We spent that first night at Taumaranui
on the main truck line, the song softly bouncing in my head.
Stayed in the wharenui
of the Timu whanau, with it's
faded photographs of
ancient tipuna quietly gathering dust
and staring down at us
while we slept.
Next morning we put the assault craft
into the Wanganui and detailed the crews,
about a half dozen gunners in each.
Stratton, Bailey, Kinzett, Dwyer and Hudson
in my boat, and with a weapons check
we were gone.
Hunting all down the river
culling goats by the score
stopped that night at Pipiriki
and stayed in the Rangers lodge;
partied hard on cheap plonk.
Young Bob Kinzett cherry faced
and happy lost the lot and left deep
wine stains on the concrete floor.
Hangovers all round next morning
boats loaded, weapons check and
away, barrel's heating with
the kill rate, and goats shot
above the flood line.
A brief glimpse of the
'Bridge to Nowhere'
then it's Jerusalem village in the
late afternoon and a chat with the
kaumatua. We can stay in the
wharenui...but no booze.
The bard is gone, long cold dead
and his commune departed,
scattered 'nga hau e wha'
(to the four winds) each having
made a pilgrimage to this silent
and lonely place, to be inspired by
his rough lifestyle and richness
of spirit.
I walk the tracks and mud where
he trod in his bare feet and
visit a river boulder named HEMI.
A scattering of hippie beads,
peace rings, coins and shells
spread about. From an overhanging
branch a wind chime tinkles.
I reach into my ammunition belt and
pull a spent cartridge, then change
my mind, his father was a 'conchi'.
Sorry stranger,
I'll leave you a bob instead.
His house still stands
open to the weather
the iwi won't use the place,
too much wairua. I feel his
biggest presence in the beautiful
Maori church. I enter and
genuflect, then bless myself
and begin with the old prayers
"Pater Noster qui es in coelis".
Invited that night to party in
one of the houses squatted
by dope growers. They drink
our beer and rough sherry
and offer us good Wanganui green.
If they go outside, they go in pairs,
there are to many kehua and
Hemi's house is haunted.
A cold night but the wharenui is
warm and the tipuna protect us from
the lost souls of the dark.
I make a last pilgrimage to the
HEMI stone while Bob Kinzett
cooks what remains of our ration pack.
Morning sunlight bathes the gravesite.
As I look down the church bell
begins to toll for the morning service.
A tui calls from nearby, while a
fantail dances above the stone...
Rest easy stranger,
not such a bad place to surrender your heart.
© Mike Subritzky 1974
Jerusalem
