A level 2 climate of intolerance

In the heart of the beautiful Wairarapa on a wet and freezing cold Friday, Wendy was trying to give me directions to the radio station. Wendy is very good at directions. Very straightforward.

‘‘Go straight. First roundabout go straight on. Second roundabout turn left.’’

Nice directions. I’m generally more of an ‘‘ummm OK, do you see that pretty blue church with the wisteria? Well that’s where I’d like to get married some day. Oh, wait I’m pointing in the wrong direction. OK now see that barn. Go way past the barn, and then when you get to the haystack that looks like a badger, turn to the left . . . no right . . . no left, and then opposite the goat tied to the post you’ll find the thing.’’

Wendy started to direct me, and then stopped and said: ‘‘Change that. Too much traffic that way.’’

We were in rural Masterton. There is never too much traffic in rural Masterton.

Three cars mean you have to pause 10 seconds before turning, and that’s traffic. Oh, the joys of small-town living.

Let’s not even discuss Auckland traffic. It’s like discussing the hell of taxes. It’s souldestroying but just part of the neverending drudgery of our country’s most arduous commute.

Wellington traffic, however, is in its own way mindbending. Periods of endless sitting in motionless traffic jams, followed by smooth sailing, until one nose-to tail in Whitby gets traffic stopped 25km away in Miramar.

Masterton traffic is a novel delight. In fact, all traffic in the Wairarapa is delightful. The whole region is like the New Zealand version of Disney’s Magic Kingdoms. I drove one of my best friends over on a work adventure. Bless her soul, she’d never been over to the other side of the hill. Once you get over the scary rally track known as the Remutaka Ranges, you find yourself in the Kiwi adventure capital.

‘‘This is Featherston,’’ I said with all the glee of an authentically enthusiastic tour guide. ‘‘It used to be a bit bogan, what with being so close to Upper Hutt, but it’s getting rather chic. It’s got the best cheesemaker and his store ‘C’est Cheese’ and loads of cool and quirky book stores. But wait. In a few seconds we’ll get to Greytown. Greytown is very elegant and cram full of designer stores and cafes!’’

I was on fire with my commentary. My friend didn’t seem nearly as amazed and delighted as me. I continued.

‘‘Oh now we’re in Carterton. Not really my thing. Just horses stuff, farmy type stuff, building stuff, and animal feed stuff.’’

She finally showed some enthusiasm, ‘‘I’m a dairy farmer you egg!’’ She gave me the look, and I laughed. ‘‘Well we’re still not stopping!’’

‘‘What’s Masterton like then?’’ She asked.

‘‘Oh, now Masterton is the big smoke!’’ I said very seriously.

Really, I was more excited knowing that on the return trip I’d be able to take her via Martinborough. She might even get a glimpse of a film star and chance to dine at a five-star movie theatre. Martinborough is like Cannes, but with less sun and far more wet-weather gear.

In the Wairarapa people don’t honk horns, unless to say hello. Very civil. Back over the rainbow in Wellington there is a ‘‘level 2’’ climate of intolerance and irritability, recklessness and weariness in the way some folk are driving.

Unlike lockdown #1, people now seem far more shorttempered but then at the same time way more devil-may-care in their driving. Someone will refuse to indicate, drive like they’re drunk, but then honk petulantly when an Uber slows down for a few seconds to let a passenger out.

It’s as though pausing for three seconds on a hill is suddenly the world’s worst crime. There is a honking and beeping plague upon Wellington, and it’s ridiculous. So much pent-up frustration over the level 2 uncertainty and inconsistency, and thus a rather loose interpretation of what a horn should be used for in September 2020.

It’s stupid and it’s dangerous. Both my exhusband and ex-partner told me not to beep my horn, and both had the same reasoning,

‘‘Don’t sound your horn at other drivers Polly. You never know who’s behind the wheel, how their day’s been, or what drug they’re on!’’

Damn straight.

So let’s be a little more Wairarapa and a little less Paris. Let’s stop honking and for God’s sake, ‘‘calm the farm!’’

My friend liked Carterton the best of the Magic Kingdoms by the way.

Crazy rural bird.

The Wairarapa is like the New Zealand version of Disney’s Magic Kingdoms.