A warm welcome - the young girls in the front row were from various backgrounds. Two of them were English and had only been in NZ for a year. During that time they had learned about Maori culture to then point where they were confident members of this group. In many way ways that is what Waitangi Day is all about.
My new brothers and sistersMaking our way onto the treaty ground I was drawn by the sound of singing and guitars that led me to a large group of Maoris in traditional costumes. They appeared to be suffering from a collective personality disorder. One minute the group were singing melodically, all warm and inviting. The next they were all making threatening gestures and poking their tongues out at me.
The women in particular fascinated me. Maybe it was their sheer beauty or maybe I was simply transfixed by the skilful way they swung their poi balls in time to the music. By the way, ‘poi balls’ is not a rude euphemism, even if they do always appear in pairs. They are balls held together by a piece of cord and swung in rhythmic and sometimes complicated patterns.
As my love affair with the Maori blossomed it was not enough to see them, I wanted to be one. So when the leader of the group invited people to join them on stage to sing and dance I was up there quicker than you can say ‘Waitangi Day’. Mercifully, the singing wasn’t very testing as it was more of a chanted melody and the dance steps were simple enough even for my two left size twelves. Sadly, I didn’t receive any offers of marriage from the beautiful women, but as the men shook my hand and thanked me for joining them I felt a little bit more Maori than I had at the start of the day.
My eagerness to join my new tribe combined with my English reserve robbed me of a one-off opportunity. I returned to my place on the grass in front of the stage and about 10 minutes later the group made a further invitation – they wanted men to join them in the Haka, the traditional Maori dance. The most famous exponents on the Haka are the All Blacks, the New Zealand Rugby Union team, as they perform it to frighten the crap out of their opponents before every match. Theirs is just one version of the dance, each tribe having its own rendition of the thigh slapping, eye bulging, tongue poking ritual.
I desperately wanted to join my new brothers in performing this iconic war dance. But, having already been on stage once, I didn’t want to appear as though I was hogging the limelight and foolishly I stayed put and allowed other middle aged men to steal the show. It was near the start of our trip and I reassuringly told myself that there would be another opportunity. There wasn’t.
After a wander around the treaty grounds and visiting the Treaty House, Pete and I made our way back to our car and drove further along the shore to our rendezvous with Dan, the kayak man.
Dan was a very slim, twenty-something, laid back and affable Kiwi who prepared us for the first of our New Zealand activities. We were joined by a young, Irish girl, whose name I could never catch. Sioboleenough, or something like that. She was 14 months into her world tour, having just spent 6 months in Australia and was about due to head over to South America next.
Suitably instructed and kitted out, the four of us took two double kayaks out into the gentle waters of the bay in the late afternoon sunshine. Our destination was a point about a mile distant where we beached the kayaks and then made a steep trek up through the woods. Waiting for us was Lindon, his dog and his beautiful vineyard.
What followed was an idyllic evening of wine tasting, cheese and biscuits and Lindon’s charming company as the sun set over the rows of vines around us and the bay beneath us. The wine was exquisite, although the vineyard was too small to make enough for export. One of the ‘must-sees’ Pete and I had excluded from our trip was the Marlborough wine region on South Island. Our hour or so with Lindon in his beautiful part of the land made up for the loss.
Lindon explained that this had once been Maori land but they found the soil too poor to produce crops. It was, however, perfect for growing vines and had been bought from the Maori for just two dollars and a couple of blankets. This information tested my loyalties. I liked Lindon and his wine, but here was a living example of the exploitation of my Maori brothers. I was very tempted to begin a protest march around the vines and maybe even crush the odd grape in defiance. Instead I reverted to being a British tourist and followed Lindon into his wine store where he did me a very good deal on a couple of bottles of delicious Pinot Noir.
The women in particular fascinated me. Maybe it was their sheer beauty or maybe I was simply transfixed by the skilful way they swung their poi balls in time to the music. By the way, ‘poi balls’ is not a rude euphemism, even if they do always appear in pairs. They are balls held together by a piece of cord and swung in rhythmic and sometimes complicated patterns.
As my love affair with the Maori blossomed it was not enough to see them, I wanted to be one. So when the leader of the group invited people to join them on stage to sing and dance I was up there quicker than you can say ‘Waitangi Day’. Mercifully, the singing wasn’t very testing as it was more of a chanted melody and the dance steps were simple enough even for my two left size twelves. Sadly, I didn’t receive any offers of marriage from the beautiful women, but as the men shook my hand and thanked me for joining them I felt a little bit more Maori than I had at the start of the day.
My eagerness to join my new tribe combined with my English reserve robbed me of a one-off opportunity. I returned to my place on the grass in front of the stage and about 10 minutes later the group made a further invitation – they wanted men to join them in the Haka, the traditional Maori dance. The most famous exponents on the Haka are the All Blacks, the New Zealand Rugby Union team, as they perform it to frighten the crap out of their opponents before every match. Theirs is just one version of the dance, each tribe having its own rendition of the thigh slapping, eye bulging, tongue poking ritual.
I desperately wanted to join my new brothers in performing this iconic war dance. But, having already been on stage once, I didn’t want to appear as though I was hogging the limelight and foolishly I stayed put and allowed other middle aged men to steal the show. It was near the start of our trip and I reassuringly told myself that there would be another opportunity. There wasn’t.
After a wander around the treaty grounds and visiting the Treaty House, Pete and I made our way back to our car and drove further along the shore to our rendezvous with Dan, the kayak man.
Dan was a very slim, twenty-something, laid back and affable Kiwi who prepared us for the first of our New Zealand activities. We were joined by a young, Irish girl, whose name I could never catch. Sioboleenough, or something like that. She was 14 months into her world tour, having just spent 6 months in Australia and was about due to head over to South America next.
Suitably instructed and kitted out, the four of us took two double kayaks out into the gentle waters of the bay in the late afternoon sunshine. Our destination was a point about a mile distant where we beached the kayaks and then made a steep trek up through the woods. Waiting for us was Lindon, his dog and his beautiful vineyard.
What followed was an idyllic evening of wine tasting, cheese and biscuits and Lindon’s charming company as the sun set over the rows of vines around us and the bay beneath us. The wine was exquisite, although the vineyard was too small to make enough for export. One of the ‘must-sees’ Pete and I had excluded from our trip was the Marlborough wine region on South Island. Our hour or so with Lindon in his beautiful part of the land made up for the loss.
Lindon explained that this had once been Maori land but they found the soil too poor to produce crops. It was, however, perfect for growing vines and had been bought from the Maori for just two dollars and a couple of blankets. This information tested my loyalties. I liked Lindon and his wine, but here was a living example of the exploitation of my Maori brothers. I was very tempted to begin a protest march around the vines and maybe even crush the odd grape in defiance. Instead I reverted to being a British tourist and followed Lindon into his wine store where he did me a very good deal on a couple of bottles of delicious Pinot Noir.
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