Something slimy this way comes
Back in 1995, when one of my workmates learned that we were emigrating to New Zealand, he said, ‘That’s not emigrating, that’s retiring.’
He had a point. The reasons we were coming here had nothing to do with work. We were in our mid-30s, and our feet were itching to lead us away from the next British winter. A few years earlier we’d taken a year off to travel, and settling back into the old commute, work, commute, sag-onto-the-sofa-exhausted routine was never going to be easy once we’d had a taste of the alternatives out there.
Then there was the whole children thing. It was Time. But I just couldn’t see myself either: (1) going quietly mad at home, with only other going-mad-mums and a husband who wouldn’t be home until after 8 pm to talk to, or (2) remaining at work, which meant hardly seeing the kids. Pointless. And there was another little picture in my head: me, pushing a buggy around beneath a grey sky, nowhere to go but a sad little park where I would sit and shiver on a bench. Death by motherhood.
So we explored option (3): live somewhere where we could work close to home, where the air was clean, where you could jump into a river or sea without fear of death by gutrot or hypothermia, and where you could do things like skiing and sailing without first having to book a flight.
We’d spent a few months in Australia and New Zealand during our year off, and had interviewed both as possible future Copsey homes:
Q: How do you feel about the British?
A: (Australia) Arrogant tossers.
A: (New Zealand) Oh, my daughter’s having such a lovely time in London. Would you like to come and have some tea? Stay the night? Let me drive you to your next hostel. Here, have some lamingtons to take with you.
Our only concern with lovely New Zealand was that it was a bit, well, quiet. Our memories of Auckland included tumbleweed drifting down the main street after ten p.m., and half-day closing in the main shopping area – on Saturdays. “Like England in the 1950s”, we often heard people say. Not necessarily a good thing.
Well if we were going to do the baby thing it was down to Mr C to sort himself a job, so he flew off into the sunset, returning a few weeks later with lots of new friends and a comprehensive knowledge of Auckland’s bars and restaurants, the preferred interview venue of the advertising industry. He reported that Auckland had livened up a lot since 1989. The decision was made.
Things then moved with astonishing pace, and before Christmas, here we were in Ponsonby, with a nipper already on the way. The nipper thing meant I went freelance, which has worked out just fine (although while the ‘free’ initially described my ability to work when and where I wanted, it has more recently become a reflection of my fee scale, thanks to traditional publishers abandoning ship in New Zealand).
Well this is all very well, you say, but why are you telling us all this? Why should we care?
Because, dear friends, some recent trips northwards, southwards, anythingwards actually, have left me REALLY worried. We read in the NZ media about the exploding cow population (lovely image there) and the damage their waste is doing to the waterways, but to go out and see it is truly disturbing. Massive herds of the black and white things where forest used to be, and slimy green stuff in rivers and swimming holes. We met a man who owns a lake (as you do) – it has been so degraded by runoff that he’s considering putting a sculpture in the middle to make it look less unattractive.
The ‘green’ in ‘clean, green New Zealand’ now has a different meaning, it would seem. It refers to slime.
I don’t know any farmers, and if I did they would no doubt scoff at the above typical townie reaction. What do JAFAs know? (For non-Kiwis, this stands for ‘Just A F– Aucklander.) Well, I know that we came here to bring up a family in a pristine environment where people cared about the land. But it didn’t take us long to work out that the reason it was pristine was down to the low population, rather than good environmental practices. But we still had faith – Kiwis are good guys, no way would they not look after this jewel. My faith has all but disappeared.
There is so much to treasure here, and in 2014 I am going to up my green-ness. But no matter how carefully I compost, no matter how many times I use feet instead of wheels, this isn’t going to help clean up our lakes and rivers. What I think WILL help, is broadcasting the truth to the rest of the world. New Zealanders care very much what the rest of the world thinks of them. People come here for the beauty of the landscape – nothing else. Only when tourists start to comment on the big 100% Pure lie, and spread the word, will the government take serious action rather than tinkering round the edges.
So this is me spreading the word. New Zealand is still extraordinarily beautiful – but only in the parts where it hasn’t been got at. I don’t have any answers, but tourism, and therefore overseas perception of our country, must surely play a key part in reining in the dairy industry.
Rant over. I thank you.
He had a point. The reasons we were coming here had nothing to do with work. We were in our mid-30s, and our feet were itching to lead us away from the next British winter. A few years earlier we’d taken a year off to travel, and settling back into the old commute, work, commute, sag-onto-the-sofa-exhausted routine was never going to be easy once we’d had a taste of the alternatives out there.
Then there was the whole children thing. It was Time. But I just couldn’t see myself either: (1) going quietly mad at home, with only other going-mad-mums and a husband who wouldn’t be home until after 8 pm to talk to, or (2) remaining at work, which meant hardly seeing the kids. Pointless. And there was another little picture in my head: me, pushing a buggy around beneath a grey sky, nowhere to go but a sad little park where I would sit and shiver on a bench. Death by motherhood.
So we explored option (3): live somewhere where we could work close to home, where the air was clean, where you could jump into a river or sea without fear of death by gutrot or hypothermia, and where you could do things like skiing and sailing without first having to book a flight.
We’d spent a few months in Australia and New Zealand during our year off, and had interviewed both as possible future Copsey homes:
Q: How do you feel about the British?
A: (Australia) Arrogant tossers.
A: (New Zealand) Oh, my daughter’s having such a lovely time in London. Would you like to come and have some tea? Stay the night? Let me drive you to your next hostel. Here, have some lamingtons to take with you.
Our only concern with lovely New Zealand was that it was a bit, well, quiet. Our memories of Auckland included tumbleweed drifting down the main street after ten p.m., and half-day closing in the main shopping area – on Saturdays. “Like England in the 1950s”, we often heard people say. Not necessarily a good thing.
Well if we were going to do the baby thing it was down to Mr C to sort himself a job, so he flew off into the sunset, returning a few weeks later with lots of new friends and a comprehensive knowledge of Auckland’s bars and restaurants, the preferred interview venue of the advertising industry. He reported that Auckland had livened up a lot since 1989. The decision was made.
Things then moved with astonishing pace, and before Christmas, here we were in Ponsonby, with a nipper already on the way. The nipper thing meant I went freelance, which has worked out just fine (although while the ‘free’ initially described my ability to work when and where I wanted, it has more recently become a reflection of my fee scale, thanks to traditional publishers abandoning ship in New Zealand).
Well this is all very well, you say, but why are you telling us all this? Why should we care?
Because, dear friends, some recent trips northwards, southwards, anythingwards actually, have left me REALLY worried. We read in the NZ media about the exploding cow population (lovely image there) and the damage their waste is doing to the waterways, but to go out and see it is truly disturbing. Massive herds of the black and white things where forest used to be, and slimy green stuff in rivers and swimming holes. We met a man who owns a lake (as you do) – it has been so degraded by runoff that he’s considering putting a sculpture in the middle to make it look less unattractive.
The ‘green’ in ‘clean, green New Zealand’ now has a different meaning, it would seem. It refers to slime.
I don’t know any farmers, and if I did they would no doubt scoff at the above typical townie reaction. What do JAFAs know? (For non-Kiwis, this stands for ‘Just A F– Aucklander.) Well, I know that we came here to bring up a family in a pristine environment where people cared about the land. But it didn’t take us long to work out that the reason it was pristine was down to the low population, rather than good environmental practices. But we still had faith – Kiwis are good guys, no way would they not look after this jewel. My faith has all but disappeared.
There is so much to treasure here, and in 2014 I am going to up my green-ness. But no matter how carefully I compost, no matter how many times I use feet instead of wheels, this isn’t going to help clean up our lakes and rivers. What I think WILL help, is broadcasting the truth to the rest of the world. New Zealanders care very much what the rest of the world thinks of them. People come here for the beauty of the landscape – nothing else. Only when tourists start to comment on the big 100% Pure lie, and spread the word, will the government take serious action rather than tinkering round the edges.
So this is me spreading the word. New Zealand is still extraordinarily beautiful – but only in the parts where it hasn’t been got at. I don’t have any answers, but tourism, and therefore overseas perception of our country, must surely play a key part in reining in the dairy industry.
Rant over. I thank you.
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