I farewell Mr Ralston and enter the terminal building. The entrance door opens and closes behind me.
And I am suddenly amid the echoing sounds of people sitting and conversing with one another, and the staccato footsteps of passengers hurrying across the concourse. An airline pilot rushes past me, out through the doors to hail a taxi, and the wind blows in, disturbing a small shrub near the entrance. Inside a woman laughs as she walks by on stiletto heels heading for a first-class lounge. An unaccompanied minor clutches his toy truck and eyes me curiously.
A thousand destinies are in motion. Mine is one of them.
After our move to Crawford Road, my sisters’ and my life expanded fast. We may have been shuttling backwards and forwards between Te Ao Māori and Te Ao Pākehā, but what gave cohesion and unity, and centred us, was whakapapa.
It was yet another of those concepts I tried to explain to Jackson.
You see that word, papa, in it? That is a reference to the Earth Mother, Papatūānuku. So, whakapapa is a Māori genealogy that relates us not only to our kin but also to the layers of ancestry going back to her.
Got it, he said. Vertical metaphysics, impressive.
One day, Dad left his lunch behind when he went to the abattoir. Mum told me to carry it to him and, when Rīpeka asked if she could come along, I said okay.
She was taking Dad for granted, and one night earlier that week she had wrinkled her nose when he came back from work. Pooh, Dad, you stink.
No matter how much Mum rubbed his body with a lemon or with honey, Dad could never entirely remove the smell of the freezing works from his skin.
Mum also packed an extra lunch for Kōpua, who was the Widow Karaka’s eldest son. He was some six years older than me and was working side by side with Dad. Don’t you worry about this old fella, Kōpua had told Mum. Me and the younger boys look after him.
The freezing works, when it was first built, was reputed to have the largest brick façade in the southern hemisphere. Local people were very proud of the fact that it was one of the top five commercial abattoirs in the country, processing sheep and cattle which, sometimes, were herded or guided down Crawford Road and past our place. From the fence, it was exciting to watch the shepherds or cattle wranglers and their barking dogs doing the dusty work. Sometimes the flocks would be led by a Judas goat named Mary.
Don’t follow her! my sisters and I screamed at the sheep.
Didn’t they know Mary was leading them to their slaughter?
Rīpeka and I arrived at the freezing works. Children were not normally allowed into the precinct, but one of Dad’s mates, Bill Tamatea, knew me. He was dressed in the white boiler-suit, white apron and gumboots that were the traditional garb of the worker. He saw I was bringing Dad’s lunch and waved me through.
I don’t know where Papa Rongo is working today, he yelled over the noise of the bawling animals. Try the lower chain first. If he’s not there he’ll be working the upper chain.
Rīpeka held onto me tightly. So now she would see why Dad stank. Good.
Dad had begun as a knifehand but he was now a boss on the chain. I didn’t see him among the men supervising the killing or the knifehands processing the sheep. Their uniforms were splattered in blood.
He must be working with the cattle, I said to Rīpeka. There he is! The one making the Ringatū sign with his right hand.
The herd was moving along the track towards a man dressed entirely in white: overalls, apron, boots, headgear and white-rimmed face visor. The cattle were lowing softly, they knew they were going to die. The man held a gun in his hand and pressed it to the head of one of the beasts. He shot a metal rod into its skull, and it slumped. The carcass was hoisted onto hooks, bled out, and its various parts separated by electric saw.
My sister Rīpeka never forgot that moment. Our father … killing animals … having a quota to fill, sometimes up to two thousand beasts or sheep were processed daily. To be in the presence of such a mass dispatch of animals … was incomprehensible to her.
After we had given Dad his lunch and were walking home, I stopped and gave her a hug.
I don’t like Dad working in the slaughterhouse either, I told her. Gisborne might be the place for you and me, but not for Mum and Dad.
Can’t he stop that job? Get another one?
It’s not just that, Sis. Dad’s and Mum’s mātauranga Māori comes from Rongo, God of Agriculture and Peace. Gisborne is toxic to our parents. The sooner they can buy a farm and get out of here, the better. You understand now?
The desk clerk at the ticket counter looks up. Yes? May I help you?
My name’s Mahana. You’re holding a ticket for me. For the flight to Gisborne this afternoon.
What name did you say?
Mahana.
He checks a list, confirms the booking, issues a ticket, and checks my luggage in. Your flight departure time will be announced soon, he says before turning to assist the next person. His indifference separates us both, as great as the distance I must travel, as great as my loneliness.
I was thirteen when I started high school. In those days you were either in the A stream or the B. The A stream was the pathway to an academic career in professional life. The B stream was for … anyone else who didn’t have an academic record, or who had realised their life prospects were in the trades, workforce or military. Seeing the writing on the wall, most Māori students took the B stream. So did some girls whose parents believed education was not worth it for women and that their daughter’s sole goal in life was to get married.
The trouble was that entry into the A stream was not automatic. Your destiny depended on how well you had done at primary or intermediate schools; fair enough. But when push came to shove, my preference was to go into the A stream.
I don’t know if my experience reflected that of others, but I had to apply for consideration. The application asked the usual questions: name, address, father’s name, mother’s name … but then it started to play dirty: father’s profession, mother’s profession, father’s approximate annual income, religion, whether a parent was affiliated to any professional or charitable organisations blah blah blah.
I wrote all the required information down, sent the letter off … and waited. When the date came for the interview, I went along and sat waiting for the mihimihi in a room with other young men and women. The morning went by, I was not called. Came lunchtime and I asked the secretary when I would be seen. I sent my application in, I told her.
She looked doubtful but checked her file. Your application has been pre-assessed, she said. You’ll be entering 3B along with your other Māori friends.
It would have been easier to go with the flow. By my age most of my Māori mates couldn’t have cared less about being in the A stream or B stream. All they wanted to do was reach fifteen, when they could quit school and get a job. When Rīpeka came to high school after me, she was placed automatically in 3B and was happy about it. I’m with my friends, she told me. There’s only two Māori girls in 3A, but they’re brainboxes.
Her words were said with a hint of contempt. In those days, while Māori embraced Pākehā education they didn’t embrace Pākehā intellectualism. It was complicated.
However, as Dad had observed, I was not prepared to take their shit. So, I waited for my interview until, with a sigh of exasperation, the secretary said I could go in. She knew my case was hopeless.
Three men and one woman were seated at a long table. One was the headmaster of my prospective school. The other two men, from the look of their dress, were Anglican and Roman Catholic ministers. The woman probably represented some welfare league or other.
I took one of the three chairs facing them.
The questions began: Wouldn’t I prefer to be with my Māori friends? Yes. Then why do you want to be in 3A? Because I have a Pākehā friend who is going up and I am as good as Ian. Do you have any out-of-school activities that you go to, like Boy Scouts or Life Boys? No. Do you go to church regularly? Yes, I am Ringatū, and while we don’t have church every week, we say karakia daily. Do you take communion? We don’t practise communion. Does your father belong to any business or farmer associations? No. What about your mother? She looks after my four sisters and brother.
Clearly, I was not doing very well. I wasn’t being given the bum’s rush, but I was being written off. Then, suddenly, there was a commotion at the door, it swung open, and in walked Dad. He had come straight from the abattoir in his white freezing-works gear, the uniform of the men on the chain.
I was very proud of my dad that day he came to support me at the interview. He took the chair next to me and sat in it. With him he had brought the reek, blood and shit of his profession. He coughed and then he said:
Korōria ki Tō Ingoa Tapu.
Glory to Your Holy Name.
When he lifted his right hand and gave the sign, it came with a message: Back off my son.
Kei te tū ake ahau ki te kōrero, Dad continued as he stood to speak. I realise, sirs and madam, that you have probably had a very long day, but it could get a whole lot worse, that depends on you.
My father never raised his voice in anger but, on this particular day, there was an authority in the force of his words. I wasn’t the only one who was climbing up the ladder and improving myself. Dad’s ascendancy at the abattoir had brought him to the attention of local elders, and they asked him to go on to the marae committee of Poho-o-Rāwiri. He was able to leverage this position to the freezing works and they allowed him to do what he had always done: take meat parcels and other kai to the elderly and other Māori who weren’t making the transition to the city as well as us. His mother, Teria, who died during those Kaiti years, would have been proud of him.
Dad continued his kōrero to my interviewers:
I further apologise for not being properly dressed for this meeting. I lay that blame at my son’s feet, as he should have told me of this hui, but he has his own mind and is beginning to do too many things his own way. But perhaps that is the kind of plus you should be looking for in boys who seek higher education attainment. He is following your kawa now, your custom.
I looked at Dad: Sorry. How had he found out?
And I am embarrassed that I must be stinking out your room, he continued. Let me open the windows for you all, is that better? Now, to business. My son’s education is important to me and his mother and to Tama himself. It was the reason why we came to Gisborne to live. Will you accept my assurances, from one honest man to your committee, that we will do our best to keep him at school? And Tama will also give you assurances that he will do his best at school too? He is already on your ara.
Our what? the headmaster asked.
Your pathway, Dad answered. My wife and I brought him up on one ara according to our Ringatū principles of tikanga, kaupapa Māori and aroha ki te iwi. When he decided it was time for him to step on your pathway, which does not teach any of those things …
Dad stuck his wero, challenge, in and pushed it deep.
… Mum and I decided we must not stop him. Neither should you.
At the airport, I push my way through the crowd to the large electronic departures and arrivals board. Which gate will the plane to Gisborne leave from? I make a mental note of the number.
Going home … to await the mourners who will come to the tangihanga.
Perhaps Dad has sent his āhua to them also. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised that he came to see me. Spirits, my people say, always visit members of their whānau. Or maybe they send a sign, a harbinger. An owl to sit on a branch outside the house, or a bird trapped inside or an uncommon moth flitting against a window. Once the wairua has visited them, they will travel the long journey home.
The people don’t need anything else to get them packing a suitcase and travelling to Waituhi. Through calm or storm they will travel. In their minds they will already see Rongopai and Tawhiti Kaahu hill where the whānau dead are buried. They will journey like fireflies attracted to the light of the marae.
People will already be at Rongopai. The whānau will be preparing throughout the night for the tangi. The women will be sitting beside Dad where his casket has been carried.
Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e … Haere mai, haere mai …
Come to our dead. Come, welcome.
The tangi … the mourning for the dead. For three days, Dad will lie on the marae at Rongopai. My mother Earth will keep him warm, my whānau will weep for him. The stars and moon will circle once, twice, thrice … The sun will rise and set once, twice, thrice … then I will confront life beginning without Father. For on the morning of the next day, Dad will be buried in Papatūānuku, the Earth.
I’m on my way to the boarding area when I hear a voice calling me. Tama! Hey, Tama.
Through a gap in the crowd a figure emerges, dreadlocks flying, running toward me and laughing.
Kia ora, Bro, Kōpua yells, still as big and burly as ever. Long time no see, eh? I’m flying to Christchurch for a national meeting of Māori wardens. What about you?
I’m going back to Waituhi, I tell him.
Immediately Kōpua spills his voice across mine, asking about Mum, Dad and my sisters as if nothing has changed at home. I have to wait for a space to open up.
Dad died this morning, I tell him.
Kua mate tōu Pāpā?
Kōpua gives a cry of grief and, hearing it, I should have known the depth of his love for Dad. It comes to me, when he grabs me in a bear hug of an embrace, that Kōpua is the one who needs to be supported. He doesn’t care that we are in a crowded space, his spontaneous sadness can’t be contained.
We must carry the grief of others, as well as our own. Although it’s a burden of love, somehow we have to find the strength.
Papa Rongo taught me everything I know, Kōpua sobs. He encouraged me to apply to be a Māori warden. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice really; there weren’t that many young men my age who wanted to do the job. Patrol the streets acting on behalf of Māori. Answer calls relating to drunkenness or domestic violence or any other activity where the police might be called in and they could be charged. Make sure Māori didn’t end up before the judge.
I nod my head. I was there one day with Dad in the courts when he went to plead on behalf of a cousin who was up for assault and battery of his Pākehā employer who had docked his pay. Although the employer’s action was unlawful, my cousin was sent to prison for a year.
Kōpua begins to calm down. Now gone? Jeez, just last year he was still playing hockey. In the goal, sure, but not afraid to get in the way of the ball, eh. And always telling me my big mouth could get me in trouble. I almost talked myself into getting married a while ago.
That girl’s lucky, all right. You and your talk. The pain of it.
We laugh, but I am still sad.
Kia kaha, Tama, Kōpua says. I guess you’ll take over the farm now? If you need a hand, Cousin, you give me a yell. Don’t forget, eh? Don’t …
The loudspeaker crackles into life. A voice announces that the plane for Christchurch is about to depart. Kōpua becomes calm. I’ll do my business down there, he says. Then I’ll come to the tangi. Bloody hell, the old man’s died.
Some typically Cantabrian ladies look at him, offended. Sorry ladies, he smiles.
He gives me one final hug:
Ā, Bro, he sighs. Kua pouarutia ngā iwi o te motu nei. The tribes of the land are widowed.
I watch him as he walks across the tarmac, leaning into the wind.
My own flight to Gisborne is being called. Time for me to go to a smaller gate, where there are fewer people waiting to be checked in.
Ah well, kia hoki atu au ki te kāinga.
The afternoon is still very bright, I had forgotten how long the afternoons are at the end of winter. The sky like blue-grey silk.
The hostess at the gate lobby asks for my ticket, and I give it to her. As I pass her I am joined in the queue by another passenger.
Hello, Son …
The world takes a deep inward breath. And when it lets the breath out, the sigh of it is like mist on the air. Ka heke aku roimata, my tears are like falling water.
I had not expected to see my father a second time. Awkward, in his best sports jacket and hat. Is he really there, or is that only his reflection in the glass? I dare not look too closely, but I am tempted to wipe the mist away. If I do that, however, will Dad be there at all?
My heart is pounding. My sorrowing eyes are grieving, the tears brimming over.
I rub at the glass.
And Dad’s āhua emerges before me.
I know my words to him should be of gratitude but, as usual they are sarcastic and ill-judged:
Don’t you have a date somewhere else? Haven’t you got somewhere you’re supposed to be?
Āe, Son, he answers. But sundown must be three hours away at least, that karakia you made to Te Rā earlier really worked, eh! Plenty of time for me to get to Te Rēinga …
You mean you’ll pester me for three hours? You don’t even have a ticket for the plane.
Why do I need a ticket?
And I presume you want the seat next to me? What if it’s occupied?
That’s always been your trouble, Son. You think too much …
Go and pick on someone else, Dad. Let me grieve by myself. Go to Rīpeka. Or Mum. Or even Kōpua; you’ll just be able to make his flight. Go and sit by him.
I don’t really mean it. And Dad knows that I don’t.
He speaks to me tenderly: Don’t you want to spend time with your father?