by Phil Smith
Hemi reached under the bunk, respectfully avoiding the bony hand, and brought out one of the kits. He removed the contents and unwrapped the newspaper. It was the front page of the Thames Star, dated July 2, 1899.
Hemi smoothed out the page and brought a candle closer.
Natives Commence Enterprising Logging Venture
By a Staff Reporter
THAMES. Hitherto regarded as too inaccessible for logging, the remote Kaimiro Valley, between Tairua and Whitianga, has become the venue for an enterprising Timber Milling Venture by local Maoris.
Mr T. Ratana, the Manager of the new Kauri Forest Enterprise, recently conducted the Writer on a special inspection of his logging camp and kauri dam.
A day’s journey by horseback from the nearest Settlement, the camp overlooks the seaside, from whence opens a broad, bushclad valley bisected by the beautiful Kaimiro Stream, the said stream cascading in grand fashion over the fifty-foot cliff as a spectacular waterfall.
As is the usual custom, the logs are dispatched down the hillsides on rolling roads and upon greased skids, aided by bullock teams, till they reach the stream-bed below the dam. Thereupon a body of water, retained by means of a kauri dam built by Messrs O. and J. Evans, is released in a tidal wave, whose force sweeps the accumulated logs with great uproar down to the sea for collection by scow to Whangaparapara.
‘What a mighty sight it is when the logs reach the waterfall,’ said Mr Ratana. ‘I have seen grown men reduced to speechlessness by the enormity of this thunderous spectacle!’
The bushmen, fifty in all, work ten hours a day, six days a week, and, except for the married men (who enjoy separate quarters), all reside in a large bunkhouse with rammed earth floor, the same also serving as kitchen and dining hall.
Strangely for working men of this class, a voluntary prohibition is in place against drinking, gambling and spitting. Swearing, too, is frowned upon.
‘We’re here to work,’ said Mr Ratana, ‘not to carouse and gad about like city folk.’
The Manager reported to the Writer the discovery of a giant kauri tree near the head of the valley, thought to be 140 feet in height, whose mighty and peculiar trunk bears four flat sides in the manner of a tall building.
‘The men have named it the Square Kauri,’ the Manager told the Writer. ‘Occasioned by the said tree’s unique appearance and grand outlook, all the bushmen have agreed to save it, along with its Five Companions on a bluff nearby.’
Funds derived from the Kauri Forest Enterprise have facilitated the purchase of the Kaimiro property from the Government and Mr Ratana intends constructing a sawmill and homestead in the Kaimiro Valley during the next financial year.
Meanwhile the enterprising Mr Ratana continues to search for kauri gum in the flats and forests around Kaimiro, and showed the Writer his marvellous collection of polished specimens gathered over the past thirty years.
Hemi put the newspaper page aside and removed the rest of the wrapping.
Inside the parcel was a transparent lump of polished kauri gum twice the size of a cricket ball.
Hemi held it to the flame.
Yellow light flashed from within the resin.
There, right in the middle, frozen in time, its wispy antennae still discerning the air, crouched the giant weta.
Tomorrow, at sunrise, Hemi would descend.
Tomorrow, a path to a better world would open up for Hemi Ratana.
6
The pounamu trail
‘Wake up now! Everyone get up!’
I sat up and looked around the darkened lodge. The others were rising to their feet, reaching for their weapons.
‘And who might this be, then?’ said Flanagan, standing with his back to the wall.
‘I am Terapuhi,’ said a voice in deep monotone. A young man in torn trousers and a shabby Harris Tweed jacket stepped forwards, accompanied by several strapping comrades similarly attired in rough costume.
‘Tell me why you come to Mawhera,’ Terapuhi demanded.
‘I say,’ I said, ‘you speak English!’ I was astonished, for apart from Unsworth, the priest at Paroa, we’d not heard a soul speak a word of English outside our own company since our arrival from Australia seven months previously.
‘Terapuhi learn Pakeha tongue from others like you,’ the native said. ‘Pakeha bring trouble to Mawhera!’
‘Not so,’ I said. ‘We carry a warning of great danger. There’s a war party, cannibals in fact, not a day’s march south. You and your people must come with us without delay.’
‘No, you come with us,’ he snarled, beckoning us to the low doorway. Wondering what fresh peril had eventuated, we stooped, one by one, and reluctantly left the warmth of the whare. It was daylight but the sun was still well below the ridge.
‘There,’ he said, pointing across the river. ‘Pakeha bring death to Mawhera.’
We beheld in the clear light a fearsome spectacle on the bank, less than half a furlong distant. The Ngai Tahu had arrived during the night and were waiting — with a dozen or so of the Paroa folk, including Father Unsworth, bound at the wrists.
The raiders observed us for a while, shouting taunts, baring their posteriors and brandishing their weapons with mounting vehemence, whereupon those on our side did in similar manner return the insults. This served to inflame the passions of the invaders, who then assembled in rows and at once began chanting a rhythmical challenge in terrible tones, slapping their chests and thighs defiantly and stamping their feet in unison. At the conclusion they released a roar and leaped high in the air with clubs and spears thrust aloft and tongues protruding from gaping mouths.
We stood enthralled by this barbarity for several minutes but knowing they must have overthrown Paroa village, we urged our hosts to flee with us.
‘They not come today,’ Terapuhi scowled. ‘No waka that side. River too big for them.’
‘But they surely will come,’ I countered. ‘They’ll make a raft. They’ll murder us without mercy. We must effect an escape!’
Terapuhi’s chest swelled and he sneered at me. ‘Cowards and women may go. Warriors will fight.’
At that point, as if to emphasise my admonition, an astonishing act transpired.
The prisoners were made to kneel and face us. Behind each man stood a warrior with a flat-sided blade of greenstone in his hand.
We saw Unsworth lift his face and bound hands to the sky, heard him cry out, ‘Oh God, our help in ages past, receive, I pray thee, our humble souls into thy eternal rest!’ and as he said the ‘Amen’ the clubs fell, cracking each man’s skull in a deathly rattle.
Would that I could forget the rest — for such wretchedness it is not in civilised man’s nature to articulate. With barbarous oaths they cleaved the heads and with their hands scooped out the contents while the corpses writhed and twitched upon the ground, and they gobbled the organs with keen alacrity.
I turned to Terapuhi. His face was pale as a Pakeha and his lower lip trembled. He whispered, ‘We go with you. We go now, together. Quickly!’
It transpired that the fighting-pa in earlier times served as a strategic military stronghold and as a gateway for travellers to and from the Poutini, as the West Coast region is named, traversing the greenstone supply routes to the north and east. But the recent arrival of European traders and settlers was placing iron tools and implements into the Maori hands, making the pounamu implements obsolete. Muskets too were changing the way of fighting. Thus was the fort now lightly manned and, demoralised by our tormenters’ loathsome riverbank demonstration, there was none willing to stand his ground.
Our number doubled now to sixty or more, including women and children, we set off along the beach. By sunset we had turned inland and, though burdened by our packs, continued at a sprightly gait in single file through dense, steep woodland.
One of our company, a young man of aristocratic bearing who wore an extraordinary greenstone pendant around his neck, sang a repetitive chant which seemed to encourage our troubl
ed troop.
‘Karia e haere, kai kopi te waha o te pakiaka.’
‘Indeed,’ I said to Terapuhi, ‘what a noteworthy tune. What does he sing about?’
‘He is making us strong for our journey,’ said the guide. ‘He says, “Hasten not through the darkened forest lest you strike your foot against a tree root”.’
‘Sounds like good advice to me,’ said Flanagan. ‘It’s too dark now to venture on. Let’s tarry here till morn lest our feet be broken.’
I was strangely inspired by the music and sought to know more.
‘Who is that singer?’ I asked Terapuhi, as the others settled for the night. ‘He seems a noble chap.’
Terapuhi gathered his mat around him and deployed his pack of greenstone as a pillow. He gazed into the treetops.
‘He is Komuhumuhu, youngest son of the Rangatira of Ngati Wairangi. His wife and young boy sleep beside him. Komuhumuhu is our leader. His waiata and his taonga pounamu will protect us.’
‘What is this taonga you speak of?’ I asked, for I found their mystical ideas and spiritual concepts of intense fascination.
‘Around his neck. A sacred greenstone treasure. A marakihau named Moanawhakamana. It was made by his ancestor, at the beginning of time. It will keep evil away.’
I felt constrained to ask no more questions.
And so it was that we progressed, one day through near-impenetrable bush, the next along seemingly interminable beach, and yet also following the well-worn track through nikau palms. All the time we looked back with trepidation into the salt-haze, thankful to see nothing but the gulls wheeling and the surf breaking.
At times we surmounted precipitous bluffs, edging along thin ledges dizzyingly high above the ocean. Where the rock faces were vertical we scaled straight up, using ladders made of rata vines that creaked and swayed ominously. Often we would shed our packs and ascend the cliff unladen, using precarious handholds, then haul our stuff on ropes after us. My terror during such dangerous activity was tempered by the fact that young children, as well as people twice my age, were climbing the rocks with fearless ease.
It became obvious to me as the days passed that our mission was no blundering foray, no mindless headlong flight into the unknown. Thus it occurred to me that the natives may well have a destination in mind. Most of our group, especially Komuhumuhu, who had now assumed a position of unquestioned leadership, were entirely familiar with the terrain and showed no hesitation in confronting the most formidable of obstacles, inspiring our trusting emulation. I inquired of Terapuhi as to our final goal.
‘Kaimiro,’ was his answer. ‘To our friends, the Ngati Hei. By the next full moon, or the one after that.’
This I calculated to be four to eight weeks hence, an alarming prospect since Flanagan and I had marched for a similar duration already.
The terrain became less mountainous, and one afternoon we waded across the Anatori River where we caught baskets full of whitebait and crayfish. By noon on the next day we arrived at a magnificent inland waterway named Whanganui where a large settlement, a kainga, spread up the slope of a prominent headland. Extensive vegetable gardens and fruit orchards thrived beside a clear stream. A hundred or more whare comprised a splendid village, each house partially fenced and standing on its own small terrace.
Four score canoes, great and small, were arrayed along the harbour shore. One of them, I was told, was the last surviving voyaging canoe. About eighty feet overall, she consisted of twin hulls with a slatted deck between them, on which was built a small, stout whare. Upon the deck breams was stayed a sturdy mast with a sail of woven flax brailed to a tall spar.
The inhabitants welcomed us as royalty and Komuhumuhu appraised them of our plight. After much speech-making and singing, a number of pieces of greenstone were ceremonially brought forth. I glanced at Terapuhi. ‘We give taonga for taking us over the sea,’ he said. ‘This is our custom.’ He explained that we would sail from the Whanganui Inlet north-east to the Whanganui River, in the North Island, a coincidence I thought of no small peculiarity.
We enjoyed five days of superlative hospitality until the high seas abated and an exciting offshore passage commenced, the navigator using stars by night to guide us.
On our third morning at sea the water colour changed to brown, the silt laden outflow of the river guiding us from afar. For three days further we travelled up the mighty Whanganui, having transferred to a dozen smaller craft, before setting out on foot through the forest using a long established pathway the people seemed to know well. By now the Irish lad and I had lost all sense of where we were but the sun’s track showed our general course to be north of east. Sooner or later we must therefore reach the Pacific Ocean. I’d heard accounts of Cook’s great voyages and read romantic tales of South Sea adventure. For years I’d harboured hopes of one day sailing there and perhaps living with the Polynesian folk on some sun-drenched island. Little did I imagine how marvellously accurate the dream had been!
Without warning came the day when, from the top of a long valley, the Irishman and I beheld the glorious Pacific for the first time in our lives, a spectacle so splendid and welcome as to draw tears of joy and gratitude from our tired eyes. Never have I seen a sea so richly blue, so sparkling, so enchanting. My own South Sea adventure!
We descended the trail and marvelled at the colossal trees the Maori called kauri; then suddenly we heard shouts of salutation and soon were taken up by a laughing throng who enveloped us in tumult and affection and accompanied us down to a most picturesque pa.
The settlement, of cultivated fields and a hundred small houses made of raupo reeds and ponga-fern logs, lay either side of a large stream. This ran out over an escarpment perhaps fifty feet in height and fell noisily into a deep pool little more than a stone’s throw from the sea.
The bay faced north of east. To the west a convoluted coast bounded by headlands and golden beaches was cloaked in magnificent bushland.
To the east, high on a tapered promontory with sheer sides, were arrayed the pallisades and terraces of a fortified food storage compound to which the people, in times of tribulation, would retreat for safety. Without delay we were taken into the main longhouse, or whare-nui, and there commenced a new and wondrous episode in our lives.
7
Descent from fear
By the time the tui had sung the first melodious phrase of his vast repertoire, Hemi understood fear in a deep and awful way.
He had slept fitfully on his bed of sacks and rope. At one stage, haunted by the hooting of a morepork close by, Hemi considered praying to God, but stopped short. What if he was greeted by silence? Crying out to a God who did not exist would leave him desolate. Far better to die of starvation up here — to die in the bush was a noble fate. He would confront his destiny bravely like the man he had become.
More than once during the night he’d woken with a jolt, feeling his mind spiralling, and he had covered the skeleton with some of the old clothes, averting his gaze from the terrible apparition.
Death, he concluded, would be the gateway to a new and brighter life, a state to be embraced rather than rejected.
If there was such a place as Heaven, and if it was not too overpopulated, he might even catch sight of his father among the angelic throng, and who knows, Sonny might even have his rifle and the dogs with him and they could go hunting again together.
Sonny Reweti had treated his only son with pride and affection. When they were not fishing from the rocks they would hike up the Kaimiro Valley in search of pigs and deer. Hemi loved it when they stayed out all night, snug under a lean-to of nikau branches on beds of crunchy bracken. There’d be glow-worms in the ferny banks and kiwis scuffling and screeching in the scrub.
Sonny taught his boy bushcraft and survival skills: how to find fleshy supplejack tips and pick the berries of the podocarp trees from the forest floor, how to plait cord from the harakeke, how to climb trees…
Hemi and his dad worked well as a team in the bush, moving
swiftly through tough territory in pursuit of the dogs. The pair would wrestle the pig onto its back, then in with the knife, a few shrill squeals, and it was all over.
‘This is the best feeling in the world,’ Sonny used to tell Hemi. ‘Killing your own meat and cooking it on an open fire. Nothing beats that!’
It was during a hunting trip in 1958 that Hemi had first seen the Square Kauri.
Father and son had been making their way across the steep hillside. They’d reached the base of the collossus before the boy noticed it. The pair had leaned back and gazed up the massive tree in disbelief, not daring to consider anyone could ever have climbed it.
‘This is it,’ said Sonny, giving the tree a slap with his hand. ‘The Square Kauri. She’s a real whopper, eh boy! You know, your great-grandfather and his mates saved this tree. There was a gentleman’s agreement among the logging gangs that the Square Kauri should be left alone because of its unusual shape, and because of its mana.’
Sonny paused to listen for the dogs. He looked, Hemi thought, like a soldier on patrol behind enemy lines, straining to hear the snap of a twig or the twang of a tripwire.
‘Tua saved all of the bush up here, as you can see. He only cut enough logs to pay off the land and the mill, then he went back to making a living from gum-digging. He loved digging for that gum. He was a simple man. A good man.’
‘Did you know him?’ Hemi asked.
‘Heavens, no!’ Sonny slid off his pack and squatted with his back against the tree. ‘Tua died 20 years before I was born. Died somewhere up here, they reckon. Around the turn of the century or thereabouts. And his son, my father, Ururangi, died fifty years later, not long before you were born, actually. Uru was a good fellow, too. He and old Tua and their mates made the road into the valley with pick and shovel. They built the bridge and the homestead out of timber they milled down there.’
Hemi sat cross-legged in front of his father, the rifle resting across his knees. He leaned forwards. ‘Will you teach me the whakapapa, Dad? The history of our family?’
