June 18, 2011
A Nelson man's curiosity about a relative's wartime death in a faraway land has led to the forging of some strong bonds between New Zealand families and a small Dutch town. Geoff Collett reports.
There are hundreds of thousands of graves like these, neatly and carefully tended, laid out in orderly rows across swathes of the European countryside.
These 20 or so stand in the pretty setting of a small Dutch town called Markelo and mark the final resting place of, among others, four New Zealanders, two Englishmen and a Scotsman: seven comrades who died together on a midsummer's night in 1943, returning from a bombing run over Germany.
Perhaps their stories wouldn't stand out from all the other war dead similarly commemorated with a tidy plot and well-maintained headstone. All across Europe – and certainly all across Holland – the people of towns like Markelo have long prided themselves on tending to those Allied fighters who paid for the defeat of Nazism with their lives.
On the other side of the world, when Darryl Robertson was younger, he occasionally reflected on how lonely and sad it seemed, that his father's cousin and close friend, Andrew McEwin, had died so young and so far away.
When he headed out on his own OE, his father, Don, urged him to pay a visit to Holland, to track down the grave marked in the name of Flight Sergeant Andrew McEwin.
Mr Robertson didn't get there, but nor did he abandon the memory of a relative he never knew.
He remembers one of their last conversations before his father died 20 years ago, when they discussed family history, the older man pondering how, "when you're young, you don't have the time to find out about these things".
For Mr Robertson – by then settled into life as an artist in the countryside near Mapua – another decade was to pass until he decided to find the time.
Among all that he subsequently learned was that, whatever the sadness of their deaths, however distant the men were from home, perhaps their end wasn't as lonely as it might have seemed. And that as easy as it might have been for memories and connections to fade as the decades drifted past, the opposite has proved true.
As another anniversary of the deaths rolls around next week – the 68th – Mr Robertson has helped to close the gap of both time and distance, and changed some lives along the way.
For Keith Burbidge, the phone call from Mr Robertson came from out of the blue. While he had some vivid memories of his older brother, Ken, he knew little of the circumstances around his death.
"We knew that he had been shot down in this town called Markelo," Mr Burbidge says from his Richmond home. He remembers a woman from Markelo corresponded briefly with his mother, including some assurances that Ken had landed in a place where the people had cared for the dead.
Beyond that, he never expected to know more, and now in his 80s, never expected to visit the place where Ken's life had ended.
And yet suddenly came this phone call from a stranger who happened to live not far away, telling him that he had information about how Ken and his fellow airmen had died and been cared for in death.
Within hours, Mr Burbidge was on his way to Mr Robertson's studio to learn the full story.
The men had been part of a massive bombing run that night, Mr Robertson had learned with more than 500 allied aircraft flying from England, among them a Stirling bomber, EF399, part of the 75 RNZAF Squadron, with a crew of seven.
Ken Burbidge, 22, from Otago was in the pilot's seat; Andrew McEwin, 25, from the West Coast gold-mining settlement of Waiuta was bomb commander; Donald Martin, 26, from Auckland the wireless operator/gunner; Walter Wilcockson, of Christchurch, the navigator; Cameron Gibson, 23, of Scotland, the forward gunner; Gordon Lockey, of England, the flight engineer; and Kenneth Shaw, 22, also of England, the tail gunner.
The raid left something like two-thirds of the German city of Mulheim destroyed, but as they turned for home, the Stirling's well-recognised flaws – its slow, lumbering form – made it a sitting duck.
It was apparently hit by flak, making it even slower. Probably, the crew never saw the German night fighter attack, crippling the plane before vanishing back into the darkness.
Flight Sergeant Burbidge managed to keep control as he attempted a crash landing until, with seconds to go, the aircraft broke up, crashing and burning; two of the crew had time to jump for safety but not to activate their parachutes.
All were found dead by villagers. Burial arrangements were quickly made to spare the dead any further indignities, the locals saying the Lord's Prayer over the graves.
In time, as news of the crash reached their loved ones, the occasional letter from afar would arrive in Markelo, seeking some news of what had come of the men.
There were those in the town who took it on themselves to write back, providing what assurances they could: that the men had died in a caring, pretty place, that their graves were tended, candles lit and flowers left for them regularly, the children of the town also taught to continue the devotions.
Mr Robertson's research into Andrew McEwin's death started slowly, but grew rapidly, particularly when he made contact with people in Markelo to see if anybody could help him. A key moment came when he contacted New Zealand's ambassador to Holland, David Payton, "who was amazing – he pulled out all the stops".
That included visiting Markelo, where the ambassador went out of his way to draw attention to the town's Kiwi connection.
He met a keen audience. A flood of information came to the surface – as Mr Robertson puts it, the project got a life of its own.
Subsequent New Zealand ambassadors continued to nurture a relationship with the Markelo people. In 2010, Defence Minister Wayne Mapp made an official visit. Prime Minister John Key wrote to the small group there who drive the effort to honour the memory of dead airmen, to thank them; they were also invited to lunch with Queen Beatrix in recognition of their work.
Mr Robertson, meanwhile, continued his research, including the story of the Luftwaffe pilot who had brought down the Stirling – a member of the Austrian aristocracy, Prince Egmont Zur Lippe Weissenfeld, a night fighter ace and highly decorated member of the Luftwaffe.
Fascinated by what he had learned, Mr Robertson felt a responsibility to share it with others who had relatives on the plane – even though he had no idea where to start beyond the phone book.
He began with the most distinctive name among the crew, Walter Wilcockson, tracking down just one Wilcockson in the country, up in Tauranga. He called the listed number and discovered the man who answered was Walter's son, Ian, who was just six when his father died.
Mr Robertson admits he was dumbstruck to have made such a quick, easy connection. It turned out Mr Wilcockson's health was failing, but on the strength of what Mr Robertson shared with him he decided to arrange a visit to Markelo to see for himself where his father's life had ended, before he himself died.
For Mr Burbidge, the experience proved at least as poignant. Mr Robertson tracked him down in similarly random fashion, simply by ringing people of the name Burbidge in the phone book. By chance, Mr Burbidge was living in Richmond. The consequences of that phone call have been profound for him.
After discovering so much about his brother's death, he and some of his family determined that they too would visit Markelo. In November last year, they made the pilgrimage – Mr Burbidge accompanied by his daughter and son-in-law, Linda and Owen Feary, and their two daughters.
As Mr Wilcockson had also experienced, they were treated with enormous respect by the Dutch.
Perhaps the most moving moment came shortly after they arrived. Mr Burbidge recalls how the family were taken to a museum that specialises in recovering the parts of wartime aircraft; the museum was opened specially for them. A Stirling cockpit was nearing the final stages of reconstruction, "so we could see exactly where the pilot and navigator and everybody was situated in the awful damn machines".
Then, he was presented with a Stirling fuel gauge. "It was very, very emotional," Mr Burbidge says. "I'll be honest – I fell over, I let go, I couldn't hold it.
"As I said in Markelo, if Ken had walked out in the street and been killed, knocked over by a car or something, that would have been final. But buried over there, there was never a closure. But this represented a closure to me."
He is in awe of the Dutch, their kindness and determination; but he adds that in Markelo he encountered "absolute admiration" for Mr Robertson's efforts in making sure the story is known.
The experience, Mr Burbidge says, has brought his whole family closer. His grandchildren have started attending Anzac ceremonies, with their older relatives' medals. "That's a big thing for us. They're proud. Very proud."
Ironically enough, Mr Robertson hasn't yet made his own trip to Markelo, although he's contemplating it. He's not entirely finished with his research efforts.
Survivors of the other four men on board were not so easy to trace; he eventually found relatives of the fourth Kiwi, Donald Martin, and Cameron Gibson from Scotland, but the other British connections have proved more elusive.
He has, however, tracked down the two sisters of Prince Egmont, the Luftwaffe night-fighter ace who himself died in the war and, at the urgings of people in Markelo, has put them in contact with the town.
In two years time, they may even travel to Markelo themselves, to join what will be the 70th anniversary of the night the Stirling crashed.
Perhaps, Mr Robertson says, he'll be there too.
And Mr Burbidge hopes to be as well. He and his family are already tentatively planning for the trip. "I feel I owe it to them [the people of Markelo] for what they've done, and I owe it to myself."
But surely the deepest debt he owes is to the man who phoned him out of the blue to ask if he was related to a Kiwi airman who died in Holland in June, 1943.
"Without him we would never have found out what we have found out, and I would never have got to Holland to pay my respects to my brother," Mr Burbidge says.
"Without Darryl, we would have had nothing."
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Setting sail yet again for Clifford Bay
Nelson Mail editorial, May 10, 2011
With roughly the same sort of predictability as the ebb and flow of the tides, so talk of shifting the South Island ferry terminal from Picton to Clifford Bay comes and goes. That the idea is such a hardy annual reflects both its logical appeal, but also the dubious economics which have dashed previous proposals.
What's different – and surprising – this time is that it's the Government reviving the debate. Transport Minister Stephen Joyce has asked officials to look at the "high level" issues around a Clifford Bay terminal, to build on work done by the state-owned rail and ferry operator, KiwiRail. Mr Joyce points to the argument which has been heard ad infinitum down the years: that Clifford Bay offers shorter travel times, both on the water and on the road from Christchurch. Crucially, it would also allow the ferries to avoid the Marlborough Sounds and their speed restrictions which have severely hampered ferry operators in recent times.
As appealing as such benefits might seem, they have not necessarily stacked up for investors before now. The last two private operators of the ferries, TranzRail and Toll, walked away from the Clifford Bay option, TranzRail despite spending millions on the possibility. It's not just that the costs and scale of the work needed to turn an arid bay into a major freight and passenger terminus are significant. Many of the advantages of reduced travel times would accrue elsewhere in the economy than on the operator's balance sheet. The advantage the established port at Picton enjoys should not be under-estimated either, however constrained its facilities might be. Port Marlborough has clearly been adept at putting up compelling cases against the Clifford Bay option, and will surely seek to do so again.
But if a private operator has not been able to make the sums work at Clifford Bay, the involvement of the Government changes the perspective. It obviously has to be fiscally responsible, but it can also justify bringing wider considerations into the mix – the benefits of shortening the journey from Christchurch to Wellington, for instance. Then again, its talk of involving a private sector partner – a politically contentious idea, given the chequered history of private-public ventures – underlines the full scale of the project, one which the Government (or KiwiRail) is patently not in a position to carry alone.
The uncertainty a revival of the debate causes in Picton – and the huge disruption which would follow if a shift to Clifford Bay ever did happen – will trouble many in the Marlborough community. Mr Joyce promises they will be part of the consideration. Yet as time goes on, it is hard to see that Picton's interests will continue to withstand the logic of a better-sited hub for the South Island's vital inter-island link. Future efficiencies surely lie in shortening the distance and providing for larger, faster vessels than Picton and the Sounds can handle.
With roughly the same sort of predictability as the ebb and flow of the tides, so talk of shifting the South Island ferry terminal from Picton to Clifford Bay comes and goes. That the idea is such a hardy annual reflects both its logical appeal, but also the dubious economics which have dashed previous proposals.
What's different – and surprising – this time is that it's the Government reviving the debate. Transport Minister Stephen Joyce has asked officials to look at the "high level" issues around a Clifford Bay terminal, to build on work done by the state-owned rail and ferry operator, KiwiRail. Mr Joyce points to the argument which has been heard ad infinitum down the years: that Clifford Bay offers shorter travel times, both on the water and on the road from Christchurch. Crucially, it would also allow the ferries to avoid the Marlborough Sounds and their speed restrictions which have severely hampered ferry operators in recent times.
As appealing as such benefits might seem, they have not necessarily stacked up for investors before now. The last two private operators of the ferries, TranzRail and Toll, walked away from the Clifford Bay option, TranzRail despite spending millions on the possibility. It's not just that the costs and scale of the work needed to turn an arid bay into a major freight and passenger terminus are significant. Many of the advantages of reduced travel times would accrue elsewhere in the economy than on the operator's balance sheet. The advantage the established port at Picton enjoys should not be under-estimated either, however constrained its facilities might be. Port Marlborough has clearly been adept at putting up compelling cases against the Clifford Bay option, and will surely seek to do so again.
But if a private operator has not been able to make the sums work at Clifford Bay, the involvement of the Government changes the perspective. It obviously has to be fiscally responsible, but it can also justify bringing wider considerations into the mix – the benefits of shortening the journey from Christchurch to Wellington, for instance. Then again, its talk of involving a private sector partner – a politically contentious idea, given the chequered history of private-public ventures – underlines the full scale of the project, one which the Government (or KiwiRail) is patently not in a position to carry alone.
The uncertainty a revival of the debate causes in Picton – and the huge disruption which would follow if a shift to Clifford Bay ever did happen – will trouble many in the Marlborough community. Mr Joyce promises they will be part of the consideration. Yet as time goes on, it is hard to see that Picton's interests will continue to withstand the logic of a better-sited hub for the South Island's vital inter-island link. Future efficiencies surely lie in shortening the distance and providing for larger, faster vessels than Picton and the Sounds can handle.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
World-famous in the Collett family
In the lead-up to Anzac Day, Nelson Mail journalists are sharing their family war stories. Today, Geoff Collett writes about a World War I flying ace.
My great, great uncle Clive killed Germans in the war. He lined them up in his sights and shot them, mostly using a couple of Vickers machineguns attached to his Sopwith Camel biplane, high above the hellholes of the European battlefields of the Great War.
Sometimes, they nearly killed him. A couple of times he nearly killed himself. And once – that's all it takes, of course – he did, accidentally but inexplicably.
I've never been one for family history and always been ambivalent about war stories. I was vaguely aware of the various feats which had made Captain Clive Collett world-famous in the Collett family, but when I started reading through my father's Clive Collett file, I have to say awe was the over-riding feeling. His was a war fought at the very edges of technology and risk.
He was a flying ace, downing 12 German aircraft in combat within the space of about six weeks – three of them in one 45-minute burst. He had the dash, the daring and the big balls that made the fly boys of that war the stuff of so much legend.
His story is filled with scrapes and near things, various accounts of his flimsy biplane coming to one form of grief or another – perhaps shredded and crippled by Hun shells, or blowing a valve after he overdid an attacking dive on enemy aircraft, usually forcing him to nurse it back to safety and an emergency landing.
One of his combat reports tells of how he and his foe were so close that they nearly collided as he emptied his Vickers into its fuselage. Another recounts following a stricken German plane until it landed; Clive finished it off with a long burst until it exploded into flames. Then he fled home with a badly injured hand, keeping to 30 feet above the trees of Houtholst Forest to prevent the other pursuing Germans getting a fix on him with their guns.
Sometimes he didn't quite make it. He smashed his face up badly in one crash, removing him from combat duties for most of a year. Instead, he did experimental stuff including becoming the first man under British command to jump from a plane with a parachute.
The story of that tells how he drolly noted the presence of ambulance and fire tender on the airfield below just before he jumped, pointing out what a fat lot of use they would be if things didn't work out.
He got a medal – the Military Cross, and then its Bar. His citation talked of gallantry, devotion and dash, and his habit of single-handedly taking on large formations of enemy aircraft.
In a weird way it seems almost inevitable that he died pointlessly, miles from the nearest enemy gun.
He was flying a captured German Albatros off the coast of Scotland a few days before Christmas 1917 when for no known reason the plane crashed into the water.
Some speculate a part broke lose and hit him, knocking him out or worse. He was 31.
He left, apparently, a young widow (although the record is contradictory as to whether they had ever married) and a baby daughter.
I've never known anything of his offspring. We're a big and widely-scattered family. My great uncle, also a Clive, accumulated plenty of material on him, however, and made sure the legend lived on in our branch of the family tree.
Clive Franklyn Collett's grave is somewhere in Edinburgh; a memorial plaque stood for some time in his hometown of Tauranga. He has a section devoted to him in the website on Collett genealogy.
Someone has given him a Wikipedia page. My brother, also a military man, advises that the RNZAF museum holds material on him. I read somewhere that Peter Jackson, the film-maker, modelled his replica Sopwith Camel on Clive's.
Such are the ways we remember our war dead.
My great, great uncle Clive killed Germans in the war. He lined them up in his sights and shot them, mostly using a couple of Vickers machineguns attached to his Sopwith Camel biplane, high above the hellholes of the European battlefields of the Great War.
Sometimes, they nearly killed him. A couple of times he nearly killed himself. And once – that's all it takes, of course – he did, accidentally but inexplicably.
I've never been one for family history and always been ambivalent about war stories. I was vaguely aware of the various feats which had made Captain Clive Collett world-famous in the Collett family, but when I started reading through my father's Clive Collett file, I have to say awe was the over-riding feeling. His was a war fought at the very edges of technology and risk.
He was a flying ace, downing 12 German aircraft in combat within the space of about six weeks – three of them in one 45-minute burst. He had the dash, the daring and the big balls that made the fly boys of that war the stuff of so much legend.
His story is filled with scrapes and near things, various accounts of his flimsy biplane coming to one form of grief or another – perhaps shredded and crippled by Hun shells, or blowing a valve after he overdid an attacking dive on enemy aircraft, usually forcing him to nurse it back to safety and an emergency landing.
One of his combat reports tells of how he and his foe were so close that they nearly collided as he emptied his Vickers into its fuselage. Another recounts following a stricken German plane until it landed; Clive finished it off with a long burst until it exploded into flames. Then he fled home with a badly injured hand, keeping to 30 feet above the trees of Houtholst Forest to prevent the other pursuing Germans getting a fix on him with their guns.
Sometimes he didn't quite make it. He smashed his face up badly in one crash, removing him from combat duties for most of a year. Instead, he did experimental stuff including becoming the first man under British command to jump from a plane with a parachute.
The story of that tells how he drolly noted the presence of ambulance and fire tender on the airfield below just before he jumped, pointing out what a fat lot of use they would be if things didn't work out.
He got a medal – the Military Cross, and then its Bar. His citation talked of gallantry, devotion and dash, and his habit of single-handedly taking on large formations of enemy aircraft.
In a weird way it seems almost inevitable that he died pointlessly, miles from the nearest enemy gun.
He was flying a captured German Albatros off the coast of Scotland a few days before Christmas 1917 when for no known reason the plane crashed into the water.
Some speculate a part broke lose and hit him, knocking him out or worse. He was 31.
He left, apparently, a young widow (although the record is contradictory as to whether they had ever married) and a baby daughter.
I've never known anything of his offspring. We're a big and widely-scattered family. My great uncle, also a Clive, accumulated plenty of material on him, however, and made sure the legend lived on in our branch of the family tree.
Clive Franklyn Collett's grave is somewhere in Edinburgh; a memorial plaque stood for some time in his hometown of Tauranga. He has a section devoted to him in the website on Collett genealogy.
Someone has given him a Wikipedia page. My brother, also a military man, advises that the RNZAF museum holds material on him. I read somewhere that Peter Jackson, the film-maker, modelled his replica Sopwith Camel on Clive's.
Such are the ways we remember our war dead.
The long-awaited death of a terrorist
Nelson Mail editorial, May 5, 2011
In life, Osama bin Laden was first and foremost a propagandist par excellence; a murderous, twisted hater for sure, but principally an expert at disseminating his anti-Western bile, exploiting and harnessing the resentments of radicalised Islam, and helping to engineer and inspire some spectacular and awful displays of the power of terrorism. So there is a fitting symbolism that his death at the hands of US special forces at the weekend has delivered his most-hated enemy a giant propaganda coup of its own.
Like all the grand propaganda gestures, Monday's presidential pronouncement of his death sounded spectacular, but is of uncertain substance. Its meaning beyond providing the Americans with an excuse to celebrate their righteousness is anybody's guess. Nevertheless, the demise of one of modern history's most unpleasant creatures is welcome and overdue, and a much-needed strike back against his noxious creed.
Much of the torrent of commentary in the past couple of days has focused on bin Laden's waning significance in the scheme of things; of how the al Qaeda network he founded has been sidelined as Arab people have looked to a new future of freedoms and democracy. Some have wondered what practical significance he still held. From once being portrayed as the civilised world's Public Enemy No.1, he was increasingly dismissed as a caricature, a mad, bad, self-styled prophet, supposedly living in a cave and ranting to the converted.
None of this should be allowed to diminish his revolting legacy. Bin Laden had long since done his damage, and it is profound. He was the manifestation of a perverted distortion of Islam which has reshaped the world in the decade since his most grotesque crime, the September 11, 2001 attacks on America. He tainted the place of Islam in the West, provoked far-reaching constraints on ordinary liberties, triggered wars, and reshaped the political landscape of the United States, the Middle East and beyond.
The power of his myth, his status as the bogeyman of George W.Bush's War on Terror, was graphically displayed on the streets of Washington DC and New York on Monday as the crowds gathered to celebrate news he was dead. Some may argue that investing so much symbolism in one man is ridiculous. It is true that one of the new cliches of the post-bin Laden era – that the world is a safer place without him – sounds like a stretch. But the display left no doubt that the grief and anger of September 11 has never sunk far below the surface in America.
That country's intelligence agencies and special forces will also enjoy the rare opportunity to brag of a high-profile success. It was clearly an extraordinary operation and one which raises among many questions the one about Pakistan's role in bin Laden's fate – a murky business which seems bound to never come clear, but can only feed suspicion about that country's on-going contribution to the volatility of one of the world's most unstable regions.
But that too is more speculation. For those who seek something definite, perhaps the best that can be taken for now is that while bin Laden's death may not in itself deliver any gains beyond the symbolic, the world has most certainly suffered no loss.
In life, Osama bin Laden was first and foremost a propagandist par excellence; a murderous, twisted hater for sure, but principally an expert at disseminating his anti-Western bile, exploiting and harnessing the resentments of radicalised Islam, and helping to engineer and inspire some spectacular and awful displays of the power of terrorism. So there is a fitting symbolism that his death at the hands of US special forces at the weekend has delivered his most-hated enemy a giant propaganda coup of its own.
Like all the grand propaganda gestures, Monday's presidential pronouncement of his death sounded spectacular, but is of uncertain substance. Its meaning beyond providing the Americans with an excuse to celebrate their righteousness is anybody's guess. Nevertheless, the demise of one of modern history's most unpleasant creatures is welcome and overdue, and a much-needed strike back against his noxious creed.
Much of the torrent of commentary in the past couple of days has focused on bin Laden's waning significance in the scheme of things; of how the al Qaeda network he founded has been sidelined as Arab people have looked to a new future of freedoms and democracy. Some have wondered what practical significance he still held. From once being portrayed as the civilised world's Public Enemy No.1, he was increasingly dismissed as a caricature, a mad, bad, self-styled prophet, supposedly living in a cave and ranting to the converted.
None of this should be allowed to diminish his revolting legacy. Bin Laden had long since done his damage, and it is profound. He was the manifestation of a perverted distortion of Islam which has reshaped the world in the decade since his most grotesque crime, the September 11, 2001 attacks on America. He tainted the place of Islam in the West, provoked far-reaching constraints on ordinary liberties, triggered wars, and reshaped the political landscape of the United States, the Middle East and beyond.
The power of his myth, his status as the bogeyman of George W.Bush's War on Terror, was graphically displayed on the streets of Washington DC and New York on Monday as the crowds gathered to celebrate news he was dead. Some may argue that investing so much symbolism in one man is ridiculous. It is true that one of the new cliches of the post-bin Laden era – that the world is a safer place without him – sounds like a stretch. But the display left no doubt that the grief and anger of September 11 has never sunk far below the surface in America.
That country's intelligence agencies and special forces will also enjoy the rare opportunity to brag of a high-profile success. It was clearly an extraordinary operation and one which raises among many questions the one about Pakistan's role in bin Laden's fate – a murky business which seems bound to never come clear, but can only feed suspicion about that country's on-going contribution to the volatility of one of the world's most unstable regions.
But that too is more speculation. For those who seek something definite, perhaps the best that can be taken for now is that while bin Laden's death may not in itself deliver any gains beyond the symbolic, the world has most certainly suffered no loss.
Time for Mr Miccio to seize the moment
Nelson Mail editorial, October 11, 20102
Aldo Miccio has won a predictable, convincing and, on balance, deserving victory to become Nelson's new mayor. In a weekend of election results from Nelson and Tasman which were largely unsurprising and unexciting, Mr Miccio's success is the stand-out.
He is youthful - perhaps Nelson's youngest-ever mayor - and has some good ideas. He campaigned shrewdly, has wasted barely a single opportunity to boost his name recognition, and has demonstrated energy, enthusiasm and determination which has won him a legion of admirers. He has also shown a capacity for embracing divisive issues and for courting criticism. Such a willingness could be turned to a strength but it is also an area where his mayoralty will be vulnerable.
Perhaps the weekend's biggest loser was the incumbent mayor, Kerry Marshall, who suffered a drubbing. Mr Marshall might profess some relief that he can step down, but it is a sorry end to a long and noteworthy career in local government. If the scale of his defeat was surprising, the fact of it was not. His heart did not seem to be in the campaign. Various factors could have hobbled him, including that he might have been singled out by those wanting to punish the last council's under-performance - he was the only sitting city council member seeking re- election who failed to be returned.
Rachel Reese's performance in the Nelson mayoralty contest was also in line with the campaign. She struggled to match Mr Miccio's big-spending, attention-grabbing and rather slicker, marketing- influenced approach. She should, however, take satisfaction from her massive share of the vote as a councillor - a role which there can be no dispute about her capabilities for.
That aside, it was a mostly unremarkable poll. Both councils remain stacked with established names. There is the usual sprinkling of newcomers, including those who seem to have won through on a mixture of name recognition and good fortune.
In Tasman, there is nothing to indicate anything but a business-as-usual approach. The most significant result there was in the Richmond ward, which has two newcomers, neither of whom could be expected to be boat-rockers.
Tasman electors showed no interest in returning the old, old guard - the likes of former mayor John Hurley, tossed out in 2007 and not wanted back as a councillor this time. With all due respect to Mr Hurley and others of his ilk, that is reassuring. Fresh blood is preferable to the recycled variety. So the return of three warhorses in Nelson - including former mayor Paul Matheson and veteran Green activist Mike Ward - should be regarded cautiously. The challenge for them will be to adapt to the new order and to set their expectations accordingly.
Mr Miccio, meanwhile, has his plate full. Just as the arrival of Hands Up three years ago raised expectations of a new dawn in the city, so he comes to office carrying high hopes - and an urgent need to get the council on to a more efficient, productive track. Some large and deeply divisive issues await. He could well be the man for the moment. But such moments have a tendency of passing quickly. He deserves good wishes as he attempts to seize it.
Aldo Miccio has won a predictable, convincing and, on balance, deserving victory to become Nelson's new mayor. In a weekend of election results from Nelson and Tasman which were largely unsurprising and unexciting, Mr Miccio's success is the stand-out.
He is youthful - perhaps Nelson's youngest-ever mayor - and has some good ideas. He campaigned shrewdly, has wasted barely a single opportunity to boost his name recognition, and has demonstrated energy, enthusiasm and determination which has won him a legion of admirers. He has also shown a capacity for embracing divisive issues and for courting criticism. Such a willingness could be turned to a strength but it is also an area where his mayoralty will be vulnerable.
Perhaps the weekend's biggest loser was the incumbent mayor, Kerry Marshall, who suffered a drubbing. Mr Marshall might profess some relief that he can step down, but it is a sorry end to a long and noteworthy career in local government. If the scale of his defeat was surprising, the fact of it was not. His heart did not seem to be in the campaign. Various factors could have hobbled him, including that he might have been singled out by those wanting to punish the last council's under-performance - he was the only sitting city council member seeking re- election who failed to be returned.
Rachel Reese's performance in the Nelson mayoralty contest was also in line with the campaign. She struggled to match Mr Miccio's big-spending, attention-grabbing and rather slicker, marketing- influenced approach. She should, however, take satisfaction from her massive share of the vote as a councillor - a role which there can be no dispute about her capabilities for.
That aside, it was a mostly unremarkable poll. Both councils remain stacked with established names. There is the usual sprinkling of newcomers, including those who seem to have won through on a mixture of name recognition and good fortune.
In Tasman, there is nothing to indicate anything but a business-as-usual approach. The most significant result there was in the Richmond ward, which has two newcomers, neither of whom could be expected to be boat-rockers.
Tasman electors showed no interest in returning the old, old guard - the likes of former mayor John Hurley, tossed out in 2007 and not wanted back as a councillor this time. With all due respect to Mr Hurley and others of his ilk, that is reassuring. Fresh blood is preferable to the recycled variety. So the return of three warhorses in Nelson - including former mayor Paul Matheson and veteran Green activist Mike Ward - should be regarded cautiously. The challenge for them will be to adapt to the new order and to set their expectations accordingly.
Mr Miccio, meanwhile, has his plate full. Just as the arrival of Hands Up three years ago raised expectations of a new dawn in the city, so he comes to office carrying high hopes - and an urgent need to get the council on to a more efficient, productive track. Some large and deeply divisive issues await. He could well be the man for the moment. But such moments have a tendency of passing quickly. He deserves good wishes as he attempts to seize it.
The campaign to save a rest home
Nelson Mail editorial, September 15, 2010
In the two weeks since the death knell was sounded for Golden Bay's only rest home, two things have happened: an impassioned community has started mobilising to try to save the Joan Whiting home; while those who have the power over its future have given every impression of sitting on their hands hoping to ignore the mounting anger and anxiety.
It is time to move the campaign to keep the home open up another gear, and it is time for those who hold the Joan Whiting home's fate in their hands to do the right thing. Today, the Nelson Mail is adding its voice and weight to the community's effort to stop the closure and ensure that the handful of elderly people living in the home are able to see out their years in Golden Bay.
We are joining those demanding the intervention of Health Minister Tony Ryall, for it appears that the inertia and buck-passing which has led to the Joan Whiting's predicament will only be broken with intervention from the highest level. We hope that all our readers who recognise the injustice and folly the Golden Bay community faces will join the effort to convince the decision makers to intervene.
The community's wish to keep Joan Whiting open - at least until new rest home facilities are available in the district - is hardly unreasonable or preposterous.
The argument is not about propping it up indefinitely against the odds (as much as that scenario might have its sympathisers within the Golden Bay community). It needs a lifeline - bridging finance - to ensure it can keep operating and so continue to be home to a dozen or so elderly people until the Bay's much-talked-of integrated health centre, including a new rest home, is open for business in Takaka.
Before now, all parties seemed to have accepted that aim was desirable. It is worth recalling that the Nelson Marlborough District Health Board previously provided the Joan Whiting trust with bridging funding on the expectation that the home would be incorporated into the new health campus.
The problem seems to be that the plans to get that campus off the ground have slowed to a crawl. The DHB has long since withdrawn its funding (which it has been at pains to argue it was never obliged to provide); other sources have also dried up; and the community-based Joan Whiting trust has found itself high and dry.
But really, the financial question - as pivotal as it is to the current circumstances - is secondary to the real issue, that of the simple humanity at stake. There is no sound justification for the scenario now faced, that when the money finally runs out at Joan Whiting - expected to be at the end of November - its remaining residents will be shipped off over the Takaka Hill and beyond to a new rest home. All are frail, some in very poor health. The prospect of uprooting and transplanting them to a foreign environment, because in essence the health bureaucracy can't get its act together, is scandalous. If ever there was an unjust problem with a straightforward solution simply begging for some sensible leadership, this is it.
We look forward to Mr Ryall filling the vacuum.
In the two weeks since the death knell was sounded for Golden Bay's only rest home, two things have happened: an impassioned community has started mobilising to try to save the Joan Whiting home; while those who have the power over its future have given every impression of sitting on their hands hoping to ignore the mounting anger and anxiety.
It is time to move the campaign to keep the home open up another gear, and it is time for those who hold the Joan Whiting home's fate in their hands to do the right thing. Today, the Nelson Mail is adding its voice and weight to the community's effort to stop the closure and ensure that the handful of elderly people living in the home are able to see out their years in Golden Bay.
We are joining those demanding the intervention of Health Minister Tony Ryall, for it appears that the inertia and buck-passing which has led to the Joan Whiting's predicament will only be broken with intervention from the highest level. We hope that all our readers who recognise the injustice and folly the Golden Bay community faces will join the effort to convince the decision makers to intervene.
The community's wish to keep Joan Whiting open - at least until new rest home facilities are available in the district - is hardly unreasonable or preposterous.
The argument is not about propping it up indefinitely against the odds (as much as that scenario might have its sympathisers within the Golden Bay community). It needs a lifeline - bridging finance - to ensure it can keep operating and so continue to be home to a dozen or so elderly people until the Bay's much-talked-of integrated health centre, including a new rest home, is open for business in Takaka.
Before now, all parties seemed to have accepted that aim was desirable. It is worth recalling that the Nelson Marlborough District Health Board previously provided the Joan Whiting trust with bridging funding on the expectation that the home would be incorporated into the new health campus.
The problem seems to be that the plans to get that campus off the ground have slowed to a crawl. The DHB has long since withdrawn its funding (which it has been at pains to argue it was never obliged to provide); other sources have also dried up; and the community-based Joan Whiting trust has found itself high and dry.
But really, the financial question - as pivotal as it is to the current circumstances - is secondary to the real issue, that of the simple humanity at stake. There is no sound justification for the scenario now faced, that when the money finally runs out at Joan Whiting - expected to be at the end of November - its remaining residents will be shipped off over the Takaka Hill and beyond to a new rest home. All are frail, some in very poor health. The prospect of uprooting and transplanting them to a foreign environment, because in essence the health bureaucracy can't get its act together, is scandalous. If ever there was an unjust problem with a straightforward solution simply begging for some sensible leadership, this is it.
We look forward to Mr Ryall filling the vacuum.
A predictable lesson for building owners
Nelson Mail editorial, September 8, 2010
The immediate aftermath of a disaster is hardly the time when anybody wants to hear a "told you so" message, but the early lessons to be taken from the Canterbury earthquake are too severe to ignore - and exactly what we have long been warned of. One of the most glaring aspects of the quake's toll is that it has been hardest on exactly those buildings which everybody knew would be most prone to serious damage in a significant shake: old, unstrengthened masonry structures, ranging from house chimneys to large commercial buildings. They were, in other words, disasters waiting to happen and a legacy of the failure of building owners and local authorities to be adequately prepared.
It could, and probably should, be considered a travesty that New Zealand as a whole still has so many old brick and stone buildings which would not withstand even a moderately-serious quake. In Nelson alone, the city council estimates there are 240 buildings and structures which are potentially "earthquake-prone" and may need strengthening - but with "very few" getting the necessary attention to date.
Nelson MP Nick Smith hinted at the seeming laxity with which the issue has been regarded with his comments this week about the reluctance some building owners have shown to their obligations. Obviously there is no way any community could bring all such buildings up to contemporary standards overnight, especially given that those standards have been something of a moveable feast in recent decades. But the deadline of decades set by some local bodies to allow building owners to get up to code would look ridiculous if a significant earthquake strikes in the meantime.
It may be that the Government will need to consider a system of incentives to encourage speedier progress, but the sight of hundreds of destroyed and badly-damaged old brick and stone buildings in Christchurch should have provided all the evidence needed that dragging heels and hoping it will never happen is a fool's course.
As has been repeatedly pointed out since Saturday, hundreds or thousands could have been killed and badly hurt if the Christchurch quake had happened during the height of a working day. If that had been the case, building owners would have surely faced some of the responsibility. Even without a human toll, the destruction of so many pieces of the Christchurch cityscape is a deeply upsetting and traumatic element of the whole tragedy, one which no town or city should now be prepared to countenance.
The Nelson City Council's own building manager has acknowledged that events down in Christchurch are a "wake-up call". A team of her staff are in that city helping with the recovery efforts. They will surely bring back to Nelson some newfound urgency to share with the community at large - and particularly with building owners - about the need to make haste on the most basic of precautions: ensuring that the built environment and its inhabitants have a fair chance of surviving a significant tremor, if and when it is this city's turn to face such disaster. After all, it is more than ever the case that nobody can say they haven't been warned.
The immediate aftermath of a disaster is hardly the time when anybody wants to hear a "told you so" message, but the early lessons to be taken from the Canterbury earthquake are too severe to ignore - and exactly what we have long been warned of. One of the most glaring aspects of the quake's toll is that it has been hardest on exactly those buildings which everybody knew would be most prone to serious damage in a significant shake: old, unstrengthened masonry structures, ranging from house chimneys to large commercial buildings. They were, in other words, disasters waiting to happen and a legacy of the failure of building owners and local authorities to be adequately prepared.
It could, and probably should, be considered a travesty that New Zealand as a whole still has so many old brick and stone buildings which would not withstand even a moderately-serious quake. In Nelson alone, the city council estimates there are 240 buildings and structures which are potentially "earthquake-prone" and may need strengthening - but with "very few" getting the necessary attention to date.
Nelson MP Nick Smith hinted at the seeming laxity with which the issue has been regarded with his comments this week about the reluctance some building owners have shown to their obligations. Obviously there is no way any community could bring all such buildings up to contemporary standards overnight, especially given that those standards have been something of a moveable feast in recent decades. But the deadline of decades set by some local bodies to allow building owners to get up to code would look ridiculous if a significant earthquake strikes in the meantime.
It may be that the Government will need to consider a system of incentives to encourage speedier progress, but the sight of hundreds of destroyed and badly-damaged old brick and stone buildings in Christchurch should have provided all the evidence needed that dragging heels and hoping it will never happen is a fool's course.
As has been repeatedly pointed out since Saturday, hundreds or thousands could have been killed and badly hurt if the Christchurch quake had happened during the height of a working day. If that had been the case, building owners would have surely faced some of the responsibility. Even without a human toll, the destruction of so many pieces of the Christchurch cityscape is a deeply upsetting and traumatic element of the whole tragedy, one which no town or city should now be prepared to countenance.
The Nelson City Council's own building manager has acknowledged that events down in Christchurch are a "wake-up call". A team of her staff are in that city helping with the recovery efforts. They will surely bring back to Nelson some newfound urgency to share with the community at large - and particularly with building owners - about the need to make haste on the most basic of precautions: ensuring that the built environment and its inhabitants have a fair chance of surviving a significant tremor, if and when it is this city's turn to face such disaster. After all, it is more than ever the case that nobody can say they haven't been warned.
Out of the rubble come the challenges
Nelson Mail editorial, September 7, 2010
If the overwhelming sense on Saturday was unreality, and disbelief that a major New Zealand city really had been badly damaged by a big earthquake, that has given way to emotions much rawer and harder to deal with for the people of Christchurch and beyond: despair, hopelessness, fear, confusion, grief and their ilk.
Arguably New Zealand's proudest city - and, it must be remembered, the cornerstone of the South Island in almost every meaningful sense - faces a recovery operation which, with the rubble still strewn and the people still shocked, seems more impossible than daunting. Landmarks and institutions large and small have crumbled in the quake. The memory of corners of Christchurch's commercial heart and of grand heritage homes in ruins will haunt Cantabrians for years to come.
Hundreds of people are essentially homeless, thousands more faced with huge challenges in getting through the day-to-day. Businesses and daily commerce have been up-ended in ways that will have far- reaching consequences. Many of those consequences have yet to fully emerge - the disruption to grocery supply systems throughout the island is surely just the first example.
As the city's mayor, Bob Parker, observed yesterday, both energy levels and spirits are now flagging as the adrenalin of Saturday's dramas wears off. Some very difficult days lie ahead of the Christchurch and Canterbury communities and it is vital that the rest of New Zealand does all it can to support them, in whatever way is necessary. While the enormous rebuilding task now faced will provide an economic fillip to Canterbury, some industries such as the region's crucial tourism sector and potentially the already struggling retail and hospitality sectors must be fearing for their very survival over the weeks and months ahead, certainly if something like normality can't be realised any time soon.
It should be said that the initial reaction over the weekend was heartening. All those with a part to play in the emergency response - Mr Parker most notably - appeared to rise impressively to the challenge. But most credit should go to the ordinary people of the stricken communities who were seen to respond with humanity, good sense and courage, and helped ensure family and neighbour were safe and comforted. They will need deep reserves of all those qualities, and much more, in the immediate future.
As long and torturous as the road ahead now looks, and as shocking and damaging as the earthquake has been, Christchurch and Canterbury will recover; life will return to normal, probably sooner than currently seems likely. But that will demand all New Zealanders maintaining the same sort of resilience and empathy which has been so brutally demanded of Cantabrians. This is a disaster that the rest of the country must not tire of hearing about; we cannot pretend it is somebody else's problem, or will sort itself out. For one thing, every New Zealand community will know that it could just as well be the one facing such devastation, or worse. But more than that, every Kiwi also knows that in these sparse, isolated, shaky isles, helping out others in their time of need is what we do. Now is that time.
If the overwhelming sense on Saturday was unreality, and disbelief that a major New Zealand city really had been badly damaged by a big earthquake, that has given way to emotions much rawer and harder to deal with for the people of Christchurch and beyond: despair, hopelessness, fear, confusion, grief and their ilk.
Arguably New Zealand's proudest city - and, it must be remembered, the cornerstone of the South Island in almost every meaningful sense - faces a recovery operation which, with the rubble still strewn and the people still shocked, seems more impossible than daunting. Landmarks and institutions large and small have crumbled in the quake. The memory of corners of Christchurch's commercial heart and of grand heritage homes in ruins will haunt Cantabrians for years to come.
Hundreds of people are essentially homeless, thousands more faced with huge challenges in getting through the day-to-day. Businesses and daily commerce have been up-ended in ways that will have far- reaching consequences. Many of those consequences have yet to fully emerge - the disruption to grocery supply systems throughout the island is surely just the first example.
As the city's mayor, Bob Parker, observed yesterday, both energy levels and spirits are now flagging as the adrenalin of Saturday's dramas wears off. Some very difficult days lie ahead of the Christchurch and Canterbury communities and it is vital that the rest of New Zealand does all it can to support them, in whatever way is necessary. While the enormous rebuilding task now faced will provide an economic fillip to Canterbury, some industries such as the region's crucial tourism sector and potentially the already struggling retail and hospitality sectors must be fearing for their very survival over the weeks and months ahead, certainly if something like normality can't be realised any time soon.
It should be said that the initial reaction over the weekend was heartening. All those with a part to play in the emergency response - Mr Parker most notably - appeared to rise impressively to the challenge. But most credit should go to the ordinary people of the stricken communities who were seen to respond with humanity, good sense and courage, and helped ensure family and neighbour were safe and comforted. They will need deep reserves of all those qualities, and much more, in the immediate future.
As long and torturous as the road ahead now looks, and as shocking and damaging as the earthquake has been, Christchurch and Canterbury will recover; life will return to normal, probably sooner than currently seems likely. But that will demand all New Zealanders maintaining the same sort of resilience and empathy which has been so brutally demanded of Cantabrians. This is a disaster that the rest of the country must not tire of hearing about; we cannot pretend it is somebody else's problem, or will sort itself out. For one thing, every New Zealand community will know that it could just as well be the one facing such devastation, or worse. But more than that, every Kiwi also knows that in these sparse, isolated, shaky isles, helping out others in their time of need is what we do. Now is that time.
No need for fuss over bikes on the Heaphy
Nelson Mail editorial, May 3, 2011
Mountain bikers can finally ride the Heaphy Track again, and will be justifiably celebrating the chance to rediscover the pleasures of what is by all accounts one of New Zealand's most spectacular and rewarding routes. Early reports from those first on to the track following its opening for a five-month cycling season on Sunday suggest that the experience more than lives up to the billing. Hut bookings over winter - when the track is normally all but deserted - have been heavy, according to the Department of Conservation. Mountain-biking networks will no doubt spread the word that the top of the south is once again the place to find bench-track nirvana - at least for part of the year.
All of that is good news, and suggests vindication for those convinced of the wider benefits to the region that will come from attracting mountain bikers to tackle the Heaphy. But it is hard to shake the sense that the absurd delay by officialdom in dealing with the mountain-biking question has been an enormous waste of time, energy and opportunity, and has helped opposition to cyclists from some trampers to fester unnecessarily.
While the cyclists themselves have been fastidious not to criticise the authorities; and while it might be argued that now is a time to look forward, not back, the conservation bureaucracy should be held to account for its poor performance in responding to the case to let bikes back on to the track. Arguments about the reasons why - such as the awkward management mechanisms required for national parks - can only go so far. It has taken 15 years to address a relatively simple question. The marathon display of fluffing about should be an embarrassment to the conservation authorities.
It needs to be remembered that until 1995, before the Heaphy became part of the new Kahurangi National Park, cyclists were free to ride the track and did so in their thousands each year. There has been no suggestion in the years since that this was disastrous for the track, its other users, or its flora and fauna. Instead, once the national park was created, the presence of bikes fell foul of a rigid interpretation of the rules and, it seems, a hidebound philosophy that tracks such as the Heaphy were sacred places preserved for those prepared to walk them.
It is ironic, therefore, that for all the efforts of DOC to promote the Heaphy as a "Great Walk", tramper numbers have been largely static. And it is telling that cyclists are now queuing for a crack at the Heaphy, even if that means tackling it in the frigid depths of an alpine winter.
Given that the powers-that-be have decreed the return of cyclists is only on a three-year trial, those cyclists will be acutely aware that their behaviour will be watched hawkishly. There should be nothing to fear. Mountain biking has become a commonplace feature of the New Zealand outdoors and has proved that it can co-exist peaceably with other users. It is hard to imagine any but the most determined rogue element causing any kind of serious upset on the Heaphy. It would be nice to think that in three years, everyone can look back and wonder what the fuss - and the interminable delay - was all about.
Mountain bikers can finally ride the Heaphy Track again, and will be justifiably celebrating the chance to rediscover the pleasures of what is by all accounts one of New Zealand's most spectacular and rewarding routes. Early reports from those first on to the track following its opening for a five-month cycling season on Sunday suggest that the experience more than lives up to the billing. Hut bookings over winter - when the track is normally all but deserted - have been heavy, according to the Department of Conservation. Mountain-biking networks will no doubt spread the word that the top of the south is once again the place to find bench-track nirvana - at least for part of the year.
All of that is good news, and suggests vindication for those convinced of the wider benefits to the region that will come from attracting mountain bikers to tackle the Heaphy. But it is hard to shake the sense that the absurd delay by officialdom in dealing with the mountain-biking question has been an enormous waste of time, energy and opportunity, and has helped opposition to cyclists from some trampers to fester unnecessarily.
While the cyclists themselves have been fastidious not to criticise the authorities; and while it might be argued that now is a time to look forward, not back, the conservation bureaucracy should be held to account for its poor performance in responding to the case to let bikes back on to the track. Arguments about the reasons why - such as the awkward management mechanisms required for national parks - can only go so far. It has taken 15 years to address a relatively simple question. The marathon display of fluffing about should be an embarrassment to the conservation authorities.
It needs to be remembered that until 1995, before the Heaphy became part of the new Kahurangi National Park, cyclists were free to ride the track and did so in their thousands each year. There has been no suggestion in the years since that this was disastrous for the track, its other users, or its flora and fauna. Instead, once the national park was created, the presence of bikes fell foul of a rigid interpretation of the rules and, it seems, a hidebound philosophy that tracks such as the Heaphy were sacred places preserved for those prepared to walk them.
It is ironic, therefore, that for all the efforts of DOC to promote the Heaphy as a "Great Walk", tramper numbers have been largely static. And it is telling that cyclists are now queuing for a crack at the Heaphy, even if that means tackling it in the frigid depths of an alpine winter.
Given that the powers-that-be have decreed the return of cyclists is only on a three-year trial, those cyclists will be acutely aware that their behaviour will be watched hawkishly. There should be nothing to fear. Mountain biking has become a commonplace feature of the New Zealand outdoors and has proved that it can co-exist peaceably with other users. It is hard to imagine any but the most determined rogue element causing any kind of serious upset on the Heaphy. It would be nice to think that in three years, everyone can look back and wonder what the fuss - and the interminable delay - was all about.
Time to lead a city out of the rubble
Nelson Mail editorial, April 19 2011
Saturday evening's sharp aftershock in Christchurch was the unnecessary rude reminder of how brittle the beleaguered city remains, but also of the cleft stick it is caught in. It desperately needs a return to some sort of stability, yet nature continues to deny it that. Meanwhile, the Government and its new Canterbury Earthquake Recovery Authority (Cera) have been given unprecedented powers to ensure nothing stands in the way of their recipe for recovery, but in the process have raised profound fears about what might be trampled on in the process.
Those powers are so sweeping as to be almost incomprehensible - although perhaps Cantabrians have had a hint of them with the state of national emergency which has allowed Civil Defence to wield control since February 22. Its performance has been mixed: it led an often heroic rescue effort but also sparked widespread alarm around its willingness to engage with the people left hamstrung by the quake's immediate aftermath.
While everybody understands and accepts the need for those charged with the recovery to be able to tackle it without unnecessary impediment, it soon emerged that one bureaucrat's idea of necessity can quickly become another citizen's version of tyranny. The prospect of that tension being amplified throughout the city as Cera enforces its new remit is sobering in the extreme.
The despair of Christchurch people whose homes, jobs, mental health and security are precarious is distressing to behold. It should be beyond dispute that responding to this is the single-biggest priority for Cera and all the other bodies which have some part to play in the recovery and rebuilding project.
While nothing can be done about the continuing aftershocks - the worst of which, like Saturday's, revive the physical threats like liquefaction and rockfall as well as snap taut nerves - people badly need hope, starting with a clear message that deadlocks in the decision-making are being broken. It remains hard to escape the sense that for all the sweeping decisions and powers now being arrayed, clear, frank, consistent and reliable communication is the missing ingredient.
The style of those in power has not exactly helped in this regard. Most prominently the Earthquake Recovery Minister Gerry Brownlee's somewhat bumptious and impatient manner is a source of unnecessary controversy. Whatever his qualities, he has not proved himself an easy politician to warm to. Nobody can expect a politician leading such a massive effort to provide a shoulder for anyone and everyone to cry on, but at a time of such immense crisis, some personal empathy and humanity would go a long way.
Now he and his new agency have all the tools any politician or bureaucrat could ever dream of, it is time for them to start engaging with a badly-frazzled community. Among the vast range of tasks before them, the leaders and their staffs must demonstrate that they are not about to impose dictatorship; and will speak frequently, coherently and honestly to the people whose futures are on the line. That's their challenge. It is not just Christchurch which must pray they are up to it.
Saturday evening's sharp aftershock in Christchurch was the unnecessary rude reminder of how brittle the beleaguered city remains, but also of the cleft stick it is caught in. It desperately needs a return to some sort of stability, yet nature continues to deny it that. Meanwhile, the Government and its new Canterbury Earthquake Recovery Authority (Cera) have been given unprecedented powers to ensure nothing stands in the way of their recipe for recovery, but in the process have raised profound fears about what might be trampled on in the process.
Those powers are so sweeping as to be almost incomprehensible - although perhaps Cantabrians have had a hint of them with the state of national emergency which has allowed Civil Defence to wield control since February 22. Its performance has been mixed: it led an often heroic rescue effort but also sparked widespread alarm around its willingness to engage with the people left hamstrung by the quake's immediate aftermath.
While everybody understands and accepts the need for those charged with the recovery to be able to tackle it without unnecessary impediment, it soon emerged that one bureaucrat's idea of necessity can quickly become another citizen's version of tyranny. The prospect of that tension being amplified throughout the city as Cera enforces its new remit is sobering in the extreme.
The despair of Christchurch people whose homes, jobs, mental health and security are precarious is distressing to behold. It should be beyond dispute that responding to this is the single-biggest priority for Cera and all the other bodies which have some part to play in the recovery and rebuilding project.
While nothing can be done about the continuing aftershocks - the worst of which, like Saturday's, revive the physical threats like liquefaction and rockfall as well as snap taut nerves - people badly need hope, starting with a clear message that deadlocks in the decision-making are being broken. It remains hard to escape the sense that for all the sweeping decisions and powers now being arrayed, clear, frank, consistent and reliable communication is the missing ingredient.
The style of those in power has not exactly helped in this regard. Most prominently the Earthquake Recovery Minister Gerry Brownlee's somewhat bumptious and impatient manner is a source of unnecessary controversy. Whatever his qualities, he has not proved himself an easy politician to warm to. Nobody can expect a politician leading such a massive effort to provide a shoulder for anyone and everyone to cry on, but at a time of such immense crisis, some personal empathy and humanity would go a long way.
Now he and his new agency have all the tools any politician or bureaucrat could ever dream of, it is time for them to start engaging with a badly-frazzled community. Among the vast range of tasks before them, the leaders and their staffs must demonstrate that they are not about to impose dictatorship; and will speak frequently, coherently and honestly to the people whose futures are on the line. That's their challenge. It is not just Christchurch which must pray they are up to it.
Fast-fading dreams of opportunities lost
Nelson Mail editorial, March 28, 2011
Those who have held out hope that Nelson could one day develop itself a purpose-built performance venue - better yet, one with associated conference facilities capable of putting the city in the vanguard of conference destinations - have learned to be patient. They have had little choice, given the ludicrous delays and repeated failures of the city council (and the head-in-the-sand denials of the Tasman District Council) in addressing the glaring gap in the civic infrastructure.
But now, the project's supporters might also need to start believing in miracles, for that is surely what it will take for its latest incarnation to become a reality. The $58 million price tag attached to the new plan for a combined performing arts and conference centre development on Rutherford Park (plus a further upgrade of the Trafalgar Centre) looks like a death warrant for the dream.
For Nelson, it is a vast sum - the biggest-ever capital spending proposal put forward by the city council. Attached to a project which has always been contentious, confused and misrepresented, the mere idea of the city trying to swallow such a large commitment will create reactions ranging from apoplexy to despair among many ratepayers. Add to that the proposed timing, over a period when the rebuilding of Christchurch will place extreme pressure on the construction industry, and the grand plan looks even more impossible.
While the current city council has not yet been tested to any great degree, it will be miraculous it it can steer the project through. Rather, it seems certain that yet another - conceivably fatal - blow will be delivered to the prospect of the city and region ever providing these facilities which could offer so much to the cultural, social and economic vibrancy.
It would be unfair to entirely blame this council for the scenario now before the city. The issue should have been settled a decade ago. But while it could be seen as laudable that the council is promoting an ambitious, comprehensive approach to the city's venue demands, it could equally be viewed as naive; or even as a cunning plan, of aiming for the sky knowing that the thing will be shot down and thus conveniently removed from the books for the foreseeable future.
Given the sorry history, things are past the point where predictions are sensible. Nevertheless, the performance venue idea increasingly resembles a dead duck; common sense suggests Nelson should resign itself to always being a backwater for many touring acts. It's sad to say, but probably realistic.
It will be a farce, however, if the plan for a conference centre - as in, a purpose-built, large-scale, flexible-use venue, properly marketed and accompanied by a concerted effort to attract new hotel accommodation to the city - is similarly allowed to wither. For years, the community's business leaders and tourism advisers have pleaded for such a project. But after years of indecision, compounded by too many people's preference to be swayed by the arguments of rival operators and a clutch of malignant "commentators", that project too increasingly looks to be on a hiding to nothing.
Then again, there's always a miracle to hope for.
Those who have held out hope that Nelson could one day develop itself a purpose-built performance venue - better yet, one with associated conference facilities capable of putting the city in the vanguard of conference destinations - have learned to be patient. They have had little choice, given the ludicrous delays and repeated failures of the city council (and the head-in-the-sand denials of the Tasman District Council) in addressing the glaring gap in the civic infrastructure.
But now, the project's supporters might also need to start believing in miracles, for that is surely what it will take for its latest incarnation to become a reality. The $58 million price tag attached to the new plan for a combined performing arts and conference centre development on Rutherford Park (plus a further upgrade of the Trafalgar Centre) looks like a death warrant for the dream.
For Nelson, it is a vast sum - the biggest-ever capital spending proposal put forward by the city council. Attached to a project which has always been contentious, confused and misrepresented, the mere idea of the city trying to swallow such a large commitment will create reactions ranging from apoplexy to despair among many ratepayers. Add to that the proposed timing, over a period when the rebuilding of Christchurch will place extreme pressure on the construction industry, and the grand plan looks even more impossible.
While the current city council has not yet been tested to any great degree, it will be miraculous it it can steer the project through. Rather, it seems certain that yet another - conceivably fatal - blow will be delivered to the prospect of the city and region ever providing these facilities which could offer so much to the cultural, social and economic vibrancy.
It would be unfair to entirely blame this council for the scenario now before the city. The issue should have been settled a decade ago. But while it could be seen as laudable that the council is promoting an ambitious, comprehensive approach to the city's venue demands, it could equally be viewed as naive; or even as a cunning plan, of aiming for the sky knowing that the thing will be shot down and thus conveniently removed from the books for the foreseeable future.
Given the sorry history, things are past the point where predictions are sensible. Nevertheless, the performance venue idea increasingly resembles a dead duck; common sense suggests Nelson should resign itself to always being a backwater for many touring acts. It's sad to say, but probably realistic.
It will be a farce, however, if the plan for a conference centre - as in, a purpose-built, large-scale, flexible-use venue, properly marketed and accompanied by a concerted effort to attract new hotel accommodation to the city - is similarly allowed to wither. For years, the community's business leaders and tourism advisers have pleaded for such a project. But after years of indecision, compounded by too many people's preference to be swayed by the arguments of rival operators and a clutch of malignant "commentators", that project too increasingly looks to be on a hiding to nothing.
Then again, there's always a miracle to hope for.
New challenges for post-quake south
Nelson Mail editorial, March 23, 2011
It would be wrong to pretend that there is any kind of silver lining to be found in the wreckage of the Christchurch earthquake, but it has always been obvious that the extent of the damage there would trigger a profound reshaping of the South Island's established order. There should be no argument that Christchurch's interests and the need to get the Mainland's economic powerhouse back to full health will remain the nation's No. 1 priority, probably for years to come. But the re-ordering of life in the South Island presents a whole new range of challenges, demands and, yes, opportunities which other communities need to prepare to meet, and quickly.
Uppermost of these is the desire or need of many Christchurch people to re-establish homes and businesses in a new place. Christchurch faces a prolonged spell of depopulation and business loss, whether because people are too jittery or traumatised to remain, or because there simply isn't the infrastructure to support them in the foreseeable future. Such a trend will carry all manner of complications including the possibility of the newly-jobless being left adrift, roaming far and wide in search of work in a tight job market. But there will also be those with capital and determination casting about for a new home. Other cities should not be coy about promoting themselves to those seeking a new base, and doing what they can to make themselves attractive to the economic refugees.
It is not all about self-interest, although there will be benefits for a Timaru, a Dunedin or a Nelson if they end up hosting new investment and experience population growth from displaced Christchurch people. More important is the wider interest in all communities doing what they can to get fractured businesses and lives as near-as-possible back to normal as quickly as possible.
For Nelson, the immediate question is whether the city and the wider region has its act together to respond to those demands. On the surface at least, the answer would seem to be no. Since gearing up for the initial influx of quake refugees a month ago, the region appears to have been at best reactive to those cases where people have arrived looking for a new base for their home or business. A complacent or even dismissive attitude to newcomers will do Nelson no favours. While the region, with its current tight job market, cannot pretend to be any kind of salvation, neither can it can afford to turn its back on either the challenges or the opportunities.
There may well be a case for a local agency to take a high-profile lead in both pushing Nelson to present itself as a viable alternative to Christchurch while that city takes stock and re-establishes itself; and to monitor market behaviour, including being prepared to blow the whistle on rapacious or opportunistic price-gouging if there is a demand spike for, say, real estate.
Those who are dismissive of the situation have badly under-estimated both the need and the challenges. It is not a case of treating the fallout from Christchurch's misery as a goldrush but of recognising a gaping hole in the established order which it is in everyone's interests to plug as quickly and firmly as possible.
It would be wrong to pretend that there is any kind of silver lining to be found in the wreckage of the Christchurch earthquake, but it has always been obvious that the extent of the damage there would trigger a profound reshaping of the South Island's established order. There should be no argument that Christchurch's interests and the need to get the Mainland's economic powerhouse back to full health will remain the nation's No. 1 priority, probably for years to come. But the re-ordering of life in the South Island presents a whole new range of challenges, demands and, yes, opportunities which other communities need to prepare to meet, and quickly.
Uppermost of these is the desire or need of many Christchurch people to re-establish homes and businesses in a new place. Christchurch faces a prolonged spell of depopulation and business loss, whether because people are too jittery or traumatised to remain, or because there simply isn't the infrastructure to support them in the foreseeable future. Such a trend will carry all manner of complications including the possibility of the newly-jobless being left adrift, roaming far and wide in search of work in a tight job market. But there will also be those with capital and determination casting about for a new home. Other cities should not be coy about promoting themselves to those seeking a new base, and doing what they can to make themselves attractive to the economic refugees.
It is not all about self-interest, although there will be benefits for a Timaru, a Dunedin or a Nelson if they end up hosting new investment and experience population growth from displaced Christchurch people. More important is the wider interest in all communities doing what they can to get fractured businesses and lives as near-as-possible back to normal as quickly as possible.
For Nelson, the immediate question is whether the city and the wider region has its act together to respond to those demands. On the surface at least, the answer would seem to be no. Since gearing up for the initial influx of quake refugees a month ago, the region appears to have been at best reactive to those cases where people have arrived looking for a new base for their home or business. A complacent or even dismissive attitude to newcomers will do Nelson no favours. While the region, with its current tight job market, cannot pretend to be any kind of salvation, neither can it can afford to turn its back on either the challenges or the opportunities.
There may well be a case for a local agency to take a high-profile lead in both pushing Nelson to present itself as a viable alternative to Christchurch while that city takes stock and re-establishes itself; and to monitor market behaviour, including being prepared to blow the whistle on rapacious or opportunistic price-gouging if there is a demand spike for, say, real estate.
Those who are dismissive of the situation have badly under-estimated both the need and the challenges. It is not a case of treating the fallout from Christchurch's misery as a goldrush but of recognising a gaping hole in the established order which it is in everyone's interests to plug as quickly and firmly as possible.
The fight for an uncertain future
Nelson Mail editorial, March 22, 2011
The fog of war, in all its disorienting murk, has settled heavily across Libya. In a turn of events unthinkable mere weeks ago - demonstrating the speed at which unrest and rebellion has careened so chaotically across the Arab world - a Western- dominated military coalition is bombarding the forces of the Libyan dictator Gaddafi. Yet if the early running has predictably gone the coalition's way, there is no telling where this assault will lead.
The case for intervention is sound. Gaddafi had all but vowed genocide against those who had sought to overthrow him. The evidence suggests slaughter of the rebels and anyone else the Gaddafi regime deemed an enemy was imminent. The global community risked a humanitarian outrage if it had tried to pretend this was Libya's business alone, not to mention the prospect of a wave of panicking refugees trying to cross the Mediterranean into Europe to flee Gaddafi's revitalised tyranny. So, the outside world had to act, and the crisis had reached a point where there few credible options other than swift and sharp military intervention.
The reports of the casualties inflicted on the Libyan military carry disconcerting reminders of the West's early adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan. Hopefully, given the appalling mess those experiences ultimately led to, it is not a comparison which holds up too far; and yet their blunt lesson, that massive superiority in firepower is in itself no guarantee of the ideal outcome will be gnawing at every mind in the attacking alliance.
Already, the resolve which helped shepherd the United Nations resolutions justifying the attacks is shaking. Crucial Arab support is predictably flimsy. The ugly reality of airstrikes on Gaddafi's forces has no doubt unnerved other Arab leaders, faced with extraordinary volatility in their own countries. The Arabs are far from alone in their anxiety. As soon as there are verified reports of civilians falling victim to coalition attacks, the condemnation from those powers who have shied away from action will intensify.
Obviously, the best outcome would be that Gaddafi rapidly departs the scene. His continued hold on any kind of power is now unthinkable; but that might still be a prospect the world has to confront. For decades he was recognised as one of the world's great menaces, the head of a rogue state which sheltered the worst terrorist groups and had designs on weapons of mass destruction. His latest behaviour proves that his supposed rehabilitation was only a myth. So long as he maintains any kind of grip on any part of his country, he can be expected to seek to unleash evil against his new-found legion of enemies, especially in the West.
If he is removed, there are those who worry about what shape or form a post-Gaddafi Libya might take. Yet the mounting lessons of the Arab uprisings are that such questions are spinning out of the control of Western influence. Air and missile strikes in Libya are a grim but necessary measure to prevent a humanitarian catastrophe and to try to force a tyrant from office. Beyond that they offer no certainty. Throughout the Middle East, there are no longer any guarantees that anyone will get what they hope for.
The fog of war, in all its disorienting murk, has settled heavily across Libya. In a turn of events unthinkable mere weeks ago - demonstrating the speed at which unrest and rebellion has careened so chaotically across the Arab world - a Western- dominated military coalition is bombarding the forces of the Libyan dictator Gaddafi. Yet if the early running has predictably gone the coalition's way, there is no telling where this assault will lead.
The case for intervention is sound. Gaddafi had all but vowed genocide against those who had sought to overthrow him. The evidence suggests slaughter of the rebels and anyone else the Gaddafi regime deemed an enemy was imminent. The global community risked a humanitarian outrage if it had tried to pretend this was Libya's business alone, not to mention the prospect of a wave of panicking refugees trying to cross the Mediterranean into Europe to flee Gaddafi's revitalised tyranny. So, the outside world had to act, and the crisis had reached a point where there few credible options other than swift and sharp military intervention.
The reports of the casualties inflicted on the Libyan military carry disconcerting reminders of the West's early adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan. Hopefully, given the appalling mess those experiences ultimately led to, it is not a comparison which holds up too far; and yet their blunt lesson, that massive superiority in firepower is in itself no guarantee of the ideal outcome will be gnawing at every mind in the attacking alliance.
Already, the resolve which helped shepherd the United Nations resolutions justifying the attacks is shaking. Crucial Arab support is predictably flimsy. The ugly reality of airstrikes on Gaddafi's forces has no doubt unnerved other Arab leaders, faced with extraordinary volatility in their own countries. The Arabs are far from alone in their anxiety. As soon as there are verified reports of civilians falling victim to coalition attacks, the condemnation from those powers who have shied away from action will intensify.
Obviously, the best outcome would be that Gaddafi rapidly departs the scene. His continued hold on any kind of power is now unthinkable; but that might still be a prospect the world has to confront. For decades he was recognised as one of the world's great menaces, the head of a rogue state which sheltered the worst terrorist groups and had designs on weapons of mass destruction. His latest behaviour proves that his supposed rehabilitation was only a myth. So long as he maintains any kind of grip on any part of his country, he can be expected to seek to unleash evil against his new-found legion of enemies, especially in the West.
If he is removed, there are those who worry about what shape or form a post-Gaddafi Libya might take. Yet the mounting lessons of the Arab uprisings are that such questions are spinning out of the control of Western influence. Air and missile strikes in Libya are a grim but necessary measure to prevent a humanitarian catastrophe and to try to force a tyrant from office. Beyond that they offer no certainty. Throughout the Middle East, there are no longer any guarantees that anyone will get what they hope for.
A reminder of what's lost and what's ahead
Nelson Mail editorial, March 18, 2011
As everybody expected, Christchurch's post- earthquake agonies have moved to a troubling, unhappy stage. That has made for an odd backdrop to today's national memorial day in Hagley Park. The timing of the commemoration, less than a month since the quake and well before a final death toll is clear, has been widely criticised in the city, and the sense is that the Government has not got this part of its response right.
Nevertheless, for better or worse it has gone ahead, many dignitaries have made the effort to attend, and the day will play its part in helping Christchurch to take a short time out and ponder all it has lost.
But what then? That question remains as impossible to answer, even to contemplate, as it was straight after the quake. The city is not just broken, but beaten down - exhausted, dispirited, confused and anxious. A sense of foreboding refuses to lift. The dreadful events in Japan over the past week have darkened the picture, adding to the doom-ridden air and threatening to overshadow Christchurch's needs.
The decision that the city will play no part in the Rugby World Cup was at a rational level entirely sensible, understandable and predictable. Emotionally, however, many Christchurch people will feel betrayal, the move a harsh reminder that however much others may sympathise with their plight, there is no disguising the depths the city has fallen to.
Similarly, the destruction of many historic buildings under the direction of Civil Defence has been the rudest of awakenings. It is easy to accept the principle that buildings which are dangerously damaged must be cleared to ensure the city centre is made safe as quickly as possible, but the reality of the clearances and the lack of communication about them has been heart-wrenching - yet another of those slaps in the face as the full meaning of the earthquake begins to sink in.
Civil Defence is not helping matters in that regard, appearing arrogant over the demolitions (or "deconstructions" as its uncomfortably-Orwellian jargon has it). That it operates under the powers of a national emergency - and largely out of the view of the public, with no obvious intention of fully accounting for itself - is an unsettling aspect of the experience to date.
There has been cause for some positiveness, most of all the stunning displays of generosity and support from the rest of New Zealand. Every ounce of that will be needed, and much more. Maybe the best that can be hoped for from today's memorial is that it is not treated by anyone as an attempt to "bring closure" to or "move on" from the city's tragedy. Christchurch has not yet properly picked itself up from the rubble. It has not farewelled all its fallen, it doesn't know how it will cope with the coming winter. It has a rebuilding task never before contemplated in this country. The social consequences lying in wait are unfathomable.
If its road ahead is the longest and most difficult imaginable, it must not be a lonely one. The only thoughts of moving on that should be entertained during today's solemnity are those which acknowledge that as a nation, we will do so as one. As of now, we've hardly even begun.
As everybody expected, Christchurch's post- earthquake agonies have moved to a troubling, unhappy stage. That has made for an odd backdrop to today's national memorial day in Hagley Park. The timing of the commemoration, less than a month since the quake and well before a final death toll is clear, has been widely criticised in the city, and the sense is that the Government has not got this part of its response right.
Nevertheless, for better or worse it has gone ahead, many dignitaries have made the effort to attend, and the day will play its part in helping Christchurch to take a short time out and ponder all it has lost.
But what then? That question remains as impossible to answer, even to contemplate, as it was straight after the quake. The city is not just broken, but beaten down - exhausted, dispirited, confused and anxious. A sense of foreboding refuses to lift. The dreadful events in Japan over the past week have darkened the picture, adding to the doom-ridden air and threatening to overshadow Christchurch's needs.
The decision that the city will play no part in the Rugby World Cup was at a rational level entirely sensible, understandable and predictable. Emotionally, however, many Christchurch people will feel betrayal, the move a harsh reminder that however much others may sympathise with their plight, there is no disguising the depths the city has fallen to.
Similarly, the destruction of many historic buildings under the direction of Civil Defence has been the rudest of awakenings. It is easy to accept the principle that buildings which are dangerously damaged must be cleared to ensure the city centre is made safe as quickly as possible, but the reality of the clearances and the lack of communication about them has been heart-wrenching - yet another of those slaps in the face as the full meaning of the earthquake begins to sink in.
Civil Defence is not helping matters in that regard, appearing arrogant over the demolitions (or "deconstructions" as its uncomfortably-Orwellian jargon has it). That it operates under the powers of a national emergency - and largely out of the view of the public, with no obvious intention of fully accounting for itself - is an unsettling aspect of the experience to date.
There has been cause for some positiveness, most of all the stunning displays of generosity and support from the rest of New Zealand. Every ounce of that will be needed, and much more. Maybe the best that can be hoped for from today's memorial is that it is not treated by anyone as an attempt to "bring closure" to or "move on" from the city's tragedy. Christchurch has not yet properly picked itself up from the rubble. It has not farewelled all its fallen, it doesn't know how it will cope with the coming winter. It has a rebuilding task never before contemplated in this country. The social consequences lying in wait are unfathomable.
If its road ahead is the longest and most difficult imaginable, it must not be a lonely one. The only thoughts of moving on that should be entertained during today's solemnity are those which acknowledge that as a nation, we will do so as one. As of now, we've hardly even begun.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Christchurch's agony is all of ours
Nelson Mail editorial, February 23, 2011
Christchurch's agony is all of ours.
Nobody could be unmoved by the images of devastation.
But this is a disaster which offers none of the sense of removal and remoteness that New Zealanders can usually take sanctuary in when confronted with catastrophe and great suffering.
After September's quake, there was a sense of relief that the city had miraculously escaped with so little human casualty; this week, there is no such encouragement, only incredulity that a wounded city can be so cruelly dealt to again.
In Nelson especially, the pain, the grief, the despair and the fear that now grip Christchurch will be deeply felt and shared by many.
Our ties to that city are close, closer than many of us may realise in our day to day.
Yesterday, there was no need to go far in Nelson to discover those who were worrying for loved ones living in or visiting the broken city; those who have lived there themselves and closely identify with the place, and who are sharing the grieving and the disbelief at the terrible battering it has taken.
As the full extent of the destruction sinks in - the knowledge that dozens have died, that buildings as iconic to the city's identity as the Anglican Cathedral are destroyed - the immediate reaction is a feeling of helplessness, of doubts even that Christchurch can ever recover after six months of such unremitting violence and cruelty.
Such despair is natural but must quickly give way to a determination to reach out to our neighbours at their time of greatest need; to accept whatever role we can play in the enormous task of helping nurse them, comfort them and guide them back to recovery.
Today, that challenge seems so vast as to be insurmountable. I0t isn't and must not be allowed to overwhelm, but nor can it be under-stated.
Much of the recovery, of course, will be a national and international effort.
The bill appears bound to surpass the billions already accounted for by the original September earthquake.
A severe strain on the whole economy, and on the South Island's core infrastructure, seems certain in the immediate future, and that is an unavoidable burden all of us must resign ourselves to and prepare for accordingly.
In time the huge rebuilding effort will require a massive injection of labour, far more than the city was already requiring. Nelson, along with the rest of the country, must be prepared to make whatever contributions and sacrifices are demanded to assist in that regard.
But today, tomorrow, and in the months to come the challenge to us all will be to reach out to our Christchurch brothers and sisters in whatever way we can personally manage.
We cannot predict what the demands will be but we must stoically rise to them, to respond generously and selflessly to whatever the needs may be - for labour, for cash, for shelter, for respite, for comfort, for support.
As we all share the agony, so must we all share the recovery.
Christchurch's agony is all of ours.
Nobody could be unmoved by the images of devastation.
But this is a disaster which offers none of the sense of removal and remoteness that New Zealanders can usually take sanctuary in when confronted with catastrophe and great suffering.
After September's quake, there was a sense of relief that the city had miraculously escaped with so little human casualty; this week, there is no such encouragement, only incredulity that a wounded city can be so cruelly dealt to again.
In Nelson especially, the pain, the grief, the despair and the fear that now grip Christchurch will be deeply felt and shared by many.
Our ties to that city are close, closer than many of us may realise in our day to day.
Yesterday, there was no need to go far in Nelson to discover those who were worrying for loved ones living in or visiting the broken city; those who have lived there themselves and closely identify with the place, and who are sharing the grieving and the disbelief at the terrible battering it has taken.
As the full extent of the destruction sinks in - the knowledge that dozens have died, that buildings as iconic to the city's identity as the Anglican Cathedral are destroyed - the immediate reaction is a feeling of helplessness, of doubts even that Christchurch can ever recover after six months of such unremitting violence and cruelty.
Such despair is natural but must quickly give way to a determination to reach out to our neighbours at their time of greatest need; to accept whatever role we can play in the enormous task of helping nurse them, comfort them and guide them back to recovery.
Today, that challenge seems so vast as to be insurmountable. I0t isn't and must not be allowed to overwhelm, but nor can it be under-stated.
Much of the recovery, of course, will be a national and international effort.
The bill appears bound to surpass the billions already accounted for by the original September earthquake.
A severe strain on the whole economy, and on the South Island's core infrastructure, seems certain in the immediate future, and that is an unavoidable burden all of us must resign ourselves to and prepare for accordingly.
In time the huge rebuilding effort will require a massive injection of labour, far more than the city was already requiring. Nelson, along with the rest of the country, must be prepared to make whatever contributions and sacrifices are demanded to assist in that regard.
But today, tomorrow, and in the months to come the challenge to us all will be to reach out to our Christchurch brothers and sisters in whatever way we can personally manage.
We cannot predict what the demands will be but we must stoically rise to them, to respond generously and selflessly to whatever the needs may be - for labour, for cash, for shelter, for respite, for comfort, for support.
As we all share the agony, so must we all share the recovery.
The tussle for the Maori Party's soul
Nelson Mail editorial, February 9, 2011
Hone Harawira has got what was coming to him with his suspension from the Maori Party caucus. If he is genuine in his dismay at the move then he is more politically naive than might have seemed possible. Surely even a life-long rabble- rouser has, after five years in Parliament, developed a firm grasp on the essence of the party discipline which the institution depends on - starting with not upstaging your leaders and not bagging your colleagues, and certainly not making a habit of it.
That being the case, it is impossible to see his continued defiance of the party hierarchy at Waitangi over the weekend as anything other than a calculated manoeuvre, using his home-turf advantage to claim the high ground in an ideological tussle. It is blindingly obvious that this is a fight for the soul of the Maori Party and whether it can be most effective inside or outside the proverbial political tent.
Co-leader Pita Sharples spoke passionately at the weekend of the prospect that the very existence of the party - indeed, of any Maori party - could be snuffed out if the current ruckus undermines parliamentary confidence in its reliability as a political partner. Yet Mr Harawira stands by his and his supporters' conviction that the party can only honestly live up to its own principles if it causes more of a fuss about its senior coalition partner's policies as they impinge on poor Maori.
The concern he expresses is a genuine and familiar one, of a minor party founded on strong ideals being forced to test the malleability of those principles as it tries to make gains inside Parliament. It has been a source of disillusionment to supporters of the likes of the Greens, ACT, New Zealand First and the Alliance. It is no surprise that despite all his belligerence, occasional obnoxiousness and self-righteous certainty, Mr Harawira can point to a sizeable number of allies for his insistence that for the good of Maori, principles must come first.
By being shut out of caucus - and surely leaving the party itself with little choice but to toss him out altogether - he appears to have been the biggest loser in the power struggle. But as an independent MP, entirely unconstrained by party discipline, his former colleagues must be anxious about how he might yet come back to haunt them.
Waitangi weekend only hardened the positions of the two sides, each of the camps providing the other with further evidence of the ever-widening and probably unbridgeable gap between them. While Mr Harawira reminded the world that he is most at home with the more radicalised, loud-mouthed, anti- Pakeha elements of Maori activism, Mr Sharples invited a different sort of derision for the sight of his chummying up to John Key and hanging out in, as one Harawira supporter put it, a flash hotel in Paihia.
Whatever the reality behind those two images, they neatly encapsulate the deadlock, one which seems bound to end badly. The real question will be how the voters regard the tussle. Only that will determine whether the party has a future as a kingmaker, or any future at all; or, in other words, if raging from the sidelines is ultimately better for Maori than cuddling up to that most conservative of Pakeha institutions, the National Party.
Hone Harawira has got what was coming to him with his suspension from the Maori Party caucus. If he is genuine in his dismay at the move then he is more politically naive than might have seemed possible. Surely even a life-long rabble- rouser has, after five years in Parliament, developed a firm grasp on the essence of the party discipline which the institution depends on - starting with not upstaging your leaders and not bagging your colleagues, and certainly not making a habit of it.
That being the case, it is impossible to see his continued defiance of the party hierarchy at Waitangi over the weekend as anything other than a calculated manoeuvre, using his home-turf advantage to claim the high ground in an ideological tussle. It is blindingly obvious that this is a fight for the soul of the Maori Party and whether it can be most effective inside or outside the proverbial political tent.
Co-leader Pita Sharples spoke passionately at the weekend of the prospect that the very existence of the party - indeed, of any Maori party - could be snuffed out if the current ruckus undermines parliamentary confidence in its reliability as a political partner. Yet Mr Harawira stands by his and his supporters' conviction that the party can only honestly live up to its own principles if it causes more of a fuss about its senior coalition partner's policies as they impinge on poor Maori.
The concern he expresses is a genuine and familiar one, of a minor party founded on strong ideals being forced to test the malleability of those principles as it tries to make gains inside Parliament. It has been a source of disillusionment to supporters of the likes of the Greens, ACT, New Zealand First and the Alliance. It is no surprise that despite all his belligerence, occasional obnoxiousness and self-righteous certainty, Mr Harawira can point to a sizeable number of allies for his insistence that for the good of Maori, principles must come first.
By being shut out of caucus - and surely leaving the party itself with little choice but to toss him out altogether - he appears to have been the biggest loser in the power struggle. But as an independent MP, entirely unconstrained by party discipline, his former colleagues must be anxious about how he might yet come back to haunt them.
Waitangi weekend only hardened the positions of the two sides, each of the camps providing the other with further evidence of the ever-widening and probably unbridgeable gap between them. While Mr Harawira reminded the world that he is most at home with the more radicalised, loud-mouthed, anti- Pakeha elements of Maori activism, Mr Sharples invited a different sort of derision for the sight of his chummying up to John Key and hanging out in, as one Harawira supporter put it, a flash hotel in Paihia.
Whatever the reality behind those two images, they neatly encapsulate the deadlock, one which seems bound to end badly. The real question will be how the voters regard the tussle. Only that will determine whether the party has a future as a kingmaker, or any future at all; or, in other words, if raging from the sidelines is ultimately better for Maori than cuddling up to that most conservative of Pakeha institutions, the National Party.
Reasons for anxiety and optimism in the Middle East
Nelson Mail editorial, February 5, 2011
For those who cherish the sight of their fellow humans rising with determination and fearlessness against oppression and deprivation, this week's events in Egypt and the wider Middle East have been golden - a historic occasion to inspire and excite, tempered as it is with alarm at how things might yet unfold. For those who value Western-centric certainty and control in international affairs, it will be a time of dread.
Suddenly - and in a manner which few outside the region would have fantasised about even two months ago - the future of the Arab world has been turned on its head. Stereotypes of moribund societies sullenly accepting that their place in the modern world is under the yolk of toxic dictatorships are crumbling by the day. So too, it seems, are the West's expectations of odious regimes serving as a bulwark against Islamic and anti-Israeli militancy.
It goes without saying that the outcome of the Egyptian uprising has the potential to profoundly reshape the world's most volatile and strategically- charged region, maybe dangerously for the West.
The enormous uncertainty, and the inspiring twists and alarming turns of the week's events in Cairo, mean speculation about what might yet emerge is futile. But however the future may be moulded, it is undeniable that the Arab world's established order, with its corruption and client states, is on its ear; that a genie has been unleashed which can never be forced back into the bottle.
Among the most remarkable of the many extraordinary aspects of recent events - triggered by a backblocks uprising in Tunisia, and spreading across the Arab world at a runaway pace - has been the demonstration of the power ordinary people can grasp with nothing more than a mobile phone and a social media account. The state has been left flat-footed as the man and woman in the street have realised the effectiveness with which they can alert and mobilise others to a cause; the normal weapons of censorship have been hamfisted and clumsy in comparison. It is this almost anarchic spread of rebellion that has been so effectively detonated.
It will surely not be a wholesale upheaval across the Middle East. It would be too fanciful to imagine the police states of Syria or Libya, for instance, allowing a public uprising to get beyond the point where some state terrorism was unable to knock it back down. Nevertheless, the longer and bolder the Egyptian revolution proves to be, the more irresistible the comparisons with the domino-like collapse of the Eastern Bloc in the early 1990s will become.
As much as the week's events invite anxiety, there are causes for optimism too, and the clearest of these in Egypt is the revelation to the West that the millions who have joined the drive against Mubarak are not a faceless mass of the cliched bogeymen of Islamic militancy, but ordinary people with familiar aspirations of security, freedom and prosperity. Perhaps the best outcome that could be hoped for is that the secular, liberal inclinations obvious in elements of the protest movement will prevail in the uncertain times ahead.
But the real point is that while the outside world, and especially the United States, might have helped create the mess which is now boiling over in the Arab street, this is not the West's rebellion, nor an anti-Western display. Unpredictability and volatility may be more dangerous in the Middle East than anywhere else on the planet; and yet now that it has been unleashed, it is hard to avoid the feeling that it has been a long time coming.
For those who cherish the sight of their fellow humans rising with determination and fearlessness against oppression and deprivation, this week's events in Egypt and the wider Middle East have been golden - a historic occasion to inspire and excite, tempered as it is with alarm at how things might yet unfold. For those who value Western-centric certainty and control in international affairs, it will be a time of dread.
Suddenly - and in a manner which few outside the region would have fantasised about even two months ago - the future of the Arab world has been turned on its head. Stereotypes of moribund societies sullenly accepting that their place in the modern world is under the yolk of toxic dictatorships are crumbling by the day. So too, it seems, are the West's expectations of odious regimes serving as a bulwark against Islamic and anti-Israeli militancy.
It goes without saying that the outcome of the Egyptian uprising has the potential to profoundly reshape the world's most volatile and strategically- charged region, maybe dangerously for the West.
The enormous uncertainty, and the inspiring twists and alarming turns of the week's events in Cairo, mean speculation about what might yet emerge is futile. But however the future may be moulded, it is undeniable that the Arab world's established order, with its corruption and client states, is on its ear; that a genie has been unleashed which can never be forced back into the bottle.
Among the most remarkable of the many extraordinary aspects of recent events - triggered by a backblocks uprising in Tunisia, and spreading across the Arab world at a runaway pace - has been the demonstration of the power ordinary people can grasp with nothing more than a mobile phone and a social media account. The state has been left flat-footed as the man and woman in the street have realised the effectiveness with which they can alert and mobilise others to a cause; the normal weapons of censorship have been hamfisted and clumsy in comparison. It is this almost anarchic spread of rebellion that has been so effectively detonated.
It will surely not be a wholesale upheaval across the Middle East. It would be too fanciful to imagine the police states of Syria or Libya, for instance, allowing a public uprising to get beyond the point where some state terrorism was unable to knock it back down. Nevertheless, the longer and bolder the Egyptian revolution proves to be, the more irresistible the comparisons with the domino-like collapse of the Eastern Bloc in the early 1990s will become.
As much as the week's events invite anxiety, there are causes for optimism too, and the clearest of these in Egypt is the revelation to the West that the millions who have joined the drive against Mubarak are not a faceless mass of the cliched bogeymen of Islamic militancy, but ordinary people with familiar aspirations of security, freedom and prosperity. Perhaps the best outcome that could be hoped for is that the secular, liberal inclinations obvious in elements of the protest movement will prevail in the uncertain times ahead.
But the real point is that while the outside world, and especially the United States, might have helped create the mess which is now boiling over in the Arab street, this is not the West's rebellion, nor an anti-Western display. Unpredictability and volatility may be more dangerous in the Middle East than anywhere else on the planet; and yet now that it has been unleashed, it is hard to avoid the feeling that it has been a long time coming.
A mean spirit denies Kiwis their holidays
Nelson Mail editorial, February 4, 2011
In the same week that he announces the election date, when a prime minister could be expected to look for any chance to score brownie points with the electorate, John Key seems to have fluffed his lines. The case for a tweak of the Holidays Act, to overcome the unfortunate situation many New Zealanders face for the second year running of being deprived of two of their public holidays, is clear-cut. Yet Mr Key has resisted the suggestion, sent out muddled signals about whether or not he is prepared to entertain the idea, and left the distinct impression that he has been got to by his more miserly big business mates.
The debate has been sparked by Labour's promotion of a private member's bill to remedy the flaw in the Holidays Act, highlighted by this weekend when the Waitangi Day holiday falls on a Sunday. Along with Anzac Day - which this year coincides with Easter Monday - there is no provision in the law for New Zealanders to be offered a compensatory day off on the next normal working day.
While a raft of excuses as to why this must be so has been offered, the principal argument seems to be that the commemorations both days represent are too important to risk diminishing by shifting the associated holiday to another date. Yet the most obvious evidence that such a concern doesn't stack up can be found at Christmas and New Year. This past festive season, the statutory holiday dates fell on a weekend and workers were entitled to the subsequent Monday and Tuesday off in lieu - and nobody agonised over the prospect that the country might fail to treat December 25 as Christmas Day, or January 1 as New Year's Day for that matter.
To suggest that a similar arrangement would lead to people ignoring that April 25 is Anzac Day is, frankly, silly. The country is mature enough and both Waitangi and Anzac days sufficiently bedded in the public consciousness to ensure they will be acknowledged as they fall. And as has been widely pointed out, the Australians provide for compensatory days off when their equivalent remembrance days fall on a weekend.
The issue is more basic - it is about everyone's right to a certain number of holidays each year. By quirks of the calendar the majority of New Zealanders will miss out on almost 20 per cent of their public holiday entitlements in 2011. It's true that for both days to fall on established days-off is a relatively rare occurrence, particularly for two consecutive years; however, it has well and truly demonstrated that an inequity exists which could and should be easily tidied up.
Mr Key's lack of enthusiasm to remedy this is telling. He has flip-flopped on the issue, telling some journalists that he opposes a fix, others that he is "taking advice".The Holidays Act is clearly resented in some employer circles and at least a few bosses will be privately relishing the opportunity to claw a little bit back. The obvious conclusion is that the Government is reluctant to get off-side with those business interests. Yet the vast majority of Kiwis will see a simple injustice with a simple solution, and a troubling shade of mean-spirited ideology colouring our pragmatic PM's sunny exterior.
In the same week that he announces the election date, when a prime minister could be expected to look for any chance to score brownie points with the electorate, John Key seems to have fluffed his lines. The case for a tweak of the Holidays Act, to overcome the unfortunate situation many New Zealanders face for the second year running of being deprived of two of their public holidays, is clear-cut. Yet Mr Key has resisted the suggestion, sent out muddled signals about whether or not he is prepared to entertain the idea, and left the distinct impression that he has been got to by his more miserly big business mates.
The debate has been sparked by Labour's promotion of a private member's bill to remedy the flaw in the Holidays Act, highlighted by this weekend when the Waitangi Day holiday falls on a Sunday. Along with Anzac Day - which this year coincides with Easter Monday - there is no provision in the law for New Zealanders to be offered a compensatory day off on the next normal working day.
While a raft of excuses as to why this must be so has been offered, the principal argument seems to be that the commemorations both days represent are too important to risk diminishing by shifting the associated holiday to another date. Yet the most obvious evidence that such a concern doesn't stack up can be found at Christmas and New Year. This past festive season, the statutory holiday dates fell on a weekend and workers were entitled to the subsequent Monday and Tuesday off in lieu - and nobody agonised over the prospect that the country might fail to treat December 25 as Christmas Day, or January 1 as New Year's Day for that matter.
To suggest that a similar arrangement would lead to people ignoring that April 25 is Anzac Day is, frankly, silly. The country is mature enough and both Waitangi and Anzac days sufficiently bedded in the public consciousness to ensure they will be acknowledged as they fall. And as has been widely pointed out, the Australians provide for compensatory days off when their equivalent remembrance days fall on a weekend.
The issue is more basic - it is about everyone's right to a certain number of holidays each year. By quirks of the calendar the majority of New Zealanders will miss out on almost 20 per cent of their public holiday entitlements in 2011. It's true that for both days to fall on established days-off is a relatively rare occurrence, particularly for two consecutive years; however, it has well and truly demonstrated that an inequity exists which could and should be easily tidied up.
Mr Key's lack of enthusiasm to remedy this is telling. He has flip-flopped on the issue, telling some journalists that he opposes a fix, others that he is "taking advice".The Holidays Act is clearly resented in some employer circles and at least a few bosses will be privately relishing the opportunity to claw a little bit back. The obvious conclusion is that the Government is reluctant to get off-side with those business interests. Yet the vast majority of Kiwis will see a simple injustice with a simple solution, and a troubling shade of mean-spirited ideology colouring our pragmatic PM's sunny exterior.
Time to put city's road debate to bed
Nelson Mail editorial, February 2, 2011
It is time for the Nelson community to take a deep breath and let go of one of its favourite obsessions - the interminable argument over the need for a new cross-city arterial highway. The release of the latest experts' assessment of the city's roading needs has confirmed a feeling which has become increasingly clear since last year: in the greater scheme of things, Nelson does not have serious traffic problems, and certainly not to the extent to justify spending tens of millions of dollars and up-ending entire communities in the search for a "solution".
This will be a contentious conclusion, at least among those who have staked themselves on achieving radical changes to the city roading infrastructure. It demands a rethink by many in the community - the Nelson Mail included - who have previously accepted the need for a new road through Victory to counter peak-hour build-ups on Waimea Rd and to free up the waterfront. But there is little choice: the cost of a new road will clearly be out of all proportion to the problem the city faces.
In an ideal world - as in, one where money was no object and no engineering challenge too tall - the city would have long since shifted the state highway traffic off Rocks Rd to a new high-speed central route between Whakatu Drive and St Vincent St, presumably tunnelled to avoid destroying the amenity of the affected communities.
Nelson's reality, however, is that what congestion we do suffer amounts to a few minutes on the average peak-hour cross-city car trip; future traffic growth is uncertain; our state highway is long-established on the most direct route across town and to the port; past efforts to re-route the state highway through Victory have proved fatally flawed; Government funding for new roading projects is severely constrained; and on an initial analysis, any benefits of a new road would barely outweigh the costs.
In other words, the case for a new cross-city arterial road, or any variation on the theme, looks to be dead in the water. In the process, the arguments have caused significant rancour and disruption. The current investigation - which has really boiled down to yet another re-run of the old southern link debate - has highlighted how deeply the divisions and unease run. There will be those who continue to contend that the waterfront is too precious to tolerate heavy traffic; yet that, unfortunately, is what history and circumstance are clearly dictating shall be.
While the Nelson City Council is still weeks away from a final decision, its conclusion is surely foregone. The focus must now go on to finding more imaginative, pragmatic and realistic solutions to shifting people and freight across the city most efficiently, based on the current network. More immediately, the council must demonstrate its leadership capabilities, defuse the tensions, and put some serious energy into helping those parts of the city which are disadvantaged by having heavy traffic streaming past their gates.
The wider challenge is for everyone, especially those who have held to the conviction that the only way forward is on a new road sweeping down the Railway Reserve to St Vincent St, to finally acknowledge that such a vision has turned out to be a mirage.
It is time for the Nelson community to take a deep breath and let go of one of its favourite obsessions - the interminable argument over the need for a new cross-city arterial highway. The release of the latest experts' assessment of the city's roading needs has confirmed a feeling which has become increasingly clear since last year: in the greater scheme of things, Nelson does not have serious traffic problems, and certainly not to the extent to justify spending tens of millions of dollars and up-ending entire communities in the search for a "solution".
This will be a contentious conclusion, at least among those who have staked themselves on achieving radical changes to the city roading infrastructure. It demands a rethink by many in the community - the Nelson Mail included - who have previously accepted the need for a new road through Victory to counter peak-hour build-ups on Waimea Rd and to free up the waterfront. But there is little choice: the cost of a new road will clearly be out of all proportion to the problem the city faces.
In an ideal world - as in, one where money was no object and no engineering challenge too tall - the city would have long since shifted the state highway traffic off Rocks Rd to a new high-speed central route between Whakatu Drive and St Vincent St, presumably tunnelled to avoid destroying the amenity of the affected communities.
Nelson's reality, however, is that what congestion we do suffer amounts to a few minutes on the average peak-hour cross-city car trip; future traffic growth is uncertain; our state highway is long-established on the most direct route across town and to the port; past efforts to re-route the state highway through Victory have proved fatally flawed; Government funding for new roading projects is severely constrained; and on an initial analysis, any benefits of a new road would barely outweigh the costs.
In other words, the case for a new cross-city arterial road, or any variation on the theme, looks to be dead in the water. In the process, the arguments have caused significant rancour and disruption. The current investigation - which has really boiled down to yet another re-run of the old southern link debate - has highlighted how deeply the divisions and unease run. There will be those who continue to contend that the waterfront is too precious to tolerate heavy traffic; yet that, unfortunately, is what history and circumstance are clearly dictating shall be.
While the Nelson City Council is still weeks away from a final decision, its conclusion is surely foregone. The focus must now go on to finding more imaginative, pragmatic and realistic solutions to shifting people and freight across the city most efficiently, based on the current network. More immediately, the council must demonstrate its leadership capabilities, defuse the tensions, and put some serious energy into helping those parts of the city which are disadvantaged by having heavy traffic streaming past their gates.
The wider challenge is for everyone, especially those who have held to the conviction that the only way forward is on a new road sweeping down the Railway Reserve to St Vincent St, to finally acknowledge that such a vision has turned out to be a mirage.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
All not quiet on the Tasman front
December 11, 2010
The proposal for an amalgamation of Nelson and Tasman's local government has brought some strong feelings to the surface, writes Geoff Collett .
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If some of the more extravagant expressions of opinion are to be believed, next week's hearings into the Nelson-Tasman amalgamation debate will be compulsory viewing for anybody who is into bloodsports.
Wading through the 450 submissions lodged on the proposal, an unavoidable sense emerges that among the many rational and reasoned arguments, ancient rivalries are being revived, long- simmering grudges given new life, even some deep-seated grievances and occasional hatreds bubbling to the surface.
There are conspiracy theories and impassioned pleas; two-word missives ("no amalgamation"), form letters and hand-scrawled rants; and deeply researched, painstakingly constructed treatises. Promises that amalgamation will deliver far superior local government are countered with vows that individuals will flee the region rather than live under a single council, particularly one dominated by Nelson city.
What there is not is anything like a groundswell of enthusiasm for amalgamation among those who have written their thoughts down and sent them to the Local Government Commission, as it considers what to do about Aldo Miccio's petition requesting a review of the region's local government structure.
If the number of submissions could be taken as anything like a guide to the wider public mood, it would suggest that there is a general indifference to the amalgamation question in Nelson City, while in Richmond and beyond there is outright hostility. Fewer than 40 submissions of the 450 came from Nelson, about 30 of those expressing support for amalgamation or at least for the question to be properly investigated.
From the Richmond-Wakefield area, in contrast, came more than 150, the huge majority opposing amalgamation, many in vehement terms.
Motueka was similarly opposed: roughly 50 out of 65 from there were against. Golden Bay provided 100 submissions. Given the widely reported discontent there with Tasman District Council's performance, there was unsurprisingly strong support (more than 50 per cent) for the commission to at least investigate a new model for the region, even if joining with Nelson was not necessarily embraced.
Many of those who have made submissions cast Aldo Miccio in a villainous role, some dismissing his high-profile petition campaign (run together with his successful bid for the Nelson mayoralty) as an ego trip, even as dubious.
But some reserve their venom for the Tasman District Council, which has run its own determined campaign opposing the amalgamation argument and has made by far and away the heaviest-weight submission on the issues which will be argued about at the hearings from Monday.
For instance, Nelson businessman Robin Whalley cites the "obfuscation" and general lack of cooperation he encountered from the Tasman District Council while he was a member of the Tasman Bays Heritage Trust (responsible for the provincial museum). Nelson surveyor Simon Jones expresses "shock" at the "fearful anti- amalgamation propaganda" disseminated by the Tasman council. A joint submission by a small group of business professionals complains about the "prejudicial" behaviour of TDC staff in preparing anti-amalgamation arguments. Even a TDC staff member, Ross Shirley, who made his own submission, offers a critical assessment of his employer: "Currently there is little willing co-operation between the two councils, rather Nelson are seen as the 'enemy' or threat from across the border, " he writes.
But most of the Tasman residents who felt moved to write submissions say they are happy with the TDC, and repeat its claims that a single council would be dominated by Nelson City, and that Tasman people's rates would rise while Nelson people's would drop (although the TDC itself admits it cannot be certain of that).
Some other common concerns include that Nelson would impose parking meters on Richmond; that it would use the wider region to bankroll its wishlists for capital projects in the city; that the city council's history of fractious debates would hinder Tasman; that the city council is more difficult and less friendly to deal with than the TDC.
A few put the boot in. Teresa Sefo calls the Nelson council "idiots". Hermione Frankpitt suggests that Tasman people prefer councils made up of "community-minded" concerned parents and grandparents and do not want them "overtaken" by those who place business interests first and who have led to Nelson having "an over-abundance of eating places, liquor outlets and adult entertainment".
Fay Emily Baker says that because past Nelson City councils have allowed building on geologically unstable hills she would object to her rates being used to pay for repairs of resulting earthquake damage. Robert Murphy rails against the state of Trafalgar St with its "empty shops, overgrown trees . . . parking meters, youth crime, crazy council policies".
Claire Illes tells of living "miserably" in Nelson for 24 years until moving to Tasman with its "awesome" outdoors facilities. "Nelson has nothing for people who enjoy the outdoors, their parks are full of homeless people, " she says, describing the city's growth as "spread[ing] like a disease".
For its part, the TDC has produced a lengthy submission with a wad of supporting documents, which drill deeply into the arguments over the need or otherwise for a review of the two councils. While it includes the contentious and widely publicised claims about what might happen to rates and representation, much of its submission is focused on arguing that it does a good job as a standalone council and there is no compelling argument that a union with Nelson city will improve things - a bottom-line requirement to justify an overhaul.
The Tasman council describes Mr Miccio's supporting evidence for his campaign as "an example of a marketing strategy . . . lacking information, facts, and containing popular misconceptions and innuendo".
It is not the only local body uneasy about the amalgamation idea. It has allies in the West Coast Regional Council and Buller District Council which have both expressed reservations about major structural changes to their northern neighbour. The regional council's chief executive, Chris Ingle, says he would be "very concerned" if Tasman and Nelson amalgamated, given the risk he sees that it would shift the enlarged council's focus towards Nelson city.
Mr Miccio has approached this latest, crucial stage in the review process using similar tactics he has taken from the start, marshalling a range of allies to back his view that a single council will deliver meaningful gains to the whole region - such as more community boards to ensure better local representation, an end to "sub-optimal decision making", "greatly enhanced" service delivery, and cost-savings through economies of scale.
His submission carries the supporting names of a sprinkling of high-profile businesspeople (former King Salmon chief executive Paul Steere, Network Tasman chairman Ian Kearney); a couple of his city council colleagues (Ian Barker and Kate Fulton); some unsuccessful candidates from the last election (Nigel Dowie, Hugh Briggs, Phil Thompson); and some prominent local corporates, including Gibbons Construction and the Wakatu Incorporation.
Wakatu and another pan-iwi Maori group, the Tiakina Te Taio, are notable supporters of the amalgamation cause, pointing to the onerous demands they face in having to work with two councils. They both make the point that Maori would expect specific representation on a new combined local body. They, along with all other proponents of the amalgamation argument, will be pushing their case as a clear minority when the commission starts its hearings on Tuesday.
The proposal for an amalgamation of Nelson and Tasman's local government has brought some strong feelings to the surface, writes Geoff Collett .
--------------------
If some of the more extravagant expressions of opinion are to be believed, next week's hearings into the Nelson-Tasman amalgamation debate will be compulsory viewing for anybody who is into bloodsports.
Wading through the 450 submissions lodged on the proposal, an unavoidable sense emerges that among the many rational and reasoned arguments, ancient rivalries are being revived, long- simmering grudges given new life, even some deep-seated grievances and occasional hatreds bubbling to the surface.
There are conspiracy theories and impassioned pleas; two-word missives ("no amalgamation"), form letters and hand-scrawled rants; and deeply researched, painstakingly constructed treatises. Promises that amalgamation will deliver far superior local government are countered with vows that individuals will flee the region rather than live under a single council, particularly one dominated by Nelson city.
What there is not is anything like a groundswell of enthusiasm for amalgamation among those who have written their thoughts down and sent them to the Local Government Commission, as it considers what to do about Aldo Miccio's petition requesting a review of the region's local government structure.
If the number of submissions could be taken as anything like a guide to the wider public mood, it would suggest that there is a general indifference to the amalgamation question in Nelson City, while in Richmond and beyond there is outright hostility. Fewer than 40 submissions of the 450 came from Nelson, about 30 of those expressing support for amalgamation or at least for the question to be properly investigated.
From the Richmond-Wakefield area, in contrast, came more than 150, the huge majority opposing amalgamation, many in vehement terms.
Motueka was similarly opposed: roughly 50 out of 65 from there were against. Golden Bay provided 100 submissions. Given the widely reported discontent there with Tasman District Council's performance, there was unsurprisingly strong support (more than 50 per cent) for the commission to at least investigate a new model for the region, even if joining with Nelson was not necessarily embraced.
Many of those who have made submissions cast Aldo Miccio in a villainous role, some dismissing his high-profile petition campaign (run together with his successful bid for the Nelson mayoralty) as an ego trip, even as dubious.
But some reserve their venom for the Tasman District Council, which has run its own determined campaign opposing the amalgamation argument and has made by far and away the heaviest-weight submission on the issues which will be argued about at the hearings from Monday.
For instance, Nelson businessman Robin Whalley cites the "obfuscation" and general lack of cooperation he encountered from the Tasman District Council while he was a member of the Tasman Bays Heritage Trust (responsible for the provincial museum). Nelson surveyor Simon Jones expresses "shock" at the "fearful anti- amalgamation propaganda" disseminated by the Tasman council. A joint submission by a small group of business professionals complains about the "prejudicial" behaviour of TDC staff in preparing anti-amalgamation arguments. Even a TDC staff member, Ross Shirley, who made his own submission, offers a critical assessment of his employer: "Currently there is little willing co-operation between the two councils, rather Nelson are seen as the 'enemy' or threat from across the border, " he writes.
But most of the Tasman residents who felt moved to write submissions say they are happy with the TDC, and repeat its claims that a single council would be dominated by Nelson City, and that Tasman people's rates would rise while Nelson people's would drop (although the TDC itself admits it cannot be certain of that).
Some other common concerns include that Nelson would impose parking meters on Richmond; that it would use the wider region to bankroll its wishlists for capital projects in the city; that the city council's history of fractious debates would hinder Tasman; that the city council is more difficult and less friendly to deal with than the TDC.
A few put the boot in. Teresa Sefo calls the Nelson council "idiots". Hermione Frankpitt suggests that Tasman people prefer councils made up of "community-minded" concerned parents and grandparents and do not want them "overtaken" by those who place business interests first and who have led to Nelson having "an over-abundance of eating places, liquor outlets and adult entertainment".
Fay Emily Baker says that because past Nelson City councils have allowed building on geologically unstable hills she would object to her rates being used to pay for repairs of resulting earthquake damage. Robert Murphy rails against the state of Trafalgar St with its "empty shops, overgrown trees . . . parking meters, youth crime, crazy council policies".
Claire Illes tells of living "miserably" in Nelson for 24 years until moving to Tasman with its "awesome" outdoors facilities. "Nelson has nothing for people who enjoy the outdoors, their parks are full of homeless people, " she says, describing the city's growth as "spread[ing] like a disease".
For its part, the TDC has produced a lengthy submission with a wad of supporting documents, which drill deeply into the arguments over the need or otherwise for a review of the two councils. While it includes the contentious and widely publicised claims about what might happen to rates and representation, much of its submission is focused on arguing that it does a good job as a standalone council and there is no compelling argument that a union with Nelson city will improve things - a bottom-line requirement to justify an overhaul.
The Tasman council describes Mr Miccio's supporting evidence for his campaign as "an example of a marketing strategy . . . lacking information, facts, and containing popular misconceptions and innuendo".
It is not the only local body uneasy about the amalgamation idea. It has allies in the West Coast Regional Council and Buller District Council which have both expressed reservations about major structural changes to their northern neighbour. The regional council's chief executive, Chris Ingle, says he would be "very concerned" if Tasman and Nelson amalgamated, given the risk he sees that it would shift the enlarged council's focus towards Nelson city.
Mr Miccio has approached this latest, crucial stage in the review process using similar tactics he has taken from the start, marshalling a range of allies to back his view that a single council will deliver meaningful gains to the whole region - such as more community boards to ensure better local representation, an end to "sub-optimal decision making", "greatly enhanced" service delivery, and cost-savings through economies of scale.
His submission carries the supporting names of a sprinkling of high-profile businesspeople (former King Salmon chief executive Paul Steere, Network Tasman chairman Ian Kearney); a couple of his city council colleagues (Ian Barker and Kate Fulton); some unsuccessful candidates from the last election (Nigel Dowie, Hugh Briggs, Phil Thompson); and some prominent local corporates, including Gibbons Construction and the Wakatu Incorporation.
Wakatu and another pan-iwi Maori group, the Tiakina Te Taio, are notable supporters of the amalgamation cause, pointing to the onerous demands they face in having to work with two councils. They both make the point that Maori would expect specific representation on a new combined local body. They, along with all other proponents of the amalgamation argument, will be pushing their case as a clear minority when the commission starts its hearings on Tuesday.
Drinkers raise glasses to glut
November 20, 2010
It's a great time to be a wine drinker, as prices tumble to unparalleled lows. Geoff Collett looks behind the bargains.
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In the newly released edition of his annual Buyer's Guide to New Zealand Wines Michael Cooper opens his commentary on the country's wine glut thus: "Good New Zealand wine has never been cheaper."
But if you're a wine shopper, serious or casual, you already knew that.
As the country has heard ad nauseam over the past couple of years, the wine industry these are dark days for the wine industry, as chronic over-supply fed by bumper harvests has crashed head-on into collapsing demand in the aftermath of the 2008 economic crisis.
But at the consumer end of things, it could be seen as a golden age - certainly if cheap deals are your thing.
Rampant discounting and the dumping of "distressed" stock from wineries in trouble has fuelled a sustained run of outrageously good prices on decent labels - not to mention absurdly cheap offers of lesser- known names and, especially, phantom labels created by winemakers trying to clear out otherwise unsellable stock without tarnishing their wider brand.
From the industry perspective, "nobody likes it", Philip Gregan, the chief executive of Winegrowers New Zealand, says of the downward price spiral; from the wine consumer's angle, "the punters are absolutely delighted".
The current wave of cheap New Zealand wine is unparalleled. The last time there was anything like it was in the mid-1980s, but that was relatively short-lived and, as Mr Cooper points out, ended in part by government intervention.
This time is different: the price- slashing is widespread and enduring. It has been the dominant feature of the wine retailscape for two years now, and while there are early signs that some key players are crying enough, most estimates are that there are a couple more years of it to go before surplus stocks can be cleared and - the industry is praying - the supply-demand equilibrium restored.
As with any sore point concerning retail prices, some blame the supermarket chains for screwing prices down and insisting all-comers go along with the discounting.
But as Mr Gregan puts it, it wasn't Foodstuffs and Progressive Enterprises who planted the vineyards and produced an enormous vintage in 2008, flooding the market at the worst possible time. This is a whirlwind the industry has both sown and reaped.
And as Mr Cooper points out, New Zealand winemaking had an unprecedented run of prosperity - almost 25 years - up until 2008, "which I suppose has encouraged some people to somewhat nonchalantly enter the industry having no knowledge of the risk . . . an assumption that the world would beat a path to their door the moment they plonked their average-quality wine on the market".
Consumers became accustomed to paying $19.95 for a common-or- garden variety Marlborough sauvignon blanc. But not any more; 2007's $20 wine is today's $14.95-or-less offering. And the sub-$10 world - long a domain of disdain for any discerning wine drinker - has started to throw up unlikely nuggets.
The second sentence in Mr Cooper's wine-glut essay in his annual Buyer's Guide to New Zealand Wines recounts how "a 2009 sauvignon blanc from Nelson was stacked in one of my local supermarkets [on Auckland's North Shore] this year at $6.99, after an export order went off the rails".
His recommended best buys from 2010 include the Villa Maria Private Bin range which was being specialled as low as $8.99 - "an absolute steal" (although Villa Maria is one winery, he adds, which has started easing its prices back up as it backs away from the death spiral).
In Nelson this week to promote his new book, Mr Cooper suggests the biggest wineries are the ones to look to for the best deals. With their scale, skills and expertise, they know all there is to about making well-priced good wine.
"When you get an environment like this which is fiercely competitive, then the value that they offer is simply wonderful."
The chairman of the Nelson winegrowers' group, Mike Brown, suggests a rule of thumb that "any time you see a wine under $10, the winery itself isn't making any money".
Much of what has been seen under $10 "is distressed stock in some way", and he thinks it will be less common as wineries rid themselves of that stock and quietly drop the labels it was sold under, or else go out of business altogether.
He says Nelson wine has not been discounted to the extent seen in Marlborough - widely considered the Ground Zero of the current crisis, because of the size of the industry there and the great glut of Marlborough sauvignon blanc.
Nelson winemakers enjoy a close- knit, collegial approach to their industry, Mr Brown says, and "everyone realises the longer-term sustainability depends on keeping quality and prices up".
Some have studiously avoided going anywhere near the discounting track. At the top end of the Nelson market, for instance, Neudorf Vineyards co-owner Judy Finn says the winery has been able to call on its hard-won brand integrity (plus its marketing lines and its conviction that its pricing reflects the genuine cost of producing wine to the standards it aims for) to assure its customers that its prices don't need to follow the race down. Minimal exposure to the supermarket trade helps, she adds.
But you need go no further than the wine section at the FreshChoice Nelson supermarket on Collingwood St - one of the biggest retailers of Nelson wine - to realise that many of the region's wine brands have felt no choice but to join the fray.
They haven't exactly embraced it, says the store's owner, Mark A'Court. But they have accepted his reality, that the store - a smaller, independently owned player - has to be able to offer wine at the sort of prices seen in the big Countdowns and New Worlds across town.
The quid pro quo he has offered, he says, has been "transparency" in his negotiations with the wineries, so everybody knows they are getting a fair slice of the margin; and prime position in the store's wine sales area (which fits in with its philosophy of promoting local produce). It works, he adds. Nelson wines account for 12 of the supermarket's top-20 sellers.
He knows the winery suppliers are wearing the pain and says he doesn't want to see prices remain in their current trough - not, he argues, because higher prices mean higher profits, but because "if they [prices] are unsustainable, then they [the wineries] are gone".
If he has to look further afield to meet the thirst for heavily discounted bargains, he has no problem. He is routinely being approached by wineries from Hawke's Bay, Marlborough, Canterbury and Central Otago, offering him wine at prices he says must be below cost. Much comes clad in those phantom labels, which offer consumers no hint as to who has made it or how - a phenomenon which bothers Michael Cooper for one, who argues it deprives shoppers of basic consumer information and any meaningful way of judging what they might be in for.
This week, for sake of example, FreshChoice has something called Shag Rock Chardonnay selling for $8.99, apparently sourced from the previously unrecognised wine producing region of Tahunanui, at least according to the back label; and a Waipara (North Canterbury) pinot noir called the Miner's Daughter for $12.99, which offers no more clues to its origin than a holding company name. It's a decent enough wine, Mr A'Court argues. He is careful not to accept anything just because it can sell cheaply.
But Mr Cooper remains sceptical about these sorts of labels. How do you know you're getting a good buy if you can't be sure what you're buying?
He is wary, too, that some of the discounting is similarly will o'the wisp. Wine marketers have long indulged shoppers' enthusiasm for a discount by introducing new labels at artificially high prices, then quickly offering hefty discounts down to what was always the true price, Mr Cooper says.
"I see this all the time - new wines coming on the market and they [the winery] will say it's $23 and . . . within a month it's in the supermarkets at $14.95, and they're claiming it's $23 reduced to $14.95, save eight bucks. That's pure fiction. It was always made to be sold at $14.95 and it probably tastes like a $14.95 wine.
"But they know that the wine marketing academics have discovered that the No 1 influence on our wine buying behaviour is discount."
The worry currently exercising many in the industry, though, is how to ease themselves - and more importantly, consumers - out of that thirst for a bargain.
Mike Brown says that while wineries might be able to retreat from the below-cost pricing which has been seen in the sub-$10 market, the battle he sees will be convincing shoppers that wines now selling for $12 or $13 should move back up to the $17 or $18 they used to attract.
Mr Cooper suggests the days of "$19.95 being the standard price for a bottle of smaller company sauvignon blanc . . . are probably over".
"There's a growing feeling that the price is heading to $14.95 for day- to-day drinking sauvignon blanc."
Perhaps the immediate hope for the industry's future is that shoppers realise that some things are too good to last; that they know that today's dream deals really are too good to be true (or at least sustainable) for the industry as a whole. But for now, as Winegrowers Nelson's Mr Brown admits: "It's a great time to be a consumer. It's never been better to be a consumer than right now."
It's a great time to be a wine drinker, as prices tumble to unparalleled lows. Geoff Collett looks behind the bargains.
--------------------
In the newly released edition of his annual Buyer's Guide to New Zealand Wines Michael Cooper opens his commentary on the country's wine glut thus: "Good New Zealand wine has never been cheaper."
But if you're a wine shopper, serious or casual, you already knew that.
As the country has heard ad nauseam over the past couple of years, the wine industry these are dark days for the wine industry, as chronic over-supply fed by bumper harvests has crashed head-on into collapsing demand in the aftermath of the 2008 economic crisis.
But at the consumer end of things, it could be seen as a golden age - certainly if cheap deals are your thing.
Rampant discounting and the dumping of "distressed" stock from wineries in trouble has fuelled a sustained run of outrageously good prices on decent labels - not to mention absurdly cheap offers of lesser- known names and, especially, phantom labels created by winemakers trying to clear out otherwise unsellable stock without tarnishing their wider brand.
From the industry perspective, "nobody likes it", Philip Gregan, the chief executive of Winegrowers New Zealand, says of the downward price spiral; from the wine consumer's angle, "the punters are absolutely delighted".
The current wave of cheap New Zealand wine is unparalleled. The last time there was anything like it was in the mid-1980s, but that was relatively short-lived and, as Mr Cooper points out, ended in part by government intervention.
This time is different: the price- slashing is widespread and enduring. It has been the dominant feature of the wine retailscape for two years now, and while there are early signs that some key players are crying enough, most estimates are that there are a couple more years of it to go before surplus stocks can be cleared and - the industry is praying - the supply-demand equilibrium restored.
As with any sore point concerning retail prices, some blame the supermarket chains for screwing prices down and insisting all-comers go along with the discounting.
But as Mr Gregan puts it, it wasn't Foodstuffs and Progressive Enterprises who planted the vineyards and produced an enormous vintage in 2008, flooding the market at the worst possible time. This is a whirlwind the industry has both sown and reaped.
And as Mr Cooper points out, New Zealand winemaking had an unprecedented run of prosperity - almost 25 years - up until 2008, "which I suppose has encouraged some people to somewhat nonchalantly enter the industry having no knowledge of the risk . . . an assumption that the world would beat a path to their door the moment they plonked their average-quality wine on the market".
Consumers became accustomed to paying $19.95 for a common-or- garden variety Marlborough sauvignon blanc. But not any more; 2007's $20 wine is today's $14.95-or-less offering. And the sub-$10 world - long a domain of disdain for any discerning wine drinker - has started to throw up unlikely nuggets.
The second sentence in Mr Cooper's wine-glut essay in his annual Buyer's Guide to New Zealand Wines recounts how "a 2009 sauvignon blanc from Nelson was stacked in one of my local supermarkets [on Auckland's North Shore] this year at $6.99, after an export order went off the rails".
His recommended best buys from 2010 include the Villa Maria Private Bin range which was being specialled as low as $8.99 - "an absolute steal" (although Villa Maria is one winery, he adds, which has started easing its prices back up as it backs away from the death spiral).
In Nelson this week to promote his new book, Mr Cooper suggests the biggest wineries are the ones to look to for the best deals. With their scale, skills and expertise, they know all there is to about making well-priced good wine.
"When you get an environment like this which is fiercely competitive, then the value that they offer is simply wonderful."
The chairman of the Nelson winegrowers' group, Mike Brown, suggests a rule of thumb that "any time you see a wine under $10, the winery itself isn't making any money".
Much of what has been seen under $10 "is distressed stock in some way", and he thinks it will be less common as wineries rid themselves of that stock and quietly drop the labels it was sold under, or else go out of business altogether.
He says Nelson wine has not been discounted to the extent seen in Marlborough - widely considered the Ground Zero of the current crisis, because of the size of the industry there and the great glut of Marlborough sauvignon blanc.
Nelson winemakers enjoy a close- knit, collegial approach to their industry, Mr Brown says, and "everyone realises the longer-term sustainability depends on keeping quality and prices up".
Some have studiously avoided going anywhere near the discounting track. At the top end of the Nelson market, for instance, Neudorf Vineyards co-owner Judy Finn says the winery has been able to call on its hard-won brand integrity (plus its marketing lines and its conviction that its pricing reflects the genuine cost of producing wine to the standards it aims for) to assure its customers that its prices don't need to follow the race down. Minimal exposure to the supermarket trade helps, she adds.
But you need go no further than the wine section at the FreshChoice Nelson supermarket on Collingwood St - one of the biggest retailers of Nelson wine - to realise that many of the region's wine brands have felt no choice but to join the fray.
They haven't exactly embraced it, says the store's owner, Mark A'Court. But they have accepted his reality, that the store - a smaller, independently owned player - has to be able to offer wine at the sort of prices seen in the big Countdowns and New Worlds across town.
The quid pro quo he has offered, he says, has been "transparency" in his negotiations with the wineries, so everybody knows they are getting a fair slice of the margin; and prime position in the store's wine sales area (which fits in with its philosophy of promoting local produce). It works, he adds. Nelson wines account for 12 of the supermarket's top-20 sellers.
He knows the winery suppliers are wearing the pain and says he doesn't want to see prices remain in their current trough - not, he argues, because higher prices mean higher profits, but because "if they [prices] are unsustainable, then they [the wineries] are gone".
If he has to look further afield to meet the thirst for heavily discounted bargains, he has no problem. He is routinely being approached by wineries from Hawke's Bay, Marlborough, Canterbury and Central Otago, offering him wine at prices he says must be below cost. Much comes clad in those phantom labels, which offer consumers no hint as to who has made it or how - a phenomenon which bothers Michael Cooper for one, who argues it deprives shoppers of basic consumer information and any meaningful way of judging what they might be in for.
This week, for sake of example, FreshChoice has something called Shag Rock Chardonnay selling for $8.99, apparently sourced from the previously unrecognised wine producing region of Tahunanui, at least according to the back label; and a Waipara (North Canterbury) pinot noir called the Miner's Daughter for $12.99, which offers no more clues to its origin than a holding company name. It's a decent enough wine, Mr A'Court argues. He is careful not to accept anything just because it can sell cheaply.
But Mr Cooper remains sceptical about these sorts of labels. How do you know you're getting a good buy if you can't be sure what you're buying?
He is wary, too, that some of the discounting is similarly will o'the wisp. Wine marketers have long indulged shoppers' enthusiasm for a discount by introducing new labels at artificially high prices, then quickly offering hefty discounts down to what was always the true price, Mr Cooper says.
"I see this all the time - new wines coming on the market and they [the winery] will say it's $23 and . . . within a month it's in the supermarkets at $14.95, and they're claiming it's $23 reduced to $14.95, save eight bucks. That's pure fiction. It was always made to be sold at $14.95 and it probably tastes like a $14.95 wine.
"But they know that the wine marketing academics have discovered that the No 1 influence on our wine buying behaviour is discount."
The worry currently exercising many in the industry, though, is how to ease themselves - and more importantly, consumers - out of that thirst for a bargain.
Mike Brown says that while wineries might be able to retreat from the below-cost pricing which has been seen in the sub-$10 market, the battle he sees will be convincing shoppers that wines now selling for $12 or $13 should move back up to the $17 or $18 they used to attract.
Mr Cooper suggests the days of "$19.95 being the standard price for a bottle of smaller company sauvignon blanc . . . are probably over".
"There's a growing feeling that the price is heading to $14.95 for day- to-day drinking sauvignon blanc."
Perhaps the immediate hope for the industry's future is that shoppers realise that some things are too good to last; that they know that today's dream deals really are too good to be true (or at least sustainable) for the industry as a whole. But for now, as Winegrowers Nelson's Mr Brown admits: "It's a great time to be a consumer. It's never been better to be a consumer than right now."
Spectre of the A-bomb
October 30, 2010
Geoff Collett goes on an uncomfortable pilgrimage in Japan.
--------------------
Perhaps it's because I'm a child of the Cold War (the later bits, I hasten to add) that when I was asked if there was anywhere I really wanted to go in Japan, I thought of Hiroshima.
My teenage years, way back in the 1980s, were steeped in nuclear paranoia and marinated in a noxious broth of wild-eyed, hysterical punk rock - spiky, skinny Brits shrieking, bellowing, howling and stuttering about a world tormented by cruise missiles, tapioca sunrises and . . . Hiroshima.
I never got it out of my system. Today's youngsters wringing their hands about climate change seem a bit limp. A polar bear clinging to an ice floe somehow doesn't bother me the same way the thought of a city's worth of life being vapourised, or an entire planet being blasted into cosmic dust because of some sort of dispute over ideology did back in the day (and still does, if I stop to dwell on it).
So we arrived at Hiroshima on the Shinkansen (bullet train), after a few days of hanging out in Osaka and lapping up the food and noise and shops, the great architecture and cool people and the heat - just loving and admiring modern Japan, in other words.
As we wandered out of the train station, sweltering and a bit disoriented, a toothy old guy dashed up and in comic book Ingrish asked us excitedly where we were from ("ah, New Zeerand - I went to Sydney once, 20 years ago"). It was marginally odd - perhaps he wanted to practise his English, but maybe he just felt like being nice to people.
He knew where we wanted to go and enthusiastically - kindly - directed us to the streetcars which patiently trundle the ceaseless herds of tourists to the place in Hiroshima that matters above all else, to outsiders anyway.
We rode in a crowded tram 10 minutes or so across town, along neat, busy, modern streets, bustling but not chaotic, in the best Japanese fashion.
When you get to the A-Bomb Dome (or Genbaku Dome, or peace memorial) the first instinct is to take photos. Important place. Visually striking. Then, you feel like nothing so much as staring. Gawping, actually, as you notice the details - the twisted reinforcing steel, the lumps of concrete, the strewn rubble - and discover the interpretation panels and slowly piece it together.
You'll possibly feel slightly ill, or perhaps like going over and slapping her, if you see an idiot Western girl having her picture taken while striking an epic pose making the peace sign with the ruined dome as her backdrop, no doubt ready to rush off to the nearest Starbucks to post it to her Facebook page. Britney is hoping for world peace.
Because this really isn't a place for aggrandisement or farting about with the self-indulgences of the modern world. If you've got blood running through your veins and electrical pulses in your brain a more considered response would surely be to find a shady tree, to sit beneath it for a while, contemplate what it is before you, and wonder: how in Christ's name did it come to this?
Before it was a peace memorial, it was known as the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall. According to the interpretation panel, it was much-loved around the city.
The old photos leave no doubt it was grand and handsome, an obvious source of pride to a belligerently proud city which would have no sooner anointed a peace-anything as it would have surrendered to the Americans.
It sits beside the river, and within a couple of hundred metres of what, on August 6, 1945, became ground zero - the point precisely beneath where the American B29 Enola Gay dropped its payload one hot morning, probably quite a bit like this mid-August day, the A-bomb detonating high in the sky for the first time as an act of war.
In the massive energy wave unleashed, most of the central city was reduced to rubble; people to atoms or, if they were truly unlucky, molten flesh.
Somehow, the Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall wasn't obliterated. Everybody within died, most crushed by the collapsing interior, apparently, and all the building's windows were blasted out, the walls mostly blown to pieces. But its form remained and the skeleton of its dome left to stand like a buckled tombstone amid hundreds of acres of rubble.
A few hundred metres away is the Peace Museum. This is a new building, large and box-like, and it is hard to imagine it being fondly or proudly regarded, but the simple knowledge of what it represents gives it a palpable dignity.
They charge a modest admission fee and there are queues here, but people are mostly patient and only a few are given to barging in front of your view line as happens at any other crowded attraction in this country. The displays start with a history of Hiroshima, detailed in the typical museum- style interpretation-panel way, with various grainy black and white old photos, which would be dull and ignorable if you didn't have that sick feeling about where this is all heading.
Impressively - to me at least - it doesn't gloss over stuff about Hiroshima's militaristic history, its importance as a military base from where various of its forces set off to do shocking things in the Sino- Japanese wars, and later to South- east Asia and the Pacific where generations of Australians and New Zealanders learnt to hate and fear all things Japanese.
It's hard to know which is the starkest part of the museum's huge display. There's an especially arresting effect where the stories of pre-bomb Hiroshima suddenly give way to a wall-sized photo of a fob-watch stopped, like all clocks in Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, at 8.15am, along with a few vaguely familiar lines: A dragonfly flitted in front of me and stopped on a fence. I stood up, took my cap in my hands, and was about to catch the dragonfly when . . .
The gruesome bits are hard to forget: the photos of the lady with her face melted to nothing recognisable and still alive to know it; or the other lady whose kimono pattern was branded into her flesh.
The infamous step in front of a bank, where a citizen sat in the morning sun and had his or her shadow scorched into the cement for posterity is now part of the museum's collection and that's something you hope not to see again, even if the vanished soul's only remnant is faint and hard to make out.
The section devoted to the technical details about the actual bomb is all the more chilling for the fact that the one which obliterated the city outside was an utter tiddler compared to what the bomb- makers have long since learnt to fashion. It's best not to think about that too long either.
It's hard, too, to fully comprehend the section which explains the calculated decisions taken by the Americans leading up to the bombing itself.
But after an hour or two of shuffling and staring as respectfully as possible, straining at times to absorb even a fraction of the horrors on display and having to keep reminding yourself that all this was only a fraction of the total, it's the children's stories which inevitably sink in the deepest.
Lots of them were out in the open that morning, helping clear the rubble from demolition sites to create firebreaks in a city preparing - optimistically, as it turned out - for an Allied onslaught. Doing what they were told, making their parents proud, probably mixed up with fear and wonderment and pride and obedience and conformity, and all that other kids' stuff.
One girl had made her own dress and wore it that day. It's here, salvaged by her parents from her corpse. So are 15-year-old Haruyo Akita's trousers. The junior high school pupil's parents are said to have rushed to find him dying in the rubble immediately after the blast, at his side when he died.
Thirteen-year-old Teruko Aotani managed to drag her charred body home to die. Her mother saved a lock of the girl's hair, clearly scorched, and preserved here as her lasting testament.
There is a memorial of sorts too, to Noriaki Teshia, who was maybe 13 or 14 and helped home by a friend, his skin hanging in tatters and trying to slake his terrible thirst by sucking the pus from his blistered, burning fingers. His fingernails and some skin are here, keepsakes gathered by a distraught mother to share with her husband when he returned from his military service.
And there is the only remnant of a first-year high-school student, Miyoko, who vanished in the bomb's shockwave, leaving nothing but a sandal and a footprint.
On the way out of the museum a display stand carries all the letters of protest successive mayors of Hiroshima have written down the decades since 1945 each time a foreign government tested a nuclear weapon. There are a lot and even the polite language such matters are conducted in cannot disguise the rawness that is the preserve of those who really know what weapons of the most massive destruction are all about.
There are also photos of various dignitaries - politicians and the like - who have made the pilgrimage to Hiroshima. It's not the most impressive lineup. No heads of state from any of the nuclear countries stand out.
Wandering through the sweltering streets of Hiroshima after, it's hard to look at anything without wondering how it must have been on this spot or that 65 years earlier; or to watch the people without wondering what it's like to have the A-bomb scorched forever into their civic identity and their cultural memory.
Climbing back on the Shinkansen as it sweeps into the train station and out into the industrial wonderlands of Japan, it's hard to shake the feeling that if everybody was required to come here and see it for themselves, the justification for nuclear arsenals would wither in no time.
And for those back in the 80s who said it was all just noise - it's hard not to think that maybe, you just weren't listening properly.
Geoff Collett goes on an uncomfortable pilgrimage in Japan.
--------------------
Perhaps it's because I'm a child of the Cold War (the later bits, I hasten to add) that when I was asked if there was anywhere I really wanted to go in Japan, I thought of Hiroshima.
My teenage years, way back in the 1980s, were steeped in nuclear paranoia and marinated in a noxious broth of wild-eyed, hysterical punk rock - spiky, skinny Brits shrieking, bellowing, howling and stuttering about a world tormented by cruise missiles, tapioca sunrises and . . . Hiroshima.
I never got it out of my system. Today's youngsters wringing their hands about climate change seem a bit limp. A polar bear clinging to an ice floe somehow doesn't bother me the same way the thought of a city's worth of life being vapourised, or an entire planet being blasted into cosmic dust because of some sort of dispute over ideology did back in the day (and still does, if I stop to dwell on it).
So we arrived at Hiroshima on the Shinkansen (bullet train), after a few days of hanging out in Osaka and lapping up the food and noise and shops, the great architecture and cool people and the heat - just loving and admiring modern Japan, in other words.
As we wandered out of the train station, sweltering and a bit disoriented, a toothy old guy dashed up and in comic book Ingrish asked us excitedly where we were from ("ah, New Zeerand - I went to Sydney once, 20 years ago"). It was marginally odd - perhaps he wanted to practise his English, but maybe he just felt like being nice to people.
He knew where we wanted to go and enthusiastically - kindly - directed us to the streetcars which patiently trundle the ceaseless herds of tourists to the place in Hiroshima that matters above all else, to outsiders anyway.
We rode in a crowded tram 10 minutes or so across town, along neat, busy, modern streets, bustling but not chaotic, in the best Japanese fashion.
When you get to the A-Bomb Dome (or Genbaku Dome, or peace memorial) the first instinct is to take photos. Important place. Visually striking. Then, you feel like nothing so much as staring. Gawping, actually, as you notice the details - the twisted reinforcing steel, the lumps of concrete, the strewn rubble - and discover the interpretation panels and slowly piece it together.
You'll possibly feel slightly ill, or perhaps like going over and slapping her, if you see an idiot Western girl having her picture taken while striking an epic pose making the peace sign with the ruined dome as her backdrop, no doubt ready to rush off to the nearest Starbucks to post it to her Facebook page. Britney is hoping for world peace.
Because this really isn't a place for aggrandisement or farting about with the self-indulgences of the modern world. If you've got blood running through your veins and electrical pulses in your brain a more considered response would surely be to find a shady tree, to sit beneath it for a while, contemplate what it is before you, and wonder: how in Christ's name did it come to this?
Before it was a peace memorial, it was known as the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall. According to the interpretation panel, it was much-loved around the city.
The old photos leave no doubt it was grand and handsome, an obvious source of pride to a belligerently proud city which would have no sooner anointed a peace-anything as it would have surrendered to the Americans.
It sits beside the river, and within a couple of hundred metres of what, on August 6, 1945, became ground zero - the point precisely beneath where the American B29 Enola Gay dropped its payload one hot morning, probably quite a bit like this mid-August day, the A-bomb detonating high in the sky for the first time as an act of war.
In the massive energy wave unleashed, most of the central city was reduced to rubble; people to atoms or, if they were truly unlucky, molten flesh.
Somehow, the Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall wasn't obliterated. Everybody within died, most crushed by the collapsing interior, apparently, and all the building's windows were blasted out, the walls mostly blown to pieces. But its form remained and the skeleton of its dome left to stand like a buckled tombstone amid hundreds of acres of rubble.
A few hundred metres away is the Peace Museum. This is a new building, large and box-like, and it is hard to imagine it being fondly or proudly regarded, but the simple knowledge of what it represents gives it a palpable dignity.
They charge a modest admission fee and there are queues here, but people are mostly patient and only a few are given to barging in front of your view line as happens at any other crowded attraction in this country. The displays start with a history of Hiroshima, detailed in the typical museum- style interpretation-panel way, with various grainy black and white old photos, which would be dull and ignorable if you didn't have that sick feeling about where this is all heading.
Impressively - to me at least - it doesn't gloss over stuff about Hiroshima's militaristic history, its importance as a military base from where various of its forces set off to do shocking things in the Sino- Japanese wars, and later to South- east Asia and the Pacific where generations of Australians and New Zealanders learnt to hate and fear all things Japanese.
It's hard to know which is the starkest part of the museum's huge display. There's an especially arresting effect where the stories of pre-bomb Hiroshima suddenly give way to a wall-sized photo of a fob-watch stopped, like all clocks in Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, at 8.15am, along with a few vaguely familiar lines: A dragonfly flitted in front of me and stopped on a fence. I stood up, took my cap in my hands, and was about to catch the dragonfly when . . .
The gruesome bits are hard to forget: the photos of the lady with her face melted to nothing recognisable and still alive to know it; or the other lady whose kimono pattern was branded into her flesh.
The infamous step in front of a bank, where a citizen sat in the morning sun and had his or her shadow scorched into the cement for posterity is now part of the museum's collection and that's something you hope not to see again, even if the vanished soul's only remnant is faint and hard to make out.
The section devoted to the technical details about the actual bomb is all the more chilling for the fact that the one which obliterated the city outside was an utter tiddler compared to what the bomb- makers have long since learnt to fashion. It's best not to think about that too long either.
It's hard, too, to fully comprehend the section which explains the calculated decisions taken by the Americans leading up to the bombing itself.
But after an hour or two of shuffling and staring as respectfully as possible, straining at times to absorb even a fraction of the horrors on display and having to keep reminding yourself that all this was only a fraction of the total, it's the children's stories which inevitably sink in the deepest.
Lots of them were out in the open that morning, helping clear the rubble from demolition sites to create firebreaks in a city preparing - optimistically, as it turned out - for an Allied onslaught. Doing what they were told, making their parents proud, probably mixed up with fear and wonderment and pride and obedience and conformity, and all that other kids' stuff.
One girl had made her own dress and wore it that day. It's here, salvaged by her parents from her corpse. So are 15-year-old Haruyo Akita's trousers. The junior high school pupil's parents are said to have rushed to find him dying in the rubble immediately after the blast, at his side when he died.
Thirteen-year-old Teruko Aotani managed to drag her charred body home to die. Her mother saved a lock of the girl's hair, clearly scorched, and preserved here as her lasting testament.
There is a memorial of sorts too, to Noriaki Teshia, who was maybe 13 or 14 and helped home by a friend, his skin hanging in tatters and trying to slake his terrible thirst by sucking the pus from his blistered, burning fingers. His fingernails and some skin are here, keepsakes gathered by a distraught mother to share with her husband when he returned from his military service.
And there is the only remnant of a first-year high-school student, Miyoko, who vanished in the bomb's shockwave, leaving nothing but a sandal and a footprint.
On the way out of the museum a display stand carries all the letters of protest successive mayors of Hiroshima have written down the decades since 1945 each time a foreign government tested a nuclear weapon. There are a lot and even the polite language such matters are conducted in cannot disguise the rawness that is the preserve of those who really know what weapons of the most massive destruction are all about.
There are also photos of various dignitaries - politicians and the like - who have made the pilgrimage to Hiroshima. It's not the most impressive lineup. No heads of state from any of the nuclear countries stand out.
Wandering through the sweltering streets of Hiroshima after, it's hard to look at anything without wondering how it must have been on this spot or that 65 years earlier; or to watch the people without wondering what it's like to have the A-bomb scorched forever into their civic identity and their cultural memory.
Climbing back on the Shinkansen as it sweeps into the train station and out into the industrial wonderlands of Japan, it's hard to shake the feeling that if everybody was required to come here and see it for themselves, the justification for nuclear arsenals would wither in no time.
And for those back in the 80s who said it was all just noise - it's hard not to think that maybe, you just weren't listening properly.
City opts for familiar faces
October 11, 2010
The voters have spoken. Geoff Collett tries to make some sense of what they have said about the Nelson City Council.
--------------------
Perhaps the most difficult - or pointless - exercise in the wake of a local body election is to try to look for some kind of coherent motive in the way people have voted.
A remark at the weekend by one Nelson Mail journalist summed up the problem: she told of how people she knew had voted for candidates because they liked their names.
It's that sort of random approach - a variation on the days when candidates with surnames starting with A or B polled highly because they were at the top of the old alphabetised voting papers - which makes speculating on the whys and wherefores of the poll so fraught.
Adding to the murk this year was, in Nelson City at least, an extraordinarily crowded field - 39 individuals vying for either the mayoralty or a council seat, encouraged by six vacancies on the council (with five councillors departing and the sixth, Aldo Miccio, making his all-or-nothing bid for the mayoralty).
A fractious sort of election campaign, stoked by those campaigning on the city's arterial roading issue, might have fed the sense that city voters were ready to wreak great change upon their council.
They didn't. Far from it. Setting aside the mayoralty, every councillor who wanted their seat back got it. And then the voters went looking for some old councillors to bring back into the flock - Paul Matheson, the mayor who stood down three years ago; Mike Ward, who last sat at the council table in the 1990s; and Eric Davy, who was voted off in 2007. Even Alan Turley - trying for a third stint on the council after first being elected roughly around the last Ice Age - nearly squeaked back in.
Other noteworthy points included Jeff Rackley's arrival on the local body scene - surely a sign that many Nelson people both knew and liked his name - and Rachel Reese's staggering share of the council vote.
She may have missed out on the mayoralty to Mr Miccio, but her high-profile campaign there obviously helped her hoover up a councillor vote from 60 per cent of everyone who voted across the city. Her share of the preliminary total was 10,376 - at the last two elections, the top-polling candidates didn't break the 8000-vote barrier.
The overall result is what has become the familiar nature of Nelson councils: a slightly weird blend of greys and greens, with an overall - and pronounced - liberal streak; a healthy dose of the earnest; probably a couple of lightweights; and the odd reactionary.
The median age has slipped down a bit thanks to the arrival of Ruth Copeland (44) and Kate Fulton (38).
The council remains defiantly white, however - two of the three Maori candidates finished at the tail end of the overall pack.
What matters, of course, is what direction the new council chooses to take - and, especially in the short term, what deals Mr Miccio does for senior roles.
Ian Barker's time on the margins he occupied under Kerry Marshall is surely over, and he is presumably in for a suitable reward for his pre-election alliance with Mr Miccio. But various other key personalities loom large, Pete Rainey and Ms Reese most notably, but also Mr Matheson - who, despite being the bottom- polling councillor, will know more about the game than most of his new colleagues. And with such capable women as Gail Collingwood and Ali Boswijk to consider, the gender equity question will - or should - hang heavily for Mr Miccio.
The new mayor has his own ambitious agenda to pursue, including a vow to do some budget hacking. Then again, most of the old council - just - which approved the budgets and rate rises of the past three years is still in office.
As for two of the big, hairy issues this council will have to confront, only four of the new council (Mr Miccio, Mr Barker, Mr Rackley and Mr Matheson) put their names to the Waterfront Association's prominent advertisements in The Nelson Mail supporting building a new road through Victory. Others have either kicked the question into touch, or don't favour new roads at all. And might we see a revival of talks with Talley-owned Rutherford Holdings over a conference centre partnership?
Meanwhile, before he is forgotten, a final word about Kerry Marshall's demise.
Many explanations could be offered: his low-profile campaign; the way he managed his nomination, after initially vowing to be in the job for only one term, then refusing to be drawn on his intentions, then announcing he had changed his mind; maybe his age (70) was unattractive compared to the two younger front- running candidates.
Maybe, as one conspiracy theory has it, he was only there at others' urging, to steal votes from Ms Reese and so stop her getting the mayoralty. Or, as others speculated, he stood again at the mayoress' behest.
Probably some voters considered his performance in the past term as less than stellar. And maybe others just didn't like his name.
* Geoff Collett is the Nelson Mail's features editor.
The voters have spoken. Geoff Collett tries to make some sense of what they have said about the Nelson City Council.
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Perhaps the most difficult - or pointless - exercise in the wake of a local body election is to try to look for some kind of coherent motive in the way people have voted.
A remark at the weekend by one Nelson Mail journalist summed up the problem: she told of how people she knew had voted for candidates because they liked their names.
It's that sort of random approach - a variation on the days when candidates with surnames starting with A or B polled highly because they were at the top of the old alphabetised voting papers - which makes speculating on the whys and wherefores of the poll so fraught.
Adding to the murk this year was, in Nelson City at least, an extraordinarily crowded field - 39 individuals vying for either the mayoralty or a council seat, encouraged by six vacancies on the council (with five councillors departing and the sixth, Aldo Miccio, making his all-or-nothing bid for the mayoralty).
A fractious sort of election campaign, stoked by those campaigning on the city's arterial roading issue, might have fed the sense that city voters were ready to wreak great change upon their council.
They didn't. Far from it. Setting aside the mayoralty, every councillor who wanted their seat back got it. And then the voters went looking for some old councillors to bring back into the flock - Paul Matheson, the mayor who stood down three years ago; Mike Ward, who last sat at the council table in the 1990s; and Eric Davy, who was voted off in 2007. Even Alan Turley - trying for a third stint on the council after first being elected roughly around the last Ice Age - nearly squeaked back in.
Other noteworthy points included Jeff Rackley's arrival on the local body scene - surely a sign that many Nelson people both knew and liked his name - and Rachel Reese's staggering share of the council vote.
She may have missed out on the mayoralty to Mr Miccio, but her high-profile campaign there obviously helped her hoover up a councillor vote from 60 per cent of everyone who voted across the city. Her share of the preliminary total was 10,376 - at the last two elections, the top-polling candidates didn't break the 8000-vote barrier.
The overall result is what has become the familiar nature of Nelson councils: a slightly weird blend of greys and greens, with an overall - and pronounced - liberal streak; a healthy dose of the earnest; probably a couple of lightweights; and the odd reactionary.
The median age has slipped down a bit thanks to the arrival of Ruth Copeland (44) and Kate Fulton (38).
The council remains defiantly white, however - two of the three Maori candidates finished at the tail end of the overall pack.
What matters, of course, is what direction the new council chooses to take - and, especially in the short term, what deals Mr Miccio does for senior roles.
Ian Barker's time on the margins he occupied under Kerry Marshall is surely over, and he is presumably in for a suitable reward for his pre-election alliance with Mr Miccio. But various other key personalities loom large, Pete Rainey and Ms Reese most notably, but also Mr Matheson - who, despite being the bottom- polling councillor, will know more about the game than most of his new colleagues. And with such capable women as Gail Collingwood and Ali Boswijk to consider, the gender equity question will - or should - hang heavily for Mr Miccio.
The new mayor has his own ambitious agenda to pursue, including a vow to do some budget hacking. Then again, most of the old council - just - which approved the budgets and rate rises of the past three years is still in office.
As for two of the big, hairy issues this council will have to confront, only four of the new council (Mr Miccio, Mr Barker, Mr Rackley and Mr Matheson) put their names to the Waterfront Association's prominent advertisements in The Nelson Mail supporting building a new road through Victory. Others have either kicked the question into touch, or don't favour new roads at all. And might we see a revival of talks with Talley-owned Rutherford Holdings over a conference centre partnership?
Meanwhile, before he is forgotten, a final word about Kerry Marshall's demise.
Many explanations could be offered: his low-profile campaign; the way he managed his nomination, after initially vowing to be in the job for only one term, then refusing to be drawn on his intentions, then announcing he had changed his mind; maybe his age (70) was unattractive compared to the two younger front- running candidates.
Maybe, as one conspiracy theory has it, he was only there at others' urging, to steal votes from Ms Reese and so stop her getting the mayoralty. Or, as others speculated, he stood again at the mayoress' behest.
Probably some voters considered his performance in the past term as less than stellar. And maybe others just didn't like his name.
* Geoff Collett is the Nelson Mail's features editor.
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