The clue to identity

A traveller through Northland who takes a wrong turn at Moerewa could stumble on Matawaia, and the verdict might be: this is a place God forgot to finish. There are no shops, just a school, a marae and a few dozen houses dotted around the valley. The corrugated metal roads are bounded by bracken fern and teatree. Creeks run into acres of swamp. This is my home base, my turangawaewae. Life takes me all over the place, but in Matawaia I know who I am. It is the place from which my canoe was launched on life's rocky road; it is the stump to which I will tie that canoe at journey's end. In life it is the ground on which I stand, in death it becomes to ukaipo, the breast that nurtures me at night. In this essay Professor Timoti Karetu, chairman of the Maori Language Commission, describes his experience of turangawaewae.



Jan - Mar 1990




Spirit world

Te Reo





Year of the waka

The sight and sound of a score of waka taua, war canoes, and their sweating, chanting crews will forever remain etched on the memories of those who attended the 1990 Treaty of Waitangi commemoration. The waka has become a symbol of Maori unity and pride in this year of remembrance. Some say it is the vehicle which will carry the mana of Maoridom into the 21st century.


The treaty today - What went wrong and what are we doing about it?

Most of us have grown up without knowing much more about the Treaty of Waitangi than that it was signed last century by anaval captain called Hobson and a group of Maori chiefs. Yet today this piece of paper, regarded by some as a sacred covenant and by others as an obsolete reminder of our colonial past, is making its presence felt in all of our lives. Auckland journalist Ted Reynolds digs into 150 years of treaty history and makes sense of the whole messy, complicated story.


The living past

Maori art treasures are powerful links between past and present.Many are revered as living beings and cherished for the mana they embody. This article explores the legacy of Maori art and offers a tribute to a great photographer who sought to convey the vibrancy of these works.


The unseen world

We shake hands. I say, "Kia ora," you say, "Kia ora," and, unless you're Maori or we are in a Maori setting, this is usually followed by a conscious effort on my part to contain the urge to press noses with you. For a Maori, the hongi is a physical expression of our meeting on a spiritual level. My wairua (spiritual self) greets yours. The hongi is the key to a free flow of emotions based on mutual trust and goodwill. The breath of life enters and leaves through the nose. The practice of hongi with the deceased at a tangi is a physical acknowledgement that the wairua has indeed departed its mortal coil — the nose being the final part of the body to turn cold. But, back to you and me, the Maori in me says, "Go ahead," but somehow the conventions and the times in which we live dictate something else. There is an uneasiness. I see it in your eyes, I feel it in your hand — your wairua and mine do not sit comfortably together. We have merely acknowledged each other's presence. Even after 150 years we still choose merely to co-exist. Come, feel the warmth of my nose.


Art and the spirit

Darkness. And the shuffling of the crowd around me. Excite­ment hangs over us, sparkling faintly in the whispers and coughs, the yawns and murmurs — soft, with the dawn. We wait. Then, begin to move. Forward, slowly, all of us, behind her. And behind the old man whose voice lifts and soars, lifts and soars, cutting through the dark, clearing the way. They pause at the door, that spe­cial group, there in front of our fum­bling, tense, rippling mass. They are so still. Like we are meant to be, try to be. A question is asked, and the name is given. With a sigh the door slides open, while the karanga, the mourning, keening, gripping chant-cry of the kuia, the old women, fills the cool air around us. And suddenly there is light, a radiant flood of light, pouring through the windows, spilling on to the verandah, gracing the rafters. Light from the ceilings; light from the eastern skies. We all gasp — a long, collective, loving gasp — at the beauty of this new house, so rich, so splendid, so warm. Carved images prance and smile and reach out for us from the walls while panels of lattice tukutuku weaving lock them firmly into place. Overhead, the rafters stretch wide, protecting us with their smoothly flowing patterns, and, beneath our feet, finely woven fibre mats cover the floor. The new house is ours, from them — another gift. From the artistry of our ancestors, from the certainty of their knowledge, from the strength of their spirit. He oranga ngakau mo to iwi — a source of pride for us. [chapter-break] Taha wairua, the way of the spirit in matters Maori, per­meates our world so pro­foundly that to isolate and analyse it is almost like threatening the very fabric itself. Spirituality and artmak­ing have formed an integral part of the Maori world view from ancient times until the present day. The early voyagers from the cen­tral Pacific settled this land over a period of four or five hundred years. Oral tradition tells us that the final landfall probably occurred some time after 1400, yet the very first food was eaten on these shores in the tenth century, over a thousand years ago. Guiding those great ocean-going canoes and ensuring a successful journey were a myriad of supernatu­ral beings, creatures of wairua brought from Hawaiki Nui, the home‑land. Some were carried in the form of tokens and talismans, but most were conveyed silently and secretly, in the hearts of the people. With the new land's abundant resources of stone and fibre, wood and feather, bone and shell, the set­tlers' hearts were opened, and their creative imagination flourished. Divine inspiration shaped those very first taonga tuku iho, treasures of the ancestors, that are revered, cherished, and admired today. And thus the spirit thrived. In contrast to the islands of origin, this new land offered vast wealth: colossal trees for house and canoe building and ornamentation; prolific bird life providing masses of food and decorative feathers; huge river-hewn quarries of jade; long ocean beaches stranding disoriented whales; cliffs of glittering obsidian; vast tracts of supple, shining flax plants. More than enough to com­pensate the loss of the aute — paper mulberry for Papa cloth — and hara — the sturdy pandanus for weaving. Though cold in winter, the land was an incredibly plentiful resource; Papatuanuku, Mother Earth, gave generously. And as she gave, so her gifts, ulti­mately, were returned. Every art piece or artefact made before 1800, and certainly most since then, has been a tribute to the natural world. Although fashioned by human hands, the taonga remain sourced within the environment. An elaborately carved war canoe will typically be a gigantic totara or kauri tree, enhanced by paua shell and toroa feathers, resin, sup­plejack and flax fibre. With time and circumstance these materials may once more become part of Papatu­anuku, to be folded within her earthen self. Awareness of this possi­bility is constantly acknowledged by the people. Similarly, great houses are seen as living entities rising from the earth — even now, despite the inclusion of introduced materials and technology. Like canoes, great houses can travel, get dismantled for long periods, be concealed deliberately and carefully, or find themselves falling, easily and miserably, back into the ground. But whatever may happen to the mate­rial form, the wairua, the spirit, of the taonga remains with the natural world, with the environment, with the land. The old-time Maori lived with a stone age technology. The impact of metal upon the material culture ­the arts, warfare, architecture — was dramatic, even devastating. Adapta­tion was immediate, especially in whakairo, the carver's art. Stories of nails meticulously removed from ships' decks are no doubt true. These nails became the first metal chisels and transformed the face of traditional carving, just as musketry dis­figured the subtle nuances of war­fare. But whatever the means em­ployed, the inspiration and the gen­ius still came from the spirit. Wairua was surely a realm of great beauty. The ancient Maori was an ardent lover of beauty in the natural environment and in any manufac­tured reflection of that world. Beauty was, and has remained, an essential quality of Maori life. It is a mirror of the inner self, imbuing even the most functional object with specialness and spirit. Even very mundane items — eating bowls and utensils, bas­kets, gardening tools, mats, fishing sinkers and fishhooks, chisels, bird troughs and canoe bailers — were gracefully designed and craftily deco­rated. Everything, no matter how simple, had to be pleasing to the eye and touch. Which brings us to fashion — to the supreme beauty-consciousness of the early Maori and their enjoyment of elaborate dress, complex (and usually permanent) facial make-up, and a dazzling display of jewellery and accessories. The first Pakeha explorers noted the richness of chiefly costume and the regal manner of their bearing; their immaculately dressed hair fas­tened by combs of wood or bone; their glowing pendants and curious amulets of polished nephrite; their shimmering fibre cloaks and brightly textured dogskin wraps; their haughty faces golden brown beneath a swirl of chiseled indigo. Balance ­a harmony of textures, colours and tones — was essential to achieve the appropriate effect, and, more impor­tantly, to move within the flow of the natural world. For the fashionable chief reflected his or her environ­ment, and therefore had to be aligned with it. Every piece of the well-dressed Maori's wardrobe had a sig­nificance, an essential mauri, or life force, which linked the taonga to the natural world, and in the end, to Papatuanuku herself. Balance was also a vital element in weaponry. The first settlers brought with them from Hawaiki the original patu shape — the short, hand-jabbing weapon of Polynesia. Here the form blossomed. Crafted from jade, hardwood, basalt or whale­bone, and used like a thrusting short sword, the patu had a simplicity ornamented only by its grip. The medium would determine the com­plexity of design. Mere pounamu, greenstone clubs, are thus decep­tively clean and unadorned, yet bal­anced with lethal accuracy; patu paraoa, made from softer whalebone, often feature elaborate bird forms and shell inlay, or carved manaia pro­files. Elegant and deadly, such beauty would inspire courage and bolster the warrior's spirit. Each weapon, whether a jabbing patu or a striking taiaha, longstaff, had its own name and identity; not only from its function and the mate­rial it was made from, but, more sig­nificantly, from its custodian and wielder. All prized Maori artefacts acquire power from those many people who have looked after and enjoyed them. Related again to the natural world are the design forms taken by the taonga. Within the plaited complex­ity of taniko weaving and tukutuku wall panels are the flounder shapes of patiki, the wavy chevrons of ara­moana, the twinkling stars of pura­pura whetu. Kowhaiwhai rafter painting recalls unfurling fern leaves, sinuous shark shapes, budding flow­ers and gaping seed pods. Artists fol­lowed a cycle of acquiring raw mate­rials — wood, fibre, or some other ­making the taonga, and then, to complete the transformation from resource material to manufactured item, applying in decorative form a reference to the taonga's source. Like a spiral, one of the art's most com­mon yet potent symbols, the taonga turns back to its beginning, back to itself. Up until now I have referred to taonga using the word "it", when for most, if not all, Maori, taonga are living entities, best addressed as "her" or "him", or, ideally, by a per­sonal name. The impersonal pronoun neutralises an artefact, not only de­meaning the power within, but dis­tancing the treasure from the be­holder, the toucher, the caregiver. The relationship that Maori enjoy and cultivate with taonga tuku iho is of major importance. A carved house truly does embody a revered ances­tor; a great canoe actually personifies a concept, a vision, that motivates the people. Even the tiniest pieces demand this firm regard: one of the daintiest, most delicate taonga in the fabled Te Maori exhibition — a tiny bone earring — was among the most memorable. Despite her size, she ached with the quiet power of all those generations who had fondled and coveted, touched and admired her unusual beauty. For the Maori people and, specifi­cally, for this Maori person, ancestral art holds many different meanings. The taonga inspire and confront; they relax and soothe; they provoke and energise; they empower and sustain. They convey memories from the past and make promises for the future. They tell us where we, as a people, have come from, and they show us where we are going to. They repre­sent hope, fortitude and resilience: the survival of spirit. Over the last two hundred years much has been utterly, irretrievably lost — deliberately burned in the name of Christendom, recklessly smashed by colonial expansion. Carved structures flattened, sacred sites desecrated. In some regions it is said the visual arts vanished alto­gether. Yet the embers stayed warm and the wairua remained. In spite of the bitterness of land confiscation, introduced epidemic diseases and language loss, those plundered gen­erations survived, and beneath the ravaging pressures of the nineteenth century, they created some of the finest, most fabulous taonga we have. The legacy of that troubled, desper­ate time to this one is one of genius, of adaptation, of energetic and ex­traordinary artmaking. And what will be our legacy to the next generation, as we move into the third millenium? The ancestral art forms, and their making, have been successfully re­tained and fostered, though not with­out considerable struggle and the grim determination of remarkable individuals. Rangimarie Hetet, the doyenne of Maori fibre art and gar­ment manufacture, continues to in­spire, motivate, and encourage; her own family, and their many scores of students, celebrate the tradition and reinforce its continuity. The artistic offspring of such tohunga as Piri Poutapu and the brothers Taiapa still enthrall contemporary Aotearoa with spectacular houses and superb ca­noes. And, predictably, as the cul­tures of this land entangle, convo­lute, merge, or parallel, new art forms and new artmakers rise to the surface from within the Maori world. The wairua lives on: a new beginning... and another story.

Living World

The power of te reo

I was born at Te Hapua, on the shores of Parengarenga Harbour, New Zealand's northernmost village. Although poorly endowed, the parents in our village fought for their children to be educated. Even the old people who had missed out on schooling altogether were vehement about its importance. "Go and get the Pakeha clever," they would say. From the cradle, Maori was the only language spoken, and, by the age of five, fluency in our mother tongue was almost on a par with that of our parents and elders. Even family pets like dogs, cats and horses responded only to commands in Maori. It was no big deal then. Like any other isolated Maori community, te reo Maori was the only means of communication. From dawn to dusk and deep into the candle-lit night, the language in all its shades, colours and textures flowed, trickled and boomed over us. My first experience of the sheer emotional power of te reo Maori occurred at a tangihanga when I was very young. Our parents normally forbade us from the marae on such occasions. Why they relented on this occasion remains a mystery to me, as they have both passed on. The tangihanga was for a revered kaumatua who had died suddenly at home. Authorities could not verify the cause of death, so they took him to hospital where an autopsy was carried out. Our homefolk waited a day and a half for the body to be returned—an agonising period when each hour and minute counted. This was normally the time for the living to plumb the depths of the soul: to orate, sing, wail, laugh, cajole, weep, pay homage and even rebuke and reprimand the tupapaku for their shortcomings and misadventures while alive and kicking. In essence, this is when the cloak of words, song and incantation is woven; the finest korowai to bedeck the loved one before their final journey ki tua 0 te arai (beyond the veil). The haunting blare of a non-stop vehicle horn ripped through the air, signalling the arrival of the tupapaku. Minutes later an aging dilapidated Chevrolet truck, one of only three vehicles in the village, rumbled, spluttered and came to a gasping halt outside the marae. Several passengers were in the cab; the rest were on the tray. The immediate family were huddled awkwardly around the casket, their faces and clothes smothered in dust. Even before the engine cut out, a scream of frightening intensity exploded from within the bosom of the meeting house. Instead of the traditional solitary female karanga, this time every kuia was crying out. Howling, shrieking, sobbing pitifully, punctuated by moving phrases, extolling memories of the deceased. I had never been so frightened in my life. I screeched my head off with the rest—not in sorrow but in absolute fear. I realised then why mum and dad had kept us away from tangihanga. Fortunately, I was able to follow threads of most of the speeches. I understood, too, the reason for the huge outpouring of grief. The tupapaku had been the first Ngati Kuri to go under the mortician's scalpel. For gati Kuri this was an absolute transgression that they were not ready for, nor prepared to accept. The human body is sacred. And in death, it becomes even more so. Almost fifty years on, I vividly recall one of the kuia calling out pitifully: "I haria atu koe he tangata, hoki rawa mai, kua tapatapahia, ano nei he kararehe. Aue! Te mamae e ngau nei i roto eel" (You left us a complete man—you return today, lacerated, like the proverbial beast. Oh! The pain uncoiling from the pit!) Once the lament had subsided, an elder and contemporary rose to deliver his eulogy. He walked over to the body and proceeded to beat the casket with his walking stick. He did this for several minutes with hardly a murmur. He turned to face the assembly with tears streaming down his craggy face: "He aha ahau i whakarerea ai e koe. Ko koe, ko hau anake 0 te ao kohatu. Ko wai hei hoa korero moku?" (Why did you leave me? You and I are the only ones of the stone age. Whom can I talk with now?) Tangihanga these days have become far less emotional and passionate. Perhaps we're becoming too self-conscious and no longer able to give our emotions as free a reign as our tupuna did. Yet the supreme' importance of these occasions was rammed home to us from early childhood: "E tamariki rna, te wa e pakari ake ai koutou, me haere ki nga tangihanga. Koina te tohu e mohiotia ai koutou he tangata. I tua mai 0 tena; hei hiki i te pouritanga i runga i te whanau pani. Te kanohi i kitea i te marae; he kanohi e kore e wareware- tia. " (Children, when you reach adulthood go to your tangihanga. Therein lies your nobility. Besides, you can help ease the sorrow of the bereaved. A face seen on the marae is a face never forgotten). "Koina te tino whare wananga Maori e rongo ai koe i nga korero tawhito, pakiwaitara, whakapapa, waiata ngeri, korero tara, korero whakakatakata hoki." (That is the real Maori University where you can hear history, legends, genealogies, songs, poetry, incantations and even bawdy tales and light talk for making laughter). Those halcyon days of te reo, however, came to an abrupt end when we went to school. Overnight, it seemed, the language and culture that we'd been nurtured in and told to be proud of became a hindrance and a cause for much physical pain. Punishment for speaking Maori at school came by way of a thick leather strap or a springy supple-jack. For Maori people the attack on language has its roots in the Treaty of Waitangi, and the fact that it has never been honoured. At this year's 15Oth anniversary treaty celebrations at Waitangi, and in front of the Queen, the Bishop of Aotearoa, the Rt Rev Whakahuihui Vercoe, reiterated these sentiments in no uncertain terms. "Since 1840," he said, "the partner that has been marginalised is me—the language of this land is yours, the media by which we tell the world who we are is yours, the history of my people that is now beginning to be written is written by Pakehas, so that when my tupuna speaks he speaks in immaculate English. He spoke in Maori, why don't you quote him in Maori." In the past these words came mainly from the mouths of radicals. It is more than appropriate that 150 years on, a Maori bishop of this nation's founding faith should make such bold pronouncements. One of the great things to happen to the Maori language in the 1940s was the emergence of Wiremu Parker as a broadcaster. He was initially appointed to relay to families news of the 28th Maori Battalion—those who'd been killed, injured or reported missing in the war zone. Wiremu, however, gradually expanded the news format until the programme became a forum for all tribes. Wiremu's items were always embellished with proverbs and aphorisms pertaining to the particular tribes where the news had emanated. His programme was compulsory listening for our family. We'd gather around our battery-driven Mullard wireless, hanging on to every mellifluous word that he let loose over our islands. (When the broadcasts began, a woman actually rang the station complaining about interference by a foreign language programme!) "Tihe mauri ora. Ko te Reo Irirangi tenei o 2YA e panui atu nei i nga pitopito korero o te wiki." (I sneeze—it is life. This is the Spirit Voice of 2YA bringing you this week's Maori News... " For the first time, too, te reo Maori became accessible to everyone on a national and permanent basis, and my own love affair with the language had begun. Wiremu was emphatic that the Maori ear needed to be caressed and teased with the finest language that one could summon up. Years later, when we worked together, he would say, "He reo ana rna te kai papa; he reo ana rna nga atua." (There is a language for the cigarette smoker, and a language for the gods.) A 'language for the gods' was a particular interest of the late Dr Pei Te Hurinui Jones. He had continued the work on Nga Moteatea (Maori songs) begun by Sir Apirana Ngata in the 1920s, but he also had a deep appreciation of world literature, and set about translating The Rubaiyat and The Merchant of Venice into Maori. Te Hurinui admired tohungatanga (priestly prowess) universally. An opportunity to translate great literature like that of Shakespeare or Omar Khayyam meant hoisting Maori language to new heights. Maori scholars who had enjoyed just the English version now had an opportunity to hear Shylock (Hairoka) speak like a wise old kaumatua. Here is Te Hurinui's translation of Shylock's memorable speech: "Mehemea werohia matou, kaore koia e heke te toto i a matou? Mehemea me whakangaoko matou, kaore ia nei matou e kata? Mehemea paihimitia kaore e mate? A, ki te tukinotia matou e koutou, kaua matou e whakautu?" (If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?) The formidable spark for Maori renaissance can be traced directly to the 1975 Maori land march from Te Hapua to Parliament Buildings, Wellington. The march scooped up thousands who'd been torn from their cultural roots and gave them their first taste of living, vibrant, pulsating Maori life as they moved from marae to marae en route. Some of today's orators and waiata exponents began their journey of cultural exploration during those heady, volatile times of Te Heke Nui (The Great March). That extraordinary matriarch Dame Whina Cooper used her gargantuan skills to establish and lead the march. She bestrode Maui's fish like a mythical figure herself, sharing her taonga with all and sundry. Dame Whina peppered the march with fiery speeches and witticisms which gave direction to the myriads who followed in her wake. Such individuals carry their verbal arsenal in their heads. I've known orators who possess tauparapara (introductory chants) for every possible occasion. And there are also the creative ones who can compose original tauparapara on the spot, drawing on the environment and the philosophy of the hui for inspiration. One of the most forceful orators that Dame Whina Cooper ever saw was Te Pairi of Tuhoe. He did not wear shoes on the marae, preferring to feel the pulse and heartsway of Papatuanuku (Earthmother). Whaikorero for the aged patriarch was tantamount to warfare on his opposite numbers. This was shown by the ferocity of his thrusts and parries. He used guile and explosive rhetoric to outfox his opposition. Te Pairi's cultural depth, though, told him when to stop. The marae was Te Pairi's amphitheatre. An arching rainbow, a thunderclap or scrawl of lightning over the meeting house would be pounced on as added imagery and embellishment for his whaikorero. On such occasions he would naturally claim that the gods had intervened on his behalf. At one large hui, Te Pairi was airborne and still winding up to launch his salvoes when his foot came slapping down on a rusty nail. The pain was so excruciating that the octogenarian leapt even higher, to cheers and exultation from his admirers, who were oblivious to what had happened. His next landing impaled the nail completely into his foot. By now the old man was roaring, captivating the assembly in a way that had never been done before. Te Pairi continued his whaikorero and ritual incantations to the bitter end, without once flinching. On another occasion his swishing hands exploded a tin of wax matches in his coat pocket. Undeterred, our inveterate performer continued his mind blowing performance. Although reduced to an animated scarecrow and shrouded by flame and smoke, the booming voice was still right on course. Concerned folk quickly dowsed the flames, but the old sage had the last word: "Tu mai te tangata e taea ana te whakamura ana korero." (Stand up anyone who can turn his words into a fireball.) Te Pairi epitomised the power of Maori creativity, the sacredness of the spoken word and the sheer joy of testing his intellectual mettle with a live and responsive audience. The importance of oratory is summed up in the following proverb: "Ko te kai a te rangatira he korero. Ko ta te ware, he muhu kai." (The food of chiefs is talk. The commoner merely gobbles up food.) The complete orator is a highly esteemed figure in Maoridom. He has at his command genealogies, chants, proverbs, pungent humour and wit. at only is he erudite, he is also a compulsive and consummate actor. In 1984, Maori elders were invited to Wellington for a national hui. From the outside, it appeared to be a typical government public relations exercise. Kaumatua, however, had other thoughts. They yearned for a worthwhile kaupapa to sink their teeth into. Numerous topics emerged, but there was one that gripped the assembly. They discussed the establishment of Maori language units for children throughout the country. When the hui ended, Sir James Henare and Tilly Reedy stayed on to formulate philosophy and kaupapa. They searched for a name to embrace the quest by the young for their mother tongue. After heaving words about, the name 'kohanga' surfaced. It was merely formality to add 'reo' to it, and the rest is history. Kohanga reo, the language nest, was born. In no time nests began to sprout up from North Cape to Bluff. They operated in sheds. barns, basements and old halls until new premises were built. Grannies, parents and fluent speakers came into their own, throwing everything they had into the programme. Who better to retrieve the language but the very people themselves for whom te reo is their heritage? Very soon blue-eyed, green-eyed and brown-eyed mokopuna would have phrases in perfect Maori rolling off their infant tongues. For many of our old people this development had come as a godsend. Their ihi and mana is in te reo Maori; and what better taonga to bequeath to their mokopuna and to generations yet unborn? The thought of a marae in the future denuded of its own tongue is a tragedy beyond comprehension. For many of us who are city dwellers, the yearning is always there to be enveloped by the ancestral house and to bathe in korero and waiata. To hear a kaumatua's healing powhiri: "Haere mai ra kia pa mai koe ki au, kia pa atu au ki a koe. Kia rongo au i tou mahana, kia rongo koe i toku mahana. Kia kai tahi, kia kor81"o tahi, kia moe tahi, kia tangi tahi, kia karakia tahi, kia kata tahi ai tatou... " (Welcome that you may touch me and I touch you. So that I may feel your warmth; and you feel mine. So that we can eat together, sleep together, talk together; weep, pray and laugh together.) Samuel Johnson summed it up eloquently after a tour of the Hebrides more than zoo years ago: "I am always sorry when any language is lost, because languages are the pedigree of nations."


The meaning of mana

There are more cautionary notes in Māoridom dealing with mana than you could shake the proverbial stick at. It is a source of both personal and collective strength, pride and identity. Mishandled, it becomes the bearer of shame, ridicule and embarrassment. If mana allows us to walk tall, then it also casts a long shadow—humility. To write about mana can be likened to picking blackberries: it's not a job for the barefooted, the fruit is sweet but fragile, and don't upset your neighbour—stick to your own patch. In other words, draw on your experiences, not those of others. Chris Winitana, journalist and student of Māoritanga, is a blackberry picker from way back.



Discarded 50 years ago, a handful of old trams have been pieced back together by enthusiasts, and have now become a feature of the city.


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