Tania Waikato has been on my radar since what I wish I could call the season of submissions, except this coalition of corporate greed hasn’t eased up on the shite they are seeking to ram through parliament so the season has become an onslaught. Sigh.

Tania Waikato - Lawyer is the name of her Public Figure page on facebook, and it is as a lawyer that I first saw her, explaining clearly how the coalition’s Treaty Principles Reform Inquiry (Wai 3565) sought to change the standing our nation’s founding document has in law. She was smart, sassy, and obviously wahine toa - a woman warrior for those new to te reo Māori. She also understands social media. Her videos broke complex legal wordsalad into digestible, understandable lessons.

In early December, Waikato announced she was entering politics, standing for the Greens. In its candidacy announcement, the NZ Herald described Waikato as a former Te Pāti Māori lawyer and prominent Treaty activist - descriptors that no doubt put fear into the pale stale males and their comfortably housed helpmates who fund the likes of Luxon, Seymour, and Peters. To me, they describe a new generation of wahine toa - women who realise the myth we’ve been sold since childhood of someone coming to save us was actually a lesson that only we can save ourselves.

In her announcement of why she chose the Greens, Waikato spoke of her sadness as she watched the ruptures within Te Pāti Māori, and caring deeply for people on both sides of the rift.

She explained: “I do not align in places that I do not feel that my wairua or my tipuna put me. My tipuna pushed me into the Greens.”

She was surprised by that, she said.

I’m not. I watched the bloodletting among Te Pāti Māori and had to remind myself how young they are as a party, and how difficult it can be to reconcile Te Ao Māori with Te Ao Pakeha. The Greens were calling to me also.

For some time, I’ve been watching Luxon’s merry band of robber barons and lackeys of wealthy patrons treat our whenua and our people, tangata whenua and tangata tiriti, as nothing more than resources to be exploited and sold to the highest bidder. They have proved all too often where their loyalty lies and it is not to the general populace that pays their salaries and outrageous perks, but to the wealthy landlords, offshore corporations, and purveyors of fossil fuels, tobacco, and alcohol.

I’d hoped Te Pāti Māori might have some answers but its energies have been turned within this election season. Over at Labour, Chippy may be a good and honourable man, but he lacks the charisma and, perhaps, the creativity, to ever be as radical as this current moment in humanity requires. Playing safe doesn’t inspire anyone when the world is a dumpster fire.

The Greens however, seem to have no shortage of sass and spirit, led from the top by the eloquent and empathetic Marama Davidson and Chlöe Swarbrick. I can see why Waikato’s tipuna pushed her to join this party.

Most recently, Waikato is campaigning to get more people, young and old, enrolled. This coalition has changed the law that allowed voters to enrol on the day of the election, knowing well that statistics show that will impact disproportionately on those who would seldom vote for them. Those too busy struggling to feed their whanau and pay their bills to keep up with the latest government travesties or deadlines. She is also highlighting the deadline for changing to or enrolling on the Māori roll.

How she is doing it is amazeballs and a true rockstar Wahine Toa move. Waikato, who has trained physically for decades, has set up self-described “thirst traps” on social media, featuring herself and other wahine toa being fiercely proud in bikinis and promising to serve up some fit tane soon also. Here is her thought processes on how to get more people engaged:

I was about to post the second graphic that I just made, giving you all the countdown to enrol for the most critical election of our lifetimes, and just before I pushed post, a wee intrusive thought popped into my head “how can we get people’s attention in the never-ending slop of the algorithm without any billionaire backers who pay to saturate your feeds with right-wing AI slop.?”

Below is her answer:

It’s working! Tens of thousands of views, and interactions from rangatahi, parents, grandparents, spinster aunts, and even employers engaging on how and why to enrol and vote. She and her posse of baddest wahine are leading the conversation we need if we are to take back control of our country. By we, I mean those who love and nurture the whenua and all those who live here, not just the millionaire class this current coalition legislates on behalf of.

There have been a handful of complaints about the nature of the campaign, unsurprisingly all by males trying to police what an adult woman should do with her own body. I am reminded of stories I was told of wahine leading war parties into battle during the Land Wars in Aotearoa New Zealand, raising their piupiu as they came within proximity to the British soldiers of the time. Can you imagine some poor half-starved teen British conscript sent out to battle and coming face to not-quite-face with a vision of half-naked womanhood? Psychological warfare at its finest.

For me, an older wahine whose mother was taught to feel shame at being Māori so chose to bring us up in Te Ao Pakeha, I am blown away by these smart, confident, take-no-prisoners wahine and their passion for what they can achieve. I’ll take a posse of baddies over the half-dead dinosaurs being offered up by Seymour and Peters or the bought-and-paid-for yes-men and -women that surround the prime minister while quietly discussing who will replace him and when.

Until I write Waikato her own poem, I’ll borrow a few lines from the great Hone Tuwhare, referring to Ralph Hotere when he wrote it, to express my admiration for her and her mahi:

I shake my head and say: hell, what is this thing called aroha

Like, I’m euchred, man. I’m eclipsed?

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Kupu hou, or new words, for those new to Te Reo Māori

wahine - woman, female, feminine

toa - warrior, to be brave, victorious, experienced, accomplished, adept, competent, skilful, capable

wahine toa - a baddie, or bad-assed woman, a woman warrior, to be underestimated at your peril

te reo Māori - the Māori language, a taonga or treasure

tangata whenua - literally people (tangata) born of the land (whenua). Whenua is also te reo for the placenta, indicating our connection always to the land as our first mother

tangata tiriti - people of the treaty, those non-Māori who reside in Aotearoa New Zealand by right of Te Tiriti o Waitangi (the Treaty of Waitangi)

Te Pāti Māori - The Māori Party, a political party formed to redress imbalances that disadvantage Māori, but recently embroiled in public infighting

wairua - soul, spirit, essence

tipuna - ancestors

tane - man, male, masculine - coming soon to Waikato’s page as deliberate thirst traps

rangatahi - youth, younger generation - those to whom we will leave this world

“they crossed the threshold”
it said
“they crossed the line”

this dessicated ball-sac of clamour
this remnant of life

through the pustulent apertures
with which it spake

this remnant of even itself
unable to fathom any depths
pronouns: felon, rapist, pedophile, fool

it’s pulse only quickening
at adulation, however purchased
at admiration, however feigned
at power, however cruel
at gold, however fake

“they crossed the threshold”
it said
“they crossed the line”

“threshold, cuckold, fool’s gold”
we said

It’s time to draw our own lines

• tracie 2026

my father was a sailor

a deep sea diver from across the seas

who stepped ashore on a Pacific island

and made his way to Aotearoa

my father was a traveler

a lover of dusky women

tho hailing from a land of fair skin and fae beauty

Edward Patrick Joseph tōku papa

ko Eire tāna iwi

my mother was wahine ātaahua

tāngata whenua

yet taught to feel shame in her culture

my mother was an artist

who never learned to value her art

never learned the mana of her whakapapa

her wairua

her matū

Mona Olive tōku mama

ko Ngati Kahungungu, ko Rongomaiwahine, ko Ngai Tahu, ko Ngati Porou, ko Tuhoe tāna iwi

my hikoi follows in the footsteps of my tūpuna

walking backwards into the future with my eyes fixed on the past

seeking knowledge, seeking belonging

seeking to reclaim my reo, my tikanga

ko Tracie tōku ingoa

Be well

be healthy

be in good health

in each of your pou

Be you

Be

You

Kia ora

G’day

‘sup

a shrug of shoulders

a raising of brows

Kia ora

Namaste

The light within me salutes the light within you

Namaste

Kia ora

This is my third morning effort to write this piece after twice losing it on the iPhone app, so it has evolved and changed, as things and life and language do. Before reading it, I recommend listening to the 30 with Guyon Espiner Don McGlashan interview. Time it for a 30-minute drive you enjoy and put it on your sound system.

I’ll be here when you get back. Feel free to share your stories also.

For those of my generation of kids growing up in Aotearoa New Zealand, Don McGlashan was part of the soundtrack of our youth and maturing, if we managed that. As part of the “Auckland post-punk trio” the Blams, aka Blam Blam Blam, he created an anthem of disaffected youth in the Muldoon era. There is no depression in New Zealand was picked up as an unofficial protest song during the ill-fated Springboks tour, and McGlashan regales Espiner with a tale of spending a night in the cells with his English lecturer discussing Beckett.

Back then, I wasn’t aware of who Beckett was, and rugby was just another excuse for the dads, brothers, and uncles to get physical on the field, then get drunk and often physical again after. Politics wasn’t on my radar either - I was 18-years-old, living away from home for the first time in a huge house with musicians who were all part of the then-thriving touring live music scene. Sometimes I’d go along for the ride and work the door, then operate the world’s most basic lighting systems, but mostly I worked the restaurant and bar scene in Hamilvegas. Although elsewhere the country was divided over the Springboks tour, I was blissfully unaware of it, though I instinctively opposed apartheid.

Our home was one block away from Rugby Park, which was a regular source of annoyance every week when people would park in our driveway or backyard. But this game in 1981 was shaping up to be different. Even we denizens of the dark hours had seen the protests on the nightly news, and the atmosphere among the crowds heading to the park this day was poles apart from the regular games. These were people spoiling for the chance to see their boys, the mighty Mooloos, beat the Seth Effrikens, and they were firm in their belief that “politics had no place in sport”.

Then the protestors started showing up, and they seemed more our sort of people, so we joined in and accompanied them to the park, where we inadvertently became part of a crowd that pulled down a fence before invading the pitch. There was an hour-long standoff between the police and protestors before the game was called off, by which time my flatmates and I were safely ensconced back in our home.

Where we watched the violence explode outside and sweep along the streets like a tsunami. An estimated 30,000 rugby fans spewed out of the stadium where they had been denied the sport of watching modern-day gladiators do battle. They were angry, they were frustrated, and many of them wanted to vent their anger on anything and anyone. We watched cars being trashed and protestors being chased down the street and set upon by ordinary Kiwis turned thugs. The news that night showed an ambulance carrying injured protestors, where the vehicle was attacked by rugby supporters.

The world was watching, including many in South Africa. Nelson Mandela, then still imprisoned on Robben Island, later said that when the news reached him, it was 'as if the sun had come out’.

In hindsight, that was the day I became political, the day I realised that the actions of a committed few have the power to change the course of those who rule primarily through fear. That saying “NO!” loudly can be the most powerful action one person can take and when that call is picked up by others, its power grows exponentially.

When I look at our leaders of the so-called free world today, I see too many who would have been in the corporate boxes at Rugby Park that day, and too few who would have been on the street with the protestors. Luxon, Seymour, Peters, Trump, Vance and their partners in crime - they would all have been gorging on the free food and booze laid out by their corporate sponsors, just as they do now.

That tells me they also need to be overthrown, in elections, in the courts, in the media, in our streets and homes and offices. Their crimes and corruption and beholdenness to their corporate sponsors and the military industrial complex and their false gods of greed and power need to be exposed, as do the actions of their stormtrooper underlings. Keep filming, keep commenting, keep distributing the truth of what is happening.

A group of small islands at what most consider the bottom of the world marked a turning point in the downfall of apartheid in South Africa. Maybe yours is the voice that will prevent the apartheid currently taking hold in the United States of America and the outdated racism Seymour and his deep-pocket donors want to bring back in Aotearoa.

Tune in next week for my response to A thing well made - itself a response by The Muttonbirds to the Aramoana massacre.

It seemed inevitable that somebody would be held accountable for the men’s deaths, yet 15 years have passed without that happening. Pike River Coal chief executive Peter Whittle was initially charged with 12 health and safety violations, but the charges were dropped when the company offered to pay $3.41 million (NZD) to the families of the men killed in the disaster.

Having just watched the movie “Pike River” for the second time, I am heartbroken for those families who have waited 15 years for someone to be held responsible, and angry at the failure of multiple governments and government agencies to provide that. I am also inspired by the courage of Anna Osborne and Sonya Rockhouse, who have fought and continue to fight for justice for their men. Anna lost her husband, Milton Osborne, in the disaster, and Sonya’s son, Ben Rockhouse was also among those killed. A second Rockhouse son, Daniel, was one of only two survivors and his testimony before the Royal Commission was damning.

Anna and Sonya obtained commitments from the opposition parties that went on to form a coalition government in 2017 to re-enter the mine to look for bodies and evidence to bring further charges. Four weeks later, the New Zealand Supreme Court found the decision to dismiss charges against Whittle was unlawful, upholding an appeal from Osborne and Rockhouse that was previously dismissed. Charges against Whittle have yet to be refiled, and he now lives and works freely in Australia.

This is not a review, but I believe “Pike River” may be the most powerful movie to come out of this country, with a compelling script from writer Fiona Samuels, masterful direction from Robert Sarkies, and award-worthy performances from all involved.

More than that, “Pike River” has the power to inspire all who watch it to advocate on behalf of Anna, Sonya, the other grieving families, and their lost men, and to demand justice for the 29 Kiwi blokes whose remains were never recovered, and whose deaths have never been accounted for. Anna and Sonya continue to fight not only for justice for their lost loved ones, but to lobby the government for better workplace health and safety, stronger legislation, and tougher penalties for those who prioritise profit over people.

The New Zealand Police have indicated a decision on any charges should be made by Christmas, a disconcerting echo of the original police and mining company promise to families in November 2010 to bring their men home by Christmas. Anna says we can help their fight by promoting the movie, following the "Stand With Pike" Facebook page, and purchasing car stickers to help with their 'fighters fund.'

You can also write to your MPs and Brooke van Velden, Minister for Workplace Relations and Safety, and Minister of Police Mark Mitchell demanding long-delayed justice for the Pike River 29. Let them know that we, the people they work for, demand better from our government, of whatever political leaning, and our police force.

The following is from battle-proved, award-winning military journalist Isaac Cubillos, who tried to explain what that pageant-like photo op meant:

The Bigger Picture

Yesterday I wrote about the meeting at Quantico. Since then, some friends in uniform have told me they agreed with Pete Hegseth’s remarks on fitness, grooming, and discipline. Those things have always mattered. Combat standards are the same for men and women—either you can do the job or you can’t. That part isn’t controversial.

But the bigger picture isn’t about haircuts or push-ups. It’s about politicizing the military.

Trump used his time at Quantico to wander on non-relevant subjects—asking for a show of hands on Gen. Dan “Raizin” Caine, then talking about bringing back battleships as if six inches of steel plate could save a fleet from modern missiles. More troubling, he branded the “radical left” as the “enemy within” and suggested using American troops in American cities. That’s not nostalgia—it’s dangerous.

Hegseth’s broadside was no better. He went after “fat troops,” beards, women in combat, and diversity programs. He promised to tear out “social justice, politically correct, and toxic ideological garbage.” That’s culture-war rhetoric, not strategy. The men and women in that hall needed guidance on readiness, logistics, and modernization—on how to fight and win the wars of the future. Instead they got a partisan sermon.

This is where the alarm bell should ring. It’s not about shaving standards or waistlines. It’s about turning the armed forces into a political prop. Every officer in that room knows their oath isn’t to a president or a secretary. It’s to the Constitution. And the moment political loyalty becomes the real test of service, the military stops being a shield of the republic and becomes a weapon in someone’s hand.

That’s the bigger picture.

‘coming up trumps’ means a successful achievement, stemming from the root word ‘triumph’ but also referencing card games where one suit trumps another

in common usage, there’s often been a schoolboy bully flavour to ‘trumping’ someone, hinting at a sore winner for whom winning is not enough, it requires the braggadocio of crowing over the loser

poor winners are even worse losers, often refusing to accept a loss and claiming their rival must have cheated

an apt name for the most  boastful of all world leaders, whose name has become an adjective to describe poor behaviour by other politicians and would-be dictators

being described as Trumpian is not a compliment in any other circles than those who have bought into his cult of personality, where followers proudly wear adult diapers to indicate their support

as Trump’s behaviour becomes ever more outrageous, the lies more obvious, the pettiness more apparent, the adjective is experiencing its own evolution, taking such habits from the Trumpian to the Trumpesque - a grotesque inversion of kindness, caring and empathy

words matter, as much as the cult of Trump would like us to believe otherwise, and it cheers me to see others calling out such behaviour as unwanted and unacceptable

a talented photographer friend posted this image with the caption “what a beautiful wreck you are”, and it inspired the following poem - credit to Phil Flanagan at Stardust Gallery Naseby for the use of his words and of his poetry of light and shadow

the years show

the ravages of many seasons,

the scars of neglect,

both intended and unthinking

you have grown

and aged,

weathered by the sun and winds,

until you match the surroundings in which you lie

unappreciated,

a remnant of your former self

but to the mind that looks,

the eye that sees

there can be no other response

what a beautiful wreck you are

There was a time I lost my voice

Or was it taken away, the way of Archie Roach’s children?

However it occurred, I was silenced,

muted,

neutered

I heard there was a poetry group,

learned its leader is a gardening friend,

asked if I could join to play with words

I was asked to submit a poem

invited to meet some members

invited to submit another poem

I hope they don’t need anymore

I’d have to make them up as I go

I recommended the poetry group

Attend an upcoming workshop

The new Poet Laureate Robert Sullivan will be reading

I was listening to RNZ when our new Poet Laureate Robert Sullivan was being interviewed (it seemed like only yesterday it was Chris Tse, and before that I was there for Hone’s award).

I pulled up the library app and ordered anything they had from Sullivan, and discovered this was the man who made me aspire to be a storyteller when I was a child.

I first met Robert as a young child, in the book he wrote that I grew up with, “Weaving with earth and sky”, illustrations by Gavin Bishop. This book gave me MY creation myth, and that myth and my telling of it has taken me around the world.

Here’s an excerpt (as an editor, I’d space if differently):

In the old days of the Māori people, there was no writing as we know it today. Not in little alphabetical letters anyway. There would have been a storyteller. Someone to make you dance and cartwheel as they told these stories of the Māori people, someone to make you laugh and cry as they rolled their tongue in a pukana, someone to make you feel how real the gods were.

That is the cadence, the wordplay, the roll of words I grew up with - our new poet laureate is the big brother that gave me literal wings on which to fly

That is the skill that has taken me around the world, and helps me make sense of coming “home”,

Clear the undergrowth so that the new shoots of the flax will grow

I usually begin my Saturday morning listening to Country Life on RNZ, a usually inspiring and peaceful start to my day. Instead, today, I am incensed, once again, by the anti-Māori actions of our governing coalition of corporate greed, which has had the Ministry of Education decide not to reprint a book for junior readers for having “too many Māori words”.

I heard of this days ago, but this morning Mountain Tui posted on not-Twitter what those kupu were. Be aware that this is in a book called At the Marae in a country where Te Reo Māori is not only one of our three official languages, but is the indigenous language - the first spoken on our whenua.

So, what are these kupu it is thought necessary to remove from the eyes and ears of junior readers? Remember, this is a book about being on marae.

Which, for National Party MP and Minister for Education Erica Stanford - she who was unable to control ACT faux outrage instigator David Seymour’s school slops debacle - makes the word “marae” unacceptable. As were “karanga”, “wharenui”, “koro”, “hongi”, “karakia”, “kai”, and the name “Tane”. Most of these are kupu that anyone in Aotearoa not deliberately choosing to ignore Te Reo Māori are familiar with, and which are unlikely to negatively impact on any young reader’s learning.

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Yet another manufactured division from the coalition of corporate greed, which seems intent on importing the politics of discord from Trump’s Divided States of America. I hate that some of my countryfolk, like too many Americans, will fall for this fake divisiveness, choosing to blame their own hard times on others who are also suffering, rather than the rampant greed of the moneyed elite who profit from our hard work and hardships. The robber barons of today are no different from those of old in their disregard for those from whom they profit, and their open contempt for those they consider beneath them is being aided and abetted by our bought and paid-for politicians and corporate media.

Which brings me back to the whakatauki with which I began this rant - to clear the undergrowth so that the new shoots of the flax will grow, to get rid of the old, unproductive growth, to allow new ideas, new thoughts, a new world to flourish. For how well have the old ways served those of us without the power and riches to buy and own those only to happy to do their bidding?

Note: I’m away to a garden workshop now on preparing heathy soil, apt given the above whakatauki, so I offer a photo of our red-tinged dawn to remember hope, and a sheep to remind us of what not to become. Have an awesome day!

My first visit to the USA was a writing prize fron CNN on its 25th anniversary. Flights for two to New York City and accommodation in a penthouse suite overlooking Times Square. I was living in South Korea at the time and took an Australian friend with me - she checked out Broadway shows while I compared the Irish bars in NYC with those in Ireland. Not the same, by any measure.

Trip two was when a friend and former roommate was returning from deployment in Iraq. I decided someone needed to drink a few beers with this woman, so volunteered for the mission. Last minute, she was diverted to Colorado Springs for debriefing, so I booked a Greyhound bus from Virginia to CO just before boarding my flight from Belfast, Northern Ireland. I’d watched a movie in my childhood in which Greyhound seemed the ultimate way to travel the US - times had certainly changed since then, but it was an unforgettable experience.

Trips three and four were to attend Myrtle Beach Bike Week with a SEAL buddy, his lady, and his brother, who had a home there. The first time, I borrowed a Yamaha V-Star from another SEAL who was about my height, the second I rode the MZ Baghira my SEAL buddy chose because “it looks like something Darth Vader would ride”. I’m shorter than Vader, so we dialled the suspesion down as far as it would go, then clamped a couple of the springs together so I could reach the tarmac. At a rally where most riders had Harleys, the MZ stood out. As did the short Kiwi who’d flown in from my then home in Jakarta, Indonesia, for the fun. I got lost heading home to Virginia to catch my flight out and ended up six hours in the wrong direction. Our highways don’t get out of double digits in Aotearoa, so I got confused between highway and interstate numbers in the directions I’d been given.

Trip five was an ill-advised romance that included some great riding in the Blueridge Mountains, Roanoke, and a memorable day bass fishing. When I bought my fishing licence using a NZ Passport, a South Korean driving licence, and an Indonesian credit card, the shop owner joked about calling homeland security. These days, it wouldn’t be a joke.

Trip six, I decided I would spend the three months available to me on a visa waiver and visit the many US friends I’d made, mostly while in South Korea. I planned to head out after another Bike Week at Myrtle Beach. The SEAL thought it was a great idea and offered his bike, and I didn’t understand he never thought I would be dumb enough to crisscross the US on a motorcross bike on steroids. I was, which made for a brief awkward conversation when I flew into Norfolk and he asked me what bike I was going to ride.

The MZ Baghira 660 Supermoto is a beautiful beast, but was not designed with US interstates in mind. But she got me through, zigzagging across middle America, including both Carolinas, DC, Chicago, Kansas City, North Dakota, and Arkansas. I realised why she wasn’t suitable on a one-day ride from DC to Chicago that almost beat me, but she got me safely through 6,000 miles and constant rainstorms. On pulling off the interstate in Kansas City, I turned off the bike and the entire ignition cylinder fell out. I’d obviously rattled the screws loose somewhere along the way. I took her to a local shop the next day asking them to check every bolt on the beast, and they pointed out the Virginia license plate. On learning I’d ridden her from there, they did a complete service and refused any payment.

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I’ve not been back to the US since then and greatly miss my American whanau, but have no desire to visit during the current political climate. But it’s a stunning country, and home to many of those I love, and I will always treasure my time there and the friendships I made.

Language and its place in colonisation has been on my mind of late. I’m beginning an online Te Reo course as I seek to reclaim the language of my ancestors on my mother’s side. My father was Irish, so my paternal ancestors also had their own language, Gaeilge, and both Te Reo and Gaeilge are official languages in their home countries, alongside English. Perhaps Gaeilge will be my next language to study, if I live long enough, but Te Reo is the language of my whenua, my land.

As a writer, I am aware that my English skills have paid my way through the world for most of my working life, and I will never not be grateful for that. Yet I live in a world where the English language is far too often considered superior, in the way the English Empire once was, and here in Aotearoa we have politicians seeking to ban the use of even the word Aotearoa in Parliament.

Fun fact, the two worst offenders in our political arena both have Māori heritage but both are so fully colonised to take no pride in that heritage. I get it, my own mother was part of a generation taught being Māori was a source of shame, not pride, and our subsequent upbringing tried to ignore our culture or language. Which also meant ignoring the richness of both, and feeling unsure of our place in the world.

Last week, I spent time with a Pakeha (Te Reo for non-Maori) woman whose casual racism was offensive and obviously the product of someone who benefited directly and indirectly from colonisation. She commented, after pre-empting her comment with the telling “It sounds racist, but”, on new migrants to Europe speaking their own languages rather than the common language of their new country. How is that any different from what the English colonisers did in Aotearoa or in Eire? If it’s merely the centuries of usage that makes one example acceptable and the other not, why should Europe not have a different lingua franca in another few hundred years?

Having been the non-native language speaker in many countries, I know that shared language is only one part of communication, and have and know first-hand that not having fluency does not prevent communication or sharing of culture, or of forming friendships. I’m not talking the current lazy fix of using smartphone translations (another post for another time), but the comedic clumsiness of muddling through by being open to others, with the frequent fun-filled misunderstandings that are forgiven when one makes an attempt.

Belittling others for not speaking your language fluently does not make you superior, especially when those “others” probably have competence in multiple languages, while you claim empty superiority in your ability to speak only one. In the current global political climate, it is just another tool in the toolkit of those clinging to their power by dividing those they rule by pitting them against each other. It’s a tool of the School-slop Seymours, the Drunk Unka Winnies, the Cheeto Felons, and the megalomaniac Muskrats of the world to distract us from them robbing us blind, while blaming anyone “other” than us.

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I for one, am happy to stand, and commune, with the others!

For your enjoyment, here are the Muttonbirds on The Queen’s English:

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I've put down roots, she said
     gathered goods
          fostered friendships
               created community

But she keeps a spade close by
     ready to transplant
          transform
               transit elsewhere

Always ready to uproot
     and limp away

How my thought process works: I’m listening as Lisa Owen on RNZ thinks she has the use of the Ocker term “dingleberry” sussed (she didn’t), which made me muse on how Australians use the word “mate” and how it can be stand in for every occasion and with every meaning, just by changing intonation and stress. (Yes, “mate” when rolling off the Australian tongue doesn’t always have only one syllable, and can mean anything from “You fucking beaut!” to “You fucking what?”) 

Which then led my monkey/linguist-mind to the oft-repeated misperception of the Inuit people having hundreds of words for snow, and a memory of a lawyer friend telling me Māori have different words for different types of farts. Her client had wanted her to get the correct type of fart he was sending in his sign-off on a legal response.

Which led to this post - “dingleberry” to “fart” in four simple steps. It would have been quicker in reverse, I suspect, as a dingleberry is the same as the Kiwi and Ocker “dag” - dung hanging off the rear of an animal, but with "dingleberry", it's a human arse. Might Te Reo Māori have a word for the type of fart that leads to a dingleberry? This enquiring mind wanted to know. 

I have an unusual approach to learning a language, which probably explains why I am fluent in only English, but can communicate well in many cultures. While I wait to hear back about an online university Te Reo course I’ve expressed interest in, I’ve been studying Māori whakataukī and karakia and familiarising myself with the kupu. When I have time, I’ll try to translate the original myself, with the help of Te Aka Māori Dictionary, particularly if the translation given seems not to match with the Māori kupu I’m reading. That takes me down a lot of interesting rabbitholes. I can easily lose myself in a good dictionary, and enjoy Te Aka more than most.

Tonight’s rabbithole was the Māori kupu for flatulence and, while not as numerous as I had hoped, they brought some much-needed comedy to my evening and the learned vocabulary is sure to come in handy some day.

So, thanks to Te Aka, here’s a quick roundup of the Māori kupu for the verb “to fart, or break wind”. I’d love to hear of the many kupu that must exist, especially colloquially, that are not provided by the dictionary.

Te Aka translates both “hemo” (usually as “hemo te tou”) and “hengo” as “to break wind, fart”, with a lovely little example given.

Ka puta a Koro ki waho, ka hemo te tou, ka mea ake, "Aiā!" (HJ 2012:197). / When Grandad went outside, he farted and said, "That's better!"

Then it gets more interesting. Te Aka offers up “patero” as “to break wind noisily, fart loudly”, and the example is even better.

Ki te patero te tangata, mā te karakia whāioio tuauriuri rawa e muru (TTR 1998:206). / If a person broke wind, it required ancient karakia to make up for it.

“Pīhau” means “to break wind quietly, fart quietly”, ye olde “silent but deadly” anyone with siblings or friends (and frenemies) knows all too well. The example given comes from the tale I learned when young, of how Kahungungu turned my chieftainess ancestor Rongomaiwahine against her husband Tamatakutai by hiding outside the couple’s tent after eating food guaranteed to cause a vile odour.

I tētahi pō ka haere huna ia, ka pīhau ki waenganui i te tokorua rā, ka oho ake rāua, ka tohe rāua ki a rāua anō (Te Ara 2012). / One night he surreptitiously broke wind between the couple and when they woke they argued.

The subsequent drowning of Tamatakutai the next morning detailed in Te Ara - The Encyclopedia of New Zealand is a little darker than the tale I had learned, but cast light on my unconscious tendency to identify with Rongomaiwahine rather than Kahungungu.

Many of Rongomaiwahine’s descendants on the Māhia Peninsula identify themselves as Ngāti Rongomaiwahine rather than as Ngāti Kahungunu: they believe her to be of superior lineage.  

Next up, “pīhauhau” means “to break wind repeatedly, fart repeatedly” which makes sense, repitition here indicating repetition.

“Tē” means “to make a sharp explosive sound, break wind, fart”, and, repeating the repitition theme “pātero” becomes “pāterotero” - “to break wind noisily and repeatedly, fart loudly and repeatedly”.

No wonder little Davey Seymour and self-hating racist Winston are afraid of Te Reo Māori - it has a depth and range to describe them both in terms that Shakespeare would admire. I don’t think I’ll ever listen to either spout lazy lies and malignant misframings in interviews again without thinking of the verb “pāterotero” - “to break wind noisily and repeatedly, fart loudly and repeatedly”.

Which tallies perfectly with what I want from life, to hang out with people who add value - to their own lives, to others, and more broadly to the world. Those who create, not those who merely critique the creations of others. As a wordsmith, I love to play with words, to debate or delight, but also to raise deep questions and inspire deep thought. I’m just as happy to be silent, to lay back and watch clouds chase across the sky, or to be awestruck by a stunning painting, a haunting photograph, any creation invested with what Māori call mauri - the life force, the essential quality and vitality of a being or entity. To simply admire the artistry that strives always to be better, learn more, and share that with others, whether it be the making of the perfect chocolate brownie or the writing of a stirring sonnet or symphony.

To be a maker, not a taker.

I fell into journalism by accident, after a career in hospitality and a side gig crewing across the Indian Ocean alongside a crew member who held a PhD in Clinical Neuropsychology. As one of six children raised by a divorced Māori mother in ‘60s and ‘70s Aotearoa, university, to me, was something that other people attended. It wasn’t that Māori kids could not participate, but it was never really an option apart from the few academic stars that won much-valued scholarships. In that era, it was unusual also for many of the Pākehā (non-Māori) kids I grew up with to go to university, but the difference was that it was still a considered option, talked about alongside the career paths of Pākehā role models who took that path. Without growing up seeing many Māori leaders or professionals, we had few examples of our own to light the way to an academic path.

Not that I see academia as the best or only option, it’s just one I never knew I had until I was 30 and sailing alongside someone for whom it had always been expected. It wakened a hunger in me I’d previously kept in check through reading and studying people. I felt I needed to justify going to university at 30, so told anyone who asked that I wanted to study English literature and become a journalist. It became a self-fulfilling prophecy and I loved the access it gave me to ask people why they made the choices that made, and the subsequent process of crafting their stories. I hated the media production line, where the bottom line is always money and/or power, and story selection and assignment can never be allowed to forget that.

What I really wanted to do was something I couldn’t admit back then, especially to myself. I wanted to be a storyteller. It was that part of journalism that satisfied me, and that which took me around the world, writing, editing, and mentoring budding storytellers across much of Asia and beyond. That travel and the entry that journalism gave me to all walks of life and status also helped me realise that writing and words are only one part of storytelling. That sight and sound and scent, touch and texture can tell a story as effectively as mere words. That the craft and passion that imbues a simple meal or a handmade garment shares unspoken depths about those who come together through the piece’s creation and appreciation.

That sharing of mauri, whether of new perspectives or those that resonate so deeply they are a reminder rather than a relearning, is what I ideally want to create here and with my Substack tribe. I’ll ignore all the advice on keeping things focused and instead roll with the mauri of each day, but try to do so with kindness and appreciation of others whenever possible. While having found, later in life, many Māori role models to guide and inspire me.

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I’ll close with a favorite poem by one of them, writer Hone Tuwhare (1922 - 2008), about another, his dear friend artist Ralph Hotere (1931 -2013).

 Hotere
- Hone Tuwhare

When you offer only three
vertical lines precisely drawn
and set into a dark pool of lacquer
it is a visual kind of starvation:

and even though my eyeballs
roll up and over to peer inside
myself, when I reach the beginning
of your eternity I say instead: hell
let’s have another feed of mussels

Like, I have to think about it, man.

When you stack horizontal lines
into vertical columns which appear
to advance, recede, shimmer and wave
like exploding packs of cards
I merely grunt and say: well, if it
is not a famine, it’s a feast

I have to roll another smoke, man

But when you score a superb orange
circle on a purple thought-base
I shake my head and say: hell, what
is this thing called aroha

Like, I’m euchred, man. I’m eclipsed?