Life in a small town

Jeremy Elwood

It’s been a pretty tough couple of weeks for small town New Zealand, which, coincidentally, has primarily been where I’ve spent the last couple of weeks. From communities like Hokitika and Wairoa holding their annual summer race days at racecourses that may well not exist this time next year, to Judith Collins blasting Kiwi Build for having the ‘‘arrogance’’ to think anyone would want to own a first home somewhere like Te Kauwhata, to a visiting Canadian loudmouth who I will not bother to name suggesting that small communities are no longer viable, and that getting rid of them would help bring our suicide rate down; they’d be forgiven for wanting to get off the front pages of newspapers like this one.

As an aside; the reason I won’t name him isn’t just that he’s the worst thing to crawl out of Canada since Nickelback, and playing to a similar demographic. It’s that I have seen, and experienced, how he divides debate between those who think he’s the devil incarnate and those who think he’s the second coming of... whoever.

Neither is true. If you’re opposed to his inane bumper-sticker style of snake oil salesmanship, emphasis on the ‘‘-man’’, you’re entitled to your opinion. If you think he’s the best thing since Tony Robbins, well, last time I checked, being gullible wasn’t illegal. Nor was believing in ‘‘magic’’. Knock yourself out.

No, it’s the fact that almost all of this negative commentary has come from people, like myself, who live in cities.

Take the racecourse issue (as opposed to the race issue, which is a whole other debate.)

I’m not a fan of horse racing myself. Apart from the obligatory office Melbourne Cup day pool, and three associated side bets – two of which I’ve won, through nothing more than dumb luck – I have no expertise or indeed interest in how that sport works.

However, when I was in Wairoa last week, almost everyone I met assumed that I was there for the races. Why wouldn’t they? Two and a half thousand other people were; being fed crayfish and having a major social day out that literally only happens once a year.

Not everyone has a chance to watch Six60 alongside 49,999 of their fellow fans. For many in our country, watching a bunch of horses run in a circle while you catch up with a few neighbours is the equivalent. Plus, parking is easier.

I said last week that I’m not a small town guy, and that hasn’t changed. However, as a visitor, what has set apart many of those I’ve visited recently is their sense of identity.

Having something to look forward to is a big part of that.

Michele A’Court

Judith Collins and Jordan Peterson should have been travelling with us in the car over the past month. Impractical, given there’s bugger-all room beside me in the back seat, what with the gourmet treats we’ve been collecting from each of the 25 towns we’ve visited so far, plus I’m not sure JBP would have been entranced with the Beastie Boys audiobook that’s been keeping us company – over 12 hours of reminiscences on the evolution of punk and rap, plus their reflections on feminism and gender identity. (Somehow, though, I can picture Judith rocking out to Fight for the Right to Party. Backing music for her tilt at being prime minister in 2020 – you heard it here first.)

My experience of the 25 small towns we’ve visited so far – most with a population of one to two thousand – is vastly different from their characterisation of them. We’re not seeing lack of hope or a dearth of ideas for making them viable. Instead, we’re meeting a remarkable number of people who have made the move from city to small town for quality of life, a sense of community and flourishing local businesses.

Sure, if you’re 17 years old, you’re going to find the place you’ve just spent 17 years a trifle dull. That’s pretty much the point of being 17 – fly the nest and see who you are without mum and dad or Mrs Rooney from Year 9 Social Studies talking to you like you’re still 12.

And you get alienation and disaffection in a city suburb as much as in a small town. Teenagers are supposed to try other places – that doesn’t mean you should shut the place down as they leave. There’s a good chance they’ll be back.

Because what I’m seeing is a flourishing of small town New Zealand, particularly in those places that have found a thing that makes them special. Tourism on the West Coast, chutney and a great place to raise kids in Geraldine, cheese in Pu¯ ta¯ ruru, cheese and steampunk in Oamaru, boutiques and great food in Mapua, Greytown and O¯ hope Beach, a certain je ne sais quoi that delights hordes of cruise ship passengers in Akaroa, and Cromwell bursting into life because it’s not Queenstown.

We’re only dipping in and out of each place, but we’re meeting 10 to 20 per cent of the local population at our shows, hearing them laugh – and this is significant – at the jokes we make about their town. You need a strong sense of identity and self-confidence to let an outsider drop by and take the piss a bit.

I have a joke which references JPB – he’s in the set-up rather than the punchline. It works a treat and

I’m keeping it, even though you can feel most of them have never heard of him and won’t remember that name tomorrow.

Exactly.