Event organiser Joesephine Nathan (left) and local kaumatua Ben Hita were two people who epitomise the mana that Pouto personifies. Photo / Adam Pearse
How do you define mana/strength?
Collins English Dictionary defines strength as "the physical energy that you have", also describing the term with synonyms such as resolve, courage and confidence.
The definition of mana, as per the online Māori Dictionary, has much more depth to it. While using descriptive terms such as authority, control and power, it outlines how people are merely agents of mana, never the source of its 'enduring, indestructible power".
However, both definitions fall short of the true variation of what it means to have mana/strength after my experience in Pouto last weekend.
On Friday afternoon, I completed the two-hour drive from Whangārei to Pouto's Waikaretu Marae for the annual multisport event, the Pouto Lighthouse Challenge.
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The event, held on Saturday, was fantastic. Pouto's jaw-dropping scenery played the perfect foil to the crowds of walkers, runners and cyclists who battled a gnarly headwind on their return trip along the beach back to the finish line at the marae.
Orchestrated by the meticulous but endlessly enthusiastic event organiser Joesephine Nathan, the weekend went off without a hitch, providing competitors from far and wide a chance to experience a piece of Northland paradise.
Putting the sport aspect to one side, my cultural journey in Pouto outweighed nearly all others I have experienced in my life.
Thanks to the Kahuparere Adventures Guided Tours, run by Joesephine's brother Steven, I was able to see the beautiful and unique landscape that the few permanent residents get to experience every day.
Towering sand hills play the perfect backdrop to the mighty Kaipara harbour in a scene which epitomises the true power of nature.
However, the magic of the landscape exists in its ever-changing sand dunes and secret dune lakes, hidden in 1000s of acres of forestry.
Steven, who farms a block of land which has been in his family for four generations, barely raises an eyebrow as he flies along a well-travelled track through forestry in his six-seater, 4WD Polaris.
Even when navigating between the surprisingly sheer dune lips, our driver was as relaxed as if he was cruising along the Takapau Plains.
The best view was saved until last as we reached the iconic Pouto lighthouse looking over the treacherous Kaipara bar, nick-named "The Graveyard", owing to its more than 150 shipwrecks.
First lit on December 1, 1884, the kauri-wood structure is one of the few remaining timber lighthouses in New Zealand.
As it was on Friday, pristine blue skies complete a perfect background for this historic lighthouse, as it overlooks a seemingly writhing mass of sand dunes below.
Steven's pride in this Pouto monument is not shared by all. While it is usually locked to deter vandals, the lighthouse bore recent scars from those who smashed in its wooden door, broke windows and even left tyre marks on its exterior.
While I viewed the damage with horror and disgust, Steven sadly informed me the vandalism is just the tip of the iceberg when it came to people abusing Pouto's unique resources.
Apparently, 4WD vehicles come in their droves during the summer, ignoring the difference between public and private land and causing constant damage to Pouto's precious dunes and surrounding landscape.
According to Steven, they carve new tracks into the dirt, damaging flora and putting their own lives at risk when they attempt to navigate the dangerous dunes.
To hear Steven explain this ongoing problem was saddening and infuriating. Much of this community's pride and mana comes from their desire to protect and preserve their landscape, which is currently being desecrated by out-of-towners thinking they know better.
Every New Zealander should want to preserve these treasures for future generations because the moment we lose them through a combination of selfishness and carelessness, we don't get them back.
Fortunately, negative turned to positive as I made it further into my three-day excursion.
On the Friday afternoon, a group of 30 who would be staying overnight at the marae, were officially welcomed onto the premises and were greeted by local kaumatua, Ben Hita.
As the second oldest resident of Pouto, Matua Ben's words describing Waikaretu and Pouto carried immense gravity, obvious to all those in the room who hung on his every word.
In his welcome, Ben outlined that for everyone without a marae who had stepped through the threshold and heard Ben speak, could now consider Waikaretu their home, part of his whānau.
For someone raised primarily outside Māori culture, this took me by surprise.
As a reporter, you anticipate hostility, sometimes you even expect it as inevitable.
As a Pākehā reporter, I have always accepted I might need to earn any welcome onto a marae rather than have it immediately given.
I think this is why Ben's welcome took me aback. Having someone of his esteem, his mana, throwing his arms open and welcoming myself and others wholeheartedly into his whānau, gave me my first inkling of what it truly meant to be strong.
This was just the start of my journey which would leave me ashamed and embarrassed, but also educated and incredibly privileged.
Competing in the Pouto Lighthouse Challenge featured a large group from Auckland-based facility, He Waka Eke Noa.
Taken from a famous Māori whakataukī (proverbial saying) which translates as "the canoe which we are all in without exception", He Waka Eke Noa connects businesses with people who have experienced long-term unemployment, people exiting prison or with histories of criminal offending.
At 5.45am on Saturday, almost three hours before the event, the group sat circled in the wharekai, started with a reading before everyone introduced themselves and told their story.
Up early to see where I could be of use, I stumbled in on this meeting but instead of being turned away, I was welcomed warmly, encouraged to share myself regarding my journey.
A similar session was held late on Saturday evening which also included Matua Ben and other visitors to the marae.
What followed were heart-breaking tales of violence, drug and alcohol abuse, youth pregnancy and almost any hardship you could imagine.
All accepted their shortcomings along the way, not sparing any detail of how destructive their life had been. But all their stories ended positively, stating He Waka Eke Noa had awakened their spirituality and set them on the right path.
Some of you may scoff at my shock upon hearing these stories and I wouldn't blame you. These stories are not new and in the moment, I was embarrassed to be a local storyteller and not know how common-place these hardships were.
Perhaps that's a lesson for me and others to become more involved in these stories, lest memories become foggy about what some New Zealanders struggle with every day.
But to be clear, I am not a spiritual person. My relationship with religion ironically died at my Catholic secondary school and I don't see it changing any time soon.
In our welcome, Ben and others who stood up to speak referenced the profound wairua (spirit) they felt standing in front of walls lined with pictures of those who have passed.
If you'd asked me then, I would have agreed purely on the notion that the marae is a special place, something obvious to both the spiritual and the non-spiritual.
But when I listened to these brutally honest stories, when I looked into the faces of strangers as they outlined every hardship and low point in their lives - I felt it.
It was a feeling that didn't come from a deity, but from people. At its core, spirituality is creating a connection with someone and what I felt on Saturday was as close as I think I will ever be to embracing spirituality.
Setting aside my spiritual awakening, what made me feel truly humbled was the strength and trust it took for those who shared to tell their stories to people they had known for mere hours.
As a man raised in a country gripped by tall poppy syndrome, being open emotionally and spiritually does not come as easy as spinning a ball out wide and diving over in the corner.
But as I heard these stories, each as harrowing as the last, it filled me with a sense of privilege and pride unlike I had ever experienced.
Much of the group's openness and trust must be attributed to the culture and wairua of Waikaretu Marae, and the people who foster it.
Its environment emanates serenity and calm, watched over by the dozens of those who came before.
Ironically, Pouto taught me so much about what it means to be strong, while blatantly showing me I knew almost nothing about what true mana is.
To have mana is to welcome a stranger, give them the shirt off your back and call them whānau.
To have mana is to confess your deepest sins to your new whānau, knowing it will only help you make another step on your journey towards salvation.
To have mana is to work endlessly for your community, pushing through trials and tribulations to ensure future generations come to enjoy, respect and preserve the treasures of their ancestors.
And finally, to have mana is accept your shortcomings and strive to correct them. In three eye-opening days in Pouto, my shortcomings are all too clear.
Now I take the first steps to correct them and I am eternally grateful to my new Pouto whānau who I know will be with me every step of the way.
In a first, iwi dignitaries will travel to Melbourne to 'pass' Bush to Aboriginal people.
