Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘Run them off the road, dear,’ Mum said.

It was no use. There was too much traffic coming down our side of the road. We had to keep on cutting back behind them. I saw the delectable Poppy give a V sign of triumph.

‘Hukareka sucks!’ my sisters and I screamed.

Flight Commander Joshua (regaining his sight) Kei te pai tena.

(Subtitles: You did well.)

Lieutenant Simeon (gravely) E ta, ko te mahi a te tangata ko te mahi te tangata.

(Subtitles: A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, sir.)

We watched as they pulled ahead, spraying us with dust.

‘We live to fight another day,’ Dad said. ‘But first things first. Shearing time —’

By the time lunch was over it was well after three o’clock. The gangs were in a hurry to get back to their sheds and shortly after dessert most of the Mahana family and shearers had departed from the homestead. They were soon followed by Grandfather Tamihana and Grandmother Ramona, who were joining Mahana One, the top Mahana gang. Aunt Miriam was a fleeco and Pani a shearer with Mahana Four. Before leaving the homestead, Grandfather Tamihana said, ‘Miriam? You’re coming with us. Ruth? You take Miriam’s place with Mahana Four.’

‘Dad has seen the way Pani looks at sis,’ my father Joshua whispered to Mum.

‘Bulibasha’s trying to split them up,’ she replied, ‘just like he tried with us.’

After that, everything fell strangely quiet. My father Joshua and Aunts Sephora and Esther, helped now by Aunt Ruth instead of Aunt Miriam, were always left to close up the homestead. It was their job and their place. Even so, it was a difficult duty, disturbing and fretful. Only when Aunt Sephora turned on the wireless and filled the place with noise did we feel any sense of relief.

My aunts busied themselves in the kitchen doing the dishes, closing the rooms and locking the windows, while my sisters helped Mum to pack our belongings. We were to go in two cars — the Pontiac and Pani’s Chrysler. Dad and Pani tied the mattresses, blankets, pots, pans, suitcases and provisions anywhere they would fit. We needed all the room inside the two cars for us . While they were doing this, Glory and I herded our cows over to Zebediah Whatu’s place; he was looking after our dogs and small flock of sheep.

‘I wish I was coming with you, boy,’ he said.

‘Somebody’s got to look after the fort,’ I smiled.

‘Yes,’ he saluted. ‘I guess they do, Kemo Sabe.’

By the time Glory and I returned, dusk was setting in. The cars had been transformed into strange-shaped carriers. Mattresses were tied to the sides and back; the spare tyres were transferred to the front where they were lashed to the radiator. The blankets, pots, pans and boxes of food were on the top of the car. Legs of mutton swayed over the windows. Petrol cans were roped to the runners. Mum had decided to take some laying hens, and put their cage on top of the Chrysler. Their husband, the rooster, was going crazy trying to get at them.

‘We better get going,’ Dad said. ‘It’s getting dark.’

‘A long way to go, bro,’ Pani answered. ‘You follow me.’

Somebody turned the wireless off. Mum and my aunts came running out, shivering. Without people to give it life, the homestead was somehow frightening. Mum made one last check of the quarters, slammed the door and locked it. The report echoed across the darkening hills.

‘We’re all ready, dear,’ she said. Her lips were trembling, as if she wasn’t sure.

My aunts got into Pani’s Chrysler. His tyres were fit to bursting. With a laugh, Aunt Ruth came back to join us in our car. She got in just in time — there was a whump as the enraged rooster, still after his hens, hit the door.

‘You’re for the pot when we get back,’ Aunt Ruth threatened.

Dad beeped his horn. Pani beeped back.

‘Don’t get too far behind us,’ Dad yelled. ‘One of your headlights is crook.’

Pani waved, Okay.

The sun had turned the sky red. The cars moved out and on to the road. I closed the gate behind them. I caught a glimpse of Nani Mini Tupara waving from far away. She was picking maize and wore a big straw hat.

‘Bye, Nani! Keep Waituhi safe for us!’

I ran to our Pontiac. Silhouetted in the red dusk, our cars looked like gypsy caravans.

In those days the whole of Poverty Bay, the East Coast and Hawke’s Bay was covered by a grid of roads which wound further and further from the main towns of Gisborne, Opotiki, Whakatane, Napier and Hastings along the coast or up the steep valleys into the interior. On the way were small Pakeha-run settlements similar to Patutahi. They marked the beginning of Pakeha history when a whaler or English trader settled there and began the process of bringing civilisation to the natives. Later, after the land wars and two world wars, the towns became the focus of more settlers when parcels of land around them were granted to rehabilitate soldiers who had fought for King and Country; war memorials of a soldier bending over his rifle sprouted in every town. The settlements had names like Tolaga Bay, Tokomaru Bay, Tikitiki, Te Karaka, Mahia or Nuhaka and they comprised a hotel, petrol station, general store, small community hall where a dance or film was shown at weekends, church and graveyard, rural school and stockyards — and their roads were tar sealed te rori Pakeha. Further out, and you were in dust country. There the settlements were villages like Waituhi, Waihirere, Mangatu and Anaura Bay — brightly coloured houses around a drab meeting house, with not a Pakeha in sight.

Right at the back of beyond, along the even dustier roads which zigged up the valleys and zagged down over culverts, through cattle stops, across fords, through gates that you opened and closed on your way in and out, around hairpin bends and over rickety one-way swing bridges, at the very top of the valleys, were the big sheep and cattle stations. Regardless of their isolation, the big stations and their ability to produce meat and wool for export were the edifices upon which the entire economy of Poverty Bay, the East Coast and Hawke’s Bay depended. Without them, and the constant stream of cattle and sheep trucks which brought their stock and produce down the valleys, there would have been no need for the settlements, freezing works, ports, towns and industries which had grown up to support them.

The big stations knew their self-importance. They were capped by huge two-storeyed houses with names like Windsor, The Willows, Fairleigh or Tara. Some had been constructed of stone shipped from England, France or Italy. They were characterised by wide entrance halls, their floors shining with paving stones that had been hauled in by bullock teams. They had imposing staircases and hallways panelled with English oak. The furniture, four-poster beds, linen and sculptures were all English and had been collected during regular visits by steamship to the Home Country. The master’s study was filled with leatherbound books; there was always a deer’s head over the fireplace. Gravelled driveways led up to the big houses. Rose trellises and arbours of English daisies bordered the driveway. In the middle, a clipped green lawn. The glass in the windows was handmade and shaped like diamonds. From the windows you could see the big red-roofed shearing shed, cattle yards and sheep yards.

To ensure an appropriate distance between station owner and station worker, the quarters for the foreman, musterers, cattlemen, shepherds and their families and all those who were on regular pay were on the far side of the shearing shed. Furthest away were the whares — crude, rough-timbered bunkhouses and kitchen-dining room — for the itinerant workers, the scrubcutters, fencers and, of course, the shearing gangs. They had no ovens, no running water and no electric lights.