Steph Blair doesn’t just talk about food. She protects it. A Tangata Tiaki (customary fisheries guardian), a Māori food advocate, and a staunch voice for kai in Murihiku, Steph has spent nearly two decades issuing customary fishing authorisations and defending the future of species like pāua and tuna.
“Ko te kai he rongoā, ko te rongoā he kai.”
Food is medicine, and medicine is food. In Murihiku, that’s not a metaphor, it’s a way of life. “Food is what brings people together,” Steph says. “And I mean that quite literally. We were very transient people. Food is seasonal. You gather it when it’s at its best.”
Following the moon, the tides, and ripening, that seasonal rhythm is central to the Southland food story. From tītī and tuna to wild pork and crayfish, kai is gathered when it’s fat, full, and at its peak. Not just for eating, but for preserving, gifting, and trading. “You’d take your best and swap it for someone else’s best,” Steph explains. “Wild pork for oysters. Tuna for kanakana.”
But climate change and pollution are threatening that rhythm. Sea temperatures are climbing. Familiar species are disappearing from once-reliable places. “We’re getting species here we’ve never seen. But pāua, they’re getting hammered. Easy-access places like Bluff really get a hiding.”
Steph has been fighting to protect mother beds of pāua, nurseries on the reef that many people don’t even know exist. “We don’t touch those beds. They’re the future.”
She worries that we’re close to losing not just the food, but the knowledge that surrounds it. The how, the when, the respect.
There’s tension here: between access and protection, celebration and extraction. Bluff Oyster Festival brings energy and pride, but also a moment to pause. “We’re celebrating the last wild oyster in the world,” she says. “Shouldn’t we be talking about that too?”
Some species, like tuna, are now gathered only for monitoring. Kanakana numbers are down. But Steph believes the opportunity is still there, if Southland chooses to lead with respect, not just flavour.
She dreams of menus that reflect the real bounty of this place: venison, flounder, wild pork, tuna. “Food that feeds your soul,” she says. Cultural tourism, done well, could be a bridge. Not a show, but a story. “There’s nothing out there that tells our side. It’s always the early settlers. But not much about us.”
In the end, this isn’t just a story about Southland food. It’s a taonga. And like any taonga, it needs to be held with care.
