‘Land is the foundation of all our trouble’, said Te Rauparaha of Ngati Toa and Ngati Raukawa when asked to account for the circumstances that had led to the killing of twenty- two Pakeha settlers and two Maori at Wairau on 17 June 1843.
Discarded medical equipment litters the floor: surgical tools blistered with rust, broken bottles, jars, the scratched spine of an old invalid chair.
Tokyo Station is packed. It’s been a while since Yuichi Kimura was here last, so he isn’t sure if it’s always this crowded.
When people say ‘terminal’, I think of the airport.
A stir moves through the Pride House Group Home, and seconds later adolescent faces pig against the muggy front window.
It turns out the place we stopped for the night was a public park.
I’m late for dinner again, but this time it’s not my fault. There’s a mansplainer in my way.
Most morning, my husband, Doug, wakes up before me and reads the news in bed.
Twenty-Five years ago, Sam Neill wrote the introduction to this book’s predecessor, Timeless Land.
‘Normal is a cycle on a washing machine’ is something my dad always told me.
As the new year of 1910 moved closer to its second month, the world marvelled that there had been so few deaths in Paris when the River Seine rose more than eight metres and flooded the city.
The sickle moon had just slipped below the western horizon when the file of mounted men emerged from the trees.