DEFINING SUCCESS

Years ago I took part in a focus group on cultural definitions of success, and shared a bit about growing up in Pawarenga where life followed a loose pattern largely centred round whakapono and whānau, seasons and cycles.  Droning karakia; these bookended all our days.  Thursday fishing, meatless Friday, Saturday on the back of Kaea Samson’s cream truck going to Broadwood for JMB, Sunday singing in church; these marked our weeks.  Tupu beds and pataka stores, garden slavery and bush freedom, black taraire-stained teeth and green river swims, chilblained feet and tapa legs, pet calves and roast beef dinners, bee sting orchards and bottled summerfruits; these bracketed our months and years.  And through it all sounded the eternal roar of the coast.

Our story starts with Thursdays.  That was the day when horses were saddled, split pikau made of sugar bags loaded with takakau, butter, salt and flasks of tea, and off to the coast the riders would go.  Kids who showed promise as divers got taken along.  If kutai was the goal, you hung on while the horse was swum across the Kawhi to the easier pickings from the Whangape side.  If it was crayfish or paua, you faced the thrill of meeting the kaingāra that lurked in the clefts waiting for your paua-seeking hand.  If it was fish off Taupeke, you had the return climb up to the Golden Stairs hanging on to the rider’s waist while the bulk of you dangled off the back of the horse with nothing but the strength in your skinny kid arms to keep you from the rocks below.  In theory, if you did slip, you had two last chances to grab on to before saying haere ra to this cruel world – the crupper and the horse’s tail.  Noone I knew ever died.  What fun. 

Caught fish were kept in rock pools till home time.  Hunger was satisfied with slices off one of them swished in saltwater, layered on buttered takakau with maybe a bit more salt and some kutai, raw or steamed on a piece of iron.  When washed down with strong tea to the accompaniment of our puku pākehā sister’s moaning that we were worse than cannibals, nothing ever tasted sweeter!

The homeward trip always started with bulging pikau sacks that slowly deflated at the kainga of any kuia, kaumātua, pouaru or pani and ended when every kainga in both valleys had enough kaimoana for Friday’s meals. 

Those olden days weren’t all good and golden but they taught us that wherever we go and whatever we do, we’ve got to bring back enough to drop off a feed to those in need. 

That tikanga still happens in Pawarenga today and it has helped us survive much worse dangers than marauding morays or falling off horses.  It is now also used around the world as a cultural metaphor for success when evaluating research projects.