Black Marks on the White Page

by Witi Ihimaera

  ‘I tried to let him be a bit wild. Let him make friends. He was lonely after you left,’ she said. ‘Other kids stayed away. Teased him about me. It was ’cos of me he went swimming by himself.’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Nah, Mrs Knight. He loved the water, eh. Nothing could keep him away from it.’

  A stocky boy, ten or eleven, with Matthew’s eyes appeared from the direction of the field. He sat by his dad and patted the mutt.

  ‘Himi, say gidday to Mrs Knight.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Himi. He stood, gave Hēni a peck on the cheek. He pulled a small paper bag from his pocket, untwisted the top and offered her the contents. Inside were squares of coconut ice. Hēni took a piece. The sweetness burned her throat, but she took another when Himi offered her one. She nodded at the boy and grinned as the bird cloud inside her curled away, scattering.

  They sat for a while, eating, watching people pass by. Across the field there were one or two kids crying. Overly tired because their own sugar buzz had worn off. Stalls were being packed away. The day’s takings were being counted. People returned to their cars with arms laden with loot. They seemed more relaxed.

  ‘It’s gone quiet, eh, we must be in between fronts,’ said Matthew.

  Hēni cocked her head, listening. She nodded.

  ‘Yep, southerly’s on the way,’ she said.

  Rosanna Raymond, Beaten, 2004 (photographer: Kerry Brown)

  PITTER PATTER, PAPATŪĀNUKU

  Monologues of 3 Gods

  CASSANDRA BARNETT

  PAPATŪĀNUKU [PUKEONAKI]

  Pitter patter pitter patter. In a hurry, many tiny hoof, putting many tiny footprint here now here now here. A few quicker, wiry one enter fray too, running to fro to fro, making racket. Impairing roaming pitter patter hoof; making pitter patter into quiet, taut form. Human tweet tweet, canine trot trot, pitter patter hoof trip trip in turn into new front, new front, new front. One pattern uniting to map my outer coat, occupy me from frame to frame, many hoof parking, conquering my ripe crop … making territory my many worn furrow. For why? Human tweet tweet. Canine torment ewe. Ewe troop into turf tract. For why? For I make nutrient offering yet.

  Echo come to me, faraway time when former human, my nearer kin, put out on feet, pitter patter near here, pioneer, take home, make root. Te Kāhui Maunga, mountain human, come when my tree were many. Tokomaru canoe human, putting in at Tongaporutu. Kurahaupō canoe human, meeting Kāhui human to make new kin.

  Rua Taranaki come, naming mountain, naming kin. More human come, making Te Āti Awa, Ngāti Tama, Ngāti Maru kin. Time after, Waikato, Ngāti Toa roam. Time after, Pākehā feet roam, pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter … Many my infant. Weighty human. Army human. Cunning human. Time after, Te Whiti, Tohu put root, make nutrient home for Parihaka kin. Time after …

  Remoter year, when my Ranginui more near, young Pukeonaki mountain pitter patter too. Poor Pukeonaki turn from Pīhanga mountain torment, take hurt heart, uproot, run out to water rim frontier near here — making furrow, making Whanganui waterway. Run out out out. Run up up up. Run no more. Pukeonaki, carrying memory, pitter patter roam to here, to pine, to cry, to petrify. I hear, I know — for I too cry, when torn apart from Ranginui. What more, him Tangaroa cry on too. We part, we cry. My Pukeonaki too you hunt new root, take new name, now Taranaki, make home anew.

  Mountain hanker. Ewe hanker. Human hanker, hanker. Human in a hurry to make nutrient from me — my turf my muck my mire. To make territory from me. To roam me, foot me, print me, to pitter patter my worn out, fraying furrow. Hankering human, my poor tot. My heir, my many infant. How keen to eat, make hurt, make art, make home. To mark your pattern, conquer, make take, make take. You trip troop trot trek tramp, keep roaming roaming roaming new route on my many yawning pore. My Taranaki turf now home for your farm, your art, your money, your camera eye … For human foot, for canine paw, for ewe hoof too.

  TANGAROA [TE TAI O RĒHUA]

  Ah, you, free young one! Here right now, hair whipping wet, pumping arm knee hip, parting my way to make your own way home. Here right now, rapt happy turf gawk, imparting happy human fun. Here now, attune to me, keen hoping, premonitoring rapture … You whiff my air, try my wit, note my wink, my hinting rhyming way. You tarry on my foam, await my interior to mutate …

  Hate you I ought. Time yore, your Mama too know my wink, my rhyming way — yet Papatūānuku turn to him. Him, your haughty parent, him, him Ranginui! I can triumph, you know. I can tower too high for you, too quick. I can make cataract. Yet … what ripper nipper you are. You win my whim, my care, my amity, my treat. Carefree caperer, for now your temerity, your open heart, win my offer: my heroic temperate perfect rhyming way.

  Yore when my water were more pure, you took to canoe, water warrior. Your itinerant community in your canoe Tainui part my foam. Your incanting oaring party, your Hoturoa captain tracking our water-turf rim — for I yet keep Papa near. Marking your weary way home, Tainui anchor not far from here. Mōkau, Waimimi, where my watery arm yet whiff her, wink her, warm her … He too, her white tyke Captain Cook, your turf creature kin, turn up in my water here. He too remark her potent Taranaki peak. He too note how fair how fine your Mama appear from my water here.

  Ah now, crafty creature, happy creature, turf creature. Her peaty roe, naughty neonate — you humour me. You know me more, more intimate, in your fun time. I know you too. Know how in your euphoria you yet keep your mutant hierarchy, or try to. Know your Mama, your Papa, know how you came. Yet for now I content to nurture you. Here, take it — free trip in my rain, my wet, my fermenting moat, my titan main. For now, I cooperate. I quicken you quicken. I act you act. Moment to moment we interact. I hike up, you mount, you foray out on your narrow raft — you pour …

  PAPATŪĀNUKU [TARANAKI]

  To fro … To fro … Water mountain … water mountain … Te Tai o Rēhua to Parihaka to Taranaki to Parihaka to Te Tai o Rēhua. One more car. Tracking a furrow, furrowing a track.

  Mountain name Pukeonaki make water furrow name Whanganui. Whanganui keep making furrow. Canoe Tainui make furrow too, on him, on Tangaroa. Canoe Aotea, Tokomaru furrow him too. My human Hoturoa, Cook furrow him too. Poor him, how my infant keep furrowing him.

  Keep it for me my kin, furrow me more.

  In my Parihaka corner my Te Whiti, Tohu make furrow furrow furrow furrow furrow. Parihaka men, women, working, furrowing my muck. Comfy furrow, meek furrow, caring furrow. Parihaka men, women turn Parihaka turf, preparing, harrowing my mire. Making nutrient, making harmony when incoming men make war. Putting root when troop uproot. Keeping me tight when my worrying white mite take take take. To, fro, furrow.

  Now your terra canoe, your car make furrow. Now you, my new potpourri tot, make queer new furrow. My infant you come home to me — orienting pennant car to, fro. You, I, one more time we rhyme. We quake, infect, interpenetrate. I am terra, I am Parihaka, I am Mama, I am Taranaki, I am Papatūānuku. I am you. We come one. I am propane, I am tar, I am fume, I am pennant car. In unity we make our way. From my wet point to my high point, from my high point to my wet point. We make offering, keep Tangaroa tame, amp up up up to Ranginui. Come one, come more. Aurora fingertip make pennant quake. We quake. Heart quake. Pennant car not for coming parting, taking making, rooting uprooting. Pennant car for homing, knowing. My young return, my memory wake.

  RANGINUI [OHAKEA, MANAWATU]

  Oh yeah? I hear you, my heir. Priming up, waking up, warming up, opening up, firing up … Tracking out in a mighty whirr, uprearing …

  Coming here, entering my air, you take off. Purring, pouring, wafting raptor, I hear you caw. Rocketing higher, on you caw. You caw, you roar. You waft, you pour. To her eye now a pinprick mote, you hang a moment, note my infinite unhappy height. You hang, you pry, enquiring. Infant, my height not your to take. Keep near her, my Papa, a comfy furrow … Yet I know your want. You my infant, I want you too. Hanging a tapering interim more, you make known your momentum — fire out — young harrier on a
mphetamine — to meet me.

  Up, up muppet, encore encore. You parry, feint, attack, retreat. You worry me, whip me, whack at me. Pick me up in your mirror eye, tip me, turn me, rotate me. Make pattern, run, make pattern run. Warp me in your repeating frame, paint me in your pretty puff, ink me in her murky hue, taunt me — oh her rare perfume … Not knowing how in our capering I pain.

  Or I parry, feint, attack retreat, worry at you, whip you, whack at you. I hike your wing, paw at your prop, frighten you, trick you, mock you. I whoop, I warp, I frame, I fume. Unfetter my frippery, metamorph, turn you, form you, pattern you. Paint my firmament in you, write my far Papa in you. For our perpetuity, protect you.

  Muppet, your forerunner try my air too you know. Crafting kite from tree, mimicking wing kin: raptor, hawk, tūī, harrier, huia. Many time your kite-eye contact Ranginui. Kite-tracking human roaming way, peeking her terra in panorama … Tree-kite wafting my Papa to me. A nip from her warm matter cutting her memory mint for me.

  Or, when your human eye more open yet, Māui, Tāwhaki waft kite here too. Connecting to my premier crew — Tāne, Rongo, Rēhua, Tū. Mantic kite-eye awake, attune, penetrating my upper empyrean.

  Ah — now I hear tact in your amour. I note fainting in your infatuating. Now you repair. You run home to port Papa, meek, nay, weak. You fine-tune your manner, turn mute, retiring, inert, outrun. Preferring to wane in her firm tight arm. Can I hear quiet terror in your feature? Who king, who queen now our infant? Our erratic mutt, our kooky imp, our nutty younger ruffian tot. Our one contact point in a yearning night. How keen to inherit it you are.

  PAPATŪĀNUKU [TE TAU-IHU-O-TE-WAKA, WAIRAU, WAIAUTOA, MANIRAUHEA, OKUKU]

  Tiny to, tiny fro, you make to rock me, rock me. No hurry in your rocking. You untiring, firm. In now moment, enormity in your roar near conquer my enormity — my eternity. Now, you no hurry, no hurry. Rock on. Me not terra firma tonight.

  No pattern, no form in your rocking too. You tip me to, tip me fro on my yaw. Tip me fore, tip me aft. Yet it not new. For night after night I turn on my yaw. Year after year I tiptoe fore — for company ammonia, comet, Mercury, Moon, Titan, Neptune, meteor. Year after year time yore I entwine him whiffing winking Tangaroa; after him, entwine my honouring Ranginui more. After parting from Ranginui, I rock me fore. No, not new. Not new.

  Now infant you rock to fro in Ranginui. Wean off my Taranaki peak, waft up on raw arctic current, peer your home from far, wafting to Te Tau Ihu, on on you peer, to pure water, to eating track, to where Te Rauparaha came furrowing more.

  Now now you know. Pitter pattering to fro to fro to fro to fro to fro to fro to to fro to to to to … More fighting time, racket time, war time, pain time. More hit cut knock kick whack amputate time. Making harm, making hurt, making home time. Human you penetrate my murk my muck my peat, my carpet my canopy my crown. Hungry human, my mean infant, you hunt, fire, cook, eat, conquer. You enter, you take root.

  What hype make you now? What cry you human? What make you rock me? What make you eye me, query me, peep me, peek me, art me, craft me, poke me, rake me, ferret me, root me, part me, hunt me, roam me? More wary, more finicky you are. More wearing in your worry. More ruffian you are. I am your home, your root, your kin! Yet, tiring termite, you irritate my pore. My temper come tight. My frown make hate. My fury taking root.

  I turn rocky, weighty, mighty, more … I cry to moon, comet, meteor … I riff on pain, make track from tear, turn away from my Ranginui more. Cut anchor, rock wintry empty unitary more. Contrary now am I. To fro, to fro … Opening high peak, quaking, tremoring out warning now am I … You eat me part me eat me part me? I might eat too, might terminate.

  Yet yet …

  I wait.

  More kin come, more kin to rock. More infant I want rhyming for. Creating warm power at my core. I wait for you, communing one. Heck, when your anointing feet furrow me — I rate it.

  I rock, I rhyme on. Wanting more.

  THE VANUA IS FO‘OHAKE

  JIONE HAVEA

  THIS TALANOA, TELLING STORY, shoots out from three people having a talanoa (conversation), telling and sharing thoughts and imaginations. Three males to be precise, but their sex should not sanction nor hinder this talanoa (story). Nor should we imagine that this talanoa (telling) tells everything about their talanoa.

  A talanoa ultimately fails to capture the talanoa it tells. Even if I argue that ‘this is a true story’, as storytellers are known to do, do not assume that I will tell everything from the talanoa of these three men from different generations, and different walks of life.

  A talanoa must be shared, so that it tells. I therefore share this talanoa, hoping to also unmask romanticised views on the practices of oral and storytelling cultures. A talanoa can also pierce and transform, stretch and transcend, in addition to retelling and remembering (and sometime forgetting) memories.fn1

  BETWEEN MORNING AND LUNCH, one cool Fijian day, outside a meeting house where smart-talking people were gathered, welcomed and entertained, three persons — two Fijians and one Tongan — stood with their backs to huge unfinished woodcarvings. Withdrawn from the views and agenda shared among the gathered people, almost like a congregation, these three old men shared their talanoa within the hearing of logs, birds, trees, crawlers, rocks, and so forth, at a spot where most congregants would rather be.

  The time was in-between, between the equalling darkness of the previous night and the next event in the programme, lunch, a meal, another congregating opportunity.

  The place was outside of the meeting place, outside in terms of both location and ideology, but in the open in terms of space and creativity.

  Woodchips littered the surroundings but as we say in Tongan, the fo‘i toko-tolu (these three, this trinity) did not notice the reclining figures that the woodcarvers were trying to impress and express.

  The atmosphere of the recalled talanoa was work in progress, unfinished carvings, anticipating, and fearing, the chiselling of carvers to give them more detail. The carvings reclined as if they refused to stand up, as if they would rather just lie there, resisting completion and the digging, engraving and gouging of the carvers.

  The unfinished carvings are fo‘ohake, they lie on their backside where they have been laid. Or should I say that they were dropped, dumped, where they now lie? They lie there, in the many senses of the term: there, they lie!

  THE TOPIC OF THE talanoa was vanua, a Fijian word that can mean land, place, country, district or village. Vanua also refers to people, who are the lewe ni vanua (inner part of the land), and the flesh of the land.

  The identities of indigenous Fijians (iTaukei) intertwine with vanua to the extent that without vanua the people are soulless. Vanua is the ground of belonging, the locus of being Fijian, the means of livelihood and the nurturer of life. Vanua is life. Without vanua, indigenous Fijians lose something significant of their Fijianness.

  In our sea of islands, the words for land are basically the same — vanua (Fiji), hanua (PNG), fonua (Tonga), fanua (Samoa), fenua (Wallis and Futuna), whenua (Aotearoa) — and they carry similar meanings.

  This talanoa on vanua started because one of the two Fijians is preparing for a PhD thesis that aims to transform the roles of the matanivanua, as herald for a chief and as spokesperson for the people, into a mata-ni-vanua hermeneutic, eyes and face (mata) of vanua, and he was seeking the wisdom of the senior Fijian on vanua.

  The Tongan was listening in, eavesdropping, because he is aware and critical of, and sorry for, the assault Ma‘afu and his men, from Tonga, committed upon the vanua o Viti, land and people and identity of Fiji and Fijians.

  THIS TALANOA HAPPENED OUTSIDE and in-between, surrounded by incompletion and splinters of wood, and by splintering thoughts.

  It started at the entry to a meeting place. And it shifted away from the meeting place, coming to rest, at this point, delayed, for now, at this talanoa that I am sharing.

  This talanoa is therefore about shifts, movements, and splinters, fragments
, that come to rest, that come together, as if to congregate, on this occasion, on their telling, upon the face of incompletion. This talanoa is therefore a meeting place.

  THE TONGAN ASKED THE senior Fijian, ‘Kerekere Pio, what do you think about when you hear people talk about vanua?’

  Pio queried, in response, ‘Na vanua?’

  ‘Io, na vanua,’ Joeli, the other Fijian interjected.

  It is not unusual, or impolite, for islanders to jump into a talanoa; a talanoa is usually inviting, seductive, interactive and communal.

  ‘Isa!’ Pio then made a sound with his mouth similar to the sound one makes when she or he sucks on the mouth of a coconut or kisses the forehead of a grandchild.

  The three men chuckled, like children again, appearing not to know what to say next.

  Then there was silence.

  Then more chuckling, this time, it feels, because of uncertainty. You know how those kinds of chuckles sound.

  ‘Come, let’s move over there and talk,’ Pio requested.

  The three moved away from the meeting place, toward the reclining unfinished woodcarvings.

  One of the woodcarvers was there, holding a smoke in one hand and a stick in the other, and he greeted the three. They talked for a little while, and then the three returned to the reason why they were in motion.

  ‘Why do you ask me this difficult question?’ Pio enquired further.

  Joeli interjected again. ‘I know the common understanding of vanua, but we were wondering if you have other thoughts.’

  Joeli was not ignorant of Fijian cultures. As we say in Tongan, ko e tangata na‘e ai hono kuonga, he is a man who had his era (which means that he knows something, he has been around).

  Pio nonetheless went on to recall those common understandings, not in disrespect for Joeli but partly for the sake of the Tongan, partly in order to remind himself of what his culture says about vanua, and partly in order to find a gap, a fracture, an opening in those understandings through which he might locate a shift.