Photograph by Mike Hudson
I reckon there are very few human moments more intimate than a hongi. The gruffest man must reduce himself to gentleness incarnate. For four seconds, both participants are completely vulnerable to each other, sharing air, eyes jammed shut. Anything could happen but the exchange has such a sacredness about it that everything around you is powerless to stop what is going on.
I’ve shared hongi with kaumātua before, but a less civilised one stands out the most. There was one night I had in town and three of us were trying to find a place to sit and plan for our next club exploit. In the alcove above High St Square we discovered a gravelly, older Māori chap who opened the last of our beer for us. I let him take a big swig of mine as a thank-you. We stayed with him for a good ten minutes, and upon departure he insisted we exchange a hongi. Both of us were drunk and he smelled like earth and alcohol and dead skin but it was perfect.
