Waking up to small-town NZ

Jeremy Elwood

Twenty-seven shows, 6800km, thousands of audience members, numerous meals, and nervous backstage hours later, our Arts on Tour comedy adventure is now firmly in our rearview mirror. We saw some truly spectacular parts of this odd little country of ours; some I had never visited, some I was returning to after an absence of decades. And what a mixed up, multi-faceted, utterly surprising nation it is.

I forget how many times we came around a bend in the road, or crested a hill, to be greeted by a vista that made one or all of us say ‘‘oh, come on… stop it’’ out loud.

We spent many hours on the road in silence, just staring out the windows, but the scenery in New Zealand changes so often, and so quickly, that getting bored really isn’t an option. It’s certainly more varied, and satisfying, than most radio station playlists.

Every town, venue and audience had their own quirks and foibles, some more welcome than others. In between them there still remains a whole lot of nothing – beautiful nothing, but still miles and miles of empty countryside.

Next time I hear somebody suggesting that immigrants or refugees headed here should ‘‘F... Off, we’re full’’ I’m going to politely suggest they take a long drive. Preferably into the ocean.

There were a few unexpected revelations. It’s obvious that tourism is a true lifeblood to our economy – and has every right to be. The small towns we visited that have accepted and embraced that fact, taken some pride in their appearance and opened their arms to visitors were delightful.

Other places aren’t doing so well. You can feel the pain of a closed factory, a vanished industry or a diminishing population. They put people complaining online about nonsense into a pretty stark perspective. But even then, there are plenty of people who still love their communities, and want you to know why.

One of the big takeaways for me was how much more there is to see. There were a lot of turnoffs I wish we could have taken, stops we could have made, sights and experiences we could have enjoyed, but we had shows to get to and a schedule to keep.

It was exhausting at times – the novelty of packing a bag every morning, finding the light switches in a new motel every night, and physically gearing yourself up to attempt to entertain a new bunch of strangers over and over again wears off eventually.

But now we’re home, I don’t know what I want to do more: close the curtains and sleep for a week or finish the laundry and get back in the car.

Thanks, New Zealand. It’s been a ride.

Michele A’Court

‘Get out of your bubble’’ is the kind of instruction you get on social media about… well, getting off social media. Or at least engaging on social media with people whose lives and perspectives are different from your own. I’m never sure how much I fancy welcoming people into my iPad with their wholly opposite views – I’d walk away from them at a party, so I’m not sure why I’d want them shouting at me on the screen in my office. But I see the point.

So we did get out. We spent all of February and much of March in the company of strangers, travelling in a figure eight through the North and South Islands. Twenty-seven venues – school and community halls, a couple of bars and many theatres – many of them lovingly cared for and treasured.

More numbers: 22 motels (including one busted by police just before we pulled in for operating as a tinny house and brothel) and a handful of Airbnbs. Some of them were so delightful we were loath to leave (Reefton’s motel came with a plateful of whitebait fritters and cake slices – thank you, Daisy); others offered challenges like where the heck do they keep the kettle and can anyone find a mirror in hairdryer-cord-length proximity to a power point?

We have been myopic in one sense – making a show every day is all-consuming – but open-eyed in others. You read each town – its preoccupations, its issues, its sense of self – pretty quickly when you’re standing on stage finding the things that will make them laugh.

Raise subjects like gun control, pay equity, or sexual consent and they’ll hear you out, especially if your story moves away from ideology to particularities. And I’ve heard more tolerance and acceptance of diversity – ability, sexuality, gender identity – in towns of two thousand souls than you’d ever see on an average day on Twitter. ‘‘The gays? You mean like Keith? Good bloke.’’

Doubtless, living in a small town day-to-day is a much bigger, more complex story. But a friend suggests there’s a shift going on out there that we can’t hear because we’re too busy shouting at each other.

I often think of tiny Carterton electing Georgina Beyer, a trans woman, as their mayor, and later choosing her as the MP for Wairarapa decades before big city voters might even contemplate that. Accepted and embraced by her neighbours and fellow citizens without the need to engage in ideological debate about the type of person she was, other than ‘‘good’’.

And so how are we celebrating this homecoming?

This weekend, we’ve gone away to Womad.

There’s a big world out there.

I like it.