Kiwi Tracks (21 page)

We get out of the vehicle. Didi stays in the back, reading. Lani points behind us at the volcano. ‘Mananui Te Heuheu Tukino II’s bones were brought up the slopes of Tongariro to be buried there, to strengthen the claim of ownership of his tribe, the Ngati Tuwharetoa. He had become paramount chief because of his ability to lead and defend his people against tribes encroaching from the north, equipped with muskets obtained from the pakeha. When he successfully defended Ngati Tuwharetoa occupation of land in the Taupo–Tongariro area, he became the most influential and powerful leader in the interior of the North Island,’ Lani says proudly. I could easily imagine Lani himself as a paramount chief. ‘He was one of the principal Maori leaders who refused to put his mark to the Treaty of Waitangi.’

We walk over to the railing at the edge of the lookout point, and stare out at the huge volcanic caldera lake and rolling countryside all around us.

Lani continues his history lesson. ‘The chief was killed in a landslide and succeeded by his brother, Iwikau Te Heuheu, just
when Maori society was being destroyed by pressure for land sales from colonists, increase in diseases brought by the pakeha, and alcohol. To fight off any further colonisation here, the Maori reorganised themselves and accepted a Maori King, just as the British had a King, to lead them and stabilise internal Maori politics.’ He lifts a foot to rest it on the guardrail. ‘That is why this is called “King country”, not because of the British king. The pakeha reacted to this threat by confiscating two million acres of “rebel” land.’ He points to the west. ‘That’s Pukawa, where the Kingitangi Movement started. It was there that they decided to elect a Maori King.

‘Then Horonuku Te Heuheu, son of Mananui Te Heuheu Tukino II, took over as paramount chief after the death of his uncle Iwikau. Ngati Tuwharetoa warriors took part in the battle at Orakau. Three hundred Maori men, women and children fought off eighteen hundred British troops equipped with cavalry and artillery. That was our last successful fight against the British. After this, our loss of land was completed during the Land Wars. Instead of dealing with tribes, the British Native Land Act required the Native Land Court to individualise Maori land tenure, making it even easier for land purchase agents to buy from individual Maori owners. We had to confront the European system of land law, which changed the entire historical basis of Maori land ownership.’

The sun beats down on us. Wilma fetches soft drinks from the car and hands them around. Lani continues: ‘My grandfather used to tell me stories every night when I was a boy. When he was young, his father told him how the first pakeha, outnumbered by Maori, stayed in New Zealand on our terms. Then more traders, whalers, sealers and loggers arrived. Those early ties with the pakeha were increased and the balance was gone.’ He takes a drink before continuing. ‘Bit by bit, our Maori culture was lost. The traders slowly destroyed our society, especially with the changes brought about by the musket. The existing social balance among the Maori tribes disintegrated and the pakeha dominated, taking advantage of the new divisions among our people. That’s
why it was so easy to get weak Maori chiefs to sign the Treaty of Waitangi in 1840, setting Maori against Maori. Once the pakeha had the Treaty of Waitangi they used it to wipe out our people’s resistance. We had a choice: accept the pakeha way, or be destroyed. Sadly, Maori and pakeha cultures remain largely separate.’

He thinks for a while before turning to look at me, laughing. ‘Look, it could be a lot worse. At least we’re not totally dispossessed, like the Aborigines in Australia or the Indians in North or South America. Here in New Zealand, there has been a greater degree of integration of the indigenous people into the mainstream.’ He reflects before adding: ‘We have a lot to be grateful for now.’

He mulls that statement over for a while before continuing. ‘You know, we have an adopted son, a pakeha. He was bothered that he wasn’t dark-skinned like the Maori. One day when he was seven, he came home from school looking happy. He says to Wilma: “I know I am part Maori.” ’ Lani laughs, tears in his eyes. Wilma is smiling at the memory too. ‘ “How do you know?” Wilma asks him. “Because,” our son replies, “I have brown freckles.” ’

We get back into the vehicle. Didi is still sitting in the back, reading.

‘Does your adopted son still think he’s a Maori?’ I ask Lani.

Lani smiles. ‘He is twenty-one now and he is as much a Maori as any Maori. Even legally, he is a Maori.’ He turns around to ask Didi: ‘Does your brother think he is a Maori?’

‘Yeah,’ Didi replies, looking up briefly from his book to answer. ‘It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t born one.’

Lani starts the engine and we pull out onto the road. Out of nowhere, he asks me: ‘How close are you to nature?’

I reflect before replying. It is hard to answer without sounding corny. ‘Wherever I am, I don’t really feel myself unless I am close to nature. Through nature, I commune with myself, feel at peace and reach a higher spiritual level. A bit like some people probably feel going into a church.’ I look out the window as we drive over a bridge spanning a sparkling, turquoise river.
‘Sometimes, here in New Zealand, I have reached a level of being close to nature quite unlike anything I’ve felt before. Your rainforests are so thick with vegetation it is sometimes impossible to see anything that is not green and alive. Something about it, some kind of earth energy, makes my body and my spirit react. I feel a surge of happiness, as if my body knows that this dense forest, which has been around long before humankind, is what gives me life. Here in New Zealand’s nature there is nothing harmful to me, and I find myself in harmony. I always walk by myself, and sense this tranquillity within seconds of being in your bush.’ I stare out at some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever witnessed.

‘But you could easily vandalise what you’ve got here. You ruin the peacefulness of your nature with all those jet skis, jet boats, helicopters, planes, bungee jumping and flying foxes. You are very much like North Americans with their extreme sports. Perhaps my attitude is more that of a European, conserving a wilderness area as a haven of peace, rather than making it an adventure playground. I can see both perspectives, but personally, if I had a choice, I know what it would be.’

We continue skirting around the lake towards Taupo. It is midday and the wind bends the tall toitoi grass. The water of Lake Taupo is clear and flowing into it are some of the best trout rivers in the world. The snow-clad volcanic mountains serve as a backdrop, clearly visible at the other end of the lake. Taupo itself, the volcano, is not extinct. It is expected to blow again with blistering force.

Taupo the town is a hyperactive hive of adventure. We stop at an ice-cream parlour. Didi is wearing what Lani calls his arc-welder’s mask, but it is in fact a pair of fashionable wrap-around sunglasses. He accepts an ice-cream cone and wanders off to the computer store.

I feel I have established a friendship with Lani and Wilma in the drive here from National Park. I tell them, sincerely: ‘It’s been one of the highlights of my trip to New Zealand to have talked with you.’

‘Thanks for sharing your ideas with us. You’ve opened our eyes too, about jet boats and things. Maybe we need to reappraise our ideas about recreation and our environment,’ Lani says, genuinely.

When it is time for my bus to leave it seems perfectly natural and proper that we part ways by a traditional
hongi
. We have just spent some hours sharing our knowledge and the symbolic clunking of foreheads represents that exchange. I board the bus and wave goodbye to Lani, Wilma and Didi. In the space of only a few short hours, I have felt very close to them; it surprises me the level at which we communicated. Alone on the bus, I miss them already.

Rotorua was founded in 1880 for Europeans to enjoy the healing thermal waters and the fabled pink and white terraces, later destroyed by a volcanic eruption. It has a certain charm despite ample evidence of a flourishing tourism industry. I ignore the up-market accommodation along Fenton Street and take a room at one of the backpacker lodges, which has its own natural hot-spring tub.

The next morning, on a backpackers’ tourist bus, the driver/guide asks: ‘Where you from?’

‘Norway,’ I reply, changing nationalities to suit my mood.

‘Cool, sweet as,’ he says. He puts the bus, which has seen better days, into gear and we take off.

‘Welcome to Rotovegas, folks.’ He tells us a joke to warm us up. ‘A Kiwi goes to a farm in Australia and sees a sheep with its head stuck in the fence. The Kiwi comes up to the sheep from behind, and drops his pants and bang, bang, bang. Then the Kiwi turns to the Australian and says, “OK, now it’s your turn.” The Australian drops his pants and sticks his head in the fence.’

An Australian at the back of the bus yells: ‘That’s an Aussie joke about the Kiwis.’

‘Ah yeah? Well here, mate, it’s a Kiwi joke about the Aussies.’

‘Bloody upstart Kiwis,’ the Australian mutters, but loud enough so that half the bus can hear. ‘They do their big OE to Australia and they think they’ve seen the world.’

As we pull into the sulphurous area of town, the distinct rotten-egg odour of the thermal springs infiltrates the bus. The driver tells us, undoubtedly repeating a standard gag: ‘Rotorua is the only place in New Zealand where they thank you for farting.’

I am beginning to regret the decision to do the tourist thing. We are herded to Lady Knox geyser, which stands about two metres high, a perfect miniature volcano, exuding a trace of steam from the top. We wait expectantly, as if for the start of a TV show. A staff member dumps a kilo of soap bars down the geyser to break up the viscosity of the surface tension of the water table below. Within minutes, the geyser regurgitates suds; detergent perfumes the air as bubbles begin floating out of the opening. It performs like a trained circus animal, spouting steaming water ten metres into the air, right on cue. Then, suddenly, the show is over. The throng of tourists disappears, to board buses for the next scheduled natural attraction.

It’s easy to see how New Zealanders can adopt an anti-nuclear stance: the country is rich in power sources with massive potential for both hydro and thermal energy. Between Taupo and Rotorua alone, there are several hundred hot springs which the Maori have used to cook food for centuries.

Out of idle curiosity, on my way to the backpackers lodge, I stop in at a gun shop. The man behind the counter asks: ‘Can I help?’

I reply, ‘How can I get a hunting licence?’

He blinks at me, his eyes magnified by thick glasses. ‘You don’t need a hunting licence. You get a firearm licence and then you can buy as many guns and hunt whatever you want.’

‘So how do I get a firearm licence?’

‘Ask your wife,’ he says.

‘Ask my wife?’ I repeat.

‘Yeah. Bloody ridiculous isn’t it?’ he says, warming to me despite the fact that I am a foreigner asking such basic questions.
‘In this country, you ask your wife if you want to get a firearm licence.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘First, the police check to see if you’ve got a criminal record. Good on ’em. Now they also ask your wife if it’s all right with her if you have a firearm licence. What’s it to do with her if I’ve got a firearm licence? Well, ever since the battered housewives’ law, your wife has to agree for you to get a firearm licence.’ He blinks again, his blue eyes magnified out of all proportion to his face. It makes him look like an innocent cartoon character. He shakes his head. ‘She has to agree in case she feels threatened. If she says no to you getting a licence, the police won’t tell you why they refused you a licence, in case you beat the shit out of her.’ He thumps a tiny hand on the counter. ‘Bloody ridiculous, a man having to ask his wife for permission to get a gun. In Canada, Britain and even Australia, it’s getting harder to get a firearm licence. It’s a conspiracy. Did you know that?’ I shake my head in amazement, which he interprets as commiseration. ‘It’s the bloody UN or something. I heard some women’s group in the UN wants all privately owned firearms eliminated by the year 2000. They can’t do that here. They don’t know New Zealanders, if they think they can pull that one here. There’d be bloody civil war.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Gun owners in New Zealand?’ Blink. ‘Hand their guns in to the police?’ Blink. ‘Fuck ’em.’ Blink, blink. ‘There’d be civil war here for sure. We’d fight for the right to have firearms.’

Faxes have been coming through on his fax machine. There is a
Soldier of Fortune
magazine behind the counter. The telephone rings. He answers it and I take advantage to slip out before he tries to recruit me to his cause. I signal to him with extended thumb to my ear and pinkie waggling by my mouth that I will phone him later when he is not so busy organising the revolution.

Ducking into a nearby bookshop, I browse through the Outdoors section. Several books have variations on the title:
Bringing Home the Bacon
. The authors pose carrying bloody pigs on their backs or kneeling proudly beside dead boars, whose
mouths are held open with sticks to reveal pencil-thin tusks. There is a dreadful photo of a man astride a white-eyed, terrified hog, a dog pulling it by the bleeding nose and two more dogs chewing on its ears and hind legs. He is captured in black-and-white plunging a knife into the pig’s side. A whole shelf of authors, men and women, show the rest of us how to bring home the bacon the tough way.