Our Windmill Folk

Our Windmill Folk

Written by David Bell

The Dutch Whanau

May, 2015, my wife Winnie and I set of on our much anticipated journey to Holland to visit her Dutch-Chinese relatives, of which there are many. These folk immigrated to Holland over the years from Hong Kong, New Guinea, and China. The first to make the transition was her aunt (her father's younger sister, Ang Hui Kim), who married a Hong Kong businessman, Kho Keng Tiat, and moved with him to Biak Island where they established a very successful trading business, petrol station and a few other side ventures.

Kho Keng Tiat and Ang Hui Kim ~ 2015.

When Indonesia took control of the Dutch half of New Guinea the family - now consisting of parents and three children - left and lived in Hong Kong for a while before using their Dutch residency to move to Holland and start again. They took with them a sizable fortune and set up several Indonesian restaurants that prospered and increased their wealth.Winnie's brother, Ang Yan San (Raymond) left Hong Kong in the early nineteen seventies to join his uncle and aunt and work in one in of their restaurants in Amsterdam.

The Amsterdam restaurant Raymond worked in after arriving in Holland. It has long since changed owners but still serves Indonesian food.

For a long time he worked as a lowly dishwasher and cleaner but through hard work, diligence and a powerful desire to learn and succeed, he earned the respect of his uncle who took him under his wing and helped him towards establishing his own business. His uncle generously gave him a percentage in another Indonesian restaurant on the Dutch-German border and from this humble beginning Raymond eventually became a prosperous restaurateur. However, it came at a cost. The decades of grinding work in the kitchen and the long sixteen to seventeen hour days combined with the stress of running the business caused him to suffer heart problems forcing early retirement. Fortunately, he had amassed enough wealth to allow him to give up the business and enjoy a financially comfortable retirement.

Raymond Ang Yan San ~ 2015. 

One is compelled to admire Raymond's great spirit. He came from Hong Kong with a very limited education and only $HK200 in his pocket given by his mother, undoubtedly all she had at the time. He was not the academic type. School to him was a place to avoid and sitting in a classroom doing lessons all day was nothing more than mental torture; he was a hands-on kind of person. So, when the opportunity arrived to go to Holland to learn the restaurant trade he took it.

Raymond can never be accused of being lazy or lacking ambition because he worked long hours and threw himself into learning to cook. In the end he became an expert chef and and astute businessman. He also fathered three boys all of whom have become skilled in their chosen professions. Holland quickly became the land which he now calls home.  

As the old saying goes, behind every successful man is a great woman. This is certainly true of his wife, Lai Kam, a bubbly, active, humor-loving bundle of drive and energy. She is also hugely supportive of her husband, and a caring and loving mother and grandmother. The years of hard work have also exacted a price as she too battles a health problem. Luckily, both she and her husband are so positive that their health difficulties are no barrier to their enjoyment of life and their devotion to their family. She and Raymond are an example of two people who came though years of tough slog and terrific struggle by working together and sticking together despite their differences.

Lai Kam Chan ~ 2015

Lai Kam's journey from China to Holland is a story with all the elements of fear, sorrow, bravery, hardship and final victory; a story well worth telling.

She was born in Fujian Province, South China, and like so many from that province, her father lived and worked in the Philippines as a means to support his family back in China. However, when the Communists under Mao Tse Tung defeated Chiang Kai Shek and his Nationalists, they implemented policies which nationalized all lands and properties to the communist government, making private ownership and private business punishable by imprisonment or death. These conditions went completely against the grain for such people as hers who believed in hard work and free enterprise. It soon became imperative to her father that the family (his wife and young daughter) leave China by any means possible. It was also imperative the family get out of China because with China now closed it was impossible for her father to ever return. If he did he would never get out again. Therefore, a hard decision had to be made; should he return to be with his family and thereafter live under communist rule, or do the almost unthinkable; risk the lives of his wife and daughter and spirit them out of the country into Hong Kong. One can only imagine the difficulty of such a decision. He would have been well aware of the dangers of smuggling them out, but he would have also seriously weighed up the prospects of life in China under the oppression of communism. No doubt Lai Kam and her mother would have been well aware of the dangers as well. But, when the final decision to flee was made their determination was resolute.

As already mentioned, Lai Kam had a father and many uncles who had earlier left China, one of which lived in nearby Hong Kong. It was arranged that he would organize their escape. This would have been in the early nineteen sixties when the borders were closed and guarded by deadly machine gun posts. Communist gunboats also patrolled the rivers and coast around Hong Kong. It has never been recorded exactly how many refugees lost their lives trying to sneak into Hong Kong by land or water. Nevertheless, despite the risk and very real dangers, her father and uncle arranged for them to board a small fishing boat that would hide them in the hold along with other refugees and take them to Hong Kong and freedom.

When it was time they left under the cover of darkness and boarded a small diesel powered boat and were stuffed like sardines with many others in the small, stuffy hold under the wooden deck. It would be a long, uncomfortable trip along the coast to Hong Kong; just how uncomfortable they were soon to discover.

It didn't take long before several of the passengers got seasick, probably hastened by the stench of diesel fumes that seeped into the hold from the old engine. There was only a couple of buckets for their toiletry but these were quickly filled with vomit. The stink of other peoples' vomit made Lai Kam even more ill and it is one of the things of the trip she still has vivid memories of. It wasn't possible to empty and clean the buckets regularly so the passengers were forced to endure the stench and foul air for long periods. In addition to the vomit, it wasn't long before they had to deal with the other bodily functions and the disposal of human waste.

It was a brutally hard week of chugging slowly along the coast travelling at night to avoid the gunboat patrols then hiding up somewhere during daylight hours. Lai Kam remembers the relief of fresh air and the fear of being detected as they hid in some cove or bay. She remembers climbing from the boat and clambering up slippery rocks at some designated safe place, the relief of being out of the stinking hold tempered by the fear of discovery. Everyone was constantly on the lookout for patrol boats.

Thankfully, there were no patrol boats and they made it to Hong Kong where they were joyously united with their father and other relatives.

Hong Kong was to be their new home but several years later a sudden tragedy blew that plan to pieces: Lai Kam's father was the victim of a street robbery that went horribly wrong. One day on the streets in the Philippines some muggers attacked him and in the process shot him to death. It was heartbreaking news for Lai Kam and her mother and left them completely without a provider. Again, it was family who came to their rescue, this time in faraway Holland. They were offered the possibility of another start by going to Holland to join other relatives there and work in their restaurant businesses. It sounded like a good option, the only problem being how to get there.

Having already managed one escape they probably felt they could do one more. However, this time would be vastly different with its own specific problems. Firstly, they were free to travel wherever they pleased so they weren't desperate refugees. The problem this time was that they needed immigration papers and visas and the like, and in their current situation these were impossible to acquire. They would have to do something a little more enterprising - sneaky is probably a better description. They would sneak into Holland and if they could stay there long enough they would then apply for Dutch residency. Holland's immigration laws back then were considerably tolerant and often gave amnesty to long-term overstayers if their behavior and contribution to society was satisfactory. And so begins another good story. This escape was not to be on a rickety old boat but but modern jet liner; this now being the mid nineteen seventies.

The plan cooked up was to fly by plane to France where they would be met by their uncle who would take them back with him to Holland by car. Simple.

However, Lai Kam and her mother had never been on an airliner before let alone travel to a strange land so far away. The first big question was what they should wear so as not to draw too much attention to themselves and arouse suspicion among the airline and immigration officials. It was decided they pretend to be tourists and dress accordingly. They had no idea how tourists looked so Lai Kam and other well meaning family members dug up some travel magazines and scoured the advertisements and articles for ideas. The result was a wardrobe of high-heeled shoes, tight nylons, brightly colored skirts and oversize sun glasses. Further, neither of them spoke a word of English so another helpful uncle instructed them it was safest to just smile brightly and say yes to everything. Years later, in hindsight, Lai Kam saw the fatal flaw in this advice. Imagine if a conversation with an immigration officer went:

"Why are you here?"

"Yes!"

"Are you here to seek work?"

"Yes!"

"Are you trying to sneak into the country?"

"Yes!"

"So you are an illegal immigrant and should be deported?"

"Yes!"

Thankfully, there were no such interviews.

The days leading up to their departure was loaded with a mix of uncertainty, excitement, anxiety and sheer terror, and when the great day finally arrived Lai Kam, and her mother showed up at the airport decked out in flowery long dresses, shiny silk stockings and high-heeled shoes purchased from the street markets. On their arms hung large handbags and their faces were made up to make them look like rich tourists. Best of all, their eyes were covered by the biggest, darkest glasses the street stalls could offer. Ah-dao, Lai Kam's Hong Kong born little brother, was also a member of the traveling party.

It was a huge occasion and about eighty family friends came to see them off. Apparently no-one told them this was supposed to be a secret operation. Travelling overseas by airliner in those days was a big thing and an event not to be missed if one had friends or relatives flying overseas.

The Flight to France was uneventful and no-one seemed to pay too much attention to the two bumpkins dressed to the nines and looking utterly ridiculous.

As the hours passed, Lai Kam and her mother became increasingly uncomfortable in their unfamiliar apparel; the shoes squeezed their feet and sent pains up their legs, the dresses were unbearable and the cheap made-in-Hong Kong sunglasses were so dark they couldn't see past their noses, but they persevered lest they blew their cover.

Their Holland uncle, to avoid the more officious international airport in Paris, booked them on a plane that landed in some smaller country airport. It took a lot longer to reach and when they finally arrived the two women were exhausted and thoroughly fed up with their tourist roles. As they stumbled through the plane door onto the steps, Lai Kam's mother grabbed her daughter's arm and complained that she couldn't see a thing through her glasses and feared she would fall down the steps. Lai Kam told her to put her hands on her shoulder and follow her down. When they got to the bottom the high-heels were cutting into their feet and were so painful they both decided to discard them and walked barefoot across the rough tarmac. By the time they got to where her uncle was waiting anxiously for them, they looked like anything but rich tourists; their nylons torn to shreds, their shoes hanging from their hands and their splendid dresses ragged and crumpled. They also had a tired, grouchy little boy in tow. It was with great relief they climbed into the car and sped off toward Holland.

While there were a lot of adjustments to make, life gradually got better and Holland became their permanent home. A few years later she met and married our own Raymond and became his rock and support in their restaurant businesses and on the home front.

When Winnie and I visited Raymond and Lai Kam, they opened their hearts and home to us without reservation and showed us the best time of our lives by stuffing us with the finest food, hospitality, and an itinerary that took us all to Paris, London, and Berlin.

Winnie and Raymond had not seen each other for over thirty years so meeting up again was a long overdue and happy reunion ~ 2015.

                                          Dutch Houses

Raymond and Lai Kam are firmly established in Holland, a country they love and call their permanent home. The following pictures are snapshots of Winnie and my vacation there during May and June, 2015. We were greatly surprised by Holland. We envisioned it to be a small and crowded place with sparse countryside. The reality, we found, was quite the opposite. Yes, geographically it is a relatively small land with a population far exceeding New Zealand, but it has a surprising amount of plains carpeted in green crops such as grain, potato, vegetables and seed plants. The Dutch love their flowers so there are also huge areas of  glasshouses growing flowers and fruits.  Also, small dairy and sheep farms can be seen from time to time. Following are some captioned photographs taken on our trip which give an idea of what we discovered about Holland.

Most people live in flats or apartments. They are generally quite small but there are bigger places for higher rental. Raymond's address is 75 Hamontstraat (Hamont Street). The Government provides much of the housing by  building large apartment complexes which are basic but neat and comfortable. Most, however - like Raymond and Lai Kam's here at Sloten near Amsterdam - are privately owned. The more wealthy have larger stand-alone houses many of which front onto one of the thousands of canals that cover Holland. Others live in city houses and flats which can be very costly.

Above: A typical old-style Dutch cottage and it's small front garden. Most Dutch people seem to be very house-proud, their houses tidy and neat. Note the cottages in the background, typical of the more up-market dwelling. Below: Some city apartments along the canal in Amsterdam.

Some folk live in more unusual dwellings, like these innovative buildings in the following photos. The Dutch are renowned for their experimental and innovative architects and engineers as can be seen in these architectural examples. The first picture shows some views of what has been called the world's most innovative building and best example of blending the city with housing. The living apartments are built into the huge hangar-like structure which arches over a large space filled with shops and businesses, creating a covered marketplace. The residents can gaze down through their inside windows onto the busy market below. Also, the outside walls look out over the city and ocean. It is truly a remarkable building but to live in it might take some adjustments to your idea of living space. No doubt the apartments are very well appointed but it almost seems like living in an anthill. The convenience, though, must be spectacular.

The other pictures show a complex of experimental housing designed to maximize space. We went inside the display one and while it probably fulfilled its space saving function it would take a bit of time to get accustomed to the crazy angles and curves throughout the interior. I think younger people would like living in them, but not me. Not many others either because I never saw this kind of housing elsewhere in Holland.

A street view showing the apartments on the outside and marketplace underneath on the inside.

Interior view showing apartment windows looking down on the marketplace. Note the huge mural covering the entire interior. The flats on the roof have their windows on the floors.

Looking from one end through the interior to The Pencil, another apartment building.

                                           Looks like something from Alice In Wonderland.


Below: Other dwellings included some of what I considered the more ideal kind of home; those set on the canals, their lawns ending at the waters edge with ducks, fish, frogs and other wildlife at their doorsteps. A few lucky folk even live on canal houseboats.

                                                Windmills

Windmills have always fascinated me; my two most enduring images of Holland since childhood being of windmills and the little boy who stuck his finger in a hole in the dyke saving the whole country from disaster. Strangely, when I asked the locals about this old children story (which we all read at primary school) no-one had heard of it and thought it quite amusing. However, they easily related to it because I was quickly informed that water, while great to have in such abundance, was also their biggest enemy, the whole country being part of a massive ancient river plain. The other name for Holland is Nederland, which means flat-land. The old Nederland - or Netherlands as they are also called - included today's Holland, Belgium and part of Germany. But, over the centuries, wars and skirmishes caused it to be divided up into its current borders. 

While it was once a plain with rivers threaded throughout, it had substantial dry places with exceptionally fertile soil in the form of islands and small high patches on which people settled. But it was prone to flooding so over time the inhabitants kept the water at bay as best they could by building dams and canals for drainage. The eventual advent of windmills brought revolutionary change to these lowlands.

Windmills had been around for a long time; the ancient Egyptians probably being the first to invent some sort of wind powered mechanism. The Arabs and then Romans also made windmills. Later the English built them for various uses but all these were relatively primitive and simple. It was the Dutch who took them to new technological heights and made windmills a common sight all across the land. They were mostly used to pump water away to safety and also to irrigate small farms, but it wasn't long before they were also put to more industrial uses like grinding wheat into flour, crushing colored minerals into powder for paint, sawing logs into lumber, and a host of other things.

Windmills helped Holland both control the water and become a rich industrial center. At one time there were tens of thousands of windmills of all kinds all over Holland from big industrial ones to midget pump-mills set on the banks of ditches and irrigation channels. For a time they were also handy producers of electricity. Of course windmills would be of no use if there was no wind. Luckily, Holland has never had a shortage of this natural resource. 

Today, few of the tens of thousands of windmills still exist, overtaken by electricity and other forms of modern technology. Those that remain are thanks to private windmill enthusiasts and restorers, tourist operators, and the few farmers who still like to use them. While the old Dutch windmill can still be seen here and there around Holland, its modern counterpart is everywhere; I speak of course of the huge wind-powered turbines that can be seen wherever you go in Holland - and Europe, for that matter.

Dutch windmills once had a multitude of uses. Nowadays they are mostly kept for historical purposes. The above photographs were taken at a torist attraction featuring the old style windmills.

I paid four euros to go inside a fully restored and working Dutch windmill. It was well worth the money to see the great old technology - simple but ingenious - of cogs, shafts and wheels all made of wood, and the huge crushing wheel carved from stone. Not a piece of metal in sight. I loved the smell and sounds of the old mill grinding away, the wooden mechanisms creaking and groaning, the slow, rhythmic whooshing of the sails outside. It had a real old feel about it. I had always wondered what it was like in an old windmill so this was one of my childhood dreams come true.

Wind turbines are planted everywhere. No doubt the farmers and landowners are well compensated. Who would want such huge monstrosities on their land unless paid handsomely? However, a turbine post doesn't appear to take away too much useful land, being unfenced with grass or crops growing right up to the base. 

                                  Beaches and Seaside Towns

Another surprise about Holland is that it has some good beaches and seaside towns. The capital, The Hague, is situated on one such beach which on sunny summer weekends is packed with swimmers, sun lovers, diners and party-goers. Raymond took us to Den Hague after I expressed my doubts that Holland could have good sandy beaches. What I discovered was a surprisingly nice one with quality sand that stretched for several kilometers along the coast.

The beachfront boardwalk at The Hague. It was about half a km long with cafes, restaurants and bars the whole length. The weather wasn't too good the day the above photo was taken, but on sunny days and evenings the place is packed.                                                          

                                                      


   Above: One of the quaint seaside towns along the coast.

                                         Public Toilets
One thing that New Zealanders find hard to get used to are the public toilet facilities in Europe. In our country we enjoy easy and free access to good toilets wherever we are; town, city, and even way out in the countryside. Not so in Europe; public toilets don't seem to be a priority and what few they have can be disgusting. There are some pay toilets which are turnstile operated or have attendants taking money. We balked at this at first but soon were happy to pay a euro or two for a decent, clean loo. 

Paris and Rome were bad but Jersey and England were good. Germany was OK because they were mostly pay toilets and clean. Holland had some great public toilets as shown in the pictures below.

This one was in a busy square with ladies walking by. I had to wait until they had all left before I dared use it. I didn't want to but when you gotta go you gotta go! The pee goes down a drain by your feet and it stinks but it doesn't seem to bother anyone.

This is the ultimate in portable el-fresco toilets. I love its simplicity. It was located at the beach at Den Hague and I just had to try it out. You would have noticed that they are for males only; ladies have to hang on or go into bars or restaurants to answer the call of nature.


The End...for now. We still have some unfinished family business that we didn't get time for on this trip. More will be added as it comes to hand.

  

The War Grave Of John Robert McGruther

We Visit Uncle Jock in Assisi

Written by David Bell

The Commonwealth Memorial Cemetery, Assisi, Italy.

On Friday, 15 May, Winnie and I set off on our much anticipated holiday to Europe. It was a combination family history campaign and pleasure trip. We first went to Hong Kong to spend a week with Winnie's relations there and then head off to Holland with her sister and brother-in-law to catch up with her Dutch cousins.

Perhaps I should briefly explain why Winnie has a big group of Chinese relatives in Holland. Many years ago one of Winnie's aunts, Ang Hui Kim, married Kho Keng Tiat, a businessman, and moved from Hong Kong to what was then Dutch New Guinea where they established a very successful enterprise on Biak Island consisting of a trading store, petrol station and a few other things. When Indonesia took over the Dutch half of New Guinea the family, by then with the addition of three children (Frank, Steven and Winnie), left to live in Hong Kong for a short time before moving permanently to Holland where they reestablished themselves and set up prosperous businesses there.

Then, in the 1960's her brother, Raymond, left Hong Kong for Holland to work in one of Kho Keng Tiat's businesses and made a life for himself there. So it was to Holland we set our our sights to visit and connect with our windmill folk, most of whom we have never known. Also,Winnie had not seen her brother for over 30 years so a reuinion was well over due. Visiting family in Europe caused us to think about a stopover in Italy to accomplish one of my lifelong dreams; to visit the grave of Uncle Jock at Assisi.

Four of us (Me, Winnie, and her Hong Kong sister and brother-in-law) left Hong Kong and flew to Rome for a week and visited as many of the ancient sights and monuments as time would allow. Then, on Monday, 25 May we traveled to Assisi, about two hours by train out of Rome. Upon arrival we hired a taxi to the Commonwealth Cemetery which was not far from the train station.

It is at this point in this narrative I hope the reader will forgive me for sharing an experience I should perhaps keep to myself. I have thought a lot about whether or not I should put it in print or keep it private, but in the end decided it no harm to tell and let whoever reads this determine for themselves if they believe as I do.

I was obviously quite thrilled to finally be at a place I had so long wanted to visit and hurried to the entrance. The entrance consisted of a stone gateway leading onto a paved area that displayed the white cross and bronze sword, the symbol for every Commonwealth cemetery.

The Commonwealth Memorial Cross

I had no expectations of anything extraordinary happening. I was simply there to fulfill a family history assignment I had given myself; to be one of the few in the family to have the privilege of standing on the ground where Uncle Jock lies buried. I would touch his headstone, take some photos, enjoy the experience and feeling of accomplishment and carry on with our holiday. What happened next was utterly unexpected.

We walked through the stone entrance and looked across the immaculately trimmed cemetery lawn with its neatly arranged white marble headstones gleaming in the morning sun. I have been to many cemeteries looking up dead relatives and never felt anything more extraordinary than the satisfaction of simply being there. At first it was the same on this occasion, but the moment I walked along the small pathway and stood on the paving in front of the cross I was overwhelmed by the the tingling sensation of Uncle Jock's presence. It was so strong I began to weep; not a blubbering kind of weeping, rather an up-welling from somewhere deep within that couldn't be contained. There was absolutely no sensation of melancholy or sorrow, neither of wild happiness. The best words I can think to describe it are love and joy. Winnie was nearby talking to her sister and I called out to her that something weird was happening. She came over to steady me. Her sister, seeing what was going on said, 'I think your uncle has come to see you'.

That sensation remained with me for the whole time we were at the cemetery. It is an experience I will treasure for the rest of my life. I have always believed our departed loved ones are never far from us and that the veil that separates us is only as thick or thin as we want to make it. I think, for some reason, it became very thin that day.

Before leaving New Zealand I laminated three photographs of Uncle Jock's family and took them with me to Assisi. One was of his maternal grandparents Arthur and Matire Ormsby, and the other two were of his parents John and Daisy McGruther and his siblings Colin and Jean. I pressed them into the loose soil at the foot of his headstone, symbolizing bringing his family to be with him. I get the feeling he appreciated the gesture. I always felt it rather sad that he lay in that foreign land where he fell during the the last months of world War Two.

We stayed at the cemetery for about one hour then said our farewells and headed up the hill to the stunningly beautiful town of Assisi. Winnie remarked, 'If you have to die and be buried in a foreign country, Assisi is a good place for it!'.

Her observation was a good one, the countryside around Assisi is stunningly beautiful; probably the most beautiful place I have ever seen.

The cemetery is wonderfully maintained. When we were there the caretaker was busy tidying around some graves. I think he is employed full time judging by the condition of the place

Uncle Jock's headstone. I placed three photos of his family at the base.

Giving the headstone a clean with a wet-wipe; not that it needed it, all the headstones are shiny white.

The Saint Francis of Assisi Basilica, a beautiful centuries old stone building built to last.

The Saint Francis of Assisi Basilica with the valley and fields spread out below.

Street side Assisi with the valley backdrop. Stunning! And the girl isn't too bad either. 

Winnie and her sister on the wall above the basilica.

Assisi is set on a promontory overlooking an immense fertile valley filled with farms, orchards, vineyards and villages. The huge Saint Francis of Assisi Basilica dominates the hill. The streets and buildings are all made from local stone so the town kind of blends into the natural surroundings giving the whole place an air of peace, harmony and tranquility. The above picture illustrates how beautifully kept the streets and house fronts are.

Sampling some of the local cuisine.

We spent one whole glorious day at Assisi where we visited the cemetery, toured the beautiful basilica, drank in the spectacular view of the Assisi countryside, wandered the immaculate streets, and ate some great Italian food and gelato. All this under the warmth of that Mediterranean sun. We went back to Rome on the late afternoon train. Those things travel at high speed and are super quiet and smooth. After riding the trains around Europe I am convinced I would rather travel by fast rail than by plane wherever possible.

The following day we flew to Amsterdam.

                               The End 

Releasing the Ashes

Mac's and his Mother's Ashes Released into the Upper Mangati River

Written by David Bell

Monday, 13 July 2015

A marvelous family event took place over the past three days and I must record it before some of the important details begin to fade from my memory. I will start with Friday the tenth and conclude with as full account as I am able of the release of the ashes of my mother and brother two days later.

Friday, 10 July 2015

For over two years the ashes of my parents, Jean and Peter Bell, remained in their containers closeted away firstly at Mac's house in Pirongia and then in his son Bully's place for a while. When Mac died in September, 2014, his ashes container was placed with the others and eventually taken to Denise's house where all three remained until the day of the release. The reason for the long delay was in part due to some family business that took time to work through.

Finally, the word went out and the family began to gather, flying in from distant parts of New Zealand and from Australia. Karyn, Kenny, Jaime, Darcey, Wade, and Jaimie's friend Tyler all arrived from Moranbah, Australia. Kelvin, also from Moranbah, arrived on the same flight. Glenda's brood, consisting of her son Kyle and daughter Maxine accompanied by her husband Darren - all from Sydney, made the three hour journey across the Tasman. Other family, cousins and friends from around Aotearoa also gathered: the Aucklanders, the South Islanders, the Taranakians, the Bay of Plenty folk, local Waikato people and so-on.

Friday the tenth was designated activity day. Miriam and Denise organised two family groups to visit various places and hopefully meet up at Kerosene Creek, a thermally heated river near Rotorua. Denise's group comprising hers and Karyn's family went bungy jumping at Taupo then on to Kerosene Creek for a hot swim. Miriam's group went to Arapuni, Blue Springs near Putaruru and then on to Kerosene Creek. Unfortunately, the schedules didn't match up too well and the Kerosene Creek rendezvous didn't work out, but it didn't matter, we all met up in the evening for the big family dinner at the Alexandra Hotel, organised by Denise.

As the saying goes, a picture paints a thousand words. The following pictures with captions should give a good description of the activities.

Miriam's Lot:    

First stop the Arapuni swing bridge; very high and very scary. 

Second stop Blue springs near Putaruru. The springs and the river they have created are renowned for their cold, crystal clear waters and abundance of big rainbow trout. We spotted several trout in the short time we were there. Above photo taken from a bridge. Apparently, most of the bottled water we buy in the stores is from here.

Third stop Kerosene Creek near Rotorua, so called because of the distinctive kerosene smell from the thermal activity in the area, 

The kids enjoying the hot water under the waterfall. The air temperature outside was very chilly so it was a struggle trying to get them out.

                                                              Basking in the shallows.

Kerosene Creek was the final destination. After that it was home to change and then off to the Bell dinner at the Pirongia hotel. The old Alexandra has been rejuvenated by the new owners and now sports a very good restaurant. Over thirty family turned up and everyone had a great meal and plenty of fun. Credit to Denise for the idea and the organisation.

Saturday, 11 July 2015 

Saturday morning was spent resting from the rigors of the previous day's activities and preparing for the evening 'River Cottage' dinner at Renee and Bully's house. The idea of a River Cottage theme as part of the ashes festivities was hatched some time earlier by Denise, Miriam and Renee; the idea taken from the popular River Cottage television cooking series where everything cooked is home grown or from the wild. The Saturday dinner was to be likewise. Additionally, Glenda turned seventy and it was the perfect opportunity to celebrate her birthday; when would we ever again have so much family gathered together in one place?

Bully and Renee generously offered their new home with its large deck, spacious patio, expansive lawn and African brai pit for the occasion. It kicked off at about four thirty in the afternoon with everyone bringing their River Cottage offerings. There was abundant food; Barry and Denise killed and prepared a sheep, Graham and Jan did the same to a pig from their farm, others brought poultry, salads, desserts, drinks (Heath made some fejoa-peach wine that was well received), breads and a host of other delectable goodies. You could almost hear the tables groaning under the weight. Winnie spiced up the menu by bringing her two 'Yangtze River Cottage' dishes; a large bowl of spicy chicken feet and some stir-fried chicken gizzards and hearts, not so heartily received.

The 'River Cottage' venue:Leslie and Renee Bells' family home, Pirongia.

The brai pit. Bully worked for a year or so in the mines in South Africa and brought this outdoor cooking idea home and had it put in when his new Pirongia house was being built.

Above and below: The brai also had the secondary benefit of  keeping  out the bitter chill of the evening air.

Happy seventieth birthday Auntie Glenda.

Sunday, 12 July 2015

At 8:30 am on a frosty Sunday morning we gathered at Bully's house to head for the spot up the Mangati to release the ashes. Both Mac and our mum had stipulated that their ashes be released into the home river. At 9 am a convoy of several cars set out for the place selected some days before by Glenda, Denise and Bully. It was several miles up into the higher reaches of the Mangati stream near the bush-line on the East face of Pirongia Mountain. The spot was on a sharp corner with a sizable concrete slab encasing three large pipes which emptied a generous flow of upstream water into the stream on the other side.  The cement culvert proved the ideal surface upon which to congregate.

The task to lead the ceremony was given to me (David), a task I fretted over for days, preparing a short opening speech, mihi, and prayer. This is something I wished to do in respect to my brother Mac because it was he alone who reawakened in us our Maori whakapapa, or heritage. This reawakening, along with his incredible whakairo (carving) skills, is the great legacy he left our whanau. I, for one, feel greatly indebted to him. He was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination - he had some serious human flaws - but in the final wash he certainly left us something special from what he saw as his life's purpose. I wanted to do a good job with the service by keeping it short and to-the-point (he hated long-winded speeches and endless rituals), hoping it might meet his approval. I was keenly aware he might be watching so I wanted my performance to be as near to perfect as possible. I practiced and committed it to memory for over a week until it was ingrained in my brain.

When all the cars were parked and everyone who made the journey gathered on the culvert, I got the nod from family kuias Denise and Glenda and stepped up to do my thing. To the best of my memory it went pretty much as follows:

"Greetings everyone. On behalf of our whole family we thank you for coming to be with us for the release of Mum and Mac's ashes. I wish to do a welcome and mihi in respect to Mac, my older brother, because he brought our Maori heritage to our family remembrance before it died forever. I don't profess to have great te reo skills so please bear with me if I stumble a bit." I may have said one or two other things but you get the gist. Then....

"Ka tangi te titi
Ka tangi te kaka
Ka tangi hoki ahau!

Tuatahi, memihiake ki to tatou Kaihanga,
Mo ana, manaakitanga i tau i runga i a tatou.
Memihi ano, ki nga mate hoki,
No reira, haere-haere-haere.

Te rohe e horohia nei,Puketotara,
Tena koe, tena koe.
E nga tupuna te kaupapa o te ra nei,
Takoto-takoto-takoto.

"Hear the chirping of the little fantail,
Hear the call of the great red-winged parrot, the kaka.
Hear my return call.

First let us give thanks and praise to our Creator,
And let his kindness rest upon us.
Also greetings to those gone before,
Be with us today.

To Puketotara and the land,
Greetings, greetings.
To our ancestors for whom we are here today,
Be at peace-be at peace-be at peace.

"Waati Arthur Sydney Omipihi and his wife Matire Matilda Wright, my great-grandparents.
Honi Ruki Pohepohe John McGruther and Te Kura Whakairi McGruther, my grandparents.
John Robert McGruther, best known to us as Uncle Jock who gave his life in World war Two and lies where he fell in Italy.
Colin Ormsby McGruther.
Jean Waireti Ormsby Bell and Peter Leslie Absolum Bell, my parents.
And Peter McGruther Bell, also known as Mac, the most recent to leave us.

"Oh God our eternal Father, we come together as whanau to release the ashes of our brother and mother into the waters of our ancestral land. We pray that this little stream will carry these ashes through its twists and turns into our family river, the Nakuawhia, symbolizing their journey into eternity. We come here today to wish them farewell until we gather once more in our heavenly home. We pray that their spirits may find peace and contentment as they rest in their homeland. We beseech you to take them into your loving care and may this spot be blessed and remembered by our whanau now and forever. In the name of Jesus Christ, amene."

Time was then given for any who wished to say a few words and three responded. The first being Kereti, Mac's Wananga colleague and great friend. He opened with a mihi in Maori and then related some memories of Mac and some personal reflections. He was followed by Sharon Tautari who spoke about her Auntie Jean and shared some happy memories about her. She said she was intrigued by mum's name, Waireti. It made her think of wai, meaning the water into which she was released. The wai (water) would take her down into the Nakuawhia and on to Te Akarauti, the ancestral cemetary known for the cabbage trees that used to grow there. These are called ti in te reo. Waireti is simply Violet in Maori but Sharon gave it a new meaning on that day; Wai-rere-ti, (waters flowing to the ti...Te Akarauti). 

Jan Bell then arose and delivered some beautiful, heartfelt words emphasizing the spiritual aspects of the event. She stressed that without the presence of folk like the Tautaris, and all others present, the great feelings of whanau would not be possible. It was a courageous effort because out of all of us Jan is possibly the most sensitive to losing our brother and parents in such quick succession and I think this has made her more attuned to spiritual things. She hadn't planned on saying anything but as she said later, something made her come forward and it felt like it wasn't her speaking.

I like to use the word whanau because it means something more than just family; it conveys the feeling of everyone united in kinship, here and beyond the veil. We were all whanau on the river bank that day and we were truly uplifted by the messages of the three speakers. I was especially glad because they filled in all the things I failed to say.

Then it was time to release the ashes and Sharon and Georgina Tautari offered the karanga as the ashes were released into the water by Mac and Jean's children. The service ended after that and everyone mingled for a while before going back to Bully's house for lunch.

The culvert, upper Mangati.

After the official opening three people gave short speeches.

Mac's friend and colleague, Kereti, sharing his memories.

Releasing the ashes into the stream.

                   

A POEM FOR MAC

by Sharon Tautari

Let the light shine down on me.

Take me home to my mountain stream where I want to be -

To the heart of my ancestry,

Just as they before me bound themselves to the land

I am of them, so take my hand.

Mangati has my whenua; my destiny decided.

My people always knew and watched me as I grew.

There were stories to be told,

They were numerous and old.

The forest became my friend

And I saw the stories in the trees.

Wood was the book that my hands overtook,

The words exposed in post and house.

My teachers never stopped that spiritual flow

But allowed me the privilege to stretch and grow.

And I longed to be on this, our tupuna land.

E-aku tupuna!

Come, take my hand

And let my whanau know it is time to go.

The swirls and curls of the old Mangati

Have set my wairua free.

This was our day at Te Wairere Tii

The end