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I felt somewhat trepidatious about our trip down to Hokitika for the Wild Foods Festival.
The plan was simple, Sally and I were going to fly down to Christchurch, with Jon and Shirl to meet up with our friends Robbie and Bridget who had been galloping around the Routeburn Track for a week prior.
Bridget had put the wind up us drawing attention to a bleak weather forecast in Hokitika for that Saturday, reinforced by my weather app, by a black cloud spouting rain. I could picture myself stuck on my mobility scooter in deep mud, wondering where the accessible portaloo was.
Crossing into the Southern Alps felt like stepping into a completely different country.
Arthur’s Pass was clear. Crisp. The peaks still holding that dramatic, rugged edge, swirling mist wrapped around them. The road winds its way through steep valleys, past sheer rock faces and fast-moving rivers, the kind of drive that reminds you pretty quickly how small you are in it all. The rain continued on and off.
Then it stopped.
The scooter I’d brought down (the chimpanzee/clown travel-scooter) stayed dry the entire time. Saturday had brilliant sunshine-right in time for the chaos that is the Hokitika Wildfoods Festival.
If you’ve never been, it’s less about food and more about curiosity, and a willingness to suspend your better judgement.
Crickets. Mountain oysters. Ox penis. A few things you try once and question immediately, and a few that are surprisingly decent.
There’s music, there’s crowds, and there’s always someone convincing someone else to eat something they absolutely shouldn’t.
In our group, though, the real drama wasn’t on the menu it was a rather vindictive wasp. I f you recall another column, about the wasps’ nest by the pool, you’ll know I don’t have a good history with them.
I took one straight to the face. I carried on bewildered by the sheer bad luck of another wasp incident. There was no sympathy.
Not long after, Shirley got stung on the hand. She suffered the same lack of empathy from the others that I did. Despite her complaining about a throbbing finger well into the night.
But the part of the weekend that stayed with me wasn’t the food, or the music, or even the wasps.
It was something much quieter.
The Paraoa Hotel we were staying at is owned by Bernie Monk.
Like most New Zealanders, I knew the name. I knew the story of the Pike River Mine disaster.
But knowing it, and then unexpectedly finding yourself in the presence of someone who has lived it, are two very different things.
In the middle of a weekend built on novelty, laughter, and living in the moment, there was this quiet reminder sitting just beneath the surface.
That for some people, is something that doesn’t just move on.
Grief doesn’t stay in the past.
And that behind the names we hear in headlines are people who carry their stories with them, every day, in every setting, whether that’s standing in front of a camera or simply running a hotel on the Coast.
It was a contrast I hadn’t expected.
On one hand, a festival built on chaos and curiosity.
On the other, a reminder of something unresolved. Something ongoing.
We talk about Pike River as if it’s history.
But for some, it’s still very much present.
And sometimes, it’s those unexpected moments (the ones you don’t plan for) that stay with you the longest. And Im not talking about that damn wasp sting.
This article has been published by the Northern Advocate.
Read the article here.
