Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Sometimes after dinner was over, if the sun was still hot, we went down to the river — the young ones first, followed by the adults who drifted down in ones and twos when they were ready.

‘Look after the kids,’ Mum cried, referring to Glory, Peewee and Mackie, ‘and don’t let them drown.’ As if I would.

Going down the track the little kids slipped ahead, yelling out to Haromi, Frances and me, ‘Hurry up, puh- lease !’

Haromi and I weren’t in a hurry.

In the shed, Haromi had her job and I had mine, and she kept company with the women. We relished the times when we could enjoy our private companionship and talk about all the things that were hassling us — school, church, Bulibasha, the family, being stuck in Waituhi and, of course, Aunt Sarah.

‘I’m so glad to be away from her,’ Haromi said. ‘I can’t even look at an old man without Mum dumping on me. Here in Mahana Four I’m free. No jailer to keep me under lock and key.’

‘Except for Aunt Ruth,’ I answered.

‘I can handle Aunt Ruth,’ Haromi sniffed.

We talked on until we reached the river. There –

‘See you later,’ she said as she, Frances, Faith, Hope and Glory peeled away upstream.

‘Why do they swim upstream and we swim downstream?’ Mackie asked.

Peewee was scornful. ‘Because they’re girls and we’re boys, dopey.’

A code of modesty prevailed during shearing which prevented the girls from bathing with the boys. When the adults came down the same process occurred — even if they were married.

‘Women to the right,’ Uncle Hone laughed, ‘and men to the left.’

Every now and then we heard giggles and splashes from the women upstream. Sometimes the water brought down swirls of soap. Once there were squeals of horror, followed by silence. A bra came floating down. Uncle Hone caught it in his fingers and lifted it up for all to see. It had hollows big enough to be used for teapots.

‘Hmmn,’ he said, tongue in cheek. ‘Must be Molly’s.’

When Uncle Hone went to return the bra, conspiratorial and offended silence greeted him. When he actually suggested it might be Good Golly Miss Molly’s, she slapped him. He had overstepped the mark.

The same code of modesty also meant that, although children could bathe nude, the adults had to cover themselves appropriately — shorts for men, and slips and bras for women. I was ten when my father said, ‘Put some shorts on, son.’ I had started growing hair in my groin.

The code had more to do with Mormon practice than with any Maori cultural attitude to the body. I have often wondered if this was why Mormons were so sexy. Even so, I found it astonishing to watch as my uncles and Dad waded in for a swim in their long underwear.

‘Gee, boy,’ they shivered, ‘this water is wet .’ They never seemed to like swimming as much as we did. ‘Too many eels in this river,’ they said. But they didn’t mind throwing white stones for us to dive after. Plop went the stone and splash , in we dived, following to see where it had dropped.

‘Throw us silver stones,’ we yelled, meaning shillings or half crowns. ‘We can’t see your stones any longer. Too dark down there.’

David and Benjamin were the best divers. Benjamin stayed under so long we thought he’d drown. Then, using the power of his legs, he kicked off from the bottom. As he leapt half out of the water he spurted from his mouth and flicked his head from side to side, spraying jets of liquid jewels. He was a Maori Poseidon, water streaming from his deltoids and runnelling down his chest.

Sometimes the shepherds came down and joined us. They were different from us, being without shame. It was astonishing to see their milk-white skin and the blond or red hair in their armpits and thighs — not to mention their you-know-whats. They lay down and started talking about women.

‘Well,’ Uncle Hone said whenever the talk started, ‘see you boys tomorrow.’

With a piercing whistle we alerted the women that it was time to go back up the track.

The tilly lamp was hissing, casting a white light throughout the room. Aunt Molly was playing Seven Hundred with Aunt Ruth, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Albie. Auntie Molly was calling ten no trumps. She loved putting her podgy hands on that bee-oo-tiful kitty in the middle. Uncle Albie was cross because he liked having the kitty too. He was calling ten no trumps as well. This was exactly what Aunt Molly wanted him to do. There was nothing better, if you didn’t have the kitty, than to take down the person who did.

Elsewhere in the room Glory, Peewee and Mackie were playing Chinese checkers. Haromi was being guarded from going out the door by Aunt Ruth. Much to Haromi’s disgust, David and Benjamin were both mooning over Frances, who had her nose buried in a True Confessions . Somebody should have told her that two birds in the hand were worth three in a bush. Uncle Hone and Uncle Sam were just finishing a game of chess. Uncle Sam had brought a wind-up gramophone to the shed, but only two records. One was ‘Hold That Tiger’ sung by Les Paul and Mary Ford. The other was a maudlin monologue, much in the rage, known as ‘The Deck of Cards’. The fire crackled and spat in the open grate. Then –

‘This black king,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘reminds me of Rupeni Poata, and this white king of our father. And these queens — ’ He held one up and then the other, ‘they’re like our mother and Maata. And this —’ he held up a bishop, ‘is Ngata.’

Throughout the 1930s Rupeni and Tamihana continued their battles for eminence. It soon became apparent to Apirana Ngata that in gifting Rupeni money to set up in shearing he had unwittingly expanded the arena of competition between two young men he greatly admired. Rupeni’s sporting reputation had won him many shearing contracts and he had quickly established as many gangs as Tamihana.

Ramona and Maata both tried to intervene, particularly when their children began to be embroiled in the competition. What concerned the women most was that whenever a Mahana and Poata gang met on the road they would fight.

Matters came to a head when one of our Mahana contracts, which Tamihana had been slow to renew, was stolen by Rupeni Poata.

‘If you can’t stand the heat,’ Rupeni laughed, ‘stay out of the kitchen.’

That remark started a battle royal in which the Mahanas and Whatus fought Rupeni and his sons boots and all. This was the first time that the eldest Poata sons, Caesar, Augie, Titus and Alexander, had fought Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone. Nobody won. The boys fought each other to a standstill.

Apirana Ngata heard about that fight. Enough was enough. On his way from Ruatoria to parliament in Wellington, he sent Tamihana and Rupeni each a message: ‘Meet me at the half-way point between both your villages. At the red suspension bridge.’

‘I was a teenager at the time,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘I remember that day like it was yesterday. Apirana Ngata and his private secretary were already at the bridge. When Dad approached him, Apirana refused to shake his hand. Then, from far off, was the cloud of dust made by Rupeni’s crowd. When Rupeni arrived, Ngata refused to shake his hand too.’

It was a hot day and Apirana Ngata was perspiring. He was furious at having to delay his trip to sort out two grown men who should have known better. He faced both Rupeni and Tamihana and shook his head when he saw the extent of the bruises and wounds among their sons.

‘I was the midwife for your venture,’ he said, and pointed to Tamihana. ‘And for yours,’ he said to Rupeni. ‘I made your lives for you, but I can break your lives also. The trouble is you’re both intent on doing it yourselves, so no need for me to waste my time, ne? But I don’t want any blood on my hands, and this is my solution.’