Sunday, January 4, 2009

Country Churches of NZ 10. Aperahama, Kaikohe

I wrote and illustrated Country Churches of New Zealand. It was published in 2002 by New Holland, Publishers and is still on sale in bookshops. The publishers have kindly agreed to me re-publishing some of the book’s images and descriptions in this blog.
APERAHAMA KAIKOHE

Aperahama is the Maori rendering of Abraham. Architect Marsden Clarke, whose family played an important part in the spread of Anglican Christianity in the north, designed Aperahama Church, Kaikohe. It was built in 1885 and is said to be named after a churchman of high repute who died in the year before the church was opened and is buried in its grounds.

At the start of the twenty-first century I found a church in sore need of restoration. But, like so many churchyards in predominantly Maori areas, its tombstones, often quite elaborate, were decked in flowers, spinners and memorabilia giving a paradoxical life to the memory of the dead.

© DON DONOVAN  

donovan@ihug.co.nz

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Saturday, October 11, 2008

The Man Who Found Himself

When my paternal granny died my father had the dolorous job of sifting through her house which had become the receptacle of a lifetime’s memories: furniture, books, mementos, and knick-knacks more or less important. In the process he opened a cupboard out of which tumbled a landslide of brown paper and string which had filled it from floor to ceiling. She had thought, as so many of that pre-disposables generation did, that ‘it might come in useful one day’.

Child of a careworn family of slender means she not only squirreled potential utilities, she also harboured memories of hard times. Her father had been a lighterman on the River Thames working at all hours and on all days the dingy scows laden with unspeakable cargoes that plied a filthy river whose swirls carried the detritus of upstream poverties. It was a short step of memory from there to the family cradle in County Cork, the potato famine and the inhumanity of English landowners whose legacy still haunts those few in Eire who look back with resentment rather than forward with optimism.

It was from my granny that I discovered my Irish heritage. I can’t remember my father ever speaking of it. As far as he was concerned he was English, born within the sound of Bow Bells, a Cockney no less with an accent to match and a rhyming slang patter the envy of any music hall comedian. In my turn I considered myself an Englishman, was proud of being one and saw myself as fortunate to have been born in the heart-city of an empire among people who treasured fair play and who, in a highly structured, class-ridden society, knew their place. We had no difficulty understanding our values and never exerted ourselves in any search for identity.

What we didn’t realize, of course, was that we were living through times of colossal upheaval in a century whose first half had already been shattered by wealth-sapping wars leaving in their wake two or three generations of refugees, cripples and displaced persons in a world of shifting boundaries, nationalities and political persuasions. We just went with the flow, unidentified Celts, long term nomads, part of the ebb and flow of tribes that has oozed over the face of the globe since human existence began. We were the benefactors of that earthquake, without conscious thought we trampled across the frontiers of class into a new society where merit was the key to success and opportunity abounded

In time this detribalized Irishman shifted from what in the long context of family history was but a temporary stopping place in England and came to live in New Zealand (forty-eight years ago to be precise) Where England had become a land of opportunity and the hand of unearned privilege had lost its grip, New Zealand went one better, it had no class structure and nothing could hold back any person who was prepared to work to achieve full potential. In no time at all I not only found himself accepted among friends but applied for and was granted naturalization. From that day onwards I called myself a New Zealander. It was my people who fought at Gallipoli; it was my people who pioneered top dressing, beat the world at rugby and invented the welfare state. It was my country that was the most egalitarian in the world.

It would have been simple then to find my identity had I been concerned with seeking it; and as for values, well they were those of the people around me: honest, easy-going, steady-working, amiable, law-abiding; healthy people with lives built around the idea of duty to the family and one’s neighbours.

But now, nearly fifty years on, we have apparently evolved into a nation of separate tribes who have, over those years, drifted apart like disintegrating ice floes to such a degree that earnest politicians, inheritors of a such a fragmentation that crimes unheard of five decades ago are now commonplace, seek to ‘close the gaps’ and strive to have us ‘find our identity’. Despite the burdens of guilt taken up by innocents for past wrongs and despite the reparations that have been made for those excesses we seem further apart than ever. And in the quest to find ourselves we seem only to find the differences, not the similarities.

In the debate about the meaning of ‘pakeha’ Europeans take it to mean them. But to Maori there are only two sorts of people in this country; Maori and pakeha. That means that pakeha embraces European, Asiatic, American, Latin and any other race not Maori. Some people insist upon calling us a bi-cultural society when it is obvious that we are multi-cultural. Until we fully recognize this truth we will not be a nation. Until tribal boundaries no longer exist we will not be a nation. Until ‘pakeha’ have paid off the transferred debt and shed their adopted guilt we will not be a nation. Until Maori have accepted the apologies and the compensation and have ruled off the ledger we will not be a nation.

Some time ago when I was working on writing and illustrating a book about churches I was in a remote part of the Hokianga where I met a Maori man who looked after the grounds of a local church. His name was as ordinary as the alias I shall give him - Tom Green. I asked him what his Maori name was and he shrugged; he didn’t have one. He acknowledged that his tribe was Nga Puhi but he said he didn’t feel the need to go back. In any case, he said, he was as much pakeha as Maori and you’d be hard put to find a full-blooded Maori even in Dame Whina Cooper’s territory; and anyway we were all New Zealanders. I walked to his car with him and saw that the rear window had been smashed, he told me it had been broken into by some young jokers. ‘They got nothing’ he said, sadly, ‘There was nothing. They don’t seem to care any more…’

When Tom Green dies and his son cleans out his cupboard neither hoarded paper wrappers nor harboured grudges will tumble out. Unlike my Irish granny he found himself years ago - a New Zealander. And as for values, well, he was patently an honest man. He went with the flow, part of what was going on, living with change while accommodating it. Looking ahead.

When we’re all like Tom Green then we’ll be a nation.

© DON DONOVAN

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Friday, January 18, 2008

Kick Out All The Aliens


This extraordinary agapanthus is growing in my garden.
It has at least four heads on its single stalk. Normally there is  just one flower to each stalk.

‘They are wonderful plants for holding sloping ground in place, in the front of the border, among shrubs and flowers, entranceway plantings to the house, around the swimming pool and in cool green tropical plantings.’

Thus spake Colin Hutchinson in The Art of Gardening published in 1991 and described as ‘New Zealand’s finest gardening book’.

The plant Mr Hutchinson was describing was Agapanthus.

Only fifteen years later that ‘wonderful’ plant that graces our motorway medians and one single head of whose glorious blue or white blooms can fill a vase is facing the chop because the biosecurity apparatchiks at both government and local level have decided that: ‘…they are invasive and/or poisonous and crowding out native plants.’

Now, although aganpanthi grow in all the otherwise dead spots of my garden, I don’t know much about floriculture; and it’s not the particular attack on those plants that bothers me. What does make me nervous is that hiding inside the biosecurity police’s statement is a politically correct blinkered yet starry-eyed philosophy that New Zealand should digressively outlaw anything that isn’t ‘native’.

Not long ago there appeared a report that moves were afoot in the South Island to restore parts of Canterbury to its pristine pre-pilgrim state. It was asserted that large areas of native bush had been supplanted by what is now the characteristic patchwork of British agriculture. It was misleading to some degree and although it is true to say that Canterbury has undergone an enormous change, its farmlands have mainly replaced swampland and tussock. The surveyor of Canterbury, Charles Torlesse, writing in 1849, while he described large areas of bush, made much of a country the most part ready for the plough.

This revisionistic urge to take New Zealand back to its beginnings is absurd. The country has moved on, developed, improved, become productive. Inevitably, in its forward march since human occupation around the 14th century of the Christian calendar, there have been casualties: moa, huia and other species have gone, and others are or have been under threat.

Some we can save but the idea of returning New Zealand to a golden age by taking a huge, politically correct leap backwards is nonsensical. To start with agapanthus is like sacking the tea lady at General Motors in order to improve the bottom line. And after agapanthus what? Rabbits, stoats, rats, cats, dogs, cattle, sheep, deer, trout, deciduous European trees; we’ll have to get rid of them all. Maori, European, Pacific Islanders, Asiatics; they’ll all have to go home. But before they go we’ll need to rip up the roads, wipe out transport, raze the cities, eliminate power and telephone lines and, because they won’t be needed ever again, shut down government departments. (Not a bad idea).

Perhaps all that might be left would be a self-sustaining remnant of biosecurity police-persons trotting around planting kauri, totara, kowhai, flax and tussock seeds and cuttings, and warming tui eggs in their hairy armpits. Finally, as they self destructed or paddled away in raupo rafts, they would leave these now unnamed islands to sleep once again awaiting discovery.

There would be only the forest and the birds. Just as it was in the belle epoch before that despicable species homo sapiens came and used its intellect, courage, flawed human wisdom and ingenuity to change it all.

And then, perhaps, a latter day Thomas Gray might imagine from afar a land where:

‘Full many a bird of iridescent sheen
The black-green boughs of hidden bush doth bear:
Full many a rata born to blush unseen,
Now wastes its scarlet on the man-free air.’

Yeah. Right.

© DON DONOVAN

Posted by Don in 05:04:03 | Permalink | Comments (1) »

Monday, March 19, 2007

New Zealand’s Party Animals 20

‘E whakaae ana te Pirimia ki te korero o tana Minita o te Manatu Aorere, i a ia e ki ana i tenei Whare i te 13 o Hakihea i te tau kua hipa mo nga take whakawhitiwhiti korero ki nga tangata whenua o te ao. Anei pea te whakautu pai ki a matou ko te kawanatanga e korero ana ki te tangata whenua, kua whakaae mai tetahi, nga tangata whenua nei hei minita mo nga take o tawahi. Mena ae, ko wai ma te hunga i wananga nei tenei korero?’

Te Ururoa Flavell

I am having a little problem understanding that question.

Helen Clark

© DON DONOVAN

 

Posted by Don in 02:36:43 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Monday, February 12, 2007

Murder at Opotiki

DON DONOVAN

It was 1865, twenty-five years after the Treaty of Waitangi. It should have been a time of peace but disaffection was widespread. Maori attitudes towards the British ranged from collaboration to increasing hostility and outright armed warfare.

The British wanted more of the land; if they couldn’t buy it they readily provoked rebellion then confiscated it. Maori ownership of Aotearoa (New Zealand) was becoming diluted and while they had been the first people in the queue they could not expect perpetual rights to the best seats in the house.

‘Maoridom’ didn’t exist in 1865. New Zealand was composed of discrete tribes and sub-tribes. Complex ancestral connexions determined whether tribes were friends or enemies; pre-European history was a mosaic of warfare whose winners gained territory, slaves and the meat of the bodies of the captured. Maori, like the British, were warlike, and the confrontation of one race by the other logically led to a series of wars - despite the Treaty.

Some Maori were friendly to the British because, a cynic might suggest, they were rewarded with European magic such as firearms which might quickly put old enemies to rout. A less cynical viewpoint might be that wise Maori heads realized that British newcomers were but the vanguard of a mighty host that would overwhelm them; things would never be the same again so if you couldn’t beat ‘em you’d better join ‘em.

Among the first Europeans were missionaries who zealously brought their Catholic, Anglican, Wesleyan, Methodist and Presbyterian Christianity to the natives. They were surprisingly well received. The extent of their conversions was awesome. Christianity somehow meshed with Maori spirituality and, besides, wasn’t it the religion of these technocrats from afar who took Aotearoa out of the stone age in one magnificent cannon blast?

But the most bitter tribes lost their patience with the pakeha, (non-Maori) their disillusionments soured to rebellion and many missionaries became compromised. Whom did they represent, their native congregations or their native countries? When the local priest heard of Maori preparations for rebellion could he keep quiet and side with his parishioners, ignoring the fact that his masters in head office were part of the Great British Establishment?

One such missionary was Carl Sylvius Volkner, vicar of the parish of Opotiki in the eastern Bay of Plenty.

He couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

* * *

Opotiki was well populated by Maori, and strategically important. Eastward lay the crags of East Cape.  South was the Waioeka River gorge whose forest tracks permitted inter-tribal communication with Poverty Bay. Other more secret paths led to the Urewera, home of the Tuhoe people. West lay Auckland and Northland whence reached the long arms of pakeha commerce, law and order, perfidy, preaching and retribution. Across gentler hills dwelt the restless spirits of Rotorua and Taupo, connected to the Bay of Plenty by ancient footpaths and a thermal tract whose sulphurous fires erupted at White Island, smoking on the sparkling horizon of the bay.

Here in 1860 the Church Missionary Society had established an outpost now run by Carl Sylvius Volkner, a gentle, blond, blue-eyed aryan. With native help he built its little church in 1862. Soon he became compromised by divided loyalties and either naively or stupidly he set himself upon a disastrous path towards his particularly violent death…

* * *

In 1864, the Whakatohea, their East Cape neighbours, and the Waikato and Tauranga tribes were caught up in a struggle against the British south of Auckland. They tried to attack through Rotorua but were blocked by a pro-British tribe, Te Arawa. Trying an alternative, northern, coastal route, they were badly mauled by troops and naval gunfire. A battle had taken place near Maketu, where a chief of the Arawa had been killed and Whakatohea chief Te Aporotanga had been taken prisoner. The dead chief’s widow killed the prisoner, leaving the Whakatohea with a deep need for vengeance, especially as Carl Volkner had let the tribe down by not condemning the murder; they felt that he should have asked his boss, Bishop Selwyn, to influence Governor George Grey to punish the Arawa for the revenge killing.

Volkner was aware that the tribe felt he had deserted them for he told Selwyn so but he had alienated himself with the tribe even worse; he, they discovered, had been sending secret despatches to Governor Grey. To be generous, he may ingenuously have believed he could save the tribe by divulging their plans and thus pre-empting pitched warfare. But in time of war, that sort of activity is tantamount to espionage. Naive or not, Volkner was a spy.

Knowing of Volkner’s divided loyalties, Te Whakatohea condemned him to death, and that decision, together with other forces occuring almost coincidentally sealed his fate…

* * *

Far to the south-west in Taranaki the Hauhau cult had grown out of the seed bed lain by the early Wesleyan missionaries. In 1862, chief Te Ua Haumene had been visited by the Angel Gabriel, who revealed that the Maori - one of the lost tribes of Israel - would find salvation by expelling the pakeha from ‘New Canaan’. Te Ua’s vision by-passed Christ, the Hauhau considered they had an affinity with the Jews of the old testament.

Te Ua believed the pakeha would be expelled peaceably by ‘karakia’ or prayers and that chanting believers were immune from bullets as they ran into battle; needless to say, the bullets maintained their trajectories.

Some Hauhau espoused violence. One such was Kereopa Te Rau who set off from Taranaki with a war party bent upon spreading a militant message through the North Island, recruiting followers to his mission as he went. He was skilled in the arts of terrorism and coercion as a report to the Civil Commissioner in Tauranga makes clear :

‘Poronui, Whakatane. February 21 1865.
On Saturday last a large party of  [HauHau] arrived . . .  bringing with them a British soldier prisoner and the head of Captain Lloyd, which they exhibit. . . They pretend to make it speak. . .’

The report continued that the Hauhau had sealed the port, threatening to kill the crews of any pakeha ships, and were moving towards Opotiki. The Hauhau knew enough of Volkner’s activities to announce that if he was in Opotiki when they arrived they would kill him.

* * *

Volkner, meanwhile, had taken his wife to Auckland for safety but ignoring warnings, he left Auckland for Opotiki again on 29 February on the trading schooner ‘Eclipse’ .

The events that followed his arrival were dramatic.  The highly respected ‘Illustrated London News’ of 29 July 1865 reported to the effect that:

‘Having had occasion to go to Auckland, Mr.Volkner returned to Opotiki with the Rev. T. S. Grace. The master of the vessel, Captain Levy, states that, on the 1st of March, when he sailed up the river at Opotiki, and came alongside the wharf he found a great crowd of Maoris. His storekeeper  brother, Mr S. Levy, with Tewai, the interpreter, came on board, and said that the Maoris [Whakatohea] had all taken an oath the day before to kill every minister or soldier who came there. Captain Levy went ashore and found that this report was true. Later in the day the Maoris ordered Levy, with his crew and passengers, out of the vessel. As soon as they did so, the Maoris seized Mr.Volkner and Mr. Grace.

‘Captain Levy and Mr. Samuel Levy were not personally molested because they were Jews.

‘In the morning Captain and Mr. S. Levy were told that the two missionaries would be shot. The Captain begged the Maoris to refrain but another party asked for Mr.Volkner, saying they wanted him to come to a meeting. The unfortunate gentleman ran out, thinking for a moment that he was about to be set free’.

To quote Captain Levy’s narrative: ‘They walked him off at once. They told him that they were going to kill him. He stopped near the church and asked them to allow him five minutes for prayer … Whilst he was praying they took a block and strop from the vessel, which they made fast to the topmost branches of a large willow-tree… There were now about 800 natives on the ground, who at once marched him under the tree. They then took off his coat, vest, and shirt, which the principal chief [Kereopa] put on, he being quite pleased with the watch and chain.

‘They left his flannel on, he not showing the slightest fear…The poor fellow commenced shaking hands with them while they were tying his neckerchief over his eyes; and… while they were hauling him to the fatal branch. They never tied either his hands or his feet, but left him to dangle in the air for nearly an hour, during which time some of the natives were hauling at his legs to get off his boots and trousers, sharing what was in his pockets, whilst he hung over their heads, and one of the brutes put on his trousers…

‘After letting the body hang for some time they lowered it down and carried it to the side of the church, where they had a place fenced in. Here they spread the body out in the form of a cross. They then proceeded to cut off the head and to drink his blood as it ran out of the head and body… the chief, Kereopa, taking the eyes out of his head with his fingers and eating them before the whole crowd to show them the example. The body was then thrown to the dogs…’

A lurid report but while it sounds a little exaggerated it is substantially corroborated by other reports.

It’s hard to imagine that Volkner showed ‘not the slightest fear’. Unless spiritually anaesthetized the man must have been a blubber of visceral terror.

The report goes on: ‘The Maoris assembled that evening in a … chapel, where the bleeding head of Mr.Volkner was placed on the pulpit, and they performed a savage dance before it, yelling and screaming with the utmost fury.’

The essence of the remainder of the report is that Levy took possession of Volkner’s mangled, headless body which he buried behind the church in what has been described as ‘a curiously shortened grave’.

Retribution followed. On 8 September 1865 an expeditionary force made a clumsy seaborne landing and within a few days Opotiki had been taken. The force took up positions in and around Mr. Volkner’s church.

During several weeks of skirmishing many of the participators in Volkner’s assassination were killed or captured. (Kereopa left the district and made his way down the east coast. He was finally taken late in 1871, cornered at the head of Whakatane Gorge. At his arrest he made the comment that he knew his luck would run out eventually because when he’d swallowed Volkner’s eyes one of them had stuck in his throat! Kereopa was tried in Napier on 21 December 1871, found guilty and executed.)

From the scores of perpetrators, eggers-on, bystanders and witnesses of Volkner’s demise only five were eventually tried. There should have been more but, no doubt, accusation and counter-accusation so confused the issue that hard evidence was difficult to come by. In any case, as with some modern mistrials of ‘terrorists’ - notably the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four - accuracy was less important than that some sort of trial and punishment should satisfy the public’s appetite for revenge.

On Thursday 29 March 1866, the Opotiki Five were tried before Chief Justice, Sir George Alfred Arney.  In the dock stood Mokomoko - a Whakatohea chief - Heremita Kahupaea and Hakaraia te Rahui (Ngati Awa) and two boys - Paora Taia (Whakatohea) and Penetita (Nga Maihi). Mr Carnell, for the defence, contended a lack of evidence all round but in the end the judge left it to the jury to decide and they, six and a half hours after the trial had started, gave their verdict:

Paora: Not guilty
Penetito: Guilty - a strong recommendation for mercy
Heremita: Guilty
Hakaraia: Guilty
Mokomoko: Guilty

* * *

Mokomoko maintained his innocence to the last and the other two, acknowledging that they were guilty and deserved to die, supported his statement; but their words fell on deaf ears, there was to be no reprieve. Shortly before he died he said, ‘Farewell, you pakeha! I die without a crime, it is not right that I should die!

Was Mokomoko guilty? Who was guilty? It appears that only Heremita and Hakaraia actually admitted guilt. Perhaps the fact that Mokomoko was a chief of the Whakatohea who, it was said, condemned Volkner to death even before Kereopa appeared on the scene, was sufficient to condemn him.

Never mind, it was all over on 17 May 1866. The ropes had stretched, the necks had broken, the bodies had been buried in unmarked graves to haunt Mt. Eden prison’s gloomy precincts; the tribes and colonists could carry on into the future losing a bit there and winning a bit here, promising to forgive and… forget?

* * *

Maori never forget. No matter how much Maori were changed by pakeha ways over 150 odd years of co-existence - cars, television, hospitals, tobacco, alcohol, state education and welfare, sheep and cattle farming and even a Maori governor-general - they have remembered how to remember. And the Whakatohea, who not only lost a son but also more than a quarter of their land, confiscated by the government, carried the scars of Mokomoko’s injustice down the years with the corrosive pain of unresolved grief.

Spirits of Maori ancestors demand dignity and respect. There are protocols to be observed. When Mokomoko and the others were executed their bodies were buried upright, headless, in unmarked graves. In 1986 the Auckland District Maori Council commenced a three year fight to have the remains exhumed and on the 18th of October 1989 the prison gave up its melancholy relics. Mokomoko was taken back to Opotiki where he now rests in the green hills of Waiaua, safe in the country of his Whakatohea.

There remained the question of his original ‘sin’. At first the Whakatohea declined the offer of a pardon. Some see it as implying guilt - how can one be pardoned when one was innocent in the first place?  Whakatohea certainly saw it that way and in July 1990 they petitioned the prime minister, Geoffrey Palmer, that action should be taken to restore Mokomoko’s name and honour. A grave miscarriage of justice had occurred. Statutory intervention was called for equivalent to an acquittal rather than a pardon.

But two pleas for acquittal were turned down on the grounds that there was not enough evidence of innocence (such irony - was there ever enough evidence of guilt?)  And although a representative of the Whakatohea insisted that the tribe did not wish to become ‘embroiled in land issues’ but simply wanted Mokomoko’s name cleared, a plea for pardon was lodged with the Waitangi Tribunal. A 1991 newspaper report said that the Tribunal had not decided whether to accept the claim.

But in June 1992, as a result of pressure from the Anglican Church, it was announced that the Governor-General, on the advice of Mr. Douglas Graham, Minister of Justice, had granted a posthumous pardon to Mokomoko. On 25 July, Mr Graham met Mokomoko’s descendants at Waiaua Marae, near Opotiki where the Minister presented the pardon to 80 year old Te Wairemana Taia, great grand-daughter of Mokomoko.

‘At last the long black cloud has been lifted off you, your family and the whole of Whakatohea’.

* * *

The Church of St. Stephen the Martyr still stands, neat, modest and white in Opotiki’s main street. You wouldn’t know, unless somebody told you, that there is a story here that ranks with the murder of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral in 1170. Relics of Volkner are still preserved in the church - a bible, his chalice and other bits and pieces - and his ‘curiously shortened grave’ - he was, remember, headless; his smoked head had been taken to Poverty Bay - is incorporated into the body of the church.

It has a simple, marble stone: ‘Carl Sylvius Volkner . . . who suffered martyrdom’.

And not so very far away there’s another simple stone: ‘Mokomoko. Wrongfully executed. . .’

But while their bodies rest, and while further reparations have been made since 1992, we may be certain that the story has not yet ended.

 

© DON DONOVAN

                               

Posted by Don in 02:54:49 | Permalink | Comments (2)