Pizzles in Paradise

by John Hicks

  ‘John, it’s Dave here. I wonder if you could come and have a look at an emancipated hind for me?’

  No, it wouldn’t do to make a joke of it. Dave was one of the most progressive deer farmers in the district. But it would pay to establish precisely what we were talking about.

  ‘How long has she been like this, Dave?’

  ‘A few days, she’s losing condition rapidly.’

  Sure enough, when I turned up on the farm, I was taken to the emaciated hind.

  One of the biggest seasonal tasks facing New Zealand veterinarians in sheep practice is to check that the rams going to serve the forty million ewes each autumn are capable of doing their job. Most of this is by a process of carefully feeling the scrotum and its contents for lumps that could indicate infection or injury, undersized testicles, scrotal hernias and indeed any other defects that could render them infertile. Using fingers and touch is a process universally known as palpation to all except the intransigent few who want their rams ‘palpitated’ which implies more of a cardiac thrill than that to be obtained from feeling their rams’ balls.

  As farming knowledge deepens and progresses, I never cease to be impressed by the readiness with which modern farmers take up new knowledge and technology. A few years back worm drenches were administered to lambs as a three-weekly routine. Monitoring the level of worm infestation is now widely practised so that drenches can be spared for strategic occasions. Along with increasing farmer awareness has come a familiarity with the different internal parasites responsible for loss of condition or deaths in their stock. This is one circumstance where the Latin is easier than the anglicised versions. It is easier to refer to an ‘Ostertagia’ problem than one caused by the ‘thin-necked stomach worm’ and perhaps ‘Haemonchus’ rather than ‘Barber’s Pole worm’. After all they are mostly microscopic and can hardly be seen by the naked eye. How concerning then for the farmer who had a humungous worm problem.

  ‘John, there’s Eddie Calvert on the line and he reckons he’s got a humungous problem, I’ll put him through.’

  ‘Hello, Eddie, what’s up?’

  ‘I reckon I’ve got that humungous problem.’

  The lack of an indefinite article preceding the adjective alerted me that humungous was, at least in Eddie’s mind, a specific condition.

  ‘I drenched my lambs three weeks ago and some of them are still scouring.’

  The penny dropped. Eddie suspected he had a problem with Haemonchus. It is indeed, a blood sucking worm that can cause humungous trouble.

  And so to the last tier, the names that frighten off all but the most intrepid. Quite commonly we see sheep, and occasionally calves, that suffer from a thiamine (vitamin B1) deficiency. The rumen is a large stomach, common to all ruminants: a vast vat of bacteria and protozoa on which they rely to break down their diet. A change in the chemistry of the rumen can occur with any sudden dietary change, such as when sheep are moved off dry hill country onto lush pasture. This alters the rumen microflora, one consequence being impaired thiamine production. Thiamine is essential for efficient nervous function and if it is lacking there is damage to the brain cortex: characteristic lesions which give the descriptive name for this disease, Cerebrocortical necrosis, or CCN for those who love acronyms. Affected sheep press their heads against fences, become blind and deaf and may go into convulsions. Remarkably, these symptoms can be reversed if thiamine is given by injection in the early stages. When I diagnosed this in old Bill Edie’s sheep he wasn’t too impressed with the name, although he did like the fact that most of his hoggets recovered. In his long life he had never heard of it, though no doubt he had seen sheep with similar symptoms. What else could he have called it? An alternative scientific name is Polioencephalomalacia (PE), not to be confused with Focal Symmetrical Encephalomalacia (FSE), a totally different disease of sheep which can cause similar symptoms. Both are relatively common conditions, but their names impede familiarity. If only they had been recognised by farmers a century ago and given a catchy epithet like ‘brainrot’ we’d all have thought we knew what we were talking about. But then how would we have differentiated between PE brainrot and FSE brainrot?

  Maybe there will be a small bastion of knowledge that we vets can retain as our own special preserve, but the words will have to become bigger yet. The new generation of farmers is catching onto the jargon fast.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I don’t Like Cricket: I Love it. Yeah!

  As spring turned to summer, the pressure of work eased. Mount Taranaki renounced his cloak of mist more frequently and presided over a brighter and more benign landscape. We, who laboured in his shadow, reverted to a one-in-four after-hours duty roster. There was more time for recreation.

  I know that Holland does field a cricket team of sorts, but Hank was typical of most of his race. He had no interest whatsoever in cricket whereas Roy, David and I would often spend time in the nets after work. Roy was a precise batsman, with a mathematical bent. His love of the game drew on the accompanying statistical analysis. His other love was soccer and he would weekly note down the British football results off the radio—all that ‘Tranmere Rovers, nil… Birmingham Bonkers, seven’ stuff. He had total recall of screeds of useless information that I would have found worrying to acquire in case it cluttered up the recesses of my tiny mind; but his was a mind born to research and Roy, after many happy years in veterinary practice in Taranaki, eventually moved into more academic realms.

  David was an elegant and dashing batsman. Before I could draw any incorrect assumptions from this talent he was quick to assert that in Yorkshire cricket is definitely a working class game, and that without doubt he sided with the ‘players’ and not the ‘gentlemen’.

  As for me, I had always had a passion for the game. I had spent many summer afternoons on the school playing-fields lapping up the commentary on one of those new-fangled transistor radios as our team awaited their turn to bat. John Arlott, peerless commen- tator, painted such evocative word-pictures in his West Country drawl. Who could not fail to love the game when introduced to it by such a master? What matter that Bill Lawry was grinding on to yet another relentlessly boring century if you found out who had planted the chestnut trees at the Vauxhall Road end of the ground, why, and when? Here was a game superficially simple, yet of enormous depth and complexity: a game rich in culture, history and imagery. Five days of test cricket were five days of oscillating drama that changed the colour of our lives. At the end of each lesson we would eagerly catch up with the progress of our team, our imaginations enriched by powerful word associations. Dark green, light green, extra cover, white flannel, red stain, willow crack, gentle applause, rain … dream on. My passion was great. Perhaps it did not matter that my talent did not match it.

  Later in summer the workload in the practice, which was involved with dairy cows at least ninety per cent of the time, dropped still further as the cows, released from the trials of spring, sleeked out on juicy pastures. Hank nobly babysat while the three cricketers in his crew went to see an important game at the delightful ground at Pukekura Park in New Plymouth. Here, in a natural amphitheatre surrounded by bush and serenaded by cicadas, we had several enjoyable outings. David seemed to be forgetting my public school origins.

  I don’t know what Hank thought about our cricketing interests, for he was a true gentleman who would never speak ill of anyone. Like so many trusting people he was also extremely gullible, so easy to gull, indeed, that we only stooped to it when the occasion was irresistible.

  Hank was also, for someone so competent in his regular dealings with the public, extremely shy. After many years in New Zealand, and being married to a New Zealander, he was due to become one himself. For British immigrants this was a fairly simple formality. After two years’ residency you could post off your five dollars and, short of a criminal record, the honour was yours. But it was not so easy for those from ‘alien cultures’, as we made Hank well aware. People from outside the British Commonwealth had t
o swear fealty to Her Majesty at a special ceremony. Hank was not too keen on this. For a start, he wasn’t convinced that every British citizen would be prepared to do the same and he contended, quite rightly, that the accident of being born under the Union Jack was no guarantee of loyalty to the crown. He had a point but, as we pointed out, rules are rules.

  At this stage in history members of the British Royal family hadn’t done too much wrong to blot their copybook, or if they had it wasn’t yet public knowledge. Indeed, a Royal face on any women’s magazine was a guaranteed selling point to an adoring New Zealand public. Hank was politely cautious about offending the strong—and recently acquired—sensitivity to all criticism of royalty that his younger vets now overtly displayed. In his presence we would explore hitherto unlikely topics such as Her Majesty’s latest frock, and applaud Prince Philip’s indiscretions about ‘slitty-eyed’ people. In the latter case we would, of course, extend a mock sympathy to other foreigners, perhaps even those of Dutch extraction, who might be offended.

  I think it was Roy who discovered that Hank was tone deaf.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about the oath part, Hank,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Hank, hesitating. He had detected a troubling note behind Roy’s assurance.

  Roy enlightened him: ‘Hank, all you have to do when taking the oath is to lie back and think of Holland. I reckon having to sing ‘God Defend New Zealand’ in front of witnesses will be infinitely worse.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Hank stammered.

  ‘I wish I were,’ said Roy, upping the ante, ‘but several people have failed and had to re-apply for their citizenship just recently. It can be quite inconvenient, not to say expensive; like those people who take forever to get their driving licence.’

  David joined in, ‘Ah, but did you see that recent article in Truth?’ quoting a rag that no one of average intelligence would take seriously, but which was eminently suitable for lining the bottom of cat cages.

  ‘What about it?’ enquired Hank, by now visibly alarmed.

  ‘Apparently they’re only charging half price if you have to re-apply.’

  We would play it out for quite a while to see how many cards we could add to our house of fiction before it tumbled. Hank always took it in good grace. He even played along a bit when the light dawned. He had a great sense of humour.

  Hank duly obtained his citizenship without having to sing and without recourse to a ‘helpful’ ruse that we had suggested—slipping a fifty-dollar note into his driving licence before the ceremony. The irony of this may be lost on those who do not appreciate that New Zealand has been listed as one of the least corrupt countries in the world. Although I have been upbraided for occasional bouts of cynicism, I suspect that this is a fair assessment.

  ~

  I have always been impressed with the opportunities for continuing education available to vets in New Zealand. Soon after we arrived I was sent off to a conference, held in a pleasant setting near Rotorua. The profession is very small in New Zealand. Even today [2005] there are just 650 practising vets, so there is considerable collegial cordiality. I was used to a more hierarchical British system, and therefore amazed when on the afternoon of registration, as the delegates were assembling, an older man approached me, introduced himself, and asked if I wanted to make up a tennis foursome with a couple of his friends. Unremarkable you might think, but I subsequently found he was the president of the New Zealand Veterinary Association. I tried to imagine the equivalent incumbent of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, Nigel Pilkington Gobstrode-Browne, or whatever, being able or willing to cross social barriers so easily and welcome a young upstart in such a friendly manner. That is the New Zealand way. The easy informality was totally at variance with the traditions of my own upbringing, but I warmed to it immediately.

  I felt the same when the New Zealand Prime Minister of the day, Bill Rowling, sat in an aeroplane seat behind me on a routine internal flight: no fuss or flannel. It wasn’t just my profession, the whole of New Zealand was a small, friendly and privileged club, and we wanted to join it. We paid our five dollars and became New Zealand citizens. As loyal British subjects of Her Majesty I recall that it was cheaper for us than for Hank.

  Chapter Twenty

  Alpine Adventure

  It was inevitable that we would be drawn to the looming presence of Mount Taranaki. On many weekends we had driven up the road, tunnelling through his dense skirt of enormous trees, to its end at Dawson Falls. Here a stream cascaded over a wedge of frozen magma, one of the lava flows raking down through the forest from the cone above. From the car park, we were drawn ever upwards through an exotic array of botanically-layered successions. We inhaled the cool, damp air of the subalpine forest and followed the weaving path through a tangle of hebe and leatherwood shrubs. Up we’d press, through tussock grasslands and showy alpine plants, before gratefully sprawling on some cushioning mat of herbs. Here we’d rest awhile and gather strength for the last 1700 feet of slog over loose volcanic scoria.

  From the summit of Taranaki’s almost perfect cone, the circular hem of dark forest strikingly delineates where the boundary of the National Park abruptly meets the verdant farmland beneath. Away in the far distance, across myriad steep, bush-covered ridges, the white summits of the volcanoes in the centre of the North Island gleam, as over a sombre sea.

  The early settlers showed great foresight in recognising the vast water-retentive capacity of this mantle of vegetation and they were quick to protect it as a National Park. It acts as a giant sponge, breathing life into the surrounding farms in times of drought. Not all New Zealand forest was spared so assiduously, but much remains. It is possible to walk for days and days in forest wildernesses in New Zealand, something which is only a distant folk memory to those familiar with the highly modified landscapes of Britain.

  We climbed Mount Taranaki several times. One carefully chosen day in spring we even carried our skis up, and descended that snow-covered scoria in whooping turns. But however much we turned to ‘the mountain’ for our recreation, we were keen to taste the promise waiting us elsewhere in New Zealand.

  On our second summer we were able to take a longer holiday and we headed to the Southern Alps to see some real mountains. Aotearoa, land of the long white cloud—the Maori name for New Zealand—seems particularly apt for the South Island. Beneath that long cloud the shattered brim of the Pacific plate is heaved skywards by the tectonic forces riding it across the Australian plate. The Southern Alps are not, like the Scottish Highlands, the noble eroded stumps of ancient ranges, but part of a geologically young and active landscape still thrusting up at a steady one inch a year. As we drove south we were excited by our first glimpse of the dramatic wedged peak of Mount Cook (Aoraki, the cloud-piercer), at 12,349 feet, the highest of them all. There he was, glinting—shades and shadows of white—a giant even in the mighty10,000-foot company of Mount Sefton, La Perouse, Nazomi, Elie de Beaumont and others. The strangely shocking turquoise luminosity of Lake Pukaki provided a starkly surreal foreground. (The high content of fine-ground rock or ‘glacial flour’ in the local lake waters lends them this unusual reflective nature.) It was Viv’s twenty-first birthday. I had given her a wristwatch. I knew it was not enough, that she deserved more from me, but we had hardly abandoned our frugal student lifestyle and I knew that she would be offended by more extravagance. Material possessions were relatively unimportant to us: being able to share moments like this, priceless.

  We had ten magic days of exploration to look forward to. With growing anticipation, we sped along the dusty unsealed road beside the lake, heading straight into the heart of the Southern Alps. Rapidly, the peaks gained in stature. We bypassed the small settlement and hotel at Mt Cook Village and pitched our tent at the informal campsite beside an old moraine of the Mueller Glacier. In the afternoon, we scrambled to its top in the late sun, exhilarated by the almost palpable aura peculiar to such special places. Even in this sub-alpine zone
the biodiversity of fragrant shrubs and herbs was astounding to eyes attuned to the sheep-degraded flora of Britain’s wild hills. Mountain flax, snow tussock, snow totara, gaultheria, celmisia (alpine daisies), celery-leaved mountain pine, everlasting daisies, bidi-bidi, raoulia and many others contrived a textured tapestry of intricate form and palette. On the crest of the moraine we lazed in the warm sun amongst the herbs, and studied the rock and ice of the towering south face of Mount Cook and the stone-strewn glacier grinding towards us from its base.

  Isolated huts are dotted far and wide throughout the wilds of New Zealand and we have since spent many nights in their cosy shelter, but the Mueller hut was our first experience of this New Zealand institution. We reached it after a steep climb from the valley floor to its magnificent position at 6000 feet on a ridge opposite the glacier-wreathed, vertical faces of Mount Sefton. A group of fellow trampers sat out in the hot sun, enjoying the spectacle as enormous blocks of ice peeled from precarious positions and cascaded onto the Mueller Glacier thousands of feet below. Rather as thunder is heard after the lightning flash, the avalanche plumes preceded the sharp cracks and rumbling echoes resounding off the rock walls. A family of keas raucously chased scraps of food. The brilliant orange of their underwings in surprising contrast to the olive precision of their outer feathers. Far below, on the other side of the ridge, the Tasman River’s silver braids glinted in the broad waste of shingle stretching from the snout of its glacier.

  Here was geography in the making: terminal, lateral and medial moraines, névés, cirques, truncated spurs, hanging valleys. A living landscape, an alien landscape, but a landscape that had long been in my dreams. I don’t think that Frank Smythe ever visited the Southern Alps, but I know he would have been happy there.