A touch of reality in Ruato¯ria
Bobbie McKay, ‘a Pa¯keha¯ kid from the North Shore’, relives golden days in a place where te reo galloped past on horseback and placed orders at the Kai Kart.
It’s possible that most of this story is fibs. Then again, maybe it’s not. It’s genuinely difficult to separate the parts polished by family legend from the truth.
Ruato¯ ria itself, the backdrop to the fibs, is a place that doesn’t seem entirely real.
When I picture it in my mind, it’s always in technicolour.
In the late-80s, Ruato¯ ria had a PR problem.
The Rastafarian community was at war with the locals, a police officer had been kidnapped and several buildings, including a marae, had been torched. The most enterprising salesperson would have had difficulty putting a spin on events. Understandably, this had an impact on the tourist industry.
It was around this time we first went camping there.
Tu¯ pa¯ roa Beach was once a thriving coastal town with two hotels and a post office. All that remained was endless sand and rugged cliffs.
But what on Earth do you see in the place? Isn’t it dangerous?
At the time, my dad rocked an impressive moustache. We travelled with two large German shepherds. We found out later that everyone thought he was an undercover cop, albeit one that patrolled the beach in white speedos.
This may have influenced our experience, but the lasting impression I have is of being protected.
We camped beside the beach, until a local farmer invited us onto his land – beside a running stream in a golden valley.
Returning from sea, local fishermen handed us sacks of crays from their tractors.
We became connoisseurs of the hard-shelled delicacies but, without a fridge, speed was of the essence. We stopped sucking the meat from the antennae. Why bother when there were so many juicy tails? Finally, when we couldn’t face another crayfish, we buried the remaining carcasses.
It’s still considered one of our most sinful acts as a family. Don’t judge us.
Courtesy of his time teaching in Northland, my uncle was fluent in Ma¯ ori.
But I was a Pa¯ keha¯ kid from the North Shore.
At school, our wellintentioned teachers gave us a grounding in Ma¯ ori culture.
They taught us poi, showing us how to bounce the recycled bread bags off our palms.
We learned our vowels and butchered ‘‘kee-ora’’, but didn’t have anyone to ko¯ rero with.
In Ruato¯ ria, te reo galloped past on horseback. It placed orders at the Kai Kart.
Accompanied by raucous guffaws, it beamed across the airwaves.
Our summer was narrated by Radio Nga¯ ti Porou.
In certain spots, the station lurched into range, filling the car with its limited musical collection. Lionel Ritchie’s Three Times a Lady was on high rotation, as was Elaine Page’s I Know Him So Well.
And now for the weather forecast, began one promising broadcast. ‘‘I am looking out the window and the weather is fine.’’
Dad couldn’t resist a nosey. Dropping in to say gidday, he found the staff brainstorming for a new sponsor. The news that a ‘‘fancy Auckland ad joker’’ was in the building wasn’t going to be passed up.
He emerged some time later, having penned a series of radio commercials and clutching his payment – Radio Nga¯ ti Porou T-shirts in assorted sizes. He reckoned he’d won the deal.
The rugged East Coast landscape has produced some vast personalities, among them George Ne¯pia, A¯ pirana Ngata and Colonel Awatere, hero of the Ma¯ ori Battalion. The Colonel’s windswept grave was at the top of the hill beside our campsite.
One morning, as one of his elderly visitors passed our tent, he invited us to dinner.
Judging by my parents’ reaction, we had been summoned by royalty.
That evening, scrubbed as clean as the creek would allow, we drove along the beach, hastily prepared sardine entrees sliding across plastic plates.
The man greeted us on his sagging balcony.
Inside, candles flickered in glass jars. I must have known enough not to comment on the dirt floor, although mum’s heart was surely in her mouth.
On the wall, a sepia portrait of two Ma¯ ori men in uniform grinning at the camera.
The man turned his attention to me. ‘‘What about you then? Do you know any songs?’’
I nodded. I had a song. Tu¯ tira Mai had been drilled into us at school.
‘‘Let’s hear it then.’’ Sitting on my hands, I belted it out as best I could. The last bit was the best, normally reserved for the boys, but it was too raucous to let them have it to themselves.
Then silence. Had I butchered it?
‘‘Do you know what it means?’’ he asked.
I shook my head. Stupid to have learned the words but have no idea what you were singing.
Slowly, translating as he went, he began to sing in English.
‘‘Line up together . . .’’
His voice was rich and deep, mesmerising. ‘‘...allofus,allofus...’’
He hunted for the words.
‘‘ . . .seek truth and love for others . . .be as one.’’
He paused.
‘‘Now the best bit, aye!’’ I knew what was coming. Our voices joined together to bellow out the ending.
‘‘Hi aue hei!!’’
He winked.
‘‘Ka pai, little girl. Ka pai.’’
That evening, scrubbed as clean as the creek would allow, we drove along the beach, hastily prepared sardine entrees sliding across plastic plates.