A Panful of Whitebait

Te Ao Hou, 1970, Page 53

A Panful of Whitebait It must be all of fifty years ago that I met my first Maori. I was a schoolboy at the time, and a friend had invited me to stay with his family at their weekend bach at Milford Lagoon near Temuka. It was a great place for fishing in those days, being particularly famous for its trout, while the whitebait, in season, ran in big shoals. There it was, sitting on the side of the lagoon, that I saw her; a venerable Kuia of Ngaitahu with the moko on her chin, scarf-covered head and a pipe in her mouth. Every now and then she would rise to lift her whitebait net and empty the catch into a battered old kerosene tin. She beckoned me over. Maybe she divined that I had never seen anything like this before, or it may have been perhaps the look of complete fascination on my youthful countenance — for fascinated I was, utterly fascinated. With a few brief words in Maori she invited me to sit with her, probably to keep me from wandering about and disturbing the running whitebait as much as to welcome me, although I had no doubts at all as to the sincerity of that. It was then I discovered, almost with a sense of shock, that Maoris are not brown-skinned at all. At least this one was not. Brownish, yes, but of a brown that deepened into a dark blue. I think, in earlier times, a good many Maoris were of this bluish hue, and a bay near Dunedin, Blueskin Bay, is so named for this very reason. Well, the time at length arrived to lift the net for the last time. Imagine my surprise on being invited to her small hut where some of the freshly caught whitebait was swiftly conveyed to a frying pan and was soon sizzling excitingly on the stove. I remember that she cooked it without batter. Whitebait was so plentiful in those days that it didn't matter very much if you had no flour and eggs for batter. It's very different today isn't it, when it's quite common to find single, individual, solitary whitebait pursued with the greatest determination? However, cooked this way, the fishy taste is very strong, and while it may have appealed to the palate of my Maori hostess I much prefer it in the conventional batter patties. It was here, too, that I made my first acquaintance with Maori artifacts and saw greenstone for the first time. Several fine pieces were arrayed along the mantlepiece and a stone patu hung by a short length of plaited flax from a nail in the wall. I was too young at the time to attach any importance to these interesting relics of a bygone era. Eating, football, and the discovery of new ways of getting into mischief were our full-time pursuits and principal interests in life. I realise now, when it is much too late, that my kuia could have been a young woman a few years after the time of Te Rauparaha's raids, that she must have possessed knowledge enough to have filled a book; that the lone fisher by the side of the lagoon was a survivor of a once numerous people who lived, loved, and languished in the wide spaces of our South Island. I was to see her often enough thereafter in Timaru as she drove around the town with her horse and gig selling her whitebait at sixpence a pint. A-ah, Timaru! Home of the champions — heavenly smells emanating from Johnny Hole's brewery, and whitebait at sixpence a pint. I never knew her name; somehow it didn't seem necessary or important to find out. It was enough that hospitality had been extended and accepted; that the members of two races had met and understood each other over a panful of sizzling whitebait by the side of a lonely lagoon. From that day onwards my interest in, and admiration for, the Maori race has never waned. The years are creeping up a bit on me now. The youthful countenance once alive with fascinated interest is showing the lines of age but to my dying day I shall never forget her. I wonder where she sleeps, that kuia of Ngaitahu? Pakepakeha