The grass over my head III

Before I could consider plumbing, I needed a sufficient, guaranteed water supply. Until now I’d been filling bottles of water from the small tanks at the shed for drinking and cooking, and washing myself and my clothes in the Minzion.

Although my building permit had specified a 100 square metre water catchment area and a 2000 gallon tank, I was seriously considering alternative arrangements. After all, things had changed dramatically since then. For a start, I was now living by myself, thereby reducing my requirements by half ... or should that be a third, considering I still, theoretically, had to allow for that extra imaginary water consumer? I had also rejected the notion of having a flush toilet, thereby further reducing my theoretical requirements by another substantial amount ... though that unwanted invader would probably still find some ingenious way of consuming his/her quota. And above all, I had in the duration become an “existing house”. Or at least that was my interpretation of the circumstances.

          The first issue - living alone - wasn’t such an influential one, because I was hopeful it would only be a temporary state of affairs. I had no intention of becoming a total recluse or to start some hermitic religious order consisting entirely of just me. So I wanted to ensure my water supply was more than adequate for any number of permanent residents or guests.

Several locals I knew existed solely on rainwater, and although they managed to maintain a constant supply for most of the year, during longer dry spells they often needed the fire brigade to supplement their supply. Of course they also had a flush toilet and weren’t unduly concerned with issues of water conservation, so it wasn’t an entirely appropriate comparison, But it did provide a minimum ball-park figure of 1000 gallons. If I wanted to be guaranteed of an all-year consistent supply, allowing for extra occupants and a fire-fighting reserve, a capacity of 2000 gallons would, after all, be ideal.

          The second issue - a non-flush toilet - made a greater impact. In fact, the flushing toilet has had a huge, and largely negative, impact on the entire planet. Divested of responsibility for their own waste, flushers are largely able to ignore the consequences of their actions, allowing vast quantities of valuable nutrients to be washed into the sea instead of being returned to the soil, causing water pollution on the one hand, and forcing farmers into fertiliser dependency on the other.

It’s just another brick in the wall separating civilisation from nature. We have demonised dirt, embarking on an unholy germicidal jihad which renders our homes unfit for human habitation. We live our grand illusion, confusing disguising with destroying, because shitting, even when it’s into foaming blue ponds while surrounded by the scent of wildflowers, remains shitting. And despite our best efforts, germs remain ever-present and everywhere.

          Waitati has no sewerage system, and its proximity to the sea often excludes both septic tanks and longdrops. As a result, the traditional bucket system - urinating in the garden whenever possible (the smell of fermenting urine not being one of life’s sensory pleasures), and shitting in a bucket located in an outhouse - is often the only option. This not only gives you hands-on experience in waste management, but brings you face-to-face with the consequences of your lifestyle.

Although burying a bucket of smelly, soggy shit is by no means a joy (especially when you discover you’re trying to bury the shit in an already-occupied spot in the garden), it does bestow a certain sense of satisfaction (not to mention superiority) ... though by no means enough satisfaction for me to choose such a system when it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

Luckily, through my involvement with the Environment Centre, I soon discovered there were equally eco-friendly yet far less hands-on systems such as composting toilets. This, I decided, would be the ideal system for my house. No mess, no fuss, and every six months I could remove valuable compost for my garden. Of course, I wasn’t entirely convinced it would be such a hit with the building inspector, but I would face that problem when I came to it.

          The third issue - being an existing house - was also highly relevant to my decision-making. While I’d struggled on to complete my house, new building regulations had been introduced. Rigid building codes and regulations were abandoned in favour of a more flexible approach, an engineer’s certificate now all that was required to validate the structural integrity of any house design, no matter how alternative.

Although this new era of flexibility didn’t affect me directly, indirectly it created a grey area around my little project. Because although more flexible, the new regulations also required each building to be issued with a completion certificate before it was officially considered finished. But my house had been commenced under the old regulations, so I didn’t need a completion certificate. And since my house wasn’t waiting for any final stamp of approval, it must be, in theory at least, an existing house ... which seemed to make anything possible.

          So I consulted the building inspector, requesting a visit to discuss my legal plumbing obligations. The new model inspector was far more affable than the original model. Though he was also seemingly uncomfortable in my presence, spending his entire visit pacing the verandah and gazing across the creek as though longing for the freedom of the open plains. He was quite unperturbed by my plans to dig a semi-permanent long-drop. (My long-term aspirations for a composting toilet temporarily shelved when the mere mention of the word seemed to spark fanatical fires in his disbelieving eyes, like mentioning Salman Rushdie to an ayatollah.) Or my plans to substitute a septic tank for a simple grease-trap. Being so isolated, I could, he finally admitted, do almost anything I wanted.

That was all the encouragement I needed.

          As a new house, I’d been expected to build a water catchment and rely on rainwater. But as an existing house, I now felt free to explore other options ... options which catered to my needs rather than those of some mythical future occupant. The most obvious of these was to tap into my creek’s limitless supply. Simple. Waterpump + pipe = endless supply + no worries. But, of course, nothing’s ever that easy...         

          In the water catchment alternative, gravity was an accomplice, pulling water from the skies, down through the valleys between rolling corrugated hills, dripping, flowing, weeping circles in a dark concrete sea, ever down to splash in gleaming silver fountains, spiralling down, then away. Now it would be a relentless foe, begrudging every droplet dragged upwards, digging in its heels at every turn, wrapping each glistening rebel with heavy chains of friction.

In travelling from the creek up to a tank located high enough above the house to generate enough water pressure, the water would scale a height of approximately fifteen metres and cover a distance of eighty metres - which meant one hefty (ie expensive) pump was required. But it was, at least, possible

          Of far greater concern was the location. Most water-pumps are designed to push water not pull it, which meant it would be necessary to install it close to the creek. This created a power supply issue - requiring either a separate meterbox (hardly warranted by my meagre requirements), or a long extension cord (hardly a soothing proposition for an electro-phobe).

It was further complicated by the fact the Minzion is a deceptively placid companion. Normally it meanders merrily along - a constant, calming flow - it’s minor ebbs and flows providing a familiar, reassuring accompaniment to the cycles of life. Sometimes a little fuller, burying the poplars’ autumnal acne beneath a soft beard of silt. Sometimes a little deeper, dragging sodden, swollen bagpipe sheep down to play with the feasting orchestra of eels. Sometimes a little faster, gurgling and gargling detritus from muddy cavities beneath its stony teeth.

But it often bows to the river’s urgency, it’s level rising up to eight metres in mute acknowledgment of the Clutha’s dominion. And, occasionally, it tosses aside restraint altogether in an unexpectedly passionate outburst, overturning cosy familiarity in a single dramatic gesture and replacing it with renewed respect and a certain wariness.

          So, under normal circumstances, pumping water from the creek seemed like an inconvenient and expensive option, requiring a large pump, lots of pipe, and lots of carrying whenever the creek backed up or flash floods threatened.

But these weren’t normal circumstances, because instead of remaining in Millers Flat, I had moved to Dunedin to establish an Environment Centre.

It was entirely due to my involvement in the Centre, that I had met Roy Martin, a local inventor whose 1978 award-winning invention was, coincidentally, a self-propelled water-turbine. And it was entirely due to Roy’s generosity and enthusiasm (plus the fact he still had one of his original display models available) that I was able to consider installing one of his turbines in my creek. It would require no major installation, no electricity supply, minimal maintenance (and compared to modern pumps, its working components more closely resembled a bicycle than a car), and it would theoretically run forever. The only slight hitch would be to get it to the site.

          Because, despite all its obvious advantages, installing an old model had one minor disadvantage. The turbine consists of a two-metre long fibre-glass tube encasing a long shaft encircled with propeller blades (water races through the tube and spins the propellers to create enough power to operate a pump). The space age had still been in its infancy when this particular model had rolled out of Roy’s garage workshop, so no aluminium or plastic or carbon-fibre or even lightweight stainless steel was used in its construction, resulting in a huge, 240kg, unwieldy monster made of the finest quarter-inch steel.

If the Apollo rockets had been built like this they wouldn’t have made it to Detroit, let alone the moon. So it was guaranteed that the installation would be an adventure rivalling anything NASA had contemplated.

          Ideally, the turbine needed a metre fall over its 2m length, which automatically excluded placing it directly at the foot of my property. The fact the creek often remained backed up to this point for long periods of time, made this site even less desirable. So we’d have to take it around the corner to the first viable waterfall located where the creek narrowed to a few metres width.

The only problem was the path along my bank, slippery and steep at the best of times, wasn’t wide enough to accommodate both us and the turbine, while the opposite bank was impenetrably gorseous. But with the creek fortuitously backed-up, we (me, Marion, Tania and Gerardo - who was currently organising to export the turbines to Argentina, so was keen to not only have some installation experience, but also to make a promotional video) decided to ‘simply’ float the turbine to its final resting place aboard Gerardo’s dilapidated, slow-leaking dinghy.

          Balancing the turbine on the beached boat was accomplished with a minimum of fuss, and with two extra buoys (the empty butynol glue cans) tied to its side, just to be safe, the entire barge-like structure (looking like Free Willy’s worst nightmare) slid majestically down the muddy bank, wobbling once as it plunged into the creek. Then, when it seemed it would continue slipping beneath the dark water to be lost forever (or at least until the river receded), the buoys pulled on their reins, stalling its dive and slowly dragging its bow back to the placid surface. It was floating! But no sooner had it discovered its unexpected buoyancy than it also discovered an inconsolable imbalance, rolling onto its side as Gerardo and I leapt into the icy chest-deep water to try and prevent it from sinking.

          Fortunately it didn’t sink, and we eventually succeeded in floating it across to its final resting place. After building a minor dam, with sandbags and stones, to raise the level another few feet and funnel most of the water through the turbine, we gently lowered it into place ... and WHOOSHhhhhh the propellers began spinning madly!

But spinning propellers is one thing, pumping water up to the desired height was another. So we attached the end of the pipe, and though the propellers slowed considerably as it battled gravity to climb the pipe, the pump continued its relentless throb, sounding like a paddle-steamer convention.

When we followed the water’s progress upwards, finally arriving at the end of the pipe at the watertank, water was gushing out. Instead of the anticipated trickle, it was a torrent - 18,000 litres of water a day with enough pressure at the end of the hose to water my entire garden from a single point. My water ‘problem’ not only solved, but roundly thrashed, leaving me contemplating a future of meandering streams, fountains and waterfalls dotting my property, bringing lush, green life to every corner.

          Of course this is only the expurgated version of the great turbine saga. This is no place to detail the amount of pipe kinked in the process, or the number of holes created when Gerardo tried to ‘fix’ the kinked pipe. The effects of two months silty submergence on a water pump will also remain unspoken, and the ramifications of a Roy Martin turbine being dragged forty metres across rocks during a floody rage will be my secret. And it’s certainly not the place to contemplate lessons learnt, re-learnt or even unlearnt in the process, like “don’t stick anything into rotating objects”, especially not large wrenches in steel propellers. I’d believed, until that moment, that this was a universal rule, passed on by mothers everywhere ... but apparently it’s not a big hit in Argentina.

          I had water. A seemingly endless supply. It was about time I started using it.

Lifestyle Blockages III

It’s a long way from concept to final plans, especially when the concept is 14,000 kilometres away. Further still from plans to building permit, when there’s a building inspector standing in the way.
We arrived back in New Zealand and began our life together on our property. We moved all our worldly possessions into the shed - now our living quarters and kitchen. We moved Fugly - now our bedroom - to its final resting place next door. We got two kittens - a ginger Tom we named Spindle, and his jet black sister we called Momo. We soon even had a motherless lamb we called Caruso. (Though he didn’t last long. We did everything we could to make his life comfortable - buying a large sack of powdered lamb formula and sacrificing a rubber glove finger in an attempt to replicate his mother’s nipple - but he refused our offerings. I admit neither of us were very convincing surrogates, nor did we have a farmer’s knack of persuasion, but we’d thought he’d be grateful, or at least hungry enough to drink anything we offered. We also tried everything to get him used to human contact - bringing him into the shed out of the rain, drying him off whenever he did get wet - but he never appreciated our efforts. He should have been ecstatic about becoming our pet, because our pets aren’t so much pets as cherished family members. Eventually he managed to not only escape the temporary pen we’d built, but also the property... or so we believed until we discovered him a week later, dead, with his head shoved down a rabbit hole.)
It was a simple life, and once we’d invested in a few modern conveniences (a kerosene lamp, gas cooker, watertanks to catch the water from the roof), a relatively comfortable one. But even simple lives have their complications. Ours centred mostly on water - either too little, or too much. We were forever conscious of our meagre rainwater supply, so it was reserved for drinking only, with water for anything else having to be hauled up from the Minzion.
Not that the Minzion water isn’t fit to drink. Unlike most streams in the valley - the household water supply to hundreds - it doesn’t flow through areas of intensive use or across flat cow-filled fields. But it does have a peaty, earthy taste which is refreshing from the hand but vaguely disconcerting from a glass.
And vast rivers of rain flowed freely beneath the door or seeped casually past our best water-proofing efforts. The shed’s builder had obviously built it to last, with heavy hardwood framing and beams, but had just as obviously never expected anyone to live in it. The entire construction rested on concrete foundations which protruded beyond the bottom of the galvanised iron walls - creating a perfect channel to lead each drop of rain inside. At first we smoothed concrete along the join between wall and floor - but the water slipped beneath and the trapped moisture slowly rotted the timber. Then we poured concrete between iron and framing to create a ramp leading the water away - but that only worked where the iron bulged, and not where it indented. Then we smoothed concrete along the outside of the iron - but it simply led more water inside through the newly-created concrete crevasse.
Finally we siliconed along the crevasse - but that didn’t stop the water seeping through the porous concrete itself. Our concerted waterproofing campaign took months - since we had to wait for the next serious shower before each new ‘brainstorm’ could be put to the test - but was, ultimately, unsuccessful. By then we’d re-deployed our furniture to less vulnerable locations, creating somewhat eccentric living arrangements, but at least everything stayed, in the main, dry.)
While we were leading our simple but somehow time-filling life, Wallace (the architect, in case you’d forgotten) was busy turning our rough sketches into complete working drawings and specifications. A week later, the initial plans were finished. It was the first time we’d seen our house looking so solid - our dreams transformed into detail. Apart from an adjustment of window sizes (there was still too much glass for Marion’s liking), it was exactly how we’d imagined it. The height of the mezzanine ceilings had been slightly increased due to the vagaries of the Building Code, but our central open space, meant all other ceilings could be dropped even further, which suited us.
Wallace had also solved the walkway (connecting the mezzanine floors) problem by dropping it down to an intermediate level, with access to each mezzanine from either end. This not only created an extra level, but a wealth of storage space beneath the walkway (which he’d utilised to the maximum by creating a woodstore beside the woodburner, with an access hatch allowing wood to be transferred inside without being lugged through the house).
A month later the final plans were complete - five pages of drawings (1 : 100 floor plan; site and foundation plans, exterior views from four sides; detailed cross-section; plus a window schedule), a framing diagram, and five pages of specifications. (In architecture, words are the scaffolding supporting every diagram, without which the entire edifice would crumble.) Neither of us understood much of what was written, but the drawings spoke straight to our hearts. There would be time enough later to learn the alien tongue of construction.
This was possibly an over-optimistic sentiment, in light of past experiences. We’d cycled through more than ten countries over five years, but I’d never mastered the cyclists’ lingo. I could dismantle a drum brake in driving rain in the middle of a cold Irish night. I could re-spoke a crippled front wheel in the gloom of a Welsh afternoon. I could replace or repair every moving part, but I never knew the real name for anything. Which was fine, until I needed a part from a bike shop! Why hasn’t Berlitz ever published an English-Prospeak phrase book? Because it’s no use using normal words to explain what you need. Unless you know the correct technical term, you can explain a thousand times what a tyre does, but if you don’t say ‘tyre’, chances are they’ll try to sell you a helmet!
We submitted our plans. Wallace is a well-respected architect so we were confident that getting the final permit was little more than a formality. The estimated value of the house was $45,000, so we had to pay $455.65 in permit fees.
A week later we had our first visit from the building inspector.
There was a problem. Although the plans were fine (and had been given little more than a cursory glance, in fact), according to him, we hadn’t yet met all the conditions specified in the planning consent. Especially the one concerning an adequate water supply.
We were incredulous. What water supply problem?
There was the Minzion - a guaranteed permanent supply.
No, we couldn’t use water from the stream. It was unhealthy.
But we knew lots of people who pumped their supply from similar streams, or worse.
They’re existing houses. They can do what they want.
So we’ll pump from the Clutha ...
No, it’s unhealthy too.
But half the valley pumps from the Clutha! Our neighbour does!
They’re existing houses.
So we’ll collect it from the roof ...
No, once water touches soil, it’s unhealthy.
So we’ll put it through filters ...
No, if you sold the house, the next person might not want to put it through filters.
What next person? We’re not going to sell!
You never know. And they’ll want a guaranteed healthy supply.
Not only did we need to establish a pure virginal water supply unsullied by contact with any foreign matter (such as soil or air), but it had to be a system which some mythical next person would sanction. No filters, no mechanical devices, no technology allowed. This was not only ludicrous, but patently unfair. Existing houses could suck up gutter scum, but we couldn’t use any of the sources available to us? If modern health standards demanded pure water, surely we could utilise modern technology to achieve the required standards. It was in our own interests that our water supply was potable and relatively consistent, and none of our sources were any less tenable than those of most local residents, many of whom relied on the fire brigade to fill their tanks (with water from the Clutha) during dry summers. Besides, surely it was our problem where we got our water from. And if we ever did sell the place, surely the next person could decide whether or not it suited them?
But the building inspector wasn’t budging.
In reality it wasn’t the water supply which phased him, it was the grass roof. Throughout our conversations he made constant references to how much more straightforward everything would be without the grass roof. We could collect the rainwater. We could have a nice, normal house. We could have no further problems. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want a grass roof. It was unsightly. It was unnecessary. It was impractical. It was expensive. It was something alien - frightening.
Our arguments concerning insulation values and the maintenance of internal humidity had no impact.
Our attempts to explain the doctrine of minimal impact had, of course, minimal impact.
Our summary of aesthetic principles were entirely foreign to his Bessa-block mind.
Our rigorous defence of personal choice left him bewildered and uneasy in our presence.
He remained adamant - no satisfactory water supply (as defined by the highest authority in the land - him), no permit.
For the next month we followed up every rumour of water within pump-able distance from our house. Local farmers hinted at springs and mysterious waterways, but all we ever found was a patch of boggy ground rapidly drying in the sun. We sank a few experimental wells but always came up dry. And we consulted the local drilling company, who advised us the water table stopped a mile up the road, so it wasn’t even worth trying.
Then it hit us. The only acceptable supply was, in the building inspector’s mind anyway, rainwater. So that was what we’d have. We would build a ‘water catchment’.
We were confident, but our confidence was muted by the knowledge that the building inspector still wouldn’t like our roof. And as long as he didn’t want us to have a grass roof, he could continue to place obstacles in our way. Perhaps the water supply was just his first salvo in a war he was determined to win. Perhaps there would be further objections, minor technicalities and impediments which would cause so much delay and frustration that we’d simply lose our will to combat his small-mindedness.
But the next round would have to wait. He was on holidays and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks.
What seemed like yet another irritating delay eventually turned out to be an unforseen Godsend. Because the building inspector’s holiday route had been fortuitous. He had driven up the West Coast. Had continued further north, to the end of the road, to Karamea. And he had stayed at The Last Resort ... a holiday resort ... a grass-roofed holiday resort ... Here was a proper house, built by proper builders. A successful business run by a successful businessman.
He returned, suddenly contrite. The idea was, after all, feasible.
But there was still the question of a water supply.
We explained our plan - if he calculated the catchment area we required to satisfy him that we had a guaranteed adequate supply, then we would build it. Nothing flash. It would be a simple galvanised iron roof, but instead of providing shelter, it would provide water. It would be a metre off the ground, and we’d build it somewhere on the hillside above the house.
His calculations were based on an expected average rainfall of 30 centimetres per year (he’d obviously assumed serious droughts would be the future standard), with the two of us plus one extra person (we were obviously going to be extremely popular), using 75 litres of water per day per person (we were obviously very clean, too), allowing for one month without any rain (we were obviously stupid enough to continue using 75 litres per day each, as well as having another water-guzzler staying over, regardless of how much it rained). In the end this required 100 square metres of water catchment plus a 2000 gallon storage tank.
Fine! If that’s what we need, then that’s what we’ll do.
Surely we didn’t want to waste so much land ...
No problems, we’ve got five acres.
The possums will love sleeping on it and shitting on it ...
No problems, we’ll build a fence.
The dust from the road will just cover it...
No problems, we’ll plant a border of trees.
The leaves will clog up the drains ...
No problems, we’ll plant evergreens.
For every ‘problem’ he envisaged, we created a solution. Until finally, even he had to admit we were serious ... and there was nothing he could do about it.
On the 29th of November, almost two months after submitting our plans, we not only had a building permit, but had earned a permanent entry in the annals of permithology. Our permit, for a “new dwelling and water catchment structure”, is surely unique. Finally, we could start building ...