my arrival in Aotearoa, Wellington, New Zealand: I checked into a room at Booklovers B&B, positioned in the hills above a turquoise harbour. A cable-car rattled past and the world shook, and then a radio spluttered, ‘the second Gulf War has begun...’
Nothing could have prepared me for the marae. Amongst a group of visitors waiting some distance from a great hall of wood carvings, wondering all the time what the Maori elders would do with me. Large pines towered in the hills around us and poles carved in respected totems studded the landscape, sentinels of an old, quiet spirit. A young woman emerged from the marae calling, wailing, and as a group our footsteps automatically carried on her haunting cry, reeling us in ... te hongi, te haka and the elders, all waiting to meet us, ‘We knew your spirits were out there ... we’ve known that you’ve always been out there. Welcome home.’
On my first reading in a Wellington bar, I was caught in a reef of wordplay. Some words jagged, some soft; this poetry of allsorts. And as I floated a multitude of coloured smiles played with me. Smiles like schools of small, beautiful fish. This bartender, with a grin as wide as a semi-trailer, kept me stocked on a good Australian red—‘Your money’s no good here, Bro!’