Lockdown Livres: Retreating from COVID-19 and Recovering from Surgery in Nine Novels

My literary companions during COVID-19 lockdown and convalescence from surgery.  4.8kg worth. 

I read a lot of non-fiction for work, so fiction can feel a bit frivolous by comparison. But mainly I never seem to have time. After my discharge from surgery in March 2019, I was at home looking forward to diving into a pile of books. As I got more mobile, Aotearoa New Zealand went into COVID-19 Alert Level 2, then AL 3, then AL 4 (lockdown). All of a sudden I had hours per day of transit back in my day, tons of time to read, and carte blanche from my doctors, nurses and employer to relax and look after myself. 

So I turned gleefully to my to-read list and dived in. What follows is a chronological citation of my COVID convalescence collection. 

The Luminaries - Eleanor Catton

5 cases of COVID-19 in NZ; 48 staples extracted, 18 left in

Deeply satisfying. After page 400 a complete page-turner. Seeing the impending Luminaries TV show motivated me to finally read this book, gifted to me in 2012 by Bettina, my friend in Switzerland. Rich and layered. Only once I'd finished the book did I really feel like I knew each character. If not for my pile of 'books to read' I would have turned right back to page 1, read it again and got to know those characters even better. 

Quinine - Kelly Ana Morey

20 cases of COVID-19 in NZ; NZ Orienteering Champs postponed; first home visit by district nurse

An excellent character study and well plotted story. It's unusual to read a Huia Publishers novel that so intimately and humanly explores the minds and lives of settler / colonisers. Morey let down by her publisher though - after Chapter 3 I'd found so many typos that I put the book down in frustration. Then I took up a pencil, started the book again and circled all the typos I found - 43! I had bought this book years ago for $5 in a Huia Publisher's sale. It has sat for years on my bookshop along with other unopened $5 titles such as Transit of Venus, The Songmaker's Chair and Without Reservation (still in its plastic wrapper). The writing style of Transit of Venus was painfully obtuse so was quick put down. Quinine was refreshingly precise and detailed.

To the Last City - Colin Thubron
NZ moves to Alert Level 3; hospital has applied a PICO 'negative pressure' pump-dressing to clear my wound infection

My friend Rebecca lent me this book, via her partner Uwe, via his best friend Pat (my husband). It came with a card gift of Green & Black's chocolate. It charts internal and physical journeys for each character. Strength emerges in unexpected places. The professional commentator turns out to be the least thoughtful. Its lightweightness - a mere 140 pages - made it a refreshing contrast from Catton and Morey.

The Governor's Four Hearts - James Earp
NZ moves to Alert Level 4 / lockdown; clinic appointment via phone with surgeon confirms mass lesion extracted was a leiomyosarcoma

When I visited my friend Aimee in Denton, Texas, her grandmother gave me this book, written by her brother. Her family are descended from Wyatt Earp. This was the perfect time to deep dive into James and his family's health struggles. Reading some non-fiction was a nice escape from fiction.

Watched - Tihema Baker
Worldwide Coronavirus case number surpasses 600K; queues 10-deep outside supermarket mall, so I buy newspaper and cream from night pay at the petrol station; no longer need day naps

Tihema's sister Mahinaarangi is a former student of mine, and just graduated with her PhD from Massey. Talented whānau. For this reason my friend Ange bought this book, read it, then gave it to me with her high recommendation. It took me this down time to finally read it - and I richly enjoyed it as an inventive, action-orientated and page-turning Young Adult novel. Strong shades of the X-Men, but Tihema never loses hold of his own vision and originality in his story.

Change Agent - Daniel Suarez
NZ's first death from COVID-19; I email workmates to let them know I'm cancer-free

This book links me to my previous surgery; as well as to two thoughtful postgrad students. Alan and Symon gave me this book in 2018 prior to taking leave for a fibroid operation. I started reading it a year or so later and put it aside. It was interesting but had wallowed in a long drone chase - exciting in a movie, but a bit tedious in a book. I picked up where I left off, and without other time pressures enjoyed this rollicking action-er set in a world of illegal, yet poorly policed human genetic editing.

House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski
Welcome light relief for April Fool's Day; Panadol twice a day now my only pain relief

The MENSA-clever, maze-like narrative is centred around gripping action as Navy and friends explore a house that is bigger on the inside than out. I started this ages ago and as with many books set it aside - but lockdown gave me the time and determination to plough through the rest (including the very lengthy appendix). So refreshing and innovative. Each page turn feels like an event - what shape and colour will the text take next? Highly recommended that you at least find a copy, flick through and marvel at its internal asymmetry. But do go one better and allow yourself to descend into its brilliant madness.

The Absolute Book - Elizabeth Knox
COVID-19 deaths worldwide surpass 100K; my pain intensifies from hypergranulation on wound - nurse Pat tasked with treating with AgNO3 sticks

Getting rave reviews, snubbed for nomination in the Ockham Book Awards, I ordered this one online and savoured the prospect of getting around to reading it. By this time we were in Alert Level 3, so bookshops were out, but packages were arriving in the post. I was giving this ranging and engaging book a 10 out of 10 up to about page 500; then its complexity and over-reaching fantasism unravelled it. On the whole still amazing, with strong characters, imagery and events that remain clearly with me, even as fantastical as those settings were.

That Hideous Strength - C S Lewis
COVID-19 deaths in NZ reach 13; on flucloxacillin for an infection and back to tramadol, neurofen, panadol and naps 

I'd read and enjoyed Books 1 and 2 of this planetary trilogy; Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra and thoroughly enjoyed the immersion in literal other worlds of Venus and Mars. Now back on Earth and the mundanity of academic life and bureaucracy at University of Oxford, even though the scholarly world is familiar to me, That Hideous Strength just had not grabbed me in my first 2 tries. On this occasion, time, interest and dedication got me through. Interesting, insightful and well-paced once you get into it. Exquisite ruminations on life, marriage and sex are gems to be uncovered. Took me ages to get through, as I was simultaneously transitioning back to work. During my time with That Hideous Strength, NZ's COVID-19 death toll peaked at 20.

NZ moves to Alert Level 3 on Star Wars Day as no new cases of COVID-19 are reported and then to Alert Level 2 14th May; I peel off bandages and stop taking panadol. Back at work full-time 18 May. 

"You've Got Cancer" - Words I Never Heard

Many words were used to theorise, diagnose and describe my condition - and although these tests and descriptions ultimately amounted to a 'cancer' diagnosis, I never actually heard the word.

People say their lives change forever when they hear the three words “you’ve got cancer”. You never forget when you heard the YGC. It makes an indelible mark in time. A point of shock, realisation, uncertainty about the future and no prospect of return to the old normal. 'When did you hear the words YGC?' is an opening question in media interviews and a favourite teaser for magazine articles. YGC brings pain, suffering and death right up into your face. There's no shaking or escaping it. We all have friends and whānau who've been handed the YGC card. We respond by feeling sympathy and sadness; an urge to do something and maybe a sense of uncertainty and even powerlessness on how to broach the subject or talk about it. It seems our responses to cancer are socially prescribed. They're corralled by the many other experiences we've had or know about. 

I'm writing this as someone people might call a ‘cancer survivor’. I dodged the metastasis bullet, but my lesion was malignant nonetheless. But someone forgot to deal me my 'you've got cancer' card. And the YGC is portrayed as such an iconic part of the cancer experience, that it makes me wonder - if no-one told me I have 'cancer', do I really have cancer? Cancer is a bit crummy. Crummier still may be having cancer but not the cache from 'the cancer card'. 

Or, is not being dealt the 'cancer card' in fact liberating? 'Cancer' is such a heavily loaded term - perhaps having my condition talked around rather than named relieves me of typical reactions and preconceived ways of dealing with it?

This post is a reflection on my own experience of how cancer is conceived of, spoken about and tiptoed around. And what impact that had on my own touch of the cancer brush. 

It first started with a pain in my back. I first felt the achey wave soon after an intravenous Iron infusion that I was given in 2018. This pain subsequently came and went. It was sometimes very intense, and sometimes I could go weeks without feeling it. Ibuprofen helped a lot. My first of two visits to the GP was in January 2019, but after blood and urine tests revealed nothing abnormal, I came away with the impression it was just one of those things, an indeterminate phantom pain. After my second visit and further inconclusive tests in September 2019 the GP recommended an ultrasound scan. 

The ultrasound in October 2019 detected a mass growing near my right kidney. The radio-technician remarked it was in 'no-man's land' - unusually located and hard to get a good picture of - and wondered out loud whether it might be a clot. In next-day consultation with my GP, he pooh poohed the clot theory, and waved away our concerns that it might dislodge itself and float along the vein towards my heart. To my husband and I, a clot en-route for the heart sounded like a worst case scenario. But my GP seemed more concerned about another possibility. He seemed unusually sympathetic, tender, regretful and even said ‘I’m sorry about this…’ I wondered: 

Why be sorry if it's just a benign growth or lesion (as he'd described it)? 

I cast my mind back to the junior radiology technician who'd performed my ultra-sound scan – she had asked me, 'has anyone in your family had cancer?'. Was that my first clue? 

Her superior had joined us from behind a 1-way mirror, to twiddle the scanner around herself, looking for a clearer picture. Afterwards at reception, paying $240 for my inconclusive scan, I caught the two of them looking at me - did I imagine they were a bit sheepish and doleful? Like they could see it was going to be bad news, but were secretly glad they didn't have to be the ones to break it to me? Clue number 2 perhaps. 

I was called in to see my GP the very next day (clue number 3?), to talk about the scan. As mentioned above it was all a bit inconclusive; so my GP requested a further scan for me, this time a CT. CTs and MRIs are something I have associated with cancer, so I started to think maybe this was a bit serious. But I decided to go into the public system for the scan - people were conveying concern rather than urgency, after all, so I figured I could wait. But for both my husband and I, our minds were starting to fill with uncertainty and questions. So 2 weeks later I rang my GP to request a booking at a private clinic; just in time though a CT scan appointment at Wellington Hospital had come through for me. 

So began the yo-yo of indistinct pictures, as my body was turned inside out for examination. I had 3 CT scans an MRI and an MRV. Each of them confirmed a mass, sausage-shaped, 5-6cm long. But neither the scans, nor the various blood and urine tests, could pinpoint its growth location. During post-scan clinical appointments in December we got to talk to a specialist registrar, who raised the possibility that we were dealing with a sarcoma - a cancer of soft tissue. But questions about this lesion's location, nature and intent remained. My life and work seemed poised to change at any moment. My questions were endless and unfocussed. I started to Google like mad, got Cancer books out of the library, and downloaded scientific papers on 'sarcomas'. 

The registrar had warned me about what I'd find online chatter about 'sarcomas' - a rare condition, even rarer that someone 'young' (44 years old) should have one, and that the picture was generally grim for recorded cases. Maybe I'd been spared no favours by the withholding of the cancer card. 'Sarcoma' might actually present a fate worse than 'cancer'. 

After all these scans were complete it was at least clear we were dealing with 'upper abdomen' rather than 'upper gastrointestinal'. I met another specialist and his registrar and was told my case was being discussed in sarcoma Multidisciplinary Team Meetings, but the best course of action was probably surgical removal. 

Another clinical consultation was scheduled for March 2020. There didn't seem to be any particular urgency for the operation. But then things were mysteriously accelerated, and surgery was booked for 26th February. 

There was uncertainty around this too - Wellington hospital was full, and I didn't know until the day before whether a bed in ICU would be available for me post-surgery. The surgeon would not perform this ambitious operation without that provision. Work and life adjustments to have months in recovery from surgery is a whole other story that I'll explore later. I fast-forward to the bit where it took cutting my body open to know beyond doubt that I had a cancerous growth. 

I had a fantastic, well-prepared team of surgeons, anaesthetists and nursing staff. I had an epidural line put in pre-surgery and was given a general anaesthetic. To get to the IVC vein, close to my vertebrae, they made a Mercedes Benz incision on my abdomen, following the line of my ribs. I was in theatre for 9 hours. I woke with 48 staples holding the wound together and another 20 holding pipelines for local anaesthetic coiled in place. During the operation they moved my liver and kidney out of the way; peeled my right adrenal gland from the tumour; and removed the growth, taking 10cm of my IVC vein along with it. A gore-tex sheath was stitched in to replace the missing section. I had 5 days of epidural, then 3 days of local anaesthetic to manage the pain. I was discharged after 9 days in hospital. 

A month post-surgery the histology found the growth to be a rare malignant tumour called a leiomyosarcoma. I also got the wonderful post-op report that margins were clear. 

This was the best outcome we could have hoped for! 

Through this nobody told me "You've got cancer" and for a moment I might have felt somehow misled, or cheated by that. I've been through an emotional and physical maelstrom. I had to call on all my reserves of calm. I had to remind myself that Jesus was in this storm with me. I clung to my husband and bent his ear not just on what I was feeling now but what might happen in any of the many possible futures. We were told there was a 5% chance I might die in surgery - so I had to organise things like my last will and testament. I had to exercise gratefulness and let go of what I couldn't control. And had to continue to perform the relatively mundane tasks of life. Right up until we were given a surgery date, I told only my husband about what was going on. We were enough emotional support for each other, but it was a heavy secret for him to bear. Knowing in hindsight that yes, it was a touch of the 'cancer', vindicates all the emotional effort we put into it. 

Medical staff I interacted with may not have said those words, but they nonetheless communicated suspicion of my cancer in subtle ways, and confirmation of it in oblique ways too. My surgeon said to us 'Whether you want to call it malignant or benign, it's not growing in a good place, so we just have to get it out.' Ultimately it didn't matter what we called it. As long as he and his colleague network shared an understanding of how to deal with something called a leiomyosarcoma of the IVC, then they could agree on a course of action. Calling it a cancer doesn't help them deal with it - the opposite, if anything. His specific matter-of-factness drove home that the action is the key thing. And then make another plan from there. 

So I think ultimately, not hearing the YGC, was liberating. My condition was not defined by a 6-letter word and all the baggage c----r carries, but by an experience that was unique to me. Should we all in fact feel spared of the cancer baggage? Is that an invisible policy the medical community is adopting and practicing? The cancer prospect was a burden I happily shared with my husband. But I could and did, absolutely, downplay its potential seriousness when discussing it with whānau and friends. It was, after all, just a mass. While we discussed the prospects of radiotheraphy and chemotherapy post-surgery in the end I just had to deal with 'Snip, snip and away you go.' I had a fantastic medical team with a clear Plan (as well as Plans B, C, D and Plan ETC). It may have only been the third time that this particular surgery had been performed in New Zealand (fortunately I wasn't told this until after the surgery!), but I felt safe and in sure hands. And it came off like a dream. 

So I don't feel cheated that I didn't get to hear the words that some get to bear, but no-one wants to hear. The tumour and everything associated with it was removed. Life - for now - is just a matter of recovering from surgery. At the end of June I'm a little over 4 months post-op. I have been back at work full time for more than 5 weeks, I can jog a little bit, and there's just two small sections of the incision yet to heal. I have bounced back physically and emotionally. The emotional and mental wellbeing of those who care for me is also restored. So perhaps, not having the Big C word used around me is the greatest gift that I, my whānau and friends, could have received. Live life. Mauri ora! 

Outlook for 2021? Lessons from Covid-19

The following is a contribution I wrote for 'What Will the World Look Like in a Year' and published in Weekend Herald, Canvas magazine, 16 May 2020, amidst wonderful reflections from Mike Joy, Teresa Gattung and others

Small steps, big targets

He iti mokoroa, ka hinga puriri

Although the caterpillar is small, it can fell the ironwood tree 

This is my favourite whakatauki (proverb) to show students an example of how mātauranga, Māori knowledge and science are embedded together in these little pearls of wisdom. Here, we are introduced to mokoroa, the name for the larva or caterpillar before it metamorphosises into the puriri moth. Another species from Tane’s domain is specifically named – puriri. Settlers called this tree ‘iron wood’: its heavy, hard wood was used to great effect in pā palisades and railway sleepers. The whakatauki alludes to puriri wood’s density, Māori materials physics, anyone? It also alludes to the ecological relationship between mokoroa and puriri. Whakatauki provide astute observations of the natural world, and they also have a social message for us humans. 

One interpretation of this whakatauki is that you don’t have to be great, to achieve great things. There are many Māuis, Davids and Gretas that have tackled seemingly insurmountable obstacles in spite of humble origins. Small things can have big impacts, and small, coordinated steps toward big targets, such as elimination, eradication, net-zero emissions or 1.5C warming, can achieve their ends. But it’s not just the targets that need to be there, it’s clear and agreed strategies. Lately in Aotearoa we’ve seen effective leadership and good communication encourage us to trust that radically changing our own behaviours will ‘save lives’. Can we do the same for protecting Papatūānuku?

Besides Covid-19’s global impacts, we’ve got other urgent crises and big mountains to scale – planetary health, social injustice, green jobs, attention to maximum wages as well as living wages, emotional, mental and spiritual resilience, the list goes on. The palpable pandemic-induced will to do things differently, in 2021 I hope will translate into coordinated plans and fresh actions, that empower individuals to feel like what they do, makes a difference. 

Like many whakatauki, ‘e hinga puriri’ has multiple interpretations. The message of ‘we can do anything’ that is there, sits alongside one of ‘we can wreck anything’. We might feel relatively insignificant as individuals, but we have a huge collective impact on our environment. We draw voraciously on an Earth with finite resources. Our numbers and our patterns of consumption are putting the whole puriri tree at risk of complete collapse. 

We have power, either way, as individuals. We can either bring about catastrophic changes through selfish individual actions, or we can make small and coordinated steps towards ambitious, positive targets that together amount to a metaphorical bringing down of Goliath. A year from now, I hope that we’ve captured what’s been good about lockdown. I expect to fly less, to be more active locally, to travel more consciously and wisely, cook more, and take action to reduce the other wasteful impacts of human life. In lockdown, my husband and I started using te reo Māori while solving our crosswords. In 2021 it will be normal to hear te reo in our home. In our shared office during lockdown, I couldn’t help but be drawn into my husband’s environmental advocacy work, and he for my environmental research. In 2021 our home will continue to be a place of exchanging ideas, learning from each other and working together. 

How can each of us respond as individuals and smaller communities such as households and whanau? My wish-list is of small, coordinated convictions and actions, but they add up to a bigger whole. Actions that are informed by science and mātauranga, governed by Tiriti principles, will help us move, even if only with baby steps, together into a healthy future. 

Summitting Te Tihi o Hikurangi

South toward the Raukumara ranges

Last push to the trig station on the Southern peak of Hikurangi

E tihi ana te parera Hikurangi
Pine Taiapa

We spent a good 20 minutes looking around for a key to get in to the hut – all around the porch, under the house, even in the long drop (or rather, the hut surrounding that looong drop). Part of me was wondering why there would be a key when none of the huts are ever locked, but unfortunately none of us stopped to examine this thought. By and by we were joined by a young couple who’d walked up from the carpark. They didn’t have a booking either, nor did they have a key. They told us 3 others were on the way up, and had a booking – thus maybe a key? Quick head count: us 3, the couple and another group of 3 meant 8, a full hut, and others potentially on the way. There were sheltered areas in nearby beech forest, but none of it flat, or big enough for 3, and we didn’t fancy sleeping under the elements. If the hut filled and we had to stay the night at the shearers’ hut down the road, I feared we wouldn’t have the energy or motivation to come all the way back up to climb the maunga the next day. 

It was after 4pm and we were there to climb Hikurangi. So we decided to just do it (thank you, Nike). We repacked some basic essentials and a couple of litres of water into my pack, collapsed into backpack size, and left the rest of our gear at the hut. We shared our intentions with the couple and wished them well. They were sunning themselves and considering whether to pitch a tent. 

The first leg was a punishingly steep grassed slope that transitioned into less steep beech forest covering a spur. Before we went bush, I took a loo and pad change stop while enjoying the glorious view North, looking down on the striking Whakaki maunga. Whakaki had been shrouded in cloud, and towered over us for 2-3 hours of our ascent, and now we were looking down on it. Pad waste stowed in shorts pocket I caught up with the others. By and by Pat exclaimed with surprise and frustration – the head of his rākau Aorangi had come away from the stick and unwoven from the harakeke binding. We decided to leave Aorangi there and pick him up on the way back. My rākau Hikurangi was hanging in there, however its own binding started to come loose once we emerged above the bush line. 

Looking North toward Whanokao, with Hikurangi rākau in hand

There are plenty of waratahs with yellow caps marking the way through the rocky and tussocky terrain. But they were often hard to spot when in head high leatherwood and deep water-made gorges. Speargrass abounded and was sometimes hidden underfoot. I was very glad to have worn my gaiters. Kahn had no such protection, and worse, his skin had been burnt by the sun. We picked our way through carefully and slowly. 

After a pee stop amongst mosses and scrub I noticed blood on the back of my legs. I rinsed and rubbed, mindful of our dwindling water supply, looking for a cut; or an explanation for the usual suspect in the unusual location. And then realised it had squeezed from my waste pad while squatting. The joys of doing hours of vigorous activity on heavy days. An unintentional awa atua tribute to the region Hikurangi.

At the transition between tussock and scree slope, with 300m of climb left we had just a cup of water left. We left my pack and sadly, my rākau with the unravelling handle, under a leatherwood bush and headed on to the summit, across the scree slope and up a steep gravel chute. The chute was gruelling. In gravelly parts every 2 steps up sent us a step back. The route was unmarked by warratahs so we went a suboptimal way; we only spotted the route marked by the odd cairn or two on the way down. On the plus side, the late afternoon sun was benevolent (there were flies all the way up to the summit) and the views magnificent. 

From the top of the chute we sidled South along solid bedrock toward the trig station. A sharp drop to the East kept us focussed on where we were planting our feet, and grateful to be doing it during the light. We regrouped just below the summit and let Kahn led us up to the top. And then we had arrived! 

We shared the last swallow of water in our bottle and enjoyed the peace and quiet of a warm, still day, and awesome views. By and by, Kahn invited me to say another karakia. My karakia this time was one of gratefulness to Hikurangi for allowing us to be there and an entreaty that we return back down safely. After photos and videos we set off. The air was losing its warmth and the sun was getting low in the sky. In the Eastern shade of the rock it was dark and the temperature had dropped. We carefully picked our way down the shingle slope, picking up the route this time, which made the going less treacherous. The folds of the Raukumara ranges changed colour and depth every few minutes, as the sun bore down on the horizon. Reunited with our pack and rākau, we stopped on the scree slope to watch the sunset. Thick fog appeared from nowhere and drifted across the slope below, obscuring the ranges, and the chilled air made us put our windbreakers on. We pressed on. 

We had carried empty water bottles for more than an hour, and were thirsty and fatigued from our 8 hours of walking, and the thought of another 2 hours to the hut. As we headed around towards the Northern slope of Hikurangi we came across a tarn. Hallelujah! We’d noted this on the way up as a good place to swim, but wouldn’t have thought twice about drinking from it. Kahn filled his water bottle, held it up to as much light as he could find in the dusk and declared it to pass the ‘floaties’ test. He downed a litre in seconds and filled his bottle up again. “Tastes fine” that was enough encouragement for Pat and I who scooped up handfuls and filled our own pump bottle. 

We needed our torches after this (Kahn and I used our phones), especially as we plunged back into the beech forest, this transition mercifully freeing us from the spiky speargrass. Our thoughts and conversation turned towards our night’s sleep: would there be room at the hut, or would we have to drag ourselves further on to the shearer’s quarters? 

It was only about 9pm and no lights were to be seen from the hut. Had the others even got it open? We found out soon enough that they had. Pat was greeted by ? and her husband, still awake, and eager to know what the walk was like. We found out the next day that Pat’s report changed their mind about going to the summit. The tramp is advertised as an easy walk – we did not find it so. Very steep in parts, and in the most difficult climb and descent, through , you are left to navigate based on what you can see. But how is that helpful in the pre-dawn dark? Small cairns were not visible enough to see a route from below. How anyone successfully does this leg in the dark before sunrise was beyond us. 

Pat had brought his pump action camp stove and set to work on heating water for that, Kahn and I extracted mugs, cuppa soup, cut up some mushrooms and buttered bread. At 1030pm we enjoyed a humble but desperately welcomed dinner, prepared and taken as quietly as rustly plastic bags allow. Our hut mates had generously left the 3-bed base with easiest access for us. With relief, happiness and fatigue we were in our sleeping bags and snoring in no time. 

I was aware of some of my hut-mates packing gear and leaving during the night. The next day when we awoke only the couple to whom Pat had reported the challenges of the climb were left. The 5 others had left at 3am to be at the summit before sunrise. We took our time with breakfast. Cereal and banana, hot water and milk powder, and cuppa tea never tasted so good. Another glorious day. We tidied up the hut and got ready to leave – and the couple arrived back at the hut from their sunrise summitting. The young woman had been afraid for her life in the terrain – there were tears and regrets. It was this couple that there was no key – the door handle had come off the door and buried itself amongst firewood in the porch! They graciously took a photo of us, we bade farewell and walked on out, back down the 10kms of farm road. 

The walk down the way we’d come was the same as yesterday, but we were filled with our adventure. We stopped at Te Puia Springs for an icecream. And when we got back to Tokomaru Bay, found that Kahn had missed his ride back to Napier by a mere 15 minutes. We were glad to have my nephew for another night and to be able to drive with him to Napier ourselves. That evening, we ate out with Mum at Te Puka tavern, kissed by sea breezes from the soothing blue expanse of Tokomaru Bay. 

Tokomaru Bay to Hikurangi Hut

Climbing to the summit of Hikurangi is something akin to a pilgrimage for Ngāti Porou people, but it carries huge signifance for others too. As the first mountain summit in the world to be kissed by sunrise (a quirk of Aotearoa New Zealand’s proximity to the international dateline), it is a great place to see in a New Year. It’s the place to gather during Matariki, Māori New Year. Crowds flooded there on the first day of the millennium in the year 2000. 

Practically speaking, those who wish to be at the summit to see the sunrise will stay a night in an "8-bed hut", get up really early and walk to the summit, 2.5 kms over 600m elevation gain, about 3-4 hours. A tour company drives the farm road up to the hut. If you are not being whisked to the cheat point via 4WD you start near the Pahikihiroa station residences and walk about 10 kms to the hut along a dirt road, climbing 900 m in the process. 

Our trip to Hikurangi was taken on faith. We had emailed Te Rūnanga o Ngāti Porou (TRONP) to book beds in the hut, but had not heard back (we found out later that this was due to bereavement and tangi). We were doing the long walk to the hut, so quite a commitment just to get there, let alone the summit, and/or back down again if we couldn’t find or hustle somewhere to sleep. We had no idea how busy it would be, whether another tour group might have booked it out, or the brilliant day would attract droves of locals and/or tourists. It was a Monday – usually not so busy for leisure activities even during the summer we figured. We weren’t even that worried that that particular Monday turned out to be Auckland Anniversary day. Except for historical reasons that day is observed by the East Coast, thus it was a public holiday. Woops! 

Anyway, it was a perfect, warm and mild day for the long slog. We made our way from Tokomaru Bay, bypassing Ruatoria, crossed the Waiapu and then bumped along te awa Tapuaeroa to get to the carpark at the trailhead. On what other tramp are you greeted by horses and sheep in the shade of a 30 metre waka while inspecting the DoC / TRoNP information sign? We did a stocktake of cars in the car park – with just one other car we figured there might be up to 4 other people out on the track. We decided against bringing a pup tent (it would only sleep 2 of us anyway) and really put ourselves in God’s hands by also leaving our sleeping mats (again, we only had 2). Importantly though, both Pat and I were carrying our rākau. Our uncle had made these walking sticks for us as wedding gifts. He’d found bush vines, dried them, and embellished with his signature weave of harakeke. The head of Pat’s used deer antler. On mine the branches of the vine fold back in on itself. 

Before we left, we linked arms and I said a karakia / prayer for us. I felt exhilarated to finally climb our maunga and was grateful for the benevolence of Tāwhirimātea on this day. Setting off, we first knocked on the door of one of the homes at Pakihiroa station. The man of the house graciously informed us that he doesn’t look after the hut, something we already knew, but in any case, based on the foot traffic going past he reckoned ‘we’d probably be OK’. And if we weren’t, he informed us of a shearer’s hut about 300m back from our destination hut. Chur. 

About an hour into our walk we found some shade off the track for our morning tea break of chocolate muesli bars, bliss balls and water. As we rested we happily noted a group of 4 walkers, their descent back towards their car. Perhaps we might get to the hut first, and get dibs on beds. 

Pat and I usually tramp in National Parks, so it was a bit unusual for us to be crossing farmland, being mindful of leaving gates as found, dodging cow pats, taking deep breaths to pass stinking carcasses without fainting and waving flies away. We were also unused to being so out in open – amazing views all the time, but relentless sun beating upon the ‘the broad shoulders (pākihiroa) of Hikurangi’. We drank loads, and when we found the shearers’ quarters, we took the opportunity to top up on water from its rainwater tank. 

We detoured to see the Māui whakairo, like carved sentinels – stunning – and spent a bit of time there visiting each pou and absorbing and trying to guess the symbolism and stories behind each one. We found out later from Monty that there is a fantastic resource that is shared with people coming to the maunga. Without this we were left with our own interpretations of this unique circle of ‘monodends’ (if I may), like a dendrogenous version of stonehenge, but with the purpose and meanings intact and intended to be shared, used and passed down. 

From the whakairo, we picked our way through scrubby farmland (here it seemed to be transitioning between clearfell and native bush). We had been able to see the hut for miles, but it was a relief and a triumph when it loomed upon us, along with many cows. The hut is at about 1200m above sea level, and we’d taken 4 and a half hours to get to it. We knocked politely on the door, in case anyone was home, and tried to open it. But we couldn’t – not only did we have no booking, the hut was apparently locked. And we had no key! 

Ko Hikurangi te Maunga - Making the Saying Meaningful

Ko Hikurangi te maunga 

Ko Waiapu te awa

Ko Ngāti Porou te iwi

A Whare Tapa Whā of Pēpeha – Many Sides of a Saying

I’ve said the words dozens, maybe hundreds of times. Reciting the famous Ngāti Porou tribal saying (pepehā) connects me, as a Ngāti Porou descendant, to my iwi (tribe). And the pēpeha connects our iwi to two massive features in the East Cape landscape – Mount Hikurangi and the Waiapu River. When we recite pēpeha in social gatherings we’re telling others where we belong. We’re situating ourselves in relation to others, when they cite their pēpeha. It’s like building an oral map.

Given how much I’ve named and claimed bragging rights to my Māori ancestry over the (probably 20) years, you’d think there’d be a deep-seated physical and emotional connection there. That these words might be an invitation to something deeper. A story I could tell you about my encounters with te awa Waiapu, or te maunga Hikurangi. The pēpeha a kind of gateway to my storied connection to the land and how it made me feel, enfolding me in its embrace. 

If you thought these things, you’d be right to expect them. And yet you’d be wrong. Hikurangi and Waiapu were not close to me, personally. While I have made many trips to Ruatoria (the nearest town) I’d never touched the waters of the waiapu or the rocky slopes of Mt Hikurangi. I’d swum at Tokomaru Bay, washed dishes and slept at Te Ariuru marae, visited the site of Nukutaimemeha; but not the most sacred and revered landscape icons of our people. 

I was in my mid-40’s when I actually travelled along the Waiapu river, and climbed to the top of Hikurangi maunga. 

This was not for lack of desire or planning. The whānau have talked about walking to the summit of Hikurangi for years. It was on the cards in 2018, but the weather took the ball and played its own game. We planned more deliberately in early 2020, during a visit to Tokomaru Bay for my uncle’s 60th birthday. 

My pēpeha is the pēpeha of my ancestors. But it is a shared boast. As such, it’s one I can claim as my own, regardless of whether it tells my personal story. As one person, I’m just part of a whole, a collective story. Yes, this beautiful visit to Hikurangi maunga has now linked me, my nephew and my husband physically and emotionally to the maunga. But even if the stars had not lined up, me and my nephew still have the shared connection passed on through my whakapapa. This gives us spiritual ties to the maunga. 

Those historical ties run deep. The hapū (subtribes) of Ngāti Porou have uri (descendants) all over the world, let alone Aotearoa-Te Wai Pounamu. The pēpeha allows us to claim a spiritual, ancestral connection to the birthplace of Ngāti Porou peoples, whether we’re in Pōneke (Wellington) or Poihākena (Sydney). But we can and should claim intellectual ties to the maunga and the awa also. 

What I mean by intellectual ties is to hear or read the stories of our peoples’ encounters with Hikurangi. Know them. Be able to retell them. Claim them as our own. Visit, and make new stories. Visit, and reflect on the old stories. Claim and share the memories of our ancestors. These memories are a tapestry and they’re ours. They’re a map, overlaying a powerful landscape. Here's a link to Walton Walker's awesome kōrero for the maunga. 

It’s an amazing thing to visit your ancestral maunga. But many of us never actually will. And that’s kei te pai. The pēpeha is yours regardless of what personal, physical experience you bring to the ‘whare tapa wha’ of pēpeha. Claim that spiritual connection. And, like me, listen and look into the stories of our tūpuna. Connect intellectually, historically and emotionally. 

University of Otago on pēpeha