Dear David,
I’ve been away walking Te Araroa lately, scratching the belly of the fish, as Hone Tūwhare used to say. It’s had me thinking about us all as a people. You have, too, I suppose. I happened to be in Russell the night of the election, caught the Ōpua ferry with Winston Peters the next day. On the way through Kerikeri, I stayed for a night with Kipa and Susie, two of the most blessed souls you’re ever likely to meet. Kipa is from Ngāti Rēhia. He told me you whakapapa to there. I envy you for that.
Thirty years ago, I went to live in Te Tii, the home of Ngāti Rēhia in the Bay of Islands. I stayed in an old tin shed by the beach. I rented it for $30 a week from Kipa’s brother, John, although everyone called him “The Hood”. He lived on a small hill above me with his partner, Kuia. Aunty Rangi lived beside them, with Milton and Erehi. Uncle Buck and Aunty Maraea lived one house over, and Aunty Bloss was in front.
On the beach in front of me lived Tom Kelly and his four daughters. The girls ate my chocolate biscuits while I nailed the corrugated iron into the bottom plate to stop the mice getting into the shed. And then again when I made a shower from roofing battens, polythene and a small water
