I knew that Uncle Tu-Bad’s name was really Tupaea like Koro’s and mine. ‘How did he get the name he has now?’ I asked Mum one day.
‘Well,’ she pursed her lips, ‘Koro expected that he would be the one to assume the mantle of our ancestor so when he was a young boy he was sent to Te Aute College. However, he was expelled for skipping class and bad behaviour and, on his return to Uawa people would say, “Oh, that’s too bad.” They said it so often that the name stuck.’
While Mum had only had one son, my uncles and their wives had spawned sixteen cuzzie-bros between them, including Seth, Abe and Spade, who were my nearest male cousins by age.
I think in the early days this evidence that she wasn’t as productive as they were must have been painful for Mum. Koro, however, didn’t think that it was her fault at all. As he once remarked, ‘I always knew Wally’s blood was a bit … thin.’ He was referring to Dad’s ancestry (he came from a lesser tribe that lived ‘over the hill’) and social standing. However, what can you do when your daughter looks like she’s being left on the shelf because all the eligible Maori boys of her class and standing are going to university and meeting Pakeha girls?
As if, anyway, any local boy would marry the big chief’s daughter.
Get off the grass.
Apart from Sunday roasts, there was one other particular day every year that the family reserved for a special feast day and celebration: 23 October.
The annual gathering when I was twelve was typical. We all assembled for the usual fresh-air banquet of roast pig, and Dad and my uncles had been out diving for paua, kina and crayfish.
It was lovely under the trees, with the sun shining on the sea. After we’d eaten the pig, Uncle Tu-Bad leant back in his chair, puku full, and said to Nan Esther, ‘Well, Ma, now we can breathe easy. That pig was wandering along the road so if it belonged to somebody they won’t know it was me who picked it up because we’ve eaten the evidence.’
It was a joke (or was it?) but Koro got very upset at the thought that he, a court official, had eaten stolen goods. Beneath his irritation something else smouldered.
‘Jeez, Pa,’ Uncle moaned, ‘lighten up, willya?’
Once Koro had calmed down, the family moved to the usual dessert of sponge cakes, jelly and ice cream, and then the adults shifted to wine, served in Nan Esther’s special crystal goblets. My uncles and Dad were more partial to beer but, hey, this was Koro’s house and beer was a bit common. As for me and my cousins, we were allowed fizzy drink, but I saw Seth, Abe and Spade switch their lemonade for chardonnay.
Koro stood up, tapped his glass for attention and began his usual toast. ‘It was on this day in 1769,’ he began, ‘that the man who began our clan arrived at Uawa and made himself known to us. He came in his waka from Havai’i, which we call Hawaiki, far across the sea, and he was descended from the original Ancients, the Maohi, who once ruled the world as far as the eye could see.’ He was using his arms to indicate, sweeping from one side of the sea’s horizon to the other. ‘They stretched all the way from Hawai’i in the north, Tahiti and Rapanui, Easter Island, in the west and down to us, Aotearoa, in the south-east.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Uncle Bo muttered, somewhat discourteously.
‘Today,’ Koro continued, ‘that great Polynesian nation has been carved up by the English, French, Germans, Dutch and Americans, and now Hawaiki is known as Raiatea, near Tahiti, in French Polynesia. It was there that Tupaea was born. All the highest and greatest bloodlines of Hawaiki chiefs converged in him and, as a boy, he was ordained as an acolyte in the service of the God ’Oro, Atua of the Maohi.’
My uncles’ eyes were getting that glazed ‘We’ve heard it all before’ look.
‘In our ancestor’s day, the great national marae and temple consecrated to ’Oro’s worship on earth was Taputapuatea, at Opoa. When it was completed the priests and people beseeched ’Oro to come down from the highest heavens and live among them. Lo and behold, a strong south-westerly wind began to blow and, amid flashes of lightning, ’Oro rode down it. He entered the temple and was acknowledged as the supreme god of the earth and the air. Thus his reign in Tahiti began.’
Koro lifted his glass and we followed him. ‘It was ’Oro who sent our ancestor to us,’ he said, taking the first sip. ‘Thus we give thanks to him.’
‘To ’Oro,’ we responded.
CHAPTER FOUR
HOUSE OF MEMORIES
Our family grew up surrounded by stories about the original Tupaea, the one who began our dynasty in New Zealand.
Indeed, Koro took it for granted that we would absorb the narratives by some strange osmosis; he thought that because we had the blood of all the royal kings and queens of Tahiti in our veins that they ‘spoke’ to us too.
In particular, he felt that his son Uncle Tu-Bad (Koro never called him that) would overcome his limitations, now that he was an adult, and carry on the tradition of leadership in his generation. ‘When I die,’ he told Uncle during our family meetings, ‘you will take my place on the paepae.’
Koro had a large study off the front verandah overlooking the sea and, on one afternoon, while the rest of the family adjourned to other rooms to sleep off their kai, I overheard Uncle pleading with him to be set free of this obligation.
‘I can’t do it, Pa,’ he said, holding his head in his hands. ‘I’ve never been able to do it. Bo or Charlie would do a better job.’
The door to the study wasn’t quite closed. I knew I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I was mesmerised as I watched Koro facing his son. A huge Tupaea whakapapa chart entirely covered one wall. Two other walls had floor-to-ceiling bookcases. One was stacked with Koro’s genealogy books, carefully numbered and protected in plastic slip covers; open them and you would see his beautiful and clear handwriting. Another bookcase was filled with Maori Land Court records, copies of Hansard and out-of-print library books about the Maori people, especially our famous parliamentarian, Apirana Ngata. On a third wall were photographs, some very old, hand-coloured and in oval frames, of all our family ancestors. Koro also had metal cabinets full of genealogy books, maps and other memorabilia.
It was as if all that history was watching this struggle and witnessing the panic in Koro’s voice as he answered his son. ‘It has to be you,’ he said. ‘There isn’t any other son to do it.’ He had long ago realised that Bo and Charlie had no real interest in living up to the Tupaea legend. ‘I know you’ve always been reluctant to take up the role,’ he continued, ‘but you’re a late developer, that’s all. Can’t you remember when you were a boy how I would tell you the story of the tortoise and the hare?’
‘Yeah.’ Uncle Tu-Bad laughed. ‘That old story! Well, Pa, this tortoise will never make the finish line.’
‘Don’t give up,’ Koro answered. ‘There will come a time when you’ll rise to the challenge and when you do that, your family will all support you.’ The force of will in his voice was frightening.
I heard Uncle Tu-Bad moaning and saw him shaking his head, no, no, no. He was a big, burly man, fierce looking, but I’d always known him to be kind hearted. With a fierce cry he slammed his fist against a wall.
‘All I can say, Pa, is that you’d better not die any time soon.’