Going Bush Like My Māori Ancestors ‘Cause I’m Sick of My $275 p/w Shoebox

Art by Keelin Bell

Sitting in my shoebox of a bedroom, my flatmate shouting a reminder that the rent and utilities bill is due, I can’t help but think what it would be like to live in the rolling hills and trees outside my window.  

My mind drifts to the housing crisis that has all of Aotearoa in a chokehold, and the idea of whakapapa living in their homemade wharepuni starts to seem appealing.  

I’m Māori, and a large majority of us have been rural for centuries. Whenua, the land, is integral to our being, our way of life. Before colonisation changed how we lived forever, Māori were incredible at sustainably using the land to thrive. 

And if they could do it, then surely, I can too.  

I wake up to a sunny morning, having checked the weather the night before, and face my new frontier. Admittedly, I lounge in my boyfriend’s bed for a few extra hours and soak up modern luxury before leaving it behind.  

When the sun dips further, I finally force myself away from my mouse-infested flat. Off I go, with nothing but the clothes on my back and the strength of my whakapapa to guide me along the path my people have long navigated. With their ancestral knowledge and my indigenous instincts, I quickly reach the site that I will call home...  

The backyard of my flat. 

To those with complaints about ‘authenticity’, just know my flat backyard is no picnic. A thick wall of bush encroaches the property line, with admittedly non-native but still impressive pine trees towering around our flat. The terrain is coarse and uneven, native birds sing and swoop at one another, and my flatmates and I are 99% sure the house was built on an anthill. It’s about as rural as you can get living in central Wellington. 

But now I’ve set foot in this unfamiliar territory, I realise just how daunting my endeavor is. 

Early Māori wrote the blueprint on living off the land. They slept in wharepuni's, which were well-crafted buildings that were structured from different parts of trees in order to be durable.  

I have a few hours at most before it gets dark to build my own wharepuni. And I can only use whatever is loose and strewn about the backyard, since I’m pretty sure our landlord wouldn’t be a big fan of me cutting down his trees. 

Luckily for me, the bush is encroaching on the property a bit too much, and some of the trees have been hacked at. But the tree pieces are heavy as fuck, and I almost slip trying to move them.  

My solution? I pop my head through the window of my Pākehā boyfriend’s room, where he is sitting at his desk. 

“Can you come outside and help me build my wharepuni?” 

“I don’t really want to right now.” 

“But you will, because you love me.” 

“I do love you, but I still don’t want to.” 

“But you will, because it’s land reclamation and you owe me reparations.” 

He sighs and gets up from his desk. 

Almost three hours later, after a lot of yelling about architecture and one near miss on a big toe, the wharepuni is complete. It’s very uneven and low to the ground, since my boyfriend kept going on about me getting “crushed by logs if it collapses” and whatever.

All the hard work has made me hungry, which leads me to my second problem.  

While early Māori caught wildlife and carved their own tools, there’s no nearby water source for me to try fishing (and it’s pretty illegal to eat native birds these days). Our backyard does have space for a garden, but all that’s in it are some spring onions the previous tenants had planted and a sad looking lemon tree.  

Eyeing up the meagre selection, I look to my boyfriend. He sighs, again, and heads into the flat to raid the kitchen.  

The kai he brings back is lackluster. But that’s mostly because I ask for stuff that is as pre-colonial as possible and he tried his best to humour me. 

I get potatoes, a warm bowl of vegetable soup with no spoon, and a bag of chicken nibbles. I hand him back the chicken — if I’m not going to risk damaging the trees, then I can't go lighting fires to cook with. 

By this point the sun has all but disappeared, and it’s getting dark. I set up three blankets within the wharepuni and crawl inside to bundle up for the night. I lay there, taking in the sounds and smells of the night, and try to go to sleep. 

I last all of thirty minutes.  

I’m sorry, but the wharepuni was fucking uncomfortable and we’re only just coming out of Winter. And while I do love the cry of the ruru at night, I also hear some freaky ass sounds out there. 

With a heavy heart, growling stomach and shivering body, I make my walk of shame back into my flat. As it turns out, the path my whakapapa followed is rough, and I’m not quite ready to walk it without falling flat on my face.  

I don’t think I have any room to complain about rent prices as I crawl back into bed with my boyfriend. The irony of me literally leaving behind my ancestry and climbing into bed with the white man isn’t lost on me. I’ve been driven away from my ancestral roots in favor of the comforts of colonisation. Even as I bask in those comforts once more, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. As though I’ve failed at something that should be practically instinctual.  

Maybe one day I’ll step back onto this path, try to match my footsteps to the prints they left behind long ago. If I do, I’ll build my wharepuni with more care, dedicate time to a veggie garden, and give back to the land that has housed us for so long. But I’ll also take an electric blanket and memory foam pillow, and I don’t think my ancestors will protest too much.