As Pete and I drove down the road to Paihia it was with some vague notion of having a wander around the beach and grabbing some lunch. We had booked a sea kayaking trip in the late afternoon. What we found instead was a sea of people and signs and posters pointing to the Waitangi Day celebrations. Parking in one of the designated car parks we had little option but to join the throng as we wondered what the hell was going on. If it was some sort of Maori car boot sale then it was a big one.
Waitangi Day has been commemorated since 1947 and became a national holiday in 1974. But just as I had discovered with Australia Day two weeks earlier it was not a cause for celebration by every resident.
Along the beach traditional war canoes, manned by tattooed Maoris in tribal costumes, beat their way over the waves to challenge a frigate of the New Zealand Navy that was anchored off-shore. On the other side of the road a large field was full of stalls selling all kinds of foods, T shirts and handicrafts. Pete and I grabbed some fast food and a few thirst quenching drinks and then did something that was to prove controversial.
By now we had grasped the fact that we were in the midst of an important celebration and it seemed that the heart of activities was to be found further down the road, on the small outcrop of land where the Treaty House was situated. Between us and the celebrations there was a river, crossed by a bridge that was just about wide enough to let one car across at a time. There was a mass of people on the bridge, some carrying banners and most of them chanting something in Maori. Since there was no other way to get to the where we wanted to be Pete and I joined the crowd and got swept along. Luckily they were going the same way as us. On the bridge I noticed we were being filmed by several camera crews and it dawned on me that we weren’t just ambling over a bridge. We had become part of a protest march.
I fell in step behind a couple of mothers with pushchairs and even when we were off the bridge I was very happy to be part of this band of determined and vociferous marchers. Beside me there was a Maori lady who can’t have been above five feet tall. She wore a fluorescent bib over some kind of Community Warden’s uniform and was clearly there to act as a steward and not as a protester.
‘What are we doing?’ I asked the mini-warden.
‘It’s a special day,’ she replied. ‘On this day the people are allowed to march and air their grievances.’
‘What are they protesting about?’
‘They want change. To put right the wrongs.’
‘What do they want to change?’ I asked. If a man is going to protest it only seems reasonable that he should know what he is protesting about.
‘Lots of things.’
I tried a more direct approach.
‘Okay. So what do you want to change?’
The warden thought for a second and then replied:
‘To be honest, I’m sick of change.’
For a few years after 1840 the treaty worked well. But as more and more settlers arrived so the demand for land increased. Crown land agents purchased Maori land and often used dubious means to do so. Transactions were further complicated by the fact that in Maori culture there was communal, not individual ownership of land. By 1864, 34 million acres of Maori land in the South Island had been purchased for £14,750. That is less than one penny per acre. The Maori now owned only a thousandth of their original land on South Island.
During this time there was also a shift in power as the New Zealand Government was created, but allowed only four seats for Maori representation.
In the North Island in the 1860’s and early 1870’s the government used force to break resistance to land sales and confiscations.
Disputes over land continue to this day and are settled by the Waitangi Tribunal, which was established in 1975 to investigate both historic and contemporary disputes over breaches in the Waitangi Treaty by the British Crown.
Although we did not know it, when Pete and I joined the march we were taking part in a Maori tradition of protest over civil rights and land loss that goes back to nineteenth century. In 1882 a Maori delegation even travelled to England to appeal to Queen Victoria personally. Vicky was not amused and told them to go home and deal the government of the day.
I realise that as a tourist I probably attained a biased view of Maori culture. One that is marketed and promoted by the tourist industry. During our stay Pete and I were greeted with warmth and friendship wherever we went by people of all backgrounds. But the Maori people earned a special place in my affections. Their adherence to their culture and traditions gained my respect and admiration.
There was nothing touristy about the protest march. Indeed, I’m sure it is something the tourist board would have rather did not take place. At the time I found it amusing for a law abiding citizen such as myself to take part in a political protest. Knowing how police forces work, I am sure that some of those cameras pointed at me were owned by Special Branch and my ugly mug shot is now filed on a police computer.
I was proud to have taken part in that march, and as Pete and I continued our tour we would often mention what we did to people we encountered by way of an amusing anecdote. Often, though, our jolly tale would be met with harsh words and a hint of hostility. One elderly white lady even told me:
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ She then went on to tell me an anecdote of her own that revealed a troubling point of view.
‘The Maoris are always complaining about land loss. There was a lovely golf club that had taken years to build. The greens were beautiful. But the Maori complained that it was on tribal land. So the golf club reached a settlement. They built another golf course and the Maoris took ownership of the land. They let it go to ruin. Weeds and bushes everywhere. It was heartbreaking. I wouldn’t mind, but the Maoris don’t even play golf.’
Waitangi Day has been commemorated since 1947 and became a national holiday in 1974. But just as I had discovered with Australia Day two weeks earlier it was not a cause for celebration by every resident.
Along the beach traditional war canoes, manned by tattooed Maoris in tribal costumes, beat their way over the waves to challenge a frigate of the New Zealand Navy that was anchored off-shore. On the other side of the road a large field was full of stalls selling all kinds of foods, T shirts and handicrafts. Pete and I grabbed some fast food and a few thirst quenching drinks and then did something that was to prove controversial.
By now we had grasped the fact that we were in the midst of an important celebration and it seemed that the heart of activities was to be found further down the road, on the small outcrop of land where the Treaty House was situated. Between us and the celebrations there was a river, crossed by a bridge that was just about wide enough to let one car across at a time. There was a mass of people on the bridge, some carrying banners and most of them chanting something in Maori. Since there was no other way to get to the where we wanted to be Pete and I joined the crowd and got swept along. Luckily they were going the same way as us. On the bridge I noticed we were being filmed by several camera crews and it dawned on me that we weren’t just ambling over a bridge. We had become part of a protest march.
I fell in step behind a couple of mothers with pushchairs and even when we were off the bridge I was very happy to be part of this band of determined and vociferous marchers. Beside me there was a Maori lady who can’t have been above five feet tall. She wore a fluorescent bib over some kind of Community Warden’s uniform and was clearly there to act as a steward and not as a protester.
‘What are we doing?’ I asked the mini-warden.
‘It’s a special day,’ she replied. ‘On this day the people are allowed to march and air their grievances.’
‘What are they protesting about?’
‘They want change. To put right the wrongs.’
‘What do they want to change?’ I asked. If a man is going to protest it only seems reasonable that he should know what he is protesting about.
‘Lots of things.’
I tried a more direct approach.
‘Okay. So what do you want to change?’
The warden thought for a second and then replied:
‘To be honest, I’m sick of change.’
For a few years after 1840 the treaty worked well. But as more and more settlers arrived so the demand for land increased. Crown land agents purchased Maori land and often used dubious means to do so. Transactions were further complicated by the fact that in Maori culture there was communal, not individual ownership of land. By 1864, 34 million acres of Maori land in the South Island had been purchased for £14,750. That is less than one penny per acre. The Maori now owned only a thousandth of their original land on South Island.
During this time there was also a shift in power as the New Zealand Government was created, but allowed only four seats for Maori representation.
In the North Island in the 1860’s and early 1870’s the government used force to break resistance to land sales and confiscations.
Disputes over land continue to this day and are settled by the Waitangi Tribunal, which was established in 1975 to investigate both historic and contemporary disputes over breaches in the Waitangi Treaty by the British Crown.
Although we did not know it, when Pete and I joined the march we were taking part in a Maori tradition of protest over civil rights and land loss that goes back to nineteenth century. In 1882 a Maori delegation even travelled to England to appeal to Queen Victoria personally. Vicky was not amused and told them to go home and deal the government of the day.
I realise that as a tourist I probably attained a biased view of Maori culture. One that is marketed and promoted by the tourist industry. During our stay Pete and I were greeted with warmth and friendship wherever we went by people of all backgrounds. But the Maori people earned a special place in my affections. Their adherence to their culture and traditions gained my respect and admiration.
There was nothing touristy about the protest march. Indeed, I’m sure it is something the tourist board would have rather did not take place. At the time I found it amusing for a law abiding citizen such as myself to take part in a political protest. Knowing how police forces work, I am sure that some of those cameras pointed at me were owned by Special Branch and my ugly mug shot is now filed on a police computer.
I was proud to have taken part in that march, and as Pete and I continued our tour we would often mention what we did to people we encountered by way of an amusing anecdote. Often, though, our jolly tale would be met with harsh words and a hint of hostility. One elderly white lady even told me:
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ She then went on to tell me an anecdote of her own that revealed a troubling point of view.
‘The Maoris are always complaining about land loss. There was a lovely golf club that had taken years to build. The greens were beautiful. But the Maori complained that it was on tribal land. So the golf club reached a settlement. They built another golf course and the Maoris took ownership of the land. They let it go to ruin. Weeds and bushes everywhere. It was heartbreaking. I wouldn’t mind, but the Maoris don’t even play golf.’
No comments:
Post a Comment