Witi Ihimaera - The Whale Rider

Sometimes, when you yourself are living life to the full, you forget that life elsewhere also continues to change like a chameleon. For instance, I used to marvel at the nationalism sweeping Papua New Guinea and the attempts by the Government to transplant national identity and customs onto the colonial face of the land. They were doing so despite an amazing set of difficulties: first, Papua New Guinea was fractionalised into hundreds of tribal groups and their language was spoken in a thousand different tongues; second, there were so many outside influences on Papua New Guinea’s inheritance, including their neighbours across the border in Irian Jaya; and, third, the new technology demanded that the people literally had to live ‘one thousand years in one lifetime’, from loincloth to the three-piece suit and computer knowledge in a simple step.

In many respects the parallels with the Maori in New Zealand were very close, except that we didn’t have to advance as many years in one lifetime. However, our journey was possibly more difficult because it had to be undertaken within European terms of acceptability. We were a minority and much of our progress was dependent on European goodwill. And there was no doubt that in New Zealand, just as in Papua New Guinea, our nationalism was also galvanising the people to become one Maori nation.

So it was that in Australia and Papua New Guinea I grew into an understanding of myself as a Maori and, I guess, was being prepared for my date with destiny. Whether it had anything to do with Kahu’s destiny, I don’t know, but just as I was maturing in my own understanding she too was moving closer and closer to that point where she was in the right place, at the right time, with the right understanding to accomplish the task which had been assigned to her. In this respect there is no doubt in my mind that she had always been the right person.

My brother Porourangi has always been a good letter writer and he kept me in touch with the affairs of the people at home. I could tell that his chiefly prestige was growing, his spirit, and I appreciated the chiefly kindliness he felt in wanting me to know that although I was far from the family I was not forgotten. Apparently Koro Apirana had now begun a second series of schools for the young people of the Coast. Our Koro had accepted that Porourangi would be ‘the one’ in our generation to carry on the leadership of the people, but he was still looking for ‘the one’ in the present generation. ‘He wants to find a young boy,’ Porourangi jested, ‘to pull the sword out of the stone, someone who has been marked by the Gods for the task. Nobody has so far been able to satisfy him.’ Then, in one of his letters, Porourangi made my heart leap with joy. Ana had told him it was about time that Kahu came back to stay in Whangara, with her and Porourangi.

Kahu was then six years old; Rehua’s mother had agreed and so Kahu returned. ‘Well,’ Porourangi wrote, ‘you should have seen us all having a cry at the bus stop. Kahu got off the bus and she has grown so much, you wouldn’t recognise her. Her first question, after all the hugging, was ‘Where’s Paka? Is Paka here?’ Nanny Flowers said he was fishing, so she waited and waited all day down at the beach for him. When he came in, she leapt into his arms. But you know our Koro, as gruff as usual. Still, it is really good to have Kahu home.’

In his later letters Porourangi wrote about the problems he felt were facing the Maori people. He had gone with Koro Apirana to Raukawa country and had been very impressed with the way in which Raukawa was organising its youth resources to be in a position to help the people in the century beginning with the year 2000. ‘Will we be ready?’ he asked. ‘Will we have prepared the people to cope with the new challenges and the new technology? And will they still be Maori?’ I could tell that the last question was weighing heavily on his mind. In this respect we both recognised that the answer lay in Koro Apirana’s persistence with the school sessions, for he was one of the very few who could pass on the sacred knowledge, to us. Our Koro was like an old whale stranded in an alien present, but that was how it was supposed to be because he also had his role in the pattern of things, in the tides of the future.

Near the middle of our second year in Papua New Guinea Jeff and I could afford to relax a little. We took trips to Manus Island and it was there that Jeff put into words the thoughts that had been on my mind for some months.

‘You’re getting homesick, aren’t you Rawiri?’ he said.

We had been diving in the lagoon, and in that wondrous blue water, I had picked up a shining silver shell from the reef. I had taken it back to the beach and was listening to the sea whispering to me from the shell’s silver whorls.

‘A little,’ I replied. Many things were coming to a head for me on the plantation, and I wanted to avoid a collision. Jeff and I were getting along okay but his parents were pushing him ever so gently in the right direction, to consort with his own kind in the clubs and all the parties of the aggressively expatriate. On my part, this had thrown me more into the company of the ‘natives’, like Bernard who had more degrees than Clara had chins, and Joshua, who both worked on the farm. In so doing I had broken a cardinal rule and my punishment was ostracism.

‘We’ve come a long way together,’ Jeff said.

‘We sure have,’ I laughed. ‘And there’s still a way to go yet.’

Then Jeff said, ‘I want to thank you. For everything. But if you have to go, I’ll understand.’

I smiled at him, reflectively. I placed the shell back to my ear. Hoki mai, hoki mai ki te wa kainga , the sea whispered, come home .

Jeff and I returned to the plantation the next day. There was a letter waiting from Porourangi. Ana was expecting a baby, and the whole family were hoping that the child would be a son. ‘Of all of us,’ Porourangi wrote, ‘Kahu seems to be the most excited. Koro Apirana, too, is over the moon.’

The letter had the effect of making me realise how much time had passed since I had been in the company of my whanau, and I felt a sudden keenness, like pincers squeezing my heart, to hold them all in my arms. Hoki mai, hoki mai. Come home .

Then three events occurred which convinced me that I should be homeward bound. The first happened when Jeff and his parents were invited to a reception hosted in Port Moresby for a young expatriate couple who’d just been wed. At first Clara’s assumption was that I would stay back and look after the plantation, but Jeff said I was ‘one of the family’ and insisted I accompany them. Clara made it perfectly obvious that she was embarrassed by my presence and I was very saddened, at the reception, to hear her say to another guest, ‘He’s a friend of Jeff’s. You know our Jeff, always bringing home dogs and strays. But at least he’s not a native.’ Her laughter glittered like knives.

But that was only harbinger to the tragedy which took place when we returned to Mount Hagen. We had parked the station wagon at the airport and were driving home to the plantation. Jeff was at the wheel. We were all of us in a merry mood. The road was silver with moonlight. Suddenly, in front of us, I saw a man walking along the verge. I thought Jeff had seen him too and would move over to the middle of the road to pass him. But Jeff kept the station wagon pointed straight ahead.

The man turned. His arms came up, as if he was trying to defend himself. The front bumper crunched into his thighs and legs and he was catapulted into the windscreen which smashed into a thousand fragments. Jeff braked. The glass was suddenly splashed with blood. I saw a body being thrown ten metres to smash on the road. In the headlights and steam, the body moved. Clara screamed. Tom said, ‘Oh my God.’