Being married to a travel photographer, I often find myself in sensitive situations when it comes to photographing indigenous peoples. No matter how familiar, I always end up tiptoeing around nervously, lurking in the hintergrund. Seriously, though: what if a group of people from another continent knocked on my door and wanted to take some pics of me making a green smoothie first thing in the morning? That would be awesome, for one. But unfortunately, this only goes one direction.
We were sitting outside the church in Avarua. Everyone was in their Sunday best- the women wore coconut frond rito hats laden with flowers and the kids in the choir, white button-down shirts. We squeezed Sia into a floral frock we’d been carrying around since San Diego. Even Michael zipped the bottom legs onto his convertible pants.
Air Tahiti was on strike. "STUCK IN TAHITI," I messaged one of my friends. As if that was actually possible- a paradise once lionized by Gauguin, with serious waves and food trucks serving streak-frites and poisson cru.