The Tutukaka Coast

Fond memories of a dark time

About 2 and a half years ago now, I found myself living for a brief stint in Ngunguru, a small coastal town just outside of Whangārei. Despite it being one of the most beautiful places I have ever been in the world, it was an incredibly challenging and transformative period of my life. With most memories I have associated with that place, I release an involuntary shudder—sometimes even needing to verbally expel some scenario in my head that is playing on repeat. This was the period of time directly after leaving Tāmaki—for what I believed was for all the right reasons. I think there were definitely some healthy changes buried underneath the co-dependent relationship I had found myself tangled in, but for the most part I was moving to a tiny town that I had no experience with or whakapapa links to, for somebody else. “Our Dream” was really a process of me fitting into the chaotic, messy, angular painting she had been working on for some time.

It got really dark there, but it was also a massive catalyst for change in my life. I really did need to course correct from the role I was living in Tāmaki, and I hadn’t built the relationship with myself yet that would allow me to make those changes for myself. So, I made them for someone else. Although I have such strong reflections of pain there, there are also many beautiful memories tied into Ngunguru, pastel blues and pinks flowing in smooth arcs across the thorny, scratched-in shadows of the emotions I’ve associated with that period. I’ve spent enough time regurgitating all of the ugly from the past few years on my upcoming album, so it feels about the right time to reflect on the beauty I experienced during that time.

I never took photos of Ngunguru, but this was essentially the back yard. Insane

A lot of my fond memories are tied to surfing. The Ngunguru sandbar is a wave that is unmatched anywhere else I have ever surfed. Beautiful left-hand waves peel for so long that you just jump off because your legs hurt too much from carving, and frankly you’re spoilt for choice. In hindsight, it’s hilarious to think about exiting a wave because you can’t be bothered with the paddle back out. But that is how incredible this wave is. The first time I went to the Ngunguru sandbar, I parked up at the school—a classic out-of-towner blunder. It didn’t look too far, and there were a handful of surfers out, so I was on my way. It turned out to be a deceptively long trek—a swim across the estuary and a long walk along a sand dune in sinking sand, totalling about 1.5km. By the time I got out behind the break, I had already completely depleted my paddle strength, and the sun was already kissing the horizon. Although nobody knew me, every surfer greeted me with warmth, introduced themselves, and called me into waves, even when they had the right of way. I had never experienced that level of whakawhanaungatanga in the water before. It’s not that people in Auckland don’t want to be kind, but I think waves are more scarce when there are city crowds. People assume everyone else is competing with them, and so they reinforce the competitive, individualistic behaviour. Not in Ngunguru though. That night was so incredible; the sky was lit up with deep pinks, and although I only surfed for 20 minutes, I had caught more waves than anyone could hope for. And then the sun disappeared behind the horizon. I turned around to find that somehow I was the only one in the water, 1.5km offshore in a place I had never navigated before—let alone in the pitch black. That branch sticking out of the shallows is most definitely a shark fin now that it’s dark. Fucking paddle, boy. When you start to panic, everything becomes almost psychedelically significant. Everything is a tohu. I had heard stories of old kōiwi being buried in the dunes, and so you should never walk over them lest you disturb the bones of the local tūpuna. But walking around them in the complete darkness felt equally tapu and terrifying. I didn’t dare look to my left as I walked as fast as I could without running. My fear was running rampant, and I almost thought I could see figures in korowai, shadows deeper than pitch black, looking down at me from the dunes in my periphery. I muttered calls of respect and apologies under my breath, just to be safe. Then the strangest thing happened. Tāwhirimātea picked up out of nowhere, howling so loud I had to raise my voice just to talk to myself, encouraging one step forward in front of the other. It was feeling so real now; I was sure that the kēhua atop the dunes were messing with me. Striding into this uncanny wind on an angle that would have sent me tumbling forward if the wind magically stopped, I finally made it to the other end of the dunes. Had the tide been going out, the incredible current would have dragged me back into the darkness while trying to paddle across the estuary. Thankfully, it was coming in, and I paddled with every last ounce of strength I had. The relief of my feet touching the ground on the other side was like nothing else. I collapsed on the muddy sand for a long while before finally inching my way awkwardly back to my car in the dark. I honestly look back on this experience as a fond memory; I felt so alive that night, though I never set foot across the estuary again.

Looking at this map makes me laugh. I definitely chose the hardest path

My landlord Paul (I was living in his converted garage) was a surfer. He cracked up laughing when he heard my story. He showed me the secret bush walk only locals knew that emerged at the sandbar. It turned a 1-hour journey into 10 minutes, and I couldn’t help but laugh with him. Being such a small town, everyone knew everyone there, but everyone most definitely knew Paul. He had spent most of his working life as a horticulturalist, and (hilariously to me) his garden was shocking. He would kiss his teeth at the neighbour who mowed his lawn every day. Not because of the carbon emissions of such an obsession, but because no one should waste their time caring about something as stupid as grass. I guess no one really wants to bring their work home. There was a beauty to the unruly nature of the backyard too. He was always so kind to me, always keen on a chat or a surf, interested in my work and my life. I guess “landlord” is the wrong term to use for him, but he is the coolest landlord I may ever have. He had so much space in his life to build genuine connection with people, and it was also reflected in the way he was a father to his two teenage boys. Thank you for the beautiful colours, Paul.

The bush walk opens here. What a beautiful place.

Nandor was another surfer I met at Sandy Bay, just around the corner. He was a surf instructor, and so I would see him there every single day. If there was 10 cm of swell, Nandy was in the water with a foamy. If it was double overhead, Nandy was out the back looking completely at home. A lot of surfers I’ve seen tend to push for performance, hacking at the waves, “smacking the lip,” and getting every last turn they possibly can out of the ride. Their bodies are rigid; they pump their way through slow sections, which honestly looks like the equivalent of pushing mongo on a skateboard. They yell, “FUCK!” when they don’t make the wave. It’s quite hilarious to watch—almost like they aren’t having fun. It appears on the outside that the waves are there for them to catch, to appropriate for their enjoyment. Not for Nandy, though. He glides at breakneck speeds, arms calmly at his sides. Each turn looks effortless, like the wave invited him to do so, and he gratefully accepted his role in the dance. This is a relationship with Tangaroa at its finest. It’s a style that is humble and open to opportunity. It makes sense too, as both of us share our love for surfers like Torren Martyn and Mikey February, who are masters of this style. Nandor helped me deepen my understanding of the wind patterns, reading the waves, and shared recent history of when the beach break used to behave differently. It was him that really inspired me to seek humility in the water, to stop and whakarongo, to sense what Tangaroa wanted to do next. Taking performance out of surfing has made me a far better surfer and has made it way more enjoyable in the process. Our friendship was always tied to surfing (it seems to be the way with surfers), but we also shared very similar music tastes. I would run into him years later at the Home Brew gig at Powerstation. I hope to see more of him in the future.

Above: A small stormy wave I caught at Sandy Bay filmed on a potato

Although most of my memories outside of surfing still invoke shudders, I was also introduced to toi Māori during this time. My ex’s stepdad was a carver, mostly working with onewa and pounamu, but occasionally with wood too. I always desperately wanted to hang around in his shed, watching him work on the latest tāonga, but felt too shy for a long time. I still had a lot of strong disempowering feelings and stories around not being “Māori enough” or that my presence was going to be somehow disrespectful because of my lack of knowledge and tīkanga. But one day he invited me in and showed me around his workshop. I lit up as I looked around the room at all of his repurposed power tools—belt sanders and grinding wheels that he had built himself from random parts he found on TradeMe, his paintings and carvings ornamenting the walls. He handed me a small piece of rimu and instructed me to round it into a cylinder with the axe. I was clumsy and uncoordinated, my hands soft from years of computer mahi. Each strike felt pathetic, and up came that little voice in my head that told me I wasn’t welcome here, that I should stop pretending to be Māori. Because I couldn’t wield an axe. Crack up, ay. But Matua never stepped in; he never disempowered me by taking the reins and helping. He just allowed me to struggle, slowly chipping the wood away to something that resembled the form of a koauau. He showed me the steps to developing the form, drilling the centre out, shaping the wood smooth with the belt sander, and how to measure the three note holes along the instrument at intervals matching up to the knuckles on my index finger. With each further detail, I watched this piece come to life. Matua told me stories of the koauau and what tāonga pūoro were used for. With each story I felt my destructive little voice taking a back seat. I was feeling accepted and welcomed into te Ao Māori for the first time. It took me a long time to get the hang of playing that koauau, and I still struggle with it now. It is said that each instrument is a person, that they all have their own mauri, their own life force. Knowing this koauau person, and where I was at in my life when I brought it into the world, it’s no wonder that it is unsure about trusting me with its song. I didn’t even trust myself. And yet, it is the physical representation of the beginning of my journey into whakairo, which has become a massive part of my life, and the waka in which I reconnect to my whakapapa and my own taha Māori.

The Koauau Rimu, with each hole measured to my knuckles

I actually began writing this post to talk about whakairo. It has been so healing for me, and the philosophies I have picked up in just a year of carving instruct a hugely significant part of how I see the world these days. But just in the same way that you discover a knot in the wood, which directs you toward a brand new design you didn’t see coming, the writing of this post took a different turn, and I’m glad it did. It’s been cathartic to remember the beautiful people I met while living in Ngunguru. The whenua really does feel like heaven on earth. The landscape is breathtaking, and the people who live there are so welcoming and kind. It’s a shame to have such negative attachments to that place, but I’m glad that I’m at a place where I can see all of the beautiful colours in the painting too. I also think in the past I wouldn’t have been able to accept this turn toward a different subject while writing; I was so focused on shaping the world around me into the product I wanted to create. Which has only ever amounted to writer's block for me. So there’s whakairo again, informing the way I experience the world. Pretty cool, ay.

What I’ve been up to:

• My album is now completely written, and we are now starting to work on the visuals. I got some funding from NZOA to make a music video.

• I started making a short film about making sourdough, which I fell out of love with when I made the discovery that I might be coeliac, which is now feeling like quite a funny plot twist to the short film.

• I let my garden go to seed and was pleasantly surprised to see how many insects and birds got a kick out of it.

• I grew a bunch more seedlings and turned my living room into a greenhouse.

• I made a compost heap in my backyard that killed the grass but also taught me a lot about what bacteria need to thrive.

• I had the most consistent 6 months of mahi I have ever had as a freelancer and levelled up massively with all the practice.

• Surfing. As much as I can.