The Great Upset

In a world that usually cheers for the biggest and the loudest, something special just happened. The Northland Mudfish (Kōwaro) was just named "Fish of the Year" for 2026.

At the halfway point of the contest, this little fish wasn't even in the top ten. But in the final 24 hours, the people of the North got together and pushed it into first place. It is the first freshwater fish and the smallest species ever to win, beating out giants like the whale shark and the longfin eel.

Tough as the North

The Kōwaro is a lot like the people of Te Tai Tokerau. It doesn't need to be flashy to be a champion. It’s only 15cm long and spends most of its time hidden away, but it is incredibly tough. When the wetlands dry up in the summer, this fish doesn’t give up. It buries itself in the mud and waits for the rain to come back.

Just like our people, the mudfish knows how to survive the hard times by staying grounded. It doesn't ask for the spotlight, but it gets the job done. It proves that you don't have to be a "heavyweight" to be the best, you just have to have heart and stay true to your roots.

A Memory of Injustice

When I was six years old, a family friend was sent to jail on a cannabis crime. I overheard my mum saying on the phone that "The police should be going after real criminals." That has stuck with me for 40 years, and it's true. For five decades, the Misuse of Drugs Act 1975 has failed to mitigate drug-related harm. Instead, it has disproportionately impacted Māori in Te Tai Tokerau, reaching a critical threshold of social damage.

The Criminalisation of Community

If smoking weed is a crime, then our entire region is full of "criminals." A longitudinal study of New Zealand children found that by age 21, over two-thirds had used cannabis. Arrest or conviction fails to reduce subsequent use in 95% of cases. This law is administered in a biased way, entrenching stigma and exposing our whānau to unsafe illicit markets. We are running a high-entropy "Babylonian" software that treats our people as static subjects for punishment rather than dynamic agents of growth.

A Hijacked Faith

Kia ora e te whānau. Pull up a chair and let’s have a real talk for a moment. 🌿 We often think of our faith or our deepest beliefs as a direct, unedited download from the heavens, a fixed rock that has never changed. But if we look at the whakapapa of history, we start to see the fingerprints of men where we expected the hand of the Divine. Much of what we call "standard doctrine" in Te Tai Tokerau was forged in the fires of political survival and the needs of empire.

In the language of the Quantum Whakapapa Project, many of these "rules" are "Bad Explanations", ideas that are easy to vary because they served a specific person’s power rather than the universal truth of the Woven Universe. When we look at how theology changed around the Doctrine of Discovery, slavery, and lending with interest, we see a pattern of "Babylonian" deception designed to support "Chrematistics", the accumulation of money for its own sake, over "Ekonomia", the stewardship of the household.

The Checked-Out Reality

We’ve all heard the old Cheech and Chong bit where one's knocking on the door and the other keeps saying, "Dave’s not here, man." It’s a classic, but when I look around our beautiful Taitokerau, I see too many of our tāne and rangatahi living in that punchline. They are physically present, but the "Universal Constructor", the part of the human spirit designed to transform reality, has effectively left the building.

My Favourite Shirt

Now, I’m not wearing it today, but my favourite shirt actually has that exact quote on it. It’s funny, but when the laughter fades, we have to look at the truth. To move from a "Static Society" to a regenerative one, we need our "Universal Explainer" capability to be sharp. When our senses are dulled, we lose the Mana required to collapse the wave function of potential into a reality of abundance.

A Leaky Bucket

My heart aches for our beautiful Taitokerau. For too long, we have lived under a system that treats our home like a resource to be stripped rather than a mother to be loved. We see it every day: the log trucks carrying our timber away while our own people live in cold, damp houses and cars. We see our children, our greatest treasure, leaving for the cities because they can’t see a future here. This isn’t just an economic problem; it is a spiritual leak that is draining the very life force, the Mauri, from our land and our people.

The Lie of Separation

We’ve been sold a story that we are all separate, that what happens to my neighbour in Kaikohe doesn't affect me in Whangārei. But our faith and our ancestors tell us a different truth. We live in a "Woven Universe" where every thread is connected. If one part suffers, the whole body suffers. This "lie of separation" has allowed us to accept poverty as normal, but it is actually a breakdown of the sacred bonds of Whanaungatanga.

Why hasn’t Ngāpuhi settled?

This weekend my whanau travelled down to Tauranga Moana for the interment of our great aunty who passed away at the age of 101 ½, after living a peaceful and frugal life and giving most of her money away to the needy overseas. I carpooled with my sister and niece. On the way home as we were coming over the Brynderwyns, enjoying that majestic view that welcomes us home, the conversation turned to the Ngapuhi settlement. I did my best to explain, from my perspective, why Ngapuhi hasn’t settled.

One of the things with explaining something to a 9 year-old (even a very smart one) is that simplicity has a way of rising to the surface. In the simplest terms, even though the $500-800 million potentially on offer would be handy for our whanau, what the government wants in return isn’t ours to give away. It belongs to our mokopuna and their mokopuna and their mokopuna.

The afternoon sun is baking the volcanic stones and warming the kiwifruit orchards here in Maungatapere. Looking out over the land, I’m reminded of what Reverend Māori Marsden called the "Woven Universe"—a reality where everything is a process of interconnected threads rather than a collection of separate things. If we are to transition Te Tai Tokerau from the extractive "Babylon" to the regenerative "Zion," we must understand how every person living here—tāngata whenua, tāngata Tiriti, and our new immigrant whānau—fits into that fabric.

For too long, the "Babylonian" operating system has relied on the "Newtonian Error". This is the bad explanation that views the universe as a clockwork mechanism made of separate, isolated parts. In our community, this manifests as the "Rational Individual," an atomised agent seeking to maximise their own utility at the expense of the collective Mauri. But modern physics and ancient Mātauranga agree: separation is an illusion.

In the Quantum Whakapapa Nexus, we recognise Whanaungatanga as literal Quantum Entanglement. When tāngata Tiriti or immigrants move to the North, they are not just "units of labour" or "consumers"; they become entangled with the life force of this whenua. Their skills, their capital, and their presence become part of the local energetic field.

I was driving behind a line of logging trucks heading toward Marsden Point the other day, and it hit me. We aren’t just looking at timber; we are watching the literal skin and bone of Papatūānuku being shipped offshore. This is the "Leaky Bucket" in real-time. We export the sunlight, the rain, and the soil nutrients—the embodied energy of our whenua—and in return, we get a bit of fiat currency that leaks straight back out on petrol and plastics.

In our latest research, we’ve identified that the struggle in the North isn't just about a lack of money; it’s a battle between two different operating systems: Babylon and Zion.

Babylon is the system of extraction. It’s built on "Newtonian" software—the idea that everything is separate. It treats the land as dead matter and people as atomised units of labour. This is what we call Chrematistics: the art of making money for its own sake. It’s thermodynamically "Entropic," meaning it creates disorder. It leaves us with road damage, silted harbours, and social fragmentation.

I was standing on the side of the road near Maungatapere the other day, watching another line of trucks hauling raw logs toward the port. It’s a sight we’re all used to in Te Tai Tokerau. But if you look at those trucks through the lens of physics, you aren't just seeing timber. You’re seeing a massive export of embodied energy.

For decades, our home has been treated like a "Leaky Bucket." We send away the best of our whenua—the sunlight, the rain, and the soil nutrients that grew those trees over thirty years—and in return, we get a few low-wage jobs and some fiat currency that usually leaves the region the moment we spend it on petrol or power.

They say the darkest part of the night is just before the dawn, but for a while there, I wasn't sure the sun was ever coming back up.

I’m going to be straight with you: this is the scariest and most vulnerable thing I’ve ever done. I’m opening up about a mental health crisis that took me right to the edge—scarily close to a final exit. I'm talking about a state of total "decoherence," where the weave of my world didn't just fray; it felt like it had completely disintegrated. In our Māori worldview, we might call this a heavy season in Te Kore—the Great Void. But as Reverend Māori Marsden taught us, Te Kore isn't just "nothingness"; it is the realm of raw potentiality.

Growing up with a Pākehā mum who held onto a very specific, strongly colonised religious view, my scientific mind was always at war. I want to be clear—I love my mum deeply. She did the absolute best with what she’d been given, and she always did it with a pure heart. 

To me, spirituality looked like fairy tales—nice stories for Sunday mornings, but nothing that stood up to the rigour of 'real' data or the 'hard' world of business and physics. I experienced a strain of neoliberalism and imperial theology that had weaponised the spirit, turning it into a tool for control or relegating it to a building you visit once a week.