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By Root 706 0

we were greeted by the Ariki of the tribe, Cousin Benny. He and Seabags embraced and rubbed noses, and when we were introduced we followed this procedure. The center room was a big hall. From the raftered ceilings hung a huge raftlike canoe. Perhaps it was the same type of craft that their Polynesian forefathers had used in drifting to this land some eight or nine hundred years before. On the walls were shields and spears. The history of the Maoris has always shown them to be excellent fighters in hand-to-hand combat and masters of ambush and camouflage. In the present war a Maori battalion had spearheaded the Anzac forces in the drive across the deserts of North Africa. Their shrill war cries and anxiousness to mix it up in close gave them many bloody victories.

For the feast a large, low table was crammed with kumeras, eels, crayfish, fowl, mussels, aruhe, and other delicacies. On the deck, in semicircular fashion, lay sitting-mats woven of harakeke. We took off our shoes and took places beside Cousin Benny who was painted, half-naked, and bedecked with feathers and beads. The rangatira was seated according to tribal rank with the ware or lowest caste at the end of the table.

Seabags joshed with the chief, who was a sucker for chewing-tobacco. L.Q. and me were awed at the whole deal and Marion took notes as fast as he could write. The food was well disguised with a strong flavor of herbs, but the joyjuice was a jolter and I warned the others to take it easy.

We feasted by firelight. Dancers performed in the center of our big circle. The kikipoo hit me fast and I got a wild urge to grab onto one of the hip-slinging, bead-skirted dolls and head for the hills. We knifed and fingered through the never ending courses and drank till we were seeing double. Singing and dancing and drumbeats became louder and more confused.

Then came dart-throwing contests, wrestling matches, top-spinning games, and more drinking. A group of girls seated themselves in the center of the circle, each holding a pair of poi balls. They played a fascinating game, passing the balls to each other in beat to the drums. Cousin Benny arose and walked up and down waving a stick and urging the girls to speed up. A Maori next to me explained that this was a re-enactment of their canoe voyage to the Land of the Long White Cloud, which was the Maori name for New Zealand. The girls flipping the poi balls in perfect unison represented the rowers, and their tempo, the beat of the waves. We three Marines sat and clapped hands while the girls brushed the balls against their beaded skirts and threw them about till they seemed to blur, but never a ball was dropped. The Corps could have used them for drill instructors.

Suddenly the girls fell exhausted, letting out horrible groans. The Maoris explained that this represented a period of starvation on the voyage. Finally Cousin Benny spotted New Zealand and everything ended happily.

Amid howls of delight, Seabags went to the center of the ring and took on the tribe’s wrestling champ. Both of them were stewed but the Maori was fast and tricky, and even the Marine’s gently applied knowledge of Judo could only bring them to a draw. They fell into each other’s arms sweating, each patting the other’s back.

Just about then I seemed to go blank. All I could recall was the pounding of drums and the chant of voices. I did notice Seabags and L.Q. head for a side room with a couple of girls as the chief nodded smiling approval.

Next thing I remembered, Marion and me were in the center with our trouser legs rolled up, shirts off, spears in our hands dancing with a pair of dynamite-laden hip slingers.

I felt cold water running over my face. I fought my eyes open. Drums were pounding…I closed my eyes again. It felt as though someone was shaking my head off. Seabags stood over me. “Come on, Mac, you passed out on the floor. We gotta make a run for the train.”

“Owwww Gawd!”

“Come on, Mac,” I heard L.Q. yell through the fuzz.

“Party still on?”

“It will be on for another week. Can you make it? We got to run for the milk train.