New Slogan Excites Debate
23rd February 2008
Debate over a new slogan for Ashburton deepened this week with rumours that the District Council has committed millions of dollars of ratepayers’ funds to acquire the famous Tui catch-phrase.
Ashburton mare, Bede O’Malley, has refused to comment on the speculation, but in a terse press release Council spokesperson, Edgar ‘Tiny’ White (Parks & Gardens) has denied the rumours.
“There is absolutely no intention to use the Tui slogan in Mid-Canterbury,” he said. “It is Council’s view that Ashburton - Yeah Right would not capture the spirit of our community going forward.”
Mr White confirmed that a new slogan will be in place before Wheels Week in May.
“Over the years we’ve had a bit of grief about our slogan from the numerous petrol heads, sorry, ‘car enthusiasts’ who visit during Wheels Week. Whatever It Takes has tended to be seen by visitors as a licence for bad behaviour.”
Guardian readers agree. “Whatever It Takes was fine for the 90s,” writes Pickles from Hampstead. “It was a desperate slogan for desperate times but it led to some pretty poor decision-making about development in our district. Our new slogan will have to be a lot more self-respecting.”
“Whatever It Takes was rubbish,” blasts Miss Fortune from Chertsey. “It was the catch-cry of a superannuated call-girl.”
Many local residents are rising to the challenge of finding a new slogan that captures the spirit of our place. A vigorous debate has been raging through the Guardian’s website and editorial pages for weeks.
Predictably, many of the suggestions are inspired by local geography: Plain and Simple, Plain Magic and The Heart of the Plains are just a few.
These suggestions are vociferously rejected by others. N Spired of Allenton writes, “The slogan can be anything as long as it doesn’t mention ‘plains’ or ‘heartland.’ Do we want Ashburton to be linked to the word ‘plain’? And heartland has been done to death. Give us something more original!”
Others draw on Ashburton’s location at the centre of the South Island, or its close proximity to Christchurch. Ashburton – Just Down The Road is the choice of Mrs Ima Divot of Netherby. Which draws a response from Fred in Pleasant Point, who writes, “Mrs Divot should remember that from South Canterbury Ashburton is Just Up The Road.”
An undeterred Mrs Divot then suggests we could have two slogans: Just Down The Road for places north of the township and Just Up The Road for places south.
“What about, Ashburton – Middle of the Road?” offers Compromise from Tinwald. “I think that sums us up nicely.”
“Well, if we really want people to stop here why not The End of the Road?” retorts the feisty Mrs Divot.
“That would look just peachy on a sign at the northern end of town within sight of the cemetery,” observes Fruit Loop of Netherby.
Another tranche of slogans draw inspiration from the district’s major economic activities. Dairy enthusiasts have submitted Ashburton – Udderly Fabulous, Teats R Us and Land of Milk and Money. An inspired crop farmer suggests New Zealand’s Bread Basket or Serious Cereals.
A lively entry in the debate comes from The Lab Coat Girls from Talleys. “Dear Sir,” they write, “we work in the lab at Talley’s and we have a lot of fun. We tell our mates we work in a pea lab and, oh, how they laugh! Anyway, we thought what about a slogan that celebrates the vegetable industry? Some suggestions are: Ashburton – Have a Pea. Or what about Minted Peas, or Mixed Vegetables? We think these really are what Mid-Canterbury is all about.”
“Those girls need to get out more,” responds Grizz from Methven. “No, for a slogan you’ve gotta look at our resources, and that means water. I reckon Ashburton – Pour It On is a winner. You could paint it on big signs hung from centre pivots across highway one at each end of the town. You could even have the centre pivots working so visitors to the town would get a little shower on their way through. That’s a ripper idea, I reckon.”
“Actually, the whole point of a slogan is to give us an edge over our neighbours,” argues F. Lukes (Dr). “So what we should do is trump our neighbour’s slogans. Take Rolleston, for example. Their slogan, Town Of The Future, begs to be topped. I suggest we make ours Ashburton – The Future Starts Here.”
“Once again I point out the proximity of the cemetery,” pipes Fruit Loop of Netherby.
“And none of these ideas capture the vibrancy and energy of the district,” laments Speedy of Rosebank. “My suggestion is On The Move! or On The Run!”
“On the Run sounds great,” chime in the Lab Coat Girls. “It could go with Have a Pea.”
With quality debate such as this our new slogan is bound to be a winner. But whatever we decide to call ourselves one thing is certain. To the rest of the country we will always be, affectionately, Ashvegas.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Let’s Give It Up For Lent
9th February 2008
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return.”
In the church a long line of worshippers shuffles silently towards the altar where the priest stands holding a large cup filled with ashes. As each person kneels before him he dips his thumb into the cup, bends down and, murmuring the incantation, inscribes an ashen cross on each forehead. The worshippers return silently to their seats, ash-marked heads bowed in prayer.
As Waitangi Day swirled through Aotearoa this week a couple of older, darker celebrations tangled in its coat tails. Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent in the Christian calendar, a six week period of abstinence that culminates in Holy Week, the great celebration of Easter. Because it is tied to Easter Ash Wednesday does not fall on a fixed calendar date – it is a ‘movable feast’. This year it happened to fall on Waitangi Day.
In my Catholic youth I attended Ash Wednesday mass to be marked with ash on my forehead and reminded of my mortality – “and to dust you will return.” Back home us kids would peer in the mirror, rubbing in the ashes with our fingers or teasing each other when soap and water failed to remove them.
Then our conversation would turn to what we were ‘giving up’ for Lent. Giving things up for Lent was the most significant calculation in a Catholic child’s year. We were expected to sacrifice some small pleasure or privilege for six long weeks. This, along with praying our rosary beads every night and abstaining from meat on Fridays, was intended to strengthen our faith.
Usually we gave up eating sweets – which wasn’t such a great sacrifice in an age when sweets were not as mainstreamed as they are today. Sometimes we sacrificed pocket money or a favourite TV programme. Alternatively we could take on extra duties around the house: hanging out the washing or bringing in the firewood.
We resisted these sanctions and tried various strategies to avoid them. We proposed giving up homework or spinach. I remember one of my sisters offering to do the dishes more often and my brother generously agreeing to give up his share of dishes duty so she could meet her goal.
Mum invariably quashed these creative solutions.
However, in a brilliant theological sleight of hand we managed to convince her of a loophole. She agreed that giving up eating sweets did not mean that we had to give up buying or acquiring them. So we accumulated our sweets, hoarding them in glass preserving jars under our beds, counting them up as we counted down the days until Easter. Lent for us finished on Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week and I remember the agonies we suffered after gorging ourselves on lollies. To this day I cannot face an acid drop without thinking of the yellow candlewick bedspread and dusty carpet of my childhood.
Like many Christian festivals Lent overlays older traditions. In the northern hemisphere Lent coincides with the end of winter and early spring (in Dutch ‘Lente’ means spring). For our ancestors this was always a lean time, when food supplies were running low. They fasted by necessity. The Christian church simply appropriated the practice as yet another expression of faith. It was a clever move – a rumbling tummy was easier to endure when one believed it was earning a few credits in the afterlife.
In hindsight I was short-changed as a child. It was many years before I discovered that Ash Wednesday was the second half of a double act: that it followed Shrove Tuesday, pancake day, Mardi Gras (literally ‘fat Tuesday’ in French). And it wasn’t until I travelled to Holland in my twenties that I discovered Mardi Gras is the climax of Carnival.
Carnival is a pagan festival the Church never completely subdued. It continues to this day, mostly in Europe and Latin America, a raucous outpouring of parades, masks and grotesqueries; of eating and drinking to excess; of sinning and confessing (being ‘shriven’). No wonder it was mislaid in my small Catholic childhood.
Times have changed. Lent has vanished and now every day is Carnival. Carnival suits the spirit of our age, where we are expected to live to excess. In a consumer society there is no room for abstinence, fasting or restraint.
I miss it a little. Giving something up brought a sense of accomplishment. Wouldn’t it be refreshing if we revived Lent. Imagine if the big box retailers announced they were putting prices up for a few weeks to reduce sales, or they were closing every Friday until Easter because we all had enough stuff. Imagine if we shunted advertising from our TV screens and junk mail from our letterboxes.
I’d happily give up sweets to see that.
9th February 2008
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return.”
In the church a long line of worshippers shuffles silently towards the altar where the priest stands holding a large cup filled with ashes. As each person kneels before him he dips his thumb into the cup, bends down and, murmuring the incantation, inscribes an ashen cross on each forehead. The worshippers return silently to their seats, ash-marked heads bowed in prayer.
As Waitangi Day swirled through Aotearoa this week a couple of older, darker celebrations tangled in its coat tails. Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent in the Christian calendar, a six week period of abstinence that culminates in Holy Week, the great celebration of Easter. Because it is tied to Easter Ash Wednesday does not fall on a fixed calendar date – it is a ‘movable feast’. This year it happened to fall on Waitangi Day.
In my Catholic youth I attended Ash Wednesday mass to be marked with ash on my forehead and reminded of my mortality – “and to dust you will return.” Back home us kids would peer in the mirror, rubbing in the ashes with our fingers or teasing each other when soap and water failed to remove them.
Then our conversation would turn to what we were ‘giving up’ for Lent. Giving things up for Lent was the most significant calculation in a Catholic child’s year. We were expected to sacrifice some small pleasure or privilege for six long weeks. This, along with praying our rosary beads every night and abstaining from meat on Fridays, was intended to strengthen our faith.
Usually we gave up eating sweets – which wasn’t such a great sacrifice in an age when sweets were not as mainstreamed as they are today. Sometimes we sacrificed pocket money or a favourite TV programme. Alternatively we could take on extra duties around the house: hanging out the washing or bringing in the firewood.
We resisted these sanctions and tried various strategies to avoid them. We proposed giving up homework or spinach. I remember one of my sisters offering to do the dishes more often and my brother generously agreeing to give up his share of dishes duty so she could meet her goal.
Mum invariably quashed these creative solutions.
However, in a brilliant theological sleight of hand we managed to convince her of a loophole. She agreed that giving up eating sweets did not mean that we had to give up buying or acquiring them. So we accumulated our sweets, hoarding them in glass preserving jars under our beds, counting them up as we counted down the days until Easter. Lent for us finished on Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week and I remember the agonies we suffered after gorging ourselves on lollies. To this day I cannot face an acid drop without thinking of the yellow candlewick bedspread and dusty carpet of my childhood.
Like many Christian festivals Lent overlays older traditions. In the northern hemisphere Lent coincides with the end of winter and early spring (in Dutch ‘Lente’ means spring). For our ancestors this was always a lean time, when food supplies were running low. They fasted by necessity. The Christian church simply appropriated the practice as yet another expression of faith. It was a clever move – a rumbling tummy was easier to endure when one believed it was earning a few credits in the afterlife.
In hindsight I was short-changed as a child. It was many years before I discovered that Ash Wednesday was the second half of a double act: that it followed Shrove Tuesday, pancake day, Mardi Gras (literally ‘fat Tuesday’ in French). And it wasn’t until I travelled to Holland in my twenties that I discovered Mardi Gras is the climax of Carnival.
Carnival is a pagan festival the Church never completely subdued. It continues to this day, mostly in Europe and Latin America, a raucous outpouring of parades, masks and grotesqueries; of eating and drinking to excess; of sinning and confessing (being ‘shriven’). No wonder it was mislaid in my small Catholic childhood.
Times have changed. Lent has vanished and now every day is Carnival. Carnival suits the spirit of our age, where we are expected to live to excess. In a consumer society there is no room for abstinence, fasting or restraint.
I miss it a little. Giving something up brought a sense of accomplishment. Wouldn’t it be refreshing if we revived Lent. Imagine if the big box retailers announced they were putting prices up for a few weeks to reduce sales, or they were closing every Friday until Easter because we all had enough stuff. Imagine if we shunted advertising from our TV screens and junk mail from our letterboxes.
I’d happily give up sweets to see that.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Geocaching Sweeps the World
Miles stands at the edge of the bush on the old Woolshed Creek tramline and studies the small device in his hand. It is a GPS unit, a Global Positioning System, about the size and shape of a cell phone. It shows him exactly where he is on the planet and, of greater interest to Miles, where he is going. The small screen displays co-ordinates, arrows and distances.
“It’s this way,” Miles waves his right hand like General Custer rallying the cavalry, “about thirty metres into the bush.”
We plunge into the trees, closing in on our prey.
Welcome to the world of geocaching, a digitally-enabled treasure hunt. It is fun, infectious and is sweeping the world. It is also unique in using digital technology to encourage physical activity.
If you have never heard of geocaching I can tell you it is happening in your neighbourhood, on your street, perhaps right under your nose.
The story of geocaching begins with the US military – but keep reading because the story is positive. In the 1980s the US Defence Department developed a network of satellites to provide super-accurate navigation. Civilian use of this network was severely restricted by the military scrambling the signals from the satellites. In 2000 the US government turned off the scrambling, allowing you and me to buy GPS devices with accuracy almost as good as the army’s. Today, for a couple of hundred dollars, you can buy a small GPS unit that allows you to locate your position or track objects to within a few metres, anywhere in the world.
Geocaching sprang up as an inventive use of this new and powerful technology. A geocache is a small treasure chest hidden by a player who then advertises the co-ordinates and a description of the cache on a website. Other players pick up the co-ordinates and try to find the cache.
Simple? Ho hum? Well, not quite. Caches can be extremely difficult to winkle out, as we discovered in the bush at Woolshed Creek. Steep or difficult terrain limits the accuracy of the GPS so the treasure seeker may still have to cover quite a bit of ground in a manual search for the cache. A cache’s location may be masked by cryptic clues. There may be a series of co-ordinates that have to be followed before the cache is reached. There are other variations: Offset Caches, Multi-Caches and even Virtual Caches.
Caches may take a number of forms but the few that I have seen are plastic lunchboxes with a notebook, a pencil and a collection of trinkets and other small objects. The successful treasure hunter records his or her name or caching nickname, the date of discovery and a comment in the notebook and swaps an object.
At Woolshed Creek, when we finally found the cache hidden deep within a rock crevice, one of our companions took a plastic light stick from the cache and left a small soft toy. Occasionally you may find a small engraved metal disc, a geocache ‘coin’, which I’m told is a collector’s item. I have also heard of objects being tagged with a small electronic tracking device enabling the person who first planted the object to track its progress from cache to cache.
When a cache has been found the successful geocacher records the find on a website, allowing the owner of that cache to keep track of the cache’s success.
Anybody can hunt for geocaches and anybody can hide a cache. Owners of caches are encouraged to manage their cache, checking it occasionally to make sure it is in place and has not been vandalised. Caches can swap owners: a friend recently took over the management of one on Quail Island.
Geocaching builds on older versions of the same idea. When we lived in England several years ago we were introduced to Letterboxing, a version of caching using written instructions, maps and a mailing list. We scrambled around Dartmoor, startling wildlife and wading through nettles, in search of ‘letterboxes’. I don’t think we ever found one.
If geocaching seems a bit too much like Morris Dancing or playing quoits, don’t be too hasty in your judgement (some of your best friends may be geocachers, or even Morris Dancers). It is highly infectious and a novel way to explore the countryside. When planning a walk or trip, check the website first for co-ordinates of geocaches in that area and plan your route or itinerary around them.
You may not have to go far. I’m told there is a geocache within 500 metres of my home and there is probably one close to you. You may walk past it daily, it may be visible from your front gate – if only you knew. Google ‘geocaching’ and get started today.
Miles stands at the edge of the bush on the old Woolshed Creek tramline and studies the small device in his hand. It is a GPS unit, a Global Positioning System, about the size and shape of a cell phone. It shows him exactly where he is on the planet and, of greater interest to Miles, where he is going. The small screen displays co-ordinates, arrows and distances.
“It’s this way,” Miles waves his right hand like General Custer rallying the cavalry, “about thirty metres into the bush.”
We plunge into the trees, closing in on our prey.
Welcome to the world of geocaching, a digitally-enabled treasure hunt. It is fun, infectious and is sweeping the world. It is also unique in using digital technology to encourage physical activity.
If you have never heard of geocaching I can tell you it is happening in your neighbourhood, on your street, perhaps right under your nose.
The story of geocaching begins with the US military – but keep reading because the story is positive. In the 1980s the US Defence Department developed a network of satellites to provide super-accurate navigation. Civilian use of this network was severely restricted by the military scrambling the signals from the satellites. In 2000 the US government turned off the scrambling, allowing you and me to buy GPS devices with accuracy almost as good as the army’s. Today, for a couple of hundred dollars, you can buy a small GPS unit that allows you to locate your position or track objects to within a few metres, anywhere in the world.
Geocaching sprang up as an inventive use of this new and powerful technology. A geocache is a small treasure chest hidden by a player who then advertises the co-ordinates and a description of the cache on a website. Other players pick up the co-ordinates and try to find the cache.
Simple? Ho hum? Well, not quite. Caches can be extremely difficult to winkle out, as we discovered in the bush at Woolshed Creek. Steep or difficult terrain limits the accuracy of the GPS so the treasure seeker may still have to cover quite a bit of ground in a manual search for the cache. A cache’s location may be masked by cryptic clues. There may be a series of co-ordinates that have to be followed before the cache is reached. There are other variations: Offset Caches, Multi-Caches and even Virtual Caches.
Caches may take a number of forms but the few that I have seen are plastic lunchboxes with a notebook, a pencil and a collection of trinkets and other small objects. The successful treasure hunter records his or her name or caching nickname, the date of discovery and a comment in the notebook and swaps an object.
At Woolshed Creek, when we finally found the cache hidden deep within a rock crevice, one of our companions took a plastic light stick from the cache and left a small soft toy. Occasionally you may find a small engraved metal disc, a geocache ‘coin’, which I’m told is a collector’s item. I have also heard of objects being tagged with a small electronic tracking device enabling the person who first planted the object to track its progress from cache to cache.
When a cache has been found the successful geocacher records the find on a website, allowing the owner of that cache to keep track of the cache’s success.
Anybody can hunt for geocaches and anybody can hide a cache. Owners of caches are encouraged to manage their cache, checking it occasionally to make sure it is in place and has not been vandalised. Caches can swap owners: a friend recently took over the management of one on Quail Island.
Geocaching builds on older versions of the same idea. When we lived in England several years ago we were introduced to Letterboxing, a version of caching using written instructions, maps and a mailing list. We scrambled around Dartmoor, startling wildlife and wading through nettles, in search of ‘letterboxes’. I don’t think we ever found one.
If geocaching seems a bit too much like Morris Dancing or playing quoits, don’t be too hasty in your judgement (some of your best friends may be geocachers, or even Morris Dancers). It is highly infectious and a novel way to explore the countryside. When planning a walk or trip, check the website first for co-ordinates of geocaches in that area and plan your route or itinerary around them.
You may not have to go far. I’m told there is a geocache within 500 metres of my home and there is probably one close to you. You may walk past it daily, it may be visible from your front gate – if only you knew. Google ‘geocaching’ and get started today.
We Don’t Mean to Mess Things Up
12th January 2008
My favourite music of 2007 was a low-key album called Surprise by Paul Simon (of Simon and Garfunkel fame). It is as unpredictable as its title suggests. Along with the usual quirky love songs there are comments on some of the darker themes of life in George Bush’s America, with an acid reference to “lunatics and liars.”
The album is rich with layers of instrumentation, but it is the lyrics that make the strongest impression. Simon is back at his poetic best, capturing the imagination with lines that seem just pretty at first but more unsettling on reflection: “we brought a brand new baby back from Bangladesh, thought we’d name her Emily, she’s beautiful…”
Paul Simon is not an evangelist. His songs have probably never been sung on protest marches or picket lines. But he has a way of getting under the skin. If there is a message in Surprise it is in these words, uttered in a monotone, almost sotto voce: “we don’t mean to mess things up, but mess them up we do.”
I find these words constantly in my mind as I enjoy the holiday luxury of reading newspapers and listening to the radio. Most stories boil down to Paul Simon’s message, a parade of accidents and mistakes, of outcomes totally at odds with intentions. It is as true of small stories (Ashburton art gallery’s stolen flag) as big ones (Pakistan’s political meltdown).
If the newsmakers are to be believed our ability to mess things up is no longer confined to human affairs. Events that were previously explained as acts of nature or God are now cast as consequences of our actions. Floods, droughts, hurricanes, bush fires and pestilence are sheeted back to global warming caused by our plundering of the planet’s resources.
Global warming was the Big Story of 2007 and will continue to be for a while yet. It is treated with the same breathless excitement by journalists and editors as the Cold War was when I was a child, and for the same reason – global warming has the potential to wipe us out. We watch with dismay as carbon emissions soar, as our leaders squabble over who will take the first meaningful steps towards reduction, as science falls further behind in the race to prevent a catastrophe.
I notice over the past year or so that the global warming story has become increasingly fatalistic. Even if we reduce our carbon emissions to zero we will not prevent disastrous effects from all that has gone before. The best we can do is strive to minimise the damage.
How do you respond to this stuff? I get the impression the scale of the problem frightens most of us to the point where we stand frozen in the headlights of oncoming disaster. How can I make any difference when China burns millions of tons of coal a day? Why should I install an energy saving light bulb in my kitchen when New Zealand’s cows and sheep produce 40 million tons of carbon-loaded methane each year? Why bother?
In the spirit of our times the people who appear most optimistic are often those who see a profit in global warming. Leaving aside the delicate issue of all those burping cows New Zealand continues to trade on a “clean, green” image.
This sometimes becomes ludicrous. Last week I stayed at a motor camp in the Catlins that promoted itself as “eco-friendly.” I was told that the camp owners had “retired” two sheep farms, replacing grass with trees whose carbon-soaking abilities they claimed will match the emissions of the campervans they attract to the park. Their brochure touted a “solar clothes drier” and “energy-saving” facilities. In reality the solar drier was a clothesline, energy-saving was mainly signs encouraging campers to take short showers while simple measures like separating and recycling rubbish had been overlooked.
Is a bogus response to global warming better than no response at all? If we pretend to be doing something about it will our actions eventually lead to some meaningful change in behaviour? Is any response better than despair?
Vicki Buck, former mayor of Christchurch and recently listed as a global “eco-warrior,” possesses a well-modulated view of global warming. Despite her belief that we are probably too late to stop it she continues to act from natural optimism and a sense of hope.
We can all do the same: take some small steps and pursue them with hope. We may fail to avert disaster but if we do something we will at least be able to answer the criticisms of our grand children.
If we do nothing we’ll earn Paul Simon’s words as our epitaph:
“We don’t mean to mess things up
But mess them up we do
And then it’s
‘Oh, I’m sorry…’”
12th January 2008
My favourite music of 2007 was a low-key album called Surprise by Paul Simon (of Simon and Garfunkel fame). It is as unpredictable as its title suggests. Along with the usual quirky love songs there are comments on some of the darker themes of life in George Bush’s America, with an acid reference to “lunatics and liars.”
The album is rich with layers of instrumentation, but it is the lyrics that make the strongest impression. Simon is back at his poetic best, capturing the imagination with lines that seem just pretty at first but more unsettling on reflection: “we brought a brand new baby back from Bangladesh, thought we’d name her Emily, she’s beautiful…”
Paul Simon is not an evangelist. His songs have probably never been sung on protest marches or picket lines. But he has a way of getting under the skin. If there is a message in Surprise it is in these words, uttered in a monotone, almost sotto voce: “we don’t mean to mess things up, but mess them up we do.”
I find these words constantly in my mind as I enjoy the holiday luxury of reading newspapers and listening to the radio. Most stories boil down to Paul Simon’s message, a parade of accidents and mistakes, of outcomes totally at odds with intentions. It is as true of small stories (Ashburton art gallery’s stolen flag) as big ones (Pakistan’s political meltdown).
If the newsmakers are to be believed our ability to mess things up is no longer confined to human affairs. Events that were previously explained as acts of nature or God are now cast as consequences of our actions. Floods, droughts, hurricanes, bush fires and pestilence are sheeted back to global warming caused by our plundering of the planet’s resources.
Global warming was the Big Story of 2007 and will continue to be for a while yet. It is treated with the same breathless excitement by journalists and editors as the Cold War was when I was a child, and for the same reason – global warming has the potential to wipe us out. We watch with dismay as carbon emissions soar, as our leaders squabble over who will take the first meaningful steps towards reduction, as science falls further behind in the race to prevent a catastrophe.
I notice over the past year or so that the global warming story has become increasingly fatalistic. Even if we reduce our carbon emissions to zero we will not prevent disastrous effects from all that has gone before. The best we can do is strive to minimise the damage.
How do you respond to this stuff? I get the impression the scale of the problem frightens most of us to the point where we stand frozen in the headlights of oncoming disaster. How can I make any difference when China burns millions of tons of coal a day? Why should I install an energy saving light bulb in my kitchen when New Zealand’s cows and sheep produce 40 million tons of carbon-loaded methane each year? Why bother?
In the spirit of our times the people who appear most optimistic are often those who see a profit in global warming. Leaving aside the delicate issue of all those burping cows New Zealand continues to trade on a “clean, green” image.
This sometimes becomes ludicrous. Last week I stayed at a motor camp in the Catlins that promoted itself as “eco-friendly.” I was told that the camp owners had “retired” two sheep farms, replacing grass with trees whose carbon-soaking abilities they claimed will match the emissions of the campervans they attract to the park. Their brochure touted a “solar clothes drier” and “energy-saving” facilities. In reality the solar drier was a clothesline, energy-saving was mainly signs encouraging campers to take short showers while simple measures like separating and recycling rubbish had been overlooked.
Is a bogus response to global warming better than no response at all? If we pretend to be doing something about it will our actions eventually lead to some meaningful change in behaviour? Is any response better than despair?
Vicki Buck, former mayor of Christchurch and recently listed as a global “eco-warrior,” possesses a well-modulated view of global warming. Despite her belief that we are probably too late to stop it she continues to act from natural optimism and a sense of hope.
We can all do the same: take some small steps and pursue them with hope. We may fail to avert disaster but if we do something we will at least be able to answer the criticisms of our grand children.
If we do nothing we’ll earn Paul Simon’s words as our epitaph:
“We don’t mean to mess things up
But mess them up we do
And then it’s
‘Oh, I’m sorry…’”
Farewell 2007 – Welcome the Year of the Spud
After a promising start summer has stalled in a succession of southerlies, driving us indoors and towards more reflective pursuits. We read the papers and watch the tele, drawing in to the media’s annual obsession with taking stock of the old year and predicting the new.
I’ve learned a new word from the media’s review of the passing year. Hubris.
Hubris means arrogant pride or presumption. A new word, once discovered, pops up everywhere and I notice hubris is fashionable for commentators to sum up – or dismiss – 2007. America’s continuing shambles in Iraq is hubris. The Labour government is driven by hubris. Graham Henry was motivated by hubris. Pride and presumption – “I know what’s best for you” – are the dominant motifs of the year.
Is this merely media cynicism? Having spent the year talking ourselves down are we now victims of our own propaganda? Or was 2007 really as dreadful as it’s made out to be?
Looking back over the year, the doom and gloom merchants have had a field day. Chief among these is the Reserve Bank which has discovered that making the populace miserable is a far more effective tool than interest rates in the war against inflation. Alan Bollard has out-Scrooged even Michael Cullen in his predictions that we’re about to be ruined. Consequently the housing market teeters, finance companies drop like autumn leaves, factories move offshore and thousands flee to Australia.
It is ironic that we are talking ourselves out of one of the few genuinely prosperous times we’ve experienced in the past 40 years. Instead of celebrating the fact that most of us have never been better off; that we have jobs and money in the bank (or at least a good line of credit), we are wishing ourselves back into poverty.
This is a flaw of our national character, a kind of anti-hubris that makes us feel more comfortable with failure. As individuals we may be optimistic and strive towards success but as a nation we’re never happier than when the wheels fall off.
The evidence is overwhelming. Did somebody mention sport? I know, I know, it is a painful topic, but to a nation of cynics 2007 was a thoroughly satisfying sporting year. We lined up an unprecedented series of major events in which we potentially excel – and failed in every one.
That is, we failed to win. We scored a few seconds, thirds and fourths, which left us solidly within our comfort zone. Winning is much scarier. If we had triumphed, if we were now world champions in rugby, cricket or netball, if we held the America’s Cup, we would be like the mountaineer who reaches the summit and, instead of looking up and out to enjoy the view, looks down and is overcome by vertigo.
The media understand our nature and exploit it utterly. Good news is glossed over or explained away as accidental or, maliciously, as hubris. Bad news is pushed, promoted and picked over endlessly and nauseatingly. I don’t know if it is laziness or simply lack of imagination but most journalists seem to be permanently assigned to parliament or the police. Politics and violent crime dominate our news in obsessive and gratuitous detail. Stories are reduced to a few headlines that are repeated endlessly and hysterically.
In mainstream media there is almost no attempt to make sense of the news through discussion of context, background and detail. Analysis is reduced to opinion pieces by columnists or soap box diatribes by the subjects of the stories. The medium becomes the message: politicians (Michael Laws) and police (Clint Rickards) are media stars.
When cynicism prevails all behaviour seems motivated by self-interest. Take the Electoral Finance Bill. Here is legislation that springs from the praiseworthy motive of protecting democracy from the American disease – the growing influence of big money to decide who gets elected. We are told the legislation is imperfect but the argument is reduced to a political squabble that leaves us groping for the issue and mistrustful of all points of view. Politicians argue for or against it depending upon its possible effects upon their sponsors, and the opposition of large media companies appears driven by concerns about lost advertising revenue. Hubris indeed.
In my mind the single enduring image that captures the spirit of 2007 is a photograph of Andrew McAuley, the Australian who vanished off the Fiordland coast in February, just a few kilometres short of completing the first trans-Tasman crossing by kayak. The photo, taken hours before his death, was recovered from his boat and published widely. McAuley looks into the camera. Deep lines of exhaustion are etched into his cheeks and forehead. In the background the outline of the Fiordland mountains can be seen. In his eyes there is no triumph, only hopelessness and – worse - fear. It is as if, with his goal in sight, he knows he is about to give up.
That was 2007. I discovered yesterday that 2008 is the International Year of the Potato. This sounds far more comfortable – bring it on.
After a promising start summer has stalled in a succession of southerlies, driving us indoors and towards more reflective pursuits. We read the papers and watch the tele, drawing in to the media’s annual obsession with taking stock of the old year and predicting the new.
I’ve learned a new word from the media’s review of the passing year. Hubris.
Hubris means arrogant pride or presumption. A new word, once discovered, pops up everywhere and I notice hubris is fashionable for commentators to sum up – or dismiss – 2007. America’s continuing shambles in Iraq is hubris. The Labour government is driven by hubris. Graham Henry was motivated by hubris. Pride and presumption – “I know what’s best for you” – are the dominant motifs of the year.
Is this merely media cynicism? Having spent the year talking ourselves down are we now victims of our own propaganda? Or was 2007 really as dreadful as it’s made out to be?
Looking back over the year, the doom and gloom merchants have had a field day. Chief among these is the Reserve Bank which has discovered that making the populace miserable is a far more effective tool than interest rates in the war against inflation. Alan Bollard has out-Scrooged even Michael Cullen in his predictions that we’re about to be ruined. Consequently the housing market teeters, finance companies drop like autumn leaves, factories move offshore and thousands flee to Australia.
It is ironic that we are talking ourselves out of one of the few genuinely prosperous times we’ve experienced in the past 40 years. Instead of celebrating the fact that most of us have never been better off; that we have jobs and money in the bank (or at least a good line of credit), we are wishing ourselves back into poverty.
This is a flaw of our national character, a kind of anti-hubris that makes us feel more comfortable with failure. As individuals we may be optimistic and strive towards success but as a nation we’re never happier than when the wheels fall off.
The evidence is overwhelming. Did somebody mention sport? I know, I know, it is a painful topic, but to a nation of cynics 2007 was a thoroughly satisfying sporting year. We lined up an unprecedented series of major events in which we potentially excel – and failed in every one.
That is, we failed to win. We scored a few seconds, thirds and fourths, which left us solidly within our comfort zone. Winning is much scarier. If we had triumphed, if we were now world champions in rugby, cricket or netball, if we held the America’s Cup, we would be like the mountaineer who reaches the summit and, instead of looking up and out to enjoy the view, looks down and is overcome by vertigo.
The media understand our nature and exploit it utterly. Good news is glossed over or explained away as accidental or, maliciously, as hubris. Bad news is pushed, promoted and picked over endlessly and nauseatingly. I don’t know if it is laziness or simply lack of imagination but most journalists seem to be permanently assigned to parliament or the police. Politics and violent crime dominate our news in obsessive and gratuitous detail. Stories are reduced to a few headlines that are repeated endlessly and hysterically.
In mainstream media there is almost no attempt to make sense of the news through discussion of context, background and detail. Analysis is reduced to opinion pieces by columnists or soap box diatribes by the subjects of the stories. The medium becomes the message: politicians (Michael Laws) and police (Clint Rickards) are media stars.
When cynicism prevails all behaviour seems motivated by self-interest. Take the Electoral Finance Bill. Here is legislation that springs from the praiseworthy motive of protecting democracy from the American disease – the growing influence of big money to decide who gets elected. We are told the legislation is imperfect but the argument is reduced to a political squabble that leaves us groping for the issue and mistrustful of all points of view. Politicians argue for or against it depending upon its possible effects upon their sponsors, and the opposition of large media companies appears driven by concerns about lost advertising revenue. Hubris indeed.
In my mind the single enduring image that captures the spirit of 2007 is a photograph of Andrew McAuley, the Australian who vanished off the Fiordland coast in February, just a few kilometres short of completing the first trans-Tasman crossing by kayak. The photo, taken hours before his death, was recovered from his boat and published widely. McAuley looks into the camera. Deep lines of exhaustion are etched into his cheeks and forehead. In the background the outline of the Fiordland mountains can be seen. In his eyes there is no triumph, only hopelessness and – worse - fear. It is as if, with his goal in sight, he knows he is about to give up.
That was 2007. I discovered yesterday that 2008 is the International Year of the Potato. This sounds far more comfortable – bring it on.
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