MAORI BOY?

Tu Tangata, Issue 13, 1 August 1983, Page 23

MAORI BOY?

The tipuna stare with empty eyes, their faces shrouded in dusty mildew, the paintwork is blackened and grimy, and the kiekie is split, falling away. The windows are cracked, the rafters sagging, and its anyone’s guess what holds the house together, there isn’t a single diagonal strengthening timber in the framework. As I walk outside I am momentarily blinded and realise just how dim was the interior of the house. The exterior of the house is even more dilapidated, the carvings are cracked, rotting and dark green with mould. A great fungi sprouts from the top knot of the tekoteko, grey paua shell eyes, peeling with age, gaze on. Those eyes have witnessed birthdays, weddings, hui and tangi for over a century. They have watched over the lives of five generations of my family, my hapu and my tribe, but now they have little left to watch. Even the old totara is dying, few people shelter from the sun under its branches, now they prefer to stay in their cars. Yes, the only life visible here is a small fantail darting between the untrimed bushes. It is very quiet here. Engines raced, lights flashed, people yelled and cussed, horns honked, I stood surrounded by people and noise yet I was alone, desperately lonely. The masses surged past as I stood. “Watch it boy”, yelled an irritated old Pakeha fella. “What?”, I asked, startled.

“Git outa my road!” he yelled as he shoved past, mumbling away to himself. “Dumb Maori boy taking up half the bleeding footpath, think they own the place.” “Eh, moko, you come back to see me have you? Eh darling, s’pose you’ll go back again soon, nei. Back to the big smoke, nei. No fun for young’uns out here in the sticks,” Nan yarned on (as usual). “I donna know Nan.” “Kei te pehea koe?” “What Nan?” “Ah some Maori you are, can’t even speak your own language. Bet you donna know who your tipuna are either, gee you fellas got all fancy gears to learn but no, you fellas too busy having a good time. Going off to parties, hanging around with your mates, going to the big city, you’re no Maori, boy, for all the Maoritanga you know you could just be some Pakeha kid!” After speaking to Nan I walked down the road past the old hall, the old school, the new pub to the marae. Hinges screamed their protest to my visit while a lump of wood fell from the gate into my hand. As I wandered past the old totara I noted the branches were bare, after six hundred years of thriving it had chosen to die in the twentieth century. The carvings were now nearing their end, the tekoteko had lost it’s topknot, the raparapa had lost

two of it’s three fingers and the right hand amo had lost it’s head. Picked my way gingerly across the porch attempting to avoid the innumerable rotten boards. Inside it was like riding on a rollacoaster since the majority of the piles had rotted away. Kowhaiwhai patterns on the rafters were totally indistinguishable, the tukutuku panels were broken and askew. A creeper had slipped through the crack in the back window and had established itself on my ancestor’s belly. My fantail wasn’t there, probably just as well, I don’t think I’ll be there again for a long time either.