The first words I remember are the names of the trees.
Pōhutukawa, a gorgeous tree, which is in glorious, odiferous red flower when I arrive at the airport. Rimu and kauri, giant, shaggy conifers with scraggy silhouettes I can see from the highway. Cabbage trees in household gardens, and ponga, or silver ferns, lining the pathways. And who can forget the crazy wheki, those giant prehistoric tree ferns used to fabricate Gilligan Island-style ashtrays and vases for sale in the local tourist shops?
I suppose the trees were the first names I remembered because their Seuss-like shapes are so very distinctive from the Canadian maples and silver birches at home. Such impressive fauna demands to be known by its proper name. It’s like one of my daughter’s schoolteachers who had a uniquely African name few could pronounce. The children spent many hours mastering the multi-syllabic challenge of his surname because, as my daughter explained, it was a matter of respect. 
To speak someone’s (or something’s) true name is truly a form of magic.
I’ve since picked up Keri Hulme’s Stonefish, a compilation of the master New Zealand author’s writing. In the back is a glossary of Maori phrases used throughout the book, from kō
(a digging tool) to whakatauki-waina (a wine proverb, or one that doesn’t make too much sense sober). She is a master of diction, stretching and expanding her English as much as her Maori:
“you smile at my rocks
but I murmur opals; you
say ancestors and I breath,
Bones—“
What I admire most about Hulme’s writing is the way she uses the most precise noun at her disposal whenever possible. The true name, be it Maori or English.
According to the Oxford Dictionary site, there are almost 230,000 English words listed in the Oxford second edition, and over half of these are nouns. And still, every day we discover new species, new phenomena, new things, all of which demand to be known and named.
This ever-growing repository of words is part of the reason why plain language is gaining ground. For the most part, I agree with the principles of the movement—we don’t want our readers running off to check the Oxford in the middle of an important scene just to find out that an extrapolation is a guess. But in our desire to simplify, it would be a shame to ignore the glorious richness of our languages, which have been built over centuries by people consumed with the desire and need to capture in words that which is unique in this world.
It is this precision, this myriad of meanings captured in syllables that makes language so powerful, or (as Keri Hulme might prefer) gives it is mana.
For a great listing of New Zealand trees, click here.
For the ’100 Maori words every New Zealander should know’, click here.
Kia ora!



















