In February 2013, Mele Tuilagi wanted to watch Whale Rider outside with her mates, on a warm night, in Wainuiomata. She couldn’t find anywhere in the country that would let her. So — in the way that these things sometimes go — she borrowed a projector from her cousin, tied a bedsheet between two pines, ran an extension cord from her aunty’s kitchen, and invited forty-two cars.

It was meant to be a one-off. It rained for the first twenty minutes. Nobody left.

By the end of that first summer we’d screened in four regions and killed one projector. By 2016 we were touring the country in a very pink combi van (RIP, Beryl, 1978–2018). By 2019 we’d added rooftops, wharves and one memorable night on a Marlborough vineyard where a possum stole someone’s chips.

We’re still Kiwi-owned, still independent, still stubbornly small. We sweep every site by hand before we leave — partly because we’re picky, partly because farmers remember. If you’ve been to a Firefly night, you’ve been part of the reason there’s another one next month.