Academic and Māori advocate Ngāhuia te Awekōtuku has won the general non-fiction prize at the Ockham New Zealand Bood Awards 2025 with her memoir Hine Toa: A Story of Bravery. Photo / Rotorua Daily Post
Academic and Māori advocate Ngāhuia te Awekōtuku has won the general non-fiction prize at the Ockham New Zealand Bood Awards 2025 with her memoir Hine Toa: A Story of Bravery. Photo / Rotorua Daily Post
Māori academic and activist Ngāhuia te Awekōtuku won the general non-fiction prize at the Ockham New Zealand Book Awards 2025 this week with her memoir Hine Toa: A Story of Bravery.
Te Awekōtuku was the first Māori woman to earn a PhD at a New Zealand university. In a series of stories, her bold memoir traces the journey of a restless girl from a pā in Rotorua to a woman who became an academic, a founding member of Māori activist group Ngā Tamatoa and an advocate for women’s and gay liberation movements.
“To save you the inconvenience of a fine, and to make your visit a pleasure, our Meter Maids have replenished your meter.” She assumed a practised, elegant pose, gleaming with suntan oil. Her modesty was barely saved by narrow undies, spangled with glittery coins around her hips, and a matching brassiere over lush breasts.
Her coronet shone from a pile of blonde curls framing an artfully painted face. Slim fingers tipped in gold polish grasped a dainty metal coin purse, and a dark-blue satin sash completed the display; right shoulder to left hip, in metallic block capitals, it read, Surfers Paradise Progress Association.
They were the sponsors of this bold venture, which promised that at most you might get lucky and at least you would escape a parking fine. Six young women, three blondes and three brunettes, paraded daily along the midsummer streets of Surfers Paradise, dispensing charm, paying expired parking meters and having fun. Approachable and friendly, they were comfortable about cameras.
These traits were as important as beauty – personality was a plus. As a tourist gimmick, it was a great success: in the emerging postwar car culture of eastern Australia, men drove miles to sit and gawk. Most women did not approve; to them, it was vulgar and faintly unsettling. But the Swingin’ Sixties were about to roll into the southern antipodes, including Rotorua.
After long consultations with fellow local entrepreneurs, the Public Relations Office and the exuberant Māori golfing cohort, the Rotorua Progressive Businessmen’s Association announced that a similar Meter Maid scheme would take place in the peak holiday season of Christmas to New Year 1965-66. They declared a big point of difference: no bikinis.
The girls would be clad in traditional Māori costume: the pari bodice, piupiu flax kilt and tīpare headband. While most residents welcomed the idea, many conservative folk, both Māori and Pākehā, voiced disapproval. One neighbouring iwi condemned the idea in the local paper, comparing it to prostitution.
But commercial opinion prevailed, and two positions were advertised. I wasn’t interested; I was still guiding with my uncle and doing the occasional but lucrative photo modelling job, and I’d just started cleaning rooms at the flashy new Geyserland Motel.
Some Sunday mornings, I got the huge thrill of serving Kona coffee to overseas guests in their cafe. I’d looked at the Meter Maid photos my mother and the golfers had brought back, and I knew that type of thing wasn’t for me. No way.
But other people in the whānau thought otherwise. “Paparoa!” said Aunty Jess. “I think Huia would be good at this! She likes talking to Pākehās and knows a lot about Rotorua, and Pākehās do like her.”
“What do you think, my girl?” my mum asked. “It’s such easy money, walking around all day, smiling at the cameras and posing. You should have a go!”
“No, I haven’t got the right looks – I couldn’t pose all day. And those Aussie girls are so glamorous, and I could never look like that …“
“You don’t have to! You will be wearing your piupiu, not showing your legs!”
Ngāhuia te Awekōtuku in a promotional photo taken at Te Papaiouru Marae, Ōhinemutu, in 1964.
“Mum! It’s not about my legs! And anyway, my feet are too big, and I’ve got no chest, and I’ll get really sunburnt –.”
”Rubbish! You love the sun! You’ll be in it all day long, and you won’t be showing yourself like that at all. You’ll be wearing your piupiu, and you’ll get paid!“
Aunty Jess piped up again. “You are such a lovely speaker! Pākehās do enjoy listening to you talk – I’ve watched them at Tama. All you have to do is talk, and you’ll get paid! The other girl can be the pretty one and smile and pose. Go on, Huia, have a go!“
Uncle Bramley remained silent on the issue. I did it to shut them all up, even though I had serious doubts about my looks compared to those of my cousins. Too short, flat chest, big feet, thick legs, patchy freckled face. I could pose for pictures, smile and stand or sit still and pretend … but walking around all day? Smiling all day?
I knew I had Personality: I could sing okay, play the uke, twirl my poi, and tell stories for days and days about the myths and legends of Māoriland and the thermal wonders of our tourist diamond. Oh yes, I could do that stuff really well. I supposed I was pretty enough, but I wasn’t a beauty, not like others in the whānau, not at all.
I got the job. I couldn’t believe it, because it felt wrong. But most people were happy for me, and Mum and her golfing relations celebrated for days. Others were jealous, while lots of people couldn’t believe it either: “Huia, you’re flat!” The other chosen girl, June, they accepted – she was Gorgeous. But Huia? What? With a voice as flat as her chest? Please! June was tall, curvaceous and beautiful. With creamy skin, thick lustrous hair and round dark eyes, she was already a popular model for local fashion shows and increasingly featured in tourist publicity photos.
Ngāhuia te Awekōtuku (right) with June Northcroft (Grant) replenishing expired parking meters to promote Rotorua in the mid 1960s.
She brought a nubile glamour into our work together; I brought Personality and Information. We tramped a steady route around the town’s streets, waving at favourite shopkeepers, greeting our proud or bewildered relations, pausing to be admired, questioned, photographed. We were small-town summer celebrities.
And then something happened. The Surfers Paradise Progress Association proposed to set up an exchange of Meter Maids – one of theirs for one of ours – over a 10-day period, with guest appearances, mayoral receptions, fashion shows, beach barbecues and pool parties, as well as other activities including a bikini parade. June would be fine: she’d make a dazzling impact in a teeny gold two-piece. But I was horrified at the thought.
Ngāhuia te Awekōtuku was the first Māori woman to earn a PhD at a New Zealand university. Photo / Rotorua Daily Post
The choice seemed obvious to me, but the men of the Rotorua Progressive Businessmen’s Association declared that Fortuna should decide. The decisive meeting was held in the local Public Relations Office staffed by the charismatic Ernie Leonard, a relation of Paparoa. He was a popular singer, and his gappy grin made us laugh. Trevor Cato, portly and congenial, from Cato’s Colour Centre and Homewares, was the organisation’s chairman. Two others, one a female secretary, were present in that sunlight-filled room, its walls of windows facing the bustling street. We were all nervous.
Ernie opened a sealed pack of playing cards, then shuffled them smoothly. He smiled at June and me. “It’s like this, girls,” he confided. “It’s up to Lady Luck. You will each draw a card. Keep it facing down and give it to Trevor. He will turn it over, show us and read it out. The higher card will get the trip.”
Panic. And a prayer. I drew Spades. June drew Clubs. I would be going on a TEAL jet, all expenses paid. Me. Off to Surfers Paradise. With my flat chest and short legs. With my colourfully entertaining stories and bright plonking ukulele. With the exquisite kiwi-feather cloak my kuia made for me when I came under her wing. With my Personality.
I was going to Surfers Paradise in my piupiu to represent, sell and promote Rotorua, to attract visitors to the glittering tourist diamond of our country, to the Heart of Māoriland.
We changed planes in Sydney, then arrived in Surfers Paradise close to midnight. I thought I could hear familiar music: the melodies of Genoa Keawe recorded on the beach at Waikiki. Our accommodation, the Beachcomber Motor Hotel, sat comfortably beneath palm trees. Smells of melting tarseal and exhaust fumes mixed with the fragrance of hibiscus, jasmine and bougainvillea, and the tang of sea air.
Surfers Paradise Meter Maid Roni Taylor, wearing a gold bikini, with Ngāhuia te Awekōtuku on the Gold Coast in 1966.
The man himself, the inventor of the Meter Maid scheme, Bernie Elsey, a business tycoon, met us in the lobby. He had an infectious enthusiasm, seemingly interested in and excited by everything. They were winding down a Hawaiian Cabaret Night, and his partner, the luminously lovely Joy, greeted us with a subtle sway of her shimmering cellophane hula skirt. The guys were mesmerised.
After we were given our room keys, I said goodnight to the pair from home and followed a bellboy in a floral shirt as he carried my bag up to my suite. My suite! Two rooms, all mine! With a balcony overlooking sapphire water. This was paradise for sure.
We all met for breakfast. Pineapples in everything. Pawpaws, too. And mangoes. What an adventure! Bernie joined us. He rubbed his peeling nose and looked at me like he was considering a bonbon before taking a big bite. “Trev, she’s really young …”
Trevor and Ernie both spoke at once, but Ernie, a Māori orator in training, took control.
“Our visitors to Rotorua are mainly families wanting wholesome fun, and many enjoy learning about Māori culture, our dances and our arts –”
“That’s all very well,” Bernie barked back, “but she still looks wet behind the ears. Maybe if we say she’s 18 –” It was my turn to speak up. “No. I’m only 16 –” Three male faces snorted in unison. I shut up. Ernie suggested a way out. “She can be a Māori Gidget.” He grinned. “You know, that smart cheeky girl on American TV, young and sassy and full of fun.”
“This is not bloody Disneyland.” Bernie exhaled cigar smoke. “But it might work.”
