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Frank: Stories from the South, episode 10
Frank: Stories from the South, episode 10

NZ Herald

time6 days ago

  • Entertainment
  • NZ Herald

Frank: Stories from the South, episode 10

Alaifea was among those receiving his malofie. Photo / Frank Film For the diaspora community, receiving their malofie later in life, like Alaifea, is a cultural coming-of-age. Photo / Frank Film Alaifea, 33, was among those receiving his malofie and says he feels honoured to share the experience. 'I'm super emotional anyway,' he says, 'so I'm just gonna be an absolute trainwreck for the next few weeks. I wear my heart on my sleeve.' Traditionally in Samoa, boys receive their malofie in their teenage years, as a rite of passage into manhood. For the diaspora community receiving their malofie later in life, the process is a cultural coming-of-age. 'Now, it is a matter of moving to a new life – a shedding of the old skin, I suppose,' says Alaifea. Alaifea's wife, artist Nina Oberg-Humphries. Photo / Frank Film Alaifea's wife, artist Nina Oberg-Humphries, says one thing she admires about her husband is that 'above all else, he loves being Samoan'. 'This [malofie] is really special because, not that it cements his identity but, you know, I can't imagine the feeling of being able to speak the words of your ancestors and then being able to bear the marks of them as well,' she says. Nina Oberg-Humphries admires how her husband loves being Samoan. Photo / Frank Film Poasa Alaifea was motivated by his sister's death. Photo / Frank Film The motivation to get tapped surged for Alaifea last year, after his sister died. 'I felt this great sense of urgency,' he says, 'I won't let another woman of influence in my life see me without the pe'a.' The male malofie, also called a pe'a, covers two-thirds of the body, with patterns of thick black lines, dots and arrows spreading from the shins to halfway up the torso – front and back. The female malofie, called a malu, covers less of the skin and takes one or two days to produce. The tufuga taps free-hand, tailoring each design to the unique journey and lineage of the recipient. Tufuga Su'a Peter Sulu'ape travelled from Auckland to Christchurch to perform tā tatau. Photo / Frank Film Most of the people receiving their malofie this month are New Zealand or Australian-born. Photo / Frank Film 'It's bigger than just tattooing, this is the one thing that every Samoan wants to be,' says Tufuga Sulu'ape. 'To mark by the pe'a actually is the closest connection to our culture.' Most of those receiving their malofie this month are New Zealand or Australian-born. 'So part of the diaspora,' says Alaifea. He acknowledges that it can be controversial for those outside of Samoa to receive their malofie. 'There's definitely a growing interest in it because, as we move into second and third generations of Pacific people living and being born outside of Samoa, there's a growing disconnect – a wanting, or a longing, for individuals to be able to have that connection,' says Alaifea. Poasa Alaifea under the 'Au. Photo / Frank Film The word tatau is derived from the sound of the tapping and the Samoan word for connection. Sulu'ape says preventing those who are not Samoan-born from receiving their malofie puts a barrier between a person and their culture. 'This is a mark of your identity, showing people that you are from there. We shouldn't have any reasons that you cannot [get the tattoo],' says Sulu'ape. The word tatau is derived from the sound of the tapping and the Samoan word for connection. Photo / Frank Film But the process is ruthless. 'You're literally faced with all of your demons – there's nowhere to run,' says Alaifea. 'It really is not only the shedding of the skin, it's almost like a shedding of your soul.' Basically, he says, 'we're going to be having a whole bunch of open wounds on our body'. The tapping sessions are usually two to five hours per day, but this is tailored to each recipient depending on how much they bleed and how quickly their wounds heal. The tapping sessions last around two to five hours a day. Photo / Frank Film Every strike was painful for Alaifea. Photo / Frank Film 'Every strike is painful. Honestly, it's such a weird experience, because it's both beautiful and torture at the same time,' says Alaifea. He says of all the people he spoke to about receiving their pe'a, every one said that, at some point during the process, they wanted to quit. On day one, Alaifea lies surrounded by family on woven mats (falalili'i). His young daughter holds his hand. He closes his eyes. The tapping begins. Sign up to The Daily H, a free newsletter curated by our editors and delivered straight to your inbox every weekday.

Watch: The extraordinary life of Nurse Maude
Watch: The extraordinary life of Nurse Maude

Otago Daily Times

time14-07-2025

  • Health
  • Otago Daily Times

Watch: The extraordinary life of Nurse Maude

Ninety years after the largest funeral in Christchurch's history, the legacy of Nurse Maude lives on. Eva Kershaw from Frank Film reports. Ninety years after crowds lined the streets for the largest individual funeral in the history of Christchurch, the legacy of Emily Sibylla Maude lives on in district nursing, home care and palliative services. Nurse Maude, New Zealand's first district nurse, is honoured in two stained glass windows – one in the former chapel of the Community of the Sacred Name and another in the chapel of Christchurch Hospital, where she is pictured holding a sick child. While she grew up in a well-to-do family, Sibylla Maude was no stranger to sickness. In 1862, when she was born in Riccarton, Christchurch, was an unsanitary place. The city was experiencing rapid growth with insufficient infrastructure, culminating in pollution and poverty, particularly in the poorer areas of the city. The air was thick with smog from open fires and industrial coal-burning, the street gutters held the waste of transport animals, kitchen scraps and chamber pots, and the Avon and Heathcote Rivers carried the city's runoff. The 1870s brought repeated epidemics of influenza and typhoid – diseases borne from unhealthy living conditions. 'Christchurch was a busy, thriving, well-to-do town,' Vivienne Allan, author of The History of Nurse Maude, tells Frank Film. 'Unfortunately, the people who lived on the wrong side of the railway lines were not so well looked after.' At the time, people had to pay to go to hospital, forcing those without enough money to stay home. 'You had to be looked after by members of the family who, of course, had no training,' explains Allan. As the eldest of eight children, Maude grew up knowing how to look after others. Her family were ardent Anglicans and she was inspired by her father, a member of the Canterbury Provisional Council, and two of her aunts, both nurses, to serve the community. When she was 18 years old, Sibylla implored her family to send her to England to train as a nurse. She spent two years at London's Middlesex Hospital as a lady probationer (paying fees rather than working as an apprentice) and returned in 1892 to work in Christchurch Hospital. Nurse Maude was quickly promoted to matron, but her progressive ideas to improve the running of the hospital were not implemented and many who were poor remained unable to access care. Maude resigned four years later. Maude sought to nurse, says Allan, not to organise. 'She wanted to be able to go into people's homes and nurse them at home.' In seeking financial assistance to undertake district nursing in the city, Maude approached Reverend Alfred Walter Averill at the Church of St Michael and All Angels and wealthy parishioner Jessie Heaton Rhodes. 'Together, they made a plan,' says Allan. 'Sibylla would be paid £80 a year. She would be well equipped with a uniform, with a bag, with a washpan, with a bedpan. She would be able to go from house to house, she would knock on the door, go inside, say a prayer, and get down to business.' Every day, except for Sundays, Maude walked the streets visiting patients. She saw 1100 patients in her first year, treating anything from a cough to pneumonia, cancer and ulcerated legs. 'She looked after people who had the most straitened circumstances,' says Allan. Allan says Nurse Maude became well-known throughout Christchurch. 'She was a short, stocky person. She didn't have a great demeanour, and everybody always said she could look very stern. At the same time, she had a kindly face, and that was what endeared her to people because she didn't look down on anybody.' Demand grew for Maude's services, and in 1901, the District Nursing Association was founded to lend support to the work, and several more nurses were hired. From a headquarters in Durham St, Maude operated a dispensary and treatment room, with a sewing room in the back of the building to remake clothes for those who needed them. 'Everything was focused, for everybody, on looking after the sick, poor, and the elderly,' says Allan. Maude pioneered treatment for the community through the tuberculosis crisis of the early 1900s, establishing an open-air tent camp in New Brighton for tuberculosis sufferers. A local newspaper called Maude 'the hardest worked woman of the epidemic'. 'She became so in demand from everybody that they ended up having to put a guard in front of her door,' says Allan. In 1934, Sibylla was made an OBE, and presented with the insignia by Governor-General Charles Bathurst. She accepted the honour 'reluctantly', says Allan, on the condition that the ceremony be held in private. One year later, on July 12, 1935, Nurse Maude died suddenly of a heart attack. She was 72 years old. 'At the graveside after the funeral, a kaumātua from Tuahiwi stepped forward and said 'mahi pai, pono hoke',' says Allan. 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant.' -Frank Film

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