Kāinga
Whakataka te hau ki te uru
Whakataka te hau ki te tonga
Kia mākinakina ki uta
Kia mātaratara ki tai
E hī ake ana te atakura
He tio, he huka, he hau hū
Tīhei mauri ora!
I reach out to my tūpuna when I am afraid. I reach out to my tūpuna when I am weak or haunted. Growing up in a Māori and Pākeha whānau, I felt that there were sacrifices made so as not to discomfort one or the other. I started my schooling in the 'regular' curriculum, but my parents didn't want me to forget my whakapapa. So, they moved me to the bilingual unit and early on, I learned the differences that existed between two cultures in one space; how we spoke, how we behaved, the new social hierarchy. And that I was the whitest kid in the class.
Feeling out of place has always been part of what makes me who I am. I was too white to fit into my new class and my old friends now saw me as the black sheep on the other side of the fence. It’s ironic, really. But I soon learnt the ropes of blending in and morphing into who I was supposed to be, depending on the environment.
Intermediate came about and I made the Accelerate Syndicate - that’s just a flash way of saying “the nerd herd”. Led by an old Pākeha woman, I remember a remark about how great it was that I "made it in" despite my background. So as the chameleon I am, I stopped saying “chur cuz” and was taught to enunciate clearly.
This version of myself developed further in high school, where, again, I was in the mainstream brainy class. I opted out of joining the Te Akoranga bilingual unit, because I was afraid of being too white. Only when you grow older, you can see how ridiculous your teenage assumptions are. I should have seized the opportunity to learn and grow with my people, because not only did they have excellent education, they had whanaungatanga too. But I denied myself my Māoritanga unless we had a tangi to go to, or Mum made me go to her kapa haka practices and marae-stays. I hated them. I felt too white.
I used my chameleon persona to fit where in. At school, out of school, family gatherings, wherever. I suppose in doing so, I never had a firm grip of who I really was. But it seemed my white-skinned privilege usually prevailed, so that became a comfort zone. Until my last year of high school; my middle-aged, Pākeha teacher absolutely schooled us on NZ history. She was very pro-Māori, explaining thoroughly the cultural injustices my people had suffered over land ownership and other raruraru. So, I did scholarship papers on this and continued my studies of Māori culture into my first and only year of university. I intended to triple major in Business, Psychology and Māori Studies.
I dropped out for a breather, giving my parents the classic ‘I need to find myself’ speech. It was true, I did. I had filled my plate with too much to think about, too much to discover, all while trying to learn my own self. One can only handle so much. And as an overthinker and intense feeler, navigating this next chapter proved rocky. I felt ashamed. Ashamed to have wasted a scholarship and feel as if my family and peers now saw me as wasted potential. I was supposed to be a scholar, but now I had become something else. Lost. I moved back to the Bay of Plenty, dabbled in the hospitality industry for a couple years, burnt bridges here and there and built better ones too. I used socialising as an excuse for my alcoholism and weed dependency. Anything to numb the face staring back at me in the mirror. I compromised my health and sense of self under the guise of shame. This continued until just after my 22nd birthday, when I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s-Lymphoma. Cancer of the lymphatic system. My chemotherapy and radiation took up much of 2018, the recovery process even longer. And the Spanish girl I'd met on Twitter and fallen for four years prior, flew to NZ on a three-month visitor visa to meet her bald, bag-of-bones beloved.
When her visa ended, I moved to Barcelona chasing love, freedom and culture shock and I received all of it. But I noticed that the culture shock itself left me feeling bitter and unsettled. I couldn't comprehend why. The sights and sounds became cacophonic - I had two new languages, Castellano and Catalan, to learn and I could barely differentiate between them. Here I was, grappling with a new culture and society, when I'd barely nibbled at my own Māoritanga. My own reo. In hindsight, I felt as if I was betraying my roots.
For comfort, I called my mother often, and we'd reminisce on times we'd spent on the porch under the soft touch of the moon, talking like mates while she'd puff on her ciggie. Our new conversations would range from mocking my teenage tantrums, to the value of unification as an indigenous people; kōtahitanga and manaakitanga and all that comes with it. She'd take a drag on her cigarette, followed by that familiar sound of an exhalation into the night's air. And I would imagine us sitting together on the porch again, this time we would be speaking of more grounding topics that only a mother's instinct could know my soul needed: Our hauora, our wairua, our mauri.
My ancestors were people with mana. Courageous in the face of adversity, adaptable. They had ventured from Hawaiki to other islands, and set off once more against strong winds and defiant currents with Aotearoa as their ultimate intended destination. When I thought about their travels, I felt less guilty for abandoning my tangata and my whenua; my people and my homeland. If they could weather such storms, surely, I could fly economy and get settled into metropolitan life. I called upon them for their blessing to accompany me on this journey I have taken on. When we moved into our casita - our new whare - I chanted to my ancestors to bless this home from harm.
That was in February 2020, right before Covid-19 hit Spain hard and quarantine was enforced. My partner and I were now homebound in a 60sqm apartment, with tiny decks they call terrazas (terraces), barely big enough to fit a chair. Most of the people here live in small apartments with no backyards or spatial luxuries like many of us in New Zealand. I took for granted the space we have back home - the apartment walls here are paper thin. Some apartments are ‘interior’, so they see no sun at all. My building is so old that there's no elevator. But I don't mind it. There is beauty in the remembrance of those who walked these floors before us.
Penalties were being dished out generously by la policía for anyone on the street without a 'permission slip'. No walks, no exercise, and if your dog needs to piss, it may be outside, no more than 50m from your residence. It was unbelievably strict. The city stopped dead in its tracks and we were now all homebound. Frustrated, scared, panicked. Wondering how the hell we were going to pay rent and bills while the government wasn't focused on prioritising those who were struggling.
Concert stadiums were being shut down for hospital beds in Madrid, and ice skating rinks served as freezers for the corpses overflowing from the facilities. If you were infected, you would be taken from your family and quarantined, and there was no guarantee that they would see you again. Not even for a funeral. I felt sick to my stomach with the thoughts of loved ones running through my head.
What if it were my kuia? What if she were to leave this world without my hand to hold? Any hand to hold. I've only got one nan. And with parents who had me in their teens, she's always been the rock of the family. I wanted to express to her my aroha and gratitude, realising you just never know which day will be anyone's last, nor whether you'll be around to say your farewells. She's not one for too much emotion - having lived her life in fight-or-flight mode - so I made it clear that she need not respond, but just read. I expressed my thanks for the strength of her shoulders and the burdens she has carried, among other smothering sentimentalities. I knew she'd be smiling in her armchair, shedding a tear or two, but too proud to let me know. She said thanks, though.
In times like these, nothing is certain and states of being shift rapidly. Unskilled labourers soon became the new essential workers, grocery staff and delivery guys. Supermarkets were pillaged. I felt a deep sense of disgust as under-paid people were put on the frontline so the middle and upper classes could still buy their food and beer. Lots of beer. Although no more than ten people were permitted into the stores, with social-distancing established, I couldn't shake the shame of the complete disregard for the health and safety of these people. People who had to keep working so they could pay their rent.
At eight every night we go to our terraces to applaud these workers. Although only a pleasantry, it's a nice enough sentiment, I guess: Yeah, you're risking your lives for us, we'll pakipaki in return. I wonder if they find it endearing or condescending? This is sometimes overwhelming enough to make my eyes water. I don't know if it's because I feel gratitude, or guilt, or both.
The atmosphere of Spain had shifted so rapidly that I struggled to accurately portray it. Heading outside to get the week's groceries felt like a scene from an apocalypse. Avoidance and paranoid looks became so prevalent, it felt like we were no longer people. We were merely individuals, alien to each other, scared of one another. People would look over their shoulders as they sensed you behind them, then hurry to get away from you. Apparently, eye contact became a foreign concept, just sketchy glances or retreating footsteps. Shuffling into nooks of the street where nobody could approach.
As I left the grocery store with bags of food in my privileged hands, I felt angst grow and consume my stomach, twisting it like a soaked rag. The plastic gloves they gave me at the entrance stuck to my sweaty palms like glad-wrap to a piece of raw meat. Speaking of meat, there was barely any in the store, and the produce was minimal. As was, well, everything else. Panic buyers had made their mark. A mark of nothingness. No essence of tātou tātou to be felt. Every one for themselves.
I made sure to look the woman who served me in the eye and give her my most sincere "gracias por todo", thank you for everything. But even as I left the store, I couldn't rid my thoughts of not just the appreciation but also sadness in her eyes. It haunted me as I stepped out onto the street. I know what it's like to be treated as subservient. I’d worked in hospitality. But this was during a time when it seemed we’d lost our most basic senses and courtesies. Were we even human anymore?
My hands shook and I couldn't hold back the tears. Sobs and gasps for air, and looks of pity from masked strangers. My pride had stepped aside and I simply couldn't compose myself any longer. I arrived home, dropped my groceries on the floor, and grappled with an anxiety attack unlike anything I have ever experienced. I wanted my the arms of my māmā. I wanted to go home. I wanted to see my family. I wanted to feel safe. I wanted to fucking scream. But as I said, the walls here are thin. You see, my immune system is compromised. My lungs, in particular. One specific chemical of the ABVD chemotherapy, bleomycin, affected my lungs greatly. So, although I'm 24, and it's "just the flu for people like you", I was scared.
Paranoia and fear gripped at my throat so tightly that I genuinely struggled to breathe. I had broken down. Completely. All because of a trip to the grocery store. My partner called the emergency services and I was met by paramedics. They drove me to Hospital Sant Pau, sat me in a wheelchair and escorted me through the maze to the psychiatric ward. The walls of the labyrinth were lined with patients on ventilators. There was nowhere else to put them. The psychiatrist I dealt with gave me the same compassion and kindness as had the rest of the team. Even in a time where these workers are doing overtime and risking their wellbeing a hundredfold, they had the selflessness to give me empathy. They also gave me valium - I take it three times daily.
I am not ashamed of this. I am not ashamed to admit that I have struggled with my mental health and that I stay "drugged up" just to feel okay. We are all coping in our own ways. We all have our little vices: liquor, smoking, taking herbs from Papatuānuku and using them freely. Does it really matter? I don't know.
What I do know is that amidst the panic, I lost my equilibrium and sense of hauora. My roots had been torn. I yearned for home. So, I recall the karakia above, and I call upon my ancestors. To be with me in spirit. Or in placebo. Either way, it gives me strength and deep appreciation for the country where I was raised.
As the atmosphere settles in Spain, I have noticed myself feeling calmer and more grounded, despite being four stories high. Each day for a couple of hours, we squeeze ourselves into our tiny terrace and meet with Tamanuiterā before he moves behind the adjacent apartment. To us, he speaks, reminding us all of our blessings.
Covid-19 has been a confronting journey for the world we used to know. Whakataka Te Hau is a karakia that asks for the break of sharp winds and to let the breeze blow over the lands with the promise of a glorious day. We have had time to reflect and we have had to find rest in the face of panic. We have been changed as a people. Now I anticipate the dawn of a changing world. Perhaps that’s what we, the people, have longed for.
All photography by Tayla Farquhar