved it out of his back pocket, opened it … lifted out the cigarette papers … leafed one out … poked out a hunk of weed … closed the lid … pushed the tin back and began rolling. His fingernails were clean for a man who always worked in the dirt, short too like they never ever grew. ‘Kai paipa a koe e Arapera?’ He held out the tobacco. ‘Ummmmmmm, Nope,’ I lied. Well, I couldn't trust him like I could Te Wai. Now if she asked me … then again she wouldn't … she'd just throw the packet over. ‘Have a smoke, Badu,’ she'd say, and give me some for the road. Whaaki rolled the weed up slowly, like most bad habits. When there's plenty of what you want, why hurry? There's no need to hurry. He licked the edges slowly, patted them into place. The end result went into his mouth between those back to front teeth. A match was lit, cupped about, placed beneath the cigarette, and he was afire, smoke billowing from his chocolate nostrils and mouth at the same time. I gulped, moved in closer, just so I could get a whiff of the vapour he let fly. ‘Have to see Karet,’ I said rising. ‘Kai te kainga a Te Wai?’ ‘Yep. Saw her hanging out the clothes just before I came over to see you.’ I was dying for a smoke by now. ‘Well Arapera, haere ra. You coming in the morning for the eels?’ I nodded as I turned to go through the field. When I looked back his tall figure was stooped low as he made to enter his kitchen doorway. The navy cotton shirt and khaki twill pants clung to his lean brown body, while his kiekie hat waved a friendly goodbye as the breeze caught the bits of straw just before he disappered from view. Whaaki was timeless. His face … movements … speech … and love of people just seemed to let you know that eternity was just round the corner … through another doorway.