… continued from part 1

Heaps, heaps and heaps of kumara. Over four days, Rimaha worked single-handedly digging up about a half-acre of kumara.

A warm cloudy day without direct sunlight was preferred for sorting the piles of kumara spread around the excavations.

And there she sat, sorting and singing and telling stories about the changing seasons and the times to plant and harvest, the nights of the seasons, and the season announced by the pipiwharauroa. No activity of this kind was done without consultation with the phases of the moon. The land and the plants were fondled as though they were children.

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Kumara

“E moko,

She said

“Come help me

Dig out our

Kumara”

Her wrinkled hands

Fondling

In the brown earth

Counting sorting

Kumara.

There she sat and smoked

One arm akimbo skirt tucked in

Gathering the first fruits

In the kits of Tane

Kumara.

“These we eat now

These for the tangi

These are seed …

And these, e Moko are your

Kumara

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Dug up, resigned now, kumara lay in heaps protected from the sun by their tendrils and bracken fern. I sat in the dust with Wairemana sorting and drying. She was selective about the weather because direct sunshine would blister the tender tubers. The kumara were separated into three separate heaps of large, medium, and the cut and small tubers. The damaged and the smallest were eaten immediately. No, you did not start by eating the big kumara straight away. They were set-aside for special occasions.

Wairemana showed me how to handle the kumara. I simply followed.

Ko tana ki au, “Me penei. Me penei, me pera. Kia ata haere. Kia ata ngawari to whawha i te kumara na te mea he tino ngaehe noa tona ahua. Kia tau tou rangimarie ki te kumara.”

“Be kind.” I didn’t understand.

I was shown how to carefully turn the tubers over, one by one so that any condensation on the underside would slowly seep away.

Instruction, when I need it, was never in the negative. “Me penei…” These had to be done at least three times to eliminate any residue before they were placed into large sacks for Rimaha to carry up a steep slope. This was necessary to ensure that when they were placed inside the kumara pit (rua kumara), moisture would not harm the rest of the cache.

The kumara pit was carefully planned and dug into the side of a steep slope on a site carefully selected for this purpose. The space was flattened out. Located some 200 yards up a steep slope, the pit was dug down into the clay soil some five feet deep tapering to the top opening and quite spacious at the bottom. The small opening at the top allowed access for a single person. For access, a short ladder made of a post with stepping notches was lowered into the pit. The inside of the pit was lined with bracken with an underlay of manuka brush to cushion the tubers but as well provided the necessary air conditions for their preservation. The lid covering the aperture at the top was made of two sheets of overlapping corrugated irons, which were also covered with layers of bracken and manuka brush. A shallow ditch was dug around the edges of the pit to drain away rainwater.

I helped Rimaha, where I could to carry the heavy sacks of kumara up the steep hill but it was my job to place each tuber individually and carefully one on top of the other. Yes, one by one.

When a cook up of kumara was needed, I was the one to go up the slippery slope, open the pit, fill a kit with kumara, close the pit up carefully, and come back down. Often I lost my footing and sent the kit with its contents scattered everywhere. I hated that job because most times it would be wet-cold.

I recall opening the pit and the outflow of air hitting my face – its acrid, dry smell, and the warmth which rushed out at me.

On the side of the steep hill, the pit faced the rising sun.

The design of the pit was an engineering feat, one which shows the design genius of our tipuna handed down over time. The inside of the pit, when fully closed up was airtight. This created a vacuum, which kept the precious tubers absolutely dry. Before the kumara were laid in their beds, a fire was lit inside the pit to kill off any fungal diseases, and the ashes became a part of the preservation. Then of course, there was the warmth in the ground captured in the pit when the sun came up over the ridge each morning.

The interior of the pit was also covered with layers of bracken. The pit sealed out the air, a way tested over a long time to ensure the preservation of the fragile tubers over winter.

Rimaha was a man of a few words, a very practical man, hard working, a striking figure anywhere.

“The big ones here and those smaller ones over to that side. These are the most important because they are next season’s seed,” he would say.

“That’s why we say the seeds are tapu. They need to be protected,” he emphasised.

And of course, the larger kumara were already tagged for the hui or tangi at the Roimata Marae, or simply to give away.

I watched. I listened and I followed.

Rimaha wasn’t so much into teaching, but rather he allowed me to see how it should be done correcting me only when it was necessary. A quiet man, a perfectionist, a man who watched that I followed instructions carefully. He watched over me as I placed the kumara tubers one layer upon another. When it came to the placement of the tubers, it had to be right or we could face long, tough winter months.

I often wondered in later years, when I had worked out the process used in the construction of the pit, how our tipuna knew about creating an airtight vacuum and using the warmth of the earth within the pit to preserve those precious tubers. Was it accidental? Serendipity? Did not the ancient Egyptians use the same principle in the crypts?

These are taonga in knowledge and skills handed down. Mai rano. He taonga tuku iho, as they say. The taonga of knowledge was safe with them and they passed it on to their moko pukenga to pass on.

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Part 3, the last of this series by Haare Williams, on my next post …