New Zealand
Found in Translation
On the itinerary, I didn’t recognize our port of entry in New Zealand by name. That is, until the recent devastating volcanic eruption on White Island that killed numerous tourists. The media reports noted that they were from a ship docked in nearby Tauranga. “THAT’S where I’m going?!”
Although I’m aware that there are still active volcanoes around the globe, they have never been on my list of travel concerns, or felt like much of a risk of living in the modern world. They are the background of a dinosaur diorama. And when I arrived in Tauranga — an upscale, laid-back beach community at the foot of Mt. Maunganui — it felt nearly impossible that such primordial, violent nature had taken lives in this peaceful landscape.
With that tension trying to sort itself out in the back of my mind, I was primed to experience the full power of this place, embraced by visiting backpackers, local surfers, kiwi farmers and cattle ranchers, and generations of indigenous Māori. As part of my tour around the Bay of Plenty, our guide, Jules, brought us to her family’s personal marae, a traditional community meeting house used for tribal gatherings, weddings, and mainly funerals and bereavement. When we arrived, Jules explained that a family from Australia was there staying with their loved one, who had recently died and would lie in state for three to five days.
Before entering the sacred space, we removed our shoes and put away our phones and cameras — actions that can be jarring for a group of tourists. One of the primary reasons I travel is that I feel most present when navigating a new place, choosing each left and right in the moment. And in this situation, without the security and distraction of taking photos, pulling you outside of the experience as “other,” it became even more immersive and communal.
Inside the modern-constructed marae, you sensed the ancient origins of the painted patterns and carvings of ancestral stories that climbed the walls, preserving them for future generations. Jules, her mother, grandfather, nephew, and two cousins performed traditional songs with movements and harmonics that were almost otherworldly. And they gave us a go at participating, which was simultaneously a bit uncomfortable and completely endearing.
Jules’ grandfather addressed us in the Māori language. Once translated, we learned that when you enter the marae, you don’t come in alone. You’re accompanied by the spirits of your ancestors and loved ones, especially those who have recently departed. [There’s that mana again! What’s mana? Check out the story from French Polynesia.] I was getting choked up, unsure if I were the only one (found out later I most definitely wasn’t), when the grandfather’s perfect comedic timing relieved me. In closing, he told us that there are two gateways to the marae: one for living and one for the dead — which is not part of the tour package — so please make sure we go out the right way.
As I got ready to leave (through the proper gateway, phew), I thanked Jules and her mother, expressing how meaningful this was to me and why. Before their compassionate responses and offers for me to return to their village could well me up again, I took the opportunity to strike some fearsome haka poses with other members of the family. (Pretty amazing what intentional facial expressions and body language can do for the psyche. Totally makes sense why the All Blacks do it before matches!)
The mana from Tauranga traveled on with me to Auckland and Wellington, which feel topographically and culturally similar to home, but with the added layer of ancient Māori influence. At the thoughtful museum exhibits and memorials in each city, there were explanatory signs written in both Māori and English at stations with bowls of cleansing water. In Māori tradition, you sprinkle the water on your body as a blessing when in the presence of the deceased. I took every opportunity to spritz myself (best guess as to least awkward place to do so?)
Now nearly halfway into this trip, at the time of this writing, I’m waiting to find out where the tides of coronavirus might take us on what has become a “magical mystery tour.” I’m mostly able to embrace this unknown as part of the adventure, welcoming all that I can learn from it. What I do know for certain is how appreciative I am of all of the people, cultures, and customs I’ve already encountered, teaching me not only how they remember, but graciously giving me the chance to reconnect with my family, toting their spirits along for this bumpy joyride.
