In 2022 Hani Sipu became a remote area nurse in Australia’s outback to create a better life for herself and her whānau. Since then, the Kaitāia expat has found a second home in the closed Aboriginal community of Ngukurr. Katie Harris joins Sipu for two days in the Northern Territory.
Hani Sipu’s journey: Māori nurse’s move to Australian outback to create better life for son
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Sipu [Ngāpuhi, Pawarenga Tainui, Te Puaha o Waikato] left her son and husband behind in Auckland to become a remote area nurse in Australia’s Northern Territory in 2022.
The hours are long, locations often rugged and the workload varied, but the pay can be upwards of three times the salary of nurses in Aotearoa.
“You have to be really strong, you have to have thick skin when you come out here. Also, you need to have the cultural competency when working with indigenous people.
“That’s what I was looking forward to, learning the culture of the indigenous people of this land. I wanted to learn their practices and see how different their culture is compared to ours.”
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Ngukurr
The town Sipu works in is located on the banks of the Roper River in Arnhem Land, a remote part of the Territory about seven hours from Darwin.
When we visit it’s midwinter and 33C. The local pool is full, but no one is using it, the weather is “too cold”.
“It can get up to 42C and girl you do not want to be around here when the weather is like that,” Sipu says.
There are just two shops in Ngukurr: a takeaway store and a supermarket.
It’s dry, hours away from the closest pub.
Each weekday morning a school bus weaves through the town - which is divided into a series of camps - miniature suburbs identifiable by various housing styles and locations.
There’s Silver City, named after the tin roofs within it. Near the grocery store is Rainbow Town, which features a Barbie Dreamhouse-esque colour scheme.
We stayed at the only motel, Darlala in Top Camp, labelled for its location on a hill above the township.
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Sipu is in Silver City - but she spends most of her waking (and sometimes sleeping) hours working a few minutes away at the local medical clinic.
By the far side of town twists the Roper River and its guardian, a sunbathing saltwater croc named Tom.
On our first morning in town, Sipu took us down to the river and, on matted grass by one of its bends, sat a Sorry Camp.
Unlike the collections of homes in the town, this camp is not a permanent fixture.
Those staying there are in mourning. A community leader passed shortly before our arrival.
While there have been several deaths in the community since she’s lived there, this will be the first funeral proceeding Sipu’s been part of.
“The elderly man that passed away, [around] his house there’s a barrier string and no one can break that string.”
It’s a practice similar to a rāhui, Sipu explains.
“Tonight you’ll see we’re going to watch them bungkul, which is to watch them do their cultural dance around that house.”
After the burial she says the string can be cut and people can return to the house.
Remote area nursing
At almost 3am on our second night Sipu sent a message from the Ngukurr airport.
She was called out earlier in the evening, another patient needing an evacuation flight, could we push back the morning’s interview?
Callouts like this, for urgent hospital care patients, happen each week.
The other health issues she deals with on a day-to-day basis vary from the pedestrian, like vaccinations and minor infections, to treating spear wounds.
“Craziest thing I’ve done out here is probably cannulating a dog.”
Cannulation involves inserting a small plastic tube into a vein, this allows a medical professional to sample blood, or administer fluids or medications.
“The owner came in [and said], ‘can you please help the dog it’s dying, it’s vomiting, it’s got diarrhoea’, so I cannulated the puppy.”
Her patients
As a remote area nurse, Sipu says she wears many hats: “Bob the Builder, you build everything, you fix everything”.
She describes joining the field as a sort of curse, because now she feels unable to work in another area.
“It’s an amazing journey, it’s adventurous. There’s so much adrenaline that pumps into your blood when you’re faced with so many acute situations. So it’s somewhat exciting.
“I’m not here to watch a movie or kick my feet up. I’m here to support the community. I’m here to be on call.”
The culture, and the people, are the best part about being a remote area nurse.
“They’ve shown me so much love, shown me so much care and that’s what I want to give back to them.
“You know, I want to do my best, I want to look after them as if they’re my family. As if I’m looking after my grandmother.”
The bungkul
Sipu says she can feel the wairua (spirit) as we walk toward the bungkul.
Tonight the local leader - who can not be named for cultural reasons - is being honoured by family, friends and those whose lives he touched.
Hundreds have gathered in an orange dust backyard near the town’s centre.
The sound of clashing sticks and a didgeridoo rings out from down the street, as we walk toward the mourners.
When we arrive a large circle is forming, and children approach Sipu looking to secure a spot on her lap.
As the men continue with the sticks and chanting, others coated in clay line up nearby and women dance to the beat before the ring of onlookers.
After a few hours, we move to the next home, where a form of rāhui - the string barrier - is in place.
There are no fires outside this home. No burning eucalyptus.
But groups of men and boys dance again, flicking sand and chanting.
It’s moments like these that Sipu is reminded of home.
“I was surrounded by the spirit that was present at the time, it was beautiful,” she says of witnessing her first bungkul.
“I feel grateful to be part of this community... To build that trust and relationship I have with them. So I feel blessed and I feel grateful that I’m here celebrating life and death here in Ngukurr.”
Missing home
“I miss my family, I miss my son, my husband, my dad, my mom, and seafood.”
Life in the community has given her more than she could have imagined, but the distance between Sipu and her family eats away at her.
She feels the bittersweet moments of looking after someone else’s baby intensely. The joy of having children around, yet being so far away from her son.
“I’ve missed his birthday, I’ve missed his first day back at school.
“He caught the flu this year and I wasn’t able to be there.”
Because she can’t be there with him physically, she calls him nearly every night.
If her son and husband can’t call, she tries to keep her mind occupied with work.
“I wish I could be back home with my family and take Ngukurr with me but it’s impossible.”
Sipu stays because she’s driven by a desire to provide a better life for her son back home. The $26-an-hour wage she made in Aotearoa wasn’t covering their living costs, Sipu says.
“I don’t want him to experience the struggle I experienced when I was younger. Growing up living in a household with so many brothers, siblings.”
At times, she says they had to live off seafood they collected as they had nothing else to eat.
“I want to provide him with a solid foundation so he can build on what me and my husband provide for him.”
On how much she makes in the role, she confirmed it was three times her New Zealand salary but said: “A kumara does not talk for how sweet it is, but I’ll just say that I’m comfortable, and I have the opportunity to purchase a home here”.
Just after we left Ngukurr, an offer Sipu put on a home in Broken Hill, a town in outback New South Wales, was accepted.
“It’s a little win, but there’s many, many other goals that I need to achieve. I’m just excited to know I’ve got a solid place for my family.”
The family plan on moving to their new home next year.
“My husband’s like, ‘we need to go home, we can stay here as long as you want but we need to go back home’. I’m like, ‘okay hun’, but I think I can convince him to stay longer.
“You watch.”
This reporting was made possible through University of Canterbury’s Robert Bell Travelling Scholarship in Journalism.
Katie Harris is an Auckland-based journalist who covers social issues including sexual assault, workplace misconduct, crime and justice. She joined the Herald in 2020.
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