Delving into my proud heritage
Robyn Lee is in her 70s and lives with two lovable but naughty cats. She has published a book on seniors behaving badly, entitled Old Age and Villainy, and considers herself an expert on the subject.
My maternal Maori ancestors were a murderous lot; kidnapping and slavery with a fair sprinkling of plunder, pillage and cannibalistic feasts being among the skeletons rattling around in the family closet. In fact, my grandmother used to tell us that the pakeha (white man) was called long pig because he tasted like pork. I asked her once how she knew… and she just laughed. I’ve since had my suspicions about her!
On the other hand, my paternal Irish antecedents were law-abiding ship builders from Dublin, rather tame by comparison. Although, with Ireland’s tumultuous past, there are probably some dubious stories to be unearthed, if one decided to do some digging.
My family can trace our Maori ancestry back to the 16th century, long after the time of the legendary Great Migration (supposedly circa 300 BC), when enormous sea-going canoes containing intrepid warriors and their families left their homeland of Hawaiki and, using the stars and sun as their guides, set forth into the unknown South Pacific. They ended up settling in Raratonga (Cook Islands), Fiji and Aotearoa, Land of the Long White Cloud, comprising the three islands known today as New Zealand (so named by Dutch explorer Abel Tasman).
The newcomers didn’t have Aotearoa to themselves though and the original inhabitants, the peace-loving Moriori, were no match for the fearsome Maori who gradually killed them off. The occupants of the canoes settled in different parts of the country and the various tribes took their name from the canoe in which they arrived. My family are descended from Te Arawa (The Shark) canoe. They settled in the geothermal area of Whakarewarewa, just outside of Rotorua, now a flourishing tourist destination due to its rich history, bubbling mud pools and steaming geysers, the most famous of which is Pohutu.
My ancestry is the result of the 1825 kidnapping of prisoners, including four sisters, during a raid on Nuhaka on the eastern area of the North Island where they lived, by Pomare, a chief from Northland. The four sisters were renowned for their singing and named “The Songbirds” due to their beautiful voices. They were treated well by their kidnappers and allowed to stay together as entertainers. After Pomare died in 1986, there is no record of who their next protector was, however, they were released from bondage, most likely for a price paid by their family. The eldest sister, Riripeti, married a Captain Johnson and moved with him back near to her childhood home where they had three daughters, the youngest of whom was my great-grandmother, Huhana (Susan).
Susan was the first registered guide at Whakarewarewa and my grandmother, Hannah, and her sisters also became guides when they were old enough. My great-aunt, Tina, the youngest girl of a large brood of children became rather well known in the 20s as the female lead in a silent movie titled “Rewi’s Last Stand”. Ellen, an older sister became a guide of note at Whakarewarewa.
My grandmother, Hannah, married a charming Australian photographer/artist/writer, to whom she’d fallen pregnant with my mother at the age of 19, and moved to Auckland with him. Unbeknownst to her, he’d also impregnated another woman at the same time. It was probably fortunate that my grandmother imparted the news of her joyous event first. They eventually had six children, four girls and two boys. My mother, Roma, and her younger brother, Cedrick, are the only survivors. Ironically, my grandfather survived Gallipoli only to be killed in a work accident seven years later. My grandmother never remarried.
I have lovely memories of Whakarewarewa, staying with Aunty Ellen, playing with the Maori kids from the village and watching the braver ones diving off the Te Hokowhitu a Tu Memorial Bridge (for the Fallen of the Maori Battalion in the various conflicts) for pennies thrown by tourists. I was threatened with dire punishment if I was caught doing the same! However, I wasn’t brave enough. We’d roam through the tracks around the mud pools and explore the bush, having a great time. Sadly, today, our old playground is off-limits and visitors can only walk along the paths if accompanied by one of the guides. The rest is roped off to prevent anyone falling into the boiling pools and becoming long pig.
We had a family reunion in 1973 which was held on the marae and it was wonderful to catch up with cousins whom I hadn’t seen for almost 20 years. Unfortunately, Aunty Ellen, had passed on a couple of weeks earlier so the ceremonial welcoming also included a memorial service and lament. After, there was an enormous hangi feast with a lot of catching up with cousins, aunties and uncles. It was a wonderful three days and a great opportunity for my two young daughters to meet more of their Maori whanau (family).
I have a large extended family and our Maori heritage has always played a big part in my, and my cousins’, upbringing. We were taught to be proud of our ancestry and we have passed what we know on to our children, for them to pass on to their own children.
Sadly, age catches up with us all and my mother and my uncle are now the only surviving Elders of their generation. Being 97, my mother doesn’t travel to Rotorua any more but on previous visits she was always accorded the full traditional ceremonial welcome as befitted an honoured Elder.
We have a very rich history and of necessity, this is just a very brief outline. If I wrote any more, it would be a book!
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