In the mid 20th century, commercial production almost wiped out this Aotearoa delicacy. But one group is on a mission to restore toheroa along New Zealand’s second-longest beach.

I remember my first taste of toheroa. A few years ago, I bumped into some of my cousins on my way to an aunt’s tangi in Herekino, Te Tai Tokerau. Like many of the whānau living up home, they were resourceful and knew how to live off what the whenua and moana had to offer. They dropped off a fish bin full of toheroa later that night – it was their koha, a sign of their respect and love for our whānau.

My uncle’s eyes lit up when he walked in the kāuta and saw the big black bin full of the prohibited species. Not one to be seen flouting the rules, he raised his eyebrows and walked out with a slight grin on his face. As soon as the rest of the whānau caught wind of the big bucket of toheroa out the back, they started arguing about who had the best fritter recipe. A few were saved as a special treat for the hākari after the burial but the majority of them vanished pretty quickly the next morning.

“Were those toheroa? I thought they were sweet for tuatua,” I remember another uncle saying after the hākari, patting his full stomach and sporting a content smile.

For many of us city-based Māori, it was the first time we had tried toheroa. The tongues were bigger than tuatua and they were way sweeter and creamier. I could see why they were so popular. 

Toheroa were a staple in the New Zealand diet until the mid to late 1900s. Traditionally, Māori would collect toheroa not only for kai but also as a valuable trading resource. The toheroa would either be cooked in a hāngī or dried in the sun before being traded, or reserved for special feasts.

For the coastal communities that lived along Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe, or Ninety Mile Beach, on the west coast of Northland, toheroa were a vital source of kai for generations. In summer time, whānau would set up camp at the beachside, gathering toheroa and living off of the bounty of the sea. It was a way for them to connect with the beach and each other.

“This was a big source of food in its day,” says Te Rarawa kaumātua Haami Piripi, standing at a creek leading from Lake Waimimiha to Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe.

The mass arrival of Pākehā to Aotearoa in the 19th century led to large-scale land loss for northern Māori and the eventual commercialisation of toheroa. Toheroa soup became a favourite dish for many and was even called the “rarest food in the world” by famous chef Graham Kerr in his 1966 cookbook. In 1904, the first toheroa cannery was opened at Mahuta Gap near Dargaville, followed closely by four factories operating along the west coast. At one point or another, toheroa were being canned at Waipapakauri in the Far North, Muriwai in west Auckland, in Wellington, and at Te Waewae in Southland. Commercial production peaked in 1940, with an estimated 77 tonnes of toheroa canned in a single year. However, no more than 20 tonnes per year was recorded as being commercially harvested in the years following. The last commercial cannery closed in 1971.

“When they started to dig the toheroa out, our people were the ones that went to do it and worked in the factory. We made an industry out of the exploitation of toheroa,” says Piripi.

While some restrictions on gathering toheroa were introduced in 1931, the commercial toheroa fishery wasn’t closed until 1982, following a massive reduction in numbers around the country. The last open day for a legal harvest of toheroa was back in 1993, with an estimated 20,000 people flocking to Oreti Beach in Murihiku, Southland, to collect their bag limit of five toheroa. An estimated 100,000 toheroa were collected in a single day from one beach, nearly wiping out the already depleted stocks. Since then, the only way to legally harvest toheroa is by applying for a cultural harvest permit from local iwi or hapū authorities. These will usually only be granted on very special occasions, such as for large tangi or weddings. 

The decimation of toheroa along Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe through the lucrative commercial industry led to the species almost becoming extinct. Not only did this impact an important food source for Māori, it also severed a vital connection between local Māori and the beach.

“We lost our larder, we lost our nohoanga, we lost our cultural association with the place,” says Piripi.

Besides the exploitation of toheroa by humans, spat (very young toheroa) have also struggled to survive along Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe, due to being constantly run over by cars, trucks and even buses driving on the beach. Northland was once famous for being the centre of the kauri gum industry, which saw thousands of tonnes of gum destined for Auckland transported along the beach. After all the gum was gone, buses full of eager tourists took its place. With it legally recognised as a public highway, hundreds of thousands of vehicles have driven along the beach over the last century. 

Now only found in a select few spots along the beach, toheroa continue to be harvested by many locals, despite the near total ban. On such a large beach in a remote part of the country, it is nearly impossible to maintain an effective patrol or monitoring programme. As my cousins demonstrated with their generous koha, many locals are willing to risk a $20,000 fine in order to continue a cultural practice our tūpuna once did without worry.

“The lack of understanding about the environmental durability of the beach has never really been fully comprehended, even by our people,” Piripi says.

Not only are the toheroa in a state of despair, but the mauri of Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe as a whole is beginning to decline. Rivers and lakes along the beach are polluted by farming and forestry, streams are drying up, dunes are being destroyed, and once bountiful kai such as kēwai, kōkopu, tuatua and mullet are disappearing. However, a collective of local iwi are on a mission to change the state of the beach through the lens of the toheroa.

The Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe Board was established as a statutory body under the Te Hiku Claims Settlement Bill 2014 with the aim of safeguarding and enhancing the environmental, economic, social, cultural and spiritual wellbeing of the region for the benefit of both current and future generations. The board has representatives from four of the five local iwi – Te Rarawa, Ngāi Takoto, Te Aupōuri, and Ngāti Kuri – along with councillors from the Northland Regional Council and Far North District Council. Ngāti Kahu also has the option to join the board if they choose.

“The beach board is in some ways a bit of a risk, because we’ve reengaged with local government,” says Piripi.

The board launched its beach management plan in 2021, including some short-term changes like lowering speed limits for vehicles on the beach. Part of the long-term vision is to restore the abundance, size and quality of mahinga kai along the beach. 

In October last year, the board held a wānanga called Ngā Puāwaitanga Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe, a hands-on action-planning process that brought together around 100 people from local iwi and various government and non-government organisations. That wānanga identified 10 priorities, with the main kaupapa restoring the toheroa as a taonga species on the beach.

“If we can look through the eyes of the toheroa to assess the level of degradation, then we’ve got a better idea of where we’re going and what we’re doing,” Piripi says.

Iwi and other organisations are carrying out mahi in their respective areas, including activities like fencing, horse mustering, surveying and patrolling the beach. The organising group behind the kaupapa of Ngā Puāwaitanga Te Oneroa-a-Tōhe is working to ensure all those present at the wānanga stay involved and committed to the kaupapa of restoring the toheroa.

While some doubt that toheroa could ever be restored to its former glory, they are hopeful that the mahi being done will have a positive impact on not only the toheroa populations and the mauri of the beach, but also the people that call Te Hiku, as the area is known to locals, home. There’s a saying up here that when the beach is healthy, the people are healthy.

This is Public Interest Journalism funded by NZ On Air.