Amanda Black (photo by Zohar Marshall)

One of my roles as a director is to provide a platform to present robust evidence-based information that can be used as intended. This could be for downstream development of novel tools to manage diseases, for understanding how our use of the land is influencing how were adapt to climate change or for challenging existing norms and practices.

Because my role gives me a birds-eye view of the rich information being generated by BA researchers, I feel accountable for making sure this information is found. But with the diminishing media presence and the proliferation of multiple sources of ‘information’, it is becoming increasingly difficult for people and communities to wade through what’s meaningful and trustworthy. How do our communities, stakeholders and rights-holders choose which sources to trust?

To be heard, researchers are increasingly relying on our own self-promotion, which if I’m honest, is not within my comfort zone. I mainly fear getting some finer fact or detail of a study wrong and in doing so undermining my credibility to advocate for that study and even causing that study to lose its impact. But I put my reluctance aside, because I believe that researchers should have a voice, we need to have a voice.

If I take a helicopter view over the current landscape of platforms and blogs, I wonder how we researchers and directors can contribute to the arena of ‘ideas’ and how we can support healthy conversations about new information through messages we convey. I want our messages to be evidenced-based as well as inclusive.

Examples of these kinds of messages can be found in recent publications in Science with Jason Tylianakis about teaching Indigenous knowledge in the classroom and Tahu Kukutai about Indigenous data sovereignty. The motivation for these publications was to re-open contentious conversations within the platforms provided by our peer review system. Flawed as it can be, peer review is still our most robust measure of quality. Tahu and I also took the opportunity to highlight an overlooked and ongoing historical issue that Indigenous communities and those working with them face when trying to exert sovereignty over their data. This is something that we as researchers in BA are learning to navigate.

The reactions to the Indigenous data sovereignty piece were predictable and unpredictable. Predicable in that some individuals were unmoved in their assertion that we were discrediting one or the other form of knowledge generation. What was unpredictable was the main audience that was captured by the media release we wrote to raise awareness of the issue through our publication. Māori media grabbed it, and we saw a lot of public interest and engagement. This was more engagement than we got from within the research community. Perhaps that is yet to come but it did highlight the different aspects of research that get celebrated by researchers themselves. In this example, and others similar examples I’ve seen, researchers celebrate the acquisition of new knowledge, and people outside of research celebrate information that reaffirms their values. This brings me back to what I’ve been pondering:

How we do, as researchers get our work to our intended audiences? Are researchers only interested in new knowledge? Do communities only celebrate information that reaffirms their values and reflects their voices? Or can information, regardless of what it is, be packaged in a way that resonates with the intended audience even if it might not be what they are used to engaging with?

My ongoing challenge will be identifying our audiences and the best mechanism to reach them.  How do we continue to have inclusive conversations?  Researchers need to recognise those challenges, take the opportunities as they present themselves and not be afraid to make mistakes in articulating information to audiences they are not used to speaking with, whether these audiences are inside or outside of academia. Not everyone gets it right the first time, and feedback can be harsh. But taking turns at being the messenger can help share the load and normalise research in everyday conversations.

I’ve made it a resolution to take a public stand on issues that resonate with my values and use my platform to highlight the amazing work that BA people are doing. I hope that others will take the leap and find their voices too.

Genus Entoloma (Pinkgills) at Fensham Reserve, Carterton (photo by Tere Porter-Rawiri)

Tere Porter-Rawiri (Te Ātiawa) is a master’s student in Ecology at Victoria University of Wellington researching the importance of fungi to Māori raised in Wairarapa, and mātauranga Māori about fungi more broadly with the purpose of characterising fungal community diversity in restored, pastoral, and conserved Wairarapa wetland forests. Here, Tere reflects on her initial findings midway through her thesis year.

I’m constantly amazed by how much more there is to learn and there are always more connections with what I already know about our taiao. Attending a Matariki talk focusing on Tupuārangi at Te Papa by Puke Timoti (Tūhoe) made me reflect on my research and how it has broadened my view of our forest ecosystems. Listening to these insights deepened my appreciation for the intricate relationship my tūpuna had with the environment.

It’s a bit emotional for me to imagine the abundance of kai my tūpuna must have experienced—the sights, sounds, and tastes—like heaps of kererū flying away to the point where the entire sky is left in a dark cloud of shadows, or the slapping sounds of many tuna kuwharuwharu on their heke from freshwater out to the sea to spawn. It makes so much sense why our tūpuna were so closely connected to te taiao, but it’s also remarkable to think about the level of fundamental knowledge and practices required to attain such abundance and sustenance. At its core, being closely connected to te taiao involves observing and recording details like temperature, weather patterns, the sun’s position, stars, and moon phases. It’s about being in tune with what other creatures are up to, like manu flying to specific areas at specific times for specific food sources, insects dwelling throughout the soil, microbes cohabiting a new environment. It’s about understanding the different plant and tree species and knowing their timings for fruiting, flowering, and seeding, plus their various connections to other species —which is the basis of creating a maramataka.

Tere Porter-Rawiri

But there’s also a part of being in tune to oneself and one’s emotions, understanding how our nervous system responds to the external world, and interpreting and making sense of the conditions around us. This forms the foundation of te ao Māori, where our observations of the environment are deeply embedded in te reo Māori.

We only have to look as far as Māori horticulture to reveal our expertise in cultivating crops, gardening, and soil science—so why wouldn’t we also be mycologists?

Mycologists study the science of fungi including taxonomy and genetics (or whakapapa), and biochemical properties, and uses by humans (such as tinder, tā moko, kai, and rongoā).

I started thinking about this during a kōrero with kaumātua Ra Smith (Ngāti Kahungunu ki Wairarapa) about any atua connected to fungi. There aren’t any that are formally documented atua connected to fungi (to my knowledge at least), but Ra thinks there would be one in a manuscript somewhere, he just hasn’t found it yet. We both acknowledged that fungi deserve a positive association in te ao Māori as they have nurturing characteristics in the way they co-exist with other beings. Fungi traverse the realms of te ao kikokiko (the physical world) and te ao wairua (the spiritual world) and it is likely that our tūpuna understood what was occurring despite the fact that fungi and the work they do are mostly unseen.

Humdicutis maviis (Gilled waxcap) at Fensham Reserve, Carterton (photo by Tere Porter-Rawiri)

Fungi have important ecological roles which bridge these two realms through nutrient cycling and as decomposers in the soil and on trees. When trees come together as a network or grove with the help of our native endemic mycorrhizal fungi that grow on and in the tips of their roots, we know they are taonga as they enable our trees to provide bountiful food for our manu and materials for carvings, tools, and snares. When mushrooms grow on a tree, signalling its end of life, this likely served as a significant visual indicator of ecosystem wellbeing. Because of these important ecological roles, which are also culturally significant, it makes sense that the atua of fungi would likely be a wāhine, especially considering what we know about our female atua—like Hine-ahu-one, Hine-nui-te-pō, Papatūānuku, and Hine-te-iwaiwa. These atua are associated with land, earth, clay, and soil, which give life and also represent death and darkness.

This is an example of how whakapapa is fundamental to our understanding of how different reference points are layered to comprehend our genealogy, actions, behaviours, and sequential systems which also link to encompass our obligations to the environment, both tangible and intangible.

Interpreting our mātauranga in this way recognises that mātauranga is interlinked with practice and never exists in isolation. Examining what we already know allows us to make inferences about our fungi mātauranga. My ‘insights’ build on our existing understandings, offered in a different light to encourage a richer appreciation of our physical environment and extending this to include the many knowledge systems connected to it.

More Information

Learn more about Tere’s research here > Mātauranga Māori and diversity of fungi in wetland forests.