Nothing says ‘home’ like Te Matatini

Nothing says “home” quite like Te Matatini, Eden Fusitu‘a finds after four years living overseas.

 

I didn’t realise how disconnected I’d become — until I came home.

After years abroad supporting my husband David’s rugby league career and raising my babies, there was a deep longing for home. At the start, when we were across the ditch, my homesickness was intense. I remember the first Waitangi Day I missed: I streamed the whole day on every platform I could find.

But, as time went by, and rugby league carried our family further away from Aotearoa — all the way to Leeds in England — that burning longing became a dim emptiness, a slight whakamā about how disconnected I felt.

I stopped streaming. Stopped keeping up with te ao Māori. Not because I didn’t care, but because I felt like a fraud, like I was too far removed to be part of it. I felt far from home, far from the kaupapa that made me who I am.

But I had my baby girls Jordan and Samara. That was a blessing, but it also added to the guilt of raising them away from their tūrangawaewae.

At the end of last year, we finally came home. Our time in the UK had ended, and we returned to Auckland to reconnect with whānau and figure out our next steps. Back into the embrace of our whānau, our whenua.

One of the first things I did was book in for my tā moko with Mere Ngata, daughter of Lance Ngata, both of whom do moko in Tūrangi. I remember Mere when she was a young girl and had watched her journey through her mum’s social media. I knew I wanted her to give me my first tā moko — and she did. It’s beautiful.

Engraving my whakapapa on my skin was a grounding experience, one that reaffirmed my return home in a deeply personal way.

Another thing I made sure to do was bring my youngest daughter Samara’s whenua (placenta) from England — nearly 24 hours in a carry-on freezer bag, because I knew the importance of bringing it home.

We gifted our daughters trees to plant over their placentas (Jordan’s had been in my aunty’s freezer while we’d been gone). They were more excited about the colour of their watering cans than the act itself, but for me, it was another emotional, grounding moment. Holding their whenua in my hands, feeling the blood, thinking back to their births — it was a visceral reminder of my tinana, my babies, and our deep connection to the whenua.

The week of Te Matatini, my babies and I were sick, and I wasn’t sure if I’d make it. But the pull was too strong. My husband, who was in Australia for work, flew back at the last minute to have the girls that day — bless him.

I was heading to Te Matatini for mahi, to make a video exploring how kapa haka is good for us — not only physically, but also spiritually, mentally and emotionally.

Early Friday morning, I met my videographer, Fender, at the airport, and we were on our way. My pounamu earrings on, comfy shoes, all my mahi gear packed, excitement in my heart. Familiar faces boarded our tiny plane to Taranaki, among them Kennedy Cherrington, the rugby league player and social media influencer, and Labour MP Willie Jackson.

As soon as Koro Taranaki came into sight, every window was filled with people gazing at him in awe. We scrambled out of the airport, and I pulled out my phone to book a taxi. “Anyone need a ride? I’m heading to Te Matatini,” said a friendly-looking local. Fender and I, and another wahine from Christchurch, threw our bags in the boot of his car and piled in.

Our driver, a middle-aged man, looked pretty trustworthy, but because I’ve watched too many crime documentaries, I texted Fender: “We better not die before we even get there.” He laughed.

The moment we stepped out of the taxi, the sound of haka filled the air. I don’t remember which group was performing, but you could feel them before you saw them. We walked through the shaded entrance and saw kaumātua zooming past in their golf carts. Wristbands on, bags checked — and we were in.

Of course, we were there for mahi, but we were already bumping into people we knew.

We headed straight to the front to catch Tauira Mai Tawhiti. By mid-morning, the front was already jam-packed. We were searching for a spot when a kuia in a bright yellow T-shirt called out: “You fullas can sit here. They’ve all gone for a kai and won’t be back in time.” That’s like winning the lottery: front-row seats at Te Matatini.

As I sat there at my first Te Matatini, after four years abroad, being paid to be there, doing mahi that I love and am passionate about, fully immersed back into te ao Māori, I was tau. At peace. Happy. I had missed this. I had missed home. I felt incredibly blessed.

We watched. We were in awe. We sneakily tried to film some content of our mates. And we soaked it all in. The heat rose, the kai lines grew longer, and the crowd kept swelling.

My favourite interview of the day was with Te Pāti Māori MP Mariameno Kapa-Kingi. I didn’t want her standing in the heat, so I told her to sit in her camp chair while I positioned myself at her feet. Fender’s camera was rolling, and I asked her what being at Te Matatini does for her hauora.

“It fills me from the inside out,” she said.

She put into words what I had been feeling all day. One person later commented on the interview: “She’s the nanny of the universe.” And she truly is. Having her there made me feel safe.

By the end of the day, my feet hurt and I was sunburnt despite lathering on sunscreen. I’d spent too much on kai, and my body was still recovering from being sick. But, auē: I was full.

Spiritually, I was tau. I felt so proud to be Māori, and grateful, too. I was home on our whenua, and my whānau cup was full from seeing familiar faces, reconnecting, and being exactly where I was meant to be.

Te Matatini reminded me of everything that I had missed, everything I had longed for. And, most importantly, it reminded me that I am home.

 

Eden Fusitu’a is a journalist and communications professional with whakapapa to Ngāpuhi, Te Arawa, and Tainui. After years abroad supporting her husband David’s rugby league career and raising their tamariki, she returned home to reconnect with te ao Māori. She now works in Māori public health, using storytelling to uplift kaupapa Māori.

E-Tangata, 2025