(Dedicated to my father and Whakapapa)
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
On Thursday the 27th of January, 1859 'The Equator' navigated
the straits into Wellington harbour,
the bluff rounded where we anchored & slept last night.
I remember the smoke that rose up into
the lap of god,
We stood on deck with flowers,
waiting for the wind to bring us in,
the westerly pulling at our fingertips,
drifting the ship southward toward
the snow.
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
When the sun squinted her eyes,
our evenings were spent marvelling at the fires
in heaven,
stretched like Indian silk of the east,
the horizon laden with ink and the blood of
last years wars,
Chief Epuni restless at the loss of his father's cloak,
to be passed through the channels of his whakapapa,
his people now trading their mokos for
gun shaped iron.
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
With a dark face & full moko, his mat was interwoven
with Albatross feathers,
sharks teeth were hanging from his ears &
on his chest he wore an idol as his talisman.
in one hand a battle axe, the other a club of greenstone
Te Wiwi's father was only at peace when he slept,
I heard his ancestors mourn from the
clay floor,
huddled together in the centre of the whare,
huddled together but not for warmth.
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
Arriving at the inn, two travellers traded stories of
the East,
an open window to the Catholics and Protestants
snapping at each others heels for souls,
their beloved empire threading vines under the
Southern Oceans.
But at night as they slept,
the bush matted with a shade to cool the eyes,
wound up through the Rimutakas
and down into the Waiarapa where Chief Te Turuatakiti
bore his people upon his brow.
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
When Doctor Rothe fell off his horse & drowned amongst
the arms of the Rangitikei.
His family sat amongst the iwi to imagine him
as a child,
his German heritage blended with the Maori earth,
a Tangi sweeping the valleys for a dead white man,
We slept in our little cottage last night,
our provisions tight at 2 pounds a week,
but father we are so glad to be home.
The sun has been kind and 'The Equator' has now left these
shores,
leaving behind the sailors to trade their sea dogs life for
a glimpse at prosperity.
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
willkommen auf Euerem Pfad
I am told there are no roads or tracks into the plateau,
135 miles protect Lake Taupo from the Pakeha,
The Maoiis join the yearly caravan toward these healing hands,
the warm waters of god, erupting 60 feet
closer unto heaven.
I am afraid to go alone as the inland hostilities
toward the white man frighten me.
I feel the heart of Aotearoa rests in these hands,
cupped in the warm earth,
the natives continuing to migrate further up north,
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
willkommen auf Euerem Pfad
On the 14th of April the Governor general arrived in Wellington
to a cool reception,
the superintendent stern in his stance,
his back turned from the grace of the government.
The 'Radicals' are bare-faced and rude toward the
'Constitutionals' in manner,
I am not proud of our politicians, but still they grow.
Several hundred Maoris gathered to catch a
glimpse of 'Te Kawana'
one woman in a sweeping
velvet habit, bare headed with a clay pipe between her lips,
her reverence was overwhelming.
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
willkommen auf Euerem Pfad
Only 80 miles away the Maoris are at war with each other.
Chief Tomiona is reputed to be a handsome man,
responsible for the massacre of 500 from another lwi.
the government fear him for his education,
judiciously ruling his tribe toward civilisation.
He understands the failings of his people & has mastered the
tools of the white man.
We pray for a peaceful home by the waters edge,
but silence seems a virtue beyond humanity.
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
willkommen auf Euerem Pfad
The fuchsias in the front of the house are in full bloom,
the acacias fresh and vigorous,
the summer sky a heavenly blue when the sun goes down
under the ocean,
the peaceful valley of Paekakariki now in the possession
of the government,
the day ends at 5 but rises again at 7.15am when the
Irishman wakes as a native with
white skin,
Schreitend in den Fussspuren anderer, heisse ich Euch
willkommen auf Euerem Pfad
The years are crawling up my back & I am an old man
to the eye,
We moved to St Johns Hill, Wanganui when the
bank folded from under us in I878,
we've remained ever since & I shall die here.
I have lived my life in this country, but the outbreak
of war rendered my services forgotten,
ours peers amassing us all under the German flag to
eventually rename 'Krull' to 'Oakland Ave'.
I have now seen two faces and I trust neither.
The roads have been built but the Maoris appear to have
faded from brown to grey.
I was born in Germany but my family remains with
me here in New Zealand.
(Fredrech died a naturalised man,
bringing us all home under Rongowhakata
his vessel still anchored in Whanganui-a-tara)