Intricate and colorful structures stretch out from the walls, like the first page of an expensive pop-up book, filling the air with life. Each story has it’s own space, whakapapa and patience created beauty in each stroke of paint or curve in the wood, waiting for the practiced voices of storytellers that will allow them to dance. I feel overcome by the weight of the care and respect this Hapu has for their history and their people. I wish I could find a way to describe in words what I’ve seen with my eyes, wrap moments like this up into a little box and hand them to others to share. At the same time that I feel frustrated by my inability to accurately describe such beauty, I also feel incredibly lucky to have had experiences where I doubt even the most talented writer could make their reader feel the way I did in that moment. The gift comes from the bond that is shared only between those present, from the feel of the ocean against my hands, and the afternoon sunlight warming my hair, impossible to recreate but cherished in memory.

The beautifully carved women who stand around me all have a story; they all have a name, just like the living, breathing people who sit in this room with me now. All of the women are real people who used to be young, who were born and lived and died, who have grandparents and family and little colorful children rolling around their skirts and arms. Their faces mean things, you study the strong wood lips and you can see confidence, longing, or patience. Perhaps these are only the traits that I match them with, but the point is that each has its place, and they are unique.

Across from me is the panel that represents death; it is where the loved ones are placed during the time of mourning. Above the space where they’ll lay is Maui, the bright trickster that was cunning and daring, and yet even he fell to the clutches of death when the time came. The faces of the people surrounding the area are curved and twisted, writhing in a state of chaos. Anguish breathes from their wide eyes and curling limbs, for they are brave enough to acknowledge the pain that comes from losing a loved one, therefore giving their people permission to grieve passionately.

Behind me is our space. I slept under the artwork that represents northern winds, strangers and friends blowing together to become whanau, to become one. I love that idea so much, Bubba says that once we are here, we are connected, we have protection and faith and this room, this glorious, precious house, can be our church too. People like you, and me, and those that came before and will come later, they can be part of our religion.

Above the heads of Cathy and Zoë is the panel that represents whakapapa. All of these people holding each other up, surrounded by ripples, like dropping a stone into a calm pond and watching the vibrations travel, steady and fluid, continuous and reliable. I love the colors, the strong eyes, the woman who stands to my right with a tired, proud face and thirteen children climbing around her. I close my eyes, and I hear them laughing, I see her arms struggling to cover them all, and I want to know more. More about who she is, and where all of those children went after her, how many families did they create? I want to know more about all of them; I walked in circles yesterday, opening up each stomach to see what their people had left inside. Some of them were empty, or there were family trees, papers, a feather, and once, a sparkling blue stone.

My favorite panel is the one over the door. It represents Te Ao Marama, into the world of light, both the light of the creation myth, and that of knowledge and progress. Steps and vines illustrate the journey we must take, sometimes struggling, sometimes stopping, but always moving. I think the marama, the light, it can be anything you want. Love or solitude, understanding or acceptance, success or happiness, all that matters is that we realize we are climbing. Just like our group that trudged up Mt. Ngarahoe and Kepler track, we do not give up, we don’t back down. Each one of us is similar, one in our search, connected by the eternal instincts of human nature, and all of our stories are waiting to come to alive.

Not a joke.

After that we made our way to another Marae, where we stayed for two nights. In our time there we had the pleasure of going horseback riding, snorkeling and learning how to weave flowers out of flax. The flowers were beautiful, wrapping in the national, and distinctly Maori, sign of a Koru. There had been a funeral a few days before, and we decided to leave the flowers for the woman who had died.

Maori treat their dead differently than our culture does, and watching this unfold was incredibly interesting. We went to visit Jackie, not a graveyard, and we talked to her as if we were meeting her. She was introduced as a proud, gracious woman, and when we had the idea of leaving our gift to her the family was overcome with the sense of mana (closest translated with the english word of pride) that came to them knowing we were there to support their loss, and her life. Jackie died due to complications with depression, illuminating the darker side of the current Maori culture, and I’m really touched that we could make a difference to their family.

Tonight I am entering my second night at another holiday park, where we have spent our days exploring the famous glowworm filled caves. Turns out that the “black water rafting” is actually floating on a tire through eel infested waters! Good thing that I’m not that scared of them anymore, because it would have been torture to wade through the river in the pitch black, knowing they were all around me. We rock climbed, belayed (or absailing as the NZers call it), rafted and explored.

We're all little kids again

The last bit of excitment occurred when I managed to cut my finger after the rafting expedition… everything is 100% fine, but I did get a preview of the excellent New Zealand health care, free of charge and incredibly healthy! Getting hurt was a blessing in disguise, because I got to see a different way of taking care of people, and I have to say that I like this way better!

Tomorrow we leave for a youth hostel, and in the next few days we will be hiking Tangaroa’s crossing, spending time at a Marae and doing home stays in Wellington. I hope everyone at home is doing well in the snow, I love you all and miss you so much!

Wish you were here. No seriously, I really do...

Traveling felt weird, as if entering into a time machine instead of an airplane. The six hour plane to LA felt like days, and the 13 hour plane to New Zealand seemed lost between Michael Jackson movies and fuzzy dreams. We spent the next few days exploring the city, adjusting to jet lag, and learning all about a little thing called perspective.

On our maps, New Zealand barely shows up. It’s way down there, barely hiding beneath Australia, the “last stop on the way to the south pole”. Here, it’s a little different. America is the far away land, where wonders and myths take root. Have you ever seen someone get shot? Is it like High School Musical and Mean Girls? Are there cliques and drama and matching clothes and songs and guns? They ask these questions with wide eyes and complete sincerity, marveling at the world they saw on TV. Never before have I been so aware of the perspective that the media sends out to the world.

Auckland was awesome. Clean and beautiful, it’s steep roads snaked up into the hills and back down to the ocean, piercing the sky with a silver sky tower and marking the seas with a thousand sail boats. The City of Sails, as it is known, was a place where people would bend down and pick up trash on the ground, instead of adding to it. Different from New York or Boston? Just a tiny bit…

The next two days were spent staying at this gorgeous Marae. We were met with a formal Powhiri (welcome), where we had to give a speech, sing, and present ourselves in the most vulnerable way possible, with a hongi. The sharing of breath and the touching of noses, or sometimes it’s in the form of a simple kiss on the cheek, represent the Maori’s way of seeing you, not just the way you look, but who you are. After that moment, you become family.

And family, we were. The children would hang on us and ask us questions, pulling at our clothing and speaking freely in their sweet New Zealand accents. One of the children, Lateal, slept on my mattress the first night after begging her mother to let her have a slumber party with us. Bright and spunky, Lateal never failed to give us her own opinions on everything around us.

Many more stories have taken place, scenes and images that would take a thousand words to explain when I only have as long as my store bought internet card will allow, so I’ll have to show you a few of them in pictures.

Portrait: Triniti, age 5

Travelers luck. Meeting the Prime Minister of NZ!

From Lion Rock, beach trip number one

I found Nemo.

Tomorrow we will immerse ourselves into the Maori culture with the annual Waitangi Weekend, a time for celebrating what came before, and what will come in the future.

To all that I love, I hope you feel as if you are here with me, I miss you all and can’t wait to see you again.
xoxo,