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Sāmoan flags in NZ (Photo: Getty Images)
Sāmoan flags in NZ (Photo: Getty Images)

OPINIONSocietyNovember 20, 2022

In celebration, and defence, of Pacific joy

Sāmoan flags in NZ (Photo: Getty Images)
Sāmoan flags in NZ (Photo: Getty Images)

Toa Samoa’s incredible World Cup journey has sparked an outpouring of happiness and celebration – and yes, sometimes it’s been a little loud. Emmaline Matagi wouldn’t have had it any other way.

The red and blue flags have been everywhere this week. Draped over fences, wrapped around shoulders and sticking out of car windows like extra antennas, it’s been a nonstop celebration of Sāmoan pride. The reason: the Rugby League World Cup, and Sāmoa making it to this morning’s finals against all the odds. Last weekend Sāmoa beat home side England in a nail-biter-over-time beauty of game, sending them to finals, and Sāmoans across the globe took to the streets to celebrate. When I say “celebrate” I am talking 5am fireworks, cheeehooo’ing, toot tooting and waving flags out of any kind of moveable object they could find (trolleys, bins, cars, trucks, buses, trains, camels YES CAMELS). I have heard ‘685’ – the song named after Sāmoa’s area code that has become the team’s unofficial anthem – sung so many times this week that even I, a proud Fijian woman, am starting to memorise its lyrics.

Social media was so overrun with red and blue and gagana Sāmoa (Sāmoan language) that you could have thought they’d already won the cup. Ōtara and Māngere town centres last weekend were so alive with Sāmoan joy that you might have mistaken them for Apia. The laughter, the language, the sounds, the celebrations: it has truly been beautiful to witness.

Fans celebrate in Apia, Sāmoa. (Photo: Anric Sitanilei/RNZ)

Being a mother of Sāmoan children, my home has also been filled to the brim with cheeehooo’ing and Sāmoan joy. My oldest son has a car covered in flags and a ridiculously loud sound system that has been sharing some Sāmoan classics with the neighbourhood – Zipso’s ‘Fika Mai Le Pese’, Poetik’s ‘For My City’ and even the Sāmoan national anthem. So it came as no surprise this week when I noticed on the Facebook community page posts discussing “noise levels” and “respect”. We live in west Auckland, in a gentrified little suburb called Te Atatū Peninsula (Tat Norf if ya nasty), and for the most part it is pretty quiet, if you ignore the odd Celine Dion siren jam at 3am. In comparison to our mates out in Henderson or Ranui we are definitely on the quieter side. So I wasn’t surprised that people around here would be hōhā at the 5am fireworks and cheeehooo’ing.

But when is a good time for noise? Who gets to decide when celebrations are “too rowdy” – or what celebrations even count as “too rowdy”? Why are we so obsessed with complete silence at night? In Tāmaki this past week, the loudest suburbs with the most celebrations have been those that have a high density of Pacific people living within them. Saute Aukilagi e tū, parts of east and west Auckland, and parts of central and the Shore. Areas such as Ponsonby, Parnell, Epsom, Remuera, Mt Eden and Howick haven’t been as loud or as party-filled. The demographics of those areas reveal lots of different things: socio economic levels, high decile schools, gentrification… and just a small number of Pacific people. So it is really interesting to watch the reactions of people who aren’t used to living in communities like Pacific ones and what they consider respectable noise levels.

Toa Sāmoa fans in Auckland fly flags from their cars. (Photo: Finau Fonua/RNZ)

Now don’t get me wrong, my pregnant ass was not full of joy to hear fireworks before the sun rise. But you won’t catch me online complaining about people being disrespectful. I have seen some pretty outrageous celebrations after All Blacks matches in Mt Eden after 3am and never heard a peep about the noise or how disrespectful it is to party like that. Not just Mt Eden either – there have been some rowdy little get-togethers for the All Blacks here in our neighbourhood too but never have I seen Facebook posts about “respect” then.

But I digress. My point really is that it would be cool if we examined our own personal beliefs around noise and respect and where we learnt them from. It would be cool if we showed this level of joy for all Pacific and Indigenous sports teams when they make history. I mean the Tongans already have it covered when showing us how it’s done, those guys fill stadiums, win or lose, and then parade when they lose like they had won! It’s really choice to see this level of Pacific joy in the diaspora with so many so far from home and suffering through a cost of living crisis. But for real, if you see and hear people celebrating and you feel grumpy because it’s loud just think about all the times you yourself have been loud and annoying and take a deep breath and let it go. Because Sāmoa made history and whether you or I like it or not, it’s gonna be 685 ON YOUR SPEAKER 685 ON YOUR RADIO allllll weekend long!

Keep going!
Image: Tina Tiller
Image: Tina Tiller

SocietyNovember 20, 2022

Essay on Sunday: Tales of suburban creep

Image: Tina Tiller
Image: Tina Tiller

As much of our most fertile land is sucked into residential sprawl, Venetia Sherson reflects on the semi-rural land around her home, and two neighbours, each with very different takes on how to make the most of their property.

I stood outside our house this week and watched the procession of wildlife. Two cock pheasants stalked the gully edge, defending their harems of hens and chicks from marauders, while keeping a wary eye on each other in case their lines were breached; three matuku (white-faced heron) swooped to their nests in an ancient pine. With luck, they would later come down to earth to forage for insects and spiders. A lone tūi braved the 20 metres of open ground between the dense gully bush, replanted in natives, and a nectar feeder near the house.  In the early evening, it had the bar to itself.  Even the belligerent magpies know better than to approach a tūi during happy hour. 

To observe the seasonal rhythm of fauna in the country is deeply soothing. It is also one of the pleasures of living in the countryside, as more New Zealanders are discovering. While lifestyle block sales dipped this year in line with urban residential sales, in the past 25 years, lifestyle property sales have increased at a faster rate than residential sales. In the year ended March 2021, 8946 lifestyle blocks were sold, nearly 25 per cent more than the same period the year before. That trend is predicted to continue when inflation eases and in the wake of the pandemic as more people opt to work from home. 

But the demand is not without its headaches for councils and landowners. Fragmentation leads to the loss of productive land. Many of the most desirable sites for rural residential living contain high quality soils, reducing the area available for horticulture and pastoral farming.  The trend towards smaller blocks exacerbates the problem. In the 1970s, when councils adapted their district schemes to allow rural land bordering cities to be subdivided down to 10-acre (4ha) blocks, hobby farmers could at least grow crops, run sheep, or fatten stock. But today’s demand is for much smaller parcels. According to the real estate institute of New Zealand, the median size of a lifestyle block last year was 1.94ha, barely enough room to swing a chicken coop, although many owners do. In 2018, our local body, Waikato District Council, noted that between 2005 and 2016, seven out of 10 consents for new dwellings in the Rural Zone were on properties less than 2ha. “Recent trends indicate that 50 per cent of the growth predicted for the district may seek to live in rural residential environments,” it said. 

We moved to the countryside more than 35 years ago. The location appealed because of its proximity to Hamilton where we worked, and its tranquility. The community was a mix of horticulturists, dairy farmers, equestrians, and gallery owners. There was a small model country school – the place where new residents with children got to know each other. Most of them were block owners. They had day jobs in the city, but also grew blueberries, strawberries, and asparagus which they sold at stalls or the local market. The soil in these parts – a rich silty loam – is fertile and bounteous, a fact recognised by the first cultivators, Ngati Hauā, who grew wheat, kumara and taro until their land was confiscated by the government in 1864.

Our motives for moving to a rural location did not include farming, but we did hanker for The Good Life. After years of repairing and renovating a century-old city villa, we wanted less DIY and more time and SKB (space to kick a ball) with our young sons. The property we bought had a modest house. Half the land was flat, the remainder in steep gully. There were also sheep.

Initially, I fancied the idea of a small flock on my doorstep. It gave the property purpose, plus they kept the grass mown. One day I noticed a ewe with something protruding from her butt. Not being a midwife, I called the local vet. “I think she may have a prolapsed uterus,” I said. “What’s her name?” he asked, being used to lifestyle farmers. Our neighbour, a retired sheep farmer offered to take a look. But on his goodwill mission across the paddocks, he was felled by our ram, aptly named Rambo. The farmer’s dog, a seasoned old campaigner, kept the attacker at bay until his owner staggered to his feet. He offered to slit Rambo’s throat.

It soon became clear we were not cut out for sheep. Weekends were spent dagging (divesting bums of poo-encrusted wool) or treating foot rot, which involves cutting back the hoof with shears, while avoiding flesh. It’s a messy job and backbreaking. The smell of rot is vile. Because I feared drawing blood, my attempts were more like a pedicure, which did nothing for the disease. The neighbour, who was still speaking to us then, suggested I instead oversee the footbath. The flock was eventually despatched to a more dedicated farm. For many years, the paddocks were leased to a stock agent to graze cattle.

Sheep: picturesque lawnmower or high maintenance drain on your time? (Photo: Getty Images)

I tell all this because it demonstrates that while many of us love the countryside for its looks, we may have very different views about its purpose. Which brings me to our neighbours.

Long after the sheep had departed and the stock agent had moved on, our council again reviewed its district plan. Responding to increased demand for smaller properties with less maintenance, it allowed up to two additional lots to be created from a minimum of 3.9ha (1.3ha average) and a minimum of 5000 sqm for additional lots. Around us, the diggers moved in. Our neighbours came closer. We resisted for a bit, but the kids had flown the coop and we were nudging 60.    

In 2006 our property was carved into four sections, two on flat land; the third – like ours – with a steep gully aspect. A young couple bought the gully section. When the deed of sale was signed, they drank champagne on the empty site. They also cut down a shady belt of macrocarpa. The second section was bought by a paediatrician, a counsellor, and their family. They put in a pool but kept the grass as open space for games.  

The last section went to a couple from Kāwhia. I worried about that property. Its most striking feature was a non-native but majestic pin oak (Quercus palustris) with a branch span of some 14m, under which stock once sheltered from the sun. The tree was vulnerable to building plans, especially for a large home. But the new neighbours loved the tree and kept it. They also planted weeping cherry blossom trees along the driveway and other trees between our properties.

In 2009, new owners bought the gully property. They were originally from China and spoke no English, but their adult daughter who lived with them brought across a batch of biscuits to introduce herself. Within weeks, her father began to dig and plant.

The property with the oak also changed hands. Eventually, a young family moved in. The children started at the local primary school. The oldest boy fashioned a soccer pitch on the lawn as our boys had done. Soon, a swimming pool was excavated. The kids loved it and, at night, the adults and their friends relaxed on gigantic floating conversation pits. We could hear their chatter and the clink of glasses. Later, a cabana the size of a tiny home was added by the pool. A tennis court was laid on along the back of the property where the boy had kicked his football. A putting green joined the list. An arborist was engaged to fell several of the cherry trees. “The petals fall in the pool,” he explained. I cast an anxious look at the deciduous oak. The trees along our boundary fence were also felled. A double garage was added and a boatshed.

The gully neighbour, now in his seventies, continued to dig and hoe the land. Rows of neatly spaced squash, radishes, lemongrass, bok choy, broccoli, and spinach have now replaced all but a small patch of lawn. Dozens of triangular bamboo climbing frames resemble tiny tepees. There are two greenhouses. The gully, which is steep and hazardous for all but the sure-footed, has been transformed into neat terraces of produce bedded in raised mounds like puke used by Māori to grow kūmara.

 Tending the terraced garden requires stooping, lifting, bending, and slogging up and down the slope in all weathers. Our neighbour moves up and down like a mountain goat, carrying on his back produce that can’t be reached by barrow. I am an early riser, but he is earlier. He packs away his tools at sunset. Most of the produce goes to markets. But we also reap the benefits of his windfalls. Once, when he saw my husband picking up a few feijoas on our side of the fence, he brought out a container for him to take more. During the 2020 lockdown he left bundles of fresh coriander, pumpkins, and squash in a barrow by our gate. At a neighbours’ Christmas get-together some years ago, his daughter told me her father had grown up in a rural area where even the most stubborn land was farmed. She said, “It keeps him young.” 

The front property, meanwhile, continues to evolve and grow. Half the land area is now under concrete. As with most properties around us, the structures built above the ground are valued more than the soil below. The price of rural residential property reflects that.

This week more tradies’ vehicles were parked outside the house.    

But the oak still stands.

But wait there's more!