Connection

I was born on 15 March 1977, in an isolated corner of New Zealand, in a small meat-processing town called Waitara on the North Island. My parents owned a sheep and cattle farm a few hours up the winding Awakau Road, halfway into the treacherous Awakino Gorge on the island’s west coast, a couple of hours’ drive away from any real township.

This isn’t the part of New Zealand you see in pretty postcards. It’s the real New Zealand; the harsh, gritty reality of farming sheep and cattle — what was once the backbone of the country — on land never destined for such purpose. The hills my father trudged up and down daily would be considered small mountains in Australia. Although harsh, the land has an inherent beauty of its own: miles of black-sand beaches; deserted, dangerous coastline — as depicted in Jane Campion’s Academy Award–winning film The Piano, parts of which were filmed on our land — dark, dank native bush; and swamplands where the endangered, flightless Kiwi live. It is an atmospheric place where time stands still.