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.