Deep in Te Urewera forest, Manuka Apiata cuts a striking figure against a starlit sky. He’s working fervently to prepare his horse for mahi in the bush with his crew. 

Dawn is yet to break and the full moon illuminates the white strands of Apiata’s hair as he weaves around the horse, securing saddlebags and tools to cleanse Te Urewera of pests such as possums. He whispers commands in his distinct Tūhoe dialect and the horse obliges. 

At 73, Apiata is as agile as a man half his age – animated by passion and a belief of being connected to the environment through whakapapa. His commitment gets him up at four every morning in service of his ancestor, Te Urewera, a culturally and legally protected feminine being of rivers, forests and mountains.

For Apiata and his Ngāi Tūhoe people, the deep connection to Te Urewera goes back to their creation story. They are said to be the descendants of Pōtiki-tiketike, a child of Te Maunga, the mountain man, and Hinepūkohurangi, the mist woman. They are Ngā Tamariki o te Kohu, the children of the mist.

Te Urewera stretches from the Bay of Plenty into Hawke’s Bay. Waikaremoana, Ruatāhuna, Rūātoki and Waimana are known as her four corners. The iwi influence has extended to include Te Putere in the south, from Kaingaroa in the west to Ngātapa in the east. 

She is home to nearly all the North Island’s species of native birds, including the endangered north island brown kiwi, north island kōkako, kaka, and whio.

When the Te Urewera Act was passed into law seven years ago, it enshrined the former national park with all the rights, powers, duties, and liabilities of a legal person. Te Urewera was placed under the kaitiakitanga of her Tūhoe descendants, with support from the Department of Conservation (DOC). 

Emphasising the connection between Tūhoe and Te Urewera, the law preserves, as much as possible, the natural features of Te Urewera and her ecology, biodiversity, and heritage as a place for the public to use for recreation, learning and spiritual reflection. Acting as Te Urewera’s voice is a board made up of six Tūhoe representatives – including Apiata – and three Crown seats.

The groundbreaking change was followed in 2017 by a similar law making the Whanganui River a legal person – a world-first for a river.

The changes gave Tūhoe the mandate to control human activities within Te Urewera. They can place rāhui on certain areas to prohibit activities and the prohibition that must be adhered to by all. Teaching ancient forestry skills to their young iwi members within the bush no longer requires DOC permission and they can hunt, gather and forage without fear of prosecution. 

For Māori, reconnection to their whenua is all-encompassing. It involves the care and wellbeing of the land using mātauranga developed over centuries, specific to the environment they are connected to through whakapapa. 

After the law was passed, the changes were almost immediate. Centuries of indigenous Tūhoe knowledge of Te Urewera came to the forefront for her continued care. These holistic measures have challenged DOC. After 60 years of managing the land using Western methods, the department is now having to see through a new, indigenous lens. There have been difficulties adjusting.

As Apiata ties his horse to the wooden shed outside the kāuta, he says he is not a fan of the Crown. He has seen firsthand the devastation it has caused his people; he has heard the stories of his ancestors’ struggles from his old people. 

In the kāuta, he prepares breakfast before a full day of hard work, trekking up the mountains laying traps. It’s about trust, he says of the Crown, as he sparks up his gas stove – there is none. 

Apiata’s papa kāinga is deep in the bosom of Te Urewera, shielded from the view of the Ōhinemataroa awa, behind fern fronds and native flora. There are no roads, no cellphone reception, and the only ways to get there are by horse or four-wheel-drive. Forget Google Maps – to find Apiata you have to know the lay of the land; how to read the currents of the river.

His papa kāinga is not connected to the grid; it runs off a few solar panels crudely erected in front of the wharemoe and adjacent to the ablution block. There is a long-drop dunny that Apiata erected, with no door. A few branches from the trees partially block the view, but at any given moment changing wind could give whoever’s seated on the throne eye-contact with passing men on horseback. 

At the table, near the wood burner, Apiata scoops up a mouthful of porridge and between gulps admits he hasn’t read the legislation. Neither has he read the Kawa of Te Urewera, a handbook created by the Te Urewera Board that explains the new etiquette expected of visitors.

Before the settlement, DOC managed the land. Under the guardianship of Tūhoe, it is people who are managed – something Apiata already knew because the knowledge of how to behave in the forest was passed down to him from his kaumātua. 

Before the law change, his relationship with Te Urewera was monitored closely by the department. He felt heavily policed. 

“We would see visitors from outside be able to do things we couldn’t on our own whenua. It’s different now. We can get our rongoa, and our kai.”

Despite not being versed in the lines of the legislation or the Kawa handbook, Apiata is the living embodiment of both.

His relationship with Te Urewera began in the cradle and he and his wife, Tineti, have ensured it’s instilled within their eight children, as well as all of their 26 mokopuna. The whānau live on Te Urewera, the same land where Apiata’s kuia raised him.

English is his second language: he is more comfortable speaking in his native tongue. Hearing Apiata talk to his family in te reo is exquisite; it could be the dialect of his ancestors, untarnished by the education system.

Apiata never wanted to be appointed to the Te Urewera governing board, but accepted after pressure from his whānau. Flustered by being in a boardroom with booksmart people – including former prime minister Jim Bolger – he got shingles. He is a man of the bush not the boardroom, he reckons, but that is why his views are so highly regarded. It is his deep relationship and understanding of Te Urewera that makes his knowledge valuable.

Apiata has come to know every crevice and curve of the land. He knows the bird sounds he should hear at certain times of the year, the wildlife, the water species, new pests. Sound, sight and smell tell him when something is not right.

Apiata talks about Te Urewera in a way many talk about a revered elder. He doesn’t see his role as an owner of Te Urewera: he is a kaitiaki. Humans are seasonal beings, but the land is enduring.

Te Urewera nurtures with rongoā and kai for his whānau, and she is his sanctuary to escape to. Since the 1800s, Te Urewera hid many of his whanaunga from the clutches of the constabulary.

Short in stature and dressed in track pants and an oversized blue woollen jumper, Kruger appears unassuming. But he is the wolf of Tūhoe: territorial, and merciless when provoked. His verbal prowess could elevate the weakest man to new heights or tear down the strongest. He can match and override the energy he is greeted with.

An elusive man who has declined multiple interviews, he now sits relaxed in an armchair with a smile, though his eyes say something different. He is ready for a verbal exchange; a skill he has perfected fighting for justice.

Kruger doesn’t need to give this interview, neither is he fussed about it. He makes it clear the only people he is answerable to are Tūhoe; no one else is a priority. We got him on a day he felt charitable. 

With Tūhoe, Kruger describes himself as the chairperson of a 2000-year-old organisation. 

Kruger led the negotiation with the Crown that saw Te Urewera returned to iwi guardianship. His expertise has been sought nationally and globally by indigenous nations seeking the return of stolen spiritual homelands.

Te Urewera is spiritually significant for the people of Tūhoe but for the Crown it is evidence of dirty deeds, he says.

Kruger says their purpose was clear from the beginning: reconnecting the 40,000 people who identify as Tūhoe back to their whenua, ngahere, and whakapapa through their inherited connection to Te Urewera. Ninety per cent of Tūhoe people do not live within their ancestral land – and Tūhoe leadership wants them back. 

The relationship between the Crown and Tūhoe remains strained. Tikanga and Western ideologies are colliding and the two are trying to find common ground. 

Even as the Crown ramps up efforts to honour the principles of Te Tiriti o Waitangi by forming equal partnerships with Māori in areas such as health, long-held issues from both sides remain unaddressed. How do you learn to trust each other and form meaningful relationships after everything that has happened? 

Tūhoe didn’t sign the Treaty but suffered the Crown’s wrath that followed. Land was confiscated, innocent people were detained or killed – actions that were justified by the Crown through dubious legislation and enforcement – and they were unfairly targeted by police, 2007’s anti-terror raids the most recent example. 

The return of Te Urewera to Tūhoe guardianship is the beginning of a new era for the tribe. But with success comes fresh problems for Te Uru Taumatua – issues that are causing division and dissent within the iwi.

Several hapū have protested about Kruger’s handling of Tūhoe affairs, including policies to stop hapū accessing funds from Government agencies for things such as marae improvements.

Unapologetic, Kruger says Tūhoe have the resources to fix their own issues but need to take ownership rather than asking for outside help. Revitalising mana motuhake means being self-reliant, he says.

“There will be fearfulness around a new order, a new Tūhoe world where they may not see a steady picture of their new role. They will feel insecure, and they will resist and protest. That’s where we are now as Tūhoe people, we are right in the middle of that chaos. A chaos we should never, ever avoid. We should work our way through that. It's divisive, it’s loud, but it's part of the necessity of change.”

Pursuing mana motuhake is not easy after 180 years of Crown influence through colonisation, he says.

The Tuhoe settlement was signed in 2013, followed by the Te Urewera Act in 2014. Post-settlement, Tūhoe said they felt resistance from DOC, which administered the Act for the Crown. 

Kruger said the cracks started forming from the beginning. 

“DOC were furious because basically, someone had sold their baby.

“To the extent that it’s actually giving up power. So it’s not a 50-50 share, it will probably end up being a 80-20 share in Tūhoe’s favour.

“There was alarm, resistance, suspicion by DOC. So that’s what we’ve been doing over the last seven years, abating that as much as we can and we’re tired of it, because basically, it’s not our job.”

Following the settlement, critics challenged whether Tūhoe could really manage the area. 

“We’ve been preparing for 200 years. Indigenous people who have suffered from colonisation, loss, grief, and terror ... don’t sit around waiting for divine intervention.

“We have never, ever accepted the confiscation and the theft of our land. We have never, ever seen it as a National Park. When DOC was here DOC behaved and acted like the owner of the land and they ignored us,” Kruger says.

“They advertised Te Urewera as a place to come and fish for trout, tramp, and listen to birds and look at trees. They forgot to mention there were Māori living here, they forgot to mention that. So we have always known that our commitment and our mission here was our reconnection with the land. The Crown mistook that for owning. Owning is a Western concept, right? Indigenous people don’t have a concept called ownership.”

As the chief advisor to the director-general of DOC, Mervyn English has worked closely with Tūhoe for the past four years. He admits it’s not all been smooth sailing. Despite this, pest control and biodiversity work on the mountain has been maintained by Tūhoe. 

English says the biggest concern for Te Urewera is the relationship between Tūhoe and the Crown.

“You just don’t change 180 years in the seven years. Tūhoe has an intergenerational timeframe and DOC is adapting to that and it hasn’t been an easy adaption. I think that that will give good outcomes for both Tūhoe and Te Urewera.”

The work has forced those who have no spiritual connection to the land to dig deeper - it’s soul work, English says, something he has never had to do in his career. 

It has involved reckoning with the Crown’s history with Tūhoe and learning to use a Māori lens to view the whenua. It’s changed how the department operates, but is still a work in progress, he says. 

“After most settlements are done, it’s really only the beginning of the discovery of what the parties intended, or thought was going to happen. 

“All these expectations are built up and then you come to practise those on the ground and that becomes a different kind of situation, you have to work through the practicality of a whole lot of things.

“So DOC, for example, will do a lot of single species work. We work with Kakapo and Takahe whereas Tūhoe will have a much more holistic approach to looking at the land.

“A few months ago I had one of the Tūhoe bush crew saying, ‘This is happening, we don’t know why, I wish we could talk to your scientists.’ And I said, ‘Well, we could organise that,’ but another Tūhoe person said, ‘All they will do is give us a Eurocentric view.’ So that’s a really good illustration of the ambiguity, where DOC has to find its way through.”

The nuts and bolts of the partnership involve DOC providing operational support and $2.2 million in annual funding for Te Urewera’s maintenance. 

“There’s a very fine balance here between supporting Tūhoe in any way that we can, but also giving them the space to find their own way,” he says. 

A few years back, the relationship nearly broke down, English says. They recovered, but issues of power-sharing and trust always hover in the background.

“Given the Crown’s past history with them they’re very sensitive to whether we’re trying to take over again or not. So it has actually worked better since the staff there have been predominantly Tūhoe people.”

English says going into this partnership there was no blueprint for DOC to work off. He formed support networks outside DOC to help him understand Te Ao Māori. 

Despite setbacks, he believes the legislation is one of the most exciting laws that has been passed and he expects more iwi across the nation to follow suit, with the experiences of Tūhoe and the Crown helping shape future partnerships

“I think one of the very fundamental things is to always be humble about what you think you know. Because whether you’re Māori or Pākehā working in these situations, you cannot know everything and you never will.”

While government departments tend to be “transactional”, iwi are seeking a genuine, committed relationship, he says. 

“The words in a settlement and apologies have a great deal more meaning and emotion around them for iwi then they do for people from the Crown. So I can talk to Tūhoe and they will still talk about the words of the apology. They will still talk about the importance of the Crown, restoring its honor.” 

Otago Law Professor Jacinta Ruru, who specialises in Māori environmental law, says the Te Urewera law paved the way for other landmasses in Aotearoa New Zealand to be recognised as their own person - something the public should support.

“The sky is not gonna fall in if we recognise a Māori understanding of the place. Our ability as the general public to still go and visit Te Urewera has not changed, we can still do all that. We didn’t lose anything,” Ruru says.

“And for the Crown to be humble enough to enter into and accept this compromise is recognition that the Crown doesn't have all the answers on how to care for the place and by partnering with Māori we can gain so much more as a country. So I hope that all of us as New Zealanders now, when we go visit Tūhoe, we walk through that forest and around the lake, that we have a much more enhanced, richer experience than we had in the past.

“There will be conflict, and there’ll be different (opinions), for example, between the Western-trained scientists and the mātauranga trained scientists. There will be conflict around what is best for the place, but I think there are better mechanisms in place to be able to negotiate that respectfully.”

Finlayson says no one was under the illusion the settlement phase would be easy. 

“The New Jerusalem doesn’t come in five minutes. But the Crown, through its agencies, has to recognise that the landscape has changed, that Parliament wanted the landscape to change and they have to act in a way that gives effect to Parliament’s intentions.”