# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 42"
The turquoise waters of New Zealand's North Island coastline crashed against black volcanic rocks, sending plumes of spray into the air that caught the sunlight like diamonds. Su Yao's car wound along a coastal road, passing rolling green hills dotted with sheep and stands of *pōhutukawa* trees, their crimson flowers blooming like fire against the sky. Up ahead, a Māori marae (meeting ground) emerged: a cluster of carved wooden buildings with steeply pitched roofs, surrounded by gardens of *harakeke* (flax) and *tī kōuka* (cabbage trees). On the lawn, a group of weavers sat on *waka huia* (decorated baskets), their fingers deftly plaiting flax into intricate patterns. Their leader, a woman with a *moko kauae* (chin tattoo) named Ngarimu, stood as they approached, holding a *kete* (woven basket) adorned with *tāniko* (ornamental borders). "You've come for the *raranga*," she said, her te reo Māori resonant with pride, gesturing to the flax creations spread before her.
The Māori people of Aotearoa (New Zealand) have practiced *raranga* (weaving) for over a thousand years, a craft deeply tied to their *whakapapa* (genealogy) and spiritual connection to *Papatūānuku* (Mother Earth). Flax, or *harakeke*, is considered a *taonga* (treasure)—each part of the plant is used, from the leaves for weaving to the gel for healing, and its harvest is accompanied by *karakia* (prayers) to honor its life force. Patterns carry layered meanings: the *koru* (unfurling fern) represents new life; *poutama* (staircase) symbolizes the journey to knowledge; and *kawakawa* (leaf motifs) honor healing. These weavings serve as *kete* for carrying food, *tāniko* panels for clothing, and *waka taua* (war canoe) decorations, each piece a living record of *iwi* (tribe) history. Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this sacred craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored Māori *kaitiakitanga* (stewardship of the land) while adding durability to the flax fibers. But from the first greeting, it was clear that their understanding of "heritage" and "innovation" was as different as the island's volcanic soil and the deep ocean.
Ngarimu's granddaughter, Hana, a 23-year-old weaver studying Māori language revitalization, held up a *tāniko* panel with a *poutama* pattern in black and white. "This is from my *kuia* (grandmother)," she said, tracing the zigzag lines with her finger. "The pattern tells the story of our *tūpuna* (ancestors) crossing the Pacific in *waka*. Each stitch is a *whakatauākī* (proverb)—'He waka eke noa'—we're all in this together. You don't just copy it. You earn the right to weave it by learning its story."
Su Yao's team had brought 3D scanners and synthetic weaving fibers, intending to digitize *tāniko* patterns and mass-produce them using their seaweed-metal blend for a "sustainable luxury" line. When Lin displayed a digital rendering of the *poutama* pattern on a scarf prototype, the weavers fell silent. Ngarimu's brother, Tama, a *rangatira* (chief) with a *moko tāmoko* (facial tattoo) and a *piupiu* (flax skirt) around his waist, stood abruptly, his voice thundering. "You think you can steal our *whakapapa* with machines?" he shouted, slamming a fist against a carved *pou* (post). "These patterns are our ancestors. Your thread has no *mauri* (life force)—it's a ghost."
Cultural friction deepened over materials and rituals. Māori weavers harvest *harakeke* at dawn, selecting only the outer leaves to spare the plant's heart, and recite *karakia* to ask *Papatūānuku*'s permission. The flax is stripped, dried, and softened using techniques passed down through *whānau* (family), with each step imbuing the fiber with *mana* (prestige). Dyes come from native plants: *tī kōuka* for yellow, *kawakawa* for green, and *pōhutukawa* bark for red. The seaweed-metal blend, despite its oceanic origins, was viewed as a disruption. "Your thread isn't from Aotearoa," Ngarimu said, after feeling a sample. "It doesn't know our *whenua* (land). It can't hold our stories."
A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the *tī kōuka* dye, turning it a sickly brown and causing the flax fibers to bristle. "It destroys the *mauri*," Hana said, holding up a ruined swatch where the *koru* motifs had become stiff and warped. "Our *raranga* should soften with time, like a well-loved *kete*. This will only grow harder."
Then disaster struck: a cyclone swept across the coast, uprooting *harakeke* plants in the marae garden and flooding the drying sheds where flax fibers were curing. The weavers' stored *tāniko* tools—bone combs and shell shuttles passed down for generations—were damaged, and their *karakia* books, handwritten in te reo Māori, were waterlogged. Tama, performing a *whakanoa* (cleansing ritual) with *kōrero* (prayers) and *wai tapu* (sacred water), blamed the team for disturbing the balance. "You brought something from distant seas to our *moana* (ocean)," he said, sprinkling water on the damaged flax. "Now *Tangaroa* (god of the sea) is angry, and he tests us."
That night, Su Yao sat with Ngarimu in the marae's *wharenui* (meeting house), where carvings of ancestors stared down from the walls and a fire crackled in the hearth. The air smelled of *hangi* (underground-cooked food)—pork, kumara, and *kūmara*—and the sound of *waiata* (songs) drifted in from the *wharekai* (dining hall). "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, sipping *kawa* (a ceremonial drink). "We came here thinking we could 'elevate' your craft, but we've only shown we don't understand its *mana*."
Ngarimu smiled, passing Su Yao a piece of *pavlova* (a sweet dessert). "The cyclone is not your fault," she said. "*Papatūānuku* and *Tangaroa* have always danced—sometimes gently, sometimes fiercely. My *kuia* used to say that storms remind us to cherish what we have. But your thread—maybe it's a *whakahou* (renewal). Our young people leave the marae for cities. Maybe we need new ways to weave our stories, so they stay with us."
Su Yao nodded, hope blooming like a *koru* in her chest. "What if we start over? We'll help replant the *harakeke* and repair the tools. We'll learn *raranga* the Māori way—harvesting flax with *karakia*, plaiting by hand. We won't use your *tāniko* patterns for profit. Instead, we'll create new ones together: *koru* that curl into waves, *poutama* that meets the sea. And we'll treat the metal thread with your *karakia*, so it carries *mauri*."
Hana, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped inside, her *kahu* (cloak) rustling. "You'd really learn to recite the *karakia* before cutting flax? It's not just words—it's a promise to *Papatūānuku*."
"Whatever it takes," Su Yao said. "Respect means more than just doing the work. It means understanding why it matters."
Over the next month, the team immersed themselves in Māori life. They helped replant *harakeke* shoots, their hands muddy as Tama taught them to place each plant facing the sun, a practice that ensures strong fibers. They rose at dawn to harvest flax, standing silently as Ngarimu chanted the *karakia*: "*Tēnā koe, e Hine-tu-a-hoanga…*" (Greetings to you, Lady of the Flax…), asking permission to take what they needed. They sat on *woven mats* in the marae lawn, stripping flax leaves with bone tools until their fingers ached, as Hana showed them how to avoid breaking the fibers. "The flax remembers if you're rough," she said, her hands moving like water. "Treat it gently, and it will serve you well."
They learned to dye flax in *calabash bowls*, their fingers stained yellow and green as the *kuia* (elder women) sang *waiata* about the land. "*Tī kōuka* dye needs sun and patience," one elder said, pointing to a bowl left to steep. "Rushing it is like rushing a child's growth—you get something weak." They practiced *tāniko* weaving, their progress slow but steady as Ngarimu corrected their tension. "The *poutama* steps must be even," she said, adjusting Su Yao's thread. "Knowledge isn't gained in leaps—it's earned step by step."
To solve the reaction between the metal threads and *tī kōuka* dye, Lin experimented with coating the metal in *manuka* honey and *kawakawa* oil, a mixture Māori use to treat wounds. The honey sealed the metal, preventing discoloration, while the oil softened it, making it flexible enough to weave with flax without damaging the fibers. "It's like giving the thread a *whenua* (land) blessing," she said, showing Ngarimu a swatch where the yellow dye now glowed against the metal's shimmer.
Fiona, inspired by the meeting of the Tasman Sea and Pacific Ocean off the North Island, designed a new *tāniko* pattern called *Moana Nui* (Great Ocean), merging *koru* motifs with wave shapes in seaweed-metal thread. "It honors *Tangaroa* and *Papatūānuku* as one," she said, and Tama nodded, declaring it a worthy addition to their *kete* of patterns.
As the *harakeke* began to regrow and the tools were repaired, the marae held a *hui* (gathering) to celebrate, with *kapa haka* (cultural performances) and shared *hangi*. They unveiled their first collaborative piece: a *kete* with *Moana Nui* patterns, its flax fibers reinforced with seaweed-metal thread that caught the light like sunlight on water, and *tāniko* borders in traditional red and yellow.
Ngarimu placed a small *pounamu* (greenstone) pendant in the basket, a symbol of *mana*. "This *kete* carries two worlds," she said, as the *whānau* clapped. "Ours and yours, but both rooted in *kaitiakitanga*. *Tangaroa* smiles on it."
As the team's car drove away, Hana ran alongside, waving a package. Su Yao rolled down the window, and she pressed it in: a small *kete* woven from flax and seaweed-metal, containing a single *koru*-shaped *pounamu* chip. "To remember us by," read a note in te reo and English. "Remember that *Papatūānuku* and *Tangaroa* are cousins—like your thread and our flax."
Su Yao clutched the package as the coastline faded, the *pōhutukawa* trees' crimson blooms blending into the horizon. She thought of the dawns harvesting flax, the *karakia* chanted with Ngarimu, the way the metal thread had finally learned to dance with the flax. The Māori had taught her that tradition isn't a relic—it's a living *whakapapa*, growing new branches while honoring the roots.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Bedouin team: photos of Leila with their collaborative *sadu* panel, displayed in a desert camp. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new *tāniko*—Māori *whenua* and your sea, woven as one."
Somewhere offshore, a pod of dolphins leaped, their silver bodies arcing through the waves. Su Yao knew their journey wasn't over. There were still cultures to learn from, threads to weave—endless stories waiting to be told. And as long as they walked with *manaakitanga* (kindness) and respect, the tapestry would only grow more alive, a testament to the beauty of human connection across every sea and shore.