Category Archives: New Zealand History

Inequality and Revolution – Bryan Bruce * An Analysis of ‘The New Zealand Way’ – Georg Menz.

Today inequality is an all too familiar word in our country and the coalition’s handing of the economy isn’t fixing it.

Why? Because it’s the same neoliberal approach the last National government took and the Clarke government before it .. going all the way back to David Lange and Roger Douglas who introduced this economic virus in 1984.

So how and when will things change?

Bryan Bruce . . . The Daily Blog

The New Zealand Way

Georg Menz

How did a country known for its progressive policies, its welfare state and its anti nuclear and environmental policies so quickly and emphatically embrace the tenets of Neoliberalism and the New Right?

New Zealand, in the 1980s, went from being one of the most regulated countries in the OECD to being one of the most deregulated.

. . . An Analysis of ‘The New Zealand Way’ – Georg Menz


“Out-Thatchering Mrs.Thatcher”. USER PAYS, NEW ZEALAND’S NEOLIBERAL CONVERSION, Rogerpolitics – Chris Trotter * An analysis of ‘The New Zealand Way’ – Georg Menz.

How did a country known for its progressive policies, its welfare state and its anti nuclear and environmental policies so quickly and emphatically embrace the tenets of Neoliberalism and the New Right?

New Zealand, in the 1980s, went from being one of the most regulated countries in the OECD to being one of the most deregulated. It underwent a very painful period of transition and adjustment during the reforms. Even now the beneficial effects are far from obvious. Market liberalisation has come at a very high social cost. Poverty and social inequality are rising. New Zealand presents a paradigmatic case of complete market liberalisation and the embrace of neoliberal doctrines.

With remarkable alacrity, the ideological and practical political infrastructure required to support the new economic regime was cemented into place. In the nation’s schools and universities; in it’s publicly and privately owned news media; in its local and national institutions, Rogerpolitics became the new orthodoxy. For the next thirty years it would not only inspire the design of the mechanisms by which political power is exercised, but also the moral justifications for their use.

Those New Zealanders born after 1984, New Zealand neoliberalism’s “Year Zero”, have absorbed the “free market” catechism practically without thinking.

Rogerpolitics does not believe that democracy is a market friendly form of government, and all Rogerpoliticians are expected to act accordingly.

New Zealand is a case study of a small country moving from strong isolationism to full fledged market liberalism. New Zealand policy makers concluded in the mid 1980s that isolationism was no longer a viable policy option. Instead, they turned their country into a laboratory of free trade and Chicago style Neoliberalism. Does this model have insights to offer to other small states?

Chris Trotter

“ROGERNOMICS” is political shorthand for the neoliberal economic policies introduced by Labour’s finance minister, Roger Douglas between 1984 and 1988. While most New Zealanders have heard of Rogernomics, nowhere near as many have heard of its inseparable companion, “Rogerpolitics”.

The term was coined by the New Zealand political scientist, Richard Mulgan, to describe the form of politics required to make sure that Rogernomics “took” in a country which, on the face of it, should have rejected neoliberalism out of hand. Had Rogerpolitics not been so successfully embedded in the key organs of the New Zealand state, then Rogernomics would not have lasted.

Critical to the success of Rogerpolitics was the widespread public disillusionment with the style of politics that preceded it. In New Zealand’s case, the principal target of the public’s hostility was the National Party Prime Minister, Rob Muldoon, and his highly interventionist economic policies – “Muldoonism”.

An additional factor in the public’s antipathy towards Muldoon was his facilitation of the extremely divisive Springbok Tour of 1981. In the eyes of younger New Zealanders, “The Tour” was proof of their elders’ unfitness to rule. The people referred to by the then prominent political journalist, Colin James, as the “RSA Generation” had, in the eyes of the “Vietnam Generation”, been confronted with a straightforward moral test, and they had failed.

Without Muldoon and Muldoonism; without the Springbok Tour; the hunger for a new way of managing the economy and running the country would not have been so acute. The proponents of neoliberalism, or “free market forces” (as the ideology was more commonly referred to thirty-five years ago) were pushing against an open door.

It was the same all over the advanced capitalist world. The interventionist economic policies that had played such a crucial role in generating the unparalleled prosperity of the post-war period had finally run up against the buffers of the capitalist system. Every attempt to reduce the rising levels of unemployment and inflation that were the primary manifestations of the system’s failure only ended up pushing them higher. Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative Party captured the growing sense of unease with its 1979 slogan: “Labour isn’t working.” The following year, in the USA, the Republican candidate for President, Ronald Reagan, summed-up the popular mood when he declared: “In this present crisis, government is not the solution to our problem, government IS the problem.”

In its essence, this is what Rogerpolitics is all about: getting government out of the way. If politicians, by interfering in the economy, only made things worse, then the obvious solution is simply to prevent them from interfering.

. . . Bowalley Road

A Model Strategy for Small States to Cope and Survive in a Globalised World Economy? An Analysis of the “New Zealand Way”.

Georg Menz, Department of Political Science, University of Pittsburgh

Can New Zealand indeed serve as a model for other small states?

1. Introduction

A major issue of concern to contemporary social scientists is the relative decline of the autonomy of the nation state. Traditionally, the nation state served as a useful unit of analysis for scholars in international political economy. It may no longer be a useful starting point. Advocates of the globalisation thesis argue that the nation state is losing much of its room for maneuver in public policy decision making. This is a result of trade liberalisation and deregulation, particularly of the financial sector; rapid technological advances in telecommunications and data processing, and the exponential growth of international trade and foreign direct investment (FDI).

As I will argue below, two opposite arguments about the impact of globalisation on small states might be put forward.

First, it would appear that small states are particularly affected by a loss of autonomy as a result of globalisation. Smaller states face a constrained choice of responses to the impact of the world economy on their own national markets. By virtue of their economic and political power, size and strength, smaller states dispose of a relatively smaller array of policy responses than larger states. They cannot hope to set the parameters of the global economy given their relatively small economies and limited political and military clout.

Small states are usually host to only a small number of transnational corporations and, owing to the size of their own domestic market, they are commonly not only dependent on exporting their own products, but also on importing raw materials from abroad.

Alternatively, the opposite argument might be made. Small states are particularly well prepared to deal with open markets because of their economic structure. For many European small states, a protectionist trade policy was never a viable option.

Katzenstein (1985), who is often credited for his pioneering work on “small states”, points out that these states, due to their dependence on both imports and exports, are committed to the cause of international free trade. Foreign trade typically makes up a large proportion of small state Gross Domestic Product (GDP). Small states also depend on occupying market niches with relatively highly developed technology in sections of the economy where they enjoy a comparative advantage in production or a technological lead over their competitors.

In this study, I seek to analyse how one small state has responded to the challenges of globalisation. Using New Zealand (NZ) as a case study, I will examine New Zealand’s remarkable reform process as one possible policy response to dealing with a globalised world economy. “Model New Zealand” has been heralded as a successful model of structural adjustment by international observers. Regardless of whether one accepts the normative component of this judgement, New Zealand presents a paradigmatic case of complete market liberalisation and the embrace of neoliberal doctrines.

Can New Zealand indeed serve as a model for other small states? I seek to critically examine the reform process and shed light on its intellectual sources, employing some of the insights generated by the constructivist approach in international relations. Can New Zealand be properly considered a success story from which other small states can learn? The country went from being one of the most regulated countries in the OECD to being one of the most deregulated.

I argue that it underwent a very painful period of transition and adjustment during the reforms. Even now the beneficial effects are far from obvious. Market liberalisation has come at a very high social cost. Poverty and social inequality are rising.

The economic data reveals an equally mixed picture. In 1995, commentators admired the “turn around economy” and observed that the initial hardship seemed to be finally paying off. After the devastating impact of the Asian crisis in New Zealand, this assessment seems questionable and premature. New Zealand has been able to successfully fill some market niches in cutting edge agricultural engineering. At the same time, however, extreme liberalisation also means strong dependency on foreign capital, as is especially true for New Zealand with its large current account deficit and high level of foreign direct investment. Dependency on highly volatile foreign capital can become problematic rather quickly, as New Zealand’s recession in the wake of the Asian crisis vividly demonstrates.

2. Small States and Globalisation

How should we conceptualise globalisation? And how is it affecting the policy choices of small states? The purpose of this section is to arive at a working definition of globalisation and to analyse its impact on small states.

Since academic discourse on this subject is of a relatively recent nature, it is perhaps unsurprising that no single coherent definition of the phenomenon has yet emerged. However, from the writings of those authors who are willing to acknowledge globalisation as a genuinely new phenomenon a common thread can be extracted. These authors argue that the nation state is losing its autonomy, or posit, as Susan Strange has done “the retreat of the state”. The state’s sphere of control is decreasing, as an array of new actors moves in to undermine the state’s formerly comfortable command of territorially based authoritys. Among those actors are international institutions, networks and, most importantly, private transnational and multinational corporations.

While the nation-state no longer seems able to command the same array of macroeconomic tools, obvious winners are international markets. Global financial flows of gigantic proportions play an important role in shaping and curtailing governments’ choices.

Following the wave of deregulation and market liberalisation, which commenced in the late 1970s, particularly in the financial sector, the state’s macroeconomic weaponry chest looks considerably less well-stocked today. No longer can a government simply rely on monetary policy to set its economy’s parameters: If it tries to increase the interest rate so as to curtail inflationary growth, this move will simply attract mobile foreign capital.

National fiscal policy is also affected by the increased mobility of global capital. Nation states cannot freely determine corporate tax levels, because what the market deems to be an excessive rate will only cause companies to invest in regions or state more amiable to their interests. Some analysts have gone as far as positing a global “race to the bottom” in which regions and indeed nations have to compete for corporate investment by lowering their environmental, safety, health and social standards and offering tax breaks and other incentives”. Regardless of state incentives, due to the decrease in strict regulation of the financial sector, global capital is much more uninhibited to move into and out of new locales at relative ease. Large volumes of money are on the move, “free to roam the globe looking for the brightest investment opportunities”.

There are two factors contributing to the relative ease with which large scale global financial flows are occurring today at an unprecedented rate.

Firstly, deregulation of the financial markets made short term foreign investment and portfolio investment much easier than before. Secondly, technological innovation, another important factor mentioned by Strange and Drachels, has meant that such transfers of financial capital can take place at an ever accelerating pace. Rapid advances in modern computer based technology allow for rapid and easy data processing and manipulation. The progress of telecommunications technology enables global dissemination of information at unprecedented levels of speed. In fact, I would argue that innovations in technology as such undermine the feasibility of the nation state’s regulatory capacity.

The dramatic increase in foreign direct investment (FDI) should also be mentioned, which is a relatively recent development as well. Investment of a given company abroad in means of production (factories, plants, refineries, etc.) is a phenomenon unparalleled in previous economic history and ought to be distinguished from colonial patterns of raw material extraction through subsidiary companies within colonies. Foreign direct investment in production facilities either seeks to elude protectionist measures by the host country or endeavours to exploit different levels of wages or social standards for production.

Thus, global trade is to some extent no longer the exchange of goods among companies from different nation states (taking advantage of Adam Smith’s comparative advantage in the production of goods), but instead has to be re-conceptualised as the intra company exchange of goods in various stages of the production cycle”.

Closely related to the issue of establishing a concisely specified definition of globalisation are questions of distinctiveness and uniqueness. Is the current degree of global economic interdependence and growth of trade dependency indeed a genuinely new phenomenon? Is there something that distinguishes the global exchange of money, goods and services today from exchange routes and networks in the age of Cecil Rhodes’ Imperialism, Marco Polo’s Asian expeditions, trans Saharan trade routes, or Roman trade with its neighbours? Perhaps so, some authors might concede, but they are less convinced that the level of current global interdependence and international trade is more than just a return to the pre 1914 levels of global interchange.

Different scholars emphasize different policy areas, which vary in the degree to which they are affected by a globalised world economy. Obviously, there are also different normative points of view arguing about whether or not globalisation is a phenomenon worthy of appraisal or condemnation, usually depending on the author’s political persuasion .

Based on this discussion, I propose to define and conceptualise globalisation in terms of the speed and regulatory ease of worldwide flow of capital. While it is important to consider the rapid growth of international trade in recent years as well, the latter component does not constitute a genuinely new phenomenon and therefore does not really deserve a new label.

At this juncture, it is important to distinguish between globalisation as defined above and internationalisation, that is, the increasing global interdependence based on growth of international trade.

How and in what way is globalisation affecting small states? While Katzenstein contributed significantly to research on small states, his work and that of others exploring small states in the literature dates back to the mid 1980s or earlier. At that point, the imminent pressures of globalisation had not yet received the same amount of scholarly attention as is true of today, since they were not as readily apparent.

As briefly alluded to in the beginning, two arguments could be advanced here.

Based on Katzenstein’s research, one might argue that small states are actually particularly well prepared for a world of deregulated financial and trade flow. Since they have always been dependent on the international market place for the raw materials they imported and the export of the manufactured goods they exported, they had to be able to navigate the treacherous tides of the international marketplace from very early on. In fact, because of their status they had no choice other than to open up their economy. At the same time, they found ways to specialise in niche products.

On the other hand, the argument could be made that small states are but pawns in a game they cannot control nor even manipulate. The globalised economy finds small states in a particularly vulnerable position.

If we accept the premise that nation state lose some of their ability to manipulate their macroeconomic parameters, this must apply with particular vengeance to small states. They are even more vulnerable to the consequences of the rapid inflow and outflow of foreign short term investment. If governments of large countries can no longer counteract the speculative movement of the markets, this must be an even more unsurpassable challenge for small states.

Companies from small states cannot enjoy the advantages of the economies of scale, which a large domestic market offers. Small states are typically host to only a small number of transnational companies (TNCs), which are in a position to take advantage of deregulated international trade and investment opportunities. Their economies are made up by small and medium sized businesses, which run the risk of being taken over or run off the road by large foreign TNCs. The best these small and medium sized businesses can hope for is to diversify their customer base by gaining new markets abroad. However, they will cenainly be hard pressed to find products they can effectively and competitively market abroad owing to their limited resource basis for international advertising, marketing, and distribution.

New Zealand is a case study of small country moving from strong isolationism to full fledged market liberalism. New Zealand policy makers concluded in the mid 1980s that isolationism was no longer a viable policy option. Instead, they turned their country into a laboratory of free trade and Chicago style neoliberalism. Does this model have insights to offer to other small states?

3. Introducing the ‘New Zealand Way’

In 1984, the small South Pacific island nation of New Zealand gained worldwide attention by implementing the most comprehensive economic reform program of any OECD country to date. Within only a few years, New Zealand experienced a paradigmatic shift from neo Keynesiasism to New Right monetarism. It went from being one of the most regulated countries in the OECD to being the most liberalised and deregulated. In fact, neo liberalism found a much more zealous disciple in New Zealand’s Labour Party than is true for any other New Right leader. New Zealand “out Thatchered Mrs. Thatcher”.

A small remote island nation, over a thousand miles from its nearest neighbour Australia, it had previously been known for pre-empting its European cousins with progressive policies such as female suffrage in 1893, a comprehensive welfare system and a fervent environmental and anti nuclear policy. Now New Zealand stood at the forefront once again. This time, though, it overtook Western Europe on the right. It made headlines for a radical move away from Keynesian economics and the welfare state. Perhaps surprisingly, it was a Labour government, which under the stewardship of Prime Minister Lange and Minister of Treasury Roger Douglas jump started a radical programme of deregulation, market liberalisation and privatisation of state owned enterprises.

The OECD, The Economist, and other like minded apostles of the neo liberal New Right outdid themselves in praises for the blitzkrieg style economic reform programme which radically redefined the role and scope of government in New Zealand within a few years.

The reform programme included the deregulation of the financial sector, the removal of subsidies to producers, both in the manufacturing and the agricultural sector; the removal of tariffs on imports, a fundamental tax reform, a comprehensive restructuring of the public sector, a radical cut in the generous system of welfare provisions, a total remodelling of labour relations, and the corporatisation and privatisation of formerly government owned enterprises. The following table provides an outline of the reform program enacted in New Zealand between 1984 and 1994.

As can be seen above, the liberalisation programme occurred in two major waves. Under Labour Party guidance, from 1984 to 1990. the first wave of reforms was implemented. As Minister of Finance Roger Douglas played such a pivotal role in the process, the label “Rogermomics” is often applied to the reforms. These included industry deregulation, trade reform and capital market reform. Startling to many voters and academic observers, the National Party continued the reform programme, after it took over power from Labour in 1990. The second wave of reforms entailed macroeconomic stabilisation, corporatisation of state owned enterprises (SOEs), privatisation of SOEs, a comprehensive labour reform, and a fundamental restructuring of the welfare state.

As can be seen, the reform programme bears a striking resemblance with structural adjustment programmes commonly recommended for Third World countries.

The first steps of deregulation affected the financial sector. and included the removal of exchange rates and a floating of the New Zealand dollar. The government committed itself to a monetarist anti inflationary regime, by means of sustaining high interest rates and exchange rates. Price stability was enshrined as the overarching goal in the Reserve Bank Act of 1989, leading to what can be described as the “Bundesbank-sation” of the institution. Labour drastically cut down subsidies, abolished import licences, and began to phase out tariffs. It also opened up the economy to foreign direct investment. In fiscal policy, personal income tax for top earners was reduced significantly and a goods and services tax was introduced.

Government activity and the public sector as a whole were fundamentally restructured. Government departments were re-organised along corporate lines. In many cases, this meant transformation into SOEs and subsequent privatisation, in most cases to Australian or American companies. This corporatisation included government research facilities, hospitals, public housing, and universities.

As part of the second wave, the labour market was liberalised and the welfare state underwent severe cutbacks in scope and size. This translated into a full blown attack on the structural power of unions with the abandonment of collective bargaining imbedded in the 1991 Employment Contracts Act. At the same time, welfare benefits and eligibility were drastically curtailed.

This “big bang” reform program marked a revolutionary departure from the past. New Zealand has a long history of heavy state interventionism and government regulation. Barry Gustafson notes that:

“Manufacturers and wage earners were protected by import controls, and farmers were encouraged to produce and were protected from fluctuations in overseas markets by subsidies, tax incentives, and producer boards, responsible for the coordination of marketing of products. The banking system and value of the currency were tightly controlled.”

In fact, some of the economic measures pursued by its government were commonly associated with the State Socialist countries of the former Warsaw Pact such as tight controls on the circulation of currency, high tariffs, import quotas, and a central government agency co ordinating export policy. Government intervention has traditionally been regarded as beneficial and a cautiously modernising force.

Due to almost unlimited access for its agricultural products to its former motherland Britain, “England’s Garden” prospered throughout the 1950s and 1960s, boasting the third highest standard of living in the 1950s. New Zealand was able to provide its citizens a generous set of cradle to grave welfare provisions, universal health care and free access to education. Until the mid 1970s, unemployment was virtually unheard of.

Wage levels were set so as to guarantee a living wage “for a man, his wife and three children”.

The National Party government provided generous agricultural subsidies and managed the worldwide marketing of New Zealand’s agricultural products. Meanwhile, domestic manufacturing was protected from competition from abroad through high tariff barriers. The government willingly underwrote New Zealand’s continuing current account deficit by accumulating foreign debt. As delightful as life at the other end of the planet seemed, some troubling structural problems were already evident, such as the excessive dependence on the export of commodities.

In the 1970s these problems were brought to light as the global economy experienced meagre growth and high inflation. New Zealand was hard hit, exhibiting one of the lowest growth rates of any country within the OECD during the 1960s and 70s. There were a number of external shocks which New Zealand faced.

Firstly, main customer Great Britain joined the European Community, thereby becoming part of the Common Market for agricultural products. Though exceptional provisions were made to buffer some of the shocks for the New Zealand economy, this meant a sudden loss of New Zealand’s main market.

Secondly, in the wake of the oil crises of 1973 and 1979, New Zealand’s terms of trade deteriorated dramatically. Not only did oil prices rise exponentially, demand for commodities slipped. This hurt New Zealand’s economy badly, since its exports were still largely composed of wool, meat and dairy products. Notwithstanding a temporary boom in commodity prices between 1971 and 74, terms of trade deteriorated further throughout the 1970s and early 1980s. New Zealand’s unsophisticated reliance on agricultural products and its failure to diversify its export basis in time was beginning to backfire.

Thirdly, and related to this, in the wake of global stagflation, the Europeans were not alone in their hesitance to accept agricultural imports. A worldwide shift towards more protectionism occurred in the agricultural sector. This development continued to bedevil the New Zealand economy and only gradually came to an end.

Robert Muldoon, Prime Minister and Finance Minister between 1975 and 1984, attempted to address the economy’s sour performance by pseudo Keynesian methods. As part of the so called “Think Big projects”, he led an ambitious campaign to reduce New Zealand’s dependence on foreign oil imports and increase the domestic heavy manufacturing industry such as the steel industry in Northland. His macroeconomic policy was unfortunately poorly designed and inconsistent.

Though Keynes had called for state intervention to stimulate demand, this did not imply gross misallocation of funds to poorly planned projects.

Muldoon’s short sighted and ill advised course maneuvered unsteadily between heavy state interventionism, including the 1982 wage and price freeze, and cautious flirts with reforms. Essentially, this misguided lingering highlighted his lack of any real vision.

In 1984, the country underwent a severe economic crisis. Muldoon and his National Party had failed to offer anything more sophisticated than a simple wage and price freeze, while clinging on to an overvalued New Zealand dollar. Foreign debt had accumulated to a level of 40 percent of Gross Domestic Product (GDP), well in excess of what crisis ridden countries such as Mexico and Argentina had taken. In this situation, the National Party called a snap election on 14 July. Labour scored an overwhelming victory.

4. Why did it happen and why in New Zealand? Analysing the intellectual sources

“Government bad! Market good!”

Notwithstanding the economic malaise the country faced in 1983 and 1984, the dogmatic zealousness with which economic reforms were implemented by Labour Minister of Finance Roger Douglas and his small group of cohorts in the Treasury Department presents somewhat of a puzzle to the outside observer.

How did a country known for its progressive policies, its welfare state and its anti nuclear and environmental policies so quickly and emphatically embrace the tenets of neoliberalism and the New Right?

The simplest answer is usually provided by the defenders of New Zealand’s neo liberal experience. They are quick to point out that New Zealand faced with tremendous economic structural problems and facing a severe crisis and government bankruptcy had little choice. A small country cannot continue down a path of isolationism, but must accept to navigate the tides and the ups and downs of the global market.

This is, of course, hardly a satisfactory answer. The country still had other policy options, such as moving towards a more neo corporatist direction, as in Western Europe, or a much more gradual and cautious reform programme such as that in Australia.

A more satisfactory answer can be provided if we follow some of the insights generated by the constructivist literature in international relations. Scholars in this tradition have questioned the static structure-agent relation embedded in the neo realist paradigm and posit a more dynamic interrelation between the two. Since our environment is socially constructed and interpreted, actors respond to their perception of the environment. Constructivist scholars emphasise the importance of what states make of their situation. In this process of forming one’s perception, it is of obvious importance what types of intellectual frameworks inform the actor and to what extent these parameters can be manipulated as a result of the inflow and acceptance of ideas. There is now a burgeoning body of literature on the influence of ideas on policy makers. Scholars basing their work on these premises emphasise the diffusion of ideas through network channels. The results of a “cognitive evolution“ might thus disseminate worldwide.

Especially interesting is the suggestion that while ideas might be out in the open, they have to find channels of access to policy makers and are then usually adapted to circumstances and institutional configuration of individual countries.

However, we should remind ourselves, that the influence of ideas on actual policy makers, particularly those originated by academics, has been pointed out quite some time ago.

Keynes himself asserted in 1936:

“Indeed the world is ruled by little else than ideas. Practical men, who believe themselves quite exempt from any intellectual influences, are usually the slaves of some defunct economist. Madmen in authority, who hear voices in the air, are distilling their frenzy from some academic scribbler of a few years back.“

In the case of New Zealand, it seems fairly evident that the type of ideas and intellectual constructs embraced by Douglas and his associates at Treasury were imported from abroad, seeing that they constituted a revolutionary break with New Zealand’s state interventionist and later Keynesian tradition. Since the ideas behind the reform programmes were so alien to the New Zealand context, how can we account for this policy turn? Where, then, did these ideas originate?

In this context, the two major documents released by Treasury following the 1984 elections, Economic Management, and the 1987 elections, Government Management are informative to study. Economic Management was prepared by Treasury in a mere six weeks and provided the outline for the economic policies for the following six years. The spirit and at times even the letter of these documents betray their heavy indebtedness to the ideology of the New Right.

Most centrally, the neoclassical ideology of the Chicago School, the Public Choice writings and Austrian economics left their heavy imprints on the guidelines which were to dominate the New Zealand reform process.

A thorough summary of these intellectual sources would be well beyond the scope of this paper. However, one can adequately summarise these intellectual sources by pointing out the common themes stressed by these writers, namely a fundamental distrust in the state and a reliance on the market for the efficient allocation of resources and the greater good.

Or, to put it into slightly more acerbic terms, just as George Orwell’s pigs had chanted “Four legs good! Two legs bad!’ , so Friedman, von Hayek, Buchanan and their cohorts were chanting “Government bad! Market good!”

While New Zealanders profited over the decades from a benevolent state interventionism, Friedrich von Hayek, epitomising the Austrian school, portrayed the state as an inevitably power maximising leviathan, eager to clutch its paws around individual citizen’s liberties. Thus, the state was virtually guaranteed to intervene into an ever increasing array of individual liberties, thereby perpetuating a journey down a “road to serfdom”. The market, on the other hand, provides innovation and allows for creative discovery.

Chicago School economist Milton Friedman also strongly criticised government’s tendency to curtail an individual’s liberty. He postulated a minimalist role for the state. Only the unregulated market would provide for the most efficient price setting, send out the “right” signals, and thereby foster and encourage the activities of the utility maximising individual. Consequently, Friedman rallied against the welfare state and against any state intervention beyond a closely circumscribed array of public goods.

The sum of actions of rational, utility maximising individuals, on the other hand, would provide benefits for evelyone as the economy would move towards an equilibrium.

This semi religious belief in the invisible hand of the market in efficiently allocating resources and a general distrust in government was complimented by some of the Public Choice theorists, also originating at the University of Chicago as well as Virginia. Public choice applies some of the basic tenets of economics to political activity, arguing that bureaucrats, far from being benevolent altruistic and high spirited individuals, working in the interest of the greater public good, are really just as pettily minded profit maximising as anybody else. Thus, they attempt to maximise their department’s budget, size and scope.

How did Chicago influence New Zealand? What were the channels of influence along which these ideas travelled? And what characteristics of the domestic structure, emphasised by constructivists like Risse Kappen, nourished the implementation of the reform programme?

In this context, it is important to recognise the importance of channels of intellectual exchange with the United States. A number of Treasury officials had received their graduate training in the United States. To some extent, this mirrored the development in Latin American countries, particularly Chile and Mexico, where students trained in the US (the “Chicago Boys” in the Chilean example), applied with almost religious zealot the theories they had been indoctrinated with to restructuring the domestic structures of their home countries.

Similarly, many NZ Treasury officials had spent time at academic institutions in the US or had previous experience at such free market bastions as the World Bank or the International Monetary Fund (IMF).

We should mention in passing that many New Zealanders began to develop a negative self image of their own country as a sleepy backwater prone to old fashioned ‘boring’ Keynesian state interventionism. They were fed up with Muldoon’s heavy handed and fairly authoritarian paternalism.

In addition, we can point to at least two other intellectual sources.

First, there is the IMF. Schwartz points out that New Zealand’s reform programme bears striking similarity to the recommendations of the IMF for structural adjustment. New Zealand removed its wage, price and interest controls. deregulated financial transactions and phased out subsidies for manufacturing and agriculture. As mentioned previously, some NZ Treasury officials had professional experience at the IMF.

Secondly, it is certainly no coincidence that New Zealand launched its reform programme a mere five years after a similarly minded individual had ascended to power at 10 Downing Street. The former colonial power Great Britain still exerted an intellectual hegemony over New Zealand. Thatcher exhibited distrust towards the state and its role in the economy, initiating an expansive programme of privatisation and an extensive restructuring of the public sector. She also significantly curtailed the role of unions.

Meanwhile, in the United States, supply side economics and market liberalisation also carried the day after the election of Ronald Reagan in 1980. Reagan’s policies included measures such as deregulation, prominently in the field of telecommunications and airlines, “rolling back the state”, cutting down welfare expenditures, and enacting tax cuts, particularly at the top end of the income scale.

Following the constructivist research agenda, the particular domestic structures of a host nation also ought to deserve attention in an analysis of the impact of ideas on a given polity. In the case of New Zealand there are indeed particularities, in fact peculiarities which fostered the swift and rapid enactment of a comprehensive package of economic reforms. Two central factors merit our attention here.

First, as part of its colonial heritage, New Zealand had up until 1993 a Westminster style “first past the post” system and only two major political parties. In fact, New Zealand constituted a more perfect example of the Westminster model than the British motherland. Thus, once Labour had got hold of power in 1984, it commanded a comfortable absolute majority of seats. Political opposition thus had practically no way of manipulating the course of events. The same applies for the situation of the National Party after 1990. Because of the amount of power the executive could wield in this system, no checks and balances were in place to act as a dam against the blitzkrieg style policy making approach of Mr Douglas. Thus he and his intellectual companion in the Treasury Department were able to quickly enact their programme.

There was no second chamber of parliament, no effective opposition and no presidential veto to impede the onslaught of reforms.

Secondly, Treasury played a central role in the reform processs. In fact, it “became the principal initiator” and formed a “consistent, cohesive, intellectually convicted group” as Prime Minister Lange later recalled. It was able to do so owing to its “near monopoly position with respect to economic policy advice” within the “unitary, centralized structure” of the political system in New Zealand.

Because the reforms constituted such a radical break with the intellectual tradition hitherto pursued we must look abroad for some of the intellectual sources of the New Zealand sources. In this context it is enlightening to accept the premise of the constructivist turn in international relations and consider how ideas and norms can influence policy makers. The Treasury documents outlining the economic reform programme bear the heavy imprint of the Chicago school, the Austrian school and to some extent the insights of Public Choice. Based on the premise of a distrust of the state and placing faith in the invisible hand of the market, these theories shared in common their advocacy of relying on an unregulated market and a minimised state.

They made their way to New Zealand by way of intellectual interchange with the United States. A feeling of disdain towards Muldoon’s heavy handed authoritarianism, commonly yet falsely associated with Keynesianism helped usher in a paradigmatic intellectual change in New Zealand and a shift towards the free market ideas of Chicago. Domestic structures, such as a Westminster style political system, ensuring an absolute majority for one party, and the strong influence, which Treasury could exert, both contributed to the implementation of these ides in to practice.

5. A Model Strategy? Analysing the implementation of the “New Zealand Way”

In 1984, economic crisis mandated immediate action. Defenders of the reform programme argued that there was little choice to a comprehensive restructuring in light of the apparent failures of Muldoon’s pseudo Keynesianism. In any case, in the early 1990s “Model New Zealand” was touted in the international press as a success story and not only by the OECD. A never ending stream of international journalists, academics, and politicians descended perennially upon Wellington to explore what it was that had turned this small South Pacific nation into a “job creation machine”.

Commonly, New Zealand’s relatively low unemployment rate was mentioned along with its economic growth rate as measured by GDP. In 1993, GDP grew by 4.8 per cent, by 6.1 per cent in 1994 and by 3.3 per cent in 1995. Employment grew by 2 per cent in 1993, 4.3 per cent in 1994, and 4.7 per cent in 1995. Meanwhile, unemployment declined from 9.5 per cent in 1993 to 8.2 per cent in 1994 and again to 6.3 per cent in 1995 (see also appendix).

Government was able to record a surplus in its budget balance, allowing it to enact a tax cut in 1997. The implication was, of course, that both developing countries and the advanced industrial countries could stand to learn a lesson or two from this powerhouse in the South Pacific. Slavish adoption of an IMF style structural adjustment programme seemed to have paid off for the Kiwis. An economy, which up until the 1980s had exhibited sluggish growth and still bore uncanny resemblance to a developing country owing to its heavy reliance on a large commodity sector, was now showing signs of remarkable growth.

Meanwhile, the advanced industrial countries of Europe were suffering no or slow growth while facing a pressing structural unemployment problem. There was considerable debate about liberalising the labour market and restructuring the public sector in order to be able to successfully compete in a global economy. New Zealand had enacted all these changes and seemed to be harvesting the fruits the reform programme bore. It had gone from being extremely regulated and protectionist to being the most ardent supporter of an unregulated market environment. New Zealand’s remarkable reform programme seemed to translate into impressive economic benefits. Thus, the country seemed well suited to serve as a model for coping with the challenges of globalisation.

However, a closer look reveals a much more mixed record. Upon closer inspection, it becomes evident rather quickly that the 1993-95 economic boom constituted little more than a temporary recovery from almost a decade of recession. Throughout the 1980s, the payoffs from the reforms appeared far from evident. New Zealand went through a drawn out period of extremely painful adjustments. On many indicators, such as employment, the economy is returned to pre 1984 levels only in the late 1990s. In the following section we shall examine the economic performance in more detail.

As I will point out, the country paid a very high price for its “success”. Both the social cost is chilling and the issue of loss of national autonomy is far from a purely academic concern for many Kiwis. Privatisation and economic liberalisation has meant that many economic decisions are no longer being made in Wellington, but in corporate headquarters in Australia, Britain and the US.

Due to its reliance on foreign capital both in the form of portfolio investment and FDI the country has made itself vulnerable to the whims of the international financial markets, as became painfully obvious during the Asian crisis. A genuine success is New Zealand’s cutting edge technology in the field of agricultural engineering. But overall, a sober analysis of the costs and benefits of the reform programme cannot lead to the sameenthusiastic conclusions of the international financial media.

Let us consider the economic side flrst. Throughout the 1980s, New Zealand’s macroeconomic indicators were anything but impressive. In fact, between 1985 and 1992 total growth across OECD economies averaged 20 percent, while New Zealand’s economy shrank by one percent. In both 1989 and 1991 GDP growth was negative. Between 1987 and 1991, the unemployment rate more than doubled from 4.1 to 10.7 percent, reaching unprecedented levels and exceeding the OECD small member countries’ average (see appendix 2 for further details). While labour productivity did begin to increase in 1986, this was mainly due to massive labour cutbacks and not even a consistent trend. In fact, between 1984 and 1993 productivity growth averaged only 0.9 percent.

While Muldoon’s practice of heavy borrowing from overseas was severely criticised, Labour actually continued this practice without passing down the benefits to NZ citizens. Both total public debt and public overseas debt continued to increase, the former reaching a record 80 per cent of GDP in 1987. Inflation continued to vex the economy until 1993, averaging 9 per cent.

In the short to medium term the reforms brought about the worst recession in New Zealand since the 1930s. The “reinvention” of government and the public sector translated into a massive rise of unemployment. A country in which unemployment was virtually unheard of now saw workers laid off by the thousands. Unemployment peaked up to record levels.

Yet after eight painful years of transition, the reforms finally seemed to pay off. In December 1991, inflation dropped to below two per cent. In 1993, the balance of payment deficit moved below two per cent of GDP and the government budget showed a surplus for the first time in fiscal year 1993/94. Real GDP began to grow again in 1992 and unemployment began to sink in 1994-95. However, unemployment was still well above pre 1984 levels and so was public debt. According to the OECD, real GDP in 1992 was still 5 per cent below the 1985-86 level. The GDP growth in 1993 seemed to have brought NZ merely back into a general trend of worldwide economic recovery.

In the meantime, New Zealand had become a dramatically different society. Before analysing the more recent development and the impact of the Asian crisis, it is worth shedding some light on the social costs of “Model New Zealand”.

New Zealand has always been proud of its social cohesion. A quasi social democratic commitment to social equality, equal wages and a welfare state had meant a stable, peaceful and socially cohesive society.

Now, as the commitment to “sleepy backward” Keynesianism went flying out of the window, so too, did the commitment to social equality. The income gap rose and as unemployment grew, so did social inequality. Despite a slight increase in productivity, real wages by 1999 had slightly decreased since 1985/86.

A lot of the growth in employment can actually be traced back to the growth of part time jobs which doubled from 200,000 to 400,000 between 1984 and 1995, while the number of full time positions decreased. These part time positions typically do not entail the same amount of benefits as full time jobs.

Following the first wave of corporatisation and privatisation, which lead to massive growth in unemployment, the National party, adding insult to injury, enacted a combined programme of welfare cuts and labour market deregulation in 1990/91.

Subsequently, poverty increased markedly. By 1991, 17.8 per cent of all New Zealanders lived below the poverty line, while the median income had declined by 19.2 per cent between 1982 and 1991.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, crime rates rocketed, violent crime increasing by 50 percent between 1982 and 1991, endowing New Zealand with the dubious distinction of having the third highest violent crime rate in the world.

New Zealand today has the highest youth suicide rate in the western world. For a country which is trying to portray itself as one of the few success stories in creating a bicultural society, Aotearoa New Zealand, the disproportionate rise in poverty and unemployment among its Maori and Pacific Island population presents at the very least a severe embarrassment.

Of serious concern is the emergence a two tier social stratification of society, which parallels racial lines and mirrors the unfortunate American experience. Symptoms of this development are the growth of urban ghettos in South Auckland and the growth of criminal youth gangs among Maori and Pacific Island youths.

Following the cuts in the welfare system enacted by National in 1990, real poverty emerged in New Zealand to a degree previously unprecedented. There was a rapid growth in the number of people reliant on soup kitchens and private welfare organisations. Furthermore, corporatisation and privatisation of the Housing Corporation has obliged this former component of the welfare state to raise profits. A logical result has been the steady increase in rents and sales of a number of flats. This policy accepted the eviction of the most needy, precisely those for whose purpose the system was created. This lead to the emergence of homelessness for the first time in the history of the country.

At the same time, the corporatisation of higher education has meant the introduction of steep fees for tertiary education. Government drastically cut its spending on the education sector. While New Zealand students previously were obliged to a nominal fee of approximately NZ$100 per academic year, rates increased to between NZ$3000 and NZ$20,000 by 1999. Student loans are available, but at market level interest rates only. At the same time, student allowances were cut both in size and scope. This has contributed further to social stratification and inequality. Meanwhile, the policy of privatisation and corporatisation was extended to cover the health sector with the better off being offered the option of buying into private health insurance schemes. Meanwhile. the quality and scope of public health provision is deteriorating.

In the medium to long term, the radical privatisation programme and liberalisation of the economy has made New Zealand extremely dependent on volatile international financial markets. Such dependency became readily apparent during the Asian crisis.

As speculators withdrew their money from the overvalued Asian currencies they did not stop and discriminate, thereby excluding New Zealand. The Asian flu rapidly spread to the country, plunging it into recession and causing a fall of the NZ dollar to below 50 US cents for the first time in eleven years. New Zealand’s Top40 share index followed the dramatic decline of its Asian cousins in late 1997 and again in June 1998. In a sense this was not surprising. seeing that New Zealand suffered from similar problems as Thailand did, namely a large current account deficit, caused by the large inflow of foreign capital. While superficially speaking, the situation might be seen as different from Thailand because a large proportion of the deficit was due to large sale FDI, foreign investors in East Asia had thought exactly that to be true of countries there.

It is clear that the negative impact of the Asian crisis also had to do with the extent to which Asian countries, such as Japan and Korea, had begun to replace Britain and Europe as main outlets for New Zealand products. Owing to the persistence of trade barriers to agricultural sectors, New Zealand farmers were glad to find customers in resource poor commodity importers such as Hong Kong, Singapore and Taiwan. The rise of the New Zealand dollar versus the currencies of most of its Asian trade partners inevitably made its products more expensive and thus less attractive. This also translated into losses in revenues from the tourism sector. Furthermore, since Australia toik 20.3 percent of NZ exports, some indirect effects also came to play a role.

The exposure of New Zealand’s economy to the international financial markets is so high because of a perpetual current account deficit. The external deficit to GDP ratio hovers between 6 and 7 percent, while the foreign liabilities amounted to 80 percent of GDP in 1998. This level of foreign debt was a record high for any OECD country. It makes New Zealand dependent on the volatility of the market. To some degree, this is a result of the policy of the private sector to accrue high levels of foreign debt, in order to finance investment so as to stay internationally competitive. Another large causal factor of the problem of a current account deficit is New Zealand’s radical privatisation programme, enticing overseas investors to invest in a country with a very business friendly environment and causing profits to be repatriated. The stock of foreign direct investment more than tripled between 1989 and 1994, now making up one quarter of the GDP. Whether this level of foreign direct investment can be sustained over a long term period now that key assets of the New Zealand economy have been sold off into private hands is, however, far from certain.

Regardless of whether or not one accepts the neoliberal premise that privatisation of public enterprises results in overall efficiency gains for the economy, for a small country such policy raises the non-trivial concern over real loss of sovereignty. Foreign control over New Zealand is anything but a purely academic subject. In 1995, foreign investors owned half the stock market, 40 per cent of government bonds, while foreign ownership of companies amounted to 33.6 NZ$ billion as compared to government assets of 30 NZ$ billion. Around 90 percent of the banking sector is foreign owned, primarily by Australian companies.

US, British and Australian companies profited from the wave of privatisations, buying up companies at relatively low prices, though NZ taxpayers’ money helped create the bulk of the infrastructure of these companies in the first place.

Major examples of privatisation include the sale of Telecom, Air New Zealand, Bank of New Zealand, New Zealand Rail, and the cutting rights for the states’ forests. At the same time, Asian investors bought up large shares of NZ real estate, both commercial property and forestry land. These developments led one NZ politician to comment that “we risk being transformed into sharecroppers on our land”.

With telecommunication, transportation, the financial sector, the energy sector and increasingly the natural resource base and urban real estate being turned over to foreign owners, constraints on the array of policy measures a NZ government can undertake are quite severe. In a small country, privatisation programmes run the risk of attracting predominantly foreign investors due to the small domestic capital basis. As the case of New Zealand demonstrates this can leave the “independence as a nation substantially undermined”, with decisions affecting the economic and political life of the polity being made in boardrooms in New York, London and Sydney and no longer in Wellington.

This also implies that for the sake of marginally reducing its debt levels, the NZ government has terminally abandoned its control levers over a large section of the economy, now no longer controlled by a democratically elected government, but rather by purely profit oriented private businesses. It has also given away valuable sources of revenue which are now used to maximise private sector profits. These profits, in turn, are being quickly repatriated to overseas locales. For a small country, following the ‘New Zealand Way’ there is a very real danger of turning into a banana republic.

However, while large scale enterprises where sold off to foreign buyers, New Zealand has been fairly successful in developing cutting edge products in a number of agriculture related technologies, thereby occupying specialised market niches. Companies specialise in high tech agricultural products and services, particularly geared towards the dairy and sheep farm industries. These range from technical equipment for livestock feeding to livestock genetics services. Companies have the advantage of profiting from high quality research and development conducted at the Department of Technology at Waikato University in Hamilton and the Department of Agricultural Engineering at Massey University in Palmerston North. High quality research in agricultural sciences is also being carried out on the South Island at the Animal Division and Food Sciences Department at Lincoln University in Christchurch. There are early signs of the development of a “cluster economy” in Hamilton where the university promotes the co operation with the regional Crown Research Institute (CRI) and the emergence of spin off companies commercialising in some of the fruits of the research activity. These are encouraging signs and indicators of New Zealand taking advantage of its experience, expertise, and technical know how to develop unique globally competitive leading products.

This is an indication of acknowledging and profiting from niche markets which other, larger countries are either unaware of or incapable of penetrating. However, we might voice some concern about the fact that these products are still related to agriculture. Thus, the economy’s reliance on this sector is sustained.

6. Conclusion: A Mixed Picture

New Zealand has launched an ambitious and comprehensive series of reforms, commencing in 1984. The country chose to respond to the challenges implied by a globalising world economy in a fairly radical fashion, moving from being one of the most regulated economies in the OECD to the opposite extreme.

This paper has analysed the New Zealand reform programme in a quest to explore its feasibility as a model for other small states in coping with the pressures of globalisation. It is commonly argued that increasing interdependence, exponentially growing trade flows and expanding foreign direct investment are undermining the nation state’s level of autonomy. More precisely, the nation state loses its capability to manipulate key macroeconomic tools and thereby effectively to control key parameters of public policy making. As my analysis has shown, the ‘New Zealand way’ presents a mixed track record. The fairly limited successes of the much heralded “Model New Zealand” have come at a significant cost. Unemployment, poverty, and social inequality all stand at unprecedented levels today in New Zealand. While some macroeconomic indicators have been stabilised, the short to medium term impact of the reforms has been devastating. The short term recovery of the mid 1990s faded in the wake of the Asian crisis.

New Zealand’s high level of foreign debt combined with an extraordinary level of foreign direct investment means that the country is highly exposed to the whims of the international financial market.

Owing to large scale privatisations, initiated in the mid 1980s as a measure to reduce foreign debt and in line with the neoliberal antistatist dogma, substantial sections of the New Zealand economy are now controlled by Australian, American and British companies. This leads to the repatriation of profits from NZ operations and a huge current account deficit. It also means that the NZ government has voluntarily abandoned its capability of controlling large sectors of the economy and has given away revenue generating resources.

The NZ government thus finds the range and effectiveness of its public policy options severely curtailed, not least due to the Fiscal Responsibility Act, the Public Finance Act and the Reserve Bank Act, all of which constrain the role of government in the economy.

It will be interesting to follow the further developments of the New Zealand economy. A current assessment of the reforms, however, cannot lead to an endorsement of any such package of measures for other small states. The costs are quite considerable, while the benefits of a policy of effective capitulation to the market seem fairly limited.

Journalists, policy makers, and academics will probably continue to flock to Wellington to study this most ambitious of all public sector reform programmes.

Yet a comprehensive candid assessment about the overall results of this programme leads to the conclusion that New Zealand in liberalising its economy has overdone it.

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The New Zealand Way. European Consortium for Political Research

The Waikino Tragedy, 1923. Murder in a small New Zealand school – Charles Anderson.

The little known story of New Zealand’s only school shooting.

“An officer found a detonator with a length of fuse attached to a package wrapped in newspaper. Inside were three sticks of the explosive gelignite, enough to destroy the entire school.”

There were cherry blossoms in the valley that day. They would have only a short period in bloom before their flowers fell off. They would have a short life and a quick death before the season began again.

Back then, in 1923, they always reminded an 8-year-old Joan Dobson of summer. Now they reminded her of something else. The blossoms came into use when the town needed decorations for a procession of people that snaked 500 metres down the dust road sandwiched between the sides of the Karangahake Gorge.

They were still in bloom several days after that when Waikino School was burned down. But it would be a year later until they came back when residents passed each other in the street but did not speak about why that school, which had stood alone atop a slope 100 metres above the Ohinemuri River, was shifted further down the hill.

October 19, 1923, was a Friday. School began at nine and would end at three. Joan and her two siblings made their way to class, scrambling up the winding boulder-strewn track that led to the schoolhouse, a white 20 square-metre structure built 15 years earlier. On warm, sunny days like that day they would have views right across the valley to the Owharoa Falls in the south and Mt Karangahake to the west.

Since the Victoria Battery was opened 30 years earlier, Waikino had sprung up into a profitable town that ran to the near constant thud of mined gold ore being pulverised into a saleable metal. It had the largest quartzcrushing plant for gold extraction in Australasia, capable of crushing more than 812 tonnes of ore a day into the consistency of sand.

It was a sound Joan enjoyed when she became older and began heading out to the best dance hall this side of Auckland. The thud was so loud that her parents would seldom hear her come home.

But as an 8-year-old, the challenge was getting to school on time. The headmaster, Robert Reid, though innovative with his teaching, was absolute about attendance. Several years earlier, a truancy officer had visited a local wood salesman, John Higgins, and slapped him with a fine for keeping his children home to work on his property.

Higgins had moved into the area 15 years previous after emigrating from Canada. He leased a plot of land and lived in a tent for a year while he built his house out of ponga. Then his chickens started dying. He blamed the neighbours.

His fences started to be cut and cattle would cross over on to his land to graze on his grass. He blamed his neighbours.

His workmates began to tease him as he spouted conspiracies about an ongoing personal persecution. “Mad John,” they called him. Then, two mornings before that bloody Friday, he found his mare dead in a paddock.

Two days later he loaded his cart, now pulled with only one horse, with wood and called for his son to walk beside him. He started for town. In his belt, Higgins carried with him a Colt automatic pistol and a package wrapped in newsprint.

Katie McGarry, then 13, walked the same road as Higgins and often passed him in the mornings. Sometimes he would offer her and her family rides to school in the cart. However, today, when she saw him coming towards them, she thought he looked white. “He was different somehow,” she said in the 1980s.

But still Higgins asked Katie how her mother, recently gone to hospital, was faring. He asked if she wanted a ride. Katie declined but called out goodbye as he rode off into town. Higgins did not turn around.

He rode the cart by the Waikino Tavern, which was then closed because of a dry vote, and stopped by the post office, where he told his son to drop the wood.

“Why here?” his son asked. “I don’t know, just tip it.”

“Who is the wood for?”

“It’s not for any particular person,” Higgins said. “Just leave it here. I’m going to see another man now.”


Reid, known by his initials RTR, had been the headmaster of the school for the past eight years. That morning he had taken his two older children to school with him along with Pax his brown and white setter, who spent his days lazing in the yard.

The school roll was called and Joan and her sister, Ruth, dutifully replied to their names.

Despite their teacher Miss Kendon’s best intentions, the pair were already preparing for morning break, which was about 20 minutes away. The clock hit 10 minutes past 10 when Pax began to bark.

The dog had never made such a sound at school before, only occasionally knocking over a smaller student by mistake. Reid rose from his desk and went outside to see Higgins, six feet tall with tanned skin and a small moustache, walking up to the school.

The visitor did not seem to register the headmaster. He continued past him before murmuring: “I’m here for revenge.”

Joan looked out the glass window of her classroom door and saw Higgins standing with Reid in the corridor. Before long, the pair had disappeared into the headmaster’s study.

Reid closed the door, turned and saw Higgins standing before him with a pistol pointed at his stomach. He was rambling about being persecuted and about his animals.

Reid, unsure of what he wanted, suggested the pair go to the post office to call Sergeant O’Grady at Waihi police station to talk it over.

“You must be dense if you don’t know what I am here for,” Higgins responded. “I have come here to die but I’m not afraid to stand before my God.”

Reid suggested that, if he wanted to shoot someone, he should go down to the battery and shoot the men he was accusing of hounding him.

Higgins looked at his watch. “I’m wasting my time,” he said.

“You’ll have to shoot me before the children,” Reid replied.

“You leave me no choice,” Higgins said. “If you will have it, then take it.”

He squeezed the trigger and a bullet shot through Reid’s right shoulder and into his jaw.

The headmaster tried to shout a warning as Higgins made his way out of the door. But he couldn’t make a sound. Blood was filling his throat.

Joan heard a bang, like a blackboard hitting the floor, but the class did not take any notice. Miss Kendon went to the door and found Higgins.

He moved past her and fired two shots into the classroom. Joan saw the action but still, no-one seemed to know what was going on. “It was just too difficult to even comprehend,” she said.

Then Higgins turned, crossed the corridor and entered the other classroom. He seemed to be looking for particular victims, recounted Crown prosecutor Sir Vincent Meredith. Slates, hats and books scattered across the floor and children clambered to escape. Some tried to jump out windows. Some hid behind their desks, others tried to hide in cupboards.

Joan passed her headmaster slouched in the doorway of his office. All he could do was wave his arm toward the door.

Katie heard a bang but did not see the gun. She stood up to run but couldn’t. She looked down to see her stockings stained red with blood.


Kelvyn McLean, 13, sat at his desk. As Higgins approached him, the boy pleaded with him. He knew the attacker.

“You won’t hurt me will you, Mr Higgins? Remember I used to help you with your firewood.”

The first shot pierced his left leg. Kelvyn sprawled across his desk. He called out for his mother. A second shot was fired into his body.

The teachers had ushered the children to the bottom of the school grounds and told them to go home and tell their parents what had happened. Joan and her siblings headed for their grandmother, who could not believe them. But soon all the neighbours were gathering at a nearby crossroads. When the Stewart family arrived and asked where their son Charles was, nobody knew.

Back at the school, miners from the battery arrived. Some were armed with pea shooters, others had spades.

“What the hell do you want?” Higgins yelled from a window.

“If you don’t come down, we will burn the school down,” one of the miners shouted.

“Well then, let her go.”

Sergeant O’Grady and Constable Olsen from Waihi arrived soon after. They told Higgins to throw the weapon out the window. Instead, he started firing.

The men edged closer to the school and arrived near the study door where Higgins had barricaded himself in. One of the miners smashed in the study door and created a crack to peer through.

Higgins had pulled Reid, who was seemingly lifeless on the ground, into his cupboard and covered him in paper. He was talking about burning the place down.

Constable Olsen pointed his revolver though the split. Higgins spun around and fired a shot at him, striking him in the groin.

Moments later, O’Grady bashed in the door and found Higgins without his gun but with a knife in his hand.

”It’s all done,” Higgins said. He had thrown his gun out the window.

Police handcuffed him and brought him back through the throng of civilians who had gathered. As he was led out, one miner lunged and punched Higgins in the face. They took him outside and pushed him into a waiting police car.

Inside, doctors found Reid still alive, blood-soaked and in shock, but alive. Among the litter of .32-calibre shells on the ground, an officer found a detonator with a length of fuse attached to a package wrapped in newspaper. Inside were three sticks of the explosive gelignite enough to destroy the entire school.

Higgins spent the night in the Waihi police cells and appeared in court the next day. A few hours later he was on a train bound for Mt Eden jail in Auckland.

The two dead boys, Kelvyn and Charles, were buried in Waihi cemetery on Sunday. Joan and her grandmother spent hours making wreaths out of cherry blossoms. There were so many they almost hid the caskets completely. The procession through Waikino, led by two hearses, was half a kilometre long.

The next week a meeting was held to protest an Education Board decision to keep the school open. Children would be taught in the town hall while it was being cleaned.

Later that evening it was the battery workers who first saw the glow on the hill. The flames, fanned by a light breeze was consuming the schoolhouse. By 9pm, it was almost completely destroyed. It was obvious the fire was deliberate. But no-one ever spoke and no charges were ever laid.

Almost 90 years on, though, local Bev Stubbs thinks she knows who did it. It was someone close to the tragedy. Someone who lost their child that day. But she won’t say who. There is still a pain in Waikino that exists to this day. There were some things, she said, that you keep quiet about.

John Higgins was charged in the Auckland Supreme Court with two counts of murder and sentenced to death. He pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity. His sentence was later commuted to life imprisonment. He died in Avondale Mental Hospital in 1938.

Robert Reid never taught again. He retired to Auckland and died at the age of 92.

The four children who were injured recovered but Katie McGarry walked with a limp for the rest of her life; she died in 1987.

Whenever Joan Taylor (nee Dobson) sees a cherry blossom she still thinks of that Sunday in 1923.

This article was compiled from newspaper reports, court records, judge’s notes, interviews including with loan Taylor, one of the last remaining survivors and secondary sources, including an unpublished report by Graham Robb, who interviewed several locals involved in the incident.

Sunday Star Times, 2012

New Zealand’s moose hunt: A century-long quest for a forest’s final secret – Charlie Mitchell.

The idea that moose roam the most remote corner of New Zealand has long been an urban legend. The New Zealand moose is no ‘Bigfoot’. It’s far more plausible than one might think.

It was listed on the map as “unexplored territory”. A dim cove in the mist, separating the fiord from the colossal forests that cloak the steep valleys of Fiordland.

The famous government steamship, the Hinemoa, had rescued shipwreck survivors in the sub-Antarctic and dropped supplies to the lonely lighthouses dotting the southern coast. But when it crept into the gorge at Doubtful Sound, past the waterfalls and the caves and the steep, rolling ridges, it had entered truly inhospitable territory.

Eight men stepped off the ship at Supper Cove, a small arc of sand at the end of the sound. More than a century earlier, Captain James Cook had anchored his ship, the Resolution, nearer the beginning of the fiord for repairs. Cook was struck by the feeling of utter isolation: ”In this bay we are all strangers,” he wrote in his journal.

The Hinemoa’s men hauled 10 large, wooden crates from the steamship, dragged them through the shallows and onto the sand. There were six females and four males, all less than a year old, about a metre and a half in height at the shoulder. The animals stepped carefully into the dim light.

They were here because the governor of Saskatchewan, Canada had received a request from New Zealand’s Prime Minister, Sir Joseph Ward, for assistance in complementing a grand vision: New Zealand as the world’s largest game reserve, collecting the Earth’s most prized, living trophies in one place.

The animals were duly caught in the frozen wilds and raised in captivity. They were fed cow’s milk from a bottle. They were docile and thought capable of surviving the treacherous boat trip across the world, through the tropics and into the cold, perpetual rain.

It was the beginning of autumn in 1910 and the air was thick with sandflies. When the animals stepped onto the beach, some were scared and returned to their crates, but the men upended the boxes and they toppled out. One animal, in a panic, attacked another, breaking its leg.

The men returned to the Hinemoa. They sailed back down the fiord, away from the darkness and the cargo they’d left behind.

And so the moose, young, small and afraid, were alone. They dissolved into the mist and the Fiordland bush, strangers in a strange land.


One of the last verified photographs of a Fiordland moose, taken in 1952.

There are millions of trees in Fiordland, and Ken Tustin, a biologist, had them all to choose from when setting up his surveillance network.

He’s had cameras in the bush for more than 20 years, hoping they will capture a glimpse of the ghosts of the forest. As the years progressed, so did his cameras his latest ones automatically triggered upon sensing movement, taking photographs of deer, possums, and the occasional tramper. The cameras took many thousands of photos and videos, weathering some of the world’s harshest conditions, where it rains 20 days a month and tremendous storms emerge from the quiet, rattling the trees and turning paths into creeks and creeks into torrents.

He caught one on video, once. In 1995, the deer like animal wandered into frame; The camera was in time-lapse mode so the image was blurry, but the animal’s shape was distinctive. It was nearly black and had a curved back, a thick neck and a beaked nose, swaying through the bush with the lumbering gait of a large animal, unlike a deer but suspiciously like a moose.

It was too blurry to convince everyone, though. The camera was a “monstrous arrangement,” Tustin says, powered by car batteries and primitive by modern standards. It took a photo every four seconds and would only record video when the animal came close, which happened just as it moved out of frame. Since then, the cameras had caught nothing.

Having failed to capture his target, Tustin decided to retire his cameras late last year.

“That’s it. The end of an era”, he told the local newspaper.

“Well, the pause of an era.”

More than a century after the animals disappeared into the forest, the strange tale of the Southern Hemisphere’s only moose population has entered the realm of New Zealand folklore. The moose have encouraged intrepid explorers seeking sizeable bounties and inspired tall tales told in southern pubs.

There have been blurry photos and stray hairs, suspicious droppings and sinister hoaxes. The gossip circle of the West Coast bush still spits out the occasional story of huge antlers glimpsed in the dark, or a strange, cloying smell disrupting the thick smell of deer.

What there hasn’t been is clear, undeniable proof that the descendants of those 10 moose still roam the forest somewhere in the mist, even as the body of circumstantial evidence has continued to grow.

“We’re just talking about a remnant population, hanging on by the skin of their teeth”, Tustin says in an interview.

“The scale of Fiordland is just monstrous. They’re not living in the open, and there’s very few people who frequent the places under the canopy.”

On its face, it sounds completely implausible. A fully grown Canadian bull moose would be 6ft tall at the shoulder and weigh 350kg, roughly the size of a large horse, with giant, sprawling antlers. How could one creature that size, let alone dozens of them, remain unseen for more than 60 years?

But moose are famously elusive, and the Fiordland bush is a uniquely superb landscape for disappearing. Legendary hunting guide Jim Muir, who hunted Fiordland moose in the 1920s and 1930s, once said he could tell a moose was just metres away by its tracks, but he could not see it through the trees. They are silent and solitary and move like shadows.

“They’ve got all the senses that make humans seem rather clumsy,” Tustin says.

“I can think of half a dozen times where I’ve been within a step or two. You can smell them and you’re surrounded by sign… You feel the hair stand on the back of your neck. Out of all those years, only half a dozen times.”

He began his search for moose in the early 1970s at the behest of his then employer, the Forestry Service. During their 70 days in the bush, his team found a cast antler, what was then the most convincing evidence of a live moose in decades.

At the time, he believed the moose would soon become extinct, they would struggle to compete with deer for food. But shortly afterwards, helicopter deer hunting became popular and mass deer culls greatly reduced the population. It was a respite for the moose.

In the time since, Tustin has spent the equivalent of several years in the bush, much of it joined by his wife, Marg, searching for moose. Although he took his cameras down, he is not capitulating: He had been trying to track one particular moose since 2002, which he believed roamed through Herrick Creek every July up to about 2011. It stopped leaving physical signs, leading Tustin to assume it was dead. The cameras were pointless.

He still ventures into the forest for weeks at a time, despite his advancing age, hoping to map the route of another moose.

“I’m 72 now, which is a pain in the arse, being this old,” he says.

“It’s demanding, and I like it like that. If it was soft and easy you wouldn’t feel you were having such an adventure. I’m still on the case. Maybe not with the same intensity as a few years ago, but we’re still out there.”


The sheep farmer was tramping through the forest when he smelled something unusual, a cloying, honey-like scent, clinging to the wind. An animal, but not a deer, and not any of the plants familiar to him from his previous expeditions into the bush.

Steve Jones had a tarpaulin and a week of food, but chose to walk on. The sun was sinking and the hut was some ways away. He realised later what he had sensed: The elusive moose, likely bathing in a small stream near him in the Hauroko Burn.

“There was a moose not 200 metres upwind from me, and I walked on,” he says. He had ignored his own advice: “Follow your nose”.

The Australian has made several trips to Fiordland in search of the moose. His quest began when he picked up a copy of Australian Deer magazine in the 1990s, which featured a photo of famed Hastings moose hunter Eddie Herrick carrying a bull moose’s head on his back, trudging through the creek which now bears his name, where many historical moose sightings took place.

Only three moose trophies were ever obtained in New Zealand; two were shot by Herrick, including the first bull moose killed under licence, in 1929. One of the moose was old and weak and missing one of its legs, likely as a result of gangrene, it was thought to be the original moose that had broken its leg in a panic 20 years earlier.

Jones recreated that trip, an arduous slog through the wilderness. He enjoys the enormity of the landscape, the sense of wilderness: “It is somehow deeply reassuring and invigorating to be alone with all that silence, moss and vastness,” he says in an email.

He says it wasn’t the first time he had come close. On one trip, he was crawling through a stream when “something very large and dark surged up and thundered off in a cloud of spray further up the stream, giving me just the barest glimpse of it”, he recalled.

It was not a bull, as he could not see its antlers; he followed it to a patch of sand, where he saw its large, fresh prints. The animal ventured into a swamp, where he circled it for an hour, catching occasional glimpses of its leg through bush. He had his gun but refused to take the shot and so was conquered by the coming darkness.

“It simply could not have been anything else,” he says.

“I would never shoot at something I could not see clearly, it would be dangerous and unethical. I’m glad I didn’t though as they are rare and special and it would have been just a waste.”

Jones, who has hunted deer for more than 40 years, has detailed his years long hunt for the moose on his blog. Like others who have gone searching, he says the evidence is unmistakeable: Only a moose could feed on branches three metres high, leave footprints that large.

Around this time every year, Jones yearns for Fiordland. He plans to come back next year to finally capture a moose on camera. He says he has a strategy, which he declines to reveal, but may arrange helicopter supply drops ahead of time so he can stay in the bush for some time, searching.

He’s not sure if he would make the photos public; He seeks personal, not public triumph.

“The herd might be better off if I did not publicise it, so they might just be enlarged on my wall”.

Australia has lost its compass for the world, we should look to Jacinda Ardern for inspiration – Thom Woodroffe.

Australian values are neither clear nor consistent. If we want to make a difference in the world, we should follow New Zealand’s lead.

Of all the Generation X world leaders elected in the last few years, think Justin Trudeau in Canada, Emmanuel Macron in France, and even the 31 year old Sebastian Kurz in Austria it is New Zealand’s Jacinda Ardern who has the firmest sense of what kind of country she wants to lead on the world stage.

Just four months since taking office after a decade of conservative rule, and while trying to carefully balance the views of three parties in government, New Zealand is already showing signs of regaining its trademark standing as a small but confident, principled and creative presence internationally. And Australia should take notice.

“Foreign policy is perpetually a balance between interests values. But too often it is easy to focus on the security and economic imperatives of the first and forget the second, or not realise that the two are inextricably linked.

Australia used to be the gold standard for charting the right course. Our foreign policy in the 1980s and early 1990s was characterised by Gareth Evans’ concept of being “a good international citizen” which he used to say was about “no more and no less than the pursuit of enlightened self interest”. Our crafting of the Cambodia Peace Plan and the Canberra Commission on the Elimination of Nuclear Weapons were two clear examples, as was our opposition to apartheid. But these were pursued within a wider understanding that our future prosperity and security was in Asia and we also needed to cement a role for ourselves in the region, not least through our founding of Apec.

If anything, New Zealand wore their values even more strongly on their sleeves, famously sending a ship with a cabinet minister on board to protest at the edge of a French nuclear testing site in 1973, and then in 1985 refusing entry to the nuclear powered USS Buchanan (which unfortunately caused the breakdown of their involvement in ANZUS).

But it is important to remember this was driven by the people. These are clearly the days Ardern longs for. Speaking on Tuesday before travelling to Australia she said, “Being a child of the 80s affected me in many ways and that included international events. Rather than just reading about the impact of apartheid in South Africa for instance, or nuclear testing in the Pacific, I saw instead each of these issues through the lens of our response. They weren’t history lessons, they were lessons in our values, what mattered to us, and that our size bore no relation to the impact our voice could have.”

Ardern also said that she wants the next generation of Kiwis to see their country standing up for what it believes in on the world stage. And her announcement this week that her foreign minister and deputy, Winston Peters, will also take up the ministerial title and mantle of nuclear disarmament is one of the first manifestations of that. He will push for the early entry into the landmark treaty on the prohibition of nuclear weapons, which Australia opposes despite a long history of leadership on the issue at all levels. The campaign group that just won the Nobel Peace Prize was founded in Melbourne after all.

Ardern’s focus on climate change, what she has called her generation’s nuclear-free movement will be another. In December she said New Zealand would explore a new visa category for climate affected Pacific Islanders, and this week Peters announced at the Lowy Institute in Sydney that New Zealand would “reset” its engagement with the region taking a cue from the eloquent case put at the same lectern by Australia’s own Richard Marles last November. Indeed, it is telling that next week Ardern will visit the Cook Islands, Niue, Samoa and Tonga before she has been to the United States, China, Japan or Europe, New Zealand’s four largest trading partners besides Australia.

Admittedly, Ardern’s strategy to embrace the Asian Century and shore up relations with the United States and others is less clear and here Australia excels as Malcolm Turnbull’s reception in Washington last month demonstrated. But otherwise it seems, we have lost our own compass for the world.

While most people singularly and somewhat naively focus on international aid as a measure of a country’s global heart (where, all told, we have gutted more than $11bn in recent years), there are countless other examples, not least the fact that despite taking up a seat on the UN Human Rights Council this week, our international reputation continues to suffer as a result of the treatment of asylum seekers on Manus and Nauru, and because of a lack of progress on reconciliation (a point Kevin Rudd made in these pages this week). And for all the money we spend on peacekeeping, we don’t spend a dime on peacemaking.

Even in recent years when we have become exercised about particular matters diplomatically like our opposition to the death penalty there is a tendency for us to only stand up for these values as they apply to those who hold an Australian passport.

Take for example the case of Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran in 2015. Former Liberal MP Phillip Ruddock argued at the time that our calls for clemency probably would have been received more powerfully if we had consistently made representations on behalf of the hundreds of Indonesians on death row in the Middle East. And if anything, we should have used their tragic executions to start a new regional push against the death penalty starting by trying to reduce the number of crimes that carry a death sentence and pushing for its removal for some crimes, with greater transparency on these executions in the meantime.

Put simply, when our values and what we stand up for are neither clear nor consistent, we cannot expect others to respect them. This was something New Zealand learnt in the 1990s when its principled opposition to a French resolution on Haiti at the UN allowed it to weather any impact to its bilateral relations, a far cry from John Key’s assertion in 2015 that sending troops to Iraq to fight Isis was simply “the price of the club”, referring to the Five Eyes intelligence network.

Unfortunately, last year’s Foreign Policy White Paper didn’t give you any sense of what as a country we believe in, or what we want to do. Understanding what we believe in as a nation, what we are good at, and what upsets us is central to crafting an effective foreign policy.

Penny Wong put it well recently when she said in a Fairfax interview that “to me, fundamentally, foreign policy is about your place in the world and how you see Australia in the world. Having a sense of what your purpose is as important as the day-to-day management.” We may be good at the latter, but we cannot expect to make much of a difference if that is all that we do.”

Either way, values are not the monopoly of any one particular side of politics, or even one country. If we want to make a difference in the world, we should watch closely what happens in Ardern’s New Zealand.

Thom Woodroofe is a UN Representative with Independent Diplomat, a non-profit diplomatic advisory group. @thomwoodroofe

The Guardian

‘Damn … I missed’: the incredible story of the day the Queen was nearly shot – Eleanor Ainge Roy. 

In 1981 a New Zealand teenager fired at the British monarch – and a new investigation claims the assassination attempt was brushed aside by officials

It may be the closest anyone has ever come to assassinating Queen Elizabeth II.

In 1981, Christopher John Lewis, a disturbed New Zealand teenager aimed his .22 rifle at the British monarch during her tour of the country, lining up her jade outfit in his scope.

The bullet missed, but according to an investigation by reporter Hamish McNeilly for the website Stuff, the 17-year-old became obsessed with wiping out the royal family, as the government scrambled to conceal how close the self-styled terrorist had come to killing the head of state.

Two years after shooting at the Queen, the teenager, planning to murder Prince Charles, attempted to escape from a psychiatric ward. In 1995, New Zealand police sent him on a taxpayer-funded holiday during the Queen’s November tour – believing him to be safer snoozing on a beach than anywhere within firing distance of the monarch. He killed himself in prison in 1997.

By the age of 17, Lewis had a history of armed robbery, arson and animal torture. He idolised the Australian bandit Ned Kelly and American serial killer Charles Manson.

On Wednesday 14 October 1981, Lewis pulled on gloves and loaded his rifle inside a deserted toilet cubicle in New Zealand’s oldest city, Dunedin, aiming his scope at the Queen’s motorcade five storeys below.

Later, police found clippings on the royal family in Lewis’s squalid flat as well as a detailed map of the Queen’s route that day, with the words “Operation = Ass QUEB” written on the paper.

The Queen had just stepped out of a Rolls-Royce to greet 3,500 wellwishers when a distinctive crack rang out across the grassy reserve.

According to former Dunedin police det sgt Tom Lewis (no relation to the shooter), police immediately attempted to disguise the seriousness of the threat, telling the British press the noise was a council sign falling over. Later, under further questioning from reporters, they said someone had been letting off firecrackers nearby.

According to Tom Lewis, the then prime minister Robert Muldoon feared if word got out about how close the teenager had come to killing the Queen, the royals would never again visit New Zealand.

The 1981 annual police report reads: “The discharge of a firearm during the visit of Her Majesty the Queen serves to remind us all of the potential risks to royalty, particularly during public walks.”

Police interviewed the teenager eight times, during which he claimed he had been instructed to kill the Queen by an Englishman known to him as “the Snowman”, of whom Lewis was frightened.

The Snowman allegedly told Lewis about the pro-Nazi, rightwing National Front in England, and said Lewis could be part of similar groups that were popping up in New Zealand.

Lewis later claimed to have been visited by high-ranking officials from the government in Wellington during his 13-day interrogation, and was told never to discuss the incident.

“If I was ever to mention the events surrounding my interviews or the organisation, or that I was in the building, or that I was shooting from it – that they would make sure I ‘suffered a fate worse than death’,” Lewis wrote in a draft autobiography found beside his body after he killed himself. It was published posthumously.

Further evidence of Lewis’s obsession with the royal family had emerged in 1983 when he attempted to overpower a guard at a psychiatric hospital where he was being detained in order to assassinate Prince Charles, who visited the country in April with the Princess of Wales and their young son, William.

Fourteen years after Lewis’s attempt on the Queen’s life, the monarch returned to tour New Zealand in November 1995.

Lewis, then 31, was deemed a serious threat to her safety, so New Zealand police dispatched him to Great Barrier Island in the north of the country, with free accommodation, daily spending money and the use of a vehicle. He was not, however, under 24-hour surveillance.

“I started to feel like royalty,” Lewis wrote of his 10-day exile.

Tom Lewis, who worked on the 1981 case, said police were eager to keep the troubled man out of the spotlight during the second tour and downplay how close he had come to the Queen on her earlier visit.

“You will never get a true file on that: it was reactivated, regurgitated, bits pulled off it, other false bits put on it,” Lewis told Stuff, adding that Christopher Lewis’s original statement to police was destroyed. “They were in damage control so many times.”

Murray Hanan, Lewis’s former lawyer, said police did not want to press ahead with a charge of treason – which in 1981 still carried the death penalty – and he believed they had received an order from “up-top, politically” to hush up the attempted murder.

“The fact an attempted assassination of the Queen had taken place in New Zealand … it was just too politically hot to handle,” said Hanan. “I think the government took the view that he is a bit nutty and has had a hard upbringing, so it won’t be too harsh.”

When Lewis faced court, his potshot at the Queen was downgraded to possession of a firearm in a public place and discharging it. The attempted assassination – an embarrassment to the police protection squad, and to the government – was being quietly and conveniently forgotten.

Lewis killed himself in prison at the age of 33, while awaiting trial for the murder of a young mother and the kidnapping of her child. Shortly before his death Lewis told his partner about his infamous attempt to assassinate the Queen of England.

“Damn,” he told her, “damn … I missed.”

The Guardian 


The Snowman and the Queen: Christopher John Lewis’ young life of crime.

The Snowman and the Queen is a five-part series looking at the life and crimes of Christopher John Lewis, a self-styled teen terrorist and trained ‘ninja’ whose bizarre criminal antics kept police busy from his school days until his strange suicide in prison at age 33.


Christopher John Lewis was born in Dunedin on September 7, 1964. His life of crime started young, when he was expelled from kindergarten for pushing another child off a slide, and continued until his suicide in prison at age 33.

This crimeline covers major criminal incidents involving Lewis, starting from when he was just 16.


January 20: Sent to Cherry Farm psychiatric hospital in Dunedin for a risk assessment after a minor criminal matter. Later escaped.

December 13: Lewis burgled his former school, Otago Boys’ High School, stealing five .22 rifles.


January 20: Lewis is committed under the Mental Health Act to Cherry Farm, after taking a vehicle at gunpoint. Released in May.

August 5-October 9: Dunedin crimespree of arsons, burglaries, vandalism and an armed robbery, with his guerilla group N.I.G.A claiming responsibility for most.

October 14: The Queen and Prince Philip walk around Dunedin’s Octagon as part of their royal tour of New Zealand. After lunch their motorcade heads to the Otago Museum Reserve, arriving just before 3pm. As they exit the car, a shot is heard.

October 22: Lewis is brought in for questioning.

October 23: Lewis takes police to Dunedin’s Adams Building and they recover a missing .22 rifle. Under questioning, Lewis confirms he took a shot at the Queen.

November 2: Lewis is charged in connection with firing a weapon on the day of the Royal visit.

November 17: Lewis pleads guilty in court to 17 charges including aggravated robbery and unlawfully discharging a firearm.

December 10: Lewis is sentenced to three years imprisonment.1982-1985

Lewis serves time at an Invercargill youth institution and at the maximum security Lake Alice Hospital in Whanganui, where it is revealed he was behind a detailed plot to kill visiting Prince Charles. He serves the last part of his sentence at Dunedin’s Cherry Farm psychiatric hospital.

He is jailed for further burglary and theft offending.


April: Lewis, after four robberies, sparks a major West Coast manhunt and flees via the underside of a bus.

June: Lewis is captured in Auckland trying to buy a car. He appears in court on aggravated robbery, attempted aggravated robbery and burglary. He is sentenced to eight years’ jail.


Days after his release he is sentenced to four years for the hold-up of a bank at Waikanae.


Lewis parolled.

November: Lewis and his then partner sent to Great Barrier Island by authorities worried he may threaten the Queen once more.


July 26: Tania Furlan found bashed to death in her Auckland home.

November: Lewis sent to jail for six months over making a false statement for the purpose of procuring a New Zealand passport. He is later charged with Furlan’s murder.


September 23: Yet to face trial, Lewis, 33, electrocutes himself in his prison cell at Mt Eden.


Chapter one

The schoolboy with the strawberry blonde hair goes unnoticed as he walks up the stairs carrying a gun wrapped in a pair of old jeans.

The wannabe assassin leaves his 10-speed bike outside the seven-storey Adams Building; chosen at the last minute.

He enters a deserted toilet cubicle on the fifth floor, removes the stolen .22, puts on gloves, opens the window, and waits.

After a nerve-racking five minutes, the teenager spots a Rolls Royce driving down the closed road.

A few hundred metres away a large crowd of people erupts in cheers as the motorcade stops outside the Otago Museum Reserve.

This is the moment. After this, he’d be New Zealand’s greatest criminal.

He puts the rifle against his shoulder, and aims at the Queen of England.


This is the story of how a 17-year-old from Dunedin made the world’s closest attempt to kill Queen Elizabeth II, our longest-living reigning monarch, and how police allegedly covered it up to save face.

As far as assassins go, Christopher John Lewis hardly looked the part. The short, bespectacled teen with a slight frame was described by police as “something out of the Boy Scout manual” and having a “Joe 90” appearance – after the 1960s spy character.

But a note on his file read: “Not to be trusted.”

Born in Dunedin on September 7, 1964, Lewis’ life of offending began with his expulsion from kindergarten. According to his memoirs, Last Words, published after his death, he was kicked out for pushing a child off a slide.

His father left after a few years and his mother remarried. According to Lewis, his stepfather was a harsh disciplinarian who frequently beat him with a strap.

“This taste of violence made me resentful and turn inwards,” Lewis said.

A self-described loner, he struggled at school and was unable to read or write until he was 8.

Expulsions became a way of life. At Anderson Bay Primary it was for “stirring up teachers”; at Tahuna Intermediate for taking a porn magazine to school; at Otago Boys’ High he was “always having fights and getting in the s…”.

“I had the most detentions and the most canings of anyone in the high school,” he would tell police.

As his criminal ambitions escalated, Lewis, who idolised cult outlaws such as Ned Kelly and Charles Manson, styled himself as the leader of his own guerilla army: the National Imperial Guerilla Army (N.I.G.A.). He enlisted former primary school buddy Geoffrey Rothwell and friend Paul Taane to join.

Taane, who now lives in Christchurch, said Lewis often appeared “angry at the world, people were afraid of him”.

Lewis, simply, had no regard for human life, he said.

Taane remembers Lewis sticking pins into a kitten for fun. Once, Lewis pointed a loaded shotgun in his face.

In late 1980, the three-man army launched a crimewave in Dunedin, beginning with the theft of five .22s from Lewis’ former high school, a church burglary and the arson of a video store. The boys claimed responsibility for four-break ins and a safe cracking. A letter to police during the 1981 Springbok rugby tour claimed that N.I.G.A. would “continue to steal, rob or even kill … unless if the Springbok team leaves New Zealand”. [sic]

Rothwell, now a lawyer, declined to be interviewed for this story.

The burglary of a secondhand sporting store and then a gun store gave the fledgling army an arsenal of weapons, some of which were later found buried at Lewis’ Albany St flat in the heart of Dunedin’s student quarter.

As Taane recalls, the trio would bike on their 10-speeds to a park for target practice with a sawn-off shotgun.

With an eye on sourcing cash to expand their criminal activities, the burgeoning teen terrorists embarked on their most daring plan yet: the armed robbery of the Anderson’s Bay Post Office.


On the day of the robbery, Taane and Rothwell left nearby Bayfield High School at morning tea break, so they wouldn’t be missed.

They joined Lewis and pulled on camouflage coats to hide their school uniforms, before cycling to the target.

The trio donned balaclavas and Lewis – wielding a sawn-off shotgun and with an ammunition belt slung across his skinny frame – burst into the post office.

“This is a f….. hold-up,” he yelled at the startled postmistress and female clerk.

Lewis leapt over the counter and ordered his large backpack filled with cash.

Two terrified teenage girls waiting outside were forced into the building and ordered to sit on the floor by the shotgun-wielding Taane, who was acting as a lookout.

When Lewis jumped back over the counter his shotgun went off, missing a post office worker by centimetres.

With $5244.31 in cash, the boy robbers then made their getaway on their bikes.

Bizarrely, as he rode back to his flat with his stolen loot, Lewis stopped to help a police car that had crashed on the way to the scene. The cop suspected nothing.

Back at school Taane and Rothwell sat an exam, alongside their unwitting classmates.

Former constable Frank Van Der Eik was one of the officers called to set up a cordon around the post office.

He and other officers were amazed to discover it was schoolboys who carried out the brazen daylight armed robbery.

“You would never think to look for a high school kid in school clothes,” Van Der Eik said.

Ten days after the robbery a letter posted at Otago University said “N.I.G.A. claimed responsibility for the Post Office robbery and the Centrefire Sports shop”.

Taane recalled telling Rothwell in the days after the robbery, “normal life will be boring after this”.

Lewis had never been one for boring. In later years, he boasted to his lawyer, Murray Hanan, that he would be “New Zealand’s greatest criminal”. What he planned next was his ticket to notoriety.


Christopher John Lewis is only 17 when he finds himself perched inside the Adams Building, with a rifle cocked and aimed at Queen Elizabeth II, on Wednesday October 14, 1981.

The eight-day royal visit, her sixth to New Zealand, is a short one, just a month after the divisive Springbok rugby tour.

Hundreds of police, fresh from clashing with anti-apartheid protesters, are tasked with protecting the Queen.

Security is tight, or so they believe.

Wearing a jade-coloured wool dress, coat and hat, the Queen steps out of a Rolls Royce and onto the sunny Otago Museum Reserve, while the Duke observes police shielding about 15 demonstrators.

Then a loud crack echoes around.

How close did this sandy-haired boy burglar come in his attempt on Queen Elizabeth’s life?

What made New Zealand police so afraid of Lewis that they sent him on a taxpayer-funded holiday 14 years after the assassination attempt during another of the Queen’s visits?

And who was the mysterious ‘Snowman’ whom Lewis claimed gave him the order to shoot?


Chapter two

At just 17, Christopher John Lewis fears nothing. Nothing except one person. 
“I have no unnatural phobias at all. I am scared of the Snowman,” he tells police.

The Snowman is English, about 22 years old, 172 centimetres tall, of average build, with short black hair and a “rough temper”, teen criminal Lewis says.

He first meets the Snowman by chance at Dunedin’s Manor House Coffee Lounge.
Snowman tells Lewis about the pro-Nazi, right-wing National Front in England and says similar groups are “sprouting up” across New Zealand.
Lewis is keen to get involved, and has visions of leading his own local terrorist cell.

When the Snowman asks Lewis whether the Queen should be “knocked off”, the young bandit knows this is his chance for a promotion.

He starts planning to kill Queen Elizabeth II.


One might have expected panic among the 3500-strong crowd when the crack of gunfire rang out across the Otago Museum Reserve on the afternoon of Wednesday, October 14, 1981.

Engraver Garth Simpson and two workmates had just downed tools to watch the Rolls Royce cruise along Malcolm St.
Garth Simpson was in Dunedin when the Queen visited the city. As she was driven past, he remembers hearing a gun-shot nearby.

They waved, but Queen Elizabeth II did not return their greeting.
Annoyed, Simpson turned his back. That’s when he heard it.
“It was clearly a gunshot.”
A former territorial soldier for more than a decade, Simpson was adamant the shot came from a .22 calibre rifle.

“I assumed it was a shot at the Queen.”
Sue Cutfield, who was near the reserve, heard the shot as the Queen, wearing her trademark matching hat, coat and dress, emerged from the car.

Former Constable Frank Van Der Eik, one of hundreds of officers at the scene, described it as a “crack”.

“You hear that noise and all the cops are looking around: scanning, scanning, scanning,” Van Der Eik said.

But nothing happened. “The Queen just carried on.”

Media reports later quoted police saying the noise was merely a council sign falling over, but an inquiry was launched.

Eight days later, police stumbled across 17-year-old Christopher Lewis by chance.
Officers were going door-to-door to find possible witnesses to an unrelated armed robbery, when they discovered nervous schoolboy Geoffrey Rothwell, wearing a camouflage jacket matching the description of the robbers.

Rothwell, Lewis, and another mate, Paul Taane, were taken in for questioning.
Soon the boys were talking – none more so than Lewis.

Described by police as looking like “something out of a boy scout manual”, he admitted to a string of burglaries, and to being the supposed head of the National Imperial Guerilla Army (N.I.G.A), which only months earlier had sent letters to police threatening violence over the Springbok tour.

Officers seized a cache of weapons from the teen’s flat, but something was missing: a BSA .22 bolt action.

Later, Lewis led police to the non-descript Adams Building, to a toilet overlooking the Queen’s route through Dunedin. There police found the weapon, along with a spent .22 cartridge.

At Lewis’ flat, officers found newspaper clippings on the royal family and a hand-drawn map of the Octagon with the words: Operation = Ass QUEB.

They realised this sandy-haired schoolboy was not just a robber, but a would-be assassin.

Lewis was officially interviewed eight times over a 13-day period, on suspicion of attempting to kill the Queen, the police file shows.

The teen potentially faced a charge of treason. The penalty? Death.
Lewis claimed the order for the assassination came from the Snowman.
Transcripts of those interviews, obtained for the first time under the Official Information Act, said Lewis portrayed “a real fear” of the Snowman.

“He … considers him to be very powerful, with access to firearms,” a detective noted.
According to Lewis, school mates Taane, 17, and Rothwell, 16, were directly under his command in N.I.G.A, with another person, the Polar Bear, higher ranked in the group.

The Snowman was the leader, and under his orders the fledgling army aimed “to terrorise Dunedin” and police with “fear tactics, terrorism, firearms and explosives”.

He told police he thought killing the Queen would get him promoted within N.I.G.A.
Detectives had “grave doubts” about the existence of the Snowman and the Polar Bear.

One interviewing detective put it to Lewis that, if the Snowman wanted a person of such international prestige as the Queen assassinated, he wouldn’t get a boy to do the job for him.

“I … suggested that he was the Snowman,” the officer said.

But Lewis put on a convincing show.
In one interview, he asked to sit away from the window over fears he would be shot by a sniper. If the Snowman found out Lewis had exposed him, he would be killed, he said.

Lewis said his last meeting with the Snowman was on Monday October 12, 1981, two days before the royal visit.
“It was his idea that I shoot the Queen.”


In several statements to police between October 22 to November 3, 1981, Lewis gave varying versions of how he carried out his plot to assassinate the Queen.

He first said he originally planned to shoot the monarch in the Octagon, but aborted the location because there wasn’t an escape route.

“I wanted to find a good place to get her from. I wanted to find a place where I wouldn’t get caught.”

When he realised the Octagon wouldn’t work, he biked to the Adams Building, his Plan B.

With no-one around he walked up to the fifth floor and then into a toilet block.
There he found a window facing towards the museum.

“The window was open just a fraction, I didn’t open it any further, just a fraction was enough for what I wanted it for.”
Lewis told detectives he waited a few minutes for the Queen to arrive before letting a shot off.

“I don’t know if I hit anything or not.”
Lewis left the rifle in a locker just outside the toilet, and took the lift to the ground floor, before cycling back to his flat.

Two days later he gave another version of events. This time he told detectives that on the day of the attempt he went to scope out the museum before playing Space Invaders in the foyer of the nearby University Union.

Walking back to his flat he changed into his dark blue suit trousers, jersey and gym shoes.

He then went to his garden, dug up a stolen .22 rifle, and gave it a clean.
Wrapping the rifle up in a pair of old jeans he placed it on the handlebars of his green 10 speed Healing and headed to the Adams Building.

“Right up until this stage it was my intention to kill the Queen by shooting her with the loaded .22 calibre I was carrying.”
“At about the fifth floor I changed my mind.”

Lewis told police that he could no longer see the museum reserve, and developed second thoughts.

“My mind was in turmoil. I was tearing my insides out. I didn’t know what to do.'”
Regardless, he unwrapped the gun, putting gloves on to avoid fingerprints.
Opening the window a fraction, he waited in the locked toilet area with his gun aimed at the street below.

“I was going to make a spur of the moment decision if I saw her.”

Five minutes later that opportunity came.
A car travelled down Malcolm St.
“I had no idea who was in this car,” Lewis said.

“I never thought it was the Queen.”
He put the rifle against his shoulder, sighted the road and fired a shot.
Lewis maintained he had no idea where the Queen was when he fired the shot and he “definitely could not see her”.

Later, when shown three photos in order to pinpoint the location of the bullet, Lewis could not orientate himself and asked to be taken to the Adams Building.

In the toilet cubicle, he demonstrated how he latched the window, before simulating firing a gun.

Lewis told police he was confused and uncertain as to where he had fired the shot.

Eventually, Lewis gave the police the true identity of the Snowman: his imagination.
“I have been telling a number of untruths… I now wish to correct a few things.

“The major issue concerns two persons I have code-named the Snowman and Polar Bear.

“These persons do not exist. They are a figment of my imagination.”

On November 2, Lewis was charged with the possession of a .22 rifle in a public place, and another charge of discharging it.
He seemed disappointed.

“Only two charges, what?” “S…,” Lewis said, before letting out a long whistle.

“Had the bullet hit her, would it be treason?” he asked.

“I ignored the question,” the officer wrote.


The bedroom is bare apart from a bed, and bullet holes from a .22 rifle peppering the walls.

It is the day after Lewis is charged and he guides police working on the case outside to a small shed at the rear of his ramshackle villa in the heart of Dunedin’s student quarter.

It’s in this shed, where the budding scientist carries out experiments, the 17-year-old tells the officers.

Among the books and chemicals he uses for his correspondence schooling are his mice which he uses for testing.

Lewis, concerned that no-one will be able to look after the two mice while he is in prison, says he will have to kill them.

Without hesitation he picks up a live mouse and pulls its head clean off in front of his guarding officers, before doing the same to the other.

Police have the boy who took a shot at Queen Elizabeth II, but they’re discovering this young, bookish criminal is more fearsome than he looks, and they don’t want the world to know about him.


Lewis, his lawyer, and a senior officer-turned-whistleblower, claim the truth never came out. Why was Lewis allegedly told by police officers he would suffer a “fate worse than death” if he talked?

If they didn’t believe he had really tried to assassinate the Queen that day, what were police trying to protect by sending Lewis on a publicaly-funded island holiday during a future royal visit?

And what other criminal exploits meant Lewis spent most of his 20s in and out of jail?


Chapter three

It has been 14 years since Christopher John Lewis took a shot at the Queen in Dunedin, when the teen terrorist-turned-Buddhist finds himself on a taxpayer-funded holiday.

He and his partner are fishing and kayaking on Great Barrier Island, with free accommodation, daily spending money and a 4WD – courtesy of the New Zealand police.

“I started to feel like royalty,” Lewis writes in his memoir of the 10-day trip in November 1995.

So great are police fears that the now 31-year-old will again try to assassinate Queen Elizabeth II, their solution is to exile him while the monarch and a swag of heads of states are in Auckland for the Commonwealth Heads of Government (CHOGM) talks.

“My name came up on a list which the police drew up, of suspected radicals with political ideals that had seen them (at some point or another) clash with the law,” Lewis writes.

While police later confirm Lewis was sent to the island for security reasons, he is not under 24-hour surveillance.

Lewis writes: “All in all I had a great holiday and wasn’t at all fazed to spend 10 days away from Auckland.

“Of course had I wanted to shoot someone from CHOGM it would have been a simple task to just fly back to Auckland and do so.”


Given how paranoid police were about Lewis’ threat to the Queen’s life in the 1990s, their subdued response to his 1981 assassination attempt in Dunedin was surprising.

Former Dunedin Detective Sergeant Tom Lewis, who is no relation of Christopher Lewis, has no doubt there was a police cover-up.

“You will never get a true file on that, it was reactivated, regurgitated, bits pulled off it, other false bits put on it . . . they were in damage control so many times.”

According to Tom Lewis, who was initially the officer assigned to the case, orders to cover up the assassination attempt came from the top – then Prime Minister Robert Muldoon.

It was feared New Zealand would never get another royal tour and that police would be the laughing stock of the British press.

Paul Taane, a childhood mate of Lewis who carried out several burglaries and arsons with him, said Lewis confided in him about the plot.

When asked if the assassination attempt was covered-up by authorities, Taane replied “guaranteed”.

“You don’t hear about it. And they don’t want to talk about it.”

On October 14, 1981, the day a shot was heard across Otago Museum Reserve as the Queen greeted thousands of Kiwi fans, police downplayed the incident, telling reporters the sound was merely a council sign falling over.

However, rumours persisted, fuelled by a tip to the British press from within the royal entourage.

Police later said it may have been a person letting off firecrackers near the Medical School Library.

Despite these public denials, Christopher Lewis was in police custody just over a week later.

Tom Lewis alleges the 17-year-old’s first statement to police was destroyed.
Under questioning, Christopher Lewis claimed he had the Queen lined up for a shot as the royal couple met fans, the former detective said.

“He was just about to pull the trigger. He was just tightening the trigger, he could just see her hat and was lining up the hat.”
Now based on the Gold Coast, Tom Lewis claimed a “very accurate” hand-drawn map recovered from the teenager’s bedroom showed how he planned to shoot from the Octagon.

But that plan was thwarted when two policemen walked in front of the teen’s view.

The Adams Building, where Christopher Lewis let off a shot from his perch in a toilet cubicle on the fifth floor, was his “Plan B”.

Tom Lewis said he was with the suspect when police re-enacted his assassination plans in the Octagon, and later from the Adams Building.

And the teen got close. Very close.
“If he had waited until she walked a wee bit closer . . . it could have been less than 50 metres.”

Tom Lewis wrote extensively about the cover-up in his book, Coverups and Copouts, published in 1998.

Some years earlier the former cop had gone public, prompting top brass to deny allegations of a cover-up while claiming all details of the incident were made public.
The 1995 police statement said the case was widely reported at the time, with the incident referenced in the 1981 police annual report.

That report, obtained by Stuff, reads: “The discharge of a firearm during the visit of Her Majesty the Queen serves to remind us all of the potential risks to royalty, particularly during public walks.”
Christopher Lewis, in his memoir Last Words, claimed that, while in custody, he was visited by “high-ranking police officers” from Wellington.

“The Dunedin police were rocking from the pressure the ‘top-brass’ were putting on them from Wellington.

“Many heads rolled because of this.”

“And the cover-up did not stop there,” Lewis wrote.

Interviewed by senior NZSIS officers, Lewis claimed he was offered a “new deal”.

“That if I was ever to mention the events surrounding my interviews or the organisation, or that I was in the building, or that I was shooting from it – that they would make sure I ‘suffered a fate worse than death’.”


Police job sheets released to Stuff reveal that Christopher John Lewis initially faced a charge of treason, or attempted treason.
Tom Lewis, who was later taken off the case, said he was dumbfounded to learn the charge was downgraded.

Lewis’ former lawyer, Murray Hanan, said police did not want to hear any talk of his client shooting at the Queen.

“They kept on saying ‘oh no, oh no’.”
Hanan believed a message had come from “up-top, politically” to downplay the incident.

“The fact an attempted assassination of the Queen had taken place in New Zealand with a nutcase who later said he was trying to establish a new IRA movement . . . it was just too politically hot to handle.”

Hanan was puzzled as to why Lewis was never charged with treason, with capital punishment remaining on the government books until 1989.

“I think the Government took the view that he is a bit nutty and has had a hard upbringing, so it won’t be too harsh.”

Hanan did not believe anyone else was involved in the assassination attempt, with Lewis ultimately claiming full responsibility.

“That was typical Christopher.”

On December 10, 1981 in the Dunedin High Court, Christopher Lewis was sentenced to three years jail, after pleading guilty to 17 charges from his exploits in the months leading up to the royal visit. They included aggravated robbery, arson and burglary.

He was never charged with attempting to kill the Queen. Instead, it was possession of a firearm in a public place and discharging a firearm.

“From their investigation the police were satisfied that at no time could the accused have been close enough to the Royal party to have been within effective range of any member of that party and, in fact, when he discharged that rifle, the Royal party would not have been visible to him,” the official police summary said.

“Subsequently, the accused admitted that he had in fact discharged the firearms directly into the ground.”

Five days after his arrest a confidential letter, obtained by Stuff under OIA, was sent to the then Commissioner of Police about the incident.

“Because of the lack of the physical evidence and Lewis’ psychiatric history, we may never know exactly what happened.”


‘FREED – The BOY GUERILLA’ screams the 

headline on The Truth in June 1984.
Christopher Lewis’ release from custody does not go unnoticed.

Having tried to escape youth prison and then finishing his sentence in a psychiatric hospital, his freedom sparks a flurry of official correspondence between government departments.

One letter, seen by Stuff, cites a visiting psychiatrist warning that the former teen terrorist has the “potential to plan and carry out criminal activities on a very large scale”.

They are right to be worried.

“I don’t think that anything before or after, has ever made me feel so happy as when I finally drove out the gate of the hospital and headed south to Dunedin,” Lewis writes in his memoir.
He is finally free, but far from reformed.


A trained ninja, Christopher Lewis is still to rob a handful of banks, spark a major West Coast manhunt, fake a passport and allegedly, to murder.

He will spend most of his 20s inside some of New Zealand’s harshest prisons.
Does his ‘enlightenment’ through Buddhism and yoga change his criminal course?


Chapter four

Christopher John Lewis steps into the hot bath, takes a sip of brandy and lights a cigar.

On the television in his motel room is a news report of a large police manhunt for the fugitive.

The problem for police is they are searching on the West Coast, but Lewis is in Wellington, watching the drama unfold.

A week earlier, the 23-year-old had grabbed his pet kitten and the $20,000 in cash he robbed from a Christchurch bank and gone on the run.

Armed police and an Iroquois helicopter comb rugged Buller Gorge bush looking for Lewis, but he escapes by using his ninja skills to wedge himself into the underside of a bus for 200km to flee the area.

Now, as he savours his drink and his criminal success in equal parts, he has another destination in mind: Australia.


By the time Lewis finds himself holed up in a Wellington motel in May 1987, the young man has already been jailed three times.
His longest stint was more than three years in custody for a crime spree in 1981, which ended with the then-17-year-old firing a shot at Queen Elizabeth II during her Dunedin visit that year.

Lewis narrowly escaped a treason charge for the assassination plot – instead police charged him with possession of a firearm in a public place and discharging a firearm, adding to the other 15 charges he admitted to, including aggravated robbery, arson and burglary.

Lewis served the first year of his sentence in an Invercargill youth detention centre.
He was later given an extra three months inside, after an hour-long prison break (he made a run for it while bringing in milk containers from outside the wire) which landed him in solitary confinement for weeks.

In 1983 he was transferred to Lake Alice psychiatric hospital, near Whanganui, where he planned another attack on the Royal family.

After he tried to overpower a guard with a knife, staff found in Lewis’ room detailed plans to murder Prince Charles, who was at the time touring New Zealand with his then-wife Princess Diana and their young son, William.

That prompted justice officials to try to have Lewis committed under the Mental Health Act. One letter between government departments, seen by Stuff, noted Lewis could “be a real danger to others”.

Regardless, the bid failed and Lewis spent the latter part of his sentence in Otago psychiatric hospital Cherry Farm, before returning to Dunedin to live with his parents.

Lewis remained on the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service (NZSIS) watch list.

After serving more time for burglary (including that of his former primary school) in 1985, Lewis was in his 20s and ready to make headlines again: It was time to put his ninjutsu training into practise.


The former boy burglar appeared to be going straight.

Now living in Christchurch, the 23-year-old had a partner, regularly attended church, and had set-up his own ninja dojo.

But his new civilian life did not last.

“Robbery was the only area of crime that I felt fitted my disposition,” he wrote in his memoir.

First, he hit a Christchurch BNZ bank and three post offices – two in Dunedin – netting about $20,000.

Armed with a fake pistol and a ninja sword, he eluded police and headed for the West Coast.

Posing as a writer, he rented a small flat in Westport, where he hunkered down for the next six weeks with his adopted kitten, Tiger.

Running out of cash, he returned to Christchurch to rob another bank.

In a stolen Ford Telstar, Lewis fled back to the Westport flat. But three days in and with police hot on his trail, Lewis packed his belongings and put Tiger in the front seat of the Ford, planning to drive to Dunedin and then fly to Auckland.

He was soon being followed by police, and after a high-speed pursuit in torrential rain through the Buller Gorge, Lewis deliberately drove off the road, plunging 10 metres into dense bush and coming to a stop metres from the flooded Buller River.
Grabbing a radio, provisions and $20,000 cash, he abandoned Tiger and went bush.
Ninja skills may benefit fugitive’, The Dominion reported on May 5, 1987.

Dozens of police, including the Armed Offender Squad and an Iroquois helicopter scoured the gorge.

Police told media the chance of Lewis surviving was “very slim” given the cold and wet conditions, but noted a diary found in his crashed car showed he previously survived in the bush for days on end.

That was thanks to his ninja skills, Lewis wrote in his memoir.

He’d first learnt the martial art Tae Kwon Do as a 14-year-old, but was drawn to the art of the ninja under the tutelage of the so-called Master Leong.

His martial arts training showed him “how to injure, or even kill someone with my bare hands”.

He eventually ran his own “terrorism” courses in Christchurch under the guise of a Ninjutsu class, telling students he was a black belt, first dan.

According to reports in the Christchurch Press from his time on the run, lessons included using darts, knives and spikes, poisons, world politics and bush survival.
He expected students to run hundreds of kilometres cross-country, tread water for three hours, swim 5km by breast-stroke and swim under 30 logs.

“He professes to be a ninja, but it is highly doubtful,” a martial arts expert told the newspaper.

“There is no governing body. If you wanted to start a ninjutsu school you could call yourself a ninja.”

Trained ninja or not, Lewis remained at large following his daring plunge in the Buller Gorge.

After a week evading police in the bush, he came to a road where he spied an empty bus he hoped would take him south to Greymouth.

Placing his cash-filled backpack under the bus, he nestled on some pipes to make his escape. Unfortunately for Lewis, the bus travelled 100km to Karamea, and he was forced to return to Westport the same way.
Lewis then walked along railway tracks and at the Inangahua Junction he hitched a ride to Blenheim and flew to Wellington the next day.

After securing passage to Melbourne by boat in a month’s time, Lewis flew to Auckland and stayed in a bedsit to await departure.

After a tip-off, he was finally captured at gunpoint by police while buying a Mini.
He pleaded guilty to eight robberies and burglaries and was sentenced to eight-and-a-half years’ jail.

Considered a security risk, Lewis was sent to the toughest prison in the country – Paremoremo – where he found enlightenment.


Monks visit the young criminal who once tried to kill the Queen, and he writes to The Truth newspaper in 1989 about his “newfound enlightenment” in prison.
The self-styled terrorist has converted to Buddhism and is working on his rehabilitation. He writes that he regrets his offending and asks that prisoners who “show initiative to clean up their life” are let go.

Five years into his sentence, he is released on parole.

It takes just four weeks before he is back inside following another bank robbery.
Freed again in 1995, Lewis and his then-partner move to Karekare, a small coastal settlement west of Auckland, to practise yoga and start a business selling herbal medicine for dogs.

He finds a studio in an old warehouse on Auckland’s North Shore and starts teaching the Korean martial art Hapkido, and later Ninjutsu.

But in a year, he will be awaiting trial again. This time the stakes are higher than ever: he is accused of murdering an Auckland housewife.


Lewis maintained he was framed for murder by a former cellmate dubbed ‘Jimmy the Weasel’, who was paid $30,000 by police for his information.

Did Lewis really bludgeon 27-year-old Tania Furlan to death in her own home? How did his shoe print end up at the murder scene?

And how did the young criminal manage to take his own life while under prison watch?


The final chapter

It’s 1pm at Mt Eden Prison when guards unlock the room of murder-accused Christopher John Lewis and his cellmate.
It is a chance for them to stretch their legs in the small exercise yard, after lunch.

But Lewis wishes to stay in his room with a newspaper and biscuits for “some time” to himself.

Earlier that day, his girlfriend visited. The woman, who calls him “Chris”, is deeply in love with him, and doesn’t notice signs of anything out of the ordinary, despite her lover turning down an offer to put money in his account.

Lewis’ shared cell in the maximum security wing has artist’s paints set up, a TV and a typewriter in the corner, where Lewis has been working on his memoir.

About 3.15pm, when a Corrections Officer checks the cell, Lewis is slumped in a metal chair “in a lifeless state”.

The guard initially thinks Lewis is asleep. Then he notices his colour.

At 33, the man infamous for attempting to assassinate the Queen in Dunedin, is dead.


It came down to a pair of shoes: Reebok sneakers that would connect Lewis to the murder of 27-year-old Auckland mother-of-three Tania Furlan, though he always denied killing her.

Furlan was bashed to death with a hammer in her Howick home in July 1996.
Her then 6-week-old daughter, Tiffany, was later found at a church, some 18 kilometres from her home.

Police were puzzled over the brutal death, but their investigation soon zeroed in on Lewis, after they talked to one of his former Paremoremo cellmates.

Lewis had served five years in Paremoremo – the country’s toughest prison – from 1987, for a string of robberies and burglaries.

Although Lewis, a bookish, sandy-haired man who wore glasses, had a police record spanning two decades back to his early teens, extreme violence was not his usual MO. He was most well-known for plots to kill the Queen and Prince Charles, as well as numerous bank robberies, arsons and elaborate escapes from authorities.

During pre-trial depositions hearings, his former jail mate, who had name suppression at the time, claimed Lewis confessed to murdering Furlan.

He alleged Lewis posed as a delivery man, with a hammer in a cardboard box. When Furlan answered the door, Lewis asked for a pen and then hit her on the head, intending just to knock her out.

“He said he must have hit her too hard because the blood was p…ing out,” NZPA reported the witness saying.

“He hit her another five times, because he knew he had f….. up.”

The informant alleged Lewis, who was a self-proclaimed ninja and survival expert, needed money for a martial arts centre. As part of the plot Lewis wanted to take Furlan hostage to extort money from her husband, Victor, who managed his local Big Fresh supermarket in Glenfield.

After taking baby Tiffany instead, and leaving a ransom note, he changed his mind, dropped the girl at the Royal Oak Baptist Church and returned to the house to retrieve the note.

The police case centred around a shoe print forensic scientists found at the crime scene, which matched a pair of Reebok Aztrek Plus sneakers Lewis owned. Police also recovered a notepad from Lewis’ home with indentation, indicating a ransom note had been written.

Lewis and his partner were staying with his mother in Christchurch when police came for him.

The couple were planning a sailing holiday to South America, but were struggling to get a passport for Lewis due to his criminal convictions. They offered money to a mate to get one under his name, but the friend got cold feet.

When the cops came knocking, Lewis was wearing his Reeboks. Both Lewis and his partner were initially arrested on passport charges, but police soon began asking about Lewis’ whereabouts on the night Furlan was bludgeoned to death.

On Friday November 1, 1996, Lewis was sent to jail for six weeks after admitting making a false statement for procuring a New Zealand passport.

His partner, a first offender, was fined $350 plus court costs.

Later that day, after he was taken to Addington Prison, a police officer with results from testing his pair of Reeboks visited.

“You killed Tania Furlan,” the officer said.
Lewis, who avoided a charge of treason as a teen, was charged with murder.

The next day he was transferred to Mt Eden Prison, Auckland.

In his memoir Last Words, Lewis maintained his former Paremoremo cellmate, who he dubbed “Jimmy the Weasel”, framed him.

“Words alone cannot express the feelings of fear and anxiety that weigh upon me as I write this book,” Lewis’ opening sentence read.

“I have tossed and turned, sleeping briefly then staring blankly into the cell ceiling wondering how I can possibly cope with this accusation levelled against me by an ex-inmate and former rapist and violent thug.”

That “thug” informant was later revealed to have been paid $30,000 by police for accusing Lewis of Furlan’s murder.


The man who pointed the finger at Lewis to police was later revealed to be Travis Burns, a former Paremoremo prison mate who shared Lewis’ interest in martial arts and cannabis.

Lewis, who claimed he could smash bricks and punch concrete blocks without flinching, argued his ninja training meant he would not have killed Furlan by battering her with a hammer.

“If I had wanted to kill her, I could have done so in a hundred more able, efficient and cleaner ways,” he wrote in his book.
Lewis’ mother, who declined to be named, said her son was no killer and “got hung out to dry”.

“He told me he didn’t do it.”

The now Christchurch-based woman said her son was diagnosed with a mental disorder as a pre-teen, and was involved with criminal activity, but “never hurt anyone ever”.

Lewis maintained his innocence. He believed Burns, who had the same shoe size as him, wore his sneakers during the murder and secretly returned them to Lewis’ flat.

Lewis claimed he and his former cellmate “often borrowed each other’s shoes and prison clothing anyway, so it wasn’t such a big thing to do”. Lewis alleged Burns wrote notes on a pad at his home, but took the piece of paper with him.

Those impressions on the note pad included the references “come alone”, “when you get money you will get child 36 hours later” and “no ringing pigs”.

Lewis’ ex-partner believes in his innocence. She told Stuff she would have taken the stand in his defence.

The woman, who Stuff is not naming, said Lewis was driving her to a yoga class at the time police say Furlan was murdered.
“Potentially he orchestrated it, but did he do it? I still don’t believe that.

“I think that would have been beneath him to do something so stupid.”

Two years after Furlan’s murder, Whangaparaoa mother Joanna McCarthy was battered to death in front of her two children in a flurry of hammer blows, kicks and punches in November 1998.

DNA later identified Travis Burns as her killer.

In August 1997, Lewis wrote in his memoir a message to Furlan’s husband and family: “May your hearts be softened by my sincere words, and I hope to one day look you in the eye and say with infinite truth that I did not commit this crime, not ever would I do such a thing.”

A month later Lewis would take his own life.


A Mt Eden prison guard finds Lewis in a “lifeless state in his cell” about 3.15pm on Tuesday September 23, 1997.

The inmate, who has a Japanese Kanji tattoo on the right side of his chest and a wizard on his thigh, is sitting on a metal chair, slumped forward towards his bed.
“My first impression was that Lewis was asleep,” the guard said, according to the coroner’s report.

But noticing the murder-accused prisoner looks off-white, he calls for help.
Attempts to resuscitate Lewis fail and he is declared dead at 4.10pm.

With permission from the coroner, Stuff can report that Lewis committed suicide in his prison cell by tampering with a junction box and electrocuting himself.
Other details of his death remain suppressed.

After his suicide at Mt Eden the coroner made three recommendations to reduce the chances of further deaths occurring in similar circumstances, which led to a nationwide change to ensure prisoners were unable to access the junction boxes.

A suicide note was recovered from the cellroom toilet, next to Lewis’ body.
Lewis’ ex-partner, who visited him that morning, saw a copy of the note and said it “stated that he had nothing to do with the [Furlan] crime”.

She described Lewis as a highly intelligent but manipulative person who was damaged mentally and emotionally by a violent upbringing.

“He could have done really good things, but he chose to do really bad things.”

She said with Lewis, it was always “hard to tell what is true and what isn’t true”.

That included his notorious attempt to shoot the Queen in Dunedin, back in 1981.
Lewis confessed to her he did not shoot at the road, or at some seagulls, but at the Queen herself.

“Damn,” he told her “damn . . . I missed.”


The story of New Zealand – Tears of Rangi, Experiments Across Worlds – Anne Salmond. 

In the 21st century Pacific, the most iconic images of the Earth are those taken from outer space. A blue globe hangs in a pool of darkness, spinning in the sun.

When the Pacific Ocean comes into sight, its scatter of islands is barely visible. Edged by the continents of Asia, Australia and the Americas, the scale of this great ocean is impressive. Marbled by drifts of cloud, the Pacific covers almost a third of the earth’s surface.

In the far southern reaches, one can see the islands of New Zealand, the last significant land mass on Earth to be found and settled by people.

The ancestors of Māori invented blue-water sailing. As they sailed across the Pacific, stars, comets, clouds, the sun, the moon and birds appeared at different heights in the heavens. At night, successions of stars rose up in the sky, guiding them on their voyages. As winds blew and waves and swells slapped against the hulls of their canoes, it seemed that they stood still in the ocean while islands floated towards them.

The Brazilian anthropologist Viveiros de Castro has argued for the ‘ontological self-determination’ of the world’s people’s. Here, he is not talking about ‘world views’ (as though despite our different visions, there is just one world after all), or even ‘humanity’ or ‘the planet’, but suggesting that different peoples may explore different realities, and have the right to do so.

For the Polynesian voyagers, a layered, curved universe in which islands sailed across the sea and stars across the sky was not a myth, but based on experience. Their explosive migrations east to Easter Island and the west coast of South America, north to Hawai‘i and south to New Zealand were made possible by a navigation system based on deep knowledge of the sea, winds and stars; fast, resilient canoes; a portable suite of plants and animals; and kin-based forms of order that allowed them to transplant themselves in new and unfamiliar lands.

When the first star navigators arrived in New Zealand in about the early fourteenth century,  they had to rapidly adapt to plants and animals, landscapes and climatic conditions very different from those in their tropical homelands.

By the time the first Europeans came ashore perhaps four hundred years later, Māori had developed many new technologies, along with new dialects, art forms and philosophical ideas. Far from a static ‘traditional’ society, early Māori life was dynamic and rapidly changing.

In order to reach these remote islands, the first Western explorers, Abel Tasman in 1642 and Captain James Cook in 1769–70, faced similar challenges. They had to master the art of sailing for long periods across great distances, along with technologies (including projectile weapons) that allowed them to survive the challenges from island warriors.

At the time of the Endeavour’s arrival, life in Europe was also in a phase of explosive innovation. The settlers who arrived in the wake of the early European explorers brought with them new repertoires of plants and animals, habits of mind and ways of living, casting up realities that, like those of their Polynesian precursors, made it possible for them to inhabit places very different from their homelands.

Since the early nineteenth century in New Zealand, settlers from Polynesia and Europe (and elsewhere) have clashed and forged alliances with one another. In this remote, beautiful archipelago, debates over what is real, and good, and what matters in people’s lives have been fiercely contested. In these exchanges across the middle ground, ancestral Māori conceptions have been mobilised, usually but not always by Māori, and Western frameworks deployed, mostly but not invariably by Europeans. In the process, deep-seated assumptions and forms of order (so often invisible, or naturalised as ‘common sense’) have been brought to light, and challenged.

At times – when the Treaty of Waitangi was signed between Māori and the British Crown; or New Zealand became the first country in the world to give the vote to women; or the Treaty settlement process was established; or the Whanganui River was recognised as a legal person – these exchanges have helped to provoke new ways of thinking. Here, I want to explore the likelihood that like bio-diversity, cosmo-diversity (in the sense of multiple ‘worlds’) may be a force for adaptation and survival. For the old Cartesian dualisms and their fragmented dreams are no longer working – in science, in material matters, or in human affairs.

In order to find more adaptive ways of being, exchanges across different realities may be helpful, allowing new forms of order to emerge. In New Zealand, and elsewhere in the Pacific where ancestral insights remain vital, this can happen.

The first part of this book examines such ‘experiments across worlds’ through a fine-grained inquiry into the early period of encounters between Māori and Europeans in New Zealand (1769–1840), when collisions and exchanges between people holding different assumptions about ‘how the world works’ were particularly stark and vivid.

The second part of the book investigates such engagements in particular areas of life – waterways, land, the sea, and people; and asks whether these might help to open up new pathways to the future. Whakapapa (genealogy), for instance, a way of being based on complex networks that encompass all forms of life, interlinked and co-emergent, might assist in exploring relational ways of understanding the interactions between people and the land, other life forms, waterways and the ocean.

The idea of the hau, the wind of life that activates human and non-human networks alike, animated by reciprocal exchanges; or the spiral of space-time in Māori might help in devising non-linear, recursive ways of investigating the dynamic interactions among different life-forms (including people). This is fitting, because in Māori ways of thinking, knowledge itself is a taonga (ancestral treasure). As knowledge is given or received, hau passes back and forth across the pae – the horizon or threshold between sky and earth, light and dark, local people and visitors, life and death, past and present – reshaping realities and shifting the way that things happen.

The pae is a volatile, emergent space, now and then flashing out insights that create new kinds of order. As my mentor Eruera Stirling once said, ‘Knowledge is a blessing on your mind, it makes everything clear and guides you to do things in the right way …’ This book about experiments across worlds is written in that hope, and spirit.


Hau: The Wind of Life

He iwi kē, he iwi kē – One strange people. Titiro atu, titiro mail – Looking at each other. CHANT BY MERIMERI PENFOLD

In October 1796 in Uawa, on the east coast of the North Island of New Zealand, the star navigator and high priest Tupaia sketched Joseph Banks, a wealthy young botanist, exchanging white cloth for a crayfish with a local man.

Tupaia and Banks had arrived on board the Endeavour, commanded by James Cook, and sent into the Pacific by the Royal Society of London and the British Admiralty to observe the transit of Venus, and to search for Terra Australis Incognita (the Unknown Southern Continent).

The ship had sailed from Ra‘iatea, Tupaia’s home island and one of the homelands of Māori. After a three-month stay in Tahiti, where Tupaia joined the expedition, the high priest escorted his Endeavour shipmates to the great voyaging marae Taputapuatea, where he had trained as a priest of ‘Oro, the god of fertility and war in the Society Islands. Afterwards they headed south across the Pacific, arriving on the east coast of New Zealand in spring, when the kōwhai trees were flowering.

Although Tupaia died in Batavia during the Endeavour’s return journey to England, Joseph Banks preserved the sketch made by the high priest in Uawa, along with others he had drawn in Tahiti and Australia. These were lodged in the British Museum, where many years later, art historians guessed that since many of these ‘naïve’ images were painted in watercolours, the artist might have been none other than Joseph Banks himself.

It was not until 1997 that these drawings were attributed to Tupaia. During his research into the life of Joseph Banks (later friend of George III, President of the Royal Society and impresario of British imperial exploration), Banks’s biographer Harold Carter noticed a passage in one of his letters that mentioned this drawing. In 1812, Banks wrote to a friend: Tupia the Indian who came with me from Otaheite Learnd to draw in a way not Quite unintelligible. The genius for Caricature which all wild People Possess Led him to Caricature me and he drew me with a nail in my hand delivering it to an Indian who sold me a Lobster but with my other hand I had a firm fist on the Lobster determind not to Quit the nail until I had Livery and Seizin of the article purchasd.

While the Uawa sketch shows Joseph Banks holding a piece of white cloth (almost certainly Tahitian bark cloth, highly sought after by Māori), rather than a nail, the description in his letter almost certainly refers to the image that Banks lodged (with others by the same artist) in the British Museum.

Far from being a ‘wild man’, however, Tupaia was a brilliant and charismatic leader in the Society Islands. When he joined the Endeavour, he was seeking to enlist Cook and his men in seeking to avenge the conquest of his home island, Ra‘iatea.

As a high priest and star navigator, Tupaia was a leading figure in the ‘arioi cult dedicated to ‘Oro, the god of fertility and war, famed for its lovers, artists, dancers, actors, scholars, warriors and star navigators.

After their departure from Tahiti, Tupaia piloted the ship through the surrounding islands, and worked with Captain Cook on a remarkable chart of the Pacific, centred upon Tahiti and based on relative bearings and distances in space-time (elapsed nights) between different islands. Later, the young naturalist Georg Forster would describe Tupaia as ‘an extraordinary genius’.

Like his charts, Tupaia’s sketches were revolutionary. During his time with the Royal Society party, he often sat with the ship’s artists, drawing the same subjects but creating new kinds of art works, using European techniques with a quintessentially Polynesian vision. Painted in the colours of bark cloth –black, brown and red-brown –his image portrays two men, one European (Joseph Banks) and one Māori, standing face to face, offering gifts to each other.

In New Zealand, as in the Society Islands at that time, life was ordered by relational networks, and driven by exchange. If a taonga (treasured item) was handed over, it carried part of the vital force, or hau, of the donor and his or her kin group, tangling the lives of donor and recipient together.

In 1907, when Elsdon Best, a New Zealand ethnologist who had spent a lifetime studying Māori customs, wrote to an elder called Tamati Ranapiri, asking him to explain the concept of the hau, Ranapiri replied: As for the hau, it isn’t the wind that blows, not at all. Let me explain it to you carefully. Now, you have an ancestral item (taonga) that you give to me, without the two of us putting a price on it, and I give it to someone else. Perhaps after a long while, this person remembers that he has this taonga, and that he should give me a return gift, and he does so. This is the hau of the taonga that was previously given to me. I must pass on that treasure to you. It would not be right for me to keep it for myself. Whether it is a very good taonga or a bad one, I must give to you, because it is the hau of your taonga, and if I hold on to it for myself, I will die. This is the hau. That’s enough.

The hau is at the heart of life itself. As Ranapiri explained to Best, if a person fails to uphold their obligations in these transactions, their own life force is threatened. As good or bad taonga and gifts or insults pass back and forth, embodying the power of the hau, patterns of relations are transformed, for better or for worse.

When Elsdon Best wrote about Ranapiri’s account of the hau, it captured the imagination of a French sociologist, Marcel Mauss. In 1925, Mauss published The Gift, a classic work exploring gift exchange in a range of societies, including his own. Quoting Ranapiri, he contrasted the Māori concept of the hau of the gift with the assumption in contemporary capitalism that all transactions are driven by self-interest, arguing that this gives an impoverished view of how relations among people generate social life.

For Mauss, the hau, or the ‘spirit of the thing given’, impels a gift in return, creating solidarity. His discussion of the concept is perceptive, but in fact, it only scratches the surface.

In Māori ways of thinking, hau drives the whole world, not just human relations. It goes far beyond the exchange of gifts among people. According to the tohunga (experts) in the ancestral whare wānanga (schools of learning), hau emerged at the very beginning of the cosmos.

In a chant recorded by Te Kohuora of Rongoroa for the missionary Richard Taylor in 1854, for example, the world begins with a burst of energy that generates thought, memory and desire. Next comes the Pō, long aeons of darkness. Out of the Pō comes the Kore, unbound, unpossessed Nothing, the seedbed of the cosmos, described by an early ethnologist as ‘the Void or negation, yet containing the potentiality of all things afterwards to come’.

In the Kore, hau ora and hau tupu, the winds of life and growth, begin to stir. As hau flows through the world, the sky emerges, and the moon and stars, light, the earth and sky and ocean: Na te kune te pupuke. From the source of growth the rising Na te pupuke te hihiri From rising the thought Na te hihiri te mahara From rising thought the memory Na te mahara te hinengaro From memory the mind-heart Na te hinengaro te manako From the mind-heart, desire Ka hua te wananga Knowledge becomes conscious Ka noho i a rikoriko It dwells in dim light Ka puta ki waho ko te po …And Pō (darkness) emerges …Na te kore i ai

From nothingness came the first cause Te kore te whiwhia Unpossessed nothingness Te kore te rawea Unbound nothingness Ko hau tupu, ko hau ora The hau tupu (wind of growth), the hau ora (wind of life) Ka noho i te atea Stay in clear space Ka puta ki waho ko te rangi e tu nei And the sky emerges that stands here Te ata rapa, te ata ka mahina The early dawn, the early day, the mid-day Ka mahina te ata i hikurangi! The blaze of day from the sky!

Through these exchanges, new forms of life emerge. As a Te Arawa scribe, Te Rangikaheke, told Sir George Grey, an early governor of New Zealand, at the beginning of the world when life first appears, ‘kotahi anō te tupuna o te tangata Māori –ko Ranginui te tū nei, ko Papatūanuku e takoto nei’–‘there is just one Maori ancestor, Ranginui standing here and Papatuanuku lying here’.

Male sky and female earth are a single being, locked together. From their union the ancestors of agricultural crops, sea and waterways, the winds, fern-root and people emerge, crushed in darkness between their parents. Cramped and frustrated, the older brothers decide to separate earth and sky, letting light into the world.

After a series of unsuccessful attempts, Tane-nui-a-Rangi, the ancestor of forests, takes an axe known as Hauhautu (make hau and hau stand) and cuts them apart. Stricken with grief, they cry out, ‘Why has this crime been committed? Why have we been separated?’As Rangi’s tears fall down to earth, forming lakes and rivers, Papa’s mists rise up to greet him.

Enraged by this assault on their parents, Tawhirimatea, Space-twister, the ancestor of winds (hau), attacks his older brothers, smashing and splitting Tane’s trees, assailing land and sea with whirlwinds and hurricanes, and driving the ancestors of root crops underground.

In the midst of this chaos, the offspring of these founding ancestors quarrel with each other and go their separate ways, finding new places to live in and becoming new kinds of creatures –the ancestors of fish diving into the sea, for instance, while the ancestors of lizards hide under rocks on the land. Only Tu, the ancestor of people, stands tall against Tawhiri’s onslaught, earning the right for his descendants to consume those of his brothers –birds, trees, fish, shellfish, fern-root, yams, taro and sweet potatoes, destroying their tapu (ancestral presence) and making them noa (ordinary, free from ancestral constraints).

Through the separation of Rangi and Papa, te ao mārama –the everyday world of light –emerges. Light is separated from (but still linked with) darkness; life from death; sky from earth; male from female; up from down and left from right, oriented by the bodies of the founding ancestors.

Different ancestral beings are generated and take their places, linked by their quarrels and ongoing exchanges. Later, Tu’s descendants –tangata (people) – sometimes also quarrel and separate, migrating to new places and forging new kin networks.

Many of the stories about exploring Polynesia, including New Zealand, tell of disputes followed by journeys to distant places. In this viral kinship system, driven by the exchange of gifts (that bind people together) or insults (that divide them), ancestral networks are readily replicated and transported, allowing the exploration and settlement of new places and forging new groups of people, as well as maintaining relationships over time.

Māori kin groups are contextual and dynamic, with some relations forged by insult and fighting; others by adoption, friendship and marriage, accompanied by gift exchange; while others, of lesser value, are allowed to wither away. Rather than bounded groups, these are open-ended networks springing from ‘root ancestors’ planted in the ground.

People can activate different links under  different circumstances, constantly changing through space and time. On the marae (ceremonial centre for kin groups), with its carved meeting house, its marae ātea, or forecourt for orators, where hosts and visitors sit facing each other, and its dining hall, ancestors are present as their descendants debate the questions of the day, recount ancestral deeds, forge new alliances, and are married or farewelled back to the Pō, the ancestral realm.

This is captured in a haka (war chant) composed by Merimeri Penfold: He iwi kē, he iwi kē One strange people and another Titiro atu, titiro mai Looking at each other

This chant evokes an exchange of gazes across the marae. Iwi means ‘a group of people’and kē invokes the strangeness of one group to another. Titiro atu is one’s glance directed at another, while titiro mai is the others’glance in reply.

In these recursive exchanges, identity takes shape, and shifts. All of the action –for better or for worse –happens across the pae, the middle ground. In this liminal space, male sky and female earth, living and the dead, local people and their visitors meet, intermingle and change places.

Ancestors appear in genealogies and stories, in photographs, and in the carvings that line the inside walls of the meeting house, support its roof, and decorate the exterior gable and porch. As the Tainui expert Pei Te Hurinui Jones explained, in Māori ancestral thinking, space-time is a spiral, a vortex. Standing in the present, one can spin back to the Kore, the Void, where the first burst of energy unleashed the winds of growth and life –and out into the future.

At the University of Auckland marae, for example, Tane-nui-a-Rangi, the carved meeting house, embodies the ancestor who first ascended the layered heavens on a whirlwind to fetch the three baskets of knowledge for his descendants. Inside the meeting house, the ridgepole and its carved posts tell the story of Tane separating his parents, Rangi and Papa, while carved ancestors stand around the walls, the priestly experts and navigators who guided their canoes across the Pacific from Hawaiki to New Zealand. Sitting inside Tane-nui-a-Rangi, the belly of the ancestor, one is literally transported into te ao Māori, the ancestral Māori ‘world’.

At the centre of the back wall of the house stands a carving of Hinenuitepo, the ancestress of death. During a tangi (funeral), the body of a deceased person lies at her feet. Towards the back of the house, the kōwhaiwhai (rafter paintings) shade off into darkness, while towards the front, the door and window open into te ao mārama (the world of light) where the colours of the kōwhaiwhai become bright. The waiata (chant) sung at the opening of the marae, composed by Merimeri Penfold, incorporates Te Kohuora’s creation chant.

According to Viveiros de Castro, such cosmological chants do not reflect a ‘world view’ but rather, express ‘a world objectively from inside it’. As Marshall Sahlins remarks, ‘The [Māori] universe is a gigantic kin, a genealogy …a veritable ontology’ –a way of being that patterns the world, based on whakapapa –vast, intricate networks of relations in which all forms of life are linked, generated by exchanges between complementary pairs, animated by hau.

Thus when Māori greet each other by pressing noses, their hau (breath, wind of life) intermingles. If a person presses noses with a carved ancestor, the same thing happens. When rangatira, or chiefs, speak of an ancestor in the first person as ahau, or ‘I’, it is because they are the ‘living face’ of that ancestor, and if they speak of their descent groups in the same way, it is because they share ancestral hau together.

A refusal to enter into reciprocal exchanges, on the other hand, is known as hau whitia, or hau turned aside. Hauhauaitu (or ‘harm to the hau’) is manifested as illness or ill fortune, a breakdown in the balance of exchanges. The life force has been harmed, showing signs of collapse and failure.

In early times, the hau of an enemy might be extinguished by rituals including awhe i te hau (gathering in the hau), while the hau of a kin group might be destroyed by ceremonies that included whāngai hau (feed the hau), in which the hau of their leader was fed to an enemy atua (ancestor god). Equally, the hau might be revitalised by a successful act of retribution –for instance, in the kai hau kai (eating the hau as food) ceremony, in which the hau of the enemy and his or her atua was consumed. In this way, the original insult is wiped out, restoring ora –life, health, prosperity and abundance –to the victors. Utu, the principle of reciprocity, drives the exchanges between individuals and groups and all other life forms, past and present, working towards (an always fragile) equilibrium.

Because hau animates all phenomena, in this way of being there are no Cartesian gulfs between mind and matter, animate and inanimate beings, people and environment, Culture and Nature. As the nineteenth-century thinker Nepia Pohuhu remarked: ‘All things unfold their nature (tupu), live (ora), have form (ahua), whether trees, stones, birds, reptiles, fish, quadrupeds or human beings.’ Hau flows through all things, whether rivers, mountains, forests, reefs, fishing grounds, plants, animals or people. If their hau is in a state of ora (hau ora: health, well-being, prosperity), they will flourish; but if it is in a state of mate (hau mate: sickness, ill-being, misfortune), they will decline and perish.

As Tamati Ranapiri explained to Elsdon Best, in catching birds, for example, one must offer the first bird captured to the hau of the forest, to ensure its ongoing ora –its well-being, and protect one’s own health and good fortune. This also applies to catching eels in a river, or fish in the ocean. The fundamental kinship between people and other life forms is never forgotten. Indeed, kin networks are often spoken of as plants –the gourd plant for instance, branching and sprawling across the land.

A Māori person might refer to themselves as he kākano i ruia mai i Rangiatea (a seed sown from Rangiatea –Ra‘iatea, Tupaia’s birthplace). Some branches in these ramifying forms grow vigorously, while others wither and die –an image of rhizomatic growth echoed in the kōwhaiwhai paintings on the blades of paddles or the rafters of meeting houses –or as the anthropologist Marilyn Strathern has noted, in modernist talk about knowledge itself.

In ancestral Māori thinking, then, exchange is the stuff of life. As beings engage with each other in these relational networks, new forms of life are generated, along with efforts at domination, control or liberation. In many ways these whakapapa networks resonate with the complex systems of contemporary science, including ideas of symbiotic exchanges, the World Wide Web and neural networks. As Mattei and Capra remark: We have discovered that the material world, ultimately, is a network of inseparable patterns of relationships; that the planet as a whole is a living, self-regulating system.

The view of the human body as a machine and of the mind as a separate entity is being replaced by one that sees not only the brain but also the immune system, the bodily tissues, and even each cell as a living, cognitive system. In te ao Māori, people are constituted by their relationships, and identity is recursively generated. Each group (or individual) creates its identity by engaging with the other, and recognising that they are different.

In each case, difference is differently understood, however. Before the first Europeans arrived in New Zealand, for example, there were no Māori ‘people’, just different kin networks based in different places. According to the East Coast tribal expert Mohi Turei, māori (a term that simply means ‘ordinary, usual, normal, everyday’) was used to describe people and phenomena in te ao mārama, the everyday world of light and life, in contrast with those in te pō, the dark, invisible ancestral world.

In exchanges with the new arrivals (as recorded in Tupaia’s sketch of Joseph Banks and the Māori warrior, for instance), local people came to see themselves as māori (ordinary, normal) in contrast with pākehā, or Europeans –beings so strange that they might have arrived from the ancestral realm. Until that time, Māori had no need to distinguish themselves as a group from others, or their archipelago as a country in comparison with others. Likewise, in these early encounters with Europeans, Māori began to refer to their own ancestral ways as te ao māori (the familiar, everyday world) in contrast with te ao pākehā (the world of the strangers).

If one uses the term ‘world’ in English as the best translation for ao in Māori (as is often done; in the subtitle of this book, for instance), it can be misleading, however. In Māori, ao is a state of existence or a dimension of reality, usually translated as ‘world’, but without the implication of a bounded, self-contained, singular entity that underpins that term in English. Rather, the whakapapa networks that structure te ao māori, shaping its patterns, are intrinsically dynamic and open-ended.

Strangers can be bound into these living webs by acts of generosity and alliance, often marked by gifts of taonga (ancestral treasures) including names, knowledge, artefacts, sexual partners or children, or severed from them by acts of aggression and humiliation –both of which require utu, equal (or greater) return over time. Thus in Māori a hoa is a friend or companion; a hoa rangatira (chiefly friend) is a husband or wife; while a hoa riri (angry friend) is an enemy. The key term here is hoa, a relation of some kind. In Māori, it is the relation itself (not its quality; or the parties involved) that is ontologically prior. In this way of being, a person is constituted by their place in the relational networks, and in speaking Māori, the state and nature of one’s relationships are constantly being negotiated.

In addressing other people, for instance, you must decide whether your relationship with them is close (in which case, the inclusive pronoun is used) or distant (when the exclusive pronoun applies), and whether it is dual or plural –for example, tāua (us two) or māua (me and someone else, excluding you); tātou (us, including you) or mātou (us, excluding you). Thus the pronouns māua and mātou encompass not only the speaker and the person or group they are including, but also the person or group they are excluding.

Even the recipient of an insult as radical as kai tangata (being eaten) is still part of the relational matrix –in this case, a hoa riri (angry friend) whose mana has been destroyed.

At the same time, as Mauss pointed out in The Gift, notions of reciprocity and gift exchange are not unique to ‘exotic’ societies, but are also present in Europe. This allowed early European visitors to New Zealand to make some sense of their exchanges with Māori. As Captain Cook observed: ‘I have allways found them of a Brave, Noble, Open and benevolent disposition, but they are a people that will never put up with an insult if they have an oppertunity to resent it.’

While such ‘rough intelligibility’ allowed relationships to be forged, efforts at engagement between Māori and Europeans often backfired, thwarted by differing assumptions about how the world works. At the same time in these encounters –titiro atu, titiro mai –hidden premises sometimes come to light, making it possible for new ideas and practices to emerge as taken-for-granted forms of order are challenged. The element of surprise in such meetings was (and still is) at once disruptive, and creative.

In the first part of this book, such exchanges are explored during the early contact period in New Zealand (roughly, 1769–1840) – during the first meetings between Māori and European explorers; in the debates between Māori and the first missionaries, where notions of the real were tested to their limits; and in the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Treaty of Waitangi, when ground rules were laid down for the relationships between Māori and the British Crown.

Throughout this period, Māori were dominant. As relationships were forged with the incoming settlers and visitors from Europe and other places, despite their own assumptions of superiority, the new arrivals were forced to deal with Māori realities. The clashes, debates and improvisations that took place provide rich, vivid ways of exploring what happens when people with different taken-for-granted ideas about what is real and what matters in life come together, and try to negotiate shared ways of living.

Inevitably, as an exercise in historical ethnography, this investigation of early ‘experiments across worlds’ in New Zealand draws upon modernist assumptions, as well as a lifetime of exploring te ao Māori (Māori ways of being). The term ‘ontology’, for instance, which crops up in this work, may puzzle some readers. It refers to the study of the nature of reality, along with the basic categories of being and their relations.

As for the ‘ontological turn’ in anthropology, this assumes that reality and its underlying patterns may differ across different groups of people, and that these differences may be investigated. For some practitioners, the realities of different groups of people can be observed, described and classified, producing taxonomies of different ways of being. For others, anthropology itself is based on particular propositions about the nature of existence, which are themselves historically and culturally specific. The shocks and surprises that arise when anthropologists engage with people who work with very different assumptions about what is real may provoke philosophical creativity, and new kinds of understandings.

For my part, I think that such shocks and surprises are not peculiar to anthropology –nor the clashes and innovations that arise in encounters between people who understand the nature of being differently. While seeking to investigate such processes of encounter and transformation between Māori and Europeans (and others) in New Zealand, I know that as an anthropologist and a person, I am a part of and shaped by the histories of these exchanges. In what follows, I try to acknowledge this by placing myself in the narrative every now and then, entangled in these networks of relations, spinning in the spirals of space-time.


Tupaia’s Cave

During a storm in 2007, as waves surged into Cook’s Cove in Uawa, on the east coast of New Zealand, the banks of this small inlet collapsed, revealing bands of dark soil with fish, bird and dog bones, charcoal, shell fragments and artefacts. Archaeologists from the New Zealand Historic Places Trust and the local people, Te Aitanga-a-Hauiti, decided to carry out a rescue excavation.

To their delight they found that as well as being the scene of very early exchanges between Māori and Europeans, this was one of very few sites in New Zealand with occupation layers from the first Polynesian arrival to the present.

In November of that year, my husband Jeremy and I joined a group from the Trust to visit the excavation, walking down a long, steep trail through bush-clad slopes to the back of the inlet. To the north, high white cliffs dropped steeply into the sea. To the south, lower cliffs sheltered the entrance to the cove, where a stream runs down a fertile basin into the ocean. At the edge of the bush the sun lit up the bay, with its green hills, grey sand and a blue, glittering sea.

At the site, the archaeologists and local people showed us fragments of moa and seal bone in the lower layers, along with oven stones, post-holes, stone flakes and several small moa-bone and shell fishhooks. Starch grains later proved to include both kūmara (sweet potato) and taro, indicating that the first settlers had brought these root crops with them from the islands. According to the archaeologists, when the first Polynesian travellers landed in New Zealand around the fourteenth century, a small group settled at Opoutama.

Moa, a great flightless bird, still lived in the hills, and it was easy to drive these birds down to this little valley and trap them. The stream and a spring provided the settlers with fresh water, seals basked on the rocks, fish shoaled out at sea and shellfish flourished on the rocky coastline.

After millennia of living in small tropical islands, the new arrivals had to work out new ways of living in this large, temperate archipelago. Pigs and chickens from their homelands did not survive the journey, and many of their ancestral crops, including banana, coconut and breadfruit, either died at sea or failed to grow when they were transplanted. Nevertheless, these early settlers learned to plant, harvest and store other crops from the Pacific –sweet potato, yam and taro –in this much cooler climate, and aute (bark cloth, which struggled to survive in New Zealand) and sennit were replaced by various varieties of harakeke (New Zealand flax, or Phormium tenax).

Moa and seals provided an early source of protein, but as the bush was fired for fern-root plantations and gardens, and the moa were vigorously hunted, these big birds became scarce, and died out altogether. The ancestors of Māori also had to master coastal navigation in the absence of sheltering coral reefs, shape new types of stone into tools and weapons, and design new kinds of buildings and watercraft.

Over time, Uawa became the home of a famous school of learning, Te Rawheoro, established by the ancestor Hingangaroa, a priest, carver, star navigator and canoe-builder whose son Hauiti gave his name to the local people.

As one can see from the chant quoted earlier, in Māori accounts of the creation of the world, thought, memory, knowledge and desire are highly prized. In the East Coast schools of learning, tohunga (experts) passed on ancestral stories that included accounts of the separation of the earth mother and the sky father by their son Tane-nui-a-Rangi, allowing light into the world; the feats of the trickster ancestor Maui, who snared the sun and fished up the land, leaving his canoe on top of Hikurangi mountain; disputes involving various ancestors in the island homeland, Hawaiki; and ancestral voyages to New Zealand.

Prominent among these narratives is the tale of Uenuku’s illegitimate son Ruatapu, who in a fit of jealousy caused a canoe to sink, drowning 70 young men except his elder brother Paikea, who chanted a powerful incantation, either becoming a whale or summoning up a whale that carried him safely to the east coast of the North Island.

There were also stories about the voyages of various ancestral canoes and their arrival in New Zealand, including the Horouta canoe and its commander Pawa.

The genealogical lines from Maui, Paikea and the later voyagers, traced through male and female links to the founders of local kin groups, were embellished with tales about ancestral travels, quarrels, friendships, love affairs and battles, leaving an intricate scatter of place names across the land.

At Te Rawheoro, the school of learning founded by Hingangaroa eight generations after Paikea’s landing, songs and incantations, tattoo, carving and fine weaving were also taught, and this whare wānanga produced skilled carvers, tattooists and weavers who travelled around the country, practising their arts.

In October 1769, when Captain James Cook and his Endeavour companions arrived at Uawa (which they named ‘Tolaga Bay’), they described it as a second Paradise. They spent seven peaceful, happy days at Uawa, going ashore at Opoutama (now named ‘Cook’s Cove’) to fill the ship’s water barrels, gather fresh food, and collect botanical and zoological specimens.

Tupaia, the high priest and star navigator who joined the expedition in Tahiti, slept in a rock shelter above Cook’s Cove, where he talked with the tohunga (leading expert) from Te Rawheoro. Havai‘i, the ancient name of Ra‘iatea, Tupaia’s home island, was one of the homelands of Māori.

These conversations must have been extraordinary. No doubt Tupaia and the local priests shared stories of their voyaging ancestors, traced their genealogical links, and talked about what had happened since the departure of the Māori ancestors from Hawaiki. The local people, who were deeply impressed by the high priest, named the rock shelter after him, Te Ana-o-Tupaia (Tupaia’s Cave).

At the same time, Tupaia acted as an interpreter for his European shipmates, including Joseph Banks, the wealthy young botanist who headed the Royal Society party, and his scientific companion, Dr Daniel Solander. A number of images survive from the Endeavour’s visit, including charts of Uawa, a sketch of the sailors filling water barrels in Cook’s Cove, drawings of the artefacts and plants that they collected, along with Tupaia’s sketch of a local man exchanging a crayfish for white bark cloth with Joseph Banks.

According to Hauiti people who later described his visit to an early trader, Joel Polack, Tupaia also sketched a ship and some boats on the walls of the rock shelter in the cove.

During our trip to Cook’s Cove, Jeremy and I were keen to see whether any traces of Tupaia’s cave drawings remained. When we climbed up to the rock shelter, however, we found that it had largely collapsed. All we could see were large smears of red ochre on the walls, a fragment of a charcoal sketch of a whale or a dolphin, and a word or two (apparently in Tahitian) written beside it.

Perhaps Tupaia had slept in this cave because it was close to Te Kararoa, a fortified village that stood on the ridgeline. At the time, it was often used as a shelter by visiting fishermen. In any case, the view out to sea is spectacular, a perfect place to sit and talk about ancestors who had sailed across Te Moana-nui-a-Kiwa (the Great Sea of Kiwa). Up there on the hillside, it was easy to imagine Tupaia sitting and talking with local people beside a fire, as shadows flickered across the walls of the cave.

As we have seen, the Endeavour was on a scientific voyage of exploration, sponsored by the Admiralty and the Royal Society of London. Before they sailed from England, the Earl of Morton, President of the Royal Society and a Scottish astronomer, had given Cook a set of ‘Hints’ about how he and his men should conduct themselves in encounters with any ‘natives’ they might meet in the Pacific, urging him: To check the petulance of the Sailors, and restrain the wanton use of Fire Arms. To have it still in view that shedding the blood of those people is a crime of the highest nature: They are human creatures, the work of the same omnipotent Author, equally under his care with the most polished European; perhaps being less offensive, more entitled to his favor.

They are the natural, and in the strictest sense of the word, the legal possessors of the several Regions they inhabit. No European Nation has a right to occupy any part of their country, or settle among them without their voluntary consent …Therefore should they in a hostile manner oppose a landing, and kill some men in the attempt, even this would hardly justify firing among them, ’till every other gentle method had been tried.

In his ‘Hints’, the Earl of Morton also suggested how Cook and the Royal Society party of scientists and artists might determine whether or not any land they discovered was part of a large continent, describe the ‘appearance and natural dispositions’ of its inhabitants, including their ‘progress in Arts or Science’, especially astronomy, and observe and describe the animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms (including fossils) in the places that they visited.

In addition, the Admiralty gave James Cook a set of secret instructions, ordering him to search for and claim Terra Australis Incognita, a mythical continent thought to lie in the far southern ocean, and: . . . with the Consent of the Natives to take possession of Convenient Situations in the Country in the Name of the King of Great Britain; or, if you find the Country uninhabited take Possession for His Majesty by setting up Proper Marks and Inscriptions, as first discoverers and possessors.

On 3 October 1769, almost a month after sailing south from the Society Islands, when a sudden squall hit the ship, Joseph Banks was jubilant, certain that at last they were about to discover Terra Australis: This is a sure sign of land as such squalls are rarely (if ever) met with at any considerable distance from it …Now do I wish that our freinds in England could by the assistance of some magical spying glass take a peep at our situation: Dr Solander setts at the Cabbin table describing, myself at my Bureau Journalizing, between us hangs a large bunch of sea weed, upon the table lays the wood and barnacles; they would see that notwithstanding our different occupations our lips move very often, and without being conjurors might guess that we were talking about what we should see upon the land which there is now no doubt we shall see very soon.

Three days later, when the surgeon’s boy Nicholas Young sighted land from the masthead, he was rewarded with a gallon of rum. The following day as ranges of high mountains appeared above the horizon, Banks exclaimed, ‘Many conjectures about Islands, rivers, inlets, but all hands seem to agree that this is certainly the Continent we are in search of.’

According to early tribal accounts, when they saw the Endeavour sailing into their harbour at Turanga-nui-a-Kiwa (now Gisborne), the local people thought that this might be a floating island, driven by ancestral power, or perhaps a great bird, like the bird of Ruakapanga that had brought the sweet potato from their island homeland. Fires of warning were lit in the hills, and local warriors placed on the alert.

On 8 October 1769 when Cook and his scientific companions came ashore on the east bank of the Turanganui River, the first Europeans to land in New Zealand, they were accompanied by a party of marines.

After crossing the river to inspect a fishing hamlet, Joseph Banks and Dr Solander went botanising, leaving four young boys from the Endeavour in charge of the yawl. As the boys wandered down to the beach, four warriors were sent down from Titirangi hill to challenge the strangers. Seeing one of these men lift his spear (almost certainly in a wero, or ritual challenge), the coxswain shot him dead. This set the scene for the tense, uneasy meetings that followed.

The next day when Cook’s party, accompanied by Tupaia, returned to the east bank of the river, the body of this man, a rangatira named Te Maro, still lay on the beach. Warriors lined up on the opposite bank of the Turanganui, defying the strangers with a fiery haka (war dance). When these men reproached them for the shooting, Tupaia found he could understand what they were saying. He told them that his companions only wanted fresh food and water, and offered them iron in exchange.

Eventually, one of the warriors swam across the river and stood on Te Toka-a-Taiau, a sacred rock near the river’s edge, a famous tribal boundary marker. Putting down his musket, Cook went to meet him, and they greeted each other with a hongi (pressing noses), mingling their hau together.

When the other men swam across the river and tried to exchange weapons with the strangers, however, this ended in a scuffle and further shootings that left a warrior named Te Rakau lying dead beside the river. Later that day, when Cook attempted to capture some young men from a fishing canoe in an attempt to take them on board the Endeavour, treat them kindly and gain their trust, they resisted, hurling their paddles, anchor stones and fish at the strangers. Cook’s men fired, shooting four of these fishermen, two of whom fell into the sea and drowned.

That night Banks wrote in his journal: ‘Thus ended the most disagreable day My life has yet seen, black be the mark for it and heaven send that such may never return to embitter future reflection.’

The memory of the killings in Turanga has not faded, however. The shots fired by the Endeavour’s men still echo across the bay. Despairing of being able to befriend these people, Captain Cook decided to head south to discover whether or not this land was Terra Australis Incognita. As the Endeavour sailed from the bay, the wind died and the ship was becalmed off Te Kuri-a-Paoa (Young Nick’s Head), where canoes came out, but stayed at a distance.

When a small canoe from Turanganui arrived, bringing the man who had greeted Cook on Te Toka-a-Taiau, he invited Cook, Tupaia and their companions to return to the bay. Seeing this, the crews of the other canoes also boarded the ship. During this encounter, a set of paddles, their blades vividly painted with swirling scarlet kōwhaiwhai patterns, was presented to the strangers, which the ship’s artist Sydney Parkinson later sketched. The owners of these paddles also offered their canoe, perhaps hoping to entice the visitors ashore.

Cook sailed off, however, heading south. After coasting Hawke’s Bay, where canoe-borne priests and warriors vigorously challenged the ship and its crew, the Endeavour was caught in contrary winds. Deciding to retrace his track, Cook headed north at Cape Turnagain, sailing past the Mahia Peninsula and Turanganui until they arrived at Anaura Bay, 85 kilometres north of Gisborne, where they experienced their first peaceful exchanges with Māori people.

Te Whakatatare-o-te-rangi –the ariki, or paramount chief, of this district –who had already heard about the strangers, was eager to learn more about them. Te Whakatatare had trained at Te Rawheoro, the nearby school of learning at Uawa, where students learned about the ancestral voyages from Hawaiki, how to build canoes, and the arts of tattoo, carving and star navigation.

Intensely curious about these bizarre visitors, their strange vessel and the star navigator who had arrived from Ra‘iatea, the ancestral homeland, he sent envoys out to the ship to meet them, who invited Tupaia and his companions ashore.

As the Endeavour’s anchors splashed down in Anaura Bay, the high chief donned his ceremonial cloak and, accompanied by another senior leader, went out to the ship. As these two venerable men, one wearing a dog-skin cape and the other dressed in a cloak covered with tufts of red feathers, came alongside, Tupaia invited them on board, where Captain Cook presented each of them with four yards of linen and a spike nail.

As always, Tupaia conducted the rituals of greeting with local people. When Te Whakatatare and Tupaia met, this was an encounter between Polynesian aristocrats. Tupaia, a high-born Ra‘iatean priest and star navigator who had trained at Taputapuatea, one of the greatest voyaging marae in the Pacific, was reputed to be one of the most intelligent and knowledgeable men in the Society Islands. When warriors from Borabora, a nearby island, conquered his homeland, Tupaia had fled to Tahiti where he became the lover and high priest of Purea, the ‘queen’of that island.

In June 1769, shortly after a failed attempt to install Purea’s son as the paramount chief of the island, the Endeavour expedition arrived at Matavai Bay in Tahiti, where the Royal Society party set up a shore camp. Intrigued by the strangers and fascinated by their scientific instruments and rituals, Tupaia spent a great deal of time with them. When they left Tahiti the high priest decided to go with them, hoping to persuade Captain Cook to help him drive the Borabora invaders from his homeland.

During their voyage through the Society Islands, he piloted the Endeavour and guided his companions through the rituals of landing and exchanges with local people, including those in Turanganui and Hawke’s Bay.

By the time the Endeavour anchored off Anaura Bay, the ship’s supplies of fresh food, water and firewood were running low, and Cook was delighted by the friendly welcome they received from Te Whakatatare and his people.

Still convinced that they had found Terra Australis, Joseph Banks was eager to explore Anaura and discover what exotic plants and animals this fabled continent had to offer. That afternoon, after dining in the Great Cabin with Cook and Banks, Te Whakatatare escorted Cook, Banks, Solander, William Monkhouse (the ship’s surgeon) and Tupaia ashore to a village where his people sat quietly beside their houses. The high chief showed them large hillside gardens, which Banks and Monkhouse described as meticulously weeded, planted with kūmara and yams in mounds laid out in rows or a quincunx pattern, taro in circular concaves to keep them moist, a few bark-cloth plants, and flowering gourd plants sprawling over the houses.

Walking into the hills on the south side of Anaura Bay, they visited a single dwelling inhabited by a man and his wife, who showed them all their possessions; and the man presented them with the body of a mummified newborn baby. As visitors (perhaps ancestors) from Ra‘iatea, perhaps they seemed fitting guardians for this dead child. Back at the beach, however, the waves were running high, and the sailors struggled to load the water barrels into the boats. When Banks borrowed a canoe to go out to the Endeavour, it capsized, unceremoniously tossing him and his companions into the surf.

After this mishap, Te Whakatatare decided to guide the ship to Uawa, 10 kilometres to the south, where the inlet of Opoutama provided a more sheltered harbour.

At that time Uawa was the headquarters for two senior descent groups, one led by Te Whakatatare and the other by his daughter-in-law Hinematioro. In 1769 Hinematioro (a high-born woman later described by the early missionaries as a ‘queen’) was still very young, and Te Whakatatare led the East Coast people.

When the ship anchored off Uawa, Cook and Charles Green, the expedition’s astronomer, carried out a series of instrumental observations. By now Tupaia was used to this kind of performance, but Te Whakatatare must have been fascinated. The tohunga (experts) at Te Rawheoro also studied the sun, moon and stars, using their movements in the sky to predict the weather, anticipate seasonal rhythms, and guide their canoes across the ocean. In order to estimate the longitude of Uawa, Cook and Green used their sextants to measure the angular distance from the moon to the sun, and the tables in the Nautical Almanac to calculate their position. When this did not agree with their previous estimates, they worked out an average, recording this in the ship’s log. At noon when Cook used the astronomical quadrant to observe the altitude of the sun, he was able to estimate the latitude of the bay with much greater precision.

While Captain Cook and Green were making these observations, Lieutenant Gore with a guard of marines and sailors landed at Opoutama inlet/‘Cook’s Cove’ where the sailors set to work, filling barrels with fresh water, felling trees for firewood and collecting greens that the ship’s cook mixed with oatmeal as a remedy for scurvy.

As canoes flocked around the ship, their crews exchanged fish and ‘curiosities’ (artefacts) for Tahitian bark cloth and European beads, nails, trinkets and glass bottles. The local people put a high value on their sweet potatoes, however, and refused to exchange their greenstone ornaments and weapons for anything that the strangers could offer.

Meanwhile, Joseph Banks and Dr Solander were impatient to go ashore. When Cook finally landed them and their assistants in Cook’s Cove, they were enthralled by what they found. According to the artist Sydney Parkinson: The country about the bay is agreeable beyond description, and, with proper cultivation, might be rendered a kind of second Paradise. The hills are covered with beautiful flowering shrubs, intermingled with a great number of tall and stately palms, which fill the air with a most grateful fragrant perfume.

Everywhere they looked, Banks and Solander discovered plants unknown to European science. Wandering around the cove, they collected specimens from a bewildering variety of new species of trees, palms, bushes, creepers and ferns. They also found many beautiful kinds of birds, including parrots, pigeons and quail, and Polynesian rats and dogs like those in Tahiti. Blazing away with their guns, they shot birds whose skins were later preserved on board the Endeavour.

When they returned to the ship, Banks and his companions sat in the Great Cabin, Sydney Parkinson sketching samples of plants while Banks and Solander classified them using the Linnaean method, and Herman Spöring (Banks’s Finnish draughtsman) wrote down the botanical descriptions. Afterwards, the plants were pressed between pages torn from a commentary on Milton’s Paradise Lost, ripped apart for the purpose.

In all, Parkinson drew 32 different species of plants collected in Te Oneroa (Gisborne), 24 species collected in Anaura Bay and 37 species in Uawa, jotting down notes and swathes of colour on the sketches that were later engraved for Banks’s magnificent Florilegium from the voyage.

The next day, when Banks came across a natural rock arch north of the watering place, he exclaimed: ‘It was certainly the most magnificent surprize I have ever met with, so much is pure nature superior to art in these cases.’ Back in England, rock arches and grottos were all the rage, and Banks instructed his artists to sketch this picturesque formation, not realising that it was known as ‘Te Kotore-o-te-whenua’ (The Anus of the Land) –a cosmo graphic version of a whakapohane, a graphic insult featuring the exposure of a naked backside.

That evening, an old man at the watering place, armed with a spear and a stone club, put up a pole and vigorously attacked it, giving them a demonstration of hand-to-hand fighting.

On 25 October, Tupaia spent most of the day immersed in conversation with the head priest from Te Rawheoro, comparing accounts of the creation, tracing genealogies back to common ancestors, and discussing local beliefs and customs. According to Banks, ‘they seemd to agree very well in their notions of religion only Tupia was much more learned than the other and all his discourse was heard with much attention’.

In his rough notes, Cook recorded snippets from these exchanges, which show his liking and respect for the local people.

1. The Religion of the Natives bear some resemblance to the George Islanders.

2. they have god of war, of husbandry, but there is one suprem god whom they call …he made the world and all that therein is by Copolation.

3. they have many Priests.

4. The Old men are much respected.

5. they have King who lives inland his name is …we heard of him in Poverty Bay.

6. They eat their enimies Slane in Battell –this seems to come from custom and not from a Savage disposission this they cannot be charged with –they appear to have but few Vices …

7. Their beheavour was Uniform free from treachery.

8. The Women may be know by their Voices they paint their faces red.

9. the Womens faces are not tattooed.

While talking with the local priest, Tupaia was told that at the beginning of the world, Tane, the son of Rangi and Papa, created many new forms of life by having sex with different kinds of beings. This story was later recounted by the East Coast tohunga Mohi Ruatapu, who explained how Tane shaped the first woman, thrusting his penis into different parts of her body to create sweat, saliva and mucus.

In the Society Islands, on the other hand, Tane was the god of beauty and peace, and the guardian of blue-water sailors. In the rituals at Taputapuatea in Ra‘iatea, dedicated to ‘Oro, the god of fertility and war, the priests (including Tupaia) offered slain enemies as sacrifices, with their jawbones, skulls and hair kept as trophies on his marae.

Despite this, Tupaia was scandalised by the Māori custom of kai tangata (eating people), the ritual sacrifice of their enemies. According to Banks, when the Ra‘iatean high priest asked the local people ‘whether or no they realy eat men, which he was very loth to believe; they answerd in the affirmative saying that they eat the bodys only of their enemies who were killed in war’. Although they ‘put themselves into a heat by defending the Custom’, Tupaia took ‘every Occasion to speak ill of it, exhorting them to leave it off’.

His reaction may seem odd, given the prevalence of human sacrifice in his homeland. In the Society Islands, however, it was the ancestors who consumed the bodies of enemy warriors, not the priests, and Tupaia may have considered the local custom sacrilegious.

Although many of the Europeans, including the sailors, were also horrified by kai tangata (for very different reasons), James Cook was phlegmatic –in his words from above, attributing it to ‘custom and not …a Savage disposission’.

The day after Tupaia talked with the high priest from Te Rawhero, it pelted with rain. As the Endeavour lay shrouded in mist, Banks and Solander sat in the Great Cabin, working on their collections.

On 27 October when they returned to Cook’s Cove, a group of boys demonstrated the art of whipping tops (one of which Banks acquired) while some men and women performed a haka (war dance), rolling down their eyes, poking out their tongues and heaving loud sighs.

Climbing up to the northern ridgeline to inspect Kararoa pā, Banks found the fortified village in ruins. He measured the palisades at 14 to 16 feet high, standing in two rows six feet apart along a ditch that curved around the end of the peninsula. Later that day, Captain Cook took a boat and sounded the bay, his men using a lead and line to measure the depth of the water. After landing on the point at the northern side of the harbour, they rowed up the Uawa River and climbed a high hill, where he recorded the bearings of headlands and islands with an azimuth compass.

Many of the observations taken by Cook and Green (including latitude, longitude, bearings, soundings, islands, rocks and the coastline) are recorded in Cook’s charts of the East Coast and Uawa. 

From this high vantage point, Cook saw ‘the Vallies and sides of many of the Hills …luxuriously clothed with Woods and Verdure and little Plantations of the Natives lying dispers’d up and down the Country’. 

These gardens were each several acres in size, surrounded by low windbreaks with traps set on the ground to catch kiore (Polynesian rats). Like the gardens in Anaura Bay, the cultivations were finely tilled. It was spring, and the tips of the plants were just appearing above the ground. Although there were houses in the valleys, these were empty, with the inhabitants living in light shelters on the ridges. 

On October 28, while Lieutenant Gore and his men were getting the ship ready for sea, Captain Cook, Banks, Solander, Parkinson and Spöring visited Pourewa Island, the home of the young chieftainess Hinematioro. When they landed, they saw a very large canoe lying on the beach, 68 feet 6 inches long with carved gunwale planks and a finely carved prow. 

While Spöring sat sketching this canoe, he thought he saw a bird with a very long tail flying overhead. Very likely, however, this was a kite. At that time, bird-shaped kites made with bark cloth were often flown into the heavens to carry messages to the ancestors. 

Close to the beach, the Royal Society party found a house about 30 feet long, filled with chips and shavings. Inside, a number of squared posts and intricately carved wall panels were stacked against the walls. This chief’s house seemed to be abandoned. 

According to local oral histories, during his visit to the bay, and perhaps on this occasion, Captain Cook met Hinematioro, and presented her with blue beads that she later handed down to her descendants. 

That afternoon, a group of officers and gentlemen were invited inland to another house where a number of chiefs were meeting. At the end of this gathering, some of the visitors were offered sexual hospitality. 

Returning to the watering place after dark, one of these men was carried on a man’s back over channels filled with running water, probably irrigation ditches for the local gardens. 

Until that afternoon, the Europeans had found the local women elusive. On the East Coast, where high-ranking women were often the leaders and founders of kin groups, the women were confident and assertive. As Parkinson remarked ruefully, ‘They seem to be proud of their sex, and expect you should give them every thing they desire, because they are women; but they take care to grant no favours in return, being very different from the women in the islands who were so free with our men.’ According to Banks, ‘They were as great coquetts as any Europaeans could be and the young ones as skittish as unbroke fillies.’

On 29 October, as the Endeavour sailed from Uawa, heading north, Joseph Banks commented with pleasure on his visit to this district, writing in his journal that the communities on the East Coast were ‘in a state of Profound Peace; their Cultivations were far more numerous and larger than we saw them anywhere else and they had a far greater quantity of Fine boats, Fine cloaths, Fine carvd work; in short the people were far more numerous, and lived in much greater affluence than any others we saw’. 

If one examines the Endeavour records and Māori oral histories of these meetings, it is clear that these were complex encounters, characterised by intense curiosity and empirical inquiry. 

Tupaia, the ‘arioi high priest and star navigator from Ra‘iatea, was on his own voyage of discovery, adding new islands to the lists of those known to Society Island navigators while studying their inhabitants and landscapes. At the same time, he served as an interpreter and mediator for his European companions, initiating new kinds of exchanges. As a leading expert from the ancestral whare ‘aira‘a-upu (schools of learning) in the Society Islands, an ancestral homeland of Māori, Tupaia had a great deal to offer the tohunga in New Zealand. 

In most places (except for Uawa and Queen Charlotte Sound), however, their conversations were fleeting, and only vestigial traces of these exchanges survive in the records from the voyage. At the same time, the Endeavour expedition was a travelling sideshow of the Enlightenment, lavishly provided with scientific equipment to scan the heavens, collect and examine plants and animals, and explore the remote corners of the planet. 

Just as the Endeavour arrived in New Zealand, modernity was taking shape in Europe. As Frängsmyr, Heilbron and Rider have noted, in mid-eighteenth-century Europe, a mechanistic, quantitative vision of reality was going viral. Many aspects of life were transformed –from science (with the use of instruments and measurement, the division of the disciplines and the increased specialisation of knowledge) to administration (with the invention of censuses, surveys, archives and bureaucratic systems) and industry (with manufacturing based on mechanisation, the replication of parts and processes), for instance. 

This particular strand of Enlightenment thought traces at least as far back as the seventeenth century, when the philosopher René Descartes had a new vision of reality, at once powerful and intoxicating. In his dream, the Cogito –the thinking self –became the eye of the world, which in turn became an object for inspection. 

As the mind’s eye replaced the Eye of God, people were separated from Nature, and eventually from each other. As mind (res cogitans) and matter (res extensa), subject and object and Culture and Nature were split, different realms of reality were set apart and subdivided, producing arrays of bounded objects that could be classified, counted and examined. 

This ‘Order of Things’, as Michel Foucault has called it, lay at the heart of Enlightenment science. Here, the cosmos was understood as a singular, bounded, law-governed entity (or uni-verse) –a view of reality sometimes described as a ‘one world ontology’. 

In modernist science, the aim was to examine, analyse, count, classify and record everything that exists, and discover the laws that govern these phenomena. In France, for example, the Encyclopédie, or ‘Systematic Dictionary of the Arts, Crafts and Sciences’, edited by Denis Diderot, which sought to collect and summarise all human knowledge, appeared from 1751 onwards, while the Encyclopaedia Britannica was published in three volumes, at the same time as the Endeavour sailed around the world. 

In this way of knowing, one of the iconic patterns was the grid, used to abstract, divide up and measure space, time and life forms, bringing them under control for practical purposes. In this way, the world was transformed into bounded entities at different scales, whether units of time, blocks of land, areas of ocean or different types of living beings, that can be classified and counted in various ways. 

On board the Endeavour, this form of order was reflected in cartography and Linnaean taxonomy, for example. A hierarchical cosmos: The Great Chain of Being, from Rhetorica Christiana by Diego Valades, 1579. Often, the grid was hierarchical –based on the old European vision of the Great Chain of Being, with God at the apex followed by archangels and angels, divine kings, the aristocracy and successive ranks of human beings, from ‘civilised’to ‘savage’, followed by animals, plants and minerals and the earth in descending order. 

Those at the top of the Great Chain exercised power and authority over those lower down, who in turn were required to offer up deference and tribute. In this cosmic model, men ruled over women and children, free men over slaves, and ‘civilised’ people over ‘barbarians’and ‘savages’. 

Another iconic model was the idea of the cosmos as a machine, made up of distinct, divisible working parts. Coupled with notions of ‘progress’and ‘improvement’, the ‘Order of Things’ gave an air of virtue to imperial expansion, the industrial revolution, global capitalism and models of technocratic control. With its focus on discovery, instrumental recording, mathematical and taxonomic description, the Endeavour voyage epitomised this way of understanding the world. 

At the same time, however, as Peter Hans Reill and others have argued, another strand in Enlightenment thinking explored relational forms of order. Here, one of the iconic motifs was the network (or web). Thinkers including Count Buffon in France, many of those involved in the Scottish Enlightenment and later Joseph Priestley and Erasmus Darwin in England and the Humboldt brothers in Germany understood the world as a living system patterned by networks of relations among (and within) different life forms, animated by interactions among complementary forces –the ‘Order of Relations’, one might call it. 

These forms of order underpinned ideas of transformation, in both the cosmos and social life. In many ways, they resonate with Māori and Pacific ways of thinking. Relational ideas in the Enlightenment, based on Greco-Roman precedents and notions of equilibrium and exchange, provided an alternative to the old top-down models, underpinning arguments for freedom from the rule of the merchants (Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations, 1776); and the rights of ordinary people (Tom Paine’s The Rights of Man, 1791), women (Mary Wollstonecraft, a Vindication of the Rights of Women, 1792), slaves and indigenous people.

In this ‘web of life’, people were just one life form among many, and the world was constantly changing. Ancestral ideas such as justice, truth, equality and honour helped to determine how exchanges among people should be handled. Here one can find the origins of participatory democracy, the emancipation of women and slaves, earth sciences, environmental theory, anthropology, the World Wide Web and the science of complex systems, for example. 

On board the Endeavour, this kind of thinking was reflected in the Earl of Morton’s ‘Hints’, with its emphasis on the legal rights of Pacific peoples to control their own lands, and in the scientists’ journals written during the voyage, with their interest in the interactions among people, plants, animals, landscapes and seascapes in the Pacific. 

European science at this time was exciting, provocative and paradoxical. This was the era of scientific agriculture (including enclosure), the noble savage (alongside imperial domination and exploitation), arguments in favour of peace (in the midst of almost incessant fighting), and the rights of consumers (at a time of frequent food riots) and commoners, just before the French Revolution and the American War of Independence. 

Together, these and other strands in Enlightenment thought produced passionate debates about topics as varied as land use, slavery, taxation, education and the rights of ordinary people (including the rights of those living in colonies, commoners, women and indigenous people) – debates that in many ways we are still having.


from her book

Tears of Rangi, Experiments Across Worlds 

by Anne Salmond 

get it at