Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘Father,’ Uncle Hone answered, ‘we have to be in to win.’ All the families in Waituhi were feeling the pinch and had pinned their hopes on this shearing competition.

‘In?’

‘In the competition. If we don’t register we can’t compete.’

Grandfather stood up. ‘This is nonsense,’ he said. ‘I will hear no more of this. If the Wool Board want the Mahana family to compete, they can come to ask me.’

In the end his hand was forced. Rupeni Poata, who never stood on his dignity, made it clear that Hukareka would enter the competition.

On Friday night, the closing day for entries, the Mahana clan gathered at Waituhi and drove together to Gisborne to register for the Gisborne-East Coast provincial finals. The venue for registration was the city council chambers, and the mayor had decided to make an occasion of the event. He’d even organised a local orchestra to play oldtime songs just outside the signing area.

Outside the chambers, Grandfather took Grandmother Ramona’s hand, and arm in arm they walked up the entrance to where the mayor was waiting. Grandmother was wearing a hat with a veil covering her face.

‘How do you do, Tamihana,’ the mayor greeted him.

‘All this trouble just for me?’ Grandfather responded curtly. ‘Why didn’t you just nominate one of my gangs to represent the province?’

‘Are all of them entering?’ the mayor asked.

‘Yes.’

The forms were duly signed. The mayor kept talking to Grandfather until –

‘Ah, here he is,’ the mayor said.

Pulling up outside were Rupeni Poata and his family. It was clear that the mayor had arranged a publicity stunt. Rupeni, resplendent in pinstripe suit and with a white carnation in his hand, got out of his Buick with a radiant and proud Poppy.

‘I see,’ Rupeni Poata said when he reached the signing area, ‘that my old friend Bulibasha will be endeavouring to claim the prize.’ His tone was light, but Grandfather took it as a challenge. He stiffened and made ready to escort Grandmother out. At that moment a photographer from the Gisborne Herald called out –

‘Gentlemen, can we have a photograph?’

‘I wish you the best, Tamihana,’ Rupeni Poata said. He extended his hand in friendship. Grandfather had no option but to shake it. The flashbulb flashed .

‘Let us go,’ Grandfather said. He took Grandmother’s arm again.

Just as we were leaving, the wind lifted Grandmother’s veil so that we could see her pallid, grief-stricken features. The orchestra struck up another song. Until that moment Rupeni Poata had maintained his diplomacy and manners. The melody came soaring out of the violins.

— Ramona, I hear the mission bells above –

Oh no.

When I looked back, Rupeni Poata had regained his composure. Poppy by his side, he watched as we stepped into our cars and sped away into the night.

The next day’s edition of the Gisborne Herald carried the photograph of Grandfather shaking hands with Rupeni Poata on the front page. The accompanying report was headlined:

Friends wish each other well in Golden Fleece Competition

Pictured above are two of the best known Maori citizens in the district, Mr Rupeni Poata and Mr Tamihana Mahana. As a young man Mr Poata was a well-known sportsman and he and Mr Mahana were often pitted against each other. Their friendly rivalry will again take place when their shearing gangs compete for the Gisborne and East Coast Golden Fleece provincial finals …

The photograph showed a handsome Rupeni Poata and a scowling Bulibasha. You can just see my face peering between the two of them. Grandfather was annoyed that he was mentioned after Rupeni Poata and that it was Rupeni whose sporting exploits were mentioned.

No useful purpose will be served by describing the Gisborne and East Coast regional competitions in full, except to say that thirty gangs entered, including four from Mahana and three from Hukareka. The mayor was disappointed that not more teams had put themselves forward. His publicity stunt backfired. He had hoped that the photograph of the Mahanas and Poatas registering would encourage others. Instead, when other gangs saw we had both entered, they decided not to bother.

The shear-offs were held at the Gisborne Show Grounds. Grandfather’s entire energies went into supporting Mahana One. He had never seen Poata One shearing and, when he did so, he was alarmed at their speed. He began to crack his whip over the heads of Mahana One to encourage them to increase their speed too. Again, Grandfather was applying the age-old Mahana tactics — get out in front while you can, and stay out in front.

Public interest in the regional finals was so high that each shear-off was fully packed. Every Saturday for a month, cars and trucks turned in at the main entrance. Ticket sales increased as the regional semifinals approached. The competition appealed to the pride of the Gisborne and the East Coast citizenry — of course a Poverty Bay or East Coast team would win the coveted Golden Fleece award! After all, Gisborne was the home of the best shearers, wasn’t it?

Local bookmakers had a field day accepting bets on this shearing gang or that. The punters were favouring Poata One, Mahana One and the Lawson Syndicate, a Pakeha gang which had been specifically brought together for the competition. Suffice to say that in the finals the Lawson syndicate lost out to a Mahana and a Poata shearing gang.

Poata One, of course, led the field. Much to everyone’s surprise, however, it wasn’t Mahana One that won through but — wait for it — Mahana Four.

With the Gisborne and East Coast provincial finals behind us, the family gathered to celebrate at the homestead. The meeting was one of the largest ever. As always, the other patriarchs, Zebediah Whatu and Ihaka Mahana, were in attendance with their families. Then Grandfather Tamihana entered with Grandmother Ramona and the mood was shattered. Grandfather called Uncles Matiu, Maaka and Ruka forward into the middle of the floor.

‘I am very disappointed in my sons,’ he said. Disappointed? Grandfather was appalled that the gang to which he himself was attached had missed out. It was incomprehensible that the premier Mahana shearing gang should have lost.

Bulibasha stood up and looked down at his kneeling sons. None of them dared to look up at him. ‘What happened to you three? What happened to your shearing gangs, eh?’ His questions lashed out. Uncle Matiu flinched. ‘What happened to Mahana One! Mahana One is supposed to be the top gang. You should have been in the finals. Not Mahana Four.’

‘Ma te wa,’ Zebediah Whatu intervened. ‘It wasn’t entirely their fault. Who was to know that Mahana One and Mahana Two would draw to shear against each other in the first round? One knocked the other out. Then Mahana One had to face Mahana Three in the second heat. Same thing. The luck of the draw, Bulibasha.’

‘I don’t like luck,’ Grandfather thundered. ‘Luck isn’t going to help Mahana Four. What hope have they got against the top Poata team? Poata One is the best I’ve seen.’

The entire sitting room was startled at this admission.

‘All in the past, Bulibasha,’ Ihaka Mahana said. ‘At least we have a team in the finals.’

Grandfather Tamihana would not be pacified. He raised his left hand in a chopping motion.

‘I’m very disappointed. You’ve let me down. One of you should have got through. We should have two Mahana teams in the finals. All our best shearers are in your teams — our best wool classers, sheepos, the works. Instead Mahana Four must battle with Poata One. My constant foe is the front runner. There’s only one thing to do.’

Grandfather sat down on his throne and looked at each one of us in turn, staring us down, trying to impose his will. I would not turn away from his glance.