Stuff Digital Edition

The healing of Te Urewera

Seven years since Te Urewera was officially recognised as a legal person, her people – Nga¯i Tu¯hoe – are facing up to the wounds of colonisation and a Crown partnership haunted by the past. National correspondent Florence Kerr and visual journalist Lawrence Smith entered a world veiled by the mists of the ancient forest, and travelled the new path being forged for Ma¯ori and Crown relations.

MO¯ TE MATEMATE-A¯ -ONE KI A TE UREWERA For the love of Te Urewera

Deep in Te Urewera forest, Manuka Apiata cuts a striking figure against a starlit sky. He’s working fervently to prepare his horse for mahi (work) in the bush with his crew.

Dawn is yet to break and the full moon illuminates the white strands of Apiata’s hair as he weaves around the horse, securing saddlebags and tools to cleanse Te Urewera of pests such as possums. He whispers commands in his distinct Tu¯ hoe dialect and the horse obliges.

At 73, Apiata is as agile as a man half his age – animated by passion and a belief of being connected to the environment through whakapapa (genealogy). His commitment gets him up at four every morning in service of his ancestor, Te Urewera, a culturally and legally protected feminine being of rivers, forests and mountains.

For Apiata and his Nga¯ i Tu¯ hoe people, the deep connection to Te Urewera goes back to their creation story. They are said to be the descendants of Po¯ tiki-tiketike, a child of Te Maunga, the mountain man, and Hinepu¯ kohurangi, the mist woman. They are Nga¯ Tamariki o te Kohu, the children of the mist.

Te Urewera stretches from the Bay of Plenty into Hawke’s Bay. Waikaremoana, Ruata¯ huna, Ru¯ a¯ toki and Waimana are known as her four corners. The iwi influence has extended to include Te Putere in the south, from Kaingaroa in the west to Nga¯ tapa in the east.

She is home to nearly all the North Island’s species of native birds, including the endangered north island brown kiwi, north island ko¯ kako, kaka, and whio.

When the Te Urewera Act was passed into law seven years ago, it enshrined the former national park with all the rights, powers, duties, and liabilities of a legal person. Te Urewera was placed under the kaitiakitanga (guardianship) of her Tu¯ hoe descendants, with support from the Department of Conservation (DOC).

Emphasising the connection between Tu¯ hoe and Te Urewera, the law preserves, as much as possible, the natural features of Te Urewera and her ecology, biodiversity, and heritage as a place for the public to use for recreation, learning and spiritual reflection. Acting as Te Urewera’s voice is a board made up of six Tu¯ hoe representatives – including Apiata – and three Crown seats.

The groundbreaking change was followed in 2017 by a similar law making the Whanganui River a legal person – a world-first for a river.

The changes gave Tu¯ hoe the mandate to control human activities within Te Urewera. They can place ra¯ hui (a temporary ban) on certain areas to prohibit activities and the prohibition must be adhered to by all. Teaching ancient forestry skills to their young iwi members within the bush no longer requires DOC permission and they can hunt, gather and forage without fear of prosecution.

For Ma¯ ori, reconnection to their whenua (land) is allencompassing. It involves the care and wellbeing of the land using ma¯ tauranga (wisdom) developed over centuries, specific to the environment they are connected to through whakapapa (genealogy).

After the law was passed, the changes were almost immediate. Centuries of indigenous Tu¯ hoe knowledge of Te Urewera came to the forefront for her continued care. These holistic measures have challenged DOC. After 60 years of managing the land using Western methods, the department is now having to see through a new, indigenous lens. There have been difficulties adjusting.

As Apiata ties his horse to the wooden shed outside the ka¯ uta (cookhouse), he says he is not a fan of the Crown. He has seen firsthand the devastation it has caused his people; he has heard the stories of his ancestors’ struggles from his old people.

In the ka¯ uta, he prepares breakfast before a full day of hard work, trekking up the mountains laying traps. It’s about trust, he says of the Crown, as he sparks up his gas stove – there is none.

Apiata’s papa ka¯ inga (home base) is deep in the bosom of Te Urewera, shielded from the view of the O¯ hinemataroa awa (river), behind fern fronds and native flora. There are no roads, no cellphone reception, and the only ways to get there are by horse or four-wheel-drive. Forget Google Maps – to find Apiata you have to know the lay of the land – how to read the currents of the river.

His papa ka¯ inga is not connected to the grid; it runs off a few solar panels crudely erected in front of the wharemoe (sleeping quarters) and adjacent to the ablution block. There is a long-drop dunny that Apiata erected, with no door. A few branches from the trees partially block the view, but at any given moment changing wind could give whoever’s seated on the throne eye-contact with passing men on horseback.

At the table, near the wood burner, Apiata scoops up a mouthful of porridge and between gulps admits he hasn’t read the legislation. Neither has he read the Te Kawa o Te Urewera, a handbook created by the Te Urewera Board that explains the new etiquette expected of visitors.

Before the settlement, DOC managed the land. Under the guardianship of Tu¯ hoe, it is people who are managed – something Apiata already knew because the knowledge of how to behave in the forest was passed down to him from his kauma¯ tua (elders).

Before the law change, his relationship with Te Urewera was monitored closely by the department. He felt heavily policed. ‘‘We would play cat and mouse with the rangers.

If we want them to find us we will let ourselves be seen,’’ Apiata says.

‘‘We would see visitors from outside be able to do things we couldn’t on our own whenua. It’s different now. We can get our rongoa¯ , and our kai.’’

Despite not being versed in the lines of the legislation or the Kawa handbook, Apiata is the living embodiment of both.

His relationship with Te Urewera began in the cradle and he and his wife, Tineti, have ensured it’s instilled within their eight children, as well as all of their 26 mokopuna (grandchildren). The wha¯ nau live on Te Urewera, the same land where Apiata’s kuia (grandmother) raised him.

English is his second language: he is more comfortable speaking in his native tongue. Hearing Apiata talk to his family in te reo is exquisite; it could be the dialect of his ancestors, untarnished by the education system.

Apiata never wanted to be appointed to the Te Urewera governing board, but accepted after pressure from his wha¯ nau. Flustered by being in a boardroom with booksmart people – including former prime minister Jim Bolger – he got shingles. He is a man of the bush not the boardroom, he reckons, but that is why his views are so highly regarded. It is his deep relationship and understanding of Te Urewera that makes his knowledge valuable.

Apiata has come to know every crevice and curve of the land. He knows the bird sounds he should hear at certain times of the year, the wildlife, the water species, new pests. Sound, sight and smell tell him when something is not right.

Apiata talks about Te Urewera in a way many talk about a revered elder. He doesn’t see his role as an owner of Te Urewera: he is a kaitiaki, a guardian. Humans are seasonal beings, but the land is enduring.

Te Urewera nurtures with rongoa¯ (medicine) and kai (food) for his wha¯ nau, and she is his sanctuary to escape to. Te Urewera hid many of his whanaunga from the clutches of the constabulary.

‘‘As long as we look after Te Urewera, she will look after us all.’’

TE UREWERA ME O¯ NA TOHU

The signs from Te Urewera

Apiata finishes off the last of his porridge and takes a big slurp of tea.

It’s almost 5am and the other four men in his team – including his two sons Billy and Chino – will assist Apiata on the maunga (mountain). While they prepare their horses, Apiata shares his concerns, what he’s observed in the ngahere (bush).

‘‘The berries that the pigeons, pigs and deer eat. The animals are starving. The berries seem to have run out earlier. They are fruiting the same but not as much and some of them aren’t even fruiting. The berries feed the pigeons and the animals, but they also feed the ones in the water too, like the tuna (eel).

‘‘When there are heaps of the berries it falls into the water and the water carries them to the pools where the tuna and the trout are and they eat them.

‘‘People might say it is the possums, but I don’t think so. We have less possums than before and the berries were always good. I always used to slip over on them because they were everywhere, that’s how plentiful it was.’’

Apiata noticed the decline more than 10 years ago and says it has got worse. Other threats have also invaded his beloved maunga.

‘‘The smoke coming in from the towns has gotten worse. Te Urewera would recycle the air and clean it, but I think it might be too much for her now. It’s a real carbon smell. It clings to the hills in winter. It’s not good,’’ he says.

‘‘Another thing we are having problems with is the wasps, it’s really bad now, especially in the summer. I can hear their hum when I am by the willow trees. I have been hearing their humming for six years and it’s getting worse. They do damage to the willow trees.

‘‘In the summer when I go on top of the maunga I can see all the wasps, you can hear the humming. I reckon they are causing an imbalance in the ngahere. They are eating all our insects. The wasps could be the reason why the berries are not there?’’

Before the legislation change, all problems were managed at the discretion of DOC. Now, Apiata’s observations get reported to the board and its members look at indigenous and Western strategies to counteract problems.

Drinking the last of his tea, Apiata says the health of the ngahere reflects the wellbeing of the people.

‘‘When the ngahere is good, the people are good. When the ngahere is not, the people are not. There is an imbalance.’’

With that, Apiata is out the door. He hoists himself onto his horse and, as dawn breaks, the five men gallop away into the shroud of Hinepu¯ kohurangi.

As Apiata and his crew work to combat issues within the ngahere, human troubles outside it are brewing.

MANA ME NGA¯ RANGAPU¯ Power and partnerships

The white Hilux ute creeps slowly across the O¯ hinemataroa river bed in four-wheel-drive as the water rises within centimetres of the passenger window.

The sloshing of the truck as it zigzags across the swollen river alerts a team of horses, some with markings, as they graze near the river’s edge. After an inquisitive look, the horses return to graze – this isn’t an unusual sight for these free-roaming animals. The horses aren’t wild – they have a home – but they are free to explore.

This is the journey from Apiata’s whare (house) to

Ta¯ neatua. Forty minutes (and 23 horses) later, the ute glides onto asphalt. We have another 10 minutes on Ru¯ a¯ toki Valley Rd ahead of us.

On the road, a faded white line stretches across the bitumen with the word ‘‘Confiscation’’ painted above it.

Driving over the line ventures into the land confiscated by the Crown in the 19th century. The difference in lifestyle between each side is stark. On the Ma¯ ori side of the line there are modest houses that could do with a lick of paint; the other side shows wealth, manicured lawns, flower gardens and expansive houses with no peeling paint.

More than a reminder of the burden Tu¯ hoe people carry from those thefts, the line shows their utter defiance of, and survival against the Crown’s actions.

The history of Tu¯ hoe post-1840 makes for horrific reading: the tribe experienced some of the worst atrocities at the hands of the Government, all in sight of or on Te Urewera, a significant place of spiritual wellness and sustenance that was taken and turned into a National Park in 1954. Those atrocities included the Crown’s brutal scorched earth policy of 1869, which saw the homes and crops of the Tu¯ hoe people burned in Te Urewera as the Crown sought the fugitive Te Kooti. Many who survived that would later die of starvation.

At the iwi authority headquarters in Ta¯ neatua, Te Uru Taumatua chairperson and the tribe’s lead negotiator,

Ta¯ mati Kruger enters the boardroom followed closely by a trolley of refreshments – manaakitanga (hospitality) is big in Tu¯ hoe nation.

Short in stature and dressed in track pants and an

oversized green woollen jumper, Kruger appears unassuming. But he is the wolf of Tu¯ hoe: territorial, and merciless when provoked. His verbal prowess could elevate the weakest man to new heights or tear down the strongest. He can match and override the energy he is greeted with.

An elusive man who has declined multiple interviews, he now sits relaxed in an armchair with a smile, though his eyes say something different. He is ready for a verbal exchange; a skill he has perfected fighting for justice.

Kruger doesn’t need to give this interview, neither is he fussed about it. He makes it clear the only people he is answerable to are Tu¯ hoe; no one else is a priority. We got him on a day he felt charitable.

With Tu¯ hoe, Kruger describes himself as the chairperson of a 2000-year-old organisation.

Kruger led the negotiation with the Crown that saw Te Urewera returned to iwi guardianship. His expertise has been sought nationally and globally by indigenous nations seeking the return of stolen spiritual homelands.

Te Urewera is spiritually significant for the people of

Tu¯ hoe, but for the Crown it is evidence of dirty deeds, he says.

‘‘It should never have been a National Park in the first place because it’s a crime scene, stolen property.’’

Kruger says Tu¯ hoe’s purpose was clear from the beginning: reconnecting the 40,000 people who identify as Tu¯ hoe back to their whenua, ngahere, and whakapapa through their inherited connection to Te Urewera. Ninety per cent of Tu¯ hoe people do not live within their ancestral land – and Tu¯ hoe leadership wants them back.

The relationship between the Crown and Tu¯ hoe remains strained. Tikanga (lore) and Western ideologies are colliding and the two are trying to find common ground.

Even as the Crown ramps up efforts to honour the principles of Te Tiriti o Waitangi by forming equal partnerships with Ma¯ ori in areas such as health, long-held issues from both sides remain unaddressed. How do you learn to trust each other and form meaningful relationships after everything that has happened?

Tu¯ hoe didn’t sign the Treaty but suffered the Crown’s wrath that followed. Land was confiscated, innocent people were detained or killed – actions that were justified by the Crown through dubious legislation and enforcement – and they were unfairly targeted by police, 2007’s anti-terror raids the most recent example.

The return of Te Urewera to Tu¯ hoe guardianship is the beginning of a new era for the tribe. But with success comes fresh problems for Te Uru Taumatua – issues that are causing division and dissent within the iwi.

Several hapu¯ (sub-tribe) have protested about Kruger’s handling of Tu¯ hoe affairs, including policies to stop hapu¯ accessing funds from Government agencies for things such as marae improvements.

Unapologetic, Kruger says Tu¯ hoe have the resources to fix their own issues, but need to take ownership rather than asking for outside help. Revitalising mana motuhake (autonomy) means being self-reliant, he says.

‘‘There will be fearfulness around a new order, a new

Tu¯ hoe world where they may not see a steady picture of their new role. They will feel insecure, and they will resist and protest. That’s where we are now as Tu¯ hoe people, we are right in the middle of that chaos. A chaos we should never, ever avoid. We should work our way through that. It’s divisive, it’s loud, but it’s part of the necessity of change.’’

Pursuing mana motuhake is not easy after 180 years of Crown influence through colonisation, he says.

Kruger looks out of place in the boardroom. Like Apiata, he is not your average high-level iwi negotiator – he has lived in the bush without power and still looks like he could depart to go hunting at a moment’s notice. Then he speaks and it all makes sense. He knows his land and the dreams of his ancestors, dreams he is determined to bring to life today.

He has spent more than 25 years in iwi politics, earning the support of his people who wanted him as their chief negotiator. The role was made easier when his people said in no uncertain terms: come home with Te Urewera, or not at all. It allowed him the freedom to decline the Crown as negotiations continued for three years.

Kruger says there’s a culture in New Zealand that national parks are owned by everyone and can’t possibly be given away. Conservation estates were out of bounds for all iwi settlements.

‘‘So that’s what the government’s problem was, the perception that they were giving away something owned by New Zealanders to a group of Tu¯ hoe Ma¯ ori who look like terrorists. That just is not a good look politically.

‘‘So my problem was to understand what John Key’s problem was. John Key’s problem was ownership. . . So through the negotiations, we convinced them that nobody would own it, the land would own itself.’’

Once it was established that biodiversity would be fostered and the maunga would still be accessible to the public, the next step was writing the legislation.

‘‘In Western culture, legislation is the highest order that they’ve got and, of course, anyone who knows their history would know that legislation is a weapon that can be a tool, and it can be a tool that can be a weapon’’

To ensure their voices were in the legislation, Tu¯ hoe insisted on helping to write it, using their own words.

Post-settlement, many have failed to understand Tu¯ hoe’s relationship with Te Urewera, leading many to speculate about the revenue the tribe is making from her. Kruger has also fielded comments about Tu¯ hoe being the ‘‘brown’’ DOC.

‘‘When people say: ‘Well, how many jobs have been created?’ I then say, we did not fight to have Te Urewera back so you could have jobs. That was never, ever part of our identity. The problem here was the disconnection. . . So over 180 years very few of us now know the ngahere, very few of us can live there now or understand how it works and how we are attached and whakapapa to it. So that’s our problem: connection, not jobs.

‘‘I am a kinship organisation. What I do is make sure that the connection, the cultural, emotional, spiritual connection between people that make us who we are as Tu¯ hoe is strong. And everything that is Tu¯ hoe comes from that place. Our language, our cuisine, our literature, our poetry, our dreams, our names, everything about being Tu¯ hoe comes from there.

‘‘It was never ever about nice, clean open tracks and nice swing bridges and comfortable huts. That’s your stuff. Not my stuff. So, a better measurement is to come here and say, how are you getting on with that connection thing?’’

That connection is strong for Apiata, instilled in him by his kuia who, like Kruger, described Te Urewera as Tu¯ hoe’s starting point.

Born in Gisborne, while his mother was working in the shearing sheds, Apiata was collected as a newborn by his uncle and taken back to Tu¯ hoe to be raised by his kuia.

‘‘She was the most loving woman who loved her whenua and gave us that same love,’’ Apiata says.

‘‘Me and my wife have taught our kids our way of life in the ngahere. They know how to hunt and feed their wha¯ nau, they know when not to as well. You only take what you need, nothing more. That’s what my kuia taught me. She saw Te Urewera as a person, so you give back as much as you take.’’

Former National Party MP Chris Finlayson was the Minister for Treaty of Waitangi Negotiations who oversaw the historic deal. Speaking from his Auckland law office, he says he wanted to right past wrongs against Tu¯ hoe.

He expected backlash after his announcement, but it never came.

‘‘I will never forget the reaction of the press gallery, which was overwhelmingly positive.

‘‘Even Winston Peters, who was always critical of anything I did, said he hoped Tu¯ hoe get a good deal here. Everyone knew they’d been treated very badly, even within Parliament, and it went down very well. But the primary reason it went very well is because of the efforts of Ta¯ mati and Kirsti Luke (Te Uru Taumata chief executive) talking to people and explaining that the world wasn’t going to end and it would be an opportunity to right a wrong.’’

Finlayson says it was gratifying on a personal level to see justice prevail for Tu¯ hoe, after being locked out of their lands for more than a century and deceived by the Crown on many occasions.

NGUTU KAU ANA

Empty promises

It was not the first time Tu¯ hoe had engaged with the Crown to protect Te Urewera.

In 1896, after prolonged discussions with the Crown, the Urewera Native Reserve Act was passed. The Act would stop the Crown surveying land in Te Urewera and exclude the Native Land Court. Titles would instead be investigated by a Tu¯ hoe-dominated Urewera Commission.

The Urewera Commission would award hapu¯ -based land titles, and the hapu¯ would elect a block committee to administer their land. Sales were not permitted. Tu¯ hoe’s local government would administer and govern the Urewera Reserve. The 1896 law also promised schools and other services for Tu¯ hoe, and protection of the forests and animals of Te Urewera.

That was what was supposed to happen. But the Crown ignored the Act for 25 years and later repealed it. Later, without consultation, Te Urewera was turned into a National Park.

‘‘And of course, no one can go near a National Park because it’s so sacred and blah, blah, blah,’’ Finlayson says.

‘‘But the very people who belong to the land, through countless generations, were totally locked out, and so it was just totally unfair.’’

Back in the ngahere, Apiata says he is glad the law has changed and his rights under Tu¯ hoe lore are now recognised in Crown law. But he sighs as he lifts the A4 folder of paperwork he has to read before his next Te Urewera Board hui.

It’s this part of being on the board he hates the most. He would much rather that Jim Bolger jumped on a horse and came to his bush boardroom, so he can show him where the issues are.

He comes back to the berry problem: its effects on wildlife hurt the people of Tu¯ hoe who use Te Urewera for food.

‘‘When I was young I used to shoot pigeons for my nannies. I would always go hunting for them from about May because the berries were plentiful and I always came back with more than enough,’’ he says.

‘‘Usually the berries are in fruit from about January, the fruit are green then and then about May the pigeons are singing because the fruits are about ready. The miro, the hı¯nau, the tawa were always loaded on the trees . . .right through July and sometimes August. Kereru¯ eats all three of them.

‘‘I wrote in my book last week that I haven’t heard a pigeon. I get still when I am out in the ngahere to listen to them and I can’t hear them.’’

Apiata says he gets excited when he sees signs of a wild boar in the bush, another thing that was once a common sight that is now a rarity.

‘‘It’s good to see a pig sign, because I can’t find one now in our area,’’ he said.

‘‘It’s the food. The tawa berry, when the tawa is here, is when the pigs come. It’s not there, neither is the hinau berry. I only caught three pigs in the last four to six months. We can try and put more pigs out here, but to me it is a waste of time when there’s no kai.

‘‘I want a scientist to come out and have a look, they may be able to tell us why this is happening.’’

HE MAHERE KI TE MANA MAHITAHI A blueprint for shared authority

The Tuhoe settlement was signed in 2013, followed by the Te Urewera Act in 2014. Post-settlement, Tu¯ hoe said they felt resistance from DOC, which administered the Act for the Crown.

Kruger said the cracks started forming from the beginning. ‘‘DOC were furious because basically, someone had sold their baby.

‘‘It’s one of the first instances where the Crown is sharing power – not coerced into it, but voluntarily sharing power – to the extent that it’s actually giving up power. So it’s not a 50-50 share, it will probably end up being a 80-20 share in Tu¯ hoe’s favour.

‘‘There was alarm, resistance, suspicion by DOC. So that’s what we’ve been doing over the last seven years, abating that as much as we can and we’re tired of it, because basically, it’s not our job.’’

Following the settlement, critics challenged whether

Tu¯ hoe could really manage the area.

‘‘We’ve been preparing for 200 years. Indigenous people who have suffered from colonisation, loss, grief, and terror. . . don’t sit around waiting for divine intervention.

‘‘We have never, ever accepted the confiscation and the theft of our land. We have never, ever seen it as a National Park. When DOC was here DOC behaved and acted like the owner of the land and they ignored us,’’ Kruger says.

‘‘They advertised Te Urewera as a place to come and fish for trout, tramp, and listen to birds and look at trees. They forgot to mention there were Ma¯ ori living here, they forgot to mention that. So we have always known that our commitment and our mission here was our reconnection with the land. The Crown mistook that for owning. Owning is a Western concept, right? Indigenous people don’t have a concept called ownership.’’

As the chief advisor to the director-general of DOC, Mervyn English has worked closely with Tu¯ hoe for the past four years. He admits it’s not all been smooth sailing. Despite this, pest control and biodiversity work on the mountain has been maintained by Tu¯ hoe.

English says the biggest concern for Te Urewera is the relationship between Tu¯ hoe and the Crown.

‘‘You just don’t change 180 years in the seven years. Tu¯ hoe has an intergenerational timeframe and DOC is adapting to that and it hasn’t been an easy adaption. I think that that will give good outcomes for both Tu¯ hoe and Te Urewera.’’

The work has forced those who have no spiritual connection to the land to dig deeper – it’s soul work, English says, something he has never had to do in his career.

It has involved reckoning with the Crown’s history with Tu¯ hoe and learning to use a Ma¯ ori lens to view the whenua. It’s changed how the department operates, but is still a work in progress, he says.

‘‘After most settlements are done, it’s really only the beginning of the discovery of what the parties intended, or thought was going to happen.

‘‘All these expectations are built up and then you come to practise those on the ground and that becomes a different kind of situation, you have to work through the practicality of a whole lot of things.

‘‘DOC has to be very careful that it’s not looking at the forest through Eurocentric eyes. So DOC, for example, will do a lot of single species work. We work with kakapo and takahe¯ whereas Tu¯ hoe will have a much more holistic approach to looking at the land.

‘‘A few months ago I had one of the Tu¯ hoe bush crew saying, ‘This is happening, we don’t know why, I wish we could talk to your scientists.’ And I said, ‘Well, we could organise that,’ but another Tu¯ hoe person said, ‘All they will do is give us a Eurocentric view.’ So that’s a really good illustration of the ambiguity, where DOC has to find its way through.’’

The nuts and bolts of the partnership involve DOC providing operational support and $2.2 million in annual funding for Te Urewera’s maintenance.

‘‘There’s a very fine balance here between supporting Tu¯ hoe in any way that we can, but also giving them the space to find their own way,’’ he says.

A few years back, the relationship nearly broke down, English says. They recovered, but issues of power-sharing and trust always hover in the background.

‘‘Given the Crown’s past history with them they’re very sensitive to whether we’re trying to take over again or not. So it has actually worked better since the staff there have been predominantly Tu¯ hoe people.’’

English says going into this partnership there was no blueprint for DOC to work off. He formed support networks outside DOC to help him understand Te Ao Ma¯ ori (Ma¯ ori world view).

Despite setbacks, he believes the legislation is one of the most exciting laws that has been passed and he expects more iwi across the nation to follow suit, with the experiences of Tu¯ hoe and the Crown helping shape future partnerships

‘‘I think one of the very fundamental things is to always be humble about what you think you know. Because whether you’re Ma¯ ori or Pa¯ keha¯ working in these situations, you cannot know everything and you never will.’’

While government departments tend to be ‘‘transactional’’, iwi are seeking a genuine, committed relationship, he says.

‘‘The words in a settlement and apologies have a great deal more meaning and emotion around them for iwi than they do for people from the Crown. So I can talk to Tu¯ hoe and they will still talk about the words of the apology. They will still talk about the importance of the Crown, restoring its honour.’’

Otago Law Professor Jacinta Ruru, who specialises in Ma¯ ori environmental law, says the Te Urewera law paved the way for other landmasses in Aotearoa New Zealand to be recognised as their own person – something the public should support. ‘‘The sky is not gonna fall in if we recognise a Ma¯ ori understanding of the place. Our ability as the general public to still go and visit Te Urewera has not changed, we can still do all that. We didn’t lose anything and I think that if anything we gained an enormous amount in that generosity of Tu¯ hoe to share their worldview with us,’’ Ruru says.

‘‘And for the Crown to be humble enough to enter into and accept this compromise is recognition that the Crown doesn’t have all the answers on how to care for the place and by partnering with Ma¯ ori we can gain so much more as a country. So I hope that all of us as New Zealanders now, when we go visit Tu¯ hoe, we walk through that forest and around the lake, that we have a much more enhanced, richer experience than we had in the past.

‘‘There will be conflict, and there’ll be different (opinions), for example, between the Western-trained scientist and the ma¯ tauranga (Ma¯ ori knowledge) trained scientists. There will be conflict around what is best for the place, but I think there are better mechanisms in place to be able to negotiate that respectfully.’’

Finlayson says no one was under the illusion the settlement phase would be easy.

‘‘The New Jerusalem doesn’t come in five minutes. But the Crown, through its agencies, has to recognise that the landscape has changed, that Parliament wanted the landscape to change and they have to act in a way that gives effect to Parliament’s intentions. There is no going back. There will be no change in the status quo, so get on or get lost, really.’’

E HOKI ANA HEI KAITIAKI

Return to guardianship

Back at the Apiata residence, deep in the heart of Te Urewera, they are getting on with it.

With the men in the bush, Tineti prepares wholesome kai for their return with her daughter Kimiora Apiata and mokopuna Manu Apiata, the 11-year-old daughter of their youngest son, Billy.

Tineti is preparing a treat of fry bread. As she kneads the dough she tells the story of her connection to Te Urewera.

‘‘My grandmother raised me on this land and I was connected to the whenua straight away – that’s Tu¯ hoetana (Tu¯ hoe practices and beliefs), you can’t be Tu¯ hoe without that connection,’’ she says.

‘‘Within her embrace, nothing outside existed. You were living here and in here was everything – Te Urewera, the river and the mountains. Everything. On the outside was the Pa¯ keha realm. I never felt safe there, I never felt like I belonged. In here I am part of everything.

‘‘While we are the guardians that protect her from outside influences she fuels us both spiritually and provides for her people.’’

As she cuts the dough into pieces to deep fry in the large pot of boiling oil, the hooves of the horses carrying Tineti’s precious cargo – her wha¯ nau – can be heard in the distance. The smell of bacon bone boil-up with fat dough-boys permeates the air.

The men tie up their horses, kick their boots off and allow their noses to lead them to the pots. Conversation turns to visitors of Te Urewera. Do they want them here?

Billy laughs as he tears his eyes from the boil-up pot. ‘‘We do want them to visit this place, and walk through the ngahere and see the sights, but I think they are scared of us. Like, I actually think they think we are gonna pop them off and chuck them in here,’’ he says, as he nods towards the pot.

The 2007 anti-terror raids and resulting media coverage gave the public a misconception of Tu¯ hoe.

‘‘I’m not really into eating Pa¯ keha¯ , eh,’’ he laughs.

‘‘We want people to connect to our whenua, but we just ask you to care for her too. If you see rubbish pick it up, if you can treat her with respect we want you to visit. Haere mai.’’

Manu is outside with one of her pups – the pair are learning to hunt. The child is versed in the medicinal properties of the native flora in the area. She knows what leaves to brew for an upset stomach and what leaves will relieve aches and pains.

Manu has only known her connection to Te Urewera through her wha¯ nau without interference from outside influences. Although she carries the mamae (hurt) of her ancestors, her connection has been a positive experience, particularly the time she gets to spend learning about it with her koro and nanny.

She is the future of Tu¯ hoe, and if she is anything to go by it will be a beautiful reset to a painful past.

As the iwi grapples with internal struggles and the new era of its relationship with the Crown, the people of Tu¯ hoe are set on flourishing through mana motuhake. It’s about undoing past traumas and redefining themselves.

Resting in his sofa, Apiata returns to his comments from the morning about the problems he’s noticed in the ngahere.

‘‘There is an imbalance, but nature has a way of sorting itself out.’’

Cover Story

en-nz

2021-07-24T07:00:00.0000000Z

2021-07-24T07:00:00.0000000Z

https://fairfaxmedia.pressreader.com/article/282729114923558

Stuff Limited