The East rests in the West

Tu Tangata, Issue 28, 1 February 1986, Page 36

The East rests in the West

By Margaret Mattock

From Ruatoria, on the East Coast, we followed the highway for several kilometres before turning down a winding, gravel road. It weaved its way through a sheep and cattle station, past the remains of an old school towards Whareponga, and the coast.

Being an ignorant pakeha, my first meeting with John Whitford was memorable.

“You must see my kumara-rua," he said. A kumara-rua? Was it a longkeeping kumara, as a rua was a long keeping potato? No, John’s kumara-rua was a rather unique pit in the ground meticulously packed with dried manuka leaves, and filled with lovely kumaras. On top was a thoughtfully designed lid for protection from the weather. The kumara-rua was the Maori’s way of storing kumara as it was part of their staple diet in years gone by.

John Whitford is an eighty-one year old retired shepherd living alone in a caravan at Whareponga with his old dog, and two skewbald horses, Cherry and Trampers, for company. He has lived there in retirement for the past four years, but first came to Whareponga seventy-six years ago as a lad of five. As a young man, he married Darki Tamati's sister, and became one of the family. He

worked for years as head-shepherd for Maori Affairs at Whareponga at the Te Araroa and Tamati Sheep-Stations. Even today, at eighty-one years old, John rides his two horses to the coast to set his crayfish pots. John has eight children and seventeen grandchildren, and his wife lies at rest up on the hill next to the marae at Whareponga. I commented that her grave-stone was tended with loving care. His reply was that she deserved that.

As John and I talked, we settled ourselves on the steps of the little church opposite the marae. Without John's help, the Whareponga story I am telling now would never have taken shape.

Whareponga was one of the loveliest Maori Pa on the East Coast of the North Island, New Zealand. Never had the pa fallen to an attacking tribe, until the Ngapuhi taua landed up coast, and moved its way across the country.

The Ngapuhi were brandishing the unknown deadly firesticks against their

Ngati Porou local opponents, and literally mowed them down, totally overpowered. It was never to be forgotten.

Life at Whareponga was full and busy, and houses numbered around thirty in the 1920'5. The people who lived there were very friendly and unselfish; and welcomed any visitor with open arms and a cup of tea. It was the days of survival, and if your garden was bare, you were always welcome to your neighbour’s kumara-rua.

When I stayed there at Whareponga, in March 1985, that warmth and hospitality was evident even then.

The marae is set in forty acres. A Ikm walk from the marae was the beach, hidden by a small hill. In years gone by, the strip of beach had been the stirring headquarters of a whaling station.

The pa at Whareponga was not meant to be built there at all. Because of poor visibility and no view of the beach from the pa, it should have been at Paipainui on the hill. There, they could see, but there was no landing place for boats, so the pa came to Whareponga.

When the Maori took the area around the pa over from Williams (approximately 1900), Tutu Ngarimu ran 3000 acres with sheep on. Eventually, the Maori sold a lot to the Government. After that time, old Tutu used the

Waipiru dray and horses to cart the wool to the launches at the landing on the beach at Whareponga. The horses would take the dray out to sea, where the launch would come alongside. They would then load the wool onto the launch. The launch would take the wool out to the coastal boat, the “Mako” which used to operate the coastal run to Napier.

This procedure to transport the wool continued for many years, until the road was completed from the main road to the pa. Then the wool was transported by truck.

There was only one doctor on the coast, Dr Davis. Mainly, the women had their babies at home. The nursing home was at Te Puia Springs which meant seventeen miles on horseback. Then, there was a maternity home built at Waipiro Bay, but they still rode in by horseback until the Whareponga Road was completed.

Thirty years ago the people of Whareponga would ride to football on horseback to the Parapara Football Ground, six miles away. It was a great day’s outing for women, men and children on the horses, mostly bareback. The Parapara Football Ground was the first football ground on the East Coast of the North Island.

Three miles of road was built from the school at Whareponga by a man called Charlie McCracken and stopped at Tuparoa and as far as Pakeo. Forty years ago, the only vehicle which went through was Jim Dines the baker from Waipiro Bay. He travelled from Tuparoa, down the Waitotoki Creek all the way, returning the same day. What a welcome sight he must have been with his stores, cake and bread.

Apart from the baker, the Maori then were mostly self sufficient. The husbands would go bush for work, catching

wild pig etc. The fat from the pigs would be melted down and used as butter. They also ate fish, koura, kina, kumara, potatoes, sweetcorn, watercress, pumpkin, ice-cream, watermelon and kamu kamu (a type of vegetable marrow.)

WHAREPONGA TODAY

The manuka flourished where the fruittrees, and many gardens once were. The graves on the hillside at Whareponga told their own story of much busier times.

As the bus drew in, Maori elders, relations and friends were waiting for a heart-rending welcome. From the bus, piled the travel-weary relations and friends of Dick Tamati, having travelled the 700 hundred kilometres from Taranaki in the west to Whareponga in the east, a fitting tribute to a gentle, smiling man.

We had all come to Dick's kawemate, a funeral without a body. Dick was an East Coast Maori, laid bodily to rest in Taranaki twelve months earlier. It had been our obligation and commitment to bring Dick back spiritually, to his ancestral home and land of his upbringing; Whareponga, near Ruatoria, on the East Coast of the North Island, New Zealand.

As we slowly approached the marae, our expressions were serious. Our leader, and guide was Mick Tamati, Dick’s cousin, and another East Coaster now living and teaching in Stratford, Taranaki. We settled down for the kawemate, and a moving welcome.

The rain eased as the Maori ladies wailed; an experience never to be forgotten. As the wonderful sisters of Dick soothed and comforted his widow, Janis and his sons, Karl, Mark, Ramon and Robert, tears rolled freely.

The messages flowed fluently in maori. Their sincerity as they welcomed us into their hearts was overwhelming. They were sorry it had to rain cats and dogs at our official welcome, and were pleased when the rain cleared.

Haere Mai, Haere Mai, Haere Mai.

The welcome was followed by the hakari. There was chicken, pork, watercress, kumara, potato, pumpkin, Maori bred, followed by grapes, apples, fruit salad, watermelon. A real feast.

The children from East and West mixed freely after the scrumptious meal, and soon found a block of wood and a ball for cricket. Periodically, the children would lose their ball over the wall into the cemetery, next to the marae. Off they would venture to retrieve it amid the head-stones. Back through the gate which led to the marae, they religiously washed their hands with the water provided to cleanse them.

Many of the weary travellers then claimed sleeping area in the meeting house, as sixty of us had to arrange ourselves for the night. That was another experience to be remembered by the pakehas present. The spotless mattresses and pillows were arranged neatly on the floor of the meeting house where we were to sleep.

Off with our shoes at the door and in to claim our portion; sleeping bags, blankets in our arms. The tidy little interior had Maori designs and carvings; the floor wooden and polished. Around the walls where photos of locals since deceased, and unnamed. The locals knew who they were, anyway.

The Constable present escorted a small group of Westcoasters to Ruatoria, fourteen kilometres away, to enjoy the hospitality of the publican. We were not to see them again for several hours, returning high in spirits for a sing-song.

A spontaneous invitation which came

for two of us to fish for kina from a whiskey drinking local was quickly turned down. Our concern for self preservation while hunting for sea-eggs in the then rough seas of the Whareponga Coast far outweighed our yearning for adventure and new experience! As evening approached, living bodies crept into sleeping bags. The light in the meeting house was disturbing someone was overheard saying that the lights could not be turned off while the generator was operating. Whareponga is without electricity, and all lighting provided is by a generator. Very few now live at Whareponga. Several generations ago during the slump of the 1930’5, several families shifted back to Ruatoria where they could obtain jobs, and a living. Houses became derelict, and after the shift, the pa went back. Harry Ngarimu held the pa right until Darki Tamati (Dick’s Uncle) came back here only five years ago. Darki and his wife, Ina are now enjoying

the peace and tranquility of retirement without electricity and the “mod cons” at Whareponga in the original Tamati family homestead on a lovely rise overlooking the pa. Darki and Ina have a gas operated cooker and refrigerator, however baking in the oven was not always successful, Ina told us, as the gas levels seemed to fluctuate. They also had a battery operated generator and could even watch the soaps on TV. They went into Ruatoria three times a week for mail, milk and bread. All too soon, our weekend at Whareponga drew to an end, and farewells had to be said. Three carloads of Westcoasters departed on the Sunday afternoon, our own to Tolaga Bay for the night, where we were to enjoy catching crayfish off their long pier. The bus departed early Monday morning, this time to weave its tedious way back to Taranaki via Napier and Hastings. The trip over had been via Rotorua to Te Araroa, a long way in a short time. Dick Tamati was back home, spiritually, eternally at rest at Whareponga, in a way only the Maoris understand.

EAST COAST, NORTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND