Going with Gubs

One of my first true conversations with a native Māori happens on my third night in New Zealand.

I settle down by the Waikato River for the evening, feeling a little sorry for myself as I prepare a dinner of canned tuna and whatever stray veggies I can dig up. Next to me, there’s music playing and the sound of people chatting. I want to meet them, but I’m not quite brave enough to crash their gathering. So, I perch on the edge of my van with the door open, hoping an opportunity will come my way.

I don’t have to wait long.

One of the guys walks by on his way back from the public bathroom (side note: there are as many public toilets here as there are birds-seriously, so many), and he stops to introduce himself. We hit it off right away.

“Are you the youngest of your lot?”

“I am,” I reply, and he laughs. “Yeah, I can tell. That adventurous spirit is in ya. It’s always the youngest.” It never ceases to amaze me how consistent we humans are across the world.

He invites me over to join the others by their camper speaker. There’s an older guy lounging in a lawn chair, cigarette in hand, looking like he’s settled in for the long haul. The other is a woman with gray hair, a kind smile, and skin weathered by sun and experience. I know instantly I like her.

We chat for a few minutes and quickly hit it off. She asks, “Have you eaten yet?!” and before I can protest, she disappears into her camper.

When she returns, she’s carrying a steaming pie fresh from the oven. My eyes can hardly believe it, but my nose definitely can.

She tells me she spent the whole day fishing and caught a bounty unlike any she’s seen in years. This pie is the result of her efforts, and despite my “you don’t have to do that” and “are you sure?” protests, my bowl is soon brimming. It’s hot, flavorful, and exactly what my body needed.

As the sun sets over the river, we talk about everything and nothing. The water is clear, the riverside plants seem to be sleepily dipping down for a drink (she told me the fluffy white ones are called Toi-Toi), and the whole scene is so peaceful and beautiful it takes my breath away.

It feels like I’ve known her forever. We swap stories about our families, our dreams for the future, and our shared love of swimming.

“Ah, I’ve gotten in trouble for swimming where it’s not allowed,” she laughs. “I’ll get in trouble with my partner over there if we go for a swim.” There are signs along the river warning about boats and watercraft, making swimming risky. I spend a few minutes teasing her, trying to convince her to join me for a dip.

Her brother-the first guy I met-comes over, excited to announce an impromptu family gathering the next day. All three of them light up as she describes what’s in store.

The young men will dig a huge pit while everyone’s partying, singing, and hanging out. The next day, they’ll light a big fire and heat massive stones, then bury them in the pit along with fish and whatever food people bring. The feast cooks underground, and when it’s ready, everyone digs in.

She paints a picture of community, generosity, and laughter. I want to ask if I can come, but it feels like too much to ask of someone I’ve just met. Instead, she asks about my plans for the rest of my trip.

I tell her I hope to see the fjordlands in the south and explore as much of the country as I can. She gives me all sorts of recommendations: listen for the “raw” of the male deer fighting for mates at night, or the sound of kiwis in the bush along the coast.

At some point, she turns up the music, and I can’t sit still any longer (thanks, ADD). I pull out my flowstar and start moving as we chat. She asks what it is, and I explain “flowing.” We talk about fire staff and fire poi-turns out, it’s a common skill here.

With a wave, she asks to see my flowstar. “It’s a tiki!” she exclaims. I’m surprised-the face on my flowstar was a complete coincidence. I didn’t even buy it; my best friend gave it to me for this adventure. She explains a bit about the Māori tiki: they’re protectors, and apparently, I have my own personal tiki watching over me.

Our conversation drifts on, and she starts sharing stories of her family.

“My daughter had me write down this saying I’ve been telling her for years. Because it’s so important to go and live while we have the chance, to get outside our comfort zone and experience new things as much as we can. You remind me of her. So remember:

Feel the fear, but do it anyway.”

I get chills.

This phrase has been popping up everywhere for me lately in places I don’t expect it to. It’s something I’ve had to keep telling myself to get through the planning and the leap into this trip. Just do it (thanks, Shia LaBeouf). I’m a little stunned to hear her say it, like the universe is nudging me to really listen.

She warns me that the trip will change me, but says, “You’re alright. You’re on the right path. And you’ll be protected here. You’ll be alright.”

And for some reason, I believe her.