It was sunset when I reached Rotokakahi, and the effect of the rich golden light falling upon the green-tinted waters of the lake afforded one of the grandest sights imaginable. It was one of those sunsets when the heavens assume an ethereal blue, and when the fierce orb of day is mellowed by amber mists and vapouring clouds with streaks of crimson and carmine. It was, in fact, just such a sunset as Turner or Horace Vernet would have loved to paint in brilliant and vivid tints. The lake shone out before me in a long sheet of deep-green colour, wild fern-clad mountains rose up along its course, miniature bays swept in graceful curves round their base, and high peaks and jutting headlands, fringed with spreading trees, cast their fantastic shadows upon the limpid surface of the water, around which the bright pumice rock contrasted pleasantly with the deep foliage of the vegetation as it wound along the serpentine shores of the lake. At the farther end, and right in the centre of the beautiful expanse of water, the small flat-topped island of Motutawa rose from a dense growth of pohutukawa trees, and as the fleeting rays of the sun flashed over it, and the darkness came marching along, the gold and the blue and the crimson and carmine of the sky seemed to mingle with the deep-green water and variegated hues of the lake, and to produce a picture which would have enchanted the eye of the beholder even on the plains of heaven. This sunset on Rotokakahi was certainly one of the grandest effects of light and shade I have ever beheld.
It was evening when I reached Te Wairoa, a native settlement situated in a deep gorge, which appeared at some time to have formed a connection between Rotokakahi and Lake Tarawera. It is hemmed in on all sides by rugged ranges, and it now only serves as a gate as it were to the wonders of the lakes beyond, and over which the great mountains known as Moerangi and Tokimiha stand as sentries. The Wairoa River, flowing out of Rotokakahi, winds through the old native settlement of Kaiteriria, and flowing in the direction of Lake Tarawera, leaps over a precipice of nearly a hundred feet in the form of a foaming cascade, about which the greenest of ferns and mosses grow in wonderful luxuriance. The settlement is small, and consists of clusters of native huts surrounded by small gardens and deep thickets of sweet-briar.
NATIVE WOMAN, LAKE COUNTRY.
The natives of this place appeared to be robust and healthy, and I noticed among the men some very fine specimens of the noble savage. In fact, from time immemorial the men of these parts have been noted for their giant physique. At one time they were among the most warlike of the great Arawa tribe, but in these degenerate days they have a marked predilection for raw rum and strong tobacco. They formerly tilled the soil, but now they are not by any means industrious, although they fish in Tarawera sometimes, when all other food is scarce, and in the proper season they reap a fair harvest by "interviewing" tourists, whom they are fond of coaxing into their runanga house, where they will undertake to sing hymns or dance the haka,[30] according to the inducements held out by the travelling pakeha.
At daylight I left Te Wairoa, to cross Lake Tarawera to the Terraces. Up to this time I had been travelling only with a native guide, but a party had been formed at one of the hotels to hire the boat which is used to convey visitors across the lake, so I joined it. There were four ladies and three of the sterner sex. We strolled through the native settlement, where most of the whares were hidden from view by a dense growth of sweet-briar, which wafted its pleasant odour through the balmy air, and then we followed down a steep pathway fringed with spreading trees, which led through the Waituwhera gorge to a narrow inlet of the lake, where we embarked.
I had hoped to find a big war-canoe ready manned by half-naked warriors, waiting to convey us to the greatest wonder of the lakes, but, in place of that, we got into a craft built like a whale-boat, and manned by a stalwart crew of Maoris, some of whom affected striped calico shirts and white trousers, while others were satisfied with scant garments of a less attractive kind. With crew, or rather "all told," we mustered sixteen souls.
There was at least one distinguished personage among the crowd, and whom I at first took to be "chief fugleman" or captain, but I soon found out that he had only come on board to get a lift across the lake. This individual was a tall, well-built old man of some seventy summers, with splendidly defined Maori features, which were elaborately tattooed after the most improved native fashion, the thin blue lines and curves running round his mouth, over his nose, and across his forehead to the very roots of his hair, and I could see at a glance that he was a grand type of a savage of the old school which is now unfortunately fast passing away. His only covering was a scant shirt, and a tartan shawl swathed tightly round his gaunt form. In one hand he carried a big hunk of bread, at which he munched as we glided along, varying the operation now and again by a drink of water from the lake, which he scooped into his mouth with the palm of his hand; while in the other he grasped, not a mere, as he might have done of old, but a copy of the Maori newspaper, Te Korimako, and which he seemed to guard with as much jealousy as a Londoner might do a copy of the Times when travelling on a penny steam boat on the Thames. If the old man had guarded a pakeha paper in the same way I would have taken no notice of it, because I would have imagined that he had brought it along with him to wrap up what he could not eat of his frugal repast. But the Te Korimako was in his own language, and I make no doubt that the antiquated heathen knew of one or two tidbits in it that he would read and discuss round the camp fire of his tribe. He sat alongside me in the prow of the boat, and Sophia, the guide, sat crouched at my feet, and when I asked her what his name was, she replied, "Rangihewa," at which the old man smiled and said, "No, no! me Georgi Grey." At the time of the war, Rangihewa was a noted chief, and a great fighting-man.
As I have already mentioned Sophia's name, which is echoed over the hills of Tarawera with as much frequency as is that of Hinemoa at Rotorua, but perhaps not with quite as much of romance, I think I cannot do better than to give a sketch of her here. In appearance, at first glance, Sophia was remarkable. She was about medium height, comely of form, with well-modelled features, a nose slightly aquiline, lips slightly tattooed, a pair of big dark eyes, and a thick cluster of raven hair, which fell in a weird way over her well-formed head and shoulders. She walked with a firm step, and with the gait of a drum-major. When she came into the boat she was shoeless and stockingless, and just below the knees fell a bright scarlet flannel petticoat, and over this again a blue skirt tucked up about her waist, a korowhai or native shawl was swathed round her ample bust, her hat of plated rush was lined with pink, and turning up on one side suited her à merveille. In her mouth was a short black pipe, while round her neck was a cord from which depended a greenstone tiki,[31] and which like all other tikies I had ever seen, was modelled after the fashion of a small, flattened-out, lop-sided baby. She was a half-caste of the Ngapuhi tribe, was born at Russell, spoke English with much fluency and grace, had been twice married, and had assisted in a small way to replenish the earth by becoming the mother of fifteen children. For the past twelve years Sophia has acted the part of guide, philosopher, and friend to thousands of tourists who have visited these parts, and in this way her history has become identified with the place where she reigns almost with the power of a petty queen.