A young Māori performer travels to China to perform kapa haka. Photo / Supplied
Rotorua’s Lifang Chen shares her experience as a Chinese New Zealander living here.
When I first heard in mid-November that Raniera would be travelling to Chengdu to perform, I felt almost as excited and nervous as he did.
During the week he sent back a few photos and one brief message:
“Hi Lifang, China is absolutely beautiful and the festival so far has been amazing.”
When my phone lit up with those words, my anticipation grew a little more.
For someone like me, born and raised in China but now living in Aotearoa New Zealand, my roots have never drifted far.
I was curious to see China through his eyes, through a young Māori man experiencing it for the first time.
So when he walked into the office on his first morning back, smiling so brightly it felt as if someone had switched on an extra light, I knew the stories were coming.
“I didn’t want to come back,” he said.
“China was amazing.”
He and 13 other Māori performers had travelled to Chengdu as the only team representing Aotearoa New Zealand at an international cultural event.
On stage, they performed haka under hot lights, far from the marae and the rugby fields they were used to.
“When we started, the whole crowd went quiet,” he said.
“You could feel them really listening.”
Backstage felt like a small United Nations.
Groups from five countries shared the same corridor.
At one point, he found himself teaching haka to a group of Mexican performers.
They copied each movement with fierce seriousness while curious Chinese onlookers lifted their phones.
A Māori performer teaching haka to Mexicans inside a Sichuan theatre was, he said, a moment that felt as if the world had folded into one room.
Then came the food.
Before the trip, he preferred a fork for everything.
A few days in, he declared he had become a “chopsticks pro”.
To prove it, he showed me a photo of a table crowded with colourful Sichuan dishes, glossy with steam and spice.
In the corner sat a lonely plate of chips.
The restaurant staff had probably added them for the guests from Aotearoa, but every Sichuan dish was emptied and the chips were left untouched.
“Chinese food is too good,” he said.
“Why would you eat chips?”
Hotpot nearly defeated him.
His first mouthful of chilli and pepper left his eyes watering, but after a breathless laugh, he reached straight back in.
“So spicy,” he said.
“But you can’t stop.”
One morning he woke at 6am and went for a walk.
The streets were still dim.
Cleaners were already at work sweeping, collecting rubbish and driving small vehicles along the kerb.
“They were working really hard,” he said quietly.
“The city was getting ready before most people were awake.”
What stayed with him most were the children.
After performances, groups of children ran toward the Māori performers.
Some were shy while others rushed forward without hesitation.
He showed me a video of a small boy running straight into the arms of one of his teammates, who lifted him easily as the boy’s mother tried to capture the moment before it slipped away.
There was also a 5km parade.
Now and then, children stepped out from the crowd and slipped their hands into the hands of whichever Māori performer they felt drawn to.
It was not every performer and not the entire route, but the moments that did happen were real, quiet and unexpectedly touching.
Five kilometres is not far, yet those brief pairings felt longer than the road itself, as if a small bridge had formed each time two hands met.
Not every surprise was gentle.
Squat toilets were difficult for him.
When he mentioned it, I laughed and admitted that my own daughter refuses to use them whenever we visit China.
Every outing becomes a mission to find a mall with a “safe toilet”.
He also noticed how freely some people smoked, even beside a basketball court.
One afternoon, he passed a game where young men dribbled with one hand and held a cigarette in the other.
Back in our Rotorua office, he re-enacted the scene with invisible basketballs, which sent the whole team into laughter.
But many surprises were kind ones.
Their hotel was clean and generous.
The staff were warm, patient and genuinely delighted to host them.
“We felt like stars,” he said.
By the time he finished, I understood why he had not wanted to come home.
His Chinese had improved as well.
As soon as he saw me, he straightened up and proudly said:
“Ni hao. Xie xie. Wo shi Xin Xi Lan ren.”
Hello.
Thank you.
I am from New Zealand.
The office laughed with real admiration.
In one week he had learned not only how to use chopsticks and face a Sichuan hotpot, but also how to introduce himself in my mother tongue.
Listening to him, I realised how short seven days looks on paper and how long it can feel in someone’s heart.
It was the first time these young Māori from Aotearoa had seen China, not on a screen but right in front of them, on a stage, at a hotpot table and in the soft weight of a child’s hand.
He paused and smiled again.
“I will definitely go back,” he said.
“There is so much more I want to see in China.”
There was no exaggeration in his voice.
Only the quiet certainty of someone who has found a place he hopes to return to.
Sometimes the distance between two cultures is much smaller than it appears on the map.
For one young Māori man, that distance was exactly seven days.