The heartland of the matter

Maynard Apiata, with his dogs in tow, on a slow clip in the Ureweras. Photo / Greg Bowker

The Tuhoe tour starts badly. We're here, 10, maybe 15 minutes into the Ureweras, having driven in from the Ruatoki end. Ahead the Ohinemataroa River twists and bends its way towards Maungapohatu, Tuhoe's sacred mountain, four days' horse ride deep into the belly of the heartland.

The trees and water verge off into the distance. Late in the afternoon, with thick forest lining the hills on both sides of the river, it looks like this valley could go on forever.

At the third crossing the four-wheel drive gets stuck in the middle of the clear-running river. The water is rising in the cab and three of us - host Jeanette Apiata, journalist and photographer - have to hightail it into the river to have a look.

"Don't worry, I've done competitive four-wheel driving," the photographer says, before he pulls off his T-shirt, but not his glasses, as he prepares to go underwater to see what's wrong.

Mrs Apiata, a mother of eight, born and raised in this place, clearly doesn't believe he knows what he's doing.

Yvonne, he tells me, you're going to have to push.

It's obvious the truck isn't going anywhere and is just digging itself deeper into the stones and pebbles.

He's sent back to the Apiatas' house - the last one in the valley before the Ureweras start proper - for help .

In October, Ruatoki was the centre of the now infamous police terror raids operation. After months of surveillance, police acting under the Terrorism Suppression Act alleged the Ureweras hid military-style training camps set up to serve a diverse range of interests.

Officers in black combat gear blockaded Ruatoki and raided homes, while men and women were arrested and detained. When the dust had settled, Tuhoe's most famous living son, Tame Iti, was locked up.

Cue scenes of protest in Rotorua, Auckland and Whakatane and searing images of Tuhoe anger in Wellington.

In the last three months of the year they were the iwi most on people's lips.

But what the vast majority of us know of them as a tribe and their way of life is close to not much, plus Mr Iti, tino rangatira and alleged terrorism.

On subsequent visits to Taneatua and Ruatoki since October, the deep connection these people have to Hinepukohurangi, the female ancestor who cloaks the bush, reinforces itself over and over again.

One local tells us that in summer the Ureweras are awash with Tuhoe families who stay at individually owned campsites above the river. On some days the river's like Queen Street on a Friday night.

So that's why we're here. To visit the heartland and taste the experience.

Jeanette reckons it's as good a reason as any to come.

"You can get a lot of good stories here with our people but they're so humble. They don't go about saying I did this, I did that."

About 40 minutes after the soggy photographer leaves for help, Jeanette's husband Maynard brings him back on a quad.

He has the truck out in a jiffy.

We're off again, and it takes an hour to reach Jeanette's place, crossing the same river at the shallow parts more than a dozen times as we go.

Privately-owned Maori land runs through the Urewera Valley. About 14 houses and camps line it after Ruatoki. Some sites are clearings with lean-to cooking sheds and sleeping areas; others, like the Apiatas' place, are gems.

It's called Te Hauhau, and is hidden by trees on a little ridge. The stream Otaneuri marks the steep driveway.

A toasty cooking whare with wetback and comfy couches is the heart of the place. A separate sleeping house, gas-heated water in the wash-house and solar panels for lighting make the place an oasis.

Although men have stayed, principally it is a healing place for women, with Jeanette as chief healer.

Some are victims of sexual and domestic abuse, occasionally families of murder victims, and there are women who need time away from demanding husbands and children or have other life issues they want to address.

"The men don't like me bringing their women up here," Jeanette grins. "Women sacrifice a lot for their men, their whanau. This is a space for them."

She believes in the power of dreams and talks about "fixing" or "doing" women - helping them sort out their problems. Word of mouth is how people have discovered the retreat.

"There's nowhere like the peace of this place to put things in perspective," she says.

"It's so hard to explain how one feels about the bush. You have to be here to understand it. There's a calmness here.

"I don't advertise. It would make it too much like a job then. I want it how it is now, it's like the wairua leads people here."

Hikers from around the country, as well as from Europe and America, have stayed at Te Hauhau. The place is never locked and a sign says people are welcome to use the facilities, help themselves to kai and put their feet up, but please leave the place tidy.

In return, they leave heartfelt messages of thanks.

But it's not all serious business in the bush.

On the other side of the river, Jeanette's friend has built a sweat lodge and the girls have been known to come up for a bit of pampering.

She tells a story about a bunch of Maori women sitting around in bras and shorts, when an Australian friend with boobs that sit upright comes in.

Among the cheeky Tuhoe women, her nakedness cracks them up.

"We're speaking Maori and she goes, 'Are you fullas talking about me, aye?'

"We all go, yeees."

A sauna is now on her list of things to add to her place.

There's a magical moment that first night.

At 9 o'clock, Jeanette's dog Princess, who snuck in the truck to tag along, starts barking.

"Who is it, who is there?" she calls.

It's a bit like an old Western movie. The moon is out with the stars and Maynard has come up the valley, on a white horse, no less, with a pack of dogs in tow.

"It's your man," he says. "I was worried about you all, so I came to check you got here safe."

"Come in for a cup of tea, Dad," Jeanette says.

He can't stop, though. About a month ago he lost a couple of dogs in the bush and has been looking for them ever since. He'll head up to a camp three hours away and see if he can find them, he says.

Maynard certainly has presence. He's a worker, quietly spoken but not reserved, friendly, and has an open, generous spirit about him.

Jeanette says men in these parts aren't the staunch angry characters seen on television.

Catch them at home and the values of manaaki, looking after people, are evident, she says.

"It's not a matter of choice for them. If any outsiders come up the valley, it's their job to be of service. You never let them go without offering a cup of tea. The hospitality has been instilled in each of these people here."

Day two we go for a three-hour hike. When the river is running high, jetboats and the smaller 'dinky jets' come up the river. As the land is private, access is limited to foot and utes have to be left at the valley's borders.

Safety is one reason access is regulated. A few years ago a man died when his jetboat hit a rock and flipped.

But Tuhoe take their kaitiaki responsibilities seriously as well, says Jeanette. "It's not about keeping people out. It's about protecting this place. Everything about it.

"This is a spiritual realm for me, it connects us to our old people - everything was simpler then, the activities they did all had a purpose, to keep them alive."

About half an hour into the hike we see a ute pull into a clearing. We also head that way.

By the time we arrive 10 minutes later, the water's hot and tea is offered.

The camp is called Kanihi, and slopes gently back from the river. The skeleton of a house has gone up and over the summer a new home will take shape. There are plenty of brothers to help Waaka, who lives in Taneatua, and it should be up by the end of the summer, he says.

"None of us are builders but we'll get it done."

The next day, as we're coming out of the bush, a Pakeha man waits to talk to Mrs Apiata.

He wants to put his boat in the river, not at the usual public access, but up-river past a few tricky rapids. He wants to cross private land.

It's an uncomfortable meeting. The visitor knows that he's not allowed to drive in, and Mrs Apiata looks ill at ease reminding him. She tells him it would have been fine if he'd been with a local who could look after him.

Misunderstanding, the boatie says he should have brought his daughter, who is Maori.

That wouldn't have made an iota of difference, though. It's not as if being Maori gives a person an automatic pass around here. What matters is if they're tangata whenua, she says later.

Rules have to be stuck to, Jeanette says, otherwise protecting this place becomes harder.

It's a simple life here, and it's a good one.