Homage to Hone

A couple of years ago on one of my training courses, seeking advice from delegates about New Zealand literature, I was directed towards the work of Hone Tuwhare, a Maori poet who writes in English. I found some of his verse and was immediately struck by it. His were the first New Zealand poems I recommended for the Cambridge poetry anthology.

On Monday night, as part of the Auckland Festival, I attended Tuwhare, a musical celebration of his life and work. Rawiri Paratene (co-star of the film Whale Rider) narrated Tuwhare’s life, with quotations from reviews and from Tuwhare himself, interspersed with twelve poems each given a musical interpretation by a different key figure from the New Zealand music recording world. Hone Tuwhare himself was in attendance, at 84 a small, stooped slow figure, but with a cheerful grin and a bright eye. (The picture below shows him in his younger days). What was immediately impressive was the clear affectionate reverence in which he is held, first from the spontaneous ovation when he was guided to his seat in the stalls, then even louder and warmer, when he was formally introduced and stood to acknowledge the applause. It’s not what you would expect for a poet; I can’t imagine it even happening for Seamus Heaney at 84, but perhaps I’m wrong.

It was a fascinating evening, on the one hand because of the tale of his life from welder and boilermaker to literature doctorates, but also a view of New Zealand from a Maori perspective. The opening addresses were all in Maori, and welcomed the ‘home peoples’ first before getting their English translation. Interestingly, Hone was encouraged in English by his father and revelled in a formal elegance drawn from the King James Bible, to such an extent that he lost his fluency in Maori. As he got older, his work progressed, with an increasing political awareness and a change in the language and rhythms of his poetry, mixing the bar room with the biblical. His quoted thoughts on the creation and revision of poetry were interesting, saying that it can take him fifteen years to finish a poem, and never less than a fortnight. He likes to go back, to mull over, to try on different audiences, and have several different versions written on sheets around his work table. There is ‘no chemical formula’ for the ‘creative anarchic mind explosion’ that is a poem, he says. As he has gone on, he has included Maori references within his poems, but always with an explanation so that non-Maori readers are not excluded. A correspondence between him and The Listener was quoted, where he argued persuasively for the inclusion of his Maori glossary with his poems. His concern with Maori rights, particularly land rights, has also grown, and though his work is sometimes political, it is never tub-thumping. He dislikes, apparently, the grand political gesture.

The music varied. There were several pieces by Maori musicians, who had either adapted the poems to traditional Maori forms, or were part of the dreaded ‘fusion’ movement – Maori forms over synthesised dance beats. I’m afraid most of these, and the Maori badboy rap, left me cold, but others had a spine-tingling spiritual quality. There was a range of singer-songwriters who had set the poems, some of whom were very good, including Don McGlashan’s setting of the poem ‘Rain’ for voice, euphonium and piano. I had come across Don McGlashan before, as a staple of a number of Kiwi bands, and he also sang before the fireworks at the Festival opening ceremony. A Wellington guitarist/singer called Charlotte Yates, who actually wrote and produced the evening, was also very good. Festivities ended with a band I discovered on a CD case at the beach house at the weekend, being amused by the 70s throwback band photography and band name, Goldenhorse. Clearly they were the hottest act there, receiving a rapturous ovation and given the top slot, and they were pretty good as a band. I can’t comment on their treatment of the poem, though, as I couldn’t hear a word of it.

However, it was the end of the evening which created the key moment. With all the stars onstage, Charlotte Yates spoke about the process of creating the piece and thanked Hone Tuwhare for his agreement that they could use the words of his poems. As she was speaking, she was interrupted by one of the female Maori singers, who began, very gently, a traditional song, which was soon picked up by the other Maori singers on stage. Absolute silence fell on the auditorium, in one of those real lump-in-the-throat moments. The emotional significance of the song was captured immediately by the audience. I learned later that it was a waiata, a traditional song sung in response to a speech made about you, so the Maori singers were actually responding impromptu on Tuwhare’s behalf to what Charlotte Yates had been saying. It left her in tears and virtually unable to complete her thanks to the performers, and had created one of those key memorable performance moments, spontaneous and unbidden.

And while we are here, apologies to Tim – it was entirely my fault that he was omitted from the birthday roll the other week, and we hope that Deborah’s Mum is feeling better.

Volcanoes

First earthquakes, then… Fear not, this one erupted 600 years ago and is not expected to blow its top again. Today we took the ferry across to Rangitoto island, Auckland’s newest volcano (full name: Nga Rangi-i-totongia-a Tama-te-kapua, The days of the bleeding of Tama-te-kapua). It slopes perfectly up to its cone and is composed of nothing but lava, there are no streams and no soil. Nevertheless, it hosts New Zealand’s largest pohutukawa forest and has a unique microclimate and ground conditions which make its flora fascinating. After the introduced possums and wallabies were eliminated in the late twentieth century, it has become a reserve, giving a crucial foothold to native NZ flora and fauna, particularly birds. Having said that, Deborah was convinced that she saw some unidentified mammal as we descended at the end of the day, so we may have to let the conservation department know their job isn’t over yet.

Heat bounces off the lava, so it was a hot walk to the summit, but worth it to see the dramatic drop into the centre of the crater. The elevated position also gives great views of Auckland and the Hauraki Gulf, so we enjoyed the summit before retracing our steps back to the wharf. Once there, enjoyment was somewhat dampened by Louis cutting his foot on a shell (“Who would have thought the young boy had so much blood in him?”), but he survived manfully, enabling us to catch the last ferry back to the city, pick up the car and drive home.

And so, following requests for a photoshoot of our $300 beauty, here it is:

Waitangi Day Weekend

There has been a lot in the press about this weekend. One politician suggested that the Waitangi festival should be abandoned, and New Zealand Day be put in its stead. His argument was that Waitangi Day was racially divisive, and that New Zealand Day could be celebrated by everyone. One understands the basic premise, but it also seems to show a desire to wallpaper over history, and the idea of New Zealand Day being celebrated by everyone masks an erosion of Maori identity. The Maoris wanted to mark the day by flying the Maori national flag from the Auckland Harbour Bridge, but they were denied this by Transit, the organization in charge of roads, bridges and infrastructure, on the grounds that they only allow recognized national flags to fly, and the Maori flag is not a national flag. So at the weekend the Sri Lankan flag was flown for some reason, but the Maori flag cannot be. In addition, the New Zealand Americas Cup flag has been flown from the bridge, despite it not being a national flag. The latest was that the Maori flag was to be flown from One Tree Hill, but that was in some doubt, because of ‘resource permission’ for a flagpole. Being away from Auckland this weekend, I don’t know what eventually transpired. Meanwhile, there is a separate debate going on about the New Zealand flag, with people itching for a change. The current flag ‘only says we’re next to someone bigger’ according to one commentator. It seems to be too close to the Australian flag, and of course still carries the British Ensign. One article in the New Zealand Herald suggested that the best answer to the Harbour Bridge and the flag problem would be for New Zealand to scrap its current flag and embrace the Maori flag as the national flag. It was interesting, though, to follow all this debate in the newspaper without any pictorial representation of the flag in question, save for a crude black and white version in a cartoon. While generally New Zealand seems at ease with itself and its history, and so much of Maori culture is incorporated into New Zealand culture, there is clearly some thing still simmering there, on both sides.

This weekend we took off towards sacred Maori land at Rotorua, stopping for a break in Cambridge. No punts or spires, however. On arrival in Rotorua, we stopped at Kuirau Park for lunch, surrounded by steaming holes in the ground and bubbling mudpots. The first notable event, however, was nothing directly to do with geothermal events, but social. A party of Chinese tourists requested permission to be photographed with us, taking a particular liking to Louis. We ended up featuring in a procession of photographs, as the women took it in turns to pose with us, arms round an uncomfortable Conrad and a bemused Louis, who I think they would have taken with them, given half a chance. In between snaps we had an interesting conversation about New Zealand and worldwide travels. The lady who spoke fluent English was very well traveled – USA, Canada, Europe and New Zealand – and she pronounced NZ to be the most beautiful.

The large lake in the park was a steaming cauldron, adding a blast of heat to an already hot day. Visibility came and went with the steam shifting on the breeze, but when it caught you downwind, it was pretty smelly too, full of sulphurous rotten eggs. The milder whiffs were reminiscent of the aroma of chickpeas cooking, but the stronger ones were more difficult to stomach. Further on in the park there were covered thermal baths, rather like Roman baths in design, but smaller and only knee deep. These left you with pleasantly tingly lobster legs.

Lake Rotorua is pretty big, and seaplane and helicopter flights from it do a good business in aerial sightseeing. The planes buzz in just over the trees, while the choppers drop with uncanny accuracy onto a landing pad only inches bigger than the skids.

And the motel… One has to make a judgement from a booklet and a website, and trust to luck. Unless you are going to Rotorua after reading someone’s blog, in which case you would know not to stay at the Four Canoes. It boasts that it is the only Maori hotel/motel in Rotorua, and even has its own whare runanga (meeting house) in the grounds, but it has to be said it was fairly grotty. Not very roomy, and not very clean. The bedlinen was fine, but not too much time had been spent on cleaning the rooms themselves. In addition, we had the rooms right on the main road, so it was none too quiet either. We did see other that looked worse from the outside, but if going again I would seek alternative accommodation. Interesting to see, though, that the central heating runs on naturally hot water from the geothermal sources, though this facility was not one that we needed to try.

On our second day there we drove out to Wai-o-tapu, a large thermal area overseen by the Department of Conservation. It also features the Lady Knox geyser, which all the guidebooks informed us went off at 10.15 every day. Our surprise at this regularity, even taking into account the extra hour in summer time, was reduced when we discovered that it is in fact artificially induced at 10.15 every morning, which is a bit of a cheat, but it’s still pretty spectacular. They drop soap down it, and the bubbles alter the water pressure, then off she goes, high into the air. The arena was packed expectantly before the event, but within five minutes of the beginning of the eruption, most people had taken their photographs and gone. We hung on, to watch the vagaries of the jet and to see how long it lasted. It played games with us, seeming to putter out, then spurting forth once again. We were the last there an hour later and it was still sounding like a magnified toy traction engine and still frothing and spurting at intervals.

The colours of the rocks and water in the rest of the park, the odd landscapes, the heat, smell, boiling pools of mud and clouds of steam were absolutely fascinating. Beautiful and strange by turns, one could quite understand how it became a sacred area. A network of paths, boardwalks and bridges takes you over the entire site, with non-intrusive information boards here and there.

Back in Rotorua, Rosanna and I went to have a look at the huge whare runanga, but in retrospect we should have driven on to Whakatane that evening, as when we got there the following day, we discovered the swings and roundabouts of motel booking. This one too sounded attractive from its description, but the difference was that this one was – attractive, that is. Small and compact, pleasant rooms, run by a very pleasant couple, overlooking a native bush reserve, so that we woke in the morning to the sounds of birdsong rather than the roar of traffic. So, if going to Whakatane, I’d heartily recommend Amber Court Motel. But I am getting ahead of myself. We haven’t got there yet.

Whakatane is on the inlet where the Whakatane River meets the sea in the Bay of Plenty, so we had a cup of coffee down by the wharf and explored the little town, before driving out to Ohope Beach, round the corner in the Bay itself, a beach of several kilometers length. There we had great fun body surfing and swimming in the big waves, then racing tumbleweeds down the beach in the wind. Only after that did we drive back to Whakatane and discover the motel.

On Waitangi Day itself, we headed back to Auckland, traveling first up the Pacific Coast Highway around the Bay of Plenty, up to Mount Maunganui, a little town and mini-volcano mountain on the end of the landspit, giving fine views down the Bay and of Matakana Island. It was a bit of a trek in the heat, but we reached the summit, with its crater full of dead and growing tree ferns, then dropped down on the other side before heading back to the car.

This was the time the car chose to misbehave after its servicing – they had warned me that the engine at idle didn’t sound quite right. Plainly it resented being started up again, and resented even more dawdling in traffic, so decided to stall and leap about by turns, to the consternation of this driver and several others in the vicinity. Once out on the open road, it settled down again, and we sped back to Auckland without further mishap.

People, Brits and Kiwis alike, had warned us that NZ police are very hot on traffic offences, particularly parking the right way, speeding and stopping at stop signs, so we have been careful to obey the rule of the road. What we have discovered, though, is that the police may be alert, but Kiwi drivers generally aren’t, and we are regularly overtaken by speeding cars, even in restricted speed areas. The police are often seen though, by the sides of roads, with speed guns and the like. There is also a plethora of roadside signs warning motorists to cut their speed and have a rest, not all of them in the best taste. A magazine advert seen frequently features a tyre end-on, and the tread pattern gradually morphs into a brain on the right hand side. The caption says “Which sticks better to the road?” There are also plenty of battered old cars on the road, of which ours is just one. I’ve been asked for a photo of the car on the blog. At some stage, no doubt!

And meanwhile, England has beaten both Australia and New Zealand and improbably reached the finals of the one day tournament. Now there’s a surprise. Funny if they won it.

Rain Treaty

There are problems with living in what is virtually a rainforest. One is the forest, with tolling bellbirds and churring cicadas waking you up at 5 in the morning. The other is the rain.
When the rain seemed to have cleared, we walked though Paihia along the coast to the Waitangi Treaty grounds. This is where the Treaty was signed between the British Crown and the Maori tribes, giving birth to modern New Zealand. The ceremonial flagpole stands on a lawn overlooking the Bay of Islands and behind it stand the Treaty House and a Maori meeting house. Down on the beach is an immensely long Maori war canoe. The meeting house and the canoe are carved with traditional Maori figures, with skewed bulbous heads, paua shell eyes and grotesque expressions.

After lunch the plan was to walk through the mangroves to a waterfall, but the rain started again, so we headed home. The rain got heavier and heavier, wetter and wetter and it wasn’t long before we were all thoroughly soaked to the skin, necessitating the forward party to put on speed, reach the apartment, prepare towels and head out in the rescue vehicle.
This wasn’t really the plan when we booked to come here; we had in mind leisurely boat cruises and dolphins, with perhaps the odd vineyard and art gallery. Apparently the forecast for tomorrow isn’t great either…