Signposts - a blog about Te Ara the Encyclopedia of New Zealand

My grandfather Toivo as a young man (click for full image)

Toivo Pärssinen (1911–2007), my Finnish grandfather, fought in two little-known wars (in New Zealand at least) within the Second World War – the Winter War (1939–1940) and the Continuation War (1941–1944). I am named after Marshal Carl Gustav Mannerheim, who led the Finnish forces (he had a great moustache). Russia was the ’sleeping bear’ and whoever was Russia’s enemy was Finland’s ally. This proved to be Germany, once Hitler broke the non-agression pact with Russia in 1941.

During the wars Toivo (which means ‘hope’ in Finnish) was a cornet and later cavalry captain. In the summer of 1945, at the end of the fighting, my grandmother Saima was pregnant and had two children under six. The army flipped a coin. He lost, so he was sent to clear mines in Lapland – departing SS troops had razed the town of Rovaniemi and laid mines. Toivo’s eyebrows got burnt when his best friend stood on a mine. They picked his remains out of the trees.

Toivo's cavalry funeral in 2007 (click for full image)

Toivo did not talk much about the war, but he had a small map on his bedside wall of a horseshoe-shaped lake where he grew up in Karelia. At the end of the war Russia took a large chunk of eastern Finland as war reparations. The Finnish army burnt the Karelian farmhouses as they withdrew. By war’s end Toivo was something of a pacifist but, as he said, ‘if you don’t shoot them they’ll shoot you’. He was pensioned in 1959 and enjoyed a long retirement. If the Finns hadn’t resisted the Soviet invasion they would have ended up like Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania – behind the Iron Curtain. Finland’s war experience is chronicled in the novel The unknown soldier by Vaino Linna, which has been translated into English. The book is anti-war.

My New Zealand grandfather, Frank Walrond, ran a stamp shop in Auckland’s Queen Street. During the Second World War he trained soldiers before they went overseas, so he saw no active service. Technically, Frank and Toivo were enemies at times and allies at others. The war was messy and complicated – there were all sorts of dirty little wars, land grabs and attempts to settle old scores. Toivo’s friend died from a German landmine and many of his brothers-in-arms, and his brother in-law, died by Russian fire.

A vodka bottle carved by my great uncle in the trenches (click for full image)

So, on New Zealand and Australia’s day of remembrance, ANZAC Day, I thought of Toivo and my great-uncles who were wounded, and I remembered Saima’s only brother, who died fighting for German forces against the Russians in ‘White Russia’ (Belarus). His last word was ‘aiti’ (mother). A small corner of a Belarusian field is forever Finnish.

New Zealand as a young British lion

On Saturday thousands of New Zealanders will get up in the autumn cold to attend dawn services and hear speakers describe Gallipoli as the birth of New Zealand nationhood. It is worth asking whether this was actually the case.

On the surface it seems an incredible claim:

• Most countries looking for the origins of a nation would choose a glorious victory; Gallipoli was an ignominious defeat.
• Gallipoli was not a battle at home, or even close to home, but in a part of the world that New Zealanders knew, and still know, little about.
• In the context of the First World War, Gallipoli was a minor sideshow to the major action on the Western Front. Only 8,566 New Zealanders served there – a small proportion of the 100,000 who went overseas. While 2,721 New Zealanders died on that rocky shore, that is less than a sixth of the 18,000 who died in the war, and small by comparison with the horrifying losses in France and Flanders.
• Even in the Gallipoli battle, the Anzac sector was not the major focus of the British effort – it was a diversion from the main effort at the foot of the peninsula.
• The New Zealanders went to Turkey under the orders of the mother country; they fought in a division which was predominantly Australian; and their commanding officer, Sir Alexander Godley, was a Pom
• The landing that is remembered at dawn on 25 April was very much an Australian affair. Most Kiwis did not reach shore until the afternoon.
• Knowledge of the Gallipoli campaign back here did not come from New Zealand reports, but through the congratulations of the British – such as the King, reporter Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett, or poet John Masefield, who spoke of the Anzacs as ‘the flower of the world’s manhood’.
• In the long term, the effect of Gallipoli on New Zealand attitudes was to strengthen, not weaken, a sense of devotion to the British Empire. On about 500 First World War memorials, which I have examined, the word ‘New Zealand’ appears on just 3, the word ‘Empire’ on 31.

However, there are two ways in which Gallipoli can be said to be the birthplace of the New Zealand nation:

• In 1915 New Zealanders at home thought of themselves as irrevocably part of the British Empire. Their sense of nationhood was always as the ‘best of British’ – the most loyal, courageous and capable people in the empire. Gallipoli could then be seen as the birthplace of New Zealand as a fully fledged member of the imperial family.
• Among the soldiers themselves the experience of fighting alongside the British and the Australians led to a revolution in attitudes. When they landed in Egypt in December 1914, Kiwi soldiers were keen to present themselves as gentlemen like the British and quite unlike those rough colonial uncouth Aussies. But after months at Gallipoli they began to grumble about the class snobbery and sheer inefficiency of the British and to praise their brothers from across the Tasman. There was also a growing pride in the stickability and can-do attitude of their fellow countrymen. They developed a stronger sense of New Zealanders as a people very different from their imperial overlords.

However, when the New Zealand soldiers returned, this second sense of independent nationalism was submerged by the loud trumpetings of people at home, proud to identify New Zealand with the first, imperial, sense of New Zealand nationhood.

It will be fascinating to listen to the sentiments this Saturday and discover which view of New Zealand nationhood is most often expressed.

The North Island is in the north, the South Island is in the south. Simple, easy, and apparently unofficial.

The New Zealand Geographic Board is looking to make them official, and possibly add in alternative Māori names to go with them. They are going to canvass iwi about what the options might be. These islands have already been through a few name changes since James Cook first recorded the names ‘Aeheino mouwe’ for the North Island and ‘Tovy-poenammu’ for the South Island.

Captain Cook considers potential names

How did we get North Island, South Island and Stewart Island?

In 1840 the islands commonly known as ‘Northern Island’, ‘Middle Island’ and ‘Stewart’s Island’ were given the official names of ‘New Ulster’ (for the North Island), ‘New Munster’ (for the South Island), and ‘New Leinster’ (for Stewart Island).  It will be no surprise to find that these names did not stick.

An 1852 map shows the North Island as, ‘New Ulster or North Island’; the South Island as ‘New Munster or Middle Island’; and Stewart Island/Rakiura as ‘New Leinster or Stewart Island or South Island’. Yep, Stewart Island was once known as the South Island. North, middle, south. It makes sense. Around 1907 the minister of lands decided it was time to lose the ‘Middle Island’ title, and just have North Island, South Island and Stewart Island.

What are the possible Māori names?

The most likely names are: Te Ika a Māui (Māui’s fish) for the North Island and Te Waipounamu (greenstone waters) for the South Island. These names are frequently used in an informal capacity.

Cook’s record

James Cook, after speaking to a kaumātua in Queen Charlotte Sound, recorded that the North Island was known as ‘Aeheino mouwe’. There is speculation about what this actually means; possibilities are: fished up by Māui ( hī nō Māui), fire of Māui (ahi nō Māui), breastbone of Māui (ahei nō Māui). The South Island was recorded as Tovy-poenammu, or Te Wai Pounamu (The Greenstone Waters).

Māui and his fish

In tradition, the demigod Māui fished up the North Island – sometimes characterised as a stingray. A suite of Māori names for our shaky isles come from this act:

The North Island is his fish (ika) – Te Ika a Māui
The South Island is his canoe (waka) – Te Waka a Māui
Stewart Island is his anchor stone (punga) – Te Punga a Te Waka a Māui.

Māui fishes up the North Island

However, Stewart Island is out of the equation as it is already known as Stewart Island/Rakiura.  Rakiura is short for Te Ura a Te Rakitamau (The glow of Te Rakitamau). Te Rakitamau, whose name is shorted to Raki, came to court a woman.  When he arrived she had left with her husband and he glowed (ura) with embarrassment.

Aotearoa

Aotearoa and Te Waipounamu were in use historically to mean the North Island and South Island. However, Aotearoa was also used to mean New Zealand, at least from the 1870s, and probably earlier.  The Māori translation of the national anthem was done in the 1870s and was called ‘Aotearoa’, meaning New Zealand.

Destination Invercargill

The Blondini gang arrived in Invercargill yesterday, driving 37 Minis. They were raising money for Starship Hospital by re-enacting the journey from Kaitāia to Invercargill taken by the characters in the 1981 movie Goodbye pork pie.

Like the Mini in Goodbye pork pie, some of these cars suffered from mechanical difficulties. One arrived a few hours after the others, due to having to get a new engine in Dunedin. It parked in the foyer of the venue where the rest of the participants were having a black-tie dinner. There’s something inherently funny about Minis, and few other cars are little enough to be driven through buildings and down railway platforms, as occurs in the movie.

Goodbye pork pie came out in 1981, a time when the New Zealand film industry was just starting to chug along. Apparently it was the first New Zealand film to recoup its costs from the local market. As NZ On Screen says, ‘With 600,000 tickets sold locally, it was in the same league as Star Wars or Jaws.’

It’s no wonder it appealed to New Zealanders – it was anarchic, funny, anti-authority and escapist. The year it came out was the same year as the Springbok tour and, as director/producer Geoff Murphy said, ‘Inflation was running at double figures, people were beginning to queue at the dole office, Maori people outraged to find themselves treated as second-class citizens were being dubbed as ‘radicals’, and the country was beginning to slip downhill economically, socially, and racially. Suddenly here was a film where the heroes didn’t buy any of this shit. And it was funny … It was the last laugh.’

Another reason New Zealanders loved it was that it was filmed on location, almost the entire length of the country. This meant that many communities knew about it when it was being filmed, and recognised their city or town in the finished movie.

I didn’t see it when it originally came out (was a bit too little for all that bad language); my first viewing was at an outdoor screening at the Wellington Botanic Gardens sound shell one summer. When the Mini raced around the streets of Wellington, the audience laughed and cheered and grinned with delight at seeing our familiar streets on screen, albeit a little changed by then.

Lots of people have a Goodbye pork pie story. I once met a woman who acted in the party scene. Someone else whispered to me a couple of months ago that the garage behind Aro Video was where the bit in the garage after the party was filmed. And I remembered something I once saw that added some kind of credence to that story. A few years ago I was having a cup of coffee at one of the fine cafés on Aro Street, and saw a yellow Mini racing up the road and into a driveway next to that very same garage. It did this several times, and was being filmed. I can only assume it had something to do with the movie, because otherwise it was a pretty odd thing to do.

Do you have a Goodbye pork pie story? When did you first see it? Do you agree that tiny cars are inherently funny?

Welcome to Manaia

We went to Manaia in South Taranaki for Easter – an odd choice for a holiday, really. Even Murray, owner of the 103-year-old Waimate Hotel, where we stayed, looked dubious: ‘Do you have family here?’ he asked.

No; we’d driven down the coast road after WOMAD a few weeks earlier, and had our curiosity piqued by the signs that said ‘Soldiers’ cemetery’, and ‘Cape Egmont lighthouse‘, and ‘Parihaka Pa‘. Our Easter plan was to stay in Ōpunake, actually, but the Kneeboard Surfing World Championships were on and all the accommodation was full.

We were the only guests in the Waimate Hotel; not even the bar was open, because it was Good Friday. Murray told us that recently the place had been full, occupied by workers at the Kāpuni gas plant, but they’d all gone home for Easter.

Our room overlooked Manaia’s central Octagon, with its band rotunda and two granite obelisks, one commemorating the two world wars, and the other the men of the armed constabulary who died fighting the Ngāti Ruanui leader Tītokowaru in 1868.

Dairy tankers roared past, gleaming, on their way to the Fonterra factory at Whareroa, outside Hāwera. Yarrows bakery, opposite the hotel, was quiet, and the elegant 1911 post office was now home to a tattooist and an ‘alternative art gallery’. In the distance, Mt Taranaki, snow-topped after Thursday’s cold snap, was emerging from its thick cover of cloud.

Soldiers’ memorial, Te Ngutu-o-te-manu

On Saturday we went looking for Te Ngutu-o-te-manu, the pā where government forces made spectacularly unsuccessful attacks on Tītokowaru in August and September 1868. My atlas showed a historic place on an unnamed back road to the north; other than that, we had little to go on. We trawled up and down the narrow country roads, finally spotting a sign and driving into a bush-clad clearing where a tall white cross stood as memorial to the soldiers.

Ōhawe military cemetery – through the gate, over the fence, across the creek, up the hill

Almost as hard to find was the Ōhawe military cemetery, despite a large sign on the main road and an AA sign in the small beach settlement. We drove around and around, finally catching a glimpse of a monument in a hillside paddock behind a large hedge. We went through a gate, then picked our way through cowpats and thistles, climbed gingerly over an electric fence and jumped a creek to finally reach the small fenced area with its yellow-lichen-covered memorial to the Crown soldiers who died storming Ōtapawa pā and in other 1860s battles.

We gave up altogether on our search for Moturoa, another pā where Tītokowaru repelled government forces. An AA sign to the battle site points inland from Waverley, but once on the side road there’s no guidance at all. We were tired by then, and didn’t mind turning back – but it seems a shame that these remnants of South Taranaki history are so well-hidden.

If you’re out hunting for these sites, Te Ngutu-o-te-manu is on Ahipaipa Road, north of Ōkaiawa, and the Ōhawe cemetery is on farmland on Ōhawe Terrace. Let me know if you ever find Moturoa.