Christmas arrived. Our first kiwi Christmas! Our first Christmas in our new homeland, and we were keen to make it a memorable one. Not that the previous year’s hadn’t been memorable.
We’d originally planned to spend it with two friends somewhere in Queensland’s Far North, but they’d opted to do a scuba-diving course instead, so we’d headed south again, ending up in a campground beside Maroochydore beach. It was hot, unbearably hot inside our single-skin Gore-tex tent (which was so small we always slept facing opposite directions. But it was light, and enjoyable tandem-touring/wild-camping demands extremely lightweight gear.
At least that was the lesson we learnt after our honeymoon tour, when our old 5-speeds were so loaded down with the ‘essentials’, every time we bought food we broke a spoke! We’d naively believed pushing bikes up hills was all part of the adventure, and it didn’t matter how heavy our equipment was, because we didn’t have to carry it - we had wheels! So we hadn’t invested in good bicycles, and four kilos seemed minimal for a mobile home!
But such misconceptions had evaporated by the time we reached the first post office, where we gratefully jettisoned our first 5kg package of superfluous essentials. As we struggled against the Danish winds, gritted our teeth through long, dark Norwegian tunnels, then squelched a path in the Scottish mud, we developed an obsession for weight ... or more directly, weightlessness. Everything lightweight was slowly replaced by the ultra-lightweight. Every gram saved was a kilometre gained. We contemplated the weight differentials between plastic and cardboard, and the gains to be made by converting from full-cream milk to skim milk, tea bags to loose tea.
Groceries never left the store in their original packaging - we discarded cellophane wrappers, peeled off prices, tore off tags, cornflakes were stuffed into the spare water-bottle holder, and we even begrudged bananas their heavy skins. By the time we reached London we were hardly recognisable. We’d set off from Offenbach looking like gypsies straddling a teetering donkey caravan. Now we were the cavalry racing along on our glittering golden stallion. A lean, mean, honed-down, stream-lined, cruising machine aboard our Dawes Super Galaxy tandem with our single-skin, 1.85kg Gore-tex tent ...
Which is how we’d arrived in Maroochydore, though the tandem had temporarily been replaced by a 1961 blue/green Holden with bench seats, wrap-around windscreen and lots of fins ... though it didn’t travel much faster ... We could have driven another few hours and spent Christmas with my family in Brisbane, but my father’s partner had told us they’d be spending Christmas with her family that year (though she’d later deny it), so we’d opted to stay away. (Perhaps my father hadn’t heard her tell us, even though he was in the room at the time, because he was surprised when we didn’t turn up. Disappointed, even. Yet, if he’d only once said he’d like us to be there, or even hinted that it would make any difference to him, we would have driven the extra hour to be there.)
Christmas has never been one of my favourite celebrations. Once Santa Claus had become redundant, replaced by familial obligations (I bought you this ... even though you’re an obnoxious, spiteful hag! Oh, great, knee-high socks, you shouldn’t have ... I mean, you really shouldn’t have!), it was all downhill. Sure there was minor relief upon my initiation into the adult celebrations (and the discovery of an entirely new meaning of the Christmas spirit), but gluttony and inebriation have never been my favourite sins.
It was always supposed to be a family affair, but my family has never been very big on family ... especially our family. We were strangers coming together for one day a year (well, every second year, since the two ‘sides’ seldom felt comfortable in each other’s presence) more by default than desire - spending Christmas alone would be a sorry indictment on the family’s honour, and all our friends were likewise engaged in gatherings of other strangers.
The mornings were filled with hollow good humour and the exchanging of compliments and gifts, but by afternoon the good humour had evaporated in the heat or been throttled by the dark hand of alcohol, especially once my mother had left and Christmases were spent with different strangers with even stranger differences.
Far better to spend the festive season alone on a barren patch of sand in the middle of a tent city (a tent-ement?) battling a cyclone, than with family. Even then, the cyclone was the least of our worries.
First, we awoke one morning to find ourselves surrounded by guy-ropes, ensnared like a tiny brown-and-yellow beetle in some billowing spider’s web.
Campers are ‘special’ people at the best of times. Queensland beach campers are something else again. For most people the word ‘camping’ implies an element of ‘roughing it’, of living with the bare essentials, living simply - simply because space is limited. A normal tent is just accommodation - a roof over your head. For Queensland beach campers, a tent is a surrogate home - a fully-furnished, four-bedroom home with kitchen and en-suite... not to mention OSP - a half-size replica piled high with all their worldly possessions duplicated in canvas and aluminium. They arrive in the dead of night - after an exhausting day holding up holiday traffic through a succession of aborted attempts to overtake that ‘damn caravan’ - and immediately stake-out their holiday territory, dancing like moths through the headlight beams accompanied by a chorus of muffled curses and fumbled pounding.
There was, of course, no way our new neighbours were going to move (after all, they only had two weeks, and it would take them that long to decipher the de-camping instructions), so we pulled our six pegs from the sandy ground, lifted our tent (contents and all), and plonked it a few metres further afield.
Unfortunately, our new location was precisely on the toilet nexus - the point where every conceivable straight line drawn between any camping site and the toilet/shower facilities intersects. At this important nexus, everything becomes miraculously invisible! No matter what time of day. No matter how good the visibility. It is as though everything at this point simply does not exist. People tripped over our guy-ropes. Stumbled against our tent. Squeezed between tent and car. Even walked across our blanket ... while we were sitting on it having lunch! Some drunk even vomited right in front of our tent-flaps. Camping on an ant trail (or even on the main runway at Heathrow Airport) couldn’t have been any less convenient, but apart from camping right next to the toilets, there was nowhere else to go.
Then, on Christmas Eve, news filtered through the campground that a cyclone was due to cross the coast just north of us that evening. The word went out - batten down the hatches! We sat in front of our tiny tent watching all the ‘real’ campers set about tightening ropes, stowing loose ends and pounding pegs a little deeper. One-by-one our neighbours came to offer us sanctuary in their sturdy, canvas megaliths. One-by-one we nodded our thanks and reassured them we’d be fine in our “hurricane-proof” tent. One-by-one they walked away shaking their heads and leaving us with further promises of shelter “if it gets too bad”.
By six o’clock, the winds started buffeting the camp and the last campers circled their tents making last-minute adjustments, checking everything was in order. By seven, our tent was dodging and weaving against the wind’s furious assault, so we zipped up our sleeping bags and made ourselves comfortable. By eight, a flock of angry vultures had descended to ravage the night with howling shrieks and a violent fluttering of canvas wings. By nine, fragments of trembling words and hoarse cries began tumbling by, dragging us from sleep.
We poked our heads outside. A procession of plastic possessions pursued the plaintive Pied Piper polyphony towards the sea. Shadowy silhouettes shackled to shuddering sheets ... (Enough alliteration already! In other words, there were plastic bits-and-pieces tumbling everywhere, and nearly every tent-owner was pre-occupied with preventing their tents from becoming parachutes!) By midnight, the storm had passed, though we were asleep at the time. And in the morning we were greeted by sunshine and a new respect shining from our neighbours’ sleep-starved eyes.
But that was the previous year, in Australia. We knew our first Christmas in New Zealand was unlikely to be as dramatic, but we hoped it would be enjoyable nevertheless. At least we didn’t have family to consider. Nor even friends. There was just the two of us, and whoever we decided to spend our time with.
Not that there was much choice. Our flatmates, along with every other kiwi working on the orchard, had left on Christmas Eve to spend the holiday with their families. Ettrick was like a ghost town (though even ghosts are too bored to stay long), with only the locals staying around during the lay-off. And the only locals we were on a first name basis with were Noel and Dawn (who owned the Bengerview Tearooms.
There often seems to be a reverse correlation between the amount of view people actually have, and the likelihood they’ll name their place after it. Would any place with actual spectacular panoramic views of Milford Sound, call their place “Milford View”? Doubtful. More than likely, it’d be the pokey little house squashed between the local tip and cement works, with a sliver of water discernible beyond the railway yards - on a good day - that would have that honour. And if there was absolutely no view, they’d probably revert to that faithful old standby - Skyview. Skyview? How view-less can any place be?
Not to say Noel and Dawn’s tearooms-cum-post-office-cum-local- store didn’t have a view of Mount Benger. If you stood on the roof and craned your neck to peer around the macrocarpas, then Mount Benger was certainly one of the things you’d see. Who could blame them for not wanting to call their place the Coldstoreview Tearooms?
We didn’t want a family Christmas (even with someone else’s family), so Noel and Dawn’s invitation to join them at the Altenburgs Traditional Christmas Feast (or should that be Xmas Feast?), seemed like the best option. Christmas was the only half-day the tearooms were closed, and they didn’t want to spend it cooking themselves (or anyone else, for that matter), so they traditionally had an old-fashioned Christmas dinner (together with their son ‘Fish’ and the twenty or so other small-business owners who were open 364 days a year so didn’t want to spend time cooking themselves etc etc) at the only restaurant in Roxburgh open 365 days a year.
The food was good and abundant, with no pink icing to be seen. The Christmas crackers popped as they should, the jokes inside weren’t too bad, and nobody forced me to wear a stupid paper hat. The plastic chairs weren’t too sticky, and the plastic table-cloths had been freshly cleaned for the occasion. And the ceiling vent coped admirably with the fog of smoke, cheap aftershave and greasy fumes from the adjoining take-away. All-in-all, a valuable (never-to-be-repeated) kiwi cultural experience.
Boxing Day we spent picnic-ing with John (the orchard foreman) and his partner Alan, on our property.
The day after we were back at work. But there was no Nigel and no Rob, and we soon heard from Saskia that they’d opted to stay in Dunedin until after New Year. After all, nobody would miss them for two days, would they?
John missed them.
He passed his missing-ness onto Con.
Con sacked them in abstentia. When they returned, they’d have to leave.
In the meantime, there was another two days of thinning before the New Year break. After our sedate Christmas we were ready for some action - any action! Tania and Gerardo (a kiwi/Argentinian couple who’d arrived soon after thinning started, having recently arrived in the country via Argentina, where they’d stayed a year on his family’s mung-bean orchard, London, where they’d gotten married after knowing each other less than three weeks, and Israel, where they’d met on a kibbutz, with the result they were broke and needed work ... any work) were heading to friends in Dunedin, and asked us to come along.
It turned out to be an eventful evening as we joined an ever-growing convoy searching for an elusive action Eldorado. As the old year slowly wore out, we moved from a roomful of people sitting on mattresses playing charades, to a half-full house of half-full students, and finally to a raucous sardine-can jumble of inebriated souls in varying stages of undress. What had started out as a theme party (the theme being SEX), now took on an entirely new dimension as a dozen smaller parties began melding together into one huge party, until those in fancy dress (fancy undress?) seemed starkly, lewdly out of place. In each room, a massive video screen playing endless movies or music videos, overwhelmed conversation, and after a few attempts at communicating with the intoxicated natives, Marion and I made ourselves comfortable in a corner and watched the proceedings with increasing bewilderment.
By two o’clock, as the third half-naked unconscious woman was dumped onto the bed, we’d had enough. Luckily Marion had insisted on bringing our van along during each migration, so we were able to decline invitations to sleep over (for some peculiar reason, we have a prudish dislike for sleeping on vomit-stained carpets) and headed home to Ettrick. The night was warm, calm and full-moon bright. We were alone to enjoy the spectacularly clear sky, and to gatecrash the rabbit cocktail party in the Manuka Gorge that morning.
Two days later we were back at work.
A day later Rob and Nigel moved out, and Tania and Gerardo moved in.
We continued to thin apples, but now evenings were pleasantly filled with jokes and conversation. I spent as much time as possible walking around our property, digging up thistles, cutting gorse and broom ... getting ready. And always there was time to sit in the Minzion and to dream.
Marion seldom accompanied me on my private working bees. But that was fine. She’d already had RSI once, and we certainly didn’t want to risk another episode, especially undertaking unpaid work. Besides, I enjoyed the solitude, and I could understand Marion’s lack of enthusiasm. At the moment it was still just an idea. Once we had planning consent, once our dream could finally begin to unfold, I was sure she’d be as enthusiastic as I was.
There’s an old seaman’s myth that a drowning man rises three times to the surface ... But I always wondered at what point you knew you were drowning and not just treading water badly. Would it come in a moment of blinding, shocking revelation - a realisation so inconceivable, so breath-taking, that you’d have to check twice more before you could even acknowledge that you were drowning? Or was it simply a subtle shift in perspective... and expectations? I’ve always been a good swimmer, confident in the water. Maybe it has something to do with being a Pisces, though astrology seems such an unlikely buoyancy aid, and it certainly didn’t help in this case.
On the 14th of February, 1991 (precisely one year since we’d cycled into Ettrick), an envelope arrived in the mail - the COD Council’s golden logo (looking like some unfinished plans for a Roman amphitheatre) emblazoned across the corner. With our hearts in our mouths and Noel and Dawn hovering expectantly, we dragged out the contents.
The covering letter was brief, and certainly wasn’t giving anything away.
“Pursuant to regulation 38 (4) of the Town and Country Planning Regulations 1978, I hereby advise you of the decision of the Council on the above application.
A copy of the Councils decision (apostrophe’s retain semi-my’stical statu’s in the englis’h language... This comment wasn’t in the letter, of course ... in case you were wondering ...) is attached.
Your attention is drawn to section 69 of the Town and Country Planning Act 1977 which confers a right of appeal against this decision to the Planning Tribunal within one month after notification of the decision.”
There was no mention of the decision, however. Surely it would save a certain amount of undue heart tremors if there could be a heading at the top of the page simply stating whether the application had been approved or disapproved? At least you could then read the remainder of the letter with an appropriate frame of mind. There were no clues just yet, though the bit about our right to appeal sounded distinctly ominous to our impressionable ears. Appeal? Why should we need to appeal unless ...
We read on.
“Consideration has been given ... information submitted in support ... submission of Mr J F Barclay ... separate title ... previously occupied ... fire ... not undermine the integrity of the District Scheme ... limited potential ... public interest best served by granting consent ... will facilitate the maintenance of the site in a tidy condition ... not visible from Beaumont Station Road ... little significance ... minor departure ... Having regard to the reasons detailed above, the Council has resolved to grant its consent to the application pursuant to Sections 67 and 74 of the Town and Country Planning Act 1977 ...”
PHEW! Elation and relief swept over us like ... well, elation and relief.
But there was one page more.
“Consent is granted subject to the following conditions :
1. An adequate water supply for domestic usage shall be available to the dwelling house, and any bore water source shall be tested to establish that it is of wholesome quality.
2. The roof of the house shall be non-reflective.
3. The exterior walls shall be finished in a colour or colours to be selected from the range of browns, dark greens, grey and white and thereafter shall be maintained accordingly.
4. The proposed dwelling shall comply fully with the yard requirements of the Rural A Zone as detailed in the Tuapeka County District Scheme.
5. Electricity and telephone lines shall be laid underground.”
The conditions seemed peculiarly obsessive (after all, we were hardly visible from the road, and surely my neighbour’s sheep across the creek weren’t such aesthetes that they could object to any colour scheme we chose), but nothing to take issue with. Certainly nothing to appeal against.
We had planning consent! We could stop treading water and start powering towards the gleaming paradise which suddenly seemed so near.
But we weren’t treading water, we were drowning. The planning consent wasn’t the wind in our sails, it was another weight tied to our ankles, pulling us down. We were about to go under for the first time ...
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