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Ko te whanga ko au; Ko au ko te whanga The Harbour and I; I and the Harbour Ellie Waters
In 2006, with the promise of a better way of life, my family emigrated to Aotearoa, New Zealand. Originally from the United Kingdom, my line of ancestry lies within two industrial regions in Northern England - Greater Manchester and Middlesbrough. I remember family holidays spent in the small gothic Port town of Whitby, thirty minutes from my father’s childhood home. One summer I recall the excitement as my grandmother, when tracing our family tree, discovered a link to Captain James Cook, who was born in Middlesbrough and from what she understood, was likely to be her distant, distant uncle. In 1769, with the guidance of Omai, a Polynesian native, Cook and the crew of the Endeavour became the first Europeans to discover and map Aotearoa. It is said that on first sighting of the native people, Cook asked Omai, ‘who are these people?’. Omai, a young man who himself had never travelled to Aotearoa responded with ‘Māori’, a word which in his native tongue meant to be familiar to the land. On his initial map, Cook made two mistakes. He mapped, Rakiura, Stewart Island as a peninsula and Horomaka, Banks Peninsula as an island, naming it Banks Island after the ships botanist, Joseph Banks. Almost a century after Cook’s voyage, four ships sailed into Horomaka carrying 3,549 European settlers into Whakaraupō, Lyttelton Harbour. With the subsequent arrival of more settlers, the term Pākehā was devised, describing the mysterious white figures who arrived on large ships. Whakaraupō, is a place where I have now lived, on and off, for the past five years. At the beginning of this project I set out to capture a portrait of this place which I now call home. With my heavy camera, I walked the road that connects each of the small Harbour communities. I talked to relative strangers and in doing so learnt of Whakaraupō’s status and history. To Māori, the original settlers of Whakaraupō, the Harbour is a taonga, treasure. To Te Hapū o Ngāti Wheke of Ngāi Tahu, the present day tribe, the Harbour is and always has been their principal mahinga kai, meaning it is their principal source for the gathering of food and natural materials. In more recent years the harbour has become home to the largest port in Te Wai Pounamu, New Zealand's South Island. Making Whakaraupō the international Gateway for Waitaha, Canterbury's ever growing economy. During my exploration of Whakaraupō, I was told the term Pākehā means to be short of breath. Intrigued, I searched for facts to back this up. Unsuccessful, I quickly realised my mistake. The comment was intended as an interpretation. If Māori described the familiar, Pākehā described the unfamiliar, and when we enter unfamiliar environments, we tend to become short of breath. On the eve of my families departure to Aotearoa, over one hundred and fifty years after the first settlers, one of my closest childhood friends handed me a small notebook. Inside were a series of hand written letters documenting her thoughts; her quiet anticipations of my departure to a foreign land. Almost overnight, my nationality and sense of belonging diminished and on arrival in Aotearoa, due to my European upbringing, my ethnicity became Pākehā. Over the following months, I received more letters stamped by the Royal Mail. These letters, brief exchanges between two fourteen year old girls, detailed my transition to becoming ‘Kiwi’. This project marks my tenth anniversary in Aotearoa, on the verge of my application for duel citizenship. What initially began as a portrait of place, somewhat developed into a portrait of myself and through the shared experience of others, I began to question my own relationship with Whakaraupō. Subconsciously, I have become familiar with a patch of land which Captain Cook, my supposed distant, distant uncle failed to correctly map and in doing so, I find my own place to stand in this land I now call home.
Te Poho o Tamatea. The Breast of Tamatea. The great fiery peak. The guardian of Rāpaki. The Seven Sisters, seven high rise blocks of council flats. The Rochdale skyline. It’s funny, I’d forgotten about them until now.
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Te Poho o Tamatea from Motu-Kauati-rahi, Cass Bay look out.
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Oxford Street, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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“I can’t believe you are really going. I can’t imagine my life without an Ellie. Everybody should have an Ellie. Tell your New Zealand friends they are lucky to have you, because they are.”
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Stood next to the mural on Hawkhurst Road. A group of painted figures walking West, towards the city. A figure in the middle, a woman. Her faded eyes narrowly avoid my own. Originally known as ‘The Gateway to Canterbury’, now it’s cruise liners and cargo ships that arrive by sea.
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‘Lyttelton Arts Council 1993, Celebrating the past, Challenging the future.’, Bridle Path, Ōhinehou, Lyttelton.
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Awaroa, Godley Head, from Te Pōhue, Camp Bay.
Polite introductions followed by the same series of questions. Where are you from? How long have you been here? Would you ever move back? Manchester. Ten years. My family moved back, but I stayed. Yes, Ping pong Poms. Awkward laughter. I’ll be explaining this accent for the rest of my life.
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Freedom Campers, Allandale.
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Ben, Norwich Quay, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
“It’s only half an hour before people start arriving to my birthday party, and only three weeks before you leave. It’s strange to think that by the time you are reading these letters you will be on the plane. Maybe you’ll be in a totally different country. You might not think you are, but you are so lucky.”
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Te poho o Tamatea from RÄ paki.
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Earthquake repairs, St Cuthberts, ĹŒhinetahi, Governors Bay.
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A scene so regular you become immune. All shook up then slowly put back together.
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Fumes from the Port made heavy with the heat. One of the last summer nights, I race up the hill to catch the pink clouds.
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Major Hornbrook track, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton Domain.
The Teddington Tavern. Nineteen years old and nothing else for miles. Drinking dark rum and feeding the duke box one dollar coins. Fleetwood Mac, over and over.
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Wheatsheaf Tavern, Te Rapu, Teddington.
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Fort Erskine, TÄ poa, Magazine Bay.
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Decommissioned in 1905, the gun was one of three coastal defences of the harbour. A result of the Russian threat to invade. Now, a quiet wharf below. Two figures in the distance, the last of the season’s swimmers. ‘Nina Simone, Rhode Island Girls’ spray painted on the wall behind me.
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Looking towards ĹŒtamahua, Quail Island from Motu-kauati-rahi, Cass Bay.
Te Poho o Tamatea from RÄ paki.
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“I wonder were you are right now. You will be gone, so not with us. Don’t get bit by any spiders or eaten by any sharks! Ok? When will you come back? Make it soon.” Stood in the shadow of Tamatea’s dark, triangular peak. A silhouette that echoes in my images of buildings and people. I imagine Tamatea following me around the Harbour. Maybe he is my guardian.
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Ollie, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton Wharf.
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‘You’ve got to throw the first fish back.’ An offering to Tangaroa, God of the Sea. In the space of ten minutes I watch as he catches half a dozen. Their small, shivering bodies against the concrete wharf. Just as quickly as he reels them in, he releases them back. The harbour water making them too polluted to eat.
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White shoes, white over-alls and a dusty white face. I ask what the boat means to him, what this place means to him. He tells me about summer days spent at Paradise Bay, about sleeping under the South Cross on ĹŒtamahua, Quail Island. I think about what this place means to me. I question if I could leave and never come back, I’m saddened by the thought.
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Malcolm, Te Wharau, Charteris Bay.
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Te Wharau, Charteris Bay Yacht Club.
Purau Bay.
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A narrow, one way bridge. I’m told of a battle on the foreshore. I suppose between NgÄ i Tahu and somebody else. The bones, still on the beach, nearly four centuries later, now buried under a delicate shell covered grave.
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Te Poho o Tamatea, from Te Waipapa, Diamond Harbour Ferry.
Vicky, Te Waipapa, Diamond Harbour.
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My Mum would love this house. I wish she could see it, I wish I could see her. I take five frames and leave feeling homesick.
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Proud of his local up bringing, he tells me I don’t know anything about this place, especially if I don’t know about Lyttelton’s ‘Bad Friday’. He tells me about the million dollar marina breaking into pieces, bobbing about in the harbour like marshmellows after a Southerly storm in October, 2000. Having arrived in 2006, this is the first I’ve heard of it. The comment stirs an array of emotions; anger followed by self doubt. What else don’t I know?
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Remains of the marina, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton wharf.
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Naval Base turned Sea Cadets, Motu-kauati-rahi, Cass Bay.
I take two frames, they say nothing. Unphased by my presence or intentions. A crowd beyond the trees. Saturday morning rugby.
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Sea Scouts, ÅŒhinehou, Lyttelton .
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Tamatea’s karakia. His mighty cries summoning volcanic fire to the South Island. Life on the crater rim.
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ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton Playground.
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Summit Road from Mount Cavendish.
Les, Blacksmiths, Te Rapu, Teddington.
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He moves quickly in the heat of the furnace, joking about wearing his good shirt, a shirt with only three holes. I think about Middlesbrough, about looking out towards the coast, past the factory chimneys, smoke rising for miles. I think of the Mount Herbert volcano erupting in this exact spot all those millions of years ago.
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ÅŒtamahua, Quail Island from Cass Bay Heights, Motu-kauati-rahi, Cass Bay.
Louie, Reserve Track, Te Waipapa, Diamond Harbour.
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Sarah and her sons talk amongst themselves about the European Cup. Wales are to play Portugal in the semi final. On the phone to Dad in England, he explains how everyone has become Welsh over night. They go on to loose 2-0.
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Council consent forms, Te Waipapa, Diamond Harbour.
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There’s only two shops in Diamond Harbour, the old garage and the dairy. I’ve been in here a thousands times but she still doesn’t recognise me. I buy a pie, make conversation. Tomato sauce in a polystyrene cup.
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Stopped by the Cass Bay look out. A woman, curious about what I was doing with my camera, pulls up besides me. She talks about the harbour as a hidden gem, a secret other Cantebrians have yet to clock on to. I think about the years I spent living in Selwyn and the City. She lights a cigarette and we watch as the sun disappears behind the Port Hills. I take a photo and we head our separate ways.
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Motu-kauati-rahi, Cass Bay look out.
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Te poho o Tamatea from RÄ paki.
A family outing to the museum, lost and disoriented in a city that wasn’t our own. Initial shock at the displays of primitive scenes. One in particular, dated in the eighteenth century, of a MÄ ori woman crouching on the shores of Ban ks Peninsula. A time when England was all top hats and tailcoats.
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Reconstruction of Panau settlement, Horomaka, Banks Peninsula, at Canterbury Museum.
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A pounamu crucifix. I point my camera at his chest, find focus and take the shot. A Christmas present he’s never given much thought.
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Brett, Motu-kauati-rahi, Cass Bay.
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Coastal track, ĹŒhonetahi, Governors Bay.
“I always worry about what I’m going to write but when I start writing, I don’t want to stop. It’s the night before your last day of school and I wish so much that you didn’t have to move but you’ve got to and there’s nothing I can do about it. You are so happy, you seem to carry the sun with you. Please don’t let anybody change that.”
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Bay View Road, Te Waipapa, Diamond Harbour.
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Met Reuben at his council flat on London Street. He shows me his model town, a scene inspired by his upbringing on the West Coast and time spent in the Harbour. He talks about his design for the flag referendum, a giant blue canvas with a kiwi painted in the middle. He’d sent it to the Government only to have it returned. Staring at the kiwi, a gash now through its torso, I try to identify with Reuben’s sense of national pride.
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Reuben, London Street, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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Motu-kauati-iti, Corsair Bay.
Preschool, Allandale.
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“I’ve been in New Zealand for four days and hate it. I feel like I’m in a nightmare. My mum and dad are too happy to notice anything is wrong. I’d do anything to be back in England, I wish I could be posted with this letter. It is so quiet here, their equal to Rochdale is a small DIY shop. One day I’ll send you a picture.” I never send a picture. I never even send the letter. I find it nine years later stuffed in a box.
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I see the same map of the Harbour everywhere I go. A faded colour print, too small to show any real information. Just a brief reminder, ‘you are here’.
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Torpedo museum, TÄ poa, Magazine Bay.
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Motu-kauati-rahi, Cass Bay bus stop.
'The first settlers of the Canterbury Association known as the Canterbury Pilgrams Landed near this spot on the 16th December 1850.' Sat on the bench by Pilgrams rock. The giant boulder engraved with the date 1850, now sits a kilometer inland, weeds sprouting through its concrete base. The government recently approved a10-hectare reclamation at Te Awaparahi Bay, to the East of Lyttelton. I'm told reclamation is how most of the port was built, we just weren’t around to see it. Now 2,400,000 tonnes of earthquake rubble in the Harbour.
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Port reclamation, Te Awaparahi Bay, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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Stark Bros, Dublin Street, ÅŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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Walked into the Stark Bros Workshop. Met by a group of men, matching in their creased overalls. A fishing vessel. A giant, red, wedge of steel, already sold to Japan. Two weeks later. I watch as the same group of men, a crane and a truck, take the boat down into the harbour.
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Pou whenua, ÅŒtuherekio, Pony Point, boundary line of the Port Cooper deed.
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Sat listening to the Pou Whenua at Pony Point as it whistles in the easterly breeze. I read that the Port Cooper Deed was signed on the tenth day of August 1849. In signing the deed the Chiefs and the people of te Whakaraupō handed possession of their land over to Her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain. Upset by a conversation half an hour earlier, the words ‘no ancestry, no relationship’ looping in my mind. I’d asked to photograph inside the Rāpaki school house and church, but was told they were buildings sacred to their own genealogy. I understood that theirs was not my story to tell, but couldn’t help feel rejected.
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Purau sream.
Fought the trees for a view of Tamatea. Successful, I sit and read a message from mum. She tells me that it’s normal to feel homesick, but really, New Zealand is my home. It’s probably just her and my dad that I miss. She tells me that they miss me all the time, but are happy in the knowledge that I am happy, most of the time anyway.
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Te poho o Tamatea from Motu-kauati-iti, Corsair Bay.
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Crater Rim track, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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“Well, it’s about two months since you left. Everyone says it’s getting better for them and that they are getting used to it. I just nod, but the truth is it’s not getting any easier for me. I miss you and your laugh, being able to hear you before I see you. It sounds like you’ve made some good friends in NZ. The other girls don’t really know what to think, I think they are jealous. Your house looks nice. Are you staying there or buying a new one? I will, I will, I will come visit. I promise.”
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ĹŒhinetahi Bush Reserve, ĹŒhinetahi, Governors Bay.
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Stopped at ĹŒhinetahi Bush Reserve. Followed a trail of wooden pony heads expecting to stumble across something great. Ended up nowhere.
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Ripapa Island from Te PĹ?hue, Camp Bay Road.
Met Sam, who lives on a boat in the Marina. I imagine him sleeping in a bunk above his lounge, swaying on the harbour waves. I imagine my own room five streets over, the hum of the port beyond my curtains, soothing me to sleep.
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Sam, Naval Point, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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‘Solid floor, walls, and ceiling’. Mum phones, she says she has booked her flight’s to New Zealand, a two week visit in September. She tells me to keep safe until then, I think how mad she would be witnessing the vulnerability of my current situation. Alone in an old prison cell with a relative stranger.
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Former prison cell, Allandale.
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ĹŒtautahi, Christchurch Gondola look out point.
Ox, Stone mason, ĹŒhinetahi, Governors Bay.
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‘A heavy metler, resurrecting church walls.’ The irony.
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Looking up from London Street, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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Each time I go back to England, the rows of neat terrace houses seem smaller, the sky and the roads more grey. Felt notably disconnected during a visit to my old school. Memories scaled down to the height of my eleven year old self.
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Te Poho o Tamatea from Blood Bay.
Shaking her fist towards the sky, half joking, half angry, ‘Tamatea, stop throwing your rocks at us!’. I imagine that quiet day in February, watching as the earthquake shook Tamatea’s boulders from his peak to the bay, watching them bounce nine meters in the air.
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Governors Bay Road, RÄ paki.
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Waipapa Avenue, Te Waipapa, Diamond Harbour.
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At the airport, mum says I’ve grown, I suspect she’s shrunk. With that we slip in to a routine until suddenly something clicks, something has been said. Upset, she says she is missing half of my life. I change the subject, aware that ten years is a long time.
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Malcolm’s house, Te Waipapa, Diamond Harbour.
AlizĂŠ, Te Waipapa, Diamond Harbour.
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“Do you ever think about England? I can tell you now nothing much is happening here. Your accent has changed. Your tone of voice kind of goes up and higher at the end of a sentence. Does hearing my English accent sound weird? I’ve always wanted to know what I sound like to other people. It’s your birthday in August, are you going to have a party? I wish I could be there to celebrate with you. I still miss you as much as I did when you first moved, I think I always will.”
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Gary, Rāpaki Bay.
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A week day in the middle of Autumn, he suspected he’d be alone on the bay. A familiar accent, I find out his home town is only a few miles from my own. I tell him about my project and ask to take his photograph. Lying back he tells me, 'these are my trees'.
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Omaru stream, RÄ paki.
Walked with mum along the bays. She marches ahead pretending she know’s where we are going. She says we are exploring, discovering new territory just like Captain Cook. I laugh at her, then at myself, I know she has been through my diary.
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Te Poho o Tamatea from RÄ paki.
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St Davids Street, ĹŒhinehou, Lyttelton.
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Parked up at the lookout by Cass Bay. I think about where I’ll be this time next year. In England, in the company of family, of old friends, new friends. I think about feeling homesick for WhakaraupĹ?. I leave just as the hail starts to fall at the feet of Tamatea.
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Te Poho o Tamatea, Motu-kauati-rahi, Cass Bay look out.
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For Natalie, thank you for keeping in touch. And for my parents, Tracey and Chris, for their continual reassurance. Special thanks to the people of WhakaraupĹ? who I met in the process of making this work, thank you for sharing your time and thoughts. And to my tutor, Tim J Veling, thank you for the years of patience and dedication.