A visit to Tyne Cot cemetery and the solemnity of remembrance

It is nine years since I stood under the Menin Gate on ANZAC day, with other New Zealanders, marking our day of national memorial for the wars of the twentieth century.

My photo of soldiers' graves at Tyne Cot, 2004.

My photo of soldiers’ graves at Tyne Cot, 2004.

The gate spans the Menin Road that leads out of Ypres, a town in Flanders; and during the First World War, soldiers from Britain, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, India and other places walked down that road, usually to their deaths. Part of that road, not far from the town, was under German artillery fire from 1915 until 1918; Hellfire Corner, it was called, and hessian screens were raised – not to stop the shells, but to prevent anyone sniping the troops. The gate, a huge arch, is lined with the names of soldiers who disappeared, their bodies never found, in the churned muck of the trenches.

Later, my wife and I walked the quiet lawns of Tyne Cot cemetery, the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the area and a silent reminder of the lethality of the Western Front. A rotunda carried names – including those of New Zealanders – who had fallen during the Western Front campaign, and were never found.

Wright_Shattered Glory coverFor me that campaign defined the futility of the human condition – the way we intellectualise ourselves into corners. Militarily it was a cleft stick; the triumph of defence over offence. Industrial technology could bring men to a battlefield in unprecedented numbers. It expanded the battlefield to colossal scales. However, it could not move men on it, nor could infantry overcome the barriers posed by machine gun and wire. Once that had developed it was difficult to find a military way out, without new technologies – which were developed. But that took time, and meanwhile men died, and political solutions were never explored.

At the time, of course, it seemed rational and logical. But that is true, I think, of every war humanity has fought through its long history.

We keep falling into wars, just as we keep insisting that we must never fight them again. It is a relentless cycle which, I fear, is a part of the human condition.

As I walked those silent gravestones in 2004 – and as I sit here now remembering the solemnnity of that day, and thinking about the intellectualised rationality, the stubbornness and the horrors of the war that led to these deaths - it gives pause for thought.

What do you figure on this one?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

ANZAC Day 2013: remembering why we fought

Wright_MilitaryBookCoversIt’s ANZAC Day this week in New Zealand – 25 April,  our equivalent of Memorial Day in the US or Armistice Day in Britain.

It’s iconoclastic. Most nations remember their military dead on days when a war ended – typically, for Commonwealth countries, 11 November, when the guns fell silent over the Western Front in 1918.

But not New Zealand and Australia. Here we remember our war dead on the day we began our first big overseas military campaign, the ground assault on Gallipoli that began on 25 April 1915.

Wright_Shattered Glory coverThe day is tied into our national identity. That wasn’t always the case. When the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) embarked on that campaign it was to do duty for Empire – for Britain, a country we called ‘home’ even though most of our young men had never been there.

I used to write histories of our twentieth century wars. In my final foray into that field, Shattered Glory (Penguin 2010), I explored the virtually spontaneous celebrations on 25 April 1916, the anniversary of the landings – at which time the Gallipoli campaign was turned, by sleight of hand, from an ignominious defeat (which it was) into a triumph of New Zealand’s contribution to Empire.

It became nationalist towards the end of the war, a spontaneous focus for grief flowing from the terrible death toll of the Western Front, New Zealand’s most lethal campaign of all time and the definition of what the First World War meant, socially and historically.

Of late, 25 April has become New Zealand’s de-facto national day – a moment to remember those who gave their lives – the young men who were never wearied by age.

To me it is also a day to ask a simple question. Why? Why did they go to war?

It is easy to suppose that young men were fooled by Boys’ Own images of war as glorious, a superior sports event that showered honour on soldiers, family and especially school.

I have found letters and diaries suggesting that this may have been true for the Boer War of 1899-1902, our first military campaign. But not the First World War. Not really. Most of the young Kiwis who went to fight even in 1914 knew what war entailed, even if they had yet to learn the true lethality of industrial age fire-power. That lesson had been driven home by 1916; and certainly most of their sons were cynical enough in 1939, when Europe again plunged into war and New Zealand’s young men flocked to sign up.

They did not go because it was glorious. They went because it was necessary.

We forget how close the world was, then, to a new dark age. In the 1930s democracy was but one of three competing systems, and it was on the back foot. In New Zealand of the day, the government of Michael Joseph Savage opposed fascism wherever it stood, even at risk of annoying a British government that felt appeasement was a cheaper option. But Savage was right. So was Winston Churchill, a politician, writer and historian who knew very well what both Nazi and Communist flavours of totalitarianism stood for. But such voices of warning were not heard until almost too late. And for a while in 1940-41, as Britain and her Comonwealth stood alone as the last main bastions of civilised western democracy outside the United States, things stood on a knife edge.

New Zealand’s part in that war took our fighting division from Greece to Crete to Egypt to the Western Desert to Syria, to Libya, Tripolitania, Tunisia, and finally Italy and – in the last hectic days of the struggle – Trieste. They did so under a remarkable commander, Lieutenant-General Sir Bernard Freyberg, VC, DSO (3 bars), etc. (It is nearly a decade since Penguin published my biography of this incredible man; I still think it is one of my best books).

Other Kiwis fought with our navy, with the Royal Navy and with the Merchant Marine. Still others fought in the skies, with the RNZAF and RAF among other services. And we had a presence in the Pacific, where a New Zealander, Major-General Sir Harold Barrowclough, led forces that included a US contingent under Richard M. Nixon. Yes, that Richard M. Nixon.

All this was done not for glory, or rewards of heroism, but because it had to be done. Whatever it took. The alternatives – a world dominated by Nazi evil, fuelled by what Churchill called the ‘dark lights of perverted science’, were too horrible to contemplate. And we knew it.

Today we must remember those who died to make the world a better place, safe for democracy - who helped make the modern world what it is. Both here in New Zealand – and around the world.

Please join me in remembering them.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

Celtic history conspiracies, anyone? No? Good.

As humans, I fear, we suffer from an uncanny ability to intellectualise ourselves into believing things that are really, really stupid.

monkey_readingTake the crackpot theories about secret history that have become popular ever since Charles Fort was a lad. Every country seems to have their variations – ‘ancient astronauts’ building pyramids, hidden past civilisations in the Americas, even Atlantis discovered in Google Maps, having eluded everybody on the planet including Google’s mapping teams.

Never mind that the ‘city’ on the Atlantic floor was actually an artefact of Google’s digital mapping process. Or that the ‘Atlantis’ legend itself has been shown to have come from Egypt, and was really about the destruction of Santorini (Thera) and the Minoan civilisation by volcano.

Here in New Zealand, crank ideas have included efforts to ‘prove’ that that everybody from Phoenicians to Celts arrived before Polynesians (always, wrongly, called ‘Maori’ in these accounts). The ‘proofs’, as far as I can tell, pivot on assigning human patterns to natural rock formations, or identifying boulders shifted by a county council during excavations as an ancient observatory. Literally joining the dots, though in a peculiar way.

Like overseas theories of similar ilk, these tell us more about the people proposing them than anything real. What’s more, some of these ideas – Celtic especially – float on a repugnant racial agenda, underscoring what’s actually going on.

New Zealand is far from alone. All this begs the question. How do these ideas gain traction?

Unconscious incompetence plays a part; often these theories are presented by people who are flat ignorant of the state of understanding of the field – so ignorant they don’t know how ignorant they are. That’s coupled with the assertion that ‘I don’t know myself, therefore nobody can know.’

A friend of mine argues it’s the result of people trying to fit the universe into their heads, it’s just a pity their heads are so tiny. It’s to do with their own sense of place, of identity; with constraining the wild unknowns of the world and controlling them – with, in effect, feeling secure, in their own way.

The other tack these fringe theorists try is claiming deliberate deception, a ‘conspiracy’ among ‘the establishment’ to ‘hide the truth’.

I’m part of that establishment, so any denial I make isn’t going to wash. Apart from one small point. Here in New Zealand, certainly, my experience has been that academic historians loathe each other – most of the ones I’ve run across regard the work of their peers as an assault on their own personal self-worth that must be avenged in kind. There is no chance whatsoever of a ‘conspiracy’ even being agreed on – still less sustained – in this viciously hostile intellectual environment.

Again, I think, the ‘establishment conspiracy’ notion is part of that phenomenon of the fringe thinkers keeping the universe small – of cutting the ‘system’ down to size.

Ultimately I don’t think there’s much point arguing against any of the crank theorists. They won’t accept rebuttals; and for every theory that is exploded – sometimes by simply falling out of fashion - a new idea always seems to arise to take its place.

But I still think it’s a pity. As I always say, the real world -  including its history – is wonderful and amazing enough, and still full of great and awesome things to discover, without us having to create fantasies about it.

What do you figure?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

Something to share for Easter

St Alban’s church at Pauahatanui is one of the more historic buildings around where I live in New Zealand.

It’s on a site where history extends far before settler days. In the 1840s, it was the site of the pa belonging to Ngati Toa chief Te Rangihaeata. During the war of 1846-47, the British reconnoitred and then tried to take it; Te Rangihaeata refused battle and withdrew up country where he was attacked on what became known as Battle Hill.

My photo of St Albans' church, Pauahatanui.

My photo of St Albans’ church, Pauahatanui.

The abandoned pa site became a farm and was shortly given to the Anglican church. The old rifle pits became a graveyard. Today it is kept tidy by volunteers.

We happened to pass by it yesterday, on a silvery grey day. Stopped, got out with the camera – and a few minutes later the sun sprang out. I thought I’d share the result. Enjoy.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

A howler to remind us how funny language is…

I thought I’d share a few more funny signs for a Monday laugh. Particularly a faded poster on the exterior wall of a Wellington supermarket, 5 metres wide and 4 high.

I didn’t have my camera. ‘Take the photo!’ I urged my wife, who had her phone.

A fine, upstanding profession in New Zealand.

A long standing and recognised profession in New Zealand.

Here in New Zealand a ‘boner’ is a respected profession. These gentlemen, photographed in 1910, were employed to take bones out of carcases. Hence ’boners’.  Don’t laugh.

And, as if this wasn’t enough, a howler. In every sense of the word.

An endless procession of wandering apostrophes...

Weekly, this sign seems to generate an endless procession of wandering apostrophes…

I suspect the band doesn’t belong to Howler, despite what the sign says.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

Inspirations: New Zealand’s wild wild west

A century and a half ago, New Zealand could easily have been mistaken for mid-west America. It was the spitting image of the frontier across the Pacific.

The towns had the same limed roads, hitching posts and clap-board buildings. When the railway went in, even the locomotives were the same.

In a literal sense our ‘west’ was actually our south, our middle and our north. Oh, and our west. The whole country, really. It wasn’t surprising. Colonial-age New Zealand was part of the ‘Pacific rim’ – a frontier subculture that shared values, look, speech patterns and even people. Many of them were gold miners, rushing from California to Victoria and finally to Otago.

You can still see traces of it today – a point that came home to me a little while ago when I was in Cromwell for the first time in many years.

Cromwell's preserved historic district - once a road at the top of the town, now lapped by the waters of Lake Clyde.

Cromwell’s preserved historic district – once a road at the top of the town, now lapped by the waters of Lake Clyde.

I have to say, the phrase 'yeeeee-haw!' went through my mind when I took this photo. Inappropriate, really...

I have to say, the phrase ‘yeeeee-haw!’ went through my mind when I took this photo. Inappropriate, really…

Cromwell is unique; the town was part-flooded during the 1980s when the Clyde Dam was completed and Lake Clyde began filling. There was a scrabble to do some last-minute archaeology. And what had been one of the upper town streets was preserved as a historic district, redolent of the way the town had appeared during its golden age in the 1860s.

Elsewhere,  glimpses of later history still poke through – in places, redolent of mid-twentieth rather than mid-nineteenth century – less American, but still here and there with that cross-Pacific influence.

OK, the car's English - a give-away really. This scene is pretty classically New Zealand, I have to admit.

This scene is pretty classically mid-twentieth century New Zealand, complete with English car - except for ‘gasoline’. We usually call it ‘petrol’.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

Coming up: more sixty second writing tips, ‘write it now’ – structure, and total geekery with ancient astronauts.

Inspirations: Scotland away from Scotland in New Zealand’s deep south

In the late 1840s migrants from Scotland poured into New Zealand’s deep south, looking to build a devout Presbyterian settlement untrammelled by the schism that had ripped the Church of Scotland asunder, unbothered by the social upheavals of the Industrial Revolution.

It didn’t work. When they arrived, they discovered the Anglicans – the ‘little enemy’, as they called them - had got there first. The Scots also brought their social problems with them. And then the gold miners arrived, with their rough and rouse-about life, sending shivers up the spines of the more God-fearing Dunedinites.

Still, there were some compensations. After travelling half way around the world, they found their little corner of New Zealand was altogether familiar. I covered that story in a book I wrote a few years ago for Penguin, Old South. But what I didn’t mention there was just how awesome that landscape is.

Lake Clyde - an artificial 'hydro' lake formed in the late 1980s after the huge Clyde Dam and associated hydro plant was completed.

Lake Clyde – an artificial ‘hydro’ lake formed in the late 1980s after the huge Clyde Dam and associated hydro plant was completed.

Not surprising in a way; similar latitude, similar geography and similar climate combined to make things – well, similar. Shortly intensified by the settler effort to import every plant and animal they could find. Including deer, rabbits and – if urban legend is anything to go by – at least one puma.

A photo I took of the Kawau gorge, north Otago, 2013. It wasn't easy, the place was socked in with rain most of the day I was there.

A photo I took of the Kawau gorge, north Otago, 2013. It wasn’t easy, the place was socked in with rain most of the day I was there.

Today, Southland and Otago are the only parts of New Zealand to have any trace of a regional accent – a slightly rounded ‘r’. Nobody outside New Zealand would likely spot it amidst the universal ‘I’ll have sux fush and a scoop of chups, eh’. But that slight ‘Southland burr’ is definitely there – a legacy of that old Scottish heritage. Cool.

Are there any places you know of that are weirdly similar – despite being geographically distant? Is there any landscape you’ve found that’s totally awesome? I’d love to hear from you.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

Waitangi Day: the story behind the Treaty

It’s Waitangi Day in New Zealand –  173 years since Maori agreed to a short, three-clause treaty that is regarded as our founding national document, blueprint for a relationship between Maori and pakeha. New Zealand’s historical equivalent, in effect, of the US Constitution.

All of which belies the Treaty’s origins which were ad-hoc to say the least. I thought I’d post extracts from two of my books, telling the story behind the Treaty. I dug out the only eyewitness account of the day and made a point, too, of locating the first drafts of the Treaty, held in the Alexander Turnbull Library. I also wanted to sum up the consensus of New Zealand historians about how it had been translated – an important issue these days. It is a living document, and the meaning today is different from what it meant back in 1840.

These extracts have been commercially published and are copyright to me. Enjoy reading, but if you want to re-blog or re-use my words, please get in touch.

A photo I took in 2011 of the 'Treaty House' at Waitangi - the home of British Resident, James Busby from 1833. Now restored as a museum. The Treaty was finalised in the room behind the window on the right, which is laid out today as it was on 5 February 1840.

A photo I took in 2011 of the ‘Treaty House’ at Waitangi – the home of British Resident, James Busby from 1833. Now restored as a museum. The Treaty was finalised in the room behind the window on the right, which is laid out today as it was on 5 February 1840.

From Matthew Wright, Old South (Penguin, Auckland 2008)

Edward Gibbon Wakefield’s effort to set up a neo-feudal capitalist paradise in New Zealand collided with a belated British decision to establish a Crown Colony by treaty. The timing was not entirely coincidental. Busby’s appointment in wake of the Elizabeth affair and other incidents in the early 1830s did little to alter the problems of lawlessness on the periphery. His efforts to bring Maori on side through such mechanisms as the 1835 Declaration of Independence – dismissed by his superiors as ‘silly and unauthorised’[1] – brought mixed success. By the end of the decade, as Australian merchants began eyeing New Zealand’s wide grasslands with covetous greed, it was clear even in Colonial Office eyes that something had to be done.

Opinion in the Colonial Office’s Downing Street premises still veered away from forcing Crown government on Maori. The British Empire of the early nineteenth century was in flux. It had always been rather accidental, territories arriving usually as a downstream outcome of commercial and trading interests. Now, in the turbulent wake of the Napoleonic era, Britain’s era of ‘white plague’ was over. What Niall Ferguson has called the machine-gun age of ‘Maxim force’ had not yet begun.[2]

The distinction is important. From the post-colonial perspective it is too easy to view colonialism through the lens of its brutal late nineteenth century incarnation. In the early part of that century, however, a combination of libertarian pressure groups and the practical application of lassiez faire economics gave British imperialism a different character.[3] As Robert FitzRoy put it in 1846, policy was guided by a patriarchal and utilitarian spirit of ‘justice and clemency’.[4] It was perhaps unsurprising; the generation that followed the Napoleonic wars were tired of fighting; and the mind-set of a people exhausted by conflict reflected into every walk of life. It was generational, and this does much to explain why the movers-and-shakers of the early nineteenth century – but not their children – took the approach that they did…

New Zealand, which in the 1830s was a lawless frontier with no obvious commercial benefit to Britain outside the exploitation of a few natural resources, seemed a sitter for the policy, particularly as commercial interest grew in the place. By the late 1830s, with cowboy land deal proliferating and Wakefield sniffing around for opportunities of his own, it was clear something had to be done, and the Colonial Office finally ordered William Hobson to organise government by treaty.[5]  This was the rather unprosaic origin of the Treaty of Waitangi – a hasty, expedient and low-cost way of establishing Crown government over New Zealand, via the agency of Maori, mainly to control unruly British traders and land-grabbers. The short and rather badly written document that followed was also framed by the need to supersede the Declaration of Independence. It only gained a dimension as founding document and key arbiter of national race relations much later.[6]

The lawn in front of the 'Treaty House' at Waitangi, pretty much as it was in 1840 - complete with flagpole. On the day, a marquee was raised to the right of this picture.

The lawn in front of the ‘Treaty House’ at Waitangi, pretty much as it was in 1840 – complete with flagpole. Apparent bow in the pole is an artefact of my lens – I shot this at 18mm. On the day, a marquee was raised to the left of this picture.

Extract from Matthew Wright: The Reed Illustrated History of New Zealand (Reed, Auckland 2003).

The pressure was on to get the treaty organised. Hobson and his secretary J. S. Freeman had prepared notes, broadly echoing Normanby’s instructions, which Busby reworked into something slightly different. He submitted the new version to Hobson on 3 February.[7]  In the first draft, Hobson’s idea to have New Zealand ceded in stages was transformed into a plan by which Maori would accept British sovereignty from North Cape to the Manakau estuary and the Thames. In exchange they would be treated as British and guaranteed possession of their ‘forests fisheries and other properties’, until they wanted to sell them to the Crown.[8]

These details were amended in the final version of 4 February. Restricted sovereignty disappeared, as did the claim on ‘waste lands’.  However, both versions wrestled with the distinction between sovereignty and land ownership. None of the drafters were sure Maori understood the difference, and efforts to come up with wording to clarify it were flawed by haste and the lens of nineteenth century rationalism. The three clauses of the final were further muddied by translation. Hobson managed to get the CMS on side as instructed, and late on 4 February asked Henry Williams to translate the treaty ready for a meeting with Maori next morning.  Williams’ assistant was his son Edward, and they sat down to preserve the ‘spirit and tenor’ of Busby’s wording in a few hours. Inexperience was not the only pitfall; there is some evidence the draft Williams had been given did not include the words ‘forests and fisheries’.[9]

Irrespective of this blunder, Williams used ‘ratou taonga katoa’ to refer to property — a term which meant more to Maori than Williams apparently thought it did.  The result, as one historian has pointed out, was that Maori later argued for rights to resources that the British drafters did not intend, and which were not in the English version.[10] The other main problem was Williams’ use of ‘kawanatanga’ — ‘governorship’ — to mean sovereignty.  In the Declaration of Independence, the translation had been ‘mana’.  This mistranslation was compounded when Williams came to the clause guaranteeing Maori possession of their lands until they sold them. For ‘possession’, he selected ‘rangatiratanga’, which was a better match for ‘sovereignty’.[11] Hobson used it in that sense two months later,[12] and it was translated that way by missionaries in other Maori documents.[13]

Williams’ motives were debated during the late twentieth century re-analysis of the treaty,[14] and there has been suggestion he may have felt the treaty would not be accepted if chiefs thought they were going to lose authority.[15] The situation was further complicated by the cultural gulf. John Flatt, for instance, told a Lords Committee in 1838 that Maori: ‘…do not think anything of sovereignty… Their simple view is, that their land may be cultivated, and that they may be benefitted by that.’[16] This logic led the British to fear confusion between sovereignty and land ownership, not realising that the real confusion might be between sovereignty and chieftainship.

Charitably, Williams was doing his best to resolve these issues in wording Maori would be likely to accept.  However, he was not the most fluent Maori speaker, and his apparent effort to ‘spin’ the whole in order to sell it to Maori compounded the problem.

Then on the morning of the 5th Busby wanted amendments. Maori were assembling on the Residency lawn, and Busby ended up in the house with Hobson and Williams, making changes.  They finally emerged on to the ‘delightfully situated lawn’ in front of the house, where a ‘spacious tent…tastefully adorned with flags’ had been set up.[17]  Even the weather co-operated.  ‘Nature’, Colenso wrote, had ‘consented to doff her mantle of New Zealand grey.’  Colourful policemen, sailors and officials wandered about on the emerald lawn, contrasting with Maori who turned out in the more muted tones of their own formal dress, leavened with ‘woollen cloaks of foreign manufacture.’[18] Inside the tent, Hobson and his officers arranged everything to impress:

In the centre of the narrow raised platform were the Governor and captain of the man o’ war in full uniform, on the Governor’s left were Mr Busby, and the Roman Catholic bishop in canonicals, his massy gold chain and crucifix glistening on his dark-purple-coloured habit, on the right of his Excellency were the members of the Church of England Mission, in plain black dresses…[19]

The rangatira spent the day considering the treaty as read aloud, with supplementary explanations by Hobson, all translated rather liberally by Williams. At least one European fluent in Maori complained to Hobson that the ‘native speeches were not half interpreted by Mr. Williams, neither were His Excellency’s remarks fully interpreted to the natives.’[20] During the morning Te Kemara pointed out ‘in his energetic, peculiar manner’ that Busby and the missionaries had already bought land[21] — an embarrassing point. Tamati Waka Nene of Ngati Hao believed there would be commercial opportunities. His arguments ended the meeting, and Hobson announced they would reconvene on the 7th.

Next morning, however, ‘not less than 300’ Maori were back at the Residency, ‘talking about the treaty, but evidently not understanding it. Hobson arrived ‘in plain clothes’, and decided to ‘take the signatures’ of those who wanted to sign. However, as it was not a ‘regular public meeting’ he refused to accept further debate.[22] Pompallier then ‘pushed forward’ and asked: ‘That the natives might be informed that all who should join the Catholic religion should have the protection of the British government.’ Hobson, ‘with much blandness’, concurred, adding that he was sorry Pompallier had not asked earlier, as ‘your desire should have been embodied in the Treaty’.[23]

Williams objected on the basis that this protection applied to all denominations by default, but Hobson insisted and Williams ‘accordingly commenced’ to write a ‘grave announcement…for the benefit of all’, declaring that Maori who joined the Anglican, Wesleyan or Catholic churches — or retained what Williams called ‘heathen beliefs’ (‘ritenga Maori’), would receive the same protections under the Treaty.  He read it out in silence,  ‘the Maories [sic] being at a perfect loss, [as to] what it could all mean.’[24]  Some early twenty-first century commentators suggested that this was a ‘fourth’ clause of the Treaty.[25] In fact the clarification was for Pompallier’s benefit, and he left as soon as it was read out.[26]

Hobson then had Williams re-read the treaty. At first no-one wanted to sign, so Hobson decided to call out names, starting with Hone Heke Pokai — ‘known to be most favourable’ towards the Treaty.[27] As Heke was about to place his mark, Colenso interrupted and asked whether Maori actually understood it. ‘I have spoken to some Chiefs,’ he continued, ‘who had no idea what ever as to the purport of the Treaty.’  Hobson remarked that he had done all he could to make sure they did, ‘and I really don’t know how I shall be enabled to get them to do so.  They’ve heard the Treaty read by Mr W.’[28] After some discussion he threw the onus back to the CMS.  Heke then signed, the first of more than forty who placed their marks, while two others made ‘long speeches against the signing’ in the background.[29]  Twenty six had signed the 1835 Declaration of Independence.  Hobson waited out the 7th, and the following day proclaimed the new colony with a 21-gun salute and flourish of flags from the Herald.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2004, 2008 and 2013


[1]           Quoted in King, The Penguin History of New Zealand, , p. 155.

[2]           Niall Fergusson, Empire: how Britain made the modern world, Penguin, London 2003, pp. 53-84, 221-240.

[3]           Fergusson, p. 118.

[4]          T. Lindsay Buick, New Zealand’s First War: or the rebellion of Hone Heke, Capper Press reprint, Christchurch 1976, pp. 272; Vaggioli, p. 124.

[5]           See, e.g. Wright, The Reed Illustrated History of New Zealand, pp. 52-63; King, The Penguin History of New Zealand, pp. 156-167;

[6]           Wright, The Reed Illustrated History of New Zealand, pp. 52-62, King, The Penguin History of New Zealand, pp. 164-165.

[7]          Ibid, p. 58, n. 6.

[8]          WTu MS-Papers-1983, Busby, James, ‘Three documents by or relating to James Busby, 1840’.

[9]          R. M. Ross ‘Te Tiriti o Waitangi’. in in Judith Binney (ed), The Shaping of History, Bridget Williams Books, Wellington 2001, p. 100; see also Orange, p. 40.

[10]         Michael King Nga Iwi o Te Motu, p. 33-34; see also Michael King, The Penguin History of New Zealand, p. 160.

[11]         King, The Penguin History of New Zealand, p. 160.

[12]         Ross, p. 100.

[13]         WTu-MS-Papers f-76-048 – Colenso, William, 1811-1899: letter from James Busby to William Colenso and other papers, letter by Waka Nene and others (fragment).

[14]         For discussion see Oliver ‘The future behind us’ pp. 26-27.

[15]         Belich, Making Peoples, p. 194.

[16]         Cited in Alan Ward,  A Show of Justice,  ANU Press 1974., p. 88.

[17]         William Colenso ‘The Authentic and Genuine History of the Signing of the Treaty of Waitangi’, Government Print 1890; ‘Wednesday, February 5th.’

[18]         Ibid.

[19]         Ibid.

[20]         Ibid.

[21]         William Colenso ‘The Authentic and Genuine History of the Signing of the Treaty of Waitangi’, Government Print 1890; ‘Wednesday, February 5th.’

[22]         Ibid.

[23]         WTu MS Papers 1983 Busby, James Papers ‘Three documents by or relating to James Busby, 1840′

[24]         Orange, p. 53, see also MS Papers 1983 Busby, James Papers ‘Three documents by or relating to James Busby, 1840′

[25]         King, The Penguin History of New Zealand, p. 163.

[26]         WTu MS Papers 1983, Busby, James Papers ‘Three documents by or relating to James Busby, 1840′

[27]         Vaggioli, p. 115.

[28]         WTu MS-Papers-1611, Colenso, William Papers, ‘Memoranda of the Arrival of Lieut. Governor Hobson in New Zealand’.  This is the ‘first draft’ of Colenso’s later ‘Authentic and Genuine’ history and its emendations suggests it was written at or soon after the meeting. Compare ‘Authentic’, Thursday February 6th.

[29]         William Colenso The Authentic and Genuine History of the Signing of the Treaty of Waitangi, Government Print 1890; ‘Thursday, February 6th.’

Dreams stay with you in a big country

It’s a big country, in places – New Zealand. Quintessential Middle Earth, to some. And suddenly my wife and I find ourselves in this part of it:

I took this one with full polarisation.

Open road, big country and big sky. To me, my SLR and polariser, irresistible.

Not planned, though we’ve been planning this road trip for a while: a wander through New Zealand’s South Island, over Haast Pass into Westland – a spectacular bush-clad landscape that looks like a downstream slice of the Jurassic. Mainly because it is. But we never get there.

The view towards Glenorchy at the top of Lake Wakitipu. Fog rolled in as I took this one. Of course...

The view towards Glenorchy at the top of Lake Wakitipu. Fog rolled in as I took this one. Of course…

Our plan rests on good weather, not too big a gamble in January, except for my astonishing capacity as a rain god. Clouds roll in as we look around Glenorchy, home to a branch railway line that, at 50 metres, is regarded as New Zealand’s shortest. By the time we reach Wanaka the district is sodden and the information centre jammed with annoyed tourists.

TSS Earnslaw, 101 years old now and an icon of the lake. An old family friend was steam engineer on board until his recent retirement. You'd never guess, but I took this picture with just two hours to go before rain socked in.

TSS Earnslaw, 101 years old now and a New Zealand icon.  An old family friend of ours was the engineer on board this classic triple-expansion steamer until his recent retirement. You’d never guess, but I took this picture of the Earnslaw berthing at Queenstown, on Lake Wakitipu, with just two hours to go before rain socked in.

The pass is closed by a slip. Come back at noon. We dash through pelting rain to find brunch. An hour later nothing has changed, except the information board which tells us to come back at 3.00 pm for more news. The tourists fume: ‘Sie Kiwis! Ist Ihr Wetter so völlig undiszipliniert und ohne Ordnung!’

Quite. We have family to meet in Westport in two days, and Haast Pass is the direct route.

‘Let’s go up the east coast,’ I suggest. She Who Must Be Obeyed agrees. We set out for the Lindis Pass – the road to north Otago and the MacKenzie country, better known to the world as ‘Rohan’.

A few minutes later we break out into bright sunshine. Of course.

And we enter a gigantic landscape with a big sky and rolling ochre hills that defies the imagination. It is the antithesis of Westland; a vast land of vast form that leaves us breathless with its beauty.

We keep stopping. I am on a photography jag. What’s the point in lugging  a camera that weighs over 1kg with a lens that looks like a ½ scale Saturn V rocket, if you don’t use it?

These days anyone can create a perfect panorama. I still prefer the old collage effect with hand-held SLR. I took these shots of the Lindis Pass, deliberately moving the camera to create that jigsaw look, and pasted the results together manually.

These days anyone can create a perfect panorama. For reasons associated with ‘the emotion of art as a dada concept’, I still prefer the old collage effect with hand-held SLR. I took these shots of the Lindis Pass, deliberately moving the camera to create that jigsaw look, and pasted the results together manually.

Besides, this landscape is not to be missed. It is not just a big country. It is a huge country. It unfolds around us in a vast carpet of tussock and rolling yellow-brown, mythically gigantic when beheld from the puny scale of mere mortals. I find myself thinking not of the fantasy riders who pounded across it in Jackson’s ‘The Two Towers’, but of the hardy Scots and English folk who took it on for real in the 1850s, throwing sheep across Crown leasehold with enthusiastic abandon and reaping financial rewards that made them rich beyond their wildest dreams.

Tussock and Echium - Patterson's Curse, in the top of Lindis Pass.

Tussock and Echium – Patterson’s Curse - in the top of Lindis Pass.

Otago tussock. Distinctive - and means the disbelief, for me, isn't entirely suspended in 'The Two Towers'.

Otago tussock. Distinctive – and means the disbelief, for me, isn’t entirely suspended in ‘The Two Towers’.

It's a big, big country down here.

It’s a big, big country down here.

Not to mention James MacKenzie, the alleged sheep-rustler who, legend goes, hid a stolen flock in the midst of this enormous landscape – a land that, today, bears his name.

It is a fantastic place, a land of legends, a land of history, an inspiration – and a place for dreams.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

History mystery: the spy who came in from the ocean

A year or two ago the story broke that a Japanese spy had prowled New Zealand in 1943, cleverly disguised as a Chinese market gardener. He had been dropped off, apparently, by submarine off the Hawke’s Bay coast, then gone inland to Opapa and the main district radio transmitters.

A photo I took looking towards Poukawa from Te Hauke, central Hawke’s Bay – where the ‘spy’ was meant to have operated in 1943.

I covered the story with an article in the Hawke’s Bay paper. Wearing my journalists’ hat, I even found someone who swore they’d seen ‘the spy’ at the time, standing on a beach – complete with briefcase. All of which sounded very exciting. There was only one small problem. It didn’t happen.

No Japanese submarine came to Hawke’s Bay in 1943 – and New Zealand officials knew it. New Zealand was part of the Allied intel network, feeding intercepted Imperial Japanese Navy signals back to the US Navy who – via MAGIC decrypts – tipped off the Royal New Zealand Navy about Japanese boats coming south. There was a team in a wooden building in Stout Street, central Wellington, who did the donkey work. And by 1943 the battles of the Coral Sea and Midway had forced the IJN to re-focus on the Solomons and central Pacific.

Japanese submarine I-25, which did enter NZ waters in WWII – but not in 1943. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Even if the Japanese had tried the ploy, it is unlikely it could have worked. Everybody was on the lookout for Japanese spies – there was a coast-watch organisation for whom any light at sea became an intruding Japanese vessel. Nor was there much chance of a spy blending in. Mid-century New Zealand was a Caucasian world; Maori were ruralised and marginalised, and the Chinese population was miniscule.  There were some Chinese market gardeners in Hawke’s Bay at the time, but they were well known. The chance of a spy blending in was – well, pretty much zero.

There certainly had been a Japanese submarine in New Zealand waters, in early 1942. But it didn’t drop off a spy either – and its tale is another story.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2013

Coming up this weekend: so you want to be a writer? Starting a new series.