Doing the local motion

The most famous non-indigenous New Zealand animal is most certainly the humble ovis aries, or sheep. And surely any blog on New Zealand worth its mutton needs to mention something about said sheep. So here goes: there are about seven sheep to every person in new Zealand. (There are something like fifteen possums to every person, but no one likes possums, who are decimating the endemic flora and thus also the kiwis who depend on the habitat, so we won't mention it again. Kiwis are also famous here, but you never see any kiwis. Firstly, they're nocturnal. Secondly, they're endangered. There are three species of kiwi, but only one is found on the North Island, and even there, mainly only in zoos. So we'll stick to sheep.)

There are sheep everywhere. While we were staying in Mount Albert, in the middle of the city, we would pass green paddocks of little white sheep wedged between the houses (the paddocks, not the sheep). Driving from one part of Auckland to another, one passes - you guessed it - fields of sheep. This is the only country I have been to where a regional nature reserve consists of a narrow band of indigenous coastal forest bordered by, yup, vast rolling expanses of pastures filled with sheep (really - Omana Regional Reserve, Maraetai). The lamb-and-mint hamburgers are delicious. The many Indian immigrants are in their element concocting lamb curries. There is a burgeoning trade in sheep soft toys. Mutton is the same price as chicken in the supermarkets.

Sheep tend to feature in a number of our favourite activities, such as walking through the lovely Omana Reserve, which is within easy walking distance from us, and sightseeing in the area. Two weekends ago, we decided to sally forth and take in one of the many weekend activities that we so enjoy about living in Auckland. This time we decided to go to the Clevedon School Agricultural Day. Clevedon is a very pretty farming village close to Maraetai, slightly inland, and is famous for its vineyards, among other things. Clevedon School has a policy that all its students must at some point raise from birth a farm animal of some sort. So we went to see the children show their pet chickens, pigs, goats, calves and lambs (and pop into a wine-tasting store while we were there, naturally). It was delightful to see these tots in enormous gumboots run over the playing field with a spindly little lamb on a leash trotting docilely behind. There were a lot of gumboots around. Must be a farm thing. Some folk even dressed up their lambs for the occasion - we saw lots of woolly jumpers (he he). Some of the chickens on show were nearly as large as their tiny owners. My children were entranced. The day took it in turns to rain, then shine, then rain again, determined no doubt to give the immigrants a thoroughly authentic New Zealand experience. No one paid any attention to the rain, nor to the biting artic wind. (It has not taken me long to resolve never to go anywhere in this country without a hat and scarf. Anything less would be asking for pneumonia. I might even have to start considering gumboots.)

Authentic New Zealand activities always seem to include a coffee stall selling serious coffee - namely 'flat whites', made with espresso, hot water and milk and a thin layer of foam (delicious), and 'hotdogs', which are not what we know, but are something more akin to what I imagine Terry Pratchett's somehwat shady character, Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, might have sold: a sausage on a stick, dipped in batter and deep-fried (not so delicious). The Kiwis are big on fried food (er, sometimes literally - especially the Maori and Pacific Islanders). They love chips, which can also be bought anywhere (usually served in a polystyrene cup), and there is pretty much never the option of ordering grilled chicken or fish instead of the fried version at takeaway shops or cafes. There is a concerted effort on the part of the government to help the populace improve their eating habits - lots of radio and magazine adverts to this effect - but I haven't noticed that it is sinking in. This is disappointing for us, especially given Willem's hypertension and Maya's insulin resistance. Shopping in the supermarkets is also a challenge in this respect: food labels are very precise in listing possible allergens, but hardly ever mention the GI rating, there is no such thing as a healthy bread roll (I really miss Woolies!), and the only place I could source Xylitol (natural, low-GI sugar substitute) was from an online mail order company.

New Zealanders do other things slightly differently too. The way they speak, for instance. The accent does take some getting used to. Words and phrases also mean different things: 'Cheers' means thanks, not goodbye. A dairy is a corner store. Sweets of any description, even chocolate, are called lollies. And many, many Maori words are incorporated into everyday speech, newspaper and TV news items, and even journal articles, on the assumption that we all know what pakeha, mana, iwi and whanau are. Maya is learning a smattering of Maori at school, but can never remember enough to teach me when she gets home. I am picking up bits and pieces here and there, though, and learning as much as I can about Maori culture from library books etc. Maori culture seems similar in some respects to African traditionalism, with a focus on tradition, heritage, rituals, ancestors, spirituality and extended family bonds. Also not surprising is the erosion of traditional culture by westernisation, with the resultant rise in associated social problems such as unemployment, domestic violence and crime. Genealogy is very important to Maori people and is called whakapappa - in Maori, the 'wh' sound is pronounced as an 'f', so this word is pronounced fuck-a-pappa. I kid you not. There are many, many words that begin with 'whak', which makes the language sound extremely crude to the unaccustomed English ear. Another common word part that South Africans might find interesting is kaka, which pops up frequently too...

So we are getting a truly well-rounded education – from learning about different cultures and new languages, to identifying sheep kaka in the fields. (Must definitely get gumboots.) And since I started taking Max to a mothers’ playgroup on Friday mornings and got to meet a bunch of mothers (mostly Brit ex-pats, interestingly) whose favourite activities are also drinking copious quantities of coffee and wine (depending on the time of day), life is looking up. The weather is even improving – we had our first sunny Sunday braai yesterday, on our stoep with the sea view, using real charcoal (no gas for the boere, fanks), and – naturally – loads of lamb tjops.

Not at all baaaaaaaad.

Ek het 'n huisie by die see

I can't believe that it's been a month since my last post. Seems finally finding a house and taking time to settle in is a rather time-consuming business. But here we are, at last, in a comfy wood cabin in Maraetai, just outside Auckland, that some people think is expensive (half our income!) and others think is a bargain (only half our income!) and we think is just perfect.

I think what made finding a house so difficult - apart from the usual - is that I have always felt (possibly quite unfairly) that a house in some way is a statement about its occupants. A house seems to symbolise its inhabitants and their lives - much as it is supposed to do in dream analysis - and possibly even to define them. Like clothes that clad our bodies, a home clads our souls, and our most intimate family and private life. Even more: the home is the womb of the family. So it was with joy that we found a house that had been built with love, lived in with care, and had been designed for comfort and joy.

It does have its little drawbacks, however. The shower, for instance. I like to call it my Helen Clark shower. Helen Clark is the prime minister of NZ and the leader of the Labour party, currently fighting to hold onto power for yet another term in the upcoming November elections. Personally I think she's done a pretty good job so far, being primarily responsible for lowering unemployment to a very respectable 3.9% (one of the lowest in the world) among other things; but she has also been accused of turning the New Zealand into a 'nanny state', where the average citizen is micromanaged to improve productivity, ecosensitivity, and prudent living. And so we return to my shower - which is an electronic one, with the timer preset to a maximum of eight minutes. After this time, the shower switches resolutely off, not to be persuaded to come on again until a full five minutes has passed. It graciously deigns to give me a warning at seven minutes by briefly interrupting the water flow, so that I have enough time to hurriedly rinse the conditioner out of my hair and resolve to leave the shaving for tomorrow. Helen's government has suggested that all new houses be fitted with regulation shower heads that allow a maximum flow of eight litres a minute. Needless to say, there was an enormous, shocked outcry from the Kiwis who love their little luxuries. I say, coming from South Africa and dealing daily with my Helen Clark shower: bring 'em on, baby! I can take it! We Seouf Efricans are made of tuff stuff!

Looking west from our patio

So, we like our house.
And who wouldn't? It has stunning views of the woods and the sea and the islands of Waiheke and Rangitoto in the distance; it is within walking distance of all important amenities (school, beaches, playpark, corner store - called a 'dairy' in NZ, coffee shop, mobile library, forests, etc); it is made of solid timber, so is warm and dry and very cosy; it is in a quiet, affluent cul-de-sac (no racing, noisy traffic); and of course, it has the Jungle Across the Road.

The Jungle Across the Road was discovered quite by accident, when Willem correctly read the signs at home and with forced gaiety suggested that it was time for him to take the children OUT for a walk. They went to explore the open plot across the road, and descended into a deep dip at its base. This led them down a steep incline into a wooded ravine, spangled with snowdrops, buttercups and daisies sprawling unabashedly beneath indigenous trees bearded with moss and hanging vines and populated with all manner of birds with whose cacaphony we were already quite familiar. The spongy grass finally levelled to reveal a clearing with a lovely little duckpond, complete with ducks and lilypads. (Memo to me: teach Max to swim. Fast.) Turns out this lovely spot belongs to all the residents of Omana Heights Drive, some of whom have used the more overgrown bits as a garden refuse dump (grrr), but most of whom leave it to grow and bloom undisturbed. Maya raced home, breathless, sparkly-eyed, with rose-tinged cheeks, bursting into the kitchen with: "Mommy, Mommy! We have a JUNGLE just across the road!" And so it was that the Jungle Across the Road was christened. It did explain where all the ducks in the road came from. And the dawn-and-dusk cacaphony. And the extravagant swathe of green prefacing our view of the sea.

The Jungle Across The Road

Willem and I were calculating how much money we'd need to buy this house, only if we felt like it, of course. Admittedly, it is in a rather pricey area - Maraetai is a tiny village about 20kms outside of Auckland proper, and is a favourite weekend and holiday getaway destination, being surrounded with beaches and forests as it is. Property is also notoriously expensive in New Zealand, and Auckland especially. And we do only have one salary at the moment. Our calculations showed that we'd have to save half our income (namely, the 50% that's left over once we've paid the rent) for the next seven years just to be able to afford the 20% down payment preferred by the banks when granting a mortgage. Einabliksem!

So for now, we'll just enjoy it, and curb our ambitions to adjusting in this crazy new country of unpredictable weather, illogical supermarket layouts, and nature reserves populated almost entirely by sheep. And develop some seriously mean glutes walking up and down the hills.