The sea, the sand and the chief
When Brenda Ward goes on a roadtrip to the Bay of Islands, she rediscovers what it means to be a New Zealander.
This is not the Ma¯ori experience I expected. No kitschy souvenirs, no tourist traps. We are at Waitangi. The Ma¯ori guide stands proudly alone before the meeting house, wrapped in a wool cloak decorated with deep blue tui feathers. Young, she has the composure of someone much older. She speaks firmly. No-one moves. ‘‘You will be welcomed into the meeting house and one of you will represent the visitors here today, as your chief,’’ she says.
She scans the Japanese newlyweds, Germans, Kiwis, Brits with backpacks, an elderly Indian woman and her daughter, all squinting into the sun outside the Waitangi Treaty House.
‘‘Who will be your chief?’’ she demands. There is silence.
Just when the wait becomes unbearable, a tall tanned man steps forward. His frame is broad; his eyes thoughtful and he carries himself with an easy grace.
He looks her in eye: ‘‘I will!’’
The pair tread slowly as the door opens and a warrior steps out in a short wrap, his chest bare, as his companions keen and chant. There are intakes of breath, one woman gasps.
He calls, he leaps, he postures, he waves his ceremonial weapon threateningly. He prances so close to our ‘‘chief’’ that his flat-bladed taiaha swipes centimetres from his nose. I see his hair lift as it whistles past and I’m proud, but afraid for our chief. He never flinches.
Finally, the warrior places a leafy twig on the paving before our chief and faces him agape, his tongue rigid and eyes staring. And our hair stands on end.
Our chief stands. He waits. And in the silence, he bends to pick up the gift. This is the start of a spell-binding ceremony none of us will ever forget.
We file into the meeting house where our chief takes the seat of an honoured guest.
The chief must speak
We’re welcomed, then our chief must speak. The tall man unfolds from his chair and stands before the visitors. He pauses, and we fear he has stage-fright. But he is only pondering.
‘‘Thank you to our hosts, the Ma¯ori people of this place, for their hospitality, and to the God who gives us food, shelter and the treasures of this life. We are honoured to be here,’’ he says. He swallows.
‘‘And thank all of you, from around the world, for taking part in this special moment with me, because I have come to New Zealand after many years, to reconnect with my Ma¯ori ancestry and my people at this place.’’
His voice shakes, his eyes fill and the room is struck dumb with the power of these simple words. No-one moves. Tears fill my eyes too. After he has spoken, the performance is a whirlwind of music, dance and strength that sweeps us all up.
Later, I introduce myself as a writer and thank our chief for his powerful words. His name is Trent Masefield and he is originally from Auckland’s North Shore, but has been living in Australia since his mother took the family there to live when he was 14.
‘‘I had no choice but to go,’’ he tells us. ‘‘Kids don’t have a voice in these things.’’
He tells us he is part-Ma¯ori, with the blood of chiefs in his veins, and his ancestors lie in a cemetery near the Otiria Marae. One of the aunties has just died.
‘‘I got called back home and I knew I had to reconnect with my people and my past. I’m on my journey to find out my lineage. It’s a healing process. I have four children and they feel that Ma¯ori blood.’’
Lights of Paihia
Our arrival the day before was like magic: the road twirled elegantly around a headland and the lights of Paihia filled the windscreen with sparkling dots on the sea, and the twinkling fairy lights of open-air restaurants.
Rob at the Heritage Boutique Waterfront Suites was cheery when he