Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Award award oh lord lord ord.

The teams were introduced. Poata One was on Stage 1. The Gregson gang was on Stage 2. Mahana was on Stage 3. At each announcement the teams ran out into the middle of the arena and bowed. The Gregsons had all been to the hairdressers and the shearers had shiny new equipment. The Poatas were spruced up too and they had woollen jackets given by a local sponsor. Then it was our turn. Same old rough-as-guts us.

‘E hika,’ Aunt Ruth whispered.

Under the arc lights we felt like ants being looked at from a microscope. Towering on all sides were the stands of people, hushed, waiting, filled to the brim. Every now and then a battery of flash bulbs would go off. We felt completely forlorn. Mum, I could tell, was just about ready to take off and run away from it all.

Good old bossy Aunt Sarah saved us. Seeing us standing there, so far away, she was moved to tears of pride. She stood up in her seat and let rip with a powerful karanga that soared through the darkness. The karanga told us how proud our people were, to remember that we were from Waituhi and to come forward now. Nani Mini Tupara, then Grandmother Ramona, joined her. Before we knew it, Mahana Four had slipped into a haka, moving forward under the arc lights like a travelling ope. Fearless. Commanding. Unafraid.

‘Ka mate ka mate ka ora ka ora

‘Ka mate ka mate ka ora ka ora —’

I felt so proud. Aunt Ruth was doing the pukana for all she was worth. Aunt Sephora, Aunt Miriam, Aunt Kate and Haromi were quivering their hands and stamping their feet, and when they advanced you knew you’d better look out. Uncle Hone, Uncle Matiu, Dad, Sam Whatu, David and Benjamin went out in an arrow formation to protect the women. They were gesticulating with what they were carrying — handpieces, broom handles, whatever. Peewee, Mackie and I brought up the rear. Oh yes, and Glory too, spitting and squealing her warning to all.

‘Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru nana nei whakawhiti te ra

‘A haupane! Kaupane! Haupane kaupane whiti te ra!’

And all of a sudden there was a wave of applause and people were calling out –

‘Come on the maroon!’ ‘Let it rip Auntie Ruth!’ ‘Rattle those dags, Glory!’

Before we knew it, the darkness was filled with people calling us by our names. People whom we wouldn’t have known from Adam. People who had been following our progress and saw in us something of themselves. Something to do with people who could come out of nowhere and try to get somewhere. Something about reaching for the unreachable, touching the stars with your fingertips, searching after an impossible dream.

The starter came out with his starter gun. Big jolly Uncle Hone, a lump in his throat, pulled his pants up and turned to us.

‘You know me,’ he said. ‘I leave the big speeches to Father or my older brothers.’

‘Kia kaha,’ we answered. At that moment we would have followed Uncle Hone to the end of the world.

‘Work cleanly,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about speeding. Those other fellas have it over on us when it comes to that. Mahana Four has always had a reputation for good work. I don’t care if we come last as long as we do a quality job. I have never been so proud of my family as at this moment.’

Uncle Hone did not know that microphones were picking up his speech and taking his words via radio to every listening household in the country. From somewhere far away the response came back. Wave after wave of acclamation.

The film crew was ready for action. All of a sudden lights blazed throughout the arena. Aunt Ruth did a double take and brought out dark glasses. Haromi primped her hair in readiness. Aunt Sephora smoothed her overalls. Dad, looking self-conscious, winked at Mum. I gave a special look to Glory, sitting on her stool waiting for the dags. The starter raised his pistol to the night sky.

‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ Aunt Ruth said, ‘doesn’t he know that God lives over there?’

She broke us up and made us laugh.

‘Are you ready?’ the starter asked.

Ready as we’ll ever be –

‘Are you steady!’

No, but that’s not going to stop –

The pistol cracked.

‘ Go !’

Peewee, Mackie and I had been born for this moment.

‘Hut!’ Peewee was yelling. ‘Hut!’

There were three judges, one at each of the stages. They sprang to action, watching the sheepos and taking notes on our sheep-handling skills. We pushed the one hundred and twenty-five sheep from the large back pen into the holding pens.

‘Get in there!’ Mackie was whistling.

The strategy was that I would fill Uncle Hone and Dad’s pens; Mackie and Peewee together would fill Uncle Matiu’s, Pani’s and Sam Whatu’s pens. Not until each pen had twenty-five sheep in it could the shearers begin. Our job was to try to give our shearers a head start, get them out front so that they could stay out front.

‘Come on, Molly!’ I was trying Uncle Hone’s trick out on the sheep, pushing them gently into the pens. Peewee was casting a look at how the other sheepos for Gregsons and Poata One were getting on. ‘Don’t bother about them!’ I called. But I couldn’t help sneaking a look myself. The Gregson sheepos were manhandling their sheep over the fences rather than pushing them through the gates. The Poatas were using small sticks to get the sheep through.

Ah well, each to his own technique. I had my own worries to think about. Getting twenty-five sheep in each pen was difficult. The count could easily be wrong.

‘Twenty-five in Pen 5!’ Mackie called.

‘Twenty-five in Pen 4!’ Peewee called.

‘Twenty-five in Pen 1!’ I called.

Already the Gregson and Poata One gangs had finished their counts. No, hang on, the judge over at the Poatas was raising a red flag to indicate their count was wrong!

‘Twenty-five in Pen 2!’ I called.

Finally, ‘Twenty-five in Pen 3!’ Peewee called.

The crowd was roaring. The Gregson shearers had started on their first sheep; we were just behind them and now the Poata shearers had started. However, the job for Peewee, Mackie and me wasn’t over yet. Not until one of the judges had checked our count could we let go our breath.

‘Well done, lads,’ he said.

Phew. But we still had to remain alert. Sometimes when the shearers came in for a sheep, another one would try to get out.

Oh look, that was happening over at the Gregsons! There was pandemonium on the Gregson board as the sheepos tried to catch the culprit and get it back into the shearer’s pen. I gave a look at our sheep.

We love you, Auntie Molly, we really do .

Now it was up to the shearers. The Gregson shearers were positively ripping through their first sheep. Now they were on to their second, rushing with a slam into their pens. The sheep kicked and baa-ed with fear under the arc lights. The Poata gang had drawn level with us. They were fast all right! No, wait , one of the shearers hadn’t quite clicked off his handpiece! It was buzzing like a wild thing out of control and clashing with the other handpieces.

As for us, Uncle Hone was shouting above the noise. ‘Just take it easy, boys. No need to look up at how the Gregsons and the Poatas are doing. Feel the rhythm. Concentrate on your own sheep. We’ve got a long way to go yet.’

‘We’ve got to increase the pace,’ Uncle Matiu shouted back. ‘Otherwise we’ll get too far behind.’ Uncle Hone simply smiled at him. ‘Bro, you do as I say or else —’

Oh it was good to see our shearers moving their handpieces through the sheep’s wool. Then one by one the sheep were going down the slide and our shearers were walking swiftly in to get their second.

Halfway through our second sheep the Gregsons were ahead and going for their third sheep. The Poatas too had pulled ahead of us. They caught up to the Gregsons, shearing neck and neck. The crowd was thrilled. But cries of ‘Tar!’ were going up on their stands.