Ports of Call.
Beyond blue horizons far at the world's end,
strange, fascinating lands beckon us,
bid us revel in their exotic splendours.
Come with us as we head for Ports of Call.
The southern cross jewels the sky like four clustered diamonds.
Curving sea lanes stretch eastward,
paths of adventure for the square riggers,
brigands and barqueteens of an age-long past.
The soft lilt of the sea croons its siren song
and draws us to the South Pacific,
two islands of emerald and sapphire rimmed by blue ocean.
New Zealand is the name given to our magic islands
by the Amsterdam mapmakers.
New Zealand, long bright land in the sea.
The harbour at Auckland, mecca for tramp steamers,
salt-crusted freighters, white burnished liners from San Francisco.
As we round the north head, the Queen City of Auckland gleams before us,
a teeming metropolis whose suburbs stretch for miles
along the tooth-like waterfront.
We dock at Queen's Wharf
and leave the bustling harbour to travel southward.
On our way we pass through a wild country haunted by native Maori legend.
The ghosts of gods and warriors live almost forgotten
in the shaded glens and shadowy mountains.
But of all the gods that were once worshipped by the primitive Maori,
the most popular was that amiable culprit, Maui.
It was Maui who accidentally created the islands of New Zealand
when one day he approached his two sleeping brothers.
Brothers! Brothers!
What is it, Maui?
Can't you see we're sleeping?
Raise your bones from the mat. Today we go fishing.
Oh, what of it? We fish every day.
Let me sleep.
Up, up, before I cudgel your brains out.
All right, all right.
Carry the canoe. Today we paddle far into the sea.
I'm sick and tired of fishing in shallow water.
We'll search for deep water today.
But you caught a great shark only two days ago.
A shark? What's a shark to a hero like Maui?
I'm a god and I want to catch something befitting a god,
something big. Put the canoe in the ocean.
That's it.
Well, I'll sit in the middle.
Is your paddle, Maui?
Paddle? I want no paddle.
Why do I have two brothers?
His eyes are flashing flat. You'd better not make him angry.
I suppose not.
It's a vile task, being brother to a god.
Sometimes I wish...
Stroke, brothers, stroke! Waste no time!
How far must we go?
Down to deep water. It may be a long journey.
I can't tell.
Stir your bones, stroke, faster!
Faster! Faster!
Faster!
Faster! Faster!
Is that all the better you can do?
Maui, we've been paddling for three days.
Yes, and I'm good and tired.
Well, then stop.
Perhaps the water is deep here. I'll throw out my line.
Well, aren't you going to bait it?
I haven't any bait.
After bringing him all this way, he hasn't any bait.
I don't need it.
I have a magic hook made from my grandmother's jawbone.
It is set with shell pearl.
Ah, see how it flashes.
But what good is it without any bait?
Now I prick my finger, rub the hook with a smear of blood,
then I cast it, so!
And I wait.
Maui, you've got something.
Pull! Pull it in!
No, Maui! Let go! Let go!
You'll overturn the canoe. You'll drown us!
The water! Look at it!
It's boiling, frothing. Let go, Maui!
You can never land a fish like...
Watch me, brothers. I'll pull in the biggest fish you ever saw.
Watch!
Look!
Look at us!
Instead of having a fish in our boat,
the boat's on top of the fish.
It's not a fish. It's an island.
Maui, you've dragged up an island.
Hmm. So I did.
Now what are you going to do with that?
There ought to be some use for it.
It's a rather pretty island.
Perhaps I'll stay here.
Oh, why?
Well, if it were inhabited by the right kind of mortals
and ruled over by a great god like Maui,
I think this island would turn out to be a very enjoyable place.
And so today, the North Island of New Zealand
is called Te Ika a Maui,
the Fish of Maui.
The Maoris made all nature their god
when they launched their big war canoes
and migrated to New Zealand.
migrated to New Zealand. Trees, volcanoes, mountain tops, all were made the basis of
some fearful or amusing legend.
But now the native drums beckon us east to Poverty Bay. Poverty Bay was named by Captain
Cook in 1769, and on these shores the first bloody skirmish took place between Maori natives
and Englishmen. Then on these same shores nearly a hundred years later, an incident
took place that was to bring the fierce civil wars to a dramatic climax. The scene is a
tiny British garrison near Gisborne. Seated at a table flanked by two stiff-backed British
soldiers, is Major John Biggs. Before him, three red feathers stuck jodely in his dark
hair, stands Te Kuti, a broad-shouldered native warrior.
Te Kuti.
Yes, Major Biggs.
During the last battle with the Maori, you were in communication with the enemy. Is that
true?
No.
But you've sworn to fight with the Queen's soldiers. Do you believe that the British
cause is just?
If I did not believe it, would I fight against my own people?
No, but you might play the spy.
Spy?
You know what a spy is, Te Kuti. You know that to give military information to the enemy
is the work of a traitor. And you also know what we do with traitors.
I am the spy. I am a great warrior. And I am also a prophet. I see into the days to
come. That is why I fight with the British. You are strong. My people have no weapons.
They must submit to your Queen. I have seen it many times in my dreams.
It's unfortunate, Te Kuti, but you've been suspected of being a spy. And we cannot risk
having you in our ranks. Therefore, it's my duty to send you to Chatham Island for a period
of two years.
Chatham Island?
It's the prison colony.
Why? Why must I go to prison?
You'll be well treated.
I am no traitor. I am a warrior.
The ship is waiting in the harbor. There are other prisoners to go with you.
I will not go. This is my country, my land.
Men, take him to the ship.
Major Biggs, let me stay. Let me die fighting as a warrior. Sure, I am no traitor.
Come along, come along.
Off with you.
Let go of me. I am a warrior. Now!
This is war, Te Kuti. When the strife between natives and white men is over, you may return
to Poverty Bay.
And I will return. But it shall be for vengeance. You shall answer to me for this insult. You
shall pay. Te Kuti will not forget.
He sees far into the future. The land will be plunged in more blood. It will seep into
the soil, mingled with the salt of the sea. I am a prophet.
I know. I know.
Two years. Two years I have been imprisoned on this island, far from my native land. And
you, my countrymen, you are all in the same plight.
There will be no release. We shall stay here forever.
Death would be better.
Yes, yes.
What can we do?
Nothing.
Te Kuti, you are a holy man. You can see into the future. What will happen to us?
Tara, my friend and countryman, the gods tell me that we must escape.
But how?
I have a plan. Gather close. I will tell you.
Yes, tell us. What is the plan?
Anchored close to the shore of this island is a British schooner. At night it is almost
unguarded. We can steal several of the small boats that lie tied to the wharf. And tomorrow
night when the tide is high, we shall roll alongside the schooner.
We are close to the ship, Ben. Very silently. We must not fear.
Look, there is the night watch. He is gazing over the side.
I will instarra. Closer, closer. Here, grasp hold of the ladder.
I have it.
Climb up very quietly, men. I shall go first. Pounce on the watchman, seize his gun. Rest
will be easy.
I follow you.
Careful. The watchman is looking toward the water. Never the night is dark. He sees nothing.
Up Te Kuti. We are behind you.
Here, here. What is this? Up, men, up. He sees us.
Mike, help. We are being boarded. Help.
Take his gun. Seize it when my fingers are around his throat.
I have it.
No. Do not waste ammunition. Strike him with the stock.
I will.
Well done.
The ship is ours.
Yes, we are British.
Several months later, at the home of Major Biggs near Poverty Bay. It is late at night
as his wife enters the front room.
John, dear, aren't you coming to bed?
Yes, in a few minutes. I want to read this letter once more. Special messenger just brought
it from Colonel Whitmore.
Is it bad news?
I am afraid so. There has been nothing but bad news since Te Kuti seized that British
schooner and escaped from Chatham Island. He has organized a large band of natives.
They regard him almost as a god.
You are hiding something from me.
Yes, I am. Darling, I am sending you and our son back to Auckland on the next boat.
Why?
Because the natives have been dancing the haka for the last month. That means war. There
will be danger.
I am not afraid. Te Kuti wouldn't dare attack Poverty Bay.
I know what is in that crafty mind of his. I believe he thinks I have wronged him. And
this is the first place he will come. For that reason, you must go to Auckland.
But I wouldn't leave you, dear. I couldn't think of going.
Oh, we will talk it over in the morning. Good night, dear.
Good night, John. Don't stay up too late.
Te Kuti will strike here first. I am sure of it. But we will be ready for him when he
comes. I will write a letter to the colonel tomorrow. We will need reinforcements.
Who is it? Who is at the door? Who is there? What do you want? Wait! Stop or I will call
the guard!
Good Lord!
It is I, Major Biggs. Te Kuti.
I told you I would return.
You will be hanged for it.
No, I shall die in battle. But not until I have driven the British from the land of my
people. My warriors are everywhere. And you and your family will be the first to taste
of my vengeance.
I am mad. You wouldn't do a thing like that.
No? Have you forgotten what you did to me? I have risked everything for this moment.
The moment when I should lift my gun, point it at your round, smooth face and...
Te Kuti! No! No!
John! John!
God's all good. I am avenged. From this day on, my life shall be devoted to ridding my
country of Englishmen. I shall die in glory, in battle, and the name of Te Kuti shall live
forever.
For the next two years, Te Kuti became a symbol of terror throughout New Zealand. But time
erases all memories. And twenty years later, an officer of the Crown enters a shambling
native hut and inquires,
Where is Te Kuti, the warrior?
I am Te Kuti. My beard is white, but my heart is strong. I will not be taken captive, soldier.
No danger of that.
But I am a fierce warrior. England fears me. And I hate England.
England isn't afraid of you any longer. You've been pardoned.
Pardoned?
Yes.
A pardon? That is no way for a warrior to die, taking mercy from others. If only I could
have perished in battle, fighting, slashing the cries of my followers, ringing gloriously
in my ears. But now, now...
You're lucky you weren't hanged. Well, here's your pardon, old man. Live the rest of your
life in peace.
Old man. Harmless. A pardon.
In spite of his crimes, Te Kuti died in drab respectability. Old, faded and broken. The
war drums beat no more in New Zealand. Maori and Englishmen lived together in perfect harmony
and understanding.
From Poverty Bay, we go to the capital city of Wellington, at the tip of the North Island.
We shall travel through Cook Strait and Tasman Bay, places named for the famous English and
Dutch explorers. And on our way, the prow of our ship veers through a narrow slit of water
called French Pass. It was in this pass that not so long ago, travellers were treated to
a strange sight. Standing on the foc'sle head of a small packet bound for Nelson is a young
woman. She is talking to the captain of the vessel.
Captain Kane? Captain.
Yes, what is it, miss?
Look over the bow. There's a huge fish swimming around down there. It looks like a whale.
Sure, it is a species of whale. That's Polaris Jack.
Polaris Jack?
He's a dolphin and a fine one too. I've seen him many times. He leads almost every boat
through the pass.
I've never seen anything like it. The way he dives in the spray. He seems to be enjoying
himself.
He is, he is. Sometimes he even rubs his back against the side of the ship. He's the pet
of all New Zealand. They say that in the old days, the ship didn't need to pilot through
this pass. All she had to do was follow Polaris Jack.
He's pretty, isn't he? His creamy sides flashing in the sparkle of the water. He's diving and
now he's coming up.
Listen to the old boy grunt. Sounds like a big happy pig. Too bad if anything ever happened
to him.
What could happen to him?
There are a lot of whaling ships around here. Someday old Polaris Jack's libel will have
a harpoon stuck in his midriff.
That would be terrible.
Still, he's pretty smart. They say that once the ship rammed into him, he never forgot
it. He never led that ship through the channel again.
It would be too bad if he were killed.
Parliament makes a lot of laws. Somebody ought to make a law to protect the big fella. There
would be another dolphin like Polaris Jack.
Members of Parliament, the bill I am about to propose is a special legislation for the
protection of New Zealand's most prominent inhabitant. I allude to that remarkable dolphin,
Polaris Jack.
You may laugh, gentlemen, but tourists come from far and wide to see this famous animal.
Therefore, for his safety and for our mutual satisfaction, I propose a special act of Parliament
protecting Polaris Jack from the many whaling vessels, domestic and foreign, which frequent
our coasts. Thus, we shall guarantee his safety and security as long as he may live.
The bill passed Parliament and was the first law in history for the special protection
of a whale. In spite of this law, Polaris Jack disappeared from the New Zealand coast.
But there is a chance that Polaris Jack may have died of old age, for the natives claim
that he had been frequenting the same waters for 275 years.
Moving along the west coast of the South Island, we see the long chain of glittering alps which
overlook the sea. And farther to the southeast, we find Otago, a province of rolling hills
and meadows, a land of great herds and crops of golden grain. It was here that in the year
1861, a great discovery was made by the Scottish inhabitants.
Meg, Meg!
I'm right here, David, and you don't need to be shouting in a scurriline.
Meg, look, look what I have in my hand.
A handful of dirt.
No, no, it is not dirt. It is gold.
Gold?
Pure gold. Gabriel Reid gave it to me. He pawned out 25 pounds worth of gold in ten hours.
There's riches in this soil. Why should we Scots be raising sheep when there's gold under
our very foot?
David, didn't he be telling me you're thinking of looking for gold?
And why not?
Because we're doing fine as we are. Since we come from Scotland, we've been extremely
prosperous. There's a hundred hoggies in the meadow right now. Almost ready for the shearer.
Ah, bother the hoggies. It is now sheep raiser I am from now on. I'm leaving for two a-pick
ahead in the morning.
David, you cannot go.
Do not worry, Meg. When I come back, I'll be rich. Rich, I tell you. Rich.
And my David's been gone for three long months, Reverend McAllister. Three months.
It is the curse of creation, this gold. The whole town of Dunedin is mad for it.
How is your congregation, Ferran?
Ah, there is no congregation. There is not a man left in the parish. Save me and the
press center.
Do you believe it's evil to search for gold, Reverend?
Evil? Meg Morrist is an iniquity that will not be forgot for generations.
Do you now feel the urge to go yourself sometimes?
I? No, not I. I am a minister of the gospel. And the Lord does not bless them who cares
for naught but worldly wealth.
Ah, you're a good man, Reverend. Would that my David was like you.
I tell you, Meg, the people have forgotten the teachings of the good book. The menfolk
shall be hame, taking care of their families. This gold will be the ruin of New Zealand.
And it is not because that I'm a minister of the gospel that I won't go.
Meg, Meg.
Oh, it is David. David, you're back.
Ah, Darlan, my Meg. It is good to see you.
David, my husband, you'll never leave me again.
Ah, never again.
I'm glad you see the error of your ways, David. Welcome him.
Thank you, Reverend. Oh, Meg, I have a surprise for you. Look here. I told you we'd be rich.
Oh.
What's in the on bug?
Gold. Fine, glittering gold. Enough to make us rich for life.
Why, it is, Reverend. It's just gold.
Ah, gold. Where did you find it, David?
Over by two o'paker. Ah, there's rich fields of it. You dig it out of the earth like turnips
Over by two o'paker?
Hmm.
Like turnips, eh?
Aye, turnips.
Ah, if I was not a religious man, eh, eh, you say there's plenty of it.
Aye, it is yours for the digging.
Well, eh, the Lord put the gold in the ground. I vow he won't mind if he's dug up, eh?
Ah, that's exactly what I was thinking, Reverend.
Eh, I knew you'd say things my way, David. Well, I, I fancy I'll be...
Reverend, will you stay for tea?
No, thank you. I, I'll be gone.
Eh, perhaps to the fields of two o'paker, Reverend?
Aye, David, eh, maybe.
As the worthy Scotch farmers of Otago began to flock to the gold fields, they were joined
by fortune hunters of every race and creed. Before long, 30,000 settlers poured into New
Zealand in a gold rush equal to the American days of 49. Today, there are still rich minds
in the South Island, but New Zealand is principally an agricultural country, producing a wealth
of wool, meat, and dairy products.
But ahead of us lies adventure, the whaling station of Kaikoura. It was here in the bygone
days that men and ships pursued the warm-blooded monsters of the deep. Let's board an old foremaster
and see what happens when the lookout shouts...
The sheepaloooooo!
Down go the boats, men jammed in side by side. On they go, back straining, oars clipping
the forsythia. Above the creek of oars comes the yelping, rasping voice of the headman.
There he goes, and there he breaches. Dip way, lads, dip way in the hull. Make haste
in. How, full of well-score lusts!
Oars bend, and foam flies from the bows. The headman shouts again as a huge black body
slides out of the water, clips its broad tail and plunges head down into the sea. The boat
shoots onward, over a scum of seething foam where the monster last appeared. A black towel
looms from the water. There is a crisp command.
Stand up, Jack, stand up!
The strongest of the men peeks his oar, places one leg in a notch in the prowl, lifts the
long harpoon from its crotch.
Give it to him!
The harpoon dance through the air. The long line whips, sings, burns hot as it hisses
round and round the loggerhead. Then with a jerking, rending smash, the boat leaps along
the rottel sea, tearing high ridges of foam from the boiling ocean.
Men sit tensely, arms folded. The man in the prowl grips a small hatchet, ready to cut
the line. But the line quivers, sings like a bowstring as the whale heads for the horizon,
towing its human cargo.
At last the whale becomes exhausted, stops to rest. This is the moment. A slicing fin
rolls from the water, and a second lance flies to a vital spot. Dart after dart thuds into
the tiny black hide. The whale rides, twists, rolls. White jet shoots from the spherical.
More darts fly from the long boat, bringing a piercing message of death to the Leviathan.
Horses flesh, the headman stands up straight.
Pull up, close to! Pull, men, pull!
The last lance strikes. The whale wallows in his own trough, flukes slapping, spout
hole contracting, expanding. There's a sharp puff of crimson, and then...
We got him, men! He's done for!
The chase is over!
The old gods, the old legends are fast vanishing, and the most primitive race of the South Seas
has become the most civilized. And so, as we return to Auckland and board our ship to
seek other ports, we bear with us memories of a country in which the fresh tang of the
South Seas is blended with the quiet breath of Old England. New Zealand with its mighty
kauri trees standing beside English willows, white-clad glaciers melting into a Scottish
countryside. New Zealand, where lonely pagan gods haunt the dark mountainsides and stare
down wonderingly at English church tops. But now, as the sea surges and the southern cross
twinkles above our masthead, we bid goodbye to New Zealand, to our tearoa, the long bright land.
New Zealand, where lonely pagan gods haunt the dark mountainsides and stare down wonderingly
at English church tops.
We invite you to join us again next week at this time as we journey to another of the
world's fascinating ports of call.