Lone, a Maori chief stares into the dusk Ocean moon-eyed, possessed tongue lashing the air like a thunderous whip: “Ko Tangaroa ara rau, Tangaroa of many paths ” he howls to the doomy deep, with sharp and guttural instinct, driven, beckoning as a witness to Tangaroa, progenitor of fish, a Maori life source, and, ultimately, God of the Sea.
Rippling emergence, through the mist, a looming colonial hub eases itself upon the shallows: a haunting embrace? we are not alone here.
That’s how I envisage the first European settlers encountering the inhabitants of this land, and it’s probably nothing like what really happened. Either way, picture it in your mind, captain of the ship, a bloke likely sourced from the upper apartments of London, all those moons ago and miles away; primitive. Savage. Indigenous. Untouched. Alien. Ghost. Forgotten. Precious. To name just a few words and concepts that spring to mind. But I will bite my tongue, because these lengths of insight were not accounted for by the colonialists of that time, I instead believe that unfortunately, their minds were ripe with but one lucre: a commodity.
To the Maori; a stone of significant cultural and economical importance that was to carve the foundation and extant of an entire prestigious civilisation; from fishing to fighting, ritual to sacrifice, blunt to ethereal; this Green heart was to pump breath into the web of ancient Aotearoa tribe-hood.
Prior to European settlement, the stone was believed to be the strongest material known to man. Quite plausible, as chiefs would spend months, even years, yielding sandstone, bark and black obsidian to tame and mold the rock from formless into form; exercising it into shape and spiritual symbolism. Fish hooks, Tikis, Tokis, Manaias, all culturally identified and representative of meaning.
The Maori used Jade for everything. They fished with it, hunted with it, built with it, raged war with it, sacrificed with it, worshiped it, wore it, and defended it. The length of time it took to carve just one piece of Pounamu is testimony to Maori devotion, and the rocks significance in this beautiful culture.
I first encountered Jade whilst hitch hiking on a humble country lane from Whangerei to Bay of Islands, it was my 3rd week into the Kiwi experience and as it was, I was in the middle of bloody no where. I had just been staying with a German couple on a 200-acre 100% organic farm, helping out in the paddocks, being chased by cows, skinny dipping, and being fed memorable portions of delicious organic food. Being off the grid for a little while, I remember anticipating what the future held. Headed North, I didn’t know what to expect from this mysterious land. A part from the evident incredible views, seemingly never 5 minutes out of reach. And all of the echoing moos, baa’s, and cuckoos that were so particularly unconfined by demented factory farms, as it seems to be routine in England these days, I pushed my tanning thumb out into the cool, breezy fresh spring wind, accompanied by a stretching, snoozy yawn. Amazingly enough, here comes my lift. The greatest part about hitch hiking around NZ is that if you don’t get picked up by the first car, it’s bound to be the second car. Friendly peeps. So I hopped in, and off we went.
“Pwharrr, you smell” were the first words that my new friend said, with a dramatic waft around his nasal area. I remember being conscious after desperately having to perform a nature dump in the bush, but was relieved when he said he was joking. Phew.
“So, you a hi-jack-er?” He said, with what I thought to be a German accent.
“No, hitch hiker”
“How long have you been hi-jack-in for?” he said again. I didn’t know if he was joking or not. But I did take note of his hollywood style swerves around tight country corners.
“Look, I’m not gonna steal your bloody car, ok!” and the ice shatters with laughter.
“I’m Jake by the way”
“And I’m Ernesto, but you can’t call me Errrrrnie”
And that is how I met Ernesto, the Colombian artist who turned out to be a prominent figure in my travels. After driving around for a while, getting lost, eating, talking madly about everything there is to talk about, Ernesto dropped me off at a lonely beach where I set up my tent for the night. No pegs, damn it. So I used seaweed instead, and yes, it worked. But I did wake up to the tide three inches from my feet. Ha.
Ernesto did, however, invite me to stay with him in Auckland after my travels around the untouched Far North. So I did. After travelling the Far North for a while and catching a ride back down to Auckland with a Filipino priest, I meet Ernesto and I move into his… cabin. Cabin made out of cob. If you didn’t already know, cob is made up of pony poop, clay, sand, water, and glue. And it’s awesome, but that is another story.
Ernesto is a master sculptor, jeweller and carver. He resides in Auckland and runs his own art gallery. He’s teaching me the ways of Pounamu carving, and I couldn’t be happier about it. This project is about Pounamu, the Maori name for Greenstone or Jade. I wish for the following archives to portray and help to preserve the spiritual and cultural significance of this ancient stone, practice, and to establish appreciation for it’s brilliance through poetry, photography and prose. I hope you enjoy and pleeeease contact me if you have any ideas, objections, queries, or anything at all.
Cheers guys,
jake_a_rose@hotmail.co.uk
021 158 1793
worldlywritings 