CHAPTER X. HOW WE LIVE IN OUR KAINGA
[Image of page 164]
CHAPTER X.
HOW WE LIVE IN OUR KAINGA.
To tell the truth we do not live very comfortably, but then, we have reasons which prevent our grumbling. Our dwelling house is composed of three adjoining raupo 1 whares, in one of which we sleep and eat, the centre one being the store, and the furthest the receptacle for unopened goods. We live chiefly on pork and salt meat and biscuit, and don't know what milk or fresh butter is. Our clothes are worth about twenty shillings the suit, and our beds consist of blankets laid on sticks stretched across a frame. So you have already some of the causes of our discomfort.
Jack and I (we are cousins) have been some time in the Maori trade, and a very fine business it is. We go on the principle of buying in the cheapest market, and selling in a very dear one. We dispose of our tobacco, prints, hair oil, blankets, &c., at a very fair profit; and when we buy corn, pigs, or potatoes for Auckland, we take care to beat the sellers down to the utmost; and then, pay them in "trade" which we have bought at auction for a mere song, and on which we naturally put our own price. Upon the whole I am sorry we are leaving off business; but people are so avaricious. Because we were doing well, others must needs come and set up an opposition--most demoralising this to the character of fair Maori traders--and as there is not room for two stores, as we are in honour bound not to reduce our
[Image of page 165]
prices, and as besides we have already pretty well cleared out all the cash of the place, and bought up everything the natives have to sell, Jack and I have concluded to have a shy at some other place.
Our kainga is situated in the centre of a half-moon forming a bay about five miles across from point to point of the abrupt cliffs of the promontories. The pa is built upon a slight rise, at the foot of which brawls a shallow stream which, flowing from the interior, bends to the right, and runs for about a mile parallel to the beach before meeting a mass of rock which turns it sharply towards the sea. Behind us, and on each side, rise high hills, clad with thick bush, sheltering us from southerly and westerly gales.
Pleasant it is on a fine summer day to lie on the sward, smoking the soothing pipe, gazing on the smooth bright face of the unruffled bay, and listening to the ceaseless whish, whish, and muttered thunder of the wavelets dashing themselves to foam on the steep shingly beach. Just at our back, and to either hand, on the flats at the foot of the surrounding heights are the numerous clearings which used to display plenteous crops of maize and potatoes, and gladden our eyes by a prospect promising well for our pockets; a few fishing canoes lie motionless out at sea; children paddle about in the stream; old women pass and repass, laden with heavy bundles of firewood; and mosquitoes and sandflies bite freely, and eventually drive us to seek shelter in the sea or in a shady pool of the stream. Now that is a resume of our daily life when not busy in the store.
Our pa is fortified in exact accordance with the most approved principles of Maori engineering, and although we were really in a blue funk whenever Te Kooti's name was mentioned, we bluster much about what we have done for the Government, and what we shall do again, when called upon to draw half-a-crown a day and rations.
[Image of page 166]
We are rather a noisy and talkative population, and will sit and discuss every subject under its every possible or impossible aspect.
A stranger--a white man--passes through and stops to give his horse a feed; at once some twenty or thirty people turn out, and squat down in all dignity, wrapping their blankets around them like so many Roman Consuls, smoke their vile burning torore (why they prefer that to our good strong black twist at 8s. the lb, I can't understand), and take notes of every gesture. Then in the evening the whole thing is gone over again. What the pakeha said, what he did, how he looked, what he ate and drank, all is repeated for the benefit of the unlucky wights who were deprived of the pleasure of the sight. We are a cleanly race outwardly, for old Hakaraia, our head chief, is supreme, and has issued orders that the kainga shall be kept clean; so, unlike most Maori villages, it would be difficult to find offal or refuse lying about in ours. Then constantly we go into the stream, and lather ourselves to a large extent; but this, of course, cannot be expected except through the summer. On the other hand, there are one or two little things, connected with the person, which make me doubt the absolute cleanliness of our fellow villagers. We are not very particular about our clothing, though on certain occasions most of us can turn out in riding trousers at 35s., shoes and coats; but our favourite costume by day or night is the blanket. When at work we use it as a kilt, and when walking, sitting, or lying down, we wrap ourselves up in it as if it were a virtue. We do a good deal of sleeping in the day time, consequently we talk constantly the whole night through, and are up betimes. When we go to bed we make up a big fire in the whare, roll ourselves up, close every possible aperture, and grunt or smoke ourselves to sleep in an atmosphere which, like the Strasbourg
[Image of page 167]
ovens, would give a goose the liver complaint. We work very hard--men, women, and children--in the sowing and reaping seasons; but these once passed, we have a holy repugnance to anything like labour. We like talking, we like sleeping, we like sitting down gazing into vacancy; we are fond of inane and indecent songs; we love gambling, and, without the pipe, our lives would be a blank. There is one other weakness I have not alluded to because it does not come every day within our reach, but, when we see a chance of getting at waipiro 2we don't stick at trifles. Our favourite game at cards is hipi, a kind of brag, at which we play for pins and matches; and, in the way of calculating amusements, we will beat at draughts the best player in Europe. Our musical talent is not highly developed; but we are great on that melodious instrument the Jew's harp, and we grunt away at hakas: occasionally we get hold of some English tune--say "Auld Lang Syne"--and distort it to suit our voices and ideas of melody. Our food is not very varied. Fish, potatoes, and kumeras constitute the staple; while luxuries are occasionally indulged in in the shape of rotten, corn or eels stewed in shark oil. We have heaps of pigs, but we sell them, and are too lazy to milk our cows. We hoard up carefully any money we have, are precious sharp at a bargain, and are very distrustful of every one. Amongst us there exists an individual called Matiu, whom Jack has christened "The inspector of Weights and Measures." When we first came he was always pottering about the store, and every day gaining information about our scales. Now that he is perfect in them, not a pound of sugar can be bought without his being brought up to ascertain that we weigh it out correctly, and he is particular to a hair's breadth. Talk of doing a Maori indeed! It would take three Armenians to swindle him; and an eastern pro-
[Image of page 168]
verb runs that it takes three Greeks to do an Armenian. What I like about the people of our kainga is their utter absence of shame in asking for things. Among them are a few "rangatiras," pretty well off; but even some of these will beg for anything they see like the veriest "taurekareka." 3 Old Hakaraia attended the other day a tangi down the coast over the remains of a cousin. He was of course much affected--snuffled and whined after the most approved fashion, and shed several pints of tears. The division of the property took place, and to his share fell a very smart sound whaleboat, complete; so up got the old man, and, enumerating the different degrees of relationship he stood in to the deceased, and his appreciation of his virtues, "tangied" again to such an extent, that another relation, affected at his extreme grief, presented him with a horse. "Ah! that's very well," quoth Hakaraia, "but what's the good of a horse without saddle and bridle?" These were brought brand-new from a store; and then the old humbug expatiated so largely on the hard-up state of his hapu that he got, in addition, a present of a whole lot of clothing; and didn't he grin with delight when he returned with his gifts?
Last Christmas he gave it out as his intention to abolish drunkenness, and it was arranged that neither he, nor the other rangatiras, nor the native policeman, were to enter the store by day, but he tipped us the wink to keep some decent liquor for the evening. We sold that day over twenty gallons of rum; and as fast as a fellow tumbled down he was lugged out by the policeman and tied to a flax bush. But didn't Hakaraia and the bobby make up in the evening for their enforced sobriety by day! Only the other day old Hakaraia came to Jack with a very grave face. It seems the garrison near us were getting up games, including a
[Image of page 169]
canoe race, and had sent down for subscriptions: "I don't mind putting my canoe in" says Hakaraia, "and paying the entrance fee; but if I subscribe to the races, and my canoe does not win, will my subscription be returned?"
Among our chief nuisances are dogs, --curs rather. They abound in our kainga, are inveterate thieves (and if we kill one there is the deuce of a shine), and growl, snap, and bark at all hours; they have made us pass many a sleepless night. We have spent an exhilarating day in doing nothing. Times being slack, perhaps we have sold a few shillings' worth of flour and tobacco; we have nothing to read, and we have talked over every possible topic; so we have gradually smoked ourselves to sleep, thankful that there is at last some occupation. All of a sudden a yelp is raised by a dreamy cur; and from every corner, from under the eaves of our whare, and from every hole about, an answering chorus arises prolonged in a hundred distinct howls. Gradually this sinks, and just as we are thanking our stars it's all over, some morose and discontented cur gravely stalks into the open, and, jealous of the repose enjoyed by his friends, opens his jaws and gives vent to a melancholy yelp. Instantly again commences the universal charivari, which is only quelled by leaping out of whare doors, and with many an "Ah--ta" and "D--n" discharging sticks and stones at the brutes. Talking of whare-doors, I don't think, now that I have lived in a Maori kainga, that I shall ever wonder at the phenomenon of the reel in the bottle. I dislocated every joint in my back bone before I properly understood the method of getting into a Maori whare. You first of all stoop down and bend forward, loosening your spinal process; then you put your right hip out of joint, advancing it into the whare, at the same time giving your neck a crick; you then make a violent shoot forward, and, if the whare's high enough, spring up
[Image of page 170]
and hear all your joints clicking back into their normal position. On one occasion Jack and I went a little way up country to buy produce, and were given a shake-down in a big whare where by chance I took up my berth underneath the window (an opening with a sliding wooden shutter). By and by men and women flocked in and a fire was lit: this was bad, but as I resisted every attempt to close the window it was endurable. I went to sleep, and had troubled dreams; I remember fancying I was in the black hole of Calcutta; then I imagined myself in a much hotter place; and lastly, I awoke with a choking sensation, perspiring at every pore, and panting for breath. All was dark, and the mephitic air was stifling; as soon as I regained partial consciousness, I felt for the shutter; it had been closed during my sleep; hastily I slid it back and thrust my head out. The best claret cup I ever drank after a long innings on a hot day was nothing as compared with that delicious draught of pure mountain air.
We have among us some half-castes, chiefly girls, who speak English pretty well. A few of them were educated in Auckland, but prove the old saw of "what's bred in the bone." They are as much Maori as the oldest waihine in the place, the only advantage they derive from their education being the doubtful one of being able to translate for ignorant visitors the very questionable conversations and songs going on. For we are by no manner of means a moral people, though outwardly most religious. Every morning at daybreak I am roused by the tinkle of the bell summoning the pa to Protestant and Catholic worship, and every evening the ceremony is repeated; while on Sunday the bell rings so often that I am reminded of the saturnalia of clangs at Oxford. But, these religious attendances notwithstanding, our talk and morals are of the loosest, with the exception of the married women who are rarely known to break their vows,
[Image of page 171]
Not far from us exists a military post; but, notwithstanding that we have much traffic with it, we are far too lazy to do anything to the road, though it leads by staircases up and down two high ranges. If a tree falls across the track we go round it even though it entails a steep ascent; but we don't care; it's only our horses who suffer. Poor beasts! we saddle them at two years old, ride them at full split along the level, push them up the steepest hill, and never consider a sore back. We are good riders too. With a strip of flax for a bridle, without any girths, and with the stirrup iron grasped between the toes, we go at full gallop and turn corners which would, under the same circumstances, shoot many a fox-hunter out of his seat. On these rough ponies of ours we are pretty expert at galloping after young stock, catching their tails, and twisting them over. On one occasion while getting in some beasts for us, the Maories got a heifer thus and tied her feet up. There she died. So Jack Maori immediately said he would eat her, as meat would make him very "maroro" (strong). There was an old tin lining to a box at hand, and on pieces of this bits of flesh were singed in the flames, and hastily devoured. Two white men were passing through that day, and, on our return to the pa, they thanked us for the fresh beef we had sent them. Jack looked at me, and I at Jack. "But," said one of the fellows, "I don't think it was properly bled; it tasted queerish." We saw at once what it was, and as soon as we could for laughing, told them they had partaken of a dead heifer. They rushed off, and in a quarter of an hour came back with very pale faces begging for a tot.
It is a very curious sight to see us performing hakas. 4 We, the Ngatikoreros, consider ourselves the best hakaing tribe on the coast, and we are constantly practising. Two or three young men or girls cannot sit down without presently
[Image of page 172]
going through the pantomimic gestures. Sometimes a Government swell visits us, and we give him a treat. Of course we have the war dance first of all after the inspection of arms, and this is more easily imagined than described. In fact, a genuine war dance is enough to shock the feelings of any one, and I have seen more than one which would frighten the most enthusiastic praiser of the noble savage. The haka is of course in many cases as bad; but in many others it simply consists of songs relating the deeds of departed ancestors, chorussed with a series of guttural intonations and accompanied by contortions of the body, quiverings of the hand, and distortions of the features. Many a time have I smoked my pipe in a large whare full of young fellows squatted down, stripped to the waist, the perspiration pouring off them from their exertions; every muscle quivering, and every motion of head, body, and arms carried to such precision that the whole seemed moved by one wire. In the claps of the hands, a frequent feature, the ear could distinguish but the one sound. One pretty haka they have, in which each performer holds a ball with a short piece of string attached, and the different motions given to it with great rapidity and in perfect time form a pleasing accompaniment to the monotonous dreary sing-song recital. At times the voice seems to proceed from the heels, it is so deep. As a rule, we are a graceful race in our gestures, and, as we have a language of signs, we hardly speak without an amount of gesticulation which would delight a Frenchman. Nothing can be more imposing than to see a tall, stout, elderly chief, robed in blankets and flowing shawls, which add so much to the human figure, impressing his ideas on his audience; occasionally as he gets excited and wishes to collect his thoughts, he runs forward a few paces, gives a series of leaps, repeating his last words, and then stalks back to his starting point to go on again. The worst of it is that, once
[Image of page 173]
speechifying begins, it goes on almost for ever, and the dignity and grace of the speakers are forgotten in the excess of loquacity. I have just been reminded of one period of our existence when it rained for a fortnight. We had but two books, --an old arithmetic and a Maori grammar; but there were lots of eggs. So all we had to do was to beat up an egg in rum, drink it, smoke and sleep for a few hours, and then repeat the dose. After a week we could not stand it and we tossed up for who should have a holiday; I won, and when I came back I found my cousin looking like a ghost. He swore he wouldn't pass such a time again for all the profits to be made out of the whole Maori nation. On the whole I must say that the days we spent in our kainga passed away miserably slowly; the only sport was pigeon or duck shooting, both tame work, as the ducks have to be stalked, and twenty pigeons can be got without stirring from under a tree; but in the season these are delicious eating, especially when they are feeding on miro berries, when they have a peculiar aromatic flavour. They are beautiful birds to look at, with their green and gold plumage, and they are nearly twice the size of the home pigeon. The red-billed pukeko makes very good soup, as rich as hare soup; and curlews in winter form a capital dish. We tried a shag once, burying the bird for three days, and it wasn't so bad. Our best fish are the tarakihi, patiki or sole, and whitebait. In June and July we devour the latter by the thousand, although we lack the lemon, the brown bread and butter, and the iced cup of the Trafalgar. I never could bring myself to shoot the pretty tuis (parson birds), though Pakeha-Maories aver them to be delicious, neither could I ever relish the brown kaka, the New Zealand parrot. One thing we have good, potatoes; and our method of cooking them in a hangi is first-rate; this is the way. Dig a hole in the ground, fill it up with dry sticks, set fire to them, and shovel on lots
[Image of page 174]
of small stones: these of course will get well heated, and, when they are hot enough, cover them with large dock leaves. On these you place your scraped potatoes, kumeras, pumpkins, or what not; cover these also carefully with leaves, on the whole pour a couple of gourds of water, and then heap on earth till not a jet of the steam thus generated by the red hot stones can escape. In forty-five minutes, dish up, and you will say that not even in the most potatophagous parts of Ireland have you ever had more "maly spuds." Of course in former days these hangis were occasionally made of a size sufficient to cook something more than potatoes, but that was on swell occasions only. However, I have seen a small porker prepared for the table in this way, and it was uncommonly nice.
As a conclusion I may say that our existence since our start in the Maori trade has been like Cowper's traveller-- "remote, melancholy, slow."
