In his long, feathered cloak, the chief is formidable. As he speaks in a rolling, fluid stream of Maori, the whites of his eyes glisten from his brown, tattooed face. He holds a wooden spear-like weapon. With hulking arms, he gesticulates towards the sky, the ground and us, the crowd, as he strides with bare, tattooed legs, the length of his village.
Behind, his people stand to respectful attention outside their small huts. The men around the central flickering fire wear short skirts - some feathered, some grass-like - and an array of large bone or greenstone pendants. Chins and cheeks are covered in swirling, intricate tribal tattoos. The women stand in long, straight, feathered dresses, swaying gently to the rhythmic sound of their leader's voice. Above delicately tattooed chins, their smiling lips are black.
Suddenly, the chief stops striding. He stands in the centre of his village, surrounded by his people. His poetic-sounding spiel comes to an end. In the silence, he stares intently out at us, slowly, seriously, scanning our expectant faces.
He speaks: "You's can clap now." His stern face breaks into a bright, white-toothed smile and he chuckles as the room fills with genial applause.
With over seven Maori cultural shows on offer in Rotorua, each needs an edge. Here at Mitai, a family-operated 'indigenous cultural experience', the edge is a genuine, warming mix of fascinating history and cheeky humour, evident from the start.
"Ready for some culture, Christchurch?" said John the bus driver as I boarded the Mitai 'waka' just before 6pm. "You don't get much down your way do you? Had to come all the way up here for some real culture, ain't that right Christchurch?" I titter in agreement, and at the way he's taken to calling me 'Christchurch', after my hometown.
A short bus ride through the streets of Rotorua brings us to Mitai. Disembarking, my bus mates - known fondly as 'Oregon', 'Melbourne', 'England' and 'Western Australia' - and I crunch across gravel into an enormous marquee. We're directed to long tables, set elegantly for a feast. A melee of accents eddies around the tent.
Taking the role of MC, John gently heckles and chuckles his way through an introduction to the four bus loads of visitors. Dark, expressive eyebrows dance upon his brown face as he speaks slowly, searchingly, as if to a favoured grandchild. "Annyong ha shimnikka," says John to a sleek Korean couple; "God dag," to an elderly Swede. John establishes ten nationalities amongst the audience, greeting and chatting with each in their native tongue. "And we've even got a lovely lady here from Christchurch," he announces, pointing me out. "I'll give her her own country - the South Island." With a cheeky chuckle he's off again, chattering about our evening's activities.
As he talks, so do a pair of teenaged Canadian girls (known as 'Canada'). Throughout John's detailed explanation of his tribal roots, the history of Mitai and the procedure for our impending visit to the Maori village, I hear Canada: "I wanna sit over there"; "Did he just like, totally say 'whaka'?"; "Oh my God, I'm like soooo hungry!"
They periodically break into cackles and remain constantly attached by linked arms, held hands, or - as we venture outside - a shared blanket, wrapped around touching shoulders.
"Tribe of ten nations, this is our dinner!" John flourishes the last of a pile of Hessian mats from a square pit in the concrete ground. Wafts of steam balloon around our heads, filling our noses with a delicious, stomach-grumbling aroma: lamb, chicken, potatoes, kumara - smoky and earthy, fresh from beneath the ground. "This is what we call a hangi. Han-gi," he says slowly, allowing foreign tongues to practice.
"Not a hon-gi."
"This is a hon-gi."
He clutches a hand with the nearest visitor and, staring into their eyes, brings his nose to theirs. "Now you try." I bend down and hongi an elderly Korean woman. We share an awkward laugh and a "Kia Ora," on John's instruction. Pressing their noses to each other's, 'Canada' shrieks with laughter. "That's so totally weird!" "Ha, ha, hongi" they chime. "Oh my God I'm soooo totally hungry!"
The aroma of our dinner follows us, tauntingly, as we walk through the dark, along a short bush track to the Wai-O-Whiro Stream. All along the stream's edge, vivid green ferns spring up from the ground towards the dangling fronds of elderly native trees. I forget we're just minutes from the city centre, and just metres from a major highway. The air in this secret forest is fresh and still. The stream burbles gently.
Suddenly, a sharp wail pierces the hushed atmosphere. Our group chatters apprehensively and Canada giggles wildly. The haunting sound of a conch shell breezes along the river. Getting closer, it is joined by deep chanting voices - short, rhythmic bursts that cry out in time with paddles hitting water. Canada squeals with delight as a long, low waka comes into view. Six young Maori warriors in traditional garb spear their paddles into the stream, coursing the waka smoothly through the water. They chant and cry out menacingly; eyes wide; broad, flat tongues poking haphazardly in and out. Their tattooed faces are shadowy - distorted by the flickering flames at each end of their vessel. Disembarking, they lead us to their village where, in anticipatory silence, we sit for our evening's performance.
Dinner, back in the marquee, is one of the best I've eaten. The smouldering rocks and damp earth have injected a smoky flavour into the steaming hot food. My towering plate of potatoes, kumara, salads, bread and meat is washed down with a local beer, leaving no room for pudding.
In the forest again, John leads us to a small, concave bank of earth where glow-worms hide behind hanging sheaths of moss. "Keep your torches off and you'll see them," assures John. And sure enough, as my eyes adjust, parts of the bank begin to twinkle. I crouch down to look up, under the bank's natural overhang and see more glittering, twinkling worms. "I can't see them!" says Canada, shining their torch at the glow-worms' home, making them disappear. "I can't see anything!" Canada flicks the torch on and off as they bicker about where the glow-worms are.
We end our visit at the Mitai family's meditation pond. In the dark I lean over the railing and feel the cool cleanness of the ethereal water rising up to my face. The sweet smell of native bush tickles my nose. On the far side, glow worms dot the bank, glittering back at me. The pond seems to cast a magical tranquillity over us: we all stare hypnotically into the water - even John's cheeky remarks and dancing eyebrows are calmed - but most remarkably, Canada is silent for a blissful five minutes. Committing this moment to memory, I wander silently up the forest path to my idling 'waka' and wait for John to drive us back through the twinkling, steam-swirled streets of Rotorua.
Amelia visited Mitai courtesy of Destination Rotorua Tourism Marketing.
