Reflections of a Wayward Boy: A delicate flower felled in a sumo salt sacrifice

Auckland in 1971 was a city where the labour exchange listed more than 2,000 jobs available and – from memory – 53 unemployed people who were all, to some degree, unfit for work. This situation fuelled the myth, encapsulated in a cliché, mentioned when I was given an introductory tour of the city: “Here, Jack is as good as his master.”

Yet the senior journalist, instructed by the Auckland Star city editor to be my tour guide, also referred to the Ponsonby suburb as “Boongville, where all the [Pacific] Islanders live”. And he denied emphatically that this was in any sense racist, “Boong” being really just a term of endearment.

However, within a week, because of some features I had written, I met Tom Newnham, mainstay of the Citizens Association for Racial Equality. This was the major Auckland-based group of a national coalition of anti-racist and anti-apartheid organisations, among them the Wellington- and student-based Halt All Racist Tours. And these groups were already in discussions about the formation of a national Anti-Apartheid Movement (AAM).

Apartheid and links with New Zealand were a particular focus. But it was the pervasive and largely paternalistic racism in a country described by the English politician and author Austin Mitchell in his 1972 book as “the half-gallon, quarter-acre, Pavlova paradise”, that was also challenged. Satirically, Mitchell portrayed New Zealand as some sort of working-class utopia where every good Kiwi (male, of course), flagon of beer to hand, could wash down the country’s iconic meringue pudding while sitting in his comfortable prefab, timber-clad Lockwood home, surveying his personal quarter acre of South Sea Island paradise.

Economic conditions being what they were, this was an image that could, to some degree, be maintained “warts and all”. It was the reality for many – if not most – New Zealanders. But the warts of racism and historic injustice were being challenged in a liberal parliamentary democracy where a better life for all – if not utopia – seemed achievable.

I was certainly optimistic and my reports to the ANC’s “Oceania office” in Delhi reflected this. But I never received a reply. Not even an acknowledgement. After six months, I decided to stop sending reports in order to trigger a response. None came. So the “sitrep” reports from New Zealand ceased.

There were also never any instructions regarding policy. With hindsight, this was just as well, because I supported – contrary to official ANC policy – making contact with non-racist sporting bodies in South Africa headed by the likes of Abdul Abbas of the SA Rugby Union and Hassan Howa who led the campaign in South Africa for non-racial cricket. Nor did I see why I should not associate on a friendly basis with Henry Isaacs when he arrived, representing the Pan Africanist Congress. Like me, he ended up similarly stranded by his organisation.

It was this non-sectarian approach, promoted by the New Zealanders, along with their principled support for anti-racist sportspeople in South Africa, that resulted in the local Anti-Apartheid Movement becoming the largest, per capita, in the world. And, at the launch in Wellington in 1972 of the national AAM, I was on the platform as keynote speaker with All Black rugby players Chris Laidlaw and Bob Burgess: the pro-apartheid argument about keeping politics out of sport was comprehensively demolished.

What was made abundantly clear was that not just politics, but the poison of apartheid had been introduced to New Zealand sport when, 40 years earlier, the South African Rugby Board refused to accept an All Black team that included Māori players. The New Zealand Rugby Union complied and an all-white All Black team went to South Africa. As compensation, a New Zealand Māori touring team was formed.

This was a message that got through to the then newly elected prime minister, Norman Kirk of the Labour Party. Over tea in the office of his Auckland lawyer friend, Bill Subritsky, he admitted how concerned he had become and that another Springbok tour would be “divisive and damaging”. This was one of the discussions that critics referred to as “talks with the rent-a-mob”. But, as a result of such discussions, he ruled against the planned 1973 tour.

This was a high point among several including a speaking tour of Māori meeting houses (maraes) by an official ANC representative. The speaker was Frene Ginwala, later to become the first Speaker of the post-apartheid Parliament. I managed to arrange her visit by telephoning the ANC office in London to ask for someone to come to do the tour. Frene answered the phone and agreed to fly out.

In the meantime, I had been given the post of feature writer and deputy editor of the Auckland Star’s weekend tabloid edition, the 8 O’Clock. This gave me the freedom to gain a little bit of knowledge about a wide range of topics. And it was two of these that provided me with important lessons, the first imparted physically, the second, politically.

The Auckland trade fair in 1972 featured an exhibition of Japanese sumo wrestling, starring the All Japan universities champion and his trainer. I read up about this ancient martial art and arranged to privately go through the motions of a wrestling match after the Japanese duo had completed their exhibition in the local stadium.

With the show over, the champion returned to the dressing room, where I was kitted out in the mawashi (the heavily belted, skimpy costume). Through an interpreter, I said I would try to be as much a wrestler as possible. The champion then asked me if I had any wrestling or judo experience. Thinking it might sound good in translation I replied: “Tell him, I’m a delicate flower.”

Together, the two of us then walked down the tunnel into what was supposed to be an empty stadium. But the 5,000 seats were all occupied because the commentator – a fellow journalist – had announced that there was a special event: a “Kiwi champion” would take on the Japanese. I don’t think either of us knew what we were going to do as we clashed and appeared to grapple in the ring.

It was then that I realised why the champion had asked about wrestling or judo experience: he didn’t have to be on his guard and was merely leaning on me, completely off balance. The temptation was too great. On impulse I went over backwards using my legs in an overhead throw. Theoretically, because not only the soles of my feet were on the ground, I too had lost. But the champion was out of the ring. The crowd went wild and the commentator announced: “It’s one nil to New Zealand.”

Only then did I realise how foolish I had been. And there were two more rounds to go. I was terrified, especially when the champion made the salt sacrifice, a Shinto prayer that an opponent will not be too seriously injured. Then he played with me, a bit like toying with a marionette or a rag doll. This seemed to go on for an eternity before I finally landed, twice, on my back, outside the ring.

For two days, every muscle ached, but I learnt valuable lessons: there is no merit in showing off and it is stupid to pick unnecessary fights, especially when they are certain to be lost.

The second lesson was another fight, but one that was necessary and held out the prospect of success. It also revealed the strength and depth of an authoritarian undercurrent to the myth of a liberal, social democratic New Zealand. And it triggered the biggest ever public campaign to free a man convicted of murder while I was threatened with criminal libel. DM

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