Walking with My Whakapapa: "It's in Her Blood"

by Manisha Jobard

This year was supposed to be different.

For my 40th birthday, I had imagined doing something big—travelling overseas, ticking off a dream that had been sitting on my bucket list for years. But life had other plans, and with the world leaders deciding international travel wasn't quite the adventure it once was, that dream was put on hold.

So I asked myself a different question.

If I can't go overseas, what can I do that I've never done before?

The answer surprised even me.

Hunting.

Back to the roots

I jumped onto Google and started searching for women's hunting groups. That's when I found Wild Chix. The thought of a group of women walking through the bush together, learning the skills of hunting, immediately drew me in. At first, I thought it was the idea of harvesting a deer that excited me.

But it wasn't.

It didn't take long to realise that hunting isn't really about the kill—not for me, anyway.

It's everything that comes before it.

It's the early mornings, the quiet anticipation, and the glassing of distant hillsides, searching for movement. It's carefully stalking through the bush, placing each footstep with intention. It's the long walks where conversation fades and the forest begins to speak. It's learning to be still enough to notice the wind change direction, to hear birds sounding alarms, and to feel yourself becoming part of the landscape rather than just walking through it.

In those moments, something inside me comes alive.

My blood pulses with something familiar, something ancient. And if you stay still long enough, really still, you begin to hear it.

The call of your whakapapa.

It roars quietly through the trees, reminding you that you have walked these paths before—even if it wasn't in this lifetime.

The quiet moments...

My uncle in India said to my mother here in New Zealand, "It's in her blood."

For me, that saying has taken on a whole new meaning.

Hunting isn't something I've inherited through lessons or family traditions. No one handed me a rifle as a child or taught me how to track deer. Yet every time I step into the bush, something feels instinctive. Something feels like home.

Because this journey didn't begin with me.

It began a generation ago with my grandfather and his brothers

My tūpuna walked the forests of India long before there were hunting permits or GPS units. They hunted all manner of species. They knew the rhythms of the seasons, the language of the forest, and the responsibility that came with taking a life to feed the people they loved.

They hunted with purpose.

Not for trophies.

Not for social media.

Not for ego.

They hunted because their whānau depended on them. Every journey into the ngahere was an act of survival, provision, and respect for Papatūānuku.

Without even realising it, I've found myself following in those same footsteps.

Every trip into the bush reconnects me to something I didn't know I was searching for. It strips away the noise of everyday life and replaces it with presence. There are no deadlines, no notifications, no expectations—only the sound of the wind through the trees and the quiet reminder that I belong here.

Harvesting an animal is simply the final chapter of the story.

The real gift is everything that happens before it.

It's learning patience.

It's learning humility.

It's understanding that nature owes you nothing.

And it's knowing that when you do bring meat home, you're carrying on a tradition that's far older than yourself—providing for your whānau in the same way your ancestors once did.

Turning 40 wasn't the milestone I had imagined.

I didn't celebrate it on another continent or with passport stamps and airport lounges.

Instead, I found something far more meaningful.

I found a deeper connection to myself.

To the ngahere.

To my whakapapa.

And to the women who continue to carve out their place in a world that has long been seen as a man's space.

People might look at me now and see someone who enjoys hunting.

But what I see is something much bigger.

I see a woman walking with her ancestors.

And every step I take through the bush reminds me that perhaps this journey was never about learning to hunt.

It was about remembering who I have always been.

Because sometimes, the strongest call you'll ever hear isn't the roar of a stag.

It's the quiet voice of your whakapapa whispering through the trees, reminding you...

It's in your blood.