On the rattly shuttle bus to Paparua, I get stuck talking to an old Māori woman—what’s the respectful term? Kereru, no, huia … something like that … kuia! At last my brain finds the word. This lady’s got like ESP or something; she can see my Māori-ness through the pale foundation I’m painted in. I ask her what her son’s in for and she drops into a tale about how little Arama’s father did everything right, and this Arama boy’s wrong decisions are his own, and her Arama was the middle child amongst the tamariki—he was supposed to be the sweet one, and she couldn’t believe he turned to robbing old women in their homes.
‘The devil took that boy,’ she decides at last.
Yeah right, lady, I want to tell her. More like boys see the devil walking past and invite him in for beers.
The bus diverts
