by Te Radar
If I were to draw a very long bow, and aim the arrow of symbolism at a pressing social issue, then I could say that the aerial fracas I witness in the skies above my landholding presents an apt metaphor of a wider societal issue, which is the increasingly common clash between the rural and urban populations. The face of the countryside is changing.
From the plateau on which I reside, I can sit in my thinking chair and watch the ongoing skirmishes between hawks and the resident magpies. The magpies, brash and loud, rise and swoop upon any unfortunate hawk that flies into their sphere of influence. The hawks look resigned to it and attempt to fly up and way, but the persistent magpies swirl and attack.
It can go on for several minutes, until eventually the hawk, either wearied by the annoyance, or convinced there are slim pickings to be had there anyway, moves off. The magpies return to the tree to do whatever it is they do when they are not attacking hawks or diving at people’s heads.
Magpies are a ferocious bird. When they attack you, you’re forced into all kinds of humiliating defensive actions. There is no dignity in being attacked by a magpie. They will make you look foolish to any onlookers, who will laugh at you until they too are attacked by the birds.
With the flood of the urbanite into the rural hinterlands, there have been many similar confrontations as people with unrealistic expectations, or flawed views of the realities of the countryside, come into contact with those already there.
Not long ago, the sound of calves and cows who had just been separated from each other at weaning would not have prompted a call to the council noise control officer.
No one would have considered taking a farmer to court because he milked his cows earlier than the complainant wanted to get up. They would have been laughed out the door. Not any more.
In Kaukapakapa, the local volunteer fire brigade has received complaints by one new resident that their siren, which helps alert the members to the existence of an emergency, is too loud, and please, would they mind not using it at night. One can only hope that person is never in need of the assistance of the volunteers.
This clash is not something that we have resolved. Like the magpie, there is loud and vigorous dissent on both sides.
But it’s not all bad.
One quiet Saturday, I pack some produce and head to the Matakana markets to play at being a stallholder.
I’ve harvested a bunch of artichokes and some lettuce, and I have my bonsai lawns with me, although I have upgraded them. Gone are the ice cream containers. The boxes are now crafted from recycled matai, which I obtained from my neighbour, Demolition Pete, who salvaged it from a building he was demolishing.
Sales of the artichokes are brisk. People who have never tried an artichoke decide they will give them a go. A passing woman buys two artichokes for $7. I allow people to dictate the price they want to pay for them. That way it is like a donation.
How rabidly anti-capitalist of me.
I quite like playing storekeeper. I like the contact with people. I like hustling for sales. There is a simple pleasure in the markets.
I had never been to Matakana before the farming project. It was once a sleepy little town, but now it is the hub of an exclusive enclave of wineries, olive orchards, multimillion-dollar lifestyle blocks, and the most famous of the farmers’ markets in the area.
The coffee is superb. A band is playing. It’s more than a trip to the greengrocers. It’s an event.
People are interested in what we are filming. It’s one of the great gateways to conversation sometimes, having a camera crew. I get to chat to stallholders and customers. Over the course of a few more personal visits during the following months, the relationships are maintained, stories are swapped. There is a palpable sense of a village market, despite the fact that people flock here from miles around.
The irony of this festive market is that many people drive the long hour north from Auckland to buy ‘local’ produce, then return with it to the city. The fact is not lost on the market people.
But does it really matter? It’s easy to mock, but maybe we shouldn’t. It’s a great day out, regardless.
A big family outing for us when we were children was to pile into the car after the cows were milked in the morning and simply go for a drive. On this drive we would look out the window of the car, and watch the landscape roll past. Much of the time I don’t even think there was a destination as such.
It was something for which I shall for ever be grateful.
It would be something that many people would find boring, but I loved it. At least I think I did, and I don’t want to ask in case I discover that as a child I didn’t love it and made the entire experience miserable for everyone. I wish to continue with thoughts of my idealised childhood.
Going for a drive is something I still do to pass the time, even though we now live in an age where the thought of simply driving somewhere for no actual reason is frowned upon as a waste of precious oil. It has also become a lot more expensive to do, but it is a great way to see the countryside.
With the advent of fitted televisual screens in vehicles, passengers now watch DVDs or play games. Their focus is on the internal.
The external, the passing landscape, is lost to them except through quick glances.
Having travelled on some major highways overseas, I can well understand why this is. There is no view to speak of.
A good way to monitor the changing nature of the countryside is to watch the speed at which houses and subdivisions encroach upon productive farmland. There are those who decry this, but if people wish to live in the countryside, then who are we to stop them? Who are we to say no to the tiny blocks, the mini vineyards, and olive groves? Or have we reached the stage where, like the magpie, we need to drive them off to another hunting ground?
Another woman approaches my stall and pays $10 for four artichokes. She asks me how they are prepared. This is a question for which I am not prepared. I tell her I have no idea, and we both agree that if we find out over the course of the morning we’ll let the other know.
Ambling through the markets is Dougal from Dublin, who’s doing a PhD in farmers’ markets around the world. It sounds like a very taxing job—all that travelling and mooching about, staring at produce and meeting like-minded folk.
‘What is it about them that draws people back to them?’ I ask.
‘People are becoming more aware of the importance of good-quality food,’ he says. ‘They want to form a connection with the person and the product.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘I like your lawn,’ he says. ‘I have never seen anything like it before.’
I’ll take that as a compliment from a man who knows his farmers’ market produce.
Joe from Rainbow Valley Farm also likes them. ‘People could graze their hamsters on them,’ he says.
I wish I had thought of that.
Joe, like most of the other people at the markets, seems to be in a particularly good mood. ‘Look around,’ he says. ‘People are smiling when they are buying things. You don’t get that in a supermarket. Here the transaction is from person to person, from heart to heart.’
While it may sound a little schmaltzy, it is actually true.
There is a delight in the markets. People are there to shop, much as they are in any store, but the atmosphere is different—part village market, part tourist trap. Smiles are exchanged as often as money.
There’s also an honesty about the place as people sell the wares they have made. They will be back next week and the week after, so if there is anything wrong with their product, they can’t hide.
From fruit and vegetables that really do still have the dirt on them, to preserves, pickles, wine, cheese, sausages, bacon and coffee, there is a little something for everyone.
Despite the bonsai lawns looking good, they don’t seem to be selling. Maybe they are ahead of their time. I’m sure that if I were to take them to the markets in the city, I would do a roaring trade. It’s all about
finding the right consumer for your goods.
In all honesty I don’t really mind, because they serve another purpose: they provide a great opening gambit for conversation, as person after person stops to stare at them, and then ask what they are for. I while away the morning, talking and laughing with strangers.
Trish, who I have not seen since my visit to Rainbow Valley Farm, arrives and we chat as people peruse our wares. She admires my artichokes.
‘I’ve sold quite a few of them,’ I say, ‘and I gave one to a girl with a pretty smile.’
Trish holds one up. ‘These ornamental ones are so beautiful,’ she says.
‘Sorry…ornamental?’
‘Yes, you can tell by the shape of the leaves—they are more pointed than the edible ones.’
‘Oh.’
I think I have been misrepresenting my product. I fear that the woman who has always wanted to try artichokes may not be so keen on them any more.
As I’m about to leave, Joe returns. Putting his arm around Trish he says, ‘You know, Radar, if you are really going to be sustainable and you want to live off the land, what you need to survive is a good woman.’
She beams. He grins.
I laugh. ‘Which stall sells those?’
It is to be the last time I see Joe. A brain tumour claims his life a few months later.
20
Boys will be boys
For all my concerns about spiders, the most dangerous animal in the woodpile is probably me, especially when I am wielding an axe, for it is fair to say that I am no axeman extraordinaire.
While I will survive intact several months of firewood chopping on the farm, late last year I found myself at the Canterbury A&P show, convinced that within moments there was going to be less of me than there had been.
Shooting the Homegrown ‘Timber’ episode, I was exploring the world of competitive axemen. I have always been impressed by any competitive endeavour that combines a job with a sport.
In most sports there is a danger of injury, but few sports have a piece of equipment that is honed to a razor-sharp edge, and which is then aimed at a large piece of wood only centimetres from where your feet are precariously positioned.
While I knew that in participating I would have to stand on the log, and swing the axe at a point between my feet to cut out a V, I had anticipated that they would provide me with some kind of safety footwear, but they laughed at me and pointed to the light sandshoes on their feet. ‘That’s them there,’ they said.
They were ordinary sneakers.
Ludicrous.
They wouldn’t have impeded the axe in any way whatsoever. The axemen may as well have protected their feet with a coating of butter.
‘We used to do it in socks—you get better grip that way,’ one axeman said.
‘What about your toes?’
‘Well, you don’t aim for them.’
How this is still legal I do not know, but that is the world of the timber industry.
Of all the tasks I attempt on the farm, it is always the ones involving timber that have the most chance of something going haywire. This is because these are the tasks that involve any number of dangerous tools—from circular saws to chainsaws, from hammers to pneumatically powered nail guns, not to mention the sheer weight of the wood when it comes plummeting down towards your upturned face.
Thankfully, most of the work I have to do with timber involves working alongside Demolition Pete. Pete is another chap who just happens to live up the road, and while he currently specialises in demolition, he has formerly been a house mover and a tree feller fella. I first met him when I needed some timber for my gardens.
If anyone has timber, it is Pete. His shed is stacked to the gunwales with all manner of recycled timber. Contracted to pull down houses and buildings, Pete strips out what is valuable and dumps the rest.
As a sideline he uses a lot of the timber to build small transportable buildings. According to the council regulations, if a building isn’t fixed to the ground, is under a certain size, code compliant, not slept in, doesn’t have potable water, and isn’t cooked in, then it doesn’t require a permit.
Built largely from recycled timber, Pete’s buildings look like little weatherboard houses, complete with windows and French doors. They are grand-looking buildings, and I want one, which I envisage selling at the end to recoup the costs.
So Pete and his offsider Brett arrive with the prefabricated kitset components on his truck.
‘Where do ya want it, Mr Radar?’ he asks.
‘Ah, about there?’ I suggest, pointing in a non-specific way at a generalised area of grass.
‘Well, that’ll give you a nice outlook,’ he says.
It most certainly will, as it looks out over the field and down into the valley. People pay a lot of money for a view like that. Of course, the money they pay for the view also generally secures them a house with power and running water.
With the location agreed upon, it is time for a good old-fashioned house raising. Within a short time the floor is on, the wall framing is in place, the roof framing is lifted on, and the beer is being drunk.
Over the next few days, the building progresses smoothly, and within a short period we are nailing up weatherboards. I manage to get mine a little skewwhiff.
‘Don’t worry about that, no one’ll ever know,’ says Pete, echoing what I suspect is an often-used builder’s refrain.
He even provides a lead-light feature window, and Brett lends me an old deck that he has lying around. These are the crowning glories.
As the building reminds me of the tiny wooden churches that dot our countryside, I call it The Chapel.
It only lacks one thing (if you don’t count power, or running water)—a roof over the deck, and while I am at it, one in front of the caravan. I need to break up my indoor-outdoor flow, as the present tendency is for the outdoors to flow a little too liberally into my indoors. I need areas that are neither indoors nor outdoors, but convenient middle grounds.
I had always planned to build verandas, but with a tight schedule, things have been prioritised differently and I have not thrown them up.
But now at last, as summer draws to an end, the time has come to create something that will protect me from the imminent threat of rain that autumn holds. Being hot is one thing, but being wet is a lot more miserable.
Pete suggests we use manuka poles from his mate’s place, which I consider a marvellous plan as they are free, and it’s legal to harvest a certain amount.
Collecting the manuka is one of those jobs that you think should take 10 minutes, but really needs an hour, and ends up taking far longer than you could ever have imagined in a worst-case scenario.
The timber is located on the far side of a valley, and can only be obtained by descending a long, winding, clay track with a sharp bend at the bottom, just before a skinny bridge over a creek, which leads to a steep slope on the other side that rises to a small dome-shaped plateau, on which you have to attempt to turn around before collecting the timber.
Had the job been done a few days earlier, we wouldn’t have suffered the effects of the first of the rain on the dry ground. But with a series of squalls running through, a light smattering of rain has reduced the few inches of topsoil to a soft mire that sits atop a layer of clay, which has received just enough moisture to render it a slick slime.
What could possibly go wrong?
As Pete’s trailer is too big and we don’t have mine, we borrow a small trailer from his mate. One tyre is flat, and there is no pump. Still, it’s only a few poles. How heavy can they be?
What I had assumed would be the light poles I want actually turn out to be pillars, some about 30 centimetres thick and a couple of metres long.
As Pete fells them, I think to myself that they appear to be slightly larger than I had imagined, but as he has gone to all the effort of cutting them down, I don’t wish to point this out.
There’s still a noble grace in the art of felling a t
ree. There’s almost a denial of the inevitable at the beginning, followed by a slow topple, then an increasing downward surge that culminates in the tree finally crashing down.
It is little surprise that the forestry industry’s ACC premiums are so high. Trees can fall a long way, and there’s little standing in the way of them slapping you to the ground if you yourself are standing in their way.
The chainsaw is still one of the most vicious and raw of all of the tools. That sharp chain designed to cut timber wouldn’t flinch if it were to cut through flesh. The thought of it kicking back and flicking its teeth through head or shoulder, gouging out a swath of flesh and bone as it sinks in, does tend to make one a little more cautious. At least initially.
There’s any amount of safety gear to wear now, including chaps made out of a fabric that immediately entangles and stops the chain if it is about to cut into your leg. Not for the first time I wish I was wearing chaps.
In the Kauri Museum at Matakohe, which I consider one of the country’s great museums, there is a grand photo. Situated as a backdrop to their chainsaw collection, it depicts a bushman on a log, holding a very large chainsaw and clad in the safety gear of the time, which seems to consist of nothing more than a pair of short shorts and boots.
There seems to be an awful lot of muscled limbs and torso exposed to the potential damage that could be inflicted by what is a very large, quite heavy, primitive-looking chainsaw. It has clearly been taken in the days when men were men and workplace injuries were considered an acceptable occupational hazard.
Collectors are wonderful people. It is my great good fortune that my father is an avid collector of vintage tractors and military vehicles, which he spends years painstakingly restoring. Through him I have developed a belief that one of the greatest sins is the melting down for scrap of so much of our heritage.
There was a time when every primary school and playcentre, kindergarten and park, especially in the country, had an old tractor plonked in its grounds. Sadly, as they deteriorated with the weather and became unsafe, with rusty edges and sharp corners, they were often sold as scrap. These machines that enabled the taming of the bush and the tilling of the fields, that hauled and dug and lifted, were all sent to be consumed by the fires of the foundry. History melted.
