Some people might not be bothered knowing their family history. For me, understanding who I am has always been important.
My paternal Irish connection was easy. Being called Colleen, having a nana with family links to Tipperary, a father with dark Irish looks – green eyes, a teller of good yarns. I ticked that box (it didn’t matter that I was the odd one out with my blonde curls and hazel eyes).
As a university student, I learnt that my maternal grandfather, James Bateman, who died when I was a toddler, was Ngāi Tahu, from Riverton, at the bottom of the South Island. That was a revelation. My mother, Brenda Bateman, the eighth of nine children, seemed to have missed out on this critical piece of information. Apparently, her siblings knew, but she, besotted with sport, reading and her numerous friends, seemed unaware of this fact.
Poring over old black-and-white photos of my grandfather revealed a man with fair colouring and aquiline features, highlighting why it was hard for Mum to make the link.
Family connections get lost. A mother dying young, a family regularly shifting homes for work, moving to another island, a horde of children, a depression and two world wars will put paid to the best of intentions.
In the busyness of daily life, especially when times are tough, talking about family links becomes a low priority.
Grandfather James worked for the Post Office, so the family moved around the country a lot. My mother was brought up in Levin. She left school at 16, worked part-time in a photography shop and used some of her wages to pay for shorthand and typing lessons from the nuns in the local convent. I still have her Pitman exam results. She went into the WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) when war broke out, working in the RNZAF base at Te Rapa, near Hamilton. It was there she met my father when he returned in 1945 from serving in the RNZAF in Burma. Dad worked in the railways as a fitter and turner and gained a promotion to the Ōtāhuhu railway workshops. I was brought up in Ōtāhuhu from age 7.
My mother became the registrar at Ōtāhuhu College and encouraged me to go to university. It was one of my many cousins, attending the same university as me, who alerted me to our Ngāi Tahu connections, sparking my interest in this part of my heritage.
My whakapapa was confirmed when I was sent my own copy of the official “Ngāitahu Kaumatua alive in the 1848″ records – the “Blue Book”. There we were – the Wharetutu Newton whānau, formally listed as No 32 in the Southland section. Wharetutu, my maternal great-great-great-grandmother, was Ngāi Tahu, married to sealer George Newton.
My journey had begun. Contact by contact, trip by trip, keeping all the letters and emails, my network of cousins and I have pieced our story together. It is a work in progress.
Faces to the names
I found I am linked to several marae, including one at Bluff and one near Riverton, west of Invercargill.
On my first trip south in the 1980s, I met people who could give colour and embellishment to the dry details of listed names and half-completed family trees – the “Oh, that Ann, she was a right character” comments.
“Ann” was Ann Pratt, daughter of Wharetutu and George Newton – my great- great-grandmother. All the women in the family are strong characters. You can see it in their faces, and the stories passed down the years about them. They were survivors and linchpins, holding their families together.
On that first trip, I was also intrigued to discover that as part of the iwi, I had the historical right to be included on muttonbirding trips to the Tītī /Muttonbird Islands, off the coast of Stewart Island/ Rakiura.
A later visit accompanied by three cousins took us to Riverton/Aparima, where grandfather James worked as a young man. At the town’s Te Hikoi Museum, we discovered a framed photo of Ann.
Right from the start, Ngāi Tahu read the future accurately. Strategically, a number of young Ngāi Tahu women partnered with European arrivals into the region to blend and bind the cultures. Scraps about Ann’s life married to a settler are detailed in early records of that period. Widowed, she remarried, to a much younger Māori man, David Pratt. My line is descended from that marriage. One of her daughters, also Ann, married Charles Wallace Bateman, my great-grandfather.
That trip also took us to Ōraka/Colac Bay, just west of Riverton, once home to Ann and David, now to surfers and one of our marae, Takutai o Te Tītī – the seacoast of the tītī. My whānau owned land there.
It’s a simple marae, a converted school, lovingly restored and extended to meet the needs of Ōraka Aparima Rūnaka (or rūnanga – council: Ngāi Tahu dialect substitutes a “k” sound for “ng”, and it is especially prevalent in the lower South Island).
Some years ago, another cousin, Raewyn, and I were helicoptered from the marae across to Codfish Island/Whenua Hou, courtesy of Ngāi Tahu. The reality of past times came crashing home to me. Wharetutu and her children living unimaginably harsh lives with other families on this small, isolated island bound by Foveaux Strait and the Southern Ocean, scratching a living while their Pākehā husbands went sealing. Babies buried in the sand-dune urupā, remnants of a tiny cluster of homes in the horseshoe shape of Sealers Bay – a precarious existence.
On another trip to Rakiura with Raewyn, we gained permission to find where Wharetutu was buried at The Neck, the narrow peninsula that separates Paterson Inlet/Whaka a te Wera from Foveaux Strait. We didn’t find her grave site, but we did encounter a very agile sea lion who chased us back up the path, fortunately swerving to slide down into the ocean on the other side of the bay we were heading for. Another piece to help create a multi-dimensional picture of our past.
Slow route south
This time, I’m heading for Riverton for two purposes. To be at the opening of an exhibition at Te Hikoi Museum of my children’s picture book, Violet’s Scarf, set in Riverton in 1915, and to connect with whānau. I think I can keep the two journeys separate. But of course, these worlds intertwine.
We fly from Auckland to Nelson to visit friends. We have decided to ease ourselves into the journey, to travel in stages, distancing ourselves from our city life, adjusting to “going back”. Te Waipounamu is breathtaking. From Nelson to Hanmer Springs is like driving through a geography textbook. All the elements from the ice age are there: rounded ice-sculpted hills, scree slopes, peaks of snow-capped mountains visible through the mist, braided rivers, clear water rushing over gravel beds. We are the only car in sight. I look in vain for any signposts to country marae. Where are Māori in the South Island?
The Canterbury Plains. Empty paddocks with eerie iron skeleton irrigation systems snaking across them. Where is everyone? We skirt Christchurch and head for Ōamaru. Then the drive to Invercargill, where the countryside is a startling vivid green, a lush velvet layer over the land. Fat lambs and sheep dot the landscape.
As far as the eye can see the grass appears to be chewed to exactly the same height. This is postcard territory, with crisp wind breaks, perfect sheep, gambolling lambs. I have whānau who are farmers. I can’t begin to estimate the years of effort it would take to achieve this degree of perfection.
We skirt Invercargill and settle into our motel. I use my extensive cousin network to arrange meetings, well aware that I could sound like a pushy, citified Pākehā. But my time is short; I want to make the most of it.
A soul-deep moment
The further south we’ve travelled, the more emotional I feel. I ask cousin Ann-Maree, “How did you feel coming back?” “Emotional,” was the response. “Dad [George Bateman] started this process and I felt him right there with me, especially at my marae.”
Emotionally, I know I’m going to have to dig deep. I call a cousin contact, Gail Thompson, at Te Rau Aroha Marae in Bluff, the world’s southernmost marae. I’m halfway through explaining that I’d sent an email about coming south, of my connection to the marae, and that I would like to visit the marae the following day, if possible, when my throat constricts, my words fade. My husband, Barry, passes me his handkerchief. I use it and carry on. Gail, at the other end listens, her voice softens, she understands. We make the arrangements to visit.
Before that visit, I make another Ngāi Tahu contact in Riverton. Riki Dallas is the kaihautū (general manager) who oversees the management of vast tracts of Ngāi Tahu islands and land up to Milford Sound/Piopiotahi. We travel to Ōraka.
We have a blurred photo of a cluster of women standing outside a house, possibly on Ann Pratt’s land. I think of grandfather James standing on this beach; of him catching the local train back to Ōraka after finishing work. I look out to Whenua Hou. Foveaux Strait is calm today, but the sea is merciless, encroaching on the land, threatening the marae – just the beach and some boulders separate them.
The following day, Corey Bragg, project manager at Te Rau Aroha, meets us at the pathway leading to the wharenui, Tahu Pōtiki. We talk about the protocols we need to follow. Barry and I walk up the paved walkway under the three carved portals of my maunga: Aoraki, Tākitimu and Motupōhue (Bluff Hill). We slip off our shoes and sit inside, Barry in front, me behind. First impression: colours everywhere. It is not a traditional wharenui. This is astonishing, a kaleidoscope of images and colours impact on my senses.
It is a heady experience. I can feel the pou of my ancestor, Wharetutu, clothed in orange with a blue carved cloak, towering behind me. I feel my mother Brenda’s presence. Intense emotion. Corey stands and welcomes us both onto this special place. It is deeply intimate and personal.
Corey ends with the words, “Welcome home, Colleen. This is your tūrangawaewae.” It is a soul-deep moment. I so wish Brenda could have lived long enough to be with me. I am there for her, my grandfather James, my children.
Barry stands, follows protocol, speaking on my behalf in English. I am so proud of him. I have the waiata, Te Aroha, on my lips. I hesitate. We move past the moment. I don’t know whether I could have forced the words out of my mouth, I’m so choked up.
We go for kai with the option of the wharekai (dining hall) or the kitchen. I opt for the kitchen – in my opinion, the powerhouse of any marae. We meet Gina Ryan, preparing food for an important weekend hui, demonstrating again the importance of relationships to Ngāi Tahu.
Whānau connections
We are joined by Meriani Pile, the office administrator, and Gail, my cousin contact. We talk through whakapapa, and whānau. And as this is New Zealand, we find those links. I feel included, even for this small sliver of time. There is such kindness here. I know they must do this again and again for the diaspora of iwi who find their way home. It still feels special.
Corey explains the history of all the carvings in the wharekai and wharenui as we walk back through them. The wharenui is an octagonal structure, similar to the wharerau (temporary dwelling) constructed in the Tītī Islands in the past, when hapū collected muttonbirds. In each corner and centre stands a carved pou of a woman, each nearly 4m tall – ancestors who joined the two cultures. The colours are rich and magical. You lean into them, into the stories of the past. The whalers and sealers have a dedicated panel at the top of the wall.
The tukutuku panels tell stories of the people, the past, the land, the connections. Master carver Cliff Whiting worked with locals and volunteers to create this place of beauty and heritage.
We reluctantly leave. I will return.
The next day, I arrive for the opening of my children’s book exhibition at Te Hikoi Museum. The experience of visiting Te Rau Aroha Marae lingers. My mind is full of images, colours, and connections. I concentrate on the here and now. Family members associated with the Violet’s Scarf story arrive. Laughter, reminiscences, photos exchanged. Locals, people who have bought my book, ask questions and we chat. I sign many copies.
I’m introduced to kaumātua Teoti Jardine, who will open the exhibition with a mihi and karakia. Teoti doesn’t know of my iwi connection. I explain it. He grasps my shoulders and pulls me close. I go for the cheek kiss – “No”, he says. We hongi. It feels so right. He’s delighted. I’m delighted. Another link, another moment. The circle spins and links us. He remains close by.
We leave Te Waipounamu, returning to the city and our ordinary life. The experience is now part of me.
Māori say: “Inā kei te mōhio koe ko wai koe, I anga mai koe i hea, kei te mōhio koe, kei te anga atu ki hea.” (“If you know who you are and where you are from, then you will know where you are going.”)
I’m not saying I missed my Māori heritage when I didn’t know it, but knowing it, somehow, makes me feel more complete.
I have been welcomed home.