POKING TONGUES

Tu Tangata, Issue 25, 1 August 1985, Page 60

POKING TONGUES

by Chris Winitana (from Te Koi o te mere)

Rameka stood braced. A statue of power. Tingling. Alive. Cold yet hot. His senses, all six burned, picking up the signals from the cacophony of sounds running through the hall. As if his body was an ultra-sensitised mass of nerve endings, capable of defining and interpreting the hidden meanings behind each movement, as small as it might be. It was as if he was a human receptacle. A radar. Taking in and giving out. The twitch of a piupiu; a swish of nerves. Fidgeting feet; someone readying themself, balancing the weight. Clinking glasses from the audience. Muffled laughter. A hint of impatience. Pakehas, always in a hurry. The rise and fall of chests pulled tight. Air being drawn in and out, prepping the body for the enormous amount of energy about to be released. An explosion which would leave the body drained, yet the wairua restored. More than restored.

All heard and noted. A shroud of tension covering the team. Rameka could feel it all as he stood, feet wide, body braced, spirit soaring. A human receptacle taking in and giving out vital signs. He absorbed the tension which had gathered; in the pit of stomachs; the ache of muscles; the gasps of breath. Changing it, moulding the mood. Sending out soothing messages in its place. Like a tohunga may have exorcised a taniwha from the mind of an ailing body. Gathering the impurities to himself by will of thought. Discarding them as possible threats, clots, in the stream of wairua surrounding each individual, yet to entwine in a common source of power. He waited for the thread of calm he knew would come. The calm which meant the wairua was right. The individual streams had pooled together. Settling in place. An enveloping blanket of spiritual power far beyond the puny strength of mere muscle. Ready and

waiting to uplift them all, and hold them at a level beyond the physical. He continued to send out signals. Consciously seeing the wairua in his mind. Soothing. Waiting for that moment. Moulding the collective spirit. Working it into one. Into a dynamo. A generator of power. Soothing, yet with the lash of a whip. Power. Physical and spiritual. Coiled. Waiting to be unleashed. That moment, all in balance, each individual tuned in as one, came. Rameka didn’t feel the words coming. Didn't feel his mouth open and utter their melodies. They came as if of their own accord. Pulled from him by a power greater than he. The power of the spirit. Of his men. He, the vehicle for their energy. The common link between them all. He felt his body uncoil. His own voice, distant, guttural in command. The answering cries of his men. Like a thunderclap. Right there with him yet so far away. The feeling behind those words, electrifying. Eerie. Signalling primal instinct. Forcing up those instincts. A well of energy. A tiny body of people generating the power of a hundred. An illusion in the eye of the beholder.

Individuals held in the hand of wairua. The power of the collective spirit. Group dynamics. And he the holder of the reins. Power in his hands. It’s haka time. The haka. To Rameka, the embodiment of all he stood for as a Maori. At no other time in his life, not even for a fleeting second, could he recall having felt the feelings which took over when he was part of the haka. A violent act of aggression sourced in ages past. The physical expression of a spiritual flame. It was a fusion of himself with his past; those ancestors who had died and through death passed themselves on to their living kin. It was a fusion of himself with his future; those to come who would take up his Maoriness when he died. It was a fusion of himself with the present; he, as a Maori, living from the past to the future. Each of those elements, although in themselves independent, were an inseparable part of the feeling, and spiritual power which the haka unleashed. It wasn’t simply the actioning of moves practised over months. It wasn’t simply a show of prowess, an ego trip. It certainly wasn't a THING to be pulled out for entertainment. It was THE HAKA. The embodiment of all he stood for as a Maori. Drawing from metaphysical sources, he was able to restore the spirit of his Maoriness, which sometimes faded under the constant pressures of pakeha life. He could relieve feelings of frustration and despair. Feelings and instincts suppressed in the normal drone of everyday life. That the pakeha, by his very nature of living, values and ideals, had no idea existed. That Rameka, as a Maori, by his very nature, values and

ideals, needed to express to keep in touch with himself. Feelings of anger and hatred. Of dignity and pride. Of mana. Fused together. Brought out by the haka. In the beginning he'd never known such feelings existed inside him. He took himself as a Maori, for granted. He recognised, of course, he was Maori, not by mere virtue of the fact his skin was brown, but by differences in thinking and concepts from those with white skins. When at an early age, he watched the men perform in true, natural style, he'd caught an inkling of those suppressed feelings. At first he didn’t understand why it was he felt the way he did. That he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Such was the depth of those feelings that had fleetingly surfaced. It was only when he himself took part that he was able to understand. To see from within and without the true nature of his feelings. Where they derived from. Their spiritual source. How they were innately Maori. Fused into his makeup. He accepted them for what they were. Expressions of his Maorihood. Through the haka, the ultimate expression of his virility and vitality. Enabling him to link as one with the past, present and future. The Maori universe. All those souls who had passed. All those souls yet to be born. Tuning into the all-important spirit world. Absorbing the strengths of his ancestors. Discovering their mana. Letting them take hold of him, he, like a puppet expressing their will. Feet wide. Body braced. His manhood the centre. Feet flicking. A bull pawing the ground. Rameka moved. His body rigid, yet fluent. His mere, part of him, crossed at his chest. The wiri. The mana. Ihi. Wehi.

The pulse set. Piupiu moving in unison. As one. Guttural calls of defiance. Taunting. Twelve men. The spirit of a thousand. He could feel the fire. Spreading. Through his fibre. That of his men. The fire which in ages past had been nurtured for battle. Which his ancestors, tupuna, had sought to blaze. Through the haka. Readying the men for battle. Building them up, to bloodpitch. Death-pitch. The fire which he now cultivated. The fire of the spirit. Maori. The essence the same as the past. Unchanged. Firing for the kill. The battle now different. Of warfare. The enemy. Of identity. Billowing the fire to bring out the Maoriness. Reinforcing it through the haka. His mere flashed, scything the air. Cutting it in a blur of beauty. Rameka was one. As if time had stood still. Come to a stop. The past. The present. The future. All as one. He was a warrior. Leading his men to victory. Urging them. Spurring them. Bloodlust. Calling his tupuna to the fight. The spirit of a thousand. An illusion. Taunting the enemy. Pukana. Enemy. White. Daring them to take on the might of a people. A culture spiritually in touch with all that had been. Rameka, his voice, the cry of a heretic.. ...lIIAHAHA... NA WAI ENEI MAHI WETIWETI... come on pakeha, come 0n... come out and taste the edge of my mere... that

dances before you... His men taking up his ca 11... ...NA TE KAWANA... His words, alive, uttered as if of their own accord... ...NA WAI ENEI MAHI KIKINO... come hither pakeha... reap the reward of your lies. Treachery. My mere thirsts for your b100d... His men afire... ...NA TE KAWANA... His words, pulled from his mourn by a power greater than he... ...HE AHA TE TIRITI O WAITANGI... I await you white devil, oh lord of lies. You who are nothing before me... come taste the rewards of deceit... They all as one, committing their thoughts into action, boosted by the power of the unseen spirits. ...HE RUKAHU, HE TITOTITO HE PEPA WHANAKO I NGA WHENUA, TIHAEHAETIA, KURATIA KI TANA UPOKO MARO, UPOKOKOHUA... KSS AUE, KSS AUE, KSS AUE, HEI! Rameka stood braced. Tingling. Alive. His senses burned. Spirit fulfilled. United. The haka. It meant so much. Kept him in tact. In touch with his feelings. Called his tupuna. A united spirit. The audience was clapping. Rameka felt inspired. Rejuvenated. His eyes rolled. Pukana. He honed in on a face. White. Pukana. The face broke. White. Tongue poking. Back at him. White face. Laughing at him. A Maori. The haka. That meant so much. A white face laughing. Poking tongues back at him.