Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Uncle Matiu was meticulous in setting out the history. In so doing he was saying, We must never forget even the smallest detail, for it has its role in maintaining our memory. This is what those monthly meetings were about — ensuring that we did not lose our memory, for otherwise we would also lose the understanding that in the beginning there had been only a dream.

‘Father Tamihana took that cheque to the Bank of New South Wales. The bank manager was Mr Stephen Watson who asked our father what he wanted to do with the money. Mr Watson said he would help by providing an additional £100 if this was required. He gave our father an interest-free loan for three months and he also gave him some valuable advice. This is why our family has continued to bank with the Bank of New South Wales. A business relationship must always be between two people who respect each other. We never forget our friends.’

Uncle Maaka coughed. It was his turn to take over the saga.

‘With that money our father contracted his brother Ihaka and his friend Zebediah Whatu to shear for the 1920 season. This is how the Whatu family became our partners in our shearing gangs. Our uncle and Zebediah both accepted the deal, and our father guaranteed a payment of £50 in advance and £5 for every hundred sheep shorn. Remember, these were the days when sheep were shorn with hand clippers.’

‘Our father,’ continued Uncle Ruka, ‘then asked our mother if she was well enough, having just had her fourth child, to be the fleeco. Our mother said, ‘Yes.’ She was the first fleeco and wool classer for the family. Wherever she went, we went.’

‘By then I was the baby,’ Aunt Ruth said.

‘And I was on the way to join my sister,’ Aunt Sarah interjected.

By this time I was being swept up with the story, laughing along with everyone else, especially since Aunt Sarah was so competitive and it was just like her to be chasing after her eldest sister.

‘My big brother Matiu was the first sheepo and he was helped by Maaka and Ruka who were then three and two years old,’ Uncle Hone said.

‘And me and Hone did the dags,’ Aunt Ruth continued, holding her nose.

‘So was the first family shearing gang formed. But that was just the beginning —’

‘Times were hard in the 1920s.’ Uncle Matiu took up the story again. ‘Farmers could not afford to squander their money on shearers like father Mahana whose work they didn’t know. He might be good at sport, but a shearer? So our father walked from farm to farm that winter, offering the services of our gang. Time after time he was turned away. Then he came across the station of Mr William Horsfield, who said that although money was tight, he would try our gang —’

‘Our father shook Mr Horsfield’s hand,’ Uncle Maaka continued, ‘but he made a bargain with him. He said, “Because times are difficult I will shear your sheep free for the first year on condition that you give me the contract to shear your sheep for the next three years and the option of renewal.” This was the advice that Mr Stephen Watson of the Bank of New South Wales had given him. Not to work year by year but always by contract and three years in advance. Nobody else was doing this in the district. Our father was the first.’

‘Mr Horsfield agreed,’ Uncle Ruka added. ‘He said, “You are either an honest man or a fool.” But he was so impressed that he told another farmer, Mr David Collinson, and he became the second farmer contracted on the same basis — one free year on condition of a three-year contract.’

‘So in 1920,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘our father began our family operation. He had managed to get seven contracts for the season. He, our mother, Uncle Ihaka and Zebediah Whatu walked to every shed. At each shed they worked free and they did quality shearing and quality classing. The work with hand clippers was long and hard. There was no room for error. At the end of that season our father went to pay Uncle Ihaka and Zebediah Whatu what had been agreed. But they shook their heads, saying, “Ka tika. We know that the money is running low. If you pay us what you promised, your own family will starve all the winter months. Let us share the money between our families so that we will be in a working position for next year.”’

‘So we all starved that winter,’ Zebediah Whatu laughed.

‘This is the second lesson,’ Uncle Matiu continued. ‘The Horsfield and the Collinson contracts are still ours and, over the years, we have had to take the good times with the bad. Some years we have accepted that they cannot pay us but we have still shorn their sheep.’

‘And,’ Uncle Maaka interrupted, waving to Zebediah Whatu, ‘the third lesson is that when you find a family like the Whatus, who are prepared to go hungry with you, treasure them. We will never forget what you did for us in 1920, Zebediah Whatu.’

There was a pause. Smiles were shared at the warmth of a common history. Zebediah Whatu tried to shrug it off but was deeply affected. He took out a huge handkerchief and blew his nose. Next to him his grandson, and my best friend, Andrew Whatu, grinned proudly.

‘Indeed,’ Uncle Matiu began again, ‘that winter was very bad and the £300 that our father had been given was used up entirely. So, with heavy heart, our father went to see Mr Stephen Watson to ask if his first repayment could be delayed. He said he would put up our family land as collateral. But Mr Watson simply answered, “Your integrity is the only collateral I need, Mr Mahana. You already have seven contracts for the next season and that will be collateral enough. You may have your extension.”’

‘Thus it was in 1921,’ Uncle Maaka said, ‘that our father was able to obtain the first income from his shearing operation. In that year he added another five farms to the contract because they had heard of his fair dealings and his quality of work. By 1923 he was able to pay the Bank of New South Wales and the Department of Native Affairs its first loan repayment. He remortgaged and bought a truck for the gang to get around in, Grandmother Ramona being pregnant again —’

‘This time with me,’ Uncle Ihaka said from the back. ‘And my brother here —’ he jabbed Aperahama, ‘wasn’t far behind either.’

‘By 1925,’ Uncle Ruka continued, ‘we had another three contracts and work assured for the three years to come. We were finally on our feet. Father paid off both loans, increased his gang to three shearers and added another fleeco. Eight of us children had been born and we helped at the sheds. Father’s brother, Ihaka, and Zebediah Whatu had also had children and they too joined the family gang.’

‘Then in the 1930s,’ Uncle Matiu concluded, ‘the four remaining children were born — Joshua, Sephora, Miriam and Esther — and Father Tamihana established a second shearing gang. By 1940 he had another two gangs operating. The gangs were known simply as Mahana One, Mahana Two, Mahana Three and Mahana Four. In the 1950s, Father vested their leadership in the four eldest sons, Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone. We were the largest shearing gang in Poverty Bay.’

The meeting ended in a rosy glow. But I couldn’t help muttering, ‘The only other gang as big as ours was Rupeni Poata’s of Hukareka.’

Dad clipped me over the ear. ‘You’re asking for trouble, boy,’ he said as we filed out of the homestead to our cars.

As if I cared. There was church to get through yet.

As with all things, the order in which the cars drove to church was prescribed by family ranking. Grandfather and Grandmother were in the first car, the De Soto, driven by Mohi; by virtue of being the eldest spinster daughter, Aunt Sephora accompanied them. Next were Uncle Matiu and his family in the latest model Jaguar; Maaka and his family in the latest model Chevrolet; Ruka and his family in the latest model Rover, and Hone and his family in the latest model Austin. Then came Aperahama and Ihaka, in second-hand Ford and Chevrolet respectively and who, because they had wives but no children, took my aunts Miriam and Esther. Last in the cavalcade was my father Joshua’s Pontiac, the oldest model of the lot, which had been Grandfather’s own car until traded in for the De Soto.