There was a time when toys were modest, unassuming, well-behaved objects that went quietly about their business, amusing or teaching new skills to young minds and hands, with little disturbance to anyone else. Not so any more. Now they are a loud-mouthed lot clamouring for attention, incessantly buzzing or whirring or mechanically speaking, singing, sounding sirens, beating their drum in a bid to outdo each other and create maximum disturbance to those for whom they are not intended. And that is to say nothing of the ‘games’ that are no longer played face to face with other children, but staring at a screen, with all the action and sound effects provided.
Such are the reflections of someone who once again has taken part in two Yuletide festivities on consecutive days, the first on the 24th December, the second one day later, both occasions replete with a plethora of parcels and packages for the young ones (four kids on the first occasion, five on the second), all the Xmas-wrapped battery-charged gifts just waiting for the moment to stand revealed and release their pent-up energies after being piled for days under a rapidly drying evergreen cut down long before its prime.
Oh for the silent playthings of old! And for a strict limit on the number of gadgets and games showered on children who hardly know which to turn to first. And who have no idea how privileged they are.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
The First Scandinavians in New Zealand
The first Scandinavians to set eyes on New Zealand sailed with the Dutch explorer Abel Tasman in 1642. The crew list of one of his two ships has survived and there are Scandinavian names among the sailors.
They reached the west coast of the South Island, couldn’t find a safe place to go ashore and continued northwards until eventually anchoring in Golden Bay at the top end of the island. Unfortunately, the local Maori sent out a war canoe, evidently mistaking a bugle call for a challenge and four of Tasman’s men were killed in rowing from one of his vessels to the other. As a result, he sailed away without landing.
One hundred and twenty-seven years later when, as far as we know, the next Europeans reached New Zealand, there were again Scandinavians on board, this time with Captain Cook, though they were not ordinary members of his crew. Daniel Solander was a distinguished Swedish botanist who had been working at the British Museum when recruited by Joseph Banks, a wealthy young natural scientist, to join the expedition. Banks had his own little team with him, to discover, collect and depict species of plants hitherto unknown in Europe. Also there was Herman Spöring, son of a mathematics professor in Turku, Finland, which was still part of Sweden (until 1809, when it became a Grand Duchy in the Tsarist Empire).
They spent six months in New Zealand waters, first going ashore on the east coast of the North Island, where Gisborne stands today – Cook, Banks and Solander plus a party of marines. Solander, known as the father of New Zealand botany, has a street named after him in the town as well as some uninhabited islands to the south-west of the South Island. And there is a Solander trail in the Botanical Gardens in Wellington.
In 1772 Anders Sparrman, like Solander a former student of Sweden’s most renowned botanist, Linneaus, the man behind the binomial system of classification, was persuaded to join Cook’s second expedition, which included further exploration of New Zealand. Sparrman was then at the Cape, employed as a tutor to the children of a Dutch official.
After the first penal colony had been set up in New South Wales in 1788, ships began calling in to the Bay of Islands in the north of the North Island, to replenish supplies, replace masts and so on. They included sealers, then whalers, traders and adventurers, among them several Scandinavians. In the Bay, Kororareko (whose name was changed to Russell by the British) soon developed a reputation for lawlessness, becoming known as ‘the Hell-Hole of the Pacific’. It was here that the first Christian sermon was preached, on Christmas Day 1814.
The preacher was the Rev. Samuel Marsden, chief chaplain at the penal colony and well known as the flogging parson. The Church of England vessel that brought him to the Bay of Islands was captained by an old Danish sea dog, Tomas Hansen. On board were three lay missionaries who were to be left behind. One of them was married to Hansen’s daughter, who was seven months pregnant at the time. So the first European child born in New Zealand was of at least part Scandinavian descent. Unfortunately, he was also the first to die, in infancy, but Hansen’s daughter went on to have ten more children, while her brother, who was also with them, was sent back to NSW to find a wife, returned, and was the father of twelve offspring.
They reached the west coast of the South Island, couldn’t find a safe place to go ashore and continued northwards until eventually anchoring in Golden Bay at the top end of the island. Unfortunately, the local Maori sent out a war canoe, evidently mistaking a bugle call for a challenge and four of Tasman’s men were killed in rowing from one of his vessels to the other. As a result, he sailed away without landing.
One hundred and twenty-seven years later when, as far as we know, the next Europeans reached New Zealand, there were again Scandinavians on board, this time with Captain Cook, though they were not ordinary members of his crew. Daniel Solander was a distinguished Swedish botanist who had been working at the British Museum when recruited by Joseph Banks, a wealthy young natural scientist, to join the expedition. Banks had his own little team with him, to discover, collect and depict species of plants hitherto unknown in Europe. Also there was Herman Spöring, son of a mathematics professor in Turku, Finland, which was still part of Sweden (until 1809, when it became a Grand Duchy in the Tsarist Empire).
They spent six months in New Zealand waters, first going ashore on the east coast of the North Island, where Gisborne stands today – Cook, Banks and Solander plus a party of marines. Solander, known as the father of New Zealand botany, has a street named after him in the town as well as some uninhabited islands to the south-west of the South Island. And there is a Solander trail in the Botanical Gardens in Wellington.
In 1772 Anders Sparrman, like Solander a former student of Sweden’s most renowned botanist, Linneaus, the man behind the binomial system of classification, was persuaded to join Cook’s second expedition, which included further exploration of New Zealand. Sparrman was then at the Cape, employed as a tutor to the children of a Dutch official.
After the first penal colony had been set up in New South Wales in 1788, ships began calling in to the Bay of Islands in the north of the North Island, to replenish supplies, replace masts and so on. They included sealers, then whalers, traders and adventurers, among them several Scandinavians. In the Bay, Kororareko (whose name was changed to Russell by the British) soon developed a reputation for lawlessness, becoming known as ‘the Hell-Hole of the Pacific’. It was here that the first Christian sermon was preached, on Christmas Day 1814.
The preacher was the Rev. Samuel Marsden, chief chaplain at the penal colony and well known as the flogging parson. The Church of England vessel that brought him to the Bay of Islands was captained by an old Danish sea dog, Tomas Hansen. On board were three lay missionaries who were to be left behind. One of them was married to Hansen’s daughter, who was seven months pregnant at the time. So the first European child born in New Zealand was of at least part Scandinavian descent. Unfortunately, he was also the first to die, in infancy, but Hansen’s daughter went on to have ten more children, while her brother, who was also with them, was sent back to NSW to find a wife, returned, and was the father of twelve offspring.
Monday, 14 March 2011
Honour thy neighbours
Honour thy neighbours that thy days upon the earth may be long. Get to know them. Not just for social reasons – it can safe your life.
Research has shown that ninety per cent of those pulled from the rubble after an earthquake or other major disaster are saved by neighbours in the first hour. Search and rescue teams in all praiseworthy honour, they are not on the spot when the ground shudders and shakes and jolts and jars, buildings crumble or are swept away, household objects become potentially lethal missiles, sparks are ignited. But the people next door, a few doors away, those across the road or on the floor above are right there.
www.binnyandbelloe.weebly.com
Research has shown that ninety per cent of those pulled from the rubble after an earthquake or other major disaster are saved by neighbours in the first hour. Search and rescue teams in all praiseworthy honour, they are not on the spot when the ground shudders and shakes and jolts and jars, buildings crumble or are swept away, household objects become potentially lethal missiles, sparks are ignited. But the people next door, a few doors away, those across the road or on the floor above are right there.
www.binnyandbelloe.weebly.com
Friday, 4 March 2011
Christchurch
Eleven days after much of the Christchurch city centre and many people’s lives there and in neighbouring areas were shattered by an underground upheaval in this earthquake-prone country, the New Zealand media remain saturated with news of the disaster and its consequences. The rising death toll but diminishing number of missing persons; collapsed, precarious or demolished buildings; countless tales of tragedy, bravery, heroism, miraculous escapes; liquefaction and the huge amounts of toxic silt that spread far and wide; solidarity, people coming together, disaster funds, fund-raising events and collections, and so on have filled newsprint columns, radio and television programmes seemingly without end. Not everyone admires it all.
One columnist has written about ‘disaster porn’ that the media have been wallowing in. There have been objections to some of the more meaningless questions that have been asked. Have there been invasions of privacy? Intrusion into other people’s grief? On the other hand, many of those affected have clearly felt a need to speak out, to express emotion, to make their feelings known. Relief aid was not equally distributed. People in the eastern suburbs were aggrieved. Districts that had suffered less had received more. One street had but a single portable toilet for all its residents, though more were reportedly on their way. Water and power supplies have been getting back to near normal, but not sewage.
For me, the most incongruous feature of reporting from the stricken city has been the sight of on-the-spot television anchormen dressed in dark suits, spotless white shirts and neatly knotted ties, while behind them is a scene of utter devastation. And this in a country that has always had a reputation for being laid back and informal.
Now that the search and rescue operation has given way to ‘recovery’, with no survivors found since the day after the earthquake struck, other questions are being asked. How is it that quite modern buildings were unable to withstand a 6.3 earthquake (although the Richter Scale doesn't tell you how deep it was and this one was shallow, and close). Were the relevant standards adhered to? It has been stated many times that the fault lines in the area were not known until the earlier quake last September, which caused much damage, though not on the present scale, but no loss of life. This too has been queried. Were buildings adequately reinforced after September? How come that a building given a clean bill of health then, collapsed now?
If there was no known danger, the regulations wouldn’t have been as strict as in known danger zones - like the one I’m in right now, Wellington (we’ve had two sizeable quakes this week, 4.5 and 4.7 on the Richter scale, and smaller ones very often). But the building standards were revised in the 1970s. Old buildings would not have been covered, but as a letter-writer in Wellington’s morning newspaper The Dominion Post points out, most of the deaths were caused by the collapse of two of the more modern buildings. There are now realistic fears that all the city’s old and historic buildings will be pulled down and that it will lose its soul. There is also consternation that the Government intends taking advantage of the situation to push through unpopular measures, which include cutting welfare benefits and the partial sale of state assets on the pretext of having to raise money to cover the disaster costs, running into billions of anybody's money.
However, there is a General Election coming up in November, which puts the Opposition in a quandary. The nation must pull together at this time of emergency, so criticism of the National Party-led Government under former currency trader John Key, which cynics might say with some justification, is getting a lot of mileage out of the situation, is very muted. Labour leader Phil Goff barely gets a mention these days. So what is he to do?
One columnist has written about ‘disaster porn’ that the media have been wallowing in. There have been objections to some of the more meaningless questions that have been asked. Have there been invasions of privacy? Intrusion into other people’s grief? On the other hand, many of those affected have clearly felt a need to speak out, to express emotion, to make their feelings known. Relief aid was not equally distributed. People in the eastern suburbs were aggrieved. Districts that had suffered less had received more. One street had but a single portable toilet for all its residents, though more were reportedly on their way. Water and power supplies have been getting back to near normal, but not sewage.
For me, the most incongruous feature of reporting from the stricken city has been the sight of on-the-spot television anchormen dressed in dark suits, spotless white shirts and neatly knotted ties, while behind them is a scene of utter devastation. And this in a country that has always had a reputation for being laid back and informal.
Now that the search and rescue operation has given way to ‘recovery’, with no survivors found since the day after the earthquake struck, other questions are being asked. How is it that quite modern buildings were unable to withstand a 6.3 earthquake (although the Richter Scale doesn't tell you how deep it was and this one was shallow, and close). Were the relevant standards adhered to? It has been stated many times that the fault lines in the area were not known until the earlier quake last September, which caused much damage, though not on the present scale, but no loss of life. This too has been queried. Were buildings adequately reinforced after September? How come that a building given a clean bill of health then, collapsed now?
If there was no known danger, the regulations wouldn’t have been as strict as in known danger zones - like the one I’m in right now, Wellington (we’ve had two sizeable quakes this week, 4.5 and 4.7 on the Richter scale, and smaller ones very often). But the building standards were revised in the 1970s. Old buildings would not have been covered, but as a letter-writer in Wellington’s morning newspaper The Dominion Post points out, most of the deaths were caused by the collapse of two of the more modern buildings. There are now realistic fears that all the city’s old and historic buildings will be pulled down and that it will lose its soul. There is also consternation that the Government intends taking advantage of the situation to push through unpopular measures, which include cutting welfare benefits and the partial sale of state assets on the pretext of having to raise money to cover the disaster costs, running into billions of anybody's money.
However, there is a General Election coming up in November, which puts the Opposition in a quandary. The nation must pull together at this time of emergency, so criticism of the National Party-led Government under former currency trader John Key, which cynics might say with some justification, is getting a lot of mileage out of the situation, is very muted. Labour leader Phil Goff barely gets a mention these days. So what is he to do?
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Binny and Belloe
Intended for both children and adults, Binny and Belloe is basically about racial prejudice. It is perhaps the Animal Farm of our times.
Here is an excerpt:
‘You going along to this meeting?’ Nippy asked Gruffy.
Gruffy turned to look at Len.
‘May as well find out what all the fuss is about,’ Len said with a shrug. ‘You never know what might be budding with those fools. If you ask me, someone’s been up to something.’
Several of the younger squirrels were waiting at the meeting place long before Oggy was expected. Others gradually turned up in twos and threes, chattering busily among themselves. Many were afraid, especially those who had not been to the far edge of the woods. A few, like Bushie, remained obstinately doubtful. Most were excited and all were very curious.
‘Just think! You’ll be telling the youngsters about this in times to come,’ more than one squirrel told another.
‘After what I’ve seen today, I don’t think they’ll believe me,’ came one reply.
‘And who could blame them?’ added someone else.
More and more squirrels crowded into the clearing where the speech was to be made. There was much jostling for position and the surrounding trees swarmed with furry creatures.
At last, Oggy appeared, moving slowly. A path was made for him up to a large oak that stood alone in the middle of the clearing. Slowly, he climbed up to and along a low bough, tearing away some of the leaves so that he was in full view. Conversations broke off as one nudged another and nodded towards the branch where the elderly animal sat.
Oggy waited until it was perfectly quiet. ‘My friends ... ’ he began. ‘My dear friends ... ’ His voice had become weak with the years and those farthest away had to strain hard to hear. ‘Today is a day that will be remembered and spoken of long after I, and you, and your children ... have vanished from these woods ... and passed on to the Great Everlasting Forest ... that happy and plentiful home of all who have gone before us ... of our dear departed friends and relations.’
‘Doesn’t half like to blab, doesn’t he?’ Len murmured to Gruffy, who grinned back at him.
‘Shhh!’ said someone just behind them.
Oggy spoke very slowly, with many pauses between his words. ‘We, my friends ... who are here today ... must count ourselves very fortunate ... for we are the ones who were present when a discovery was made that none of us has ever dreamt of before ... and that some of us may still have difficulty in believing ... even those who have seen for themselves.’
‘When’s he going to get to the point?’ Len muttered.
‘But it is true,’ Oggy went on. ‘My friends ... in this great and wonderful world in which we are so fortunate to live ... there are squirrels with very little colour in their coats ... and who therefore appear strange to our eyes.’
Animals around Bushie turned towards her with ‘I-told-you-so’ looks on their faces. She stared ahead, pretending not to notice.
‘Like many of you ... I have seen these animals. But I have also had talks with some of the leaders of the fairly small group that arrived in these woods early today.’ He took a much longer pause for breath. ‘There is one thing I want to assure you my dear friends, and that is this – these creatures are neither gods nor ghosts ... but squirrels like you and me.’ A murmur went round the clearing and it was some time before Oggy said any more.
‘Yes, my friends ... these are nothing other than ordinary, mortal squirrels.’
‘What’s all the fuss about then?’ mumbled Len.
‘But as such, let us welcome them ... for they are our brothers and sisters.’
‘Are they going to stay?’ someone called out. And everyone waited expectantly for the answer.
‘Oh I do hope they’re going to stay, at least for a little while,’ Stocky whispered to Skippy.
Oggy cleared his throat, showing his old, worn front teeth. The speech was putting a great strain on his voice. ‘Our brothers and sisters who arrived here today ... are indeed looking for somewhere to live. My friends ... they have travelled far and would like at least to rest. But the woods in which we have the greatest good fortune to dwell ... are large and plentiful enough ... to support a much greater squirrel population than they do at present ... Thus there is no reason ... as I see it ... why our new-found relations should continue on their way. I, my friends, have already told their leaders of my view ... But before going any further ... I should like to know whether you agree ... I think we should ask them to stay here and live among us.’
‘Hooray!’ shouted one of the younger squirrels, and there was an immediate chorus of cheers and shouts of excitement. Binny leapt into the air with joy and Stocky and Skippy danced round delightedly. Everyone was jabbering or calling out at once and much time went by before Oggy, who sat quietly smiling from his branch, tried to say any more. At last, he raised a paw.
‘Shhh,’ said one squirrel after another. ‘Shhh! Be quiet there!’
‘I am overjoyed,’ Oggy said, ‘to find you so keen. But perhaps, nevertheless ... there are those who have doubts or objections ... If so ... now is the time to speak.’
The rustling of the leaves suddenly seemed to grow loud. Squirrels stared from one to another. Len looked down, his lips pressed tightly together.
Oggy waited. And waited. Finally he said, ‘My friends ... my very dear friends ... we have reason to celebrate. Let there be feasting in the woods ... feasting such as we have never known before.’
And with that he began to climb down amid calls from above, below and all around.
‘Three cheers for Oggy,’ a voice shouted from a high perch in one of the trees. ‘Hip hip ... ’
‘HOORAY!’
‘Hip hip ... ’
‘HOORAY!’
‘Hip hip hip ... ’
‘HOORAY!’
-------------------
But how will relations between the two groups develop?
Here is an excerpt:
‘You going along to this meeting?’ Nippy asked Gruffy.
Gruffy turned to look at Len.
‘May as well find out what all the fuss is about,’ Len said with a shrug. ‘You never know what might be budding with those fools. If you ask me, someone’s been up to something.’
Several of the younger squirrels were waiting at the meeting place long before Oggy was expected. Others gradually turned up in twos and threes, chattering busily among themselves. Many were afraid, especially those who had not been to the far edge of the woods. A few, like Bushie, remained obstinately doubtful. Most were excited and all were very curious.
‘Just think! You’ll be telling the youngsters about this in times to come,’ more than one squirrel told another.
‘After what I’ve seen today, I don’t think they’ll believe me,’ came one reply.
‘And who could blame them?’ added someone else.
More and more squirrels crowded into the clearing where the speech was to be made. There was much jostling for position and the surrounding trees swarmed with furry creatures.
At last, Oggy appeared, moving slowly. A path was made for him up to a large oak that stood alone in the middle of the clearing. Slowly, he climbed up to and along a low bough, tearing away some of the leaves so that he was in full view. Conversations broke off as one nudged another and nodded towards the branch where the elderly animal sat.
Oggy waited until it was perfectly quiet. ‘My friends ... ’ he began. ‘My dear friends ... ’ His voice had become weak with the years and those farthest away had to strain hard to hear. ‘Today is a day that will be remembered and spoken of long after I, and you, and your children ... have vanished from these woods ... and passed on to the Great Everlasting Forest ... that happy and plentiful home of all who have gone before us ... of our dear departed friends and relations.’
‘Doesn’t half like to blab, doesn’t he?’ Len murmured to Gruffy, who grinned back at him.
‘Shhh!’ said someone just behind them.
Oggy spoke very slowly, with many pauses between his words. ‘We, my friends ... who are here today ... must count ourselves very fortunate ... for we are the ones who were present when a discovery was made that none of us has ever dreamt of before ... and that some of us may still have difficulty in believing ... even those who have seen for themselves.’
‘When’s he going to get to the point?’ Len muttered.
‘But it is true,’ Oggy went on. ‘My friends ... in this great and wonderful world in which we are so fortunate to live ... there are squirrels with very little colour in their coats ... and who therefore appear strange to our eyes.’
Animals around Bushie turned towards her with ‘I-told-you-so’ looks on their faces. She stared ahead, pretending not to notice.
‘Like many of you ... I have seen these animals. But I have also had talks with some of the leaders of the fairly small group that arrived in these woods early today.’ He took a much longer pause for breath. ‘There is one thing I want to assure you my dear friends, and that is this – these creatures are neither gods nor ghosts ... but squirrels like you and me.’ A murmur went round the clearing and it was some time before Oggy said any more.
‘Yes, my friends ... these are nothing other than ordinary, mortal squirrels.’
‘What’s all the fuss about then?’ mumbled Len.
‘But as such, let us welcome them ... for they are our brothers and sisters.’
‘Are they going to stay?’ someone called out. And everyone waited expectantly for the answer.
‘Oh I do hope they’re going to stay, at least for a little while,’ Stocky whispered to Skippy.
Oggy cleared his throat, showing his old, worn front teeth. The speech was putting a great strain on his voice. ‘Our brothers and sisters who arrived here today ... are indeed looking for somewhere to live. My friends ... they have travelled far and would like at least to rest. But the woods in which we have the greatest good fortune to dwell ... are large and plentiful enough ... to support a much greater squirrel population than they do at present ... Thus there is no reason ... as I see it ... why our new-found relations should continue on their way. I, my friends, have already told their leaders of my view ... But before going any further ... I should like to know whether you agree ... I think we should ask them to stay here and live among us.’
‘Hooray!’ shouted one of the younger squirrels, and there was an immediate chorus of cheers and shouts of excitement. Binny leapt into the air with joy and Stocky and Skippy danced round delightedly. Everyone was jabbering or calling out at once and much time went by before Oggy, who sat quietly smiling from his branch, tried to say any more. At last, he raised a paw.
‘Shhh,’ said one squirrel after another. ‘Shhh! Be quiet there!’
‘I am overjoyed,’ Oggy said, ‘to find you so keen. But perhaps, nevertheless ... there are those who have doubts or objections ... If so ... now is the time to speak.’
The rustling of the leaves suddenly seemed to grow loud. Squirrels stared from one to another. Len looked down, his lips pressed tightly together.
Oggy waited. And waited. Finally he said, ‘My friends ... my very dear friends ... we have reason to celebrate. Let there be feasting in the woods ... feasting such as we have never known before.’
And with that he began to climb down amid calls from above, below and all around.
‘Three cheers for Oggy,’ a voice shouted from a high perch in one of the trees. ‘Hip hip ... ’
‘HOORAY!’
‘Hip hip ... ’
‘HOORAY!’
‘Hip hip hip ... ’
‘HOORAY!’
-------------------
But how will relations between the two groups develop?
Friday, 19 February 2010
Cake Tin Sevens
Among several other things, the rules say no nudity or near-nudity, no devices resembling, or which can be used as, a weapon, and, of course, no alcohol. There’s an ocean of bottled beer to buy inside, but don’t try to bring your own because you won’t get it in, a regulation which, I would say, is more strictly enforced than some of the others.
Yes, it has come and gone for the tenth or eleventh year in succession, the International Rugby Sevens weekend in Wellington, when the streets are roamed, the pubs raucously filled to overflowing and the ‘Cake Tin’ as it is popularly known, long since sold out to outlandishly fancy-dressed, overwhelmingly older-teenage and young adult throngs, some with an occasional eye for the rugby, most responding far more enthusiastically, with arms waving, a dark bottle clutched in one hand, hips swaying to the disco music resounding around the stadium at every opportunity, which means very often.
The police were quite happy with the outcome at the end of the first day. Only twenty-eight arrests, mostly for fighting and similar ‘minor offences’ (!), while eighty-two people were ejected from the stadium. Figures for the second day were a little higher, while sixty-to-seventy arrests were made during the all-night street party in town, a result with which the officers of the law were well content.
Afterwards it was congratulations all round. Wellington had done it again. All agree that this weekend is like no other on the International Sevens circuit, which includes Hong Kong and, believe it or not, Las Vegas. The great party had been held once more, with only one dissenting voice to be heard in the correspondence columns of the capital city’s morning newspaper, from a Kiwi resident abroad but who timed his visit home to coincide with the great event. Never again would he subject himself to such a beer-swilling masquerade that used the pretext of the rugby for a rave.
Now most New Zealanders take their rugby very seriously and one can safely assume that other true lovers of the game stay well away, though doubtless following events on the pitch in front of their television sets, where one can assume there is considerably less disturbance. So their voices are not heard in the great chorus of self-congratulations. But wait a moment. Something soon happened to disturb the party-goers and all those who support them - the weekend is worth millions of dollars to the city.
Wellington’s application to hold the New Zealand leg of the Sevens circuit permanently was turned down by the New Zealand Rugby Union Board. The bidding will be open to others after next year’s event, and Auckland and Dunedin have already expressed an interest. This caused great consternation in the capital city, tempered eventually by the confident assertion that no one else could possibly put on such a show.
Auckland and Dunedin evidently can’t rave as well - indeed, their ravers come to Wellington for the weekend and seem happy to continue doing so.
Yes, it has come and gone for the tenth or eleventh year in succession, the International Rugby Sevens weekend in Wellington, when the streets are roamed, the pubs raucously filled to overflowing and the ‘Cake Tin’ as it is popularly known, long since sold out to outlandishly fancy-dressed, overwhelmingly older-teenage and young adult throngs, some with an occasional eye for the rugby, most responding far more enthusiastically, with arms waving, a dark bottle clutched in one hand, hips swaying to the disco music resounding around the stadium at every opportunity, which means very often.
The police were quite happy with the outcome at the end of the first day. Only twenty-eight arrests, mostly for fighting and similar ‘minor offences’ (!), while eighty-two people were ejected from the stadium. Figures for the second day were a little higher, while sixty-to-seventy arrests were made during the all-night street party in town, a result with which the officers of the law were well content.
Afterwards it was congratulations all round. Wellington had done it again. All agree that this weekend is like no other on the International Sevens circuit, which includes Hong Kong and, believe it or not, Las Vegas. The great party had been held once more, with only one dissenting voice to be heard in the correspondence columns of the capital city’s morning newspaper, from a Kiwi resident abroad but who timed his visit home to coincide with the great event. Never again would he subject himself to such a beer-swilling masquerade that used the pretext of the rugby for a rave.
Now most New Zealanders take their rugby very seriously and one can safely assume that other true lovers of the game stay well away, though doubtless following events on the pitch in front of their television sets, where one can assume there is considerably less disturbance. So their voices are not heard in the great chorus of self-congratulations. But wait a moment. Something soon happened to disturb the party-goers and all those who support them - the weekend is worth millions of dollars to the city.
Wellington’s application to hold the New Zealand leg of the Sevens circuit permanently was turned down by the New Zealand Rugby Union Board. The bidding will be open to others after next year’s event, and Auckland and Dunedin have already expressed an interest. This caused great consternation in the capital city, tempered eventually by the confident assertion that no one else could possibly put on such a show.
Auckland and Dunedin evidently can’t rave as well - indeed, their ravers come to Wellington for the weekend and seem happy to continue doing so.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
A cup of green tea
A cup of green tea cost four New Zealand dollars. I handed over a twenty-dollar note and waited for the change.
The plane from San Francisco is due in Auckland at ten minutes past five in the morning, but was half-an-hour early. So here I was in town having deposited my luggage, but with a lot of time to kill. This coffee bar was one of the few that were open so early.
The man behind the counter put a ten-dollar note in my hand, plus a one-dollar coin. I stared at the money through overtired eyes, then at him. “Four dollars,” I said.
He looked at me uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Oh,” he said suddenly, as though just remembering something, and produced another five dollars from the till. There was no apology.
It is only the second time anyone has tried to cheat me in New Zealand and sad to say, it was by non-native New Zealanders on both occasions, both in Auckland and at the same chain of coffee bars. This has never been a crime-free society, but in my previous experience, such behaviour was unthinkable here.
This is the country where when I phoned the Auckland-dwelling cousin of a Stockholm colleague to convey his regards, I was passed after a chat, to her husband, who asked me where I was staying. I told him.
“You’re not!” he stated emphatically. “You’re staying here!” And despite my protestations, within an hour they had come to collect me. I’d never met them before.
This is the country where, when we once turned up in Invercargill in the evening with our then three-year-old son and couldn’t find anywhere to stay, the chairman of the local motel-owners’ association, whom I had turned to as a last resort, assured me everywhere was full.
“We have a three-year-old child with us,” I said. “So what do we do?”
“You come round here,” he replied. “There’s no room in our motel, but we have a spare room in our house. We have a young child too.”
He later asked where we were going after Invercargill. We told him we’d really like to go to Stewart Island for a few days, whereupon he arranged it for us.
When we got back he had a room for us in the motel. This time we told him we were aiming to go next to Queenstown.
“My wife’s parents have a bach (holiday home) in Queenstown,” he said. “You can stay there. There’s no one in it at the moment.” They gave us bedding to take with us.
This is the country where, much more recently, I booked a bed-and-breakfast weekend in a small township about an hour’s train ride from Wellington, was met at the station by the host, fed afternoon tea by his wife, shown round the area, introduced to a number of people, taken to the biannual fair in a neighbouring town the next day, and given lunch the day after that before being taken back to the station.
Five days later my erstwhile host phoned me in Wellington and asked what I was doing that weekend. Surprised, I explained I was busy the next day, a Saturday, but had made no plans for the Sunday.
“I’ll come and pick you up,” he said. Which he did.
This is the country where I met some friends from Sweden who were on a cruise ship that called in at Wellington and who decided to take a taxi into town. When we got there, they gave the driver a tip - which he refused to take. (I had told them that normally you didn’t tip people here.)
I could go on. So it is doubly sad when someone from another background in the country’s biggest city, which has about one-in-three of the entire New Zealand population, tries to cheat me out of a few dollars.
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PS But incidently, the taxi driver I mentioned wasn’t a native Kiwi either.
The plane from San Francisco is due in Auckland at ten minutes past five in the morning, but was half-an-hour early. So here I was in town having deposited my luggage, but with a lot of time to kill. This coffee bar was one of the few that were open so early.
The man behind the counter put a ten-dollar note in my hand, plus a one-dollar coin. I stared at the money through overtired eyes, then at him. “Four dollars,” I said.
He looked at me uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Oh,” he said suddenly, as though just remembering something, and produced another five dollars from the till. There was no apology.
It is only the second time anyone has tried to cheat me in New Zealand and sad to say, it was by non-native New Zealanders on both occasions, both in Auckland and at the same chain of coffee bars. This has never been a crime-free society, but in my previous experience, such behaviour was unthinkable here.
This is the country where when I phoned the Auckland-dwelling cousin of a Stockholm colleague to convey his regards, I was passed after a chat, to her husband, who asked me where I was staying. I told him.
“You’re not!” he stated emphatically. “You’re staying here!” And despite my protestations, within an hour they had come to collect me. I’d never met them before.
This is the country where, when we once turned up in Invercargill in the evening with our then three-year-old son and couldn’t find anywhere to stay, the chairman of the local motel-owners’ association, whom I had turned to as a last resort, assured me everywhere was full.
“We have a three-year-old child with us,” I said. “So what do we do?”
“You come round here,” he replied. “There’s no room in our motel, but we have a spare room in our house. We have a young child too.”
He later asked where we were going after Invercargill. We told him we’d really like to go to Stewart Island for a few days, whereupon he arranged it for us.
When we got back he had a room for us in the motel. This time we told him we were aiming to go next to Queenstown.
“My wife’s parents have a bach (holiday home) in Queenstown,” he said. “You can stay there. There’s no one in it at the moment.” They gave us bedding to take with us.
This is the country where, much more recently, I booked a bed-and-breakfast weekend in a small township about an hour’s train ride from Wellington, was met at the station by the host, fed afternoon tea by his wife, shown round the area, introduced to a number of people, taken to the biannual fair in a neighbouring town the next day, and given lunch the day after that before being taken back to the station.
Five days later my erstwhile host phoned me in Wellington and asked what I was doing that weekend. Surprised, I explained I was busy the next day, a Saturday, but had made no plans for the Sunday.
“I’ll come and pick you up,” he said. Which he did.
This is the country where I met some friends from Sweden who were on a cruise ship that called in at Wellington and who decided to take a taxi into town. When we got there, they gave the driver a tip - which he refused to take. (I had told them that normally you didn’t tip people here.)
I could go on. So it is doubly sad when someone from another background in the country’s biggest city, which has about one-in-three of the entire New Zealand population, tries to cheat me out of a few dollars.
------------
PS But incidently, the taxi driver I mentioned wasn’t a native Kiwi either.
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