Open Writing

A Few Quasi-Random Observations on Living amongst Kiwis

Pam and I have now been here for about two of our three months. Sands which had seemed to be trickling slowly through the glass have suddenly gathered into a shockingly large pile in relation to what’s left. Yet, what’s left still equates to the length of our entire sojourn last January, so there is a bright side upon which to look. Because I’m writing about a somewhat extended period, I’ve decided against the usual “journal” format, partly for fear of being compared with Mrs Dale, and partly just for the hell of it.

Mind you, when you think about it, it’s a funny old situation that we’re in, really. We’re not tourists, although inevitably we have been around and about a bit. We aren’t really on holiday, not with all the usual routine of household chores, not to mention the small matter of tiling our daughter’s new bathroom. We aren’t settlers, because, regrettably, all too soon we’ll be “out of here”. We aren’t just visiting our family - even though that is by far the single most important part of our trip - because we aren’t spending anything like every available moment with them.

So, what are we doing? Well, apart from the glaringly obvious. a bit of everything, really, I still favour that idea of an “experiment in living”, of dipping your toes in the waters of a different way of life. If your toes don’t get scalded or frozen in the process, then the rest of you has at least a fair to middling chance of surviving, or even thriving. The idea is that what we learn now will, or should, give us a head start when we finally become residents (assuming, that is, the Kiwis will let us in, and the Poms will let us out).

Inevitably, useful as it might be, our “experiment” isn’t, and can’t be, entirely realistic. In our present situation we don’t, for example, have to cope with NZ taxes, rates, and the miasma of routine bureaucracy that plagues innocent citizens everywhere.

It goes without saying that the reportage of much of this “research” will struggle to make the “riveting reading” class. So, what follows is very much a digest of some of the merrier morsels, some of the follies, foibles and what-have-you that have emerged from our observations of and interactions with England’s “remotest neighbours”

Limitations

The finest research invariably involves scrupulously systematic observation from a strictly objective viewpoint. As the observer is a died-in-the-wool Yorkshireman, with a lifetime’s seasoning of cynicism, the viewpoint cannot reasonably be assumed to be objective. Also, as the phenomena observed are wholly incidental, the process of observation cannot by any stretch of the imagination (even a hyper-active one) be considered systematic. Therefore, this is not the finest research. Not that it matters, ey? (the meaning of “ey” will be explained below.)

It is assumed, not entirely without justification, that the observations given below are from the viewpoint of the said Yorkshireman, and relate only to the locations and experiences particular to that errant observer. Unless specified otherwise, statements are thus not to be construed as of universal applicability.

Finally, nothing is actually as bad as I might make it seem (see “died-in-the-wool Yorkshireman” above). However, the overall natural wonder of NZ is already amply documented, so you hardly need me to tell you about it!

Observations and Commentary

The People

Almost without exception, the people of NZ are a thoroughly lovely bunch of folk, easy-going, cheerful, friendly, helpful. Rarely, when you have occasion to speak to someone, will you get away with the basic transaction, such as “Excuse me, I think you’ve just dropped your baby”, “Oh, thankyou” (or just a surly, grunted “Humph”). No, these are usually cues for entire conversations. You have to be “easy-going”, because there are few people you meet who’ll let you get away with being otherwise.

The most surprising aspect of this is the shop assistants. Oh, believe me, there are some grumpy, gum-chewing, onosyllabic “Saturday girls”, but we’ve been in dozens of shops, department stores and supermarkets, and we’ve encountered no more than three of these depressing creatures. I’ll admit that the “Have a nice day” catechism makes my teeth grind, but somehow, coming as it usually does at the end of a cheery chat, your average Kiwi makes it sound as if he means it!

Part of the reason for this is that the pace of life is so leisurely, certainly up in Northland (go to, say, Auckland, and things hot up a bit!). Mind you, I’m also sure that it has something to do with population density, because I can remember when people were like this in Yorkshire. In NZ, everyone has so much more space, so that there is enough room between any two people for them to be able to extend the hands of friendship. It is distinctly noticeable that the old folk seem happier than their crustier Yorkshire counterparts. When we’re out walking, virtually everyone you meet on the way will exchange greetings. Heck, even the overweight joggers somehow manage to gasp out a “hello”!

That’s a point worthy of note: for a population that is so incredibly enthusiastic about its outdoor, sporting way of life - everybody’s “into” boating, fishing, swimming, surfing, “parascending”, cricket, tennis, rugby, you name it - there seem to be a lot who are sufficiently corpulent to make me admire my expanding waistline for its svelt-ness!

Social Politics

This is a ticklish area. No matter what you say, or how you go about saying it, some hyper-sensitive soul is bound to take umbrage. Well, any such soul can take his umbrage and stick it where he jolly well likes, because I’m going to say it anyway, subject to the (I hope obvious) reservation that “If I have got hold of the wrong end of the stick, it’s only because that was the end of the stick that was poked at me”. Right. Here goes.

Kiwis come in two broad types: those of European extraction (the “Whites”), and those of Polynesian - or is it Melanesian? - extraction (the Maori). The latter, although not actually aboriginal, were there first. The early European explorers, confronted by these ferocious-looking “natives” performing that ferocious-looking Haka, tended to respond cautiously, i.e. with death-dealing gunfire. This was unfortunate, because the Haka, much as it appeared to be belligerence incarnate, was (and still is) nothing more than a challenge, in the context of meeting strangers simply a lurid, up-beat version of “Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?”

The Treaty of Waitangi sort of spelt out principles of peaceful co-existence and afforded the Maoris something along the lines of “inalienable rights” to protect their interests as the “original owners of the property” As a possible solution, this was far more enlightened than the one adopted by the Whites in North America, and it should have put paid to all those little mishaps and misunderstandings that had hindered . However, in common with most of Mankind’s bright ideas, it didn’t quite work out the way folk hoped it would. Nowadays, it has become woven into a tangled web of conflict with legislation passed by the predominantly (though not exclusively) White government. It seems to me that the difficulty is similar to that faced in the UK, when Muslims expect their religious laws to take precedence over the Law of the Land.

Here’s an example. In 2004, the Government ordered the closure of Orauta School, near Moerewa (for, it seems, the fairly common reason that the pupil numbers had dropped below the economic threshold). The parents decided to run the school privately, through its board of trustees, after its de-registration date, i.e. the start of the new school year (February 2005). The Ministry of Education wrote to parents warning them that thay faced prosecution if they sent their children to the school, because an unregistered school cannot operate on Crown land - in effect, for failing to send their children to a registered school. The trustees could also be fined for operating an illegal school. In order for the school to operate legally, it needs to be registered as a private school. So far, fair enough.

However, Oruata School is a Maori school. The trustees cited “tino rangatiratanga”, which guarantees Maori the right to govern their own matters, claiming that the school was “registered under a Maori corporation” All fine and dandy, except that the Public Works Act decrees that Crown land must be used for the “public good”, and a private enterprise falls outside that scope. However (again), if land taken under the PWA is no longer used for its purpose, then it must be offered back to its original owners. Guess who they might be? That’s right, the local Maori. So, no problem, then? Not exactly. The ownership issue has to go through legal process, and then there is the small matter of the school buildings, which are on, but not part of, the land. The trustees offered to buy the buildings, but were turned down. Mind you, $1 per building for three buildings is a pretty derisory offer! The case, as they say, continues, presumably much to the delight of lawyers.

People I’ve talked to tend to be of the opinion that it’s about time that some Maori stopped carting 200-year old chips around on their shoulders. On the other hand, a perhaps “unfair” proportion of the Maori, who account for only about 4% of the population, belong to the “under-privileged classes”. Then again, so do some of the Whites. Perhaps the most sane comment I’ve heard amounted to this: “We should scrap the Treaty. After all this time, surely we should no longer be Maori and Whites, but New Zealanders, one and all.” That sounds fair enough to me. Perhaps we should try it in the UK?

Roads and Motorists

I could write a book on this! Where to start, that is the question? OK: roads. It’s more or less a matter of geological necessity that most of New Zealand’s roads twist and turn. Even in the midst of an alluvial plain, at some point you’re likely to have to go around some volcanic “stump”. It comes as no surprise to find that, in New Zealand, most motors have automatic gearboxes! It seems almost perverse, but in this country where, on practically every turn, you are confronted with the most glorious natural vistas, we found that provisions for you to actually pull over and admire the view are very few and far between.

There is but one motorway in the land, boring right through Auckland. From the motoring point of view, Auckland is an utterly unavoidable bottleneck if you want to pass between Northland and the southern end of North Island. It differs from UK motorways in two main respects. Firstly, it’s always “full” - nothing goes anywhere with any alacrity, which is unusual in a country that, compared with the UK, is both bigger and less densely populated (a piddling 4 million, give or take a few dozen). Secondly, there are slip-roads on and off on both sides of the carriageway, which can be a trifle disconcerting. Many Kiwis regard the prospect of negotiating this road with abject horror, but then I’m pretty sure that most Kiwis have never braved the M62 in the Monday morning rush-hour.

Next down the line come the State Highways, roughly equivalent to UK “A” roads and the only NZ roads to be numbered. Finally, in something of a jumble, come the rest of the roads, varying from State Highway standard on down to “unsealed” We found that, if we strayed from the “main” roads, it was a Really Good Idea to check our proposed route on the map, just to be sure that it didn’t include a 60 km. stretch of grit track. When we went to have a look at Wairua Falls, we found that, eventually, at the end of 3 km. of gritty, dusty track, and by ‘eck that was bad enough! Oh, and there are loads of stretches of road where, at the sides, the tarmac just peters out, leaving ground of uncertain firmness, or a dirty great ditch, or simply a vertiginous drop. Driving along these can be such jolly good fun!

Apart from the State Highways, roads are identified only inasmuch as there is, or should be, a signpost at the end telling you where it’ll take you. Navigation in NZ would be much simpler if there was a pub at each and every road junction. Come to think of it, it would be nice if NZ had some proper pubs, preferably selling proper beer. Anyway, I digress. If a road has a name, like “Raurimu Drive” or “Toe Toe Road” (pronounced “toe-ey”), then it’s a street Each street is identified by a pointy sign, thoughtfully positioned so that you can read them as you drive along. In Whangarei, these signs are white lettering on a blue background. In other places, they might be black on yellow.

Signage and road markings in general seem to have been developed using a standard that makes the UK’s system look like a model of good design. Alright, most of the signs are self-explanatory, apart from one that we meet coming “home” from Hazel and Mike’s. This one proclaims: “Bypass Auckland Right Lane”. That’s daft. Everyone knows that you can’t bypass Auckland! Ah, no, make that two. I saw a sign which said, “Heavy traffic ban on Kamo Road.” I racked my brains over how they might enforce this, until it clicked: it would make much more sense if it said, “Heavy vehicles ban”! Most of the road markings are fairly obvious, but one or two leave even the locals flummoxed. I asked Mike what was the meaning of the continuous white line running along the side of most roads. Sometimes it demarcated a kerbside space wide enough to suggest “reserved for roadside parking”, sometimes the space was wide enough only for a “cycle lane”, and sometimes it seemed to do no more than say “Look out, here’s the gutter”. Mike doesn’t know. So, I don’t know. Ergo, you don’t know, unless, that is, you know more than I do.

Remember all that stuff I said about how nice the Kiwis are? You can forget it once they’re behind the wheel of a car - they seem to have more bad habits than a dissolute monastery! Many of these appear to correspond to those we know and love in the UK, but there is a vague cultural bias. The cardinal rule, which both Mike and Hazel tried to drum into us the first time we came here, is “Don’t let anybody in!” Of course, good manners - and a certain lack of consideration for local custom - forbad me to take any notice, but it soon became clear that if I did hold back and wave folk on, they became very confused. I’m glad to say, though, that I have observed a few like-minded souls amongst the natives, doing their bit to try to make a difference.

Following on from that rule seems to be “If there’s nearly enough room for the chap on the major road to do an emergency stop, go ahead and pull out - but only if the road behind him is absolutely clear of traffic” This is allied to some astute judgement of velocities: the vehicle pulling out always goes exactly 20 kph slower than the vehicle obstructed! OK, maybe I should add “or so it seems” A variation on this one is that if a driver arrives at a junction with a major road, or similarly at the entrance to a roundabout, and finds his way is perfectly clear, he doesn’t know how to cope, and so stops to study the situation. Some of them, sticking assiduously to the “pulling out” rule, even wait until something comes, in front of which they feel that they can pull out with confidence.

Then there are the “passing lanes”. Periodically along a road (if you’re lucky) there are passing lanes, similar to the UK’s “slow vehicle lanes” What happens is this. Here we all are, in a 100 kph limit, trundling along behind some buffoon who’s doing 70 on the dot (having, I presume, missed the 100-limit start sign?). We can’t get past because he’s got his off-side wheels stuck on the centre line, and (remember) the road winds all over the place. On arriving at the start of the passing lane, one of two things happens. Either he puts his clog down and shoots up the passing lane at 120 kph, then (of course) slows back down to 70, or he trundles steadfastly on at 70, but stays out in the overtaking lane, only moving across to the left if someone should be foolhardy enough to try to pass him on the near-side.

I will draw a discreet veil over the eye-closing incidents you get when some prat, although clearly lacking the under-bonnet clout to go past someone, nevertheless tries to do so - when there’s only about 100m of passing lane left (refer to “don’t let anybody in”, and figure it out for yourself).

There’s more, lots more, including a plethora of “rules” relating to traffic lights, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Hence, let me concluse this section by relating the zaniest thing of all. It goes without saying that the root of this problem is an official “rule of the road”. It sounds so simple: “If you are turning left into another road, and there is an oncoming vehicle waiting to turn right into the same road, then you must give way”. Possibly I’m exaggerating, but I think that this must be the cause of more accidents than any amount of “bad driving”. Consider. If you are going straight on, you don’t give way. If you do give way, your encounter with the bloke behind (who’ll be too close!) will be less than friendly. If the chap turning right hasn’t yet arrived at his “line”, you don’t need to give way (i.e. if you can be safely on your way before he gets there, you should just get on with it). If you do give way, the result is the same as before. If you forget that the chap turning right has the right of way, and he doesn’t, then crunch! If there are two possible right turns close together, the other chap’s right turn my not be the same as your left turn (outcome uncertain in these cases). If the junction is a crossroads and the other chap is going straight across into the road you’re turning left into (somebody please sort out the grammar of that lot!), who goes first is determined by the road markings, if any (result again uncertain). I’ll let you amuse yourself figuring out all the other disaster scenarios. There is one other option, which involves two motorists each waiting for the other to make a move . . .

Flora, Fauna and Bio-hazards

I don’t propose to disgorge a comprehensive catalogue of the country’s flora and fauna, but merely to point out a few highlights that we’ve met along the way.

None of New Zealand’s indigenous trees is deciduous. On South Island there are some imported deciduous varieties, but North Island is evergreen. That doesn’t mean to say that there’s none of the UK’s autumnal mess. Take the Gum Tree for instance. It looks magnificent, with its characteristically terraced plumes of foliage. However, twice a year it sheds its bark, inundating its surroundings for about two months with shoals of orange-brown strips. Some of these can be upwards of two metres long, and can give you quite a jolt if you happen to be in the way. One of the county’s botanical glories is the Pohutokawa, a bushy tree mature specimens of which can top ten metres in height. It is commonly know as the Kiwi “Christmas Tree”, because of its deep-green leaves and the riot of large, furry crimson blossom that it produces during December. In the brilliant summer sunshine, they are a joy to behold. Actually, scarcely less admirable, although rather less “in your face”, is the New Zealand Silk Tree, which produces similarly gossamer-fronded flowers, but of a much more delicate hue.

Other than in zoos, New Zealand is devoid of dangerous animals and snakes, though it’s as well to be circumspect in the vicinity of stroppy-looking, so-called “domesticated” bulls. NZ is also devoid of really dangerous insects, but it does have a few that constitute bio-hazards and, ’ecky thump, don’t I know it! It was Captain Cook, I think, who first reported on Te Namu, that is the Sandfly, using these less-than-complimentary words: “The most mischievous animal here is the small, black sandfly which are exceeding numerous and are so troublesome that they exceed everything of the kind I have ever met with. Wherever they light they cause a swelling and such an intolerable itching that it is not possible to refrain from scratching and at last ends in ulcers like the small pox.” Apparently, if you can achieve the impossible and refrain from scratching for about half an hour, the itching will cease. The big problem is, as Mike says, that “You never catch the liddle baaast’ds, ey? By the time you feel anything they’re looong gone!”

So, it’s either religious application of insect repellent, or pray for a responsive immune system. Soon after we arrived, Pam got a right old dose around her ankles, but since then she has hardly been bothered by further bites. Then there are the Mosquitos, known affectionately by the Kiwis as “mozzies” These dear little creatures strike only around dawn and dusk. Generally, the result is not unlike that of the sandfly, but that depends on what the insect had been up to before it bit you. I dread to think what the one that got my elbow had been “into” before me.

At least, the doctor thought it was a “mozzie”. The pharmacist suspected that it might have been another bio-hazard, a White-tailed Spider Apparently, these creatures do not spin webs, but jump onto their prey. However, they have a problem, which is that they lack a sense of proportion. Seeing what amounts to many lifetimes’ supply of essential nutrients, they will jump onto a human and start feeding. Again, Mike had some succinct advice: “If you see one of them buggers, zap it quick, ey?” After the best part of a week spending my nights dousing my arm in cold water to soothe the heat and the damnable itching, and struggling to accommodate it in a shirt sleeve, I was inclined to agree with him, regardless of whether it was the insect or the arachnid that had assaulted me.

“Chrustmas”

The Kiwi version of the Christian festival of Christmas was a major culture-shock. It hits you from two directions.

We in the UK think that Christmas is getting over-commercialised, but the Kiwis have elevated the commercialism to an altogether higher, or should I say “lower” plane. In the run-up to the event, the stores are indulging in a veritable orgy of “price-cutting”, whilst the TV and newspapers are saturated with advertising campaigns, basically urging you to divest yourself of all your liquid assets, with the utmost dispatch, before it’s too late. I looked very hard, but could find little trace of the original religious festival. I told you before about Carols in the Park, at which the last thing in evidence was the singing of carols. There were a few posters advertising the Whangarei Choral Society’s Carol Concert which, I noted ruefully, was to be got out of the way a good fortnight before the main event. Oh, and I found one programme on the TV, though this was imported from England, and tucked away so that it didn’t interfere with the Main Business of the Day. It is mightily significant that, in Kiwiland, the principal protagonist is not the infant Jesus Christ, but the rotund and jovial “Santa” (who, apparently, has had his “Claus” surgically removed to make him even more cuddly).

The other shock is, of course, to do with geography and climate, although not simply so. In the UK and Europe, the Christmas festival, broadly speaking, had been cunningly placed just after the winter solstice, originally as an aid to recruiting pagans. As with most cunning ruses (see “Treaty of Waitangi” above!), it had unexpected side-effects: the festival of the birth of the Messiah got mixed up with the festivals encouraging the return of the sun, which increased its potency. There we are, nestling in our cubby-holes, cosily cowering from the deep, dark, frost-bitten depth of winter, when the sun can barely drag itself above the grey horizon before it sinks, exhausted, back below it. Religious or not, in these circumstances who can resist the allure of candle-lit, log-fired, holly and ivy and mistletoe-strewn symbology, communal songs exhorting God to rest ye merry, gentlemen in the deep mid-winter while the shepherds watch three ships come sailing in, and the awe-inspiring, rock-of-ages mystique of massive, vaulted granite churches?

But, in the bright sunshine and the warmth of approaching midsummer of New Zealand, where most of the churches are heavily disguised as normal domiciles, upon what do you hang your desired air of dark, age-old mystery and thrill of anticipation? What furnishes that almost instinctive, primaeval feeling of the hopes and fears of all the years, hoping for the light to return, fearful that it might not? The short answer is, you don’t, and it doesn’t. The word “Christmas” is on everyone’s lips, but it becomes little more than the name for a party that could be held at any time. Oh, yes, gifts are exchanged, decorations are deployed, big family parties are held, much food and drink are consumed, and a lot of fun is had by all. In New Zealand they celebrate with commendable zest and vigour but, standing by the barbeque whilst young children play with the water-slide on the lawn to cool off, do they know it’s “Christmas”? On the other hand, does it matter, when there is so much else in which to take joy, not the least of which is the youthful vigour that permeates Kiwi society? As we dour Tykes would say, “You pays your money, and you takes your choice”.