Happy Waitangi Day

Yes, once again, it’s (Wai – Tang – Ee) Day in Aotearoa (New Zealand). For those who are unfamiliar, it’s kind of like New Zealand’s equivalent of Independence Day in the U.S, but not quite.  

Here are some shared commonalities: 1) It was about evading rule by tyranny 2) It was important to our ancestors to stand up for what was considered “right” or at least common decency 3) The memorialization of the day was too important for its celebration to be simply tacked on to the following Monday to create an extended holiday weekend for modern-day workers. Both national days are recognized on either 6th Feb or 4th July, regardless of the day of the week. 

Captain William Hobson, as Consul for Queen Victoria, negotiated a “peace agreement” with chiefs representing many iwi (tribes), effectively promising Māori protection from French ambitions, for in his plan, they would become equal partners and subjects of the British Crown. The intention was not for the indigenous Māori to lose their right to their land, but that the English would be given the sole right to purchase the land. Missionaries played a huge part in the proceedings. They had begun to convert the indigenous people and they reminded their converts that the Queen was not only the head of State, but head of the Church too. They relayed to the Māori that Queen Victoria sent these explorers as “an act of love” and that her desire was that the Māori retain their property, their rights, and their privileges. These appeals went a long way to cementing the initial trust of the local chiefs. It is assumed they viewed the benefits of British protection to outweigh their fears of what others might do to them otherwise. However, all the good intentions written, bilingually, into The Treaty, were not subsequently followed through. Māori, as recognized British subjects or not, lost the legal right of much of their land either via unfair deals with the settlers or outright confiscation. What transpired next was an uncommon sequel of events, whereby without a war or conflict, a “peace treaty” had been signed, which only then thereafter, resulted in a war. The New Zealand Wars took place between 1845-1872. 

I am blessed to have lived twenty-six years in New Zealand and have had a close association with the Bay of Islands, the home of the Waitangi Treaty Grounds, where the treaty was signed. I have so many great memories of this historic region of the country. It’s where I sat on the grass that surrounds the Paihia beachfront and opened my first newspaper-wrapped bundle of piping hot fish and chips. It's that same beach where I learned how there is no need for changing rooms when you already have an over-sized beach towel! It takes practice, but it is definitely possible to completely change out of your street clothes and into your togs, right there on the beach, just try not to drop your towel as you drop your drawers! 

Our wedding rehearsal dinner was superbly prepared and served at the Paihia beachfront La Scala restaurant. However, my father-in-law, in his capacity as the local milk vendor, made it a point of never dining at any of the eating establishments, for he visited their kitchens on a daily basis. And yet, there was something very special about the Waitangi Hotel. The Trust who owned the Waitangi restaurant and hotel during those years covering the 1980’s, made ones visit an unforgettable experience. First, there are the pristine grounds which overlook the majestic bay, the upmarket hotel and restaurant, and then the awe-inspiring marae, or meeting house, and the wakas (canoes) used by the local iwi. Even my initial crossing of the one-lane bridge, that one must use to get to the Waitangi grounds, was a memorable experience. What do I do, half way across this elongated, but narrow bridge when there is a car approaching me? “No problem”, my passenger assured me. “Just go toward the car coming at you and pull into the passing bay.” Ok ... and hope I get to the passing bay first? Thankfully, I was less nervous the more I used this unique bridge. 

Most of the times when crossing that bridge, I was the passenger; a passenger in my father-in-law's milk truck. A witty friend of mine from Ohio penned the situation up best, “Ole Beckley had many hopes and dreams; And he ended up in New Zealand delivering milk and cream.” Don’t get me wrong, I loved every minute working on that milk truck. We would stop at the residences along the way first. I would hop out and collect the empty bottles and milk tokens out of the letterbox whilst my “boss” would be rearranging the milk crates at the back of his unrefrigerated truck, before finding just the bottles intended for that stop, then hand them to me to replace the empty ones that I had just taken from the bottom of the letterbox. Our next stop would often be the dairy/convenience store located at the Opua Wharf, where the ferry carrying passengers back and forth all day, and from all over the bay, would dock temporarily. It was an unexpected pregnancy of this dairy’s owner, one in which also resulted in a red-headed child, that started up the fun-loving rumor that the child’s father was “the milkman” seeing how his wife had red hair. Our milk truck would then rumble along the shoreline before stopping to service all of the milk-carrying businesses in the center of a town called Pahia. After this stop, we would go to the summer campground supplying milk to all of the campers before ending our day/night at the Waitangi Hotel. 

I would be terribly remiss if I concluded my description of the Paihia/Bay of Islands milk run without mentioning how my father-in-law first met a young local lad, who oddly enough, the family came to deeply respect, and a person who so kindly befriended me, and this Ole Yank will forever be grateful for his friendship. The initial meeting of “Martin” and my father-in-law was a bit of an inauspicious start, though. What I have neglected to mention up to this point is that the road from Kawakawa (home town of my in-laws) to Paihia is hilly and winding and not without its own one-lane bridges to navigate. Loaded-down milk trucks struggle with speed on the flat let alone the hills and curves, and understandably this frustrates drivers. My father-in-law always pulled to the side of the road to allow the traffic to pass him, but gearing down his diesel-powered engine to get around the sharp bends and up and over the hills usually meant there was no choice but to gut it out. There was one afternoon when my friend “Martin” came flying around one of these bends in his car and in the opposite direction, but directly toward the milk truck. A spin out on his part, and my father-in-law nearly placing his truck’s left wheels over the cliff, is the only thing that avoided what would’ve been an ugly collision. My father-in-law saw his life pass before him, but not before getting a good look of who the errant driver was. Being the close-knit community it was then, and is now, I need not mention any more of the aftermath of this meeting of the pair that day, other than to say that it has become a note of legend throughout the community. 

My father-in-law really despised visiting Paihia unless it was on business. And yet, his wide-eyed American son-in-law who only saw sun and surf along the touristy Paihia beach, was always pestering him to take the family for a swim. I got my wish, kind of. We set off one Sunday, with boat in tow, for the bay, but it wasn’t toward the Paihia beach, which was only a twenty-minute drive. We were heading for the Rawhiti beach, where no “loopies” IE: tourist – would know how to get to. It took us three hours on winding metal (loose gravel) roads; roads I learned afterwards are ones the rental car companies forbid their customers to travel upon. We did finally arrive on this fine summer day and I for one had a queasy stomach from the drive and nothing in the packed picnic basket looked appetizing. Time soon came for “the men” to depart to collect fresh scallops and crayfish. My father-in-law was at the back of the dinghy in charge of the motor. His son, who was a hulking specimen of a young man, sat at the bow with all of his dive gear; tanks, spears, knife etc. This left a small bit of room between two of them for me to sit in this metal row boat. My attendance was important, though. My being there meant a larger haul could be legally brought back to shore. The trip out to near the middle of the bay was mostly uneventful. Both knew where they wanted to go to get the best results from our venture. Within an hour of our anchoring, though, the winds picked up and began to blow inward creating a choppy surf. It was determined that our fishing was down for the afternoon and all was brought aboard and the boat was turned toward the shore. We weren’t long in our return before the waves began to crash over our weighted-down dinghy. I was instructed to bale water like my life depended upon it. Even with two of us baling madly, it seemed to make little difference. My father-in-law determined that if he asked the engine for “all it had”, the boat would then sit more on top of the waves. In him doing so, we all ended up being thrown from the boat, which now was upturned in the water. I was wearing a wetsuit, and only a wetsuit. I had a natural built-in buoyancy, but my father-in-law, who couldn’t swim, was clinging precariously to his upturned dinghy watching his boat’s motor totally submerse itself in salt water. Meanwhile, the young lad was feverishly free diving in an attempt to rescue his gear which was sinking fast to the thirty-meter depths below us. I actually had a fear that we would be spending the night bobbing up and down in this cold water and the possible outcome if this would become a reality. To our eternal good fortune, a pleasure yacht came cruising within sight and motored over to rescue us. Much to do was made of the fact that whilst we had lost everything in this tragedy, I still had my “sunnies” clinging to my head. Also, the wife of the yacht’s skipper was insistent that I peel off my wetsuit and get dry whilst their returning us to the shore. I was just as adamant the zipper of the suit wasn’t going down. This was no time to be seen in the nutty. 

While my time in and around the Bay of Islands provide many stories to retell, where I spent most of my time in the area was at Ruapekapeka Pa, “pa” meaning Māori village. It is an historic Māori village. It was this village twelve miles out from Kawakawa that the British could not conquest during the New Zealand Wars. The Treaty of Waitangi turned to custard, as it would be said in the local vernacular. The Māori Chiefs who had no more declared the signing of the treaty – He iwi tahi tatou - “we are one people” before bad blood developed with Māori realizing that they were being ripped off by the British who were supposed to be their protectors. Ruapekapeka sits on elevated land and the Māori had created one of the most complex fortifications here; one the British couldn’t penetrate even with their 32 and 18 pounder cannons, 12-pound howitzers and 6-pound brass guns. The British began a cannonade of the hill on December 27, 1845 – the middle of their summer. And, even with the siege, the attack was unsuccessful due to the fortifications and the fact and that the village was all underground. My father-in-law first worked the Ruapekapeka farm land that surrounds this historic pa site for his friend, and when his friend, Bert, who was the last remaining indigenous owner passed away, the farm land was then bequeathed to our family. This is what had me on the site, mostly baling hay and feeding out. It was hard for me, the historian, to reconcile these once interconnected holes in the ground, ones which I was jumping into to above my waist, were once the entry way to the famous Māori village. Then there was Bert, one hundred fifty years later, still digging up cannon balls from the battle. It is a place where one should be filled with awe. 

I looked from this elevated site in the direction of the Bay of Islands to visualize the approach of the British, and mentally re-enact the two-week siege and battle that took place. No battle plan could effectively roust the Māori warriors of the Ngāpuhi iwi, who were led by Hone Heke and Te Ruki Kawiti, off this prime defensive post. However, it was on the Sunday morning, January 11, 1846, when the British sent scouts to assess whether the Māori were at their pa site. Determining that the Māori were absent and attending their European-inspired church service, the British decided to attack the pa. The Māori were indeed not at their pa because they assumed the missionary-driven British would be at church as well. The British ended up burning Ruapekapeka Pa to an unrecognizable Māori village.  

The New Zealand Wars were eventually won by the British and an uneasy “truce” has existed ever since within the country. This is why Waitangi Day ceremonies traditionally are a platform for Māori protestors, despite an overarching effort to foster an atmosphere of “we are one people”, to voice their opposition to The Treaty. This year’s Waitangi Day ceremony being no different as protesters collectively turned their back toward the government’s elected representative as he began to speech.  

Whether they be in peaceful protest, or enjoying a relaxing day on the beach, I’m remembering all of my kiwi family and friends here and abroad – Happy Waitangi Day!