Farewell on sacred mountain

Some of the thousands of people at the cemetery came by train. Picture / Sarah Ivey

When the first waka rounded the distant bend in the Waikato River on its final run toward Taupiri mountain, the festival-like atmosphere among the large waiting crowd changed markedly.

Heads turned, playful laughter stopped, and a hushed silence descended.

A lone female voice cried out, her karanga (welcoming call) dominating from the hill above.

Chants from the warriors aboard the waka could easily be heard.

More waka rounded the bend, and people stood in silence as The Lady's casket came in to view.

Minutes before, there were subtle signs of the pending arrival when various church leaders, political dignitaries, and Tainui powerbrokers made their way down to the makeshift wharf.

Kuia had also lined the entire pathway from the riverbank to the cemetery, holding cuttings of greenery by their sides. Their hands and arms began to quiver as Dame Te Atairangikaahu's body came closer to her final resting place.

During the few hours previous to that, the stark appearance of a cold steel barge on the riverbank was transformed.

Scores of volunteers had worked tirelessly to lay out an amazing array of plants and bamboo.

The wharf was flanked by two magnificent carvings - on the left a statue of a warrior facing the approaching waka, on the right a large eel, or taniwha, twisting its way around a pou (pole).

Some in the crowd had been waiting for more than five hours for this moment, reserving their spot at the base of the mountain to ensure they got a good look at history in the making.

Early in the morning, the sacred hill had taken on an almost mystical appearance, in keeping with how one would imagine the same kind of rituals hundreds of years ago.

From 7am fog cloaked the cemetery. About two hours later the filtered sun rose above its peak. A gentle breeze ushered away the rising mist, revealing patches of native bush and ragwort in between the hundreds of gravestones.

By 11am scores of families inside the cemetery sat around the hillside graves of their lost loved ones, as if standing guard over their forefathers.

At midday the living far outnumbered the dead on the mountain.

The Maori Queen was escorted from the wharf on the shoulders of eight warriors, as spontaneous haka broke out on the roadside and above.

The haunting sound of the putatara, a conch shell, echoed out across the river as it bounced off the surrounding hills.

Up on the hillside the forearms of thousands began working in unison, hands moving slowly up and down between waists and shoulders.

"Te Waka!" The powerful chants continued to ring out in reply to the karanga.

It was enough to make the spine shiver, said one emotional bystander.

As the pallbearers worked their way along the cemetery fenceline, a woman with an acoustic guitar played her own song in tribute to Dame Te Ata.

The public watched as one of the most mourned leaders of a generation began her ascent up a rural stairway on a sacred hill. Having paid their respects within the space of five minutes, the masses began filing away.

Shortly before 2pm the casket finally reached the crest of the mountain, about 100m above the crowd.

A loving family said a final, private, farewell to their mother.