By JULIE MIDDLETON
Everyone wants a slice of Mai FM's birthday cake. The undisputed heavyweight champion of Auckland radio is 10, and politicians with an eye on a young brown vote have gathered at Orakei Marae, home of station owner Ngati Whatua.
National's Maurice Williamson, in a leather jacket, is
conspicuous in a gaggle of suited Labour MPs - Helen Clark, Judith Tizard, Parekura Horomia, John Tamihere, Dover Samuels and Joe Hawke among them. Peers of influence are there: Tame Iti and Waitangi's Kingi Taurua.
On the paved area in front of the whare nui, the kids on the tribe's holiday programme stand in straggling lines, holding sprays of pohutukawa leaves they will use in the welcoming haka.
The morning's planned hangi-making session has been postponed.
A cold wind accentuates the delay, and the kids are getting restless.
"Why are they all wearing black?" asks one, squinting towards the visitors. "Is it a tangi?" Well, son, we will not know that until July 27.
Everything is behind schedule by the time the conch shells sound and a karanga wails.
Helen Clark looks relaxed and at home in the whare nui as shoeless speakers toast and boast on behalf of the station (Joe Hawke will later get everyone to sing "Happy Birthday" to Mai).
The party over, the PM exits and waiting television crews swoop.
The Australian Broadcasting Corporation gets in first.
TV One wants more on the Greens' embarrassing back-pedal of the day before. The BBC appears.
TV3's Maori language children's show Pukana wants a soundbite for the programme. "Tahi, rua, toru, wha ... Pukana!"
It is an apt request to an attention-seeking, campaigning politician really - the word pukana describes how women roll their eyes to draw attention while dancing.
With Helen Clark on her third take, one of her blue-suited bodyguards - how is it that you can always pick a police officer, even in civvies? - has discovered the dangers of making eye contact with a bystander for a second too long.
An earnest woman with close-cropped grey hair chastises him, delivering a major-league harangue on the limits of his vocabulary.
"To understand our language is to really understand us," she scolds. He looks relieved when Helen Clark strides past, finally free, and he scuttles to catch up.
But there is one more ambush coming. Pukana wants a slice of Mr Horomia, a fluent Maori speaker.
Recall the irritatingly catchy song Shalala Lala by the Venga Boys? Get that looping in your head then imagine two average-sized Pukana presenters flanking a generously-sized Maori Affairs minister.
Add these words, a literal, if tongue-in-cheek, translation of the original: "Pukanakana/ Pukana i te ata ... / Pukanakana/Pukana i te po ... " The minister obliged.
Out on the marae perimeter, the holiday programme kids finally get their hangi lesson.
Pungent smoke blew around supervisor Paul Davis as the kids poked twigs into the heap, setting their ends alight. The only slices they wanted on Mai's birthday were carvings of pork, chicken, chops and vegetables being cooked for dinner.
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By JULIE MIDDLETON
Everyone wants a slice of Mai FM's birthday cake. The undisputed heavyweight champion of Auckland radio is 10, and politicians with an eye on a young brown vote have gathered at Orakei Marae, home of station owner Ngati Whatua.
National's Maurice Williamson, in a leather jacket, is
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