The Cross we Bear

“Kia Ora.”
“Hi. G’day.”
I did not mind. Kia Ora is standard fare these days. Used by Pakehas to indicate they are fair minded, in a patronising way; used by Maori to assert their independent spirit, in a patronising way; and used by this young man because he is Maori and proud of it, in a non-patronising way.
We meet him at Wainui Bay in the Far North. He is one of a group of about 20 Year 12 and 13 students from Papakura High School. It will be for many of them their last year at High School. For this group, all members of the school’s military academy, the next move will likely be the armed forces. For this young man it will be a certainty: he wants to be in the army, the infantry. He cannot wait, he tells us.
He is a little shorter than I am. And slim. Very slim. Athletic, I guess. His face is open and friendly. His demeanour is courteous and confident. He approaches us. And, if there is a just a touch of bro-talk, it is not enough to be demeaning—to him or to us.
His teacher, one of them, is currently serving with the SAS in Afghanistan.  It is boring, the teacher has told the student.
“Are you taught anything about the Napoleonic Wars?” I ask him, hoping to bring up my relationship with Marshal Ney.
“No,” he says. “Only when we are taught about great leaders and leadership.”
I examine this young man closely. He is meditative, attentive, and probably selective. He has moved away from his group; he does not need support. He can confidently talk to anyone—even this much older Pakeha couple with their two dogs, whom he has never met before, on a secluded beach where he has never been before.
Leaders and leadership.  He has been taught well. This young man has very little left to learn.
I think I have just met the next Willie Apiata.