Slime, jumping for joy by a fertiliser plant on Otago Harbour. Photo: Toby Manhire

Local Elections 2022October 1, 2022

My morning with Slime, the nitrate monster running for Otago council

Editor-at-large

Slime, jumping for joy by a fertiliser plant on Otago Harbour. Photo: Toby Manhire

Why is a gunky green creature seeking a place on the regional council? And just what happened to Jennifer Shulzitski? Toby Manhire investigates.

I needed to talk to Slime. While there is no shortage of freakishness among the nominations for this month’s local elections, Slime the Nitrate Monster was in a class of its own. “I am a simple multi-celled organism, with no heart or soul,” said the thing, setting out its stall on Policy.nz. The candidate photo revealed two eyes peering out through tendrils of vivid, oleaginous green. What did it do “before politics”? “Toxic algal bloom.”

The official documents listed the candidate as “Jenn (Slime) Shulzitski”. I found an email address. “Hello human,” came the reply. “Jennifer Shulzitski was a human, an ecologist, and a lover of rivers. In the 1980s, she swam in the rivers by Kapuni fertiliser factory, never to be heard from again. Now I, Slime the Nitrate Monster, live in her home.”

I was directed to a different email, in Slime’s name. Could we meet up? “Slime is happy to accommodate humans who increase Slime’s power,” said, well, Slime. “I know you will love meeting me. I am very good looking, and I am very connected to money.” Slime and I compared diaries and settled on a time. Studiously avoiding my questions about the health and whereabouts of Jennifer Shulzitski, the Nitrate Monster wrote: “We would love to take you out of town just five minutes in the Team Slimemobile. My private driver will ensure your safety and wellbeing. I hope you don’t mind diesel.”

We meet at Morning Magpie on Stuart Street – me, Slime, and Slime’s driver, Andrew. Most of the other patrons in the Dunedin cafe, true to the regional stereotype, pretend indifference. The exception is a small child, who leaps, delightedly, to say hello to this ribbony green Chewbacca. I can’t quite make out what Slime is saying to the child. Something about the deliciousness of pollutants and avarice.

Slime scooter, Stewart Street. (Photo: Toby Manhire)

We sit across from one another, Slime and I, at a large wooden table. Your Slimeship, I nervously begin, what motivated you to enter the Otago Regional Council contest?

“As you probably know, I have been spreading across your waterways here in New Zealand since the 80s,” says Slime, speaking in a sandpaper staccato, like a slimy robot. “We’ve been intensifying our agriculture. We used to grow things like clover and lucerne, but that’s not going to make anyone rich. That’s not going to create toxic waterways for slime. So since I’ve been growing and blooming, I realised that some people are getting a bit – how shall we say – poisoned by this way of doing business,” says Slime, rocking with laughter. “Yes. So now, they’re coming up with these crazy ideas, like Te Mana o te Wai, or the National Policy Statement on Freshwater Management, and that makes Slime tremble and feel fear.” Slime illustrates the point by trembling. “So I thought I must step in and make sure that care for all waterways does not come at the expense of the Slime Nitrate Monster.”

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Slime’s position is clear: the contamination of New Zealand waterways through the leaching of nitrogen fertiliser – the use of which has, according to the prime minister’s chief science adviser, increased by 627% between 1990 and 2019 – is really, really great. Slime approaches the issue, of course, from a toxic algae perspective and through a specifically slimy lens, but its glee is infectious.

After a gruelling campaign that has seen Slime and the other candidates for the council travel around the region to participate in forums and debates, what would the monster say to an idealistic young Otago voter who would like to see rivers clean and swimmable? “Oh, you know,” says Slime, checking its privilege, “humans, they do have hearts, and they do have souls, and I do not have either of these things, which makes me a perfect candidate for political office.”

Slime says: “I do have, I think you say, ‘empathy’ for people like this.” Slime pauses. “But listen,” it continues, with a growl, “stop your whimpering. Go to the swimming pool. Pay for giant tanker trucks full of chlorinated drinking water, you’ll be fine. Let us get back to the important business of making money and growing slime.”

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It’s time to ask the difficult question. I stare Slime the Nitrate Monster squarely in its concave, glub-encased eyes. “Who,” I say, “is Jennifer Shulzitski?”

A pause. For a moment the Morning Magpie cafe feels frozen in time. “Ohhhh,” says Slime. “I feel a bit uncomfortable with this question. But Jenn Shulzitski was a human, my human form. And she loved nature. She studied ecology. Yes, she did outdoor education, kayaking in nature, taking young people out to appreciate our natural resources.” A hint of melancholy begins to taint Slime’s monotone. “In the 80s, she was swimming in the rivers around Taranaki where the giant Ballance synthetic nitrogen fertiliser plant was built. She was swimming in the waters. She was drinking from the rivers. And she was never to be seen again. Only Slime now lives in her home.”

I wonder aloud if I should alert the authorities. “Oh no, don’t worry about that,” says Slime, which settles matters to my satisfaction. Especially as it’s time to go for a drive to an undisclosed location.

Slime the Nitrate Monster and Your Reporter at Moller Park, Dunedin (Photo: Andrew)

As we head for the Slimemobile, I ask the monster to pose for a photo on an electric scooter. Unless you don’t want to be seen on such a gasoline-free form of transportation? “I don’t mind!” it says, bounding on to the Slime scooter. “I am curious about technology. Let’s rely on more technology to fix all of our issues.”

Andrew drives us in his Slime emblazoned, diesel-powered Mazda down State Highway 88, the road to Port Chalmers. We’re not 10 minutes gone when he pulls over by the harbour, at Moller Park. We’re alongside the Ravensdown fertiliser works, and there is a twinkle in Slime’s eye. Ravensdown says it is committed to reducing its environmental impact, but the co-op has become a target of activists who condemn both the effect on waterways and the importation of “blood phosphate” from Morocco-occupied Western Sahara.

Slime is in its element, however, spinning in excitement, jumping up and down on a nearby hillock. “I’m here at the source of my power, where we use fossil fuels to create synthetic nitrogen fertiliser,” says Slime, almost fainting with happiness (and dehydration). “Then we can use fossil fuels to pour synthetic nitrogen fertiliser on the land, which lets us grow more grass, which lets us have a lot of cows on the land more than could otherwise be sustainable. And then the cows urinate, and poo-poo all over the place and all of these nutrients rush into our waterways and they create toxic algal blooms like slime. So I am here to ask for you to vote for me. Money at all costs. Kia ora.”

The Slimemobile, featuring Slime. Photo: Toby Manhire

At one point, as the monster gazes, spellbound, at the Ravensdown fertiliser works, I ask Andrew about Jennifer Shulzitski. She’s an activist, he says, with an imagination. He starts talking about a local artist cutting up a green yoga mat into strips and making a costume. I nod politely, but to be honest I couldn’t care less about Halloween. What I want to know is: what happened to Jennifer Shulzitski? Andrew looks at me with what at first seems confusion, even pity, but I later resolve it must be something else: fear. He’s already said too much.

With voting under way, and Slime propaganda plastered across social media and on Dunedin walls, the monster is contemplating the possibility of victory. If it does win a place on council, I want to know, will it manifest at the table in the same green slimey form it does today? “For that,” says Slime, “you’re just going to have to vote and see what you find out.”

A few minutes later, back in Dunedin, I see the slimemobile again. Andrew is driving; in the back seat, a woman. Is it Jennifer Shulzitski? Has she escaped? Has Slime shapeshifted back into human form? I fumble around in my bag for a camera. I’m going to blow this thing wide open. Too slow. I look up to see the vehicle peeling off into the distance. Powered by diesel, bound for its algal lair.

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Nelson is happy. Photo: Getty. Image: Tina Tiller

Local Elections 2022September 30, 2022

The race to lead the happiest place in Aotearoa

Toby Manhire

Editor-at-large

Nelson is happy. Photo: Getty. Image: Tina Tiller

In a happy city with a scrappy council, a 22-year-old and two three-term councillors are set upon denying Nick Smith a return to politics.

Turns out Nelson is sunniest not just in weather, but mood. According to a Stuff survey published last week, the city’s people are the happiest in the country, with almost two-thirds declaring themselves happy, compared to a national average of 49%. The accolade came up at a recent mayoral debate at a retirement home – the same event at which the highest profile candidate for the role, Nick Smith, was “slagging off the council”. That’s according to Matt Lawrey, a three-term councillor and Smith’s rival for the mayoralty. If happiness is blooming, Lawrey told The Spinoff, “surely we can take a bit of credit”.

A three-term councillor, Lawrey is one of those running for the office being vacated by Rachel Reese. Along with Rohan O’Neill-Stevens, who won a place on council in 2019 at the age of 22, and Tim Skinner, another three-term councillor, he’s determined that Smith, the man with three decades’ experience representing the area in parliament, is no shoo-in.

Smith’s pitch isn’t quite continuity with change, but freshness with experience. The appetite for a breath of fresh air – and the critique of council Lawrey called a slagging-off – stems from what everyone agrees was a term bedevilled by dysfunction and toxicity, with ugly clashes on council and between councillors and staff. Smith says he’s best suited to turn that around, insisting that reports of a pattern of bullying by him in parliament were overstated, and that he has learned from an anomalous mistake.

“I don’t think he’s the face of renewal,” says Lawrey. “I don’t really buy it.” Smith, by his account, is offering “the same old pitch”. The councillor says Nelson can learn from “successful, progressive cities across the world”, with a boost in housing in the central city plus free public transport for children, students and community service card holders. The goal: “a bustling, busy little city, rather than just going down the road to being a regional town”.

As someone who has sat on council for nine years, however, how can Lawrey present himself, in turn, as the face of renewal? “The mayor wasn’t very keen on having me in a leadership position,” he says. He can hardly be held responsible given he was “largely sidelined”. In fact, Lawrey says, he was often turned to as a “bridge builder” by “people who don’t talk to each other”. His strength, he says, is being able to put disagreements behind him and “look for common ground”.

When Rohan O’Neill-Stevens was elected to council his first response was surprise. “I didn’t think I had a shot,” he says. His next surprise, once sitting at the table: “just how childish it can be.” For all the council’s well-documented misadventures, however, O’Neill-Stevens professes to have grown less cynical, less pessimistic. “Local government can actually be quite flexible and quite dynamic,” he says.

Part of the problem over the last term, says O’Neill-Stevens, was an absence of effort to build rapport outside the council room, leaving “no time to build the trust and confidence required”. It meant “there was this underlying sense of people constantly checking their backs for, you know, where’s that next knife going to come from?”

Rohan O’Neill-Stevens. (Photo: Toby Manhire)

O’Neill-Stevens lives in in town, and sees great potential to revive the city and boost housing provision generally through downtown apartment growth. “While we’ve got these housing challenges, like the rest of the country, when you look at the absolute number of houses that we need to supply, it’s much lower than in, say, Wellington or Auckland. It’s by no means an insurmountable task to bring those houses online and do that relatively quickly, then position ourselves as a regional centre that is affordable and has all these other great aspects, like the sun.”

In doing so, he’s eager to push for an increase in younger residents. “By 2040 we are expecting a third of the population to soon be over 65. I mean, look at the job market. We’re already seeing hospitality shortages. It’s untenable to say we don’t have to attract people back to the city, particularly younger people.” O’Neill-Stevens says he has lived in other parts of the world, but Nelson drew him back. “Genuinely, if I could live anywhere in the world, I would live here. It’s a very active choice, which I think is lost on a few people, who have an idea that young people who remain do so not out of enjoyment but for some other reason, like they can’t be bothered.”

As a Green Party member standing as an independent, is O’Neill-Stevens running as a springboard to a potential career in parliamentary politics? “It’s one of the most common questions,” he says with a weary grin. “There’s a degree of, oh, that’s a young person involved in politics, they must be hyper-ambitious. You know, I didn’t even expect to get elected the first time around,” he says. “I’d never rule anything out. But the thing I love about local government is actually being able to see firsthand the changes that you’re making. And we’re running this mayoral campaign to win, there’s no sort of second thoughts about that.”

Both O’Neill and Lawrey stress that the city and its surrounds need to be better prepared for crises such as the recent floods, which will only increase in number in a heating climate, as well as lifting resilience more generally in the face of seismic threats.

On Three Waters, Lawrey broadly supports the thrust of the reform – “the case has been made and I applaud the government for trying to do something about it” – though he questions the place of stormwater in the plan and opposes the placement of Nelson in an entity (one of four under the reform) along with a southeast strip of the North Island. On top of that, central government had “shown contempt for local government at a number of points along the way”. For all that, anyone who campaigned for local government promising to halt Three Waters was in a “parallel universe”, he says. “They’ll have as much luck stopping GST.”

Tim Skinner says his nine years of council experience across various portfolios means “I come as a mayor ready to hit the ground running to get this city back on its feet”. His pitch on Policy.nz is this: “Having formed huge relationships with our community, commercial leaders, iwi and organisations across the top of the south, we can move this greater region forward to ensure Nelson has a strong voice to ensure central government doesn’t overlook Nelson’s diverse interests.”

Skinner, who has encouraged his backers to give Smith their second preference, a gesture reciprocated by Smith, wants to reprioritise spending “on flood protection, stormwater, core infrastructure and services investment”, keep a lid on rates and debt, and “focus on the mental, physical and environmental well-being of our city and people”.

For the incumbent councillors running for mayor, the single transferable vote system, being used in Nelson for the first time this year, may be a boon. Even if Smith is to gain a plurality first preferences, they could come from behind thanks to preference votes – as did, for example, Aaron Hawkins in Dunedin and Andy Foster in Wellington. “The advice I’ve been given,” says Lawrey, “is that STV doesn’t reward polarisation. Everyone seems pretty positive about it.”

Voting is under way now, with the deadline for receipt – note, receipt not postage – of ballots noon on October 8.