Treasure hunting at Owenga Beach, Rēkohu (Chatham Island)
I take my Aunty to see the shipwrecks at Port Hutt
When we close the truck doors, small birds fly away from the top of a caravan without wheels
There’s three of them, I say as we drive down towards the coast
One lies next to the wharf; its flaking pale blue exterior betrays the rot.
The other, further down the beach, is a meeting spot for birds.
The third adorns the tired shore across the bay.
Look, hon, she says, after some time sweeping her hands across the detritus.
She is turning a piece of paua shell in her fingers.
A bird flies over our heads.
You could never replicate those colours, she is saying, never reproduce them in any kind of art form.
But all I can see is how much her hands look like mine.
Nga mihi tino nui, Lois and whanau. This place is something special.
Aldous Harding is my fave. Watching her play at Blue Smoke in February was one of those rare occasions where I felt like I'd experienced something potent and precious - like seeing a fantail in the trees above your head moments before it darts away somewhere out of sight. I won't attempt to describe the music itself; it'd be almost as bad as that there simile (sorry team, its been a day). Her second album Party comes out in May.
"And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in."
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore