Ko te take o tenei hui, ko ukureretanga

Tony Hansen of Taranaki, delivering his mihi. Me squinting in the sun next to him.

My 'normal' sleeping pattern must be returning after shaking off the two hour earthly time shift  disjunction - otherwise known as jet lag. The trucks on relatively quiet State Highway 2 have started at 3:30am and the wind has turned a cold hauwhenua off the highlands near Rotorua. Quite the change from the āwhā that has been blowing for 2 days.

I'm awake, and thinking about our mahi just finished, with a new cuppla days chapter beginning at dawn.

"Have you been learning te reo?" someone kindly asked me.

No, I replied, but I know http://maoridictionary.co.nz/ and I have a good friend who has helped me.

(So, I respectfully ask the reader to refer to that Maori dictionary. Words are life and culture, and English translation does not always do the Maori way of thinking justice. But language and translation is the only poor cousin we have in the absence of growing up at the feet of a kaumatua).

Singing our waiata at the Festival pōwhiri

My whaikōrero at the opening pōwhiri of the Opotiki Ukulele Festival went so well. I was congratulated my many people, and others commented that our welcoming tangata whenua were most pleased with my mihi. As they say, in the old days, a pōwhiri was about deciding whether you would meet or eat the visitors. Thank goodness my mihi went well, for I was keen to settle down the bloke whose hands were shaking with visible anger. His wiri was calmed by our waiata.

As mentioned in the blog preceding this, it is the ukulele that has brought us here. That wee instrument and the music we create with it is a catalyst that gives us new experiences and new stories.

Welcome to the Torere Marae

Kiri, at home on her marae

Yesterday (Monday after the Opotiki Ukulele Festival) we were caught off guard. Quite a few Ukestralians had left, and were not able to make the planned pōwhiri to be welcomed onto the Torere Marae, the home of Kiri's ancestors. As it turns out, a tangi bumped our greeting ceremony, and so the Monday pōwhiri was cancelled.

You cannot (thankfully) predict death, and as we've found out many times at the bowling clubs we frequent in Newcastle, a wake takes priority over a ukulele jam session.

Nevertheless, we were able to visit Kiri's brother's property, and see her lands. About 30 of us hopped into 5-6 cars and drove to the boundary te whenua o Ngatai. I had a thrilling swim diving through the flying and floating pebbles of a massive shore break at Hawai (note the missing i). I was told later that no-one swims here. Too dangerous and lotsa sharks. Meh. I'm a Merewether boy. Kiri's hunter-extraordinaire nephew Matt watched me with wry bemusement. Is he ok? Kiri asked. Matt watched for a while...doesn't matter, he's the neighbouring tribe's problem now, he's floated across the boundary.

A large shore dump dwarfs me. Click photo

Prior to that personal challenge we all tentatively and uncomfortably gathered on the other side of the road from the marae, observing from afar. Kiri wandered across the road and spoke to Auntie Muriwai and we were welcomed to stand in the gateway on the same side of the road as the marae. Muriwai welcomed us, saying how unfortunate it was about the tangi bumping our pōwhiri, and the sadness their community was feeling about the passing of one of the iwi. She did mention that the tangi had not yet begun because a lot of the people were in Whakatane with the body.

Whilst this was happening an old bloke in a hi-vis orange vest was wandering around up near the marae house. Must be the maintenance man I thought. Muriwai walked up and chatted to him, and then they sat in the seat outside the marae house. Not just any seat. The seat. A shuffle of panicked whispering went around the group. They sat in the seat! Muriwai started to sing a karanga. It's on!

So we gathered into our pre-ordained order, women at the front, men at the back, and walked ceremonially up the path to the marae. One of our other members is also a Maori woman (as of course is Kiri), she started sobbing and was supported by her sister and a uke friend from her Australian home. The import of these ceremonies and the culture is so encompassing and present, and for the second time in the weekend I had to wipe away tears in relation to this aspect of our 'ukulele festival'.

Uncle Rangi (photo by Bob Beale)

When we got up to the front of the marae we sorta didn't know what we had to do. Back to those seats over there! Auntie Muriwai and Uncle Rangi (a very safe 40 metres away) gave us no clues as to what we should do, but Kiri and Matt tried to herd us pakeha cats into the appropriate protocol. Sit down! Sit down!

So we sat on the grass.

No! No! Get off the grass!!!! On the seats! John! Sam! Harry! Get off the grass! On the seats! Matt was whispering in an agitated voice.

Finally corralled into our seated order (men at the front, women at the back), Uncle Rangi began to speak in Maori.

Tena koutou, tena koutou, tena koutou kotoa.

As with any formal speech, it went on for a while, albeit this time in a language few of us understood. But it gave us time to come to our senses, and to recall what our obligations were as a visiting tribe.

Koha! More panic,... Koha?! Koha? The whispers go around the group. Has anyone brought in any money? Nope. Phones, cameras, no money. We have to put a koha on the other side of the path when we have finished our mihi!

Uh oh....

A mihi. That'd be me. Can I remember it? (No. No recall).

Hang on. My top pocket? Piece of paper. Oh. Phew. I just happen to be wearing the right unwashed shirt. It's there.

More whispering and furtive glances whilst Uncle Rangi continued - Hey Matt! (sitting next to me), I've got my mihi.

Kiri's nephew, Matt, on the path to the marae

Give me a look....

... That's really good! Do it!

And so, for the second time in our travels here, I deliver my mihi. And then I deliver the cobbled together koha from one or two people with wallets on person. Wrapped in an unsightly piece of scrap paper. I wander respectfully towards our opposing tribe, and gently place the koha on their side of the path. But we are not yet done.

Waiata.

This is where many ukulele players would come unstuck. I don't have my music! Or my lyrics... But here we were, spontaneous tourists with no ukes in hand.  More importantly, no-one has any sheet music or lyrics to look at. We just sang. Enough people knew the words to cover those who mumbled their way through. But they knew the tune. Without ukes or sheet music people just concentrated on singing, on feeling the song, on opening up and experiencing the gravity of this ceremony and our offerings. It was wonderful.

We don't have any worthwhile recordings of our waiata, but there is always this version, with a karanga.

Our cultural obligations complete, we lined up for the traditional post-pōwhiri hongi, and then as

Jane greets Ngaio as tangata whenua at the festival powhiri. Not quite a hongi, but close!

tangata whenua, we were granted a tour of the marae and the church. Nervous tangata whenua, but tangata whenua nevertheless. And other than the currency of folding stuff I placed on their side of the path, our currency was music. Waiata. Let's sing. If only there were more of it.

Rosina and Sue on Kiri's brother's back verandah.

Thanks to Tony Hansen from Taranaki for my mihi,

And to Sue, Jane, Penny and Bob for photos. And thank-you to Kiri Hata for welcoming us into her community and tangata whenua.