Matua Kahurangi
Matua Kahurangi, unapologetically provocative, is infamous for his incendiary writings that challenge societal taboos and stir relentless debate.
As an Airbnb host, you’re flying blind. You don’t get to vet your guests. No profile photo. No reviews. Not even a location. Just a name. Airbnb says it’s to stop discrimination, but sometimes it just stops common sense.
Early March, I got a request from a couple on a working holiday visa in New Zealand. They wanted to book for a week, see if the place suited, then maybe extend paying cash. Fair enough. That’s pretty normal. I accepted the booking, knowing they were arriving the next day.
That morning, I went out fishing and absolutely slayed it. Caught a bunch of nice snapper. Came home stoked, fish in hand. I’d allowed early check-in since everything was ready and they seemed keen for long term.
I pull into the driveway, fish in tow, and see they’ve already arrived and helped themselves into the cottage. They walk out to greet me.
And sweet Jesus…
The bloke, Eric*, was this tiny, wiry guy in rainbow tights so tight they may as well have been painted on. Topped off with a sparkly women’s shirt that looked like it was lifted straight from Liberace’s wardrobe. Hair long, wild, with dyed pink and blue strands. A twirled moustache, with each side dyed. Painted nails. The whole rainbow shebang.
Ash*, his partner, was taller. Masculine features, Ardern-like teeth. Baggy yoga pants-type vibe, half her head shaved. If I had to label it, I’d say butch lesbian meets Southeast Asian backpacker chic. Oh, and visible Adam’s apple. I tried not to look too hard, but I looked hard enough.
They seemed friendly. Different, sure, but friendly. Eric told me he was a therapist. “Low-intensity supervision” or something equally vague. To be honest, he looked more like he had a therapist than was one. Can’t remember what Ash said she did, I was too distracted wondering what exactly had just ventured onto the property.
Within five minutes of sitting down for a beer, they’d dropped the vegan bomb (of course), and started in on Trump, climate change, immigration, and every other leftist buzzword you could think of. It was like an activist starter pack exploded in front of me. I kept my mouth shut though, because, let’s be honest, I wanted that five-star review.
And I got it.
They stayed a few weeks. Paid on time. Clean. Quiet. Didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs, barely drank. Honestly, they were perfect guests as long as you didn’t actually have to talk to them.
I avoided them, mostly. They had their own place, so it was easy. I’d see them at the BBQ or when they used the laundry. Every time, it was more tofu and rainbow talk. I started wondering, were they gay? Was Ash trans? Was Eric? Were they just ‘queer’ in some abstract Tumblr way? I don’t know. Still don’t.
Then came Friday, yep – two days ago.
We shared a few drinks at the BBQ, and the conversation drifted, shockingly, back to LGBTQIA+ topics. They brought up Benjamin “Bussy” Doyle and their support for him. I let them know exactly what I thought of the whole situation. They didn’t love that. But hey, they’d already given me my review, so I figured I could stop pretending.
I mentioned my Substack, Matuakahurangi.com, where I write about all this crap. They seemed intrigued and wrote it down on their phones to check out later. We all went our separate ways.
Next morning, I saw Eric. He looked like he’d just witnessed a war crime. All concern and awkward eye contact. He barely spoke.
I went out for the day. Came home in the arvo and noticed their stuff was gone. All of it. Vanished. No goodbye. Just gone.
That’s when it clicked. They read my Substack.
I guess the essays didn’t sit well with their rainbow worldview. But honestly, good. If you’re going to pack up and flee because you read some opposing opinions online, then maybe New Zealand, or life in general, isn’t the right place for you.
This whole experience just confirmed what I already knew. The ultra far-left are effing weird, and the alphabet soup crowd is even stranger. They’re welcome to live how they want, just don’t expect everyone to celebrate it or be silent about it.
And Airbnb? Maybe let hosts see a little bit more info about who’s staying in their property. I’m not talking about vetting people based on politics, but letting us know something might be helpful. You know, just so we don’t end up hosting a pop-up pride parade on the lawn.
Anyway, Ash and Eric, if you’re reading this, thanks for the five-star review.
And even better, thanks for effing off.
This article was originally published on the author’s Substack.
