(translation: winter)
Thump! Thump! Bang! I was beaten violently, knocked back and forth. A whoosh of chilled air ripped through me as if I were made of paper. Old Man Southerly had come to visit. The strong southerly gale pounded me blow upon blow, my windows creaked and my walls flexed and warped so much that one heavily laden bookcase almost toppled over. If you’ve never a felt a southerly, then imagine an earthquake erupting with ice cold lava.
New Zealand’s climate is influenced by two weather systems. Commonly known as the northerlies and the southerlies, northerly winds blow through from the South Pacific and tend to be warm and wet. Whereas southerly winds howl unrestrained across the Southern Ocean, straight up from the Antarctic. Old Man Southerly gives the impression of some slightly crazed elderly relative with a frosty glare, snowy white beard and cold hands. Why do they give the weather a name? Perhaps it’s easier to tolerate a violent storm when it has a name, but still, I find it strange that people refer to this howling, freezing, Antarctic weather system as if it were an old friend that’s come for tea and cake.
The temperature wasn’t just falling; it was plummeting like a piano in a silent film. Winter was closing in. The southerly winds roared like some great beast, angry at the world, beating it into submission. By morning the gales relent, replaced by a softer, gentler natural form of music, the leaves gently coaxed to flutter in a chorus of natural symphony. I don’t much care for being shaken like a cocktail, but it’s more of a shock to Jon. He will have to get used to it, because Old Man Southerly likes to move in, put his feet up and make himself comfortably at home. The temperature is around zero, and it’s no warmer indoors than outdoors.
For several consecutive nights, Old Man Southerly stomps about, knocking and bashing, freezing everything in his path. The first serious frost of the year arrives, and the scenery has the appearance of a Dickensian Christmas card. The morning dew hangs on the grass and forest and I am coated, walls and roof, in a layer of crunchy crystallised water. The lush green grass around me is bleached with tinges of white and blue. The scene is really rather picturesque. Fortunately the cold doesn’t bother me too much, although I will suffer later with a touch of rot thanks to the damp.
There’s no two ways of putting it - winter has arrived with an icy punch, and living in the wop-wops in a caravan is presenting all sorts of new challenges for Jon. I have no heating, my water pipes are about to freeze solid and he’s cocooned in his bed much of the time, hibernating like some kind of feral animal. Worse still, I fear his unrestrained joy of living in the bush is fast disappearing.
Sunday 6 July
A freak snowstorm left a white frosting over the surrounding hills. My little corner of civilisation was transformed into one of those ornamental domes that’s shaken to scatter the scenery in a flurry of snow. The radio reports that the area hasn’t seen snow like it in a decade or more. Potholes in the road fill with rainwater and freeze solid overnight. The poor cows aren’t faring any better either, standing nonchalantly in the neighbouring fields with a white coat of frost upon their backs.
Even staying indoors, my hands were numb with the cold so I locked up and struck north, with no real destination in mind, more intent on leaving than arriving. I refuse to abandon the caravan out of principle, but I do need to escape for a day or two. Four hours later I found refuge at a hostel in Whanganui.
Whanganui is a town with strong Maori roots and as with all Maori names, there are a particular set of rules to observe, if you’re going to pronounce it properly. Needless to say, few go to the effort of getting it right. While I was working in the tongue-twisting town of Paraparaumu, my librarian colleagues initiated me in correct pronunciation of New Zealand place names - an absolute minefield, and none more so than Paraparaumu itself.
Before leaving London, a Kiwi colleague gave me some advice. “No-one actually says the full name Paraparaumu, if you want to fit in, you’ll want to abbreviate it to Parapram”, or as she put it “Parapraaaaaaaaiiiiiim!”, emphasising the latter section of the word with a sharpness that sounded like nails being dragged across a chalkboard. Most people simply say “Paraparam”, or the even more concise “Parapram”, but a brave few attempt to pronounce their hometown fully, often ending up with “Para-para-ooo-moo”, with short pauses in between each syllable. Through working for the local council, I discovered that even these attempts were not correct, and I learned to refine my “Para-prrrrrr-au-moo”, rolling the second “r” into the back of my mouth, and turning it into an “ow” or an “au” before finishing it off with a short “moo” or “mu”. Although technically this was correct, I expect that of Paraparaumu’s twenty thousand residents, perhaps as few as a hundred actually pronounce the place the way it was intended... And that’s just Paraparaumu.
As a general rule of thumb, words and places that begin with “w” are pronounced “f”. So, you might reasonably have thought Whanganui ought to sound like “Funganui”, as in some kind of giant mushroom, but it doesn’t. If anyone had pronounced it mushroom style in the past, then their way of saying Whanganui is long since gone and forgotten. This may seem like I’m splitting hairs, but there is often a great yawning chasm between how Maori pronounce place names and how Pakeha refer to these same places. Consequently, I could have a long conversation with someone before realising that we’re actually talking about the same place.
As for Whanganui, I explored the town and went for a walk through Queens Park, pausing to admire the rather grand Neo-classical Sarjeant Art Gallery. The town had recently renovated many of its surviving colonial buildings, including the dramatic Victorian Opera House. Like some escapee from a Mark Twain novel, a paddle-steamer churned its way along the brown tinged Whanganui River. Known as the upside down river, its currents resemble a torrent of brown slurry. Yet a few brave souls have managed to dive beneath the muddy surface and discover the depths of the river, which are actually remarkably clear. Wanganui would prove to be a town with hidden depths.
While relaxing in the lounge munching pizza, I thought about how this everyday act felt like a luxury, since I don’t have the benefits of an oven nor any chance of a delivery. I looked up and noticed that sitting opposite me was the most beguiling young woman. Her large dark eyes were watching me. A silver stud in her nose caught the light, contrasting against her dark complexion. She had a playful spark in her eye that utterly captivated me and I was immediately struck by her air of confidence.
Her name was Pania and she was a graphic design student at the nearby Massey University. “I work here and get my rent for free,” she explained. “Well, cleaning the toilets and showers. Pretty scummy really.” She shrugged. “But it’s not so bad, I get to meet some interesting people,” she commented, looking long into my eyes. “Well, I’m not very interesting,” I replied. She disagreed and laughed. “I don’t know. I’ve never met someone who lives in a caravan in the forest before…”
She’d noticed something about me that I hadn’t. I had changed. I suspected Pania was intrigued, attracted even, to my unconventional existence in the van. I’d had a vague impression that backpackers in particular were captivated by my feral life in the back of beyond. I tried not to exaggerate my life, and I’d never described myself as a Tarzan or Mowgli figure. I didn’t have the physical prowess of a hunter or an outdoors man. Nonetheless, I had acquired some kind of notoriety, which seemed to have a glamourising effect on some people. It might be what New Zealanders refer to as someone being “staunch”, which isn’t down to physical strength or fearlessness, although sometimes staunchness is misunderstood as such. Staunch is an attitude, walking directly through a crowd of people who will step aside for you. Maori have a very refined sense of this, and much of their history is dedicated to developing or respecting those with “mana”, which roughly translates or can include influence, prestige and power. Despite the majority of locals viewing my wop-wops life with disdain, there were others, like Pania and many travellers who for whatever reason respected my strange life.
The hostel came equipped with a games room, complete with a threadbare pool table and a dart board that’d been punctured repeatedly over the years. A few of us played a game of Killer, taking turns to knock one another off of the darts board. Inexplicably, my darts kept puncturing my new friend’s slice of the board, and before long and quite by accident I had expelled her from the game. Charmingly, she stamped her foot and crossed her arms. “Jon, how could you!” she pouted, admonishing me for my cruel behaviour as I protested my innocence. We chatted through to the small hours about everything and anything, but I do remember that she had some clout with the local iwi, the Maori community. In short, a friend from college had told Pania that her handbag had been stolen. Based on her friend’s description of the culprit, Pania had “had words” with some of her Maori contacts. Word was put to the street, and not before long the handbag had mysteriously returned to its owner.
The following day, we walked together to the local chippy around the corner. Sheltered from a torrential downpour, we sat upon the bench outside and pulled apart a whole roast chicken with our greasy fingers. Pania was fearless and funny. The chicken was devoured as we laughed over our unlikely romantic meal. Our arms linked as we hopped carefree over the puddles down the street. “You want some?” she offered, handing me a new flavour of chewing gum. Popping one into my mouth, I somehow managed to temporarily glue my lips together. Her eyes lit up as she laughed. I couldn’t remember the last time I had enjoyed myself with such abandon.
End of diary entry
I’m pleased for him because frankly he could use a little company. You can’t spend your whole life cooped up in a caravan in the woods. Besides, he’s opened a door into an aspect of New Zealand life that I can’t provide.
Jon has filled the kettle and to fill the silence, put the radio on for some company and a thread of civilisation. All is dark outside now, as the winter gales rattle him around me like a marble in a can.
“A building site in Paraparaumu recently lifted a ban preventing women entering the construction site,” announced the local news. The local iwi, Te Ati Awa ki Whakarongotai, had secured a contractors agreement that the site be men only. To the bemusement of many residents, Kapiti Council agreed to this, on the basis that Maori rights took precedent over women’s rights. In the latest development the iwi were forced to concede, but claimed in their defence that it was an age old Maori custom and that “Women entering the site would get a swift kick in the bum!”
Does this sound extraordinary to you? Certainly, Jon was bemused. You might think the Maori’s view a little old fashioned, but it’s not uncommon for the local Maori community, or iwi, to be closely consulted on local issues. They’re often asked to bless the construction of new public buildings, a process which may well be unique to New Zealand. You certainly wouldn’t find this happening in Australia, or America. I think most would agree that relationships with the indigenous people haven’t always been easy, but many New Zealanders are now becoming increasingly proud of their Maori roots. Well, mostly. As part of the radio report, politician Ken Shirley reflected one strand of public opinion, by commenting that if all Maori traditions were observed then “There would be a human sacrifice on the construction site, and the workers would be banned from having sex until the building is completed.” I don’t suppose he gets invited to rub noses with the locals too often.
The Maori backstory might shed a little light on these traditions and customs. I’m a caravan, not a historian, but I’ve heard and read enough to give you the gist of it. They are the descendants of East Polynesian explorers, who arrived to settle New Zealand during an era of widespread Polynesian exploration in the 13th century AD. Until then, no-one else had lived in New Zealand or is likely to have discovered it. It’s truly remarkable that throughout 10,000 years of history, humankind had explored and settled in almost every habitable continent in the world, including Australia. But New Zealand remained one of the very last places to be colonised.
The Polynesians were outstanding explorers and settled a vast area across the Pacific, as far north as Hawaii, all the way to Easter Island and finally south to New Zealand. Take a moment to look at a globe or map - it’s larger than you think. But New Zealand was quite unlike anywhere else that they’d discovered. It was larger for a start, bigger than all the other Polynesian islands put together: some – 1,600 kilometres from tip to toe, with 18,000 kilometres of coastline. Temperatures varied much more wildly, too. These Polynesians would adapt and change their life to suit the conditions and climate, because having discovered this new home, there was no going back. The strange thing is, no one has found any evidence of contact after the initial settlement. A long way from home, these explorers never returned and over time became Maori, isolated and evolving quite separately to their Polynesian ancestors.
The local fauna and flora influenced what the settlers grew and ate, along with what types of homes they built and lived in. They had to learn quickly how to survive in this new world. The abundance of land and resources in New Zealand led to larger populations, plus greater opportunities to refine their skills. A new mineral, greenstone, allowed the development of more detailed and intricate carvings. The fibres of the local New Zealand flax enabled more elaborate clothing and textiles. And all of these qualities went on to become distinctly Maori.
The more I think about it, the more I realise that isolation has come to define every aspect of New Zealand life, and the Maori are no exception. As with the wildlife before them and the European colonists who would follow centuries later, a distinct microcosm of culture had came about. The Maori way of life is so unusual largely thanks to New Zealand being so far from the original Polynesian lands that had been left behind; a prime example of the wop-wops effect yet again.
Thursday 24 July
Before I left London, I’d wondered if I might get cold in the caravan so I’d attempted to mentally prepare myself. Last winter, I had switched off the heating. Did this frosty ordeal prove to be much help? No, not really. I was cold then and I’m freezing now.
The following morning, a consecutive heavy frost had proved too much for my nearby bathroom. Surrounded by steep forested hills, the ground was barely touched by the warmth of sunlight. The pipes had now frozen solid. Only a few short weeks ago, I barely had a drop of water because of the drought. Ironically, now the water is plentiful and it’s quite beyond my reach. My only respite from living like some sort of feral creature was the shower facilities at work. My librarian colleagues were far too polite to say, but I can’t have made for a pretty picture as I shivered into work each day and tried to avoid leaving a trail of dirt behind me, leading to the bathroom facilities. My attitude to work had also changed; instead of being bored when stamping and cataloguing books, I was only too glad to have somewhere warm and dry to sit for a few hours. There was no other way of putting it; life at the caravan had changed dramatically. It was no longer a pleasure, but something to be endured.
I locked up my increasingly frost bitten home and take to the road. For a change, I take a short detour and within moments, a freight train roared past the bonnet of my car at tremendous speed, thundering along the tracks with a typical click and a clank. I’d almost not spotted it at all. I’d never taken this particular route before - despite being a short drive from the caravan and one left turn from the Muangakutuku road. There was no traffic signal to manage the traffic, no barrier to prevent someone crossing the track. There’d only been a small sign indicating the train tracks ahead. I’d thought there are so few trains running along this route, I’d been half inclined to just cross it with a casual glance. Fortunately my sense of self preservation had trumped my cavalier attitude and I had slammed my right foot on the brake. I exhaled deeply. My heart beat with a fast rhythm in time with the accelerating train ahead. Finally, the train passed and with great care, I put the car in first gear and if it is possible for a car to tip-toe, then I tip toed across the track.
I arrived to discover Pania up to her elbows in rubber marigolds, cleaning the hostel. She pursued me around the hostel, waving her dirty rubber gloves towards me. “Have they been where I think they’ve been?” I asked, as I ran up a flight of stairs. “Of course,” she shouted in hot pursuit, laughing as I scrambled into a bathroom and bolted the door.
That evening we played a few games of pool at the hostel, with an increasingly drunken Kiwi and a pair of stoical German backpackers. “Yeah, I’ve been to the South Island,” announced Kiwi Bloke, joining in with the travel banter. “I went to Picton for the day. Had a few beers and got the next ferry home.” This wasn’t unusual. Despite being a nation of travellers, I’d noticed that New Zealanders who’d travelled around their own country were few and far between. Wild, remote New Zealand might be the marketing pitch to Europeans, but this landscape is of limited interest to the typical local, who are more interested in the cities of Europe and America. Maybe people always want what they can’t get, thinking that the grass is always greener.
Upon hearing my story of living in a remote caravan in the bush, Kiwi Bloke snorted with laughter. “Sounds bloody awful mate, no heating and no telly?” He wasn’t entirely wrong. Winter was bloody awful in a caravan with no heating, but since he hadn’t experienced it, he hadn’t earned the right to make judgement. I let the comment pass, well used to the disdain. The backpackers were in awe though, insisting that I was experiencing the real New Zealand, much to the annoyance of Kiwi Bloke who downed his beer with a thump. Realising he was losing at pool, Kiwi Bloke generously insisted on paying for a taxi, whisking the five of us out for a night on the tiles in Whanganui.
Our first stop was The Grand. It didn’t seem particularly grand though, consisting of a long bar, stripped of atmosphere and filled with bright tube lighting and pokey machines. The tables were sticky and crowded with pitchers of beer. Getting in a round of Speight’s Gold Medal Ale, we made for the backroom, where a covers band enthusiastically mutilated Hendrix and Rolling Stones songs. A big burly fella with a strong resemblance to Peter Jackson’s slightly fatter, older, brother wobbled with enthusiasm and air guitared across the dance floor. We claimed a corner and danced, whilst simultaneously fending off the drunken revelry around us. There was an unusual assortment of age groups in the club. Middle aged types threw their hair around to Meatloaf covers, and a younger crowd propped up the bar while bickering over whose pint had been spilled. That’s the thing about a night out in a small town, you can sometimes feel like you’re gate crashing a stranger’s wedding reception.
The night progressed and we moved on to Whanganui’s premiere nightspot, the western themed and luridly named Slippery Saddle. Inside, the floor heaved with a mass of bodies, dancing, bouncing and bumping into one another, as everyone competed for a few more square inches in which to move. Above the bar, a life-sized mannequin of a cowboy was lying on his back, grasping an empty bottle of beer, as a pre-programmed computer knocked out a mish mash of contemporary dance versions of classic disco hits. No-one seemed to mind about the terrible music, jumping around as if they were having the time of their lives, pickling themselves with plastic cups of beer and Bacardi Breezers. A friend of Pania’s put on a lively floor performance to the Proclaimers I Will Walk 500 Miles. In the style of a knee-jigging Cossack, he dropped to the floor, kicking his legs energetically out from beneath him. It was quite something. After all, it’s not every day you see a man perform a traditional Russian dance to a Scottish song, on an island in the South Pacific.
I couldn’t afford to be distracted though, as I was keeping my eye on Kiwi Bloke who was manoeuvering towards Pania. Staggering through the throng with another generous round of plastic cups of beer, he leaned over and slurred in my ear, “Meet, sheeee’s a beeeet of alreeeght!” with a knowing wink, and a stagger. “Is she, y’know, WITH you?” I politely warned him off and unperturbed, Kiwi Bloke lurched away, approaching a tall blonde who told him where to go in no uncertain terms.
The following morning we took a drive out of town to visit the scenic Virginia Lake. Admiring the scenery, I called her a duck, and she told me I was a cabbage. I don’t know why, but it sort of made sense at the time with my arms wrapped around her, holding her close. She pressed herself against me. Her long eyelashes brushed lightly, tickling my face. “Y‘know if Lionel knew about you,” she breathed warmly into my ear, “he would come after you and slice you up into little bitty pieces.” Oh, I thought, loosening my grip just a little.
Lionel was a chef and semi-permanent guest at the hostel, with an impressive selection of professional kitchen knives. He was a friendly if burly looking Kiwi who’d taken upon himself the role of Pania’s protector. He took me to one side. “Look at my lovely knives” he said, running his thumb along the flat of the blade. “I know you won’t do anything to upset Pania, will you.” It wasn’t a question, and I was well aware that I’d have to be careful. Not only was there a knife-wielding chef to consider, I also couldn’t overlook the connections she had at the local iwi that saw stolen bags mysteriously reappear. Not only that, but her cousin lived in the room next door to her. If we weren’t very careful, word could easily get back to her family. I was told that her folks weren’t, how shall we say, entirely comfortable with their daughter being a modern independent woman.
The weekend flew by and before returning to the caravan, we took a short walk along the wide murky expanse of the Whanganui River and arrived in Moutoa Gardens. There stood, or at least once stood, an unfortunate statue of a local statesman. Apart from the stone plinth, all that remained of him was a pair of feet, broken at the ankle “Did he have famous feet?” I asked foolishly, looking at the victim of a terrifying sculptural punishment beating. Pania looked at me incredulously, and explained that Moutoa Gardens had been the site of a historic Maori protest over land rights and had been occupied for several months. The event had been peacefully abandoned, but had left lasting acrimony amongst both the Maori and Pakeha communities. Nobody appeared to be in a hurry to re-attach the statue to his feet.
End of diary entry
Jon has stumbled into the sharp end of New Zealand politics, facing the key question of who owns the land. Everything rests on a single document that was written and signed in the distant past of 1840. The Treaty of Waitangi established British sovereignty over New Zealand and bestowed equal rights on all citizens, Maori, and Pakeha (that is non-Maori, and predominantly British settlers). The Crown stepped in as sole purchaser of Maori land to prevent unscrupulous settlers buying Maori land for the price of a few magic beans – in theory, at least.
Almost two hundred years later, you can hardly hear a radio or see a newspaper without mention of the treaty. It has a profound impact on society - what benefits you’re eligible for, who owns the beaches, and even the portrayal of the heritage of their humble lone caravan.
Jon went to Wellington to see the treaty for himself. New Zealand’s founding document is now kept safe and secure in its own environmentally controlled vault, surrounded by twelve inches of steel. The power and influence of this document over the country can hardly be underestimated, yet he’d noted his surprise at its miserable condition. Neglected in every sense, the treaty has been ignored, mistreated, and left to rot, its raggedy edges visibly nibbled by hungry rodents. I can empathise to some degree, as I know how it feels to have a rodent give me a good gnawing.
The Treaty of Waitangi was signed, voluntarily and without threat or duress by several hundred Maori chiefs across the country. According to Jon’s notes, the signatures on the ageing parchment were still visible. Those from the Bay of Islands who’d had the most European contact had legibly inscribed their name in English. Tribes from the South Island were represented with a simple cross or pictogram of waves or circles that represented the chief’s moko, their elaborate facial tattoos. Unsurprisingly, the agreement proved controversial from the outset. Why? Well, what do you expect when there are two versions of the treaty. One was written in English with twenty-four signatures, the other in Maori which was signed by 526 tribal leaders, the Maori version being the true and legally binding version of the treaty. Needless to say, the two treaties are quite different. One particular discrepancy has been the differing definitions and interpretations of “sovereignty”. Maori tribal leaders saw themselves as self-governing, with the British Monarch performing a purely ceremonial role. In contrast, the British ultimately saw the treaty as a means to extend their Empire. Between 1831 and 1881, some 400,000 emigrants relocated to New Zealand, irrevocably changing the nature of the country.
Two very different worlds collided, as settlers branched out and sought more land. When it came to land ownership, you might say the Maori tribes had more in common with the Native Americans than the European settlers. Traditionally, land was owned collectively by the tribe, based on the inheritance of their ancestors or conquest. Consequently an individual tribal leader did not have the right to sell or exchange land without the consent of his people. Yet some Maori chiefs sold tribal lands that were not theirs to sell, and in other cases, chiefs sold the lands of neighbouring tribes to undermine their rivals. Missionaries were among the first to purchase Maori land, and are said to have “Come to do good and did very well indeed”. As far as I can tell, the sale of land was an unholy mess which was carefully exploited by Crown representatives and European settlers, all in total breach of the Treaty of Waitangi.
The consequences of these land purchases continue to reverberate through New Zealand society to this day. Compensation is provided to those who claim Maori ancestry, in an attempt to make amends for generations of discrimination. But sadly, poverty remains widespread among the Maori. Life expectancy is eight years less for Maori than that of other New Zealanders and two out of five Maori have no educational qualifications whatsoever. New Zealand has more people in what is termed substandard property than most of the rest of the developed world. And yes, I am embarrassed to say that caravans are considered substandard. In the past, the humble Kiwi motor home might have been an affordable holiday location. But for the less affluent, a caravan, especially a lone van like me, is instead synonymous with poverty and hardship.
According to the radio, we’re experiencing the coldest winter in several years. As I said, It makes little difference to me, I’m just a caravan after all. But Jon is far less resilient, with only a solitary single bar electric heater to huddle around for comfort and warmth. The little heater fights a brave battle. After all, it has valiantly prevented my windows from freezing entirely. But to put things into perspective, the temperature is so low in the kitchen that when Jon went to put milk in his tea, big chunks of ice cubes dropped into the mug, frozen like an unappetizing slush puppy.
What he’s missing is the dry, crackling warmth of a log fire. Ironically, I have a wood burning stove and there’s plenty of dead wood around. The problem for Jon is that the wood is soaked through and beyond use, and the wood burner has a post-it sticker on the chimney clearly stating “Do not use!”. In different circumstances Jon would be snug and cosy, with a hearty fire to warm his bones and cheer his spirits. Alas, I’m built out of thin panels of light processed wood which would burn as fast as kindling. In fact I would probably burn to the ground in a few short minutes, which is only part of his exasperating problem. The surrounding forest is under the protection of the local council. No open fires are permitted. No bonfires, no wood burning stoves and no log fires. No wonder he’s cold.
Friday 1 August
Each day in the caravan felt colder than the last. Like clockwork, every morning began with thick heavy clouds and a concrete grey sky. The southerly winds continued to blow and roar through like some great beast, angry at the world, beating me into submission. I didn’t so much leave the van as flee. Besides, it’s not every day you get the opportunity to visit a marae, but Pania had worked her charm with great success.
The marae is the heart of a Maori community, with tremendous prestige and spiritual value, and it is in these buildings that tribal issues are discussed and deliberated. Marae buildings are often to be found overshadowed by shopping precincts, office blocks and housing estates. The distinctive triangular A-frame structure of a marae is a familiar landmark in most towns around the North Island and as far south as Christchurch.
A short ceremony was necessary before I was permitted to enter. “Have you visited a marae before?” asked a woman in a floral dress who appeared to be in charge. I’d been to the themed Tamaki Brothers tour in Rotorua, but I wasn’t sure whether that counted. This marae was the real deal, the living, working heart of the local Maori community. “You’ll be invited into the marae with a powhiri, formally welcoming you,” she explained. “You will need to stand next to your woman to defend her, until a karanga is called, inviting you to enter.” I knew that I wouldn’t last long in the face of a full tribal attack, but fortunately the large wooden gate swung open and a blow from a conch signalled our entrance.
Surrounding the familiar meeting house, there were other buildings scattered about, in between native trees and statues of mythological characters. The local Maori were dressed in smart casual clothes, rather than the traditional woven flax of their ancestors, serving as a reminder that this was not an artificial tourist experience. Instead, we were guests being invited into someone’s home. Visitors to a marae are still expected to donate a gift, or “kohe”, as is the custom. Traditionally this might have included food or textiles, such as flax baskets. Our host for the day, Hugh Grace, was a stocky fella with a little grey around the edges. He introduced himself and explained that although bartering and gifts were common in his ancestor’s days, the Maori since moved with the times. “These days we prefer our kohe to be hard currency,” he laughed, “exchangeable at all good supermarkets and Pak’n’Saves across the country.”
We removed our shoes and placed them on the sheltered entrance to the meeting house, before following Hugh into the building. “Do you know why we remove our shoes?” Hugh asked. I shook my head. “Apart from the tribes of Rotorua,” Hugh explained, “every marae across the country expects visitors to remove their shoes before entering the meeting house. It’s symbolic and means that you are paying respect to your hosts. The area you just walked through in front of the meeting house is called the marae atea and represents Tumatenga, the God of War. The meeting house we are sitting in represents Rongo, the God of Peace.” Hugh illustrated our surroundings with a wave of his arm. “The timber supports are his spine and arms. By removing your shoes, you ensure that no trace of war is brought inside and that the talks between the tribes can be conducted in a civil manner.” I’d been wondering about that. “Plus it keeps the floor clean”, he joked. Hugh revealed that he was a member of the Council of Elders, so he was allowed a voice on any number of subjects for discussion at the marae; ranging from betrothals, feuds and celebrations, to co-ordinating with the local council over local issues such as the environment and education.
“My ancestry, my whakapapa is from the east coast, near Gisbourne. I settled here thirty years ago to be here with my wife. I’ve always been treated well and accepted as a member of the iwi. I even attend the Council of Elders.” Hugh’s expression shifted. “But there are still times, especially during heated debates, when someone reminds me, ‘Hugh, ye not from here, its not ye business, bro.’”
During such heated debates, Hugh had his own unique way of defusing the situation. “Instead of swearing and losing my temper, I just tell them ‘Aroha mai ki Ahau’ which means ‘I love you’. They never know what to say to that, it puts them in their place.” I reckon you’d have to know someone pretty well before you tried that tactic though. I wouldn’t like to try that out down the pub on a lively Friday night.
Hugh asked whether I wanted any words translated in Maori. “I’ve been told Maori don’t have any swear words, is this true?” I asked. It seemed unlikely. What would you say when your burnt your finger in the hangi, or stubbed your toe on the marae? Hugh looked a little sheepish. “Well, it’s true. We don’t really have any swear words, though the youngsters, they’re using English swear words all the time.” “I suppose,” Hugh paused, “you could tell someone they’re a pokokohua. But I would never say it myself and I don’t know anyone who would... It would be a terrible thing to say.” I was intrigued, but Hugh steadfastly refused to explain its meaning, clearly embarrassed by having mentioned it. Later, I looked the word up in a Maori-English dictionary and discovered that pokokohua literally meant boiled head. The strange insult refers to the act of cooking and eating another person’s head, a practice eliminated by the arrival of the Christian missionaries. Maori tribes, like their Polynesian cousins, believed that the head embodied a person’s soul. Eating an enemies head would not only devour them in this life, but also ruin their chances in the next life.
Hugh changed the subject. “Every time I hear the weather girl on the television, it makes me sad and angry to hear the places named by my ancestors. The pronunciation is abused by the Pakeha.” There was a good reason for Hugh’s keen attention to vocabulary. Hugh was a healer who used the traditional power of healing prayer to help the sick. If the language is not exactly precise, he explained, the prayers will simply not work. When all modern medicines had failed, Hugh would often be requested to visit a loved one’s sick bed in the hope that he might conjure some miracle. “What do you do when your medicine doesn’t work?” I asked. Our genial host faltered a moment before replying. “I’ve stood by the beds of desperately ill people, children even and sometimes I’ve been able to help them, when God permits it because He isn’t ready to take them just yet. Other times, there’s nothing I can do but clear the way for the first heaven, before their souls return to Hawaiki, our homeland.”
Hugh led us outside the marae. “Every one of these trees has some medicinal purpose. Some of their leaves can be distilled to treat headaches, others for upset stomachs. Y’see over there,” Hugh pointed, “the leaves from the evergreen Karangu shrub make a good poultice for healing broken bones and fractures, and these over here, Karama are sacred too, and very useful for the urinary system and women’s problems.” The knowledge of herbal medicines and treatments has been handed through countless generations, but Hugh was worried that these skills might die with him. “Many of the youngsters aren’t interested,” he explained. “They’d rather just go to the pharmacy and take an aspirin.” Hugh’s own teacher had been the revered Maori healer Alexander Philips, who was something of a legend among contemporary Maori healers. Philips claimed that prior to their arrival in the South Pacific, the Maori people were descended from the lost tribes of Israel, having travelled through South America. A dubious theory at best, but Hugh was a convert nonetheless.
“Mr Philips noticed the parallels between Aztec imagery and Maori carvings, and believed that our homeland Hawaiki was in fact Mexico. How else do you explain our having the kumara, sweet potato, an American staple? In 1990 he set out on an expedition to Mexico City and Chile, to investigate this theory for himself. No sooner had Mr Philips arrived in Mexico City Airport, than an old Mexican woman approached him, speaking to him in fluent Maori. She’d never even heard of New Zealand.” Taking it as a sign, Alexander Philips travelled into Chile and upon discovering that there had been a drought there for many years, the Maori healer lifted the spell, returning the rain clouds to Chile. According to the story, Philip’s taxi driver was in such a state of shock that he crashed his car. He’d never had to use his windscreen wipers before.
We took a break for lunch and tucked into cold cuts, sweet kumara potatoes and salad. I welcomed the change from stir fried vegetables and noodles in the caravan, or the usual take away fish’n’chips. “We’re very sorry that we can’t offer either of you a glass of wine or beer,” one of the women apologised. “But many of our people have suffered from alcoholism so we took the decision to ban all alcohol from inside the marae.”
I finished off my glass of feijoa juice, and Hugh returned to continue his introduction to Maori life. I was given a crash course in Maori history, in particular the King Movement, when back in the 1860s the increasing stress between European and Maori relations caused the Waikato Maori to unite and elect a Maori King. Until the arrival of the Europeans, the Maori people had no sense of nationhood. Instead, they were a disparate collection of tribes with their own lands, alliance and feuds. The term Maori itself was only coined after the arrival of Captain Cook. Quite literally, it translates as “normals” to distinguish the indigenous peoples from the so called European gentlemen: “rangatira Pakeha”. The King Movement has continued to this day, although the current monarch is not a King, but a Queen and it’s all a far cry from the pomp and luxury of British Royalty. Rather than live in a grand palace, the Maori Queen lives in a quiet wooden clapboard bungalow way out in the wop-wops, not so dissimilar to my own solitary caravan.
“Well, I guess I ought to teach you a waiata,” Hugh suggested. “We always have a song for visitors. Many of our songs have been passed down through the generations and describe the history, myths and lives of our people.” Hugh pulled out an acoustic guitar. “I know a guitar isn’t strictly speaking a traditional Maori instrument, but we‘ve been playing guitars for more than two hundred years now, ever since they arrived in these islands.” A little self-consciously I sang along. “It’s not as though, love was created now, was handed down by, our ancestors.” I sang along with Pania, laughing and enjoying the moment.
The conversation took a darker turn. A terrible tragedy had struck this place not so long ago, in the very building in which we were sitting. A young Maori had hung himself from the rafters of the meeting house. Having never been accepted by his in-laws, his suicide was believed to be an act of revenge. His death had brought great shame upon the family, as well as being a difficult time for all concerned. Hugh had arranged for the boy’s coffin to be placed beneath the scene of the suicide, rather than at the rear of the meeting house as was traditional, to cleanse the curse from the building. As the coffin was removed from the meeting house, young teenagers had shouted abuse at the bereaved family, and the funeral almost descended into a riot. The Council of Elders had physically restrained the various parties. On that sombre note, we called it a day and stepped outside into the sunshine.
End of diary entry
One sad fact about suicide is that the rates are far higher among the Maori than that of other New Zealanders. And perhaps in connection to this, gang membership and drug use is also higher among the Maori people. New Zealand has more gangs per head than almost anywhere else in the world, and they are responsible for much of the violent crime in this otherwise peaceful country. Some claim that there’s a long line of Maori violence, dating all the way back to their first contact with the Europeans. A Dutchman called Abel Tasman was the first European to land in New Zealand. It was a brief and bloody encounter and he named the spot Murderers Bay when four of his men were killed.
A few hundred years later, I was sat in a caravan park outside Porirua when my tenant at the time, Ross, a Pakeha incidentally, returned late after a nights drinking. He was limping, his face heavily bruised and covered in dried blood. “What the hell happened to you?” asked his girlfriend, a little unsympathetically, I thought. “Blaady Mongrel Mob,” he replied. “That’s what happened.” “We’ve just got back from the police station.” he explained. “Been there all evening giving statements, a blaady waste of time love, the cops wont do nothing about ‘em.”
“We were just sitting there, having a few drinks at a pub in town, aye, and there was this Maori guy. Propping up the bar, big fecka he was. Then everything just kicked off - said I looked at him funny and he didn’t like it, smashed my face into the table and just left. We gave descriptions to the coppers, but they’re scared of the Mongrels - won’t touch ‘em.”
The Mongrel Mob are the largest of New Zealand’s gangs, and they’re mostly Maori. The Mongrels have chapters up and down the country and there are frequent outbursts of violence between rival gangs, along with some innocent by-standers in the wrong place at the wrong time. As well as the Mongrels, other gangs include Black Power, King Cobras, Head Hunters MC, Killer Beez, Greasy Dogs, Filthy Few, Satans Slaves and Dope Money Sex. The first Hells Angels chapter outside California was founded in Auckland in 1961.
With no work and few prospects, some young Maori turn to the gangs. Tempted by a lifestyle of drugs and crime, they are often drawn to the strong sense of loyalty within the gang that isn’t so far removed from the Maori concept of whanau and family. Many gang members come from families that are scarred by drugs, alcohol and abuse; in fact New Zealand has one of the highest rates of domestic violence in the developed world. Besides, gang membership is increasingly lucrative as the gangs manufacture and distribute much of the country’s illegal methamphetamine (meth).
Meth can induce psychosis and cerebral hemorrhage, along with being highly addictive. From a caravan’s point of view, meth is a killer. Cheap and mobile, motor homes are sometimes repurposed as illegal meth labs, hidden out in the wop-wops. The poor things are filled with noxious chemicals and foul substances, before being burnt out and gutted to hide the evidence. It’s a terrible way to go and no mistake.
Thankfully I’ve never faced such a perilous fate, though I wouldn’t be surprised if Jon was toying with the idea of illegally burning the odd thing or two. We’re now properly in the depths of winter, and he’s trying to remain upbeat about his situation but it’s tough. I’m pretty much just an oversized ice-box. Vapour clouds of steam emit from Jon in the chilled air. He sleeps in a woolly hat and socks, his clothes for the next day tucked into bed next to him, to prevent his trousers from freezing overnight. For much of the time, there is no running water, given that my pipes often freeze solid overnight. Jon has learnt to fill the kettle each night before going to bed, in order to have a much needed cup of tea in the morning.
There is a pervading smell of damp in the air. Washed t-shirts hang on clothes hangers for several days. They don’t seem to dry as such, they just became slightly less wet. Jon’s clothes are in danger of turning into some kind of environmental disaster, or a new strain of mould at least. A musty smell follows him around, like a poorly kept charity shop or a damp dog. In the darkness of the night, the prolonged blood curdling calls of possums taunt Jon. I interpret their calls as “I have a nice warm fur coat, what have you got?” He hasn’t brushed his hair in three months and has a wild look about him, like a wild animal cornered by a vet with a hypodermic needle.
The shorter winter days have removed the benefit of the picturesque view, so it’s not only the cold that presents a challenge. Our scenic surroundings have all but vanished before he returns from work - lost within the long, impenetrable darkness of night. For much of the time it’s as if the world has vanished. It makes for a lonely existence.
I worry that he’s depressed. His mood has darkened, and he appears less light hearted somehow. His initial unwavering love of living in the bush, and his simple existence among the stunning scenery is gone. Instead, he’s weighed down with the grim slog of simply trying to keep warm and stay dry. The crisp blue sky and white gliding wisps of cloud have increasingly been replaced by grey mornings and heavy sultry clouds, inevitably laden with rain. Blue skies brought warm and breezy days while these sullen grey clouds heavily laden with rain, more often than not, brought depression. His mood seems to change with the surrounding weather and his very personality is somehow fused with the climate.
Living alone in a city is one thing, but it’s quite another to live alone in the countryside. In an urban environment, you’re always surrounded by street lights, the homes that surround you and the ambient sounds of traffic and your neighbours bumping about next door. You may not know them, you may not even be consciously aware of their presence but they’re there. We, on the other hand, are totally isolated. I think Jon is suffering from claustrophobia, the loneliness eating away at him. He cannot wait for the weekend so he can escape me. He craves company like an insatiable hunger.
Friday 15 August
Grown adults are still scared of the dark and for good reason. The screaming possums may not be a genuine threat, but they sound terrifying enough. As well as the cold, winter brings longer nights that are much darker than any I’ve experienced before. Walking in the dark with no natural or artificial light, I’m discovering that every sedentary tree will gladly shove me violently into the ground and leave me there, if I don’t mind my step.
One night in particular, I mislaid my torch and had to navigate a short walk through the forest as I returned to my caravan. It should have been an inconsequential moment, but the night sky was dense with cloud, concealing every drop of light from the moon and surrounding stars. My lifeline home lost, I plunged into an abyss of absolute darkness.
I took one tentative step after another into the forest. I waved my arms in front of my face, but was unable to make out even a hint of my shadow. I shut my eyes and opened them again, realising that either way, all I could see was the exact same image of black nothingness. I couldn’t recall ever seeing darkness this intense before, as if every drop of light had been sucked out of the world. I took another step forward, and stumbled into a tree with a crash before pulling the pine needles out of my nose.
I’m glad I’d opted out of watching the recent movie sensation, The Blair Witch Project, before moving here. This is not a place you’d want to succumb to an attack of the heebie-jeebies. My imagination was active enough, without the thought of murderous witches and terrified film students stumbling around the caravan, screaming like a pack of wild possums. Weekends now feel like day release from prison.
“Hey!” cried out an angry voice. “What the blaady heeell d’ya theenk yeh doin’?” I’d arrived in Whangaui, and Pania had asked me to dye her hair. Sitting on a spread of old newspapers that’d been scattered over the hostel’s patio, I applied the red dye, mindful not to make a mess of her or the garden furniture. Steve, the owner of the hostel, had spotted us and thrown a wobbler, reaching an eight on the Richter Scale. Shouting till he was red in the face, Steve swiftly ordered us off his property. I’d done a pretty good job though, even if I do say so myself. Although, perhaps it was fortunate that she wanted those streaks...
We headed over to Aaron’s for dinner, glad to be escaping the wet and wintry weather. Aaron was a college friend of Pania’s, along with being a professionally trained chef. A huge Maori fellow, Aaron had a set of shoulders like a bull and an equally gentle temperament to go with it. His home was a large white clapboard building overlooking the river. Over a dinner of melt-in-the-mouth boeuf bourguignon, Aaron told his tale of working at a ground floor restaurant at the World Trade Centre, two years previously, when it had been destroyed.
“Bro, I was lucky. I was supposed to be working in the other restaurant up on the top floor. When the first plane hit, I just got out of there as quick as I could. There was dust and glass everywhere, like a war zone…” I didn’t quite know what to say. We had all seen it live on the television, but how could you ever understand what it felt like for the world to come crashing down around you? “Soon after, I left New York to visit some friends,” Aaron continued. “The Feds stopped us at the airport, everyone who wasn’t white was being hauled up and questioned for hours - racist bastards.” Aaron’s anger subsided. “Would anyone care for a muffin, fresh from the oven?” Although Aaron had retired from professional cooking, his baked muffins were still heaven sent.
New Zealand has a national obsession with muffins; their many varieties include blueberry, boysenberry, gooseberry, strawberry, chocolate, white chocolate, double chocolate, double chocolate with fudge and even spinach. I was dubious at first, when mulling over the prospect of a savoury muffin. Yet, in transforming a humble muffin into a smaller fluffier variation of a pizza, the Kiwis had invented a very tasty snack indeed. Their savoury fillings were imaginative, including the mouth watering spinach and feta cheese, ham and cheese, mushroom, and of course, the ubiquitous pumpkin. Once out of sheer desperation I’d attempted a three course meal that consisted entirely of muffins but none had tasted as delicious as these. Fresh from the oven, fluffy and warm, these muffins had a gooey jam centre that melted in the mouth like a truly exotic delicacy.
The following morning, I awoke next to Pania. Her body radiated heat, and the sweet smell of incense sticks intermingled with the natural scent of her body. “We’ve slept in, it’s nine o’clock,” she whispered, nudging me with her elbow. “Someone will see you, you’ve got to leave, now!” She pulled open the window and a rush of cold air swept into her bedroom. “You want me to climb out of the window?” I asked incredulously, retrieving my clothes from her bedroom floor and pulling them on. “My cousin might be awake, he mustn’t find out that you slept here last night... my family, they will kill you!” I was grateful that her bedroom was on the ground floor as I clambered through the window and landed on the grass outside, pulling on a jumper in the cool morning air. Pania gave me a gleeful smile, entertained by my escape as she closed the window behind me.
Until this moment, I’d thought that climbing out of a young woman’s window was something that only happened in Hollywood movies and romance novels. I quietly tip-toed past her cousin’s window, crept through the garden and down the street a little way, before turning around and returning to the front door. “Nice morning for a walk,” I announced, walking into the kitchen, greeting Pania with a polite “Hello”. Over a bowl of cereal, I chatted with her cousin about cricket, having successfully concealed our secret rendezvous.
At breakfast there was a strange sight. His name was Lawrence and he had a broad Glaswegian accent with a Kiwi inflection. He was about to leave for work. The surprising thing was that instead of a suit or a tartan kilt, this pale white Scot was wearing full traditional Maori attire - a cloak of dried flax with a flat bladed Polynesian weapon strapped to his hip. “I’m actually half Scottish on me da’s side and half Maori on me ma’s, which makes me a member of the Ngati Whatau iwi,” he explained before leaving.
During a less enlightened era of New Zealand’s recent past, not so many years ago, the Maori were considered as extinct as the dodo. True enough, the last pure-blooded Maori had long since expired, but in recent years the definition of Maori had been extended to include anyone who could positively trace their Polynesian ancestry to one great-grandparent. Today, national statistics indicate that about one fifth of the New Zealand population claim mixed ancestry. There are a few perks too; as well as the opportunity to dress like a Polynesian warrior and scare sleepy folk over breakfast, a Maori bloodline can provide better social security benefits, as well as a subsidised university education.
We returned to a café for a leisurely Sunday. Pania succeeded in checkmating me, despite only picking up the game a few weeks ago. “I must have taught you pretty well!” I joke. She beamed with joy, laughing and teasing. “Why don’t you stay another night?” she asks. It’s a tempting offer, but tomorrow is Monday and I was expected at work. Reluctantly I declined. She looked at me with her best puppy-dog eyes, playfully whimpering and chuckling. We were running out of time. I was due to leave the country before long, and Pania’s ex-boyfriend was threatening to make a return visit. A freezing cold caravan in the wop-wops seemed like a very lonely place indeed.
End of diary entry
All was quiet for a week or more as Jon disappeared, travelling with friends who were visiting from overseas. When he returned it was immediately obvious that something was wrong. Apart from a weekly chat with his Mum, he rarely uses the phone so I knew something was amiss when he phones Pania.
“Hey, how you doing?” he asks, gently. “I’m ok,” she answers, but she sounds tired. Jon paused. “You know, about what happened, it wasn’t your fault, whatever anyone says.” “It’s kinda difficult to talk right now,” she spoke in hushed tones. “But thanks, I appreciate it, thanks for ringing.” “So you’ve no idea who it was?” he asks. His hand shaking as he grips the phone. “No, I don’t know. I was so drunk I couldn’t stand. I’m not sure, but I think he spiked my drink,” she explained. “He drove me home and…”
Jon offered to visit Pania in Whanganui the next day, but she suggested that he put off his visit until the weekend after next. A final farewell, I suppose. The conversation ended. Jon put the phone down and sat still as stone. He looked pallid and drawn, as if all the blood had been drained from his body. Outside, the sky was grey, the landscape a vacuum without colour. His mood and appearance reflected the world outside, cold and washed out. Jon had become his surroundings. And as he sat, motionless, only the small vapour clouds from his mouth betrayed any sign of life and warmth.
Thursday 21 August
I stepped into the clutter of Pania’s bedroom. Colourful clothes and books were strewn across the floor. A small radiator heated the room like the tropics, and a fog of incense hung heavily in the air. We stopped to drop off our bags after an afternoon’s swim. Pania paused, tilting her head and for a fleeting moment she looked me in the eye. She hesitated. We seemed to read one another’s thoughts, but I think we both knew that our time had been and gone. A moment’s temptation soon passed.
The pair of us sat in the shared living room, as Pania carefully folded a sheet of paper into a trendy designer paper bag for a college project. The situation was complex. Her ex-boyfriend had returned and I was about to leave the country, and my time in the wop-wops was drawing to a close. I held the corners as she refolded the paper. “He’s so selfish,” Pania complained, “always wanting to talk about his money problems. He blames me for what happened the other night. Never shows me any affection.” I really didn’t know what to say. “You deserve much better than this,” I replied quietly. Looking across at her, she appeared so different from the tough talking and resilient girl that I’d got to know only two months ago. She now seemed so delicate and fragile. “But you’re going, Jon”, she replied. “I know,” I said simply. We looked at one another. “It would be different if you weren’t leaving.”
The following morning we breakfasted together, and then as Pania was cleaning the hostel, I went for a walk along the Whanganui River in an attempt to clear my head. I was leaving. In a week I would be moving out of the caravan. Most likely, this would be the last time I would see her. I took some small consolation in the fact that despite everything else, we remained friends.
The afternoon ticked on, and the sunlight faded. Making my excuses, I prepared to leave. Pania looked up at me with her wide doe eyes. “Don’t go just yet,” she implored. “Stay and dye my hair one last time, please?” I couldn’t refuse. Outside, we found a grassy verge by the river next to the roadside. She sat cross-legged on the grass, with her back to me, as I worked the red dye into her short dark hair, massaging her scalp as the passing traffic slowed to see the spectacle of our al-fresco hair salon.
I couldn’t put it off any longer. Throwing my backpack into the boot of the Mazda, I embraced Pania one last time and with one full turn of the steering wheel, I drove off. I couldn’t resist one last glance. Pania stood, watching me leave, shrinking and disappearing in the rear-view mirror. The low sun cast long shadows across the road. I’d held on long enough, and now my chest convulsed. Wet salty tears slipped down my face. Rubbing the moisture from my eyes, I switched the indicator left, and dodged the traffic as I pulled onto Route Three. I followed the signs for the Kapiti Coast, and then I was gone.
End of diary entry