Whakaata Māori camera crew filming at Onetahua, Farewell Spit. (Photo supplied)

Another week of listening to submissions on the Treaty principles bill reminded Aroha Gilling how critical it is to have the people of the stories, tell the stories.

Self-appointed experts in taha Māori abound. They’re getting their 10 minutes of airtime, expounding racist views in front of the select committee hearing submissions on the Principles of the Treaty of Waitangi Bill, on social media, talkback radio and in the supermarket queue.

This is nothing new. We’ve heard it all before. But now the volume knob is turned up and amplified by the politics playing out around the globe.

As an antidote to this barrage, I got to spend a day with iwi on the fascinating Onetahua (Farewell Spit) in Mohua (Golden Bay) as they told their stories their way.

A Whakaata Māori crew, Te Pae Ferris and Alex Bradshaw, were working to chronicle the stories of the ahi kaa of Te Tau Ihu. Their programme was being made in the same vein as the popular West Coasters observational documentary, which followed Ngāi Tahu on Te Tai o Poutini in 2023.

Onetahua is a thin stretch of sand reaching almost 30 kilometres into the sea at the northwestern side of Mohua. It is the country’s longest sandspit and the northernmost tip of the South Island. The iwi of today who exercise kaitiakitanga over the area are Ngāti Tama ki Te Tau Ihu, Ngāti Rārua and Te Ātiawa o Te Waka-a-Māui. The whānau who still live around Mohua come together under the banner of Manawhenua ki Mohua.

It’s difficult to appreciate the spit if you’ve never wandered its dunes. Even after multiple visits, I still struggle to adequately describe the experience.

Distance loses all meaning when all you can see is sand undulating to the horizon and blending into sea and sky. The colour palette must drive artists to distraction as they try to capture the many shades of palest blue, dull beige shifting to soft gold, or bird’s egg grey fading into cream.

My mind struggles to assign recognisable form to the faint shapes up ahead. Look, it’s a bus! No, it’s a 4WD! It’s a woman on the dunes? But it’s just a wind-tossed branch washed ashore, a sand drift or a dozing seal.

There are no straight lines to be seen. All the shapes are softly rounded and blurred. They belong here. Not like us in our bus with hard lines and edges. We have no place here and we leave only a faint, fading impression as wind and tide erase our tracks behind us.

As we turned out of The Crossing (the track across the spit) and faced the Tasman Sea, we could see the silhouette of Maunga Taranaki in the far distance shifting in and out of focus as the sea haze interfered.

Our driver told us we were fortunate to see it as the view wasn’t always so good. It was extra special since I was travelling with Ngāti Tama representatives who descend from the mountain, and a Ngāti Rārua descendant whose ancestors had close links to Taranaki.

The impact of seeing the mountain so clearly was heightened by the fact that, a few days earlier, it had been granted legal personhood. As Debbie Ngarewa-Packer, co-leader of Te Pāti Māori observed, the mountain is now “released from the shackles of injustice, of ignorance, of hate”. To see Taranaki for myself, across the spit, felt like a beautiful tohu.

During our trip, Te Pae Ferris interviewed key people from Manawhenua ki Mohua — Margie Little, Mairangi Reiher, and Barney Thomas — while cameraman Alex Bradshaw worked hard to catch the illusive landscape behind them.

Mairangi Reiher, who is mana whenua of Onetahua, from Te Ātiawa, Ngāti Tama and Te Arawa. (Photo: Loren Pasquier for the Wāhine exhibition)

I listened closely to the kōrero. It was a chance for these three kaumātua to share fond memories, to bring ancestors back to life, and reaffirm values and beliefs.

“She was a beautiful woman.”

“Relationships are really important.”

“There’s more mana in giving than receiving.”

“Remember her lovely singing voice?”

“He was so funny. I laughed so hard.”

“We stay. We maintain the mana.”

They retold old stories, each recalling different aspects. Then, new stories emerged. One was about recent whale strandings on the spit. It wasn’t difficult to see how these fresh ones would soon be woven into the larger narrative fabric of Onetahua.

As we drove on, our Māori bus driver shared some of the stories that he tells the many tourists who take this same trip. The company he drives for is the only one with a concession from Te Papa Atawhai (DoC) to take visitors into this unreal landscape.

It was extraordinary to hear the stories that are told to tourists being delivered in front of the people they’re about.

I was torn between admiration of his courage (I thought he did a great job) and a sense of unease as I struggled to work out whether he’d made the connection between the history he used day after day to educate and entertain, and the flesh and blood people sitting behind him listening as he drove.

Barney Thomas with the whale pou whenua at Onetahua, Farewell Spit. (Photo: Aroha Gilling)

All day, the many manu of the spit came and went around us, largely ignoring us. Far-flying visitors from the northern hemisphere, like the Siberian tern, rested on the sand at the water’s edge or flew in formation just above the surf break.

A little whānau of stocky tōrea pango (the variable oystercatcher) poked around in the sand with the tips of their long bills, probably looking for shellfish. Mum and Dad stood guard over the youngsters and directed this valuable life lesson. Gulls of many persuasions soared overhead, diving and calling, their profiles in shadow against the sea spray and sky behind them.

We reached the seaward end of the spit after being expertly driven about 27 kilometres along the shifting sand. When we stopped, the stories continued beside the whale pou whenua, erected among the remains of the small settlement that used to service the lighthouse.

The historic steel lighthouse was built in the 1890s and still operates today. Its straight lines and painted orange reminded us of the futile colonial attempts to remain visible, rooted and in control of this always shifting landscape. Three houses are there today. We were treated to muffins and a hot drink at the house used by the Farewell Spit Eco Tours company. The second house has fallen into disrepair, and the third is used by DOC staff.

Another, larger bus was also on-site, full of curious visitors. Many were interested in the filming and fell into conversation with our group.

I helped a man select a hat from the shelf of souvenirs to remind him of his visit while chatting about what we were doing. Barney Thomas started a conversation with an older female visitor. It turned out that she came from Nelson, and she began to mention Māori she’d known. “I met her when I was 12, and I’ll be 80 in May,” she said, talking about an influential and much respected local iwi member, Janice Manson of Ngāti Tama and Te Ātiawa.

Janice died in a car accident in 2000. She touched many lives and made an enormous contribution to education, her iwi and her community. She is remembered with much affection and also sadness because of her sudden death.

Another person the same visitor recalled was John Ward-Holmes. John’s strength, resilience and iwi leadership provided stability in the Bay for many years. He was often the media spokesperson for iwi. He became the face of the fight for a water conservation order to protect the pristine water of Te Punawai o Te Waikoropupū. Sadly, John died in 2022, leaving another big gap in the iwi and community.

John was Janice’s brother. Not only that, they were Margie Little’s brother and sister. I wondered what it was like for Margie to listen to a stranger telling stories about her immediate whānau impervious to the fact that she was telling the stories to their kin (Barney and Mairangi are also related to John and Janice).

I knew both John and Janice as well, particularly John who I had very funny memories of, such as his ability to give me directions on the drive to his house despite him being blind. If I was having a slightly out-of-body reaction to the visitor’s tales, then what was Margie thinking?

I didn’t get a chance to ask as our driver wanted to get going ahead of the other bus. We clambered back on board. On the way back, we stopped by the remains of a whale for Barney to talk about strandings, and at Lagoon Creek Dune for Alex to try and capture more shots.

Tour bus tracks at Onetahua. (Photo: Aroha Gilling)

As the afternoon lengthened, the shadows on the dunes deepened. Sun haze on the horizon muted the clouds. Layers of sky, sea mist and sand began to blur into faded, indistinct bluey, grey and creamy pastels.

It had been a long, moving and sometimes confusing day of storytelling, re-telling, and listening. For me, it reinforced the importance of iwi as experts in our own narratives. How critical it is to have the people of the stories, tell the stories.

Our narratives are a part of us, and we are part of them — and it hurts to be apart from our own stories. As we continue to be bombarded by outsider submissions to the select committee on the Principles of the Treaty of Waitangi Bill, this special experience will stay at the forefront of my mind.

We must remain in charge of our own narrative. This is one way we will be free of the shackles of injustice, ignorance and hate. And goodness knows we need that right now.

Aroha Gilling (Photo supplied)

Aroha Gilling (Te Whānau a Apanui) is an adviser to government departments on Te Tiriti o Waitangi and mātauranga Māori. She has a Master of Indigenous Studies from the University of Otago and a background in adult education and social work. She lives in Nelson.

E-Tangata, 2025