Club Politique by Che Tibby

It's hard to think ill of people you know? You like to think of people as gentle and graceful souls at heart. You think of them as intelligent and amenable. Perhaps you think of them as reasonable and forthright.

Regardless of how you see those around you, the people you see on a regular basis or strangers in the street, it's hard not to think that at heart, people are just basically 'good'. To think that people are rational and 'with it'.

And then you see 10500 people spend eight hours getting frickin' hammered.

To revive an old and classic Kiwi phrase there was a 'power of piss' put away at Toast Martinborough this past Sunday. As the official representative of Public Address at the event, a friend of mine and I were whisked away to Featherston by train at the ungodly hour of 9.30am. Now, how in the hell I managed to get onto a corporate carriage to this event I cannot rightly say, but the hardships we endured are beyond mention.

A seemingly endless supply of champagne. Brown-bagged breakfast bagels, fruit salad and croissants. A seamless ride from the city to the country, and buses awaiting. And there it was, a wine festival and fantastic weather. Torture. Absolute torture. No one should have to endure that.

Mind you, and as a glimpse of the day unfolding, even before we had left Upper Hutt there were reports of one gent having 'had a little too much'. Obviously not a stayer there, chum. I meanwhile was pacing myself, mostly for fear of not finding a 'comfort stop' available on the train itself; but this type of decorum was not to last.

We pretty much hit the ground running. Do yourself a favour and hit above link to the Festival website. See that look in the chaps eye? See the blushing cheeks on the lady friend? See the slightly amorous look in his eyes and the carefully placed hands?

Hardened drinking does that. Believe me.

Weeeeelll... I do exaggerate a little. I made it to work today without too much hassle, so I guess I'm not as legendary a drunk as I make out, but damn, what a time was had.

Probably the most memorable part of the day was the sheer weight of people at the events spread through Martinborough's vineyards. People queuing for wine, people queuing for food, women queuing for the bathrooms, guys sneaking off behind hedges and flax bushes for a tinkle.

There people dancing just about everywhere. Fantastic food at not entirely pocket-gouging prices. All kinds of great bands and entertainers. Wine at prices that made 'tasting' a joke (let's face facts people. No-one goes to a festival to 'taste'. If you're that keen just go over to a cellar door, and save a heap of cash).

Not that that's a criticism mind you, things were pretty much as you'd expect on any city night out. But, this event had the distinct advantage of taking place on a beautiful Sunday, at times light winds wafting through the vineyards. Mostly. It is the Wellington region after all.

At one point we found ourselves lounging there in the vines at Ata Rangi. Look, there's no other word for it but bliss. The wine porters found us and brought a sticky over, and there we lay.

So other people trudged according to schedule around as many vineyards as possible to try as many wines as possible and part with as many Martinborough francs as possible before their time ran out and they missed seeing their favourite band and/or performer play their favourite song.

And we just lay in the grass while 'Philippa' brought us the Kahu Botrytris Riesling.

Before that we sat high on some bleachers and people-watched, and waited for 'Howard' to bring us the Chardonnay.

We grooved along to Goldenhorse. We went to a place and danced to old school rock and roll. We spent money on more than enough select Chardonnays and Sauv Blancs. We talked politics with some radio guy.

And all around us people staggered to and fro constantly. They sang Culture Club and Po Karekare Ana in the bus on the way back to the train station. Some hardened Aussie sheilas cackled and sexually harassed me on the shuttle bus between vineyards. I felt so... cheap. People danced the worst dances you've ever seen. I saw blokes wearing wedding dresses... Enough?

Pissed idiots galore. Thank god it was Sunday or they might have trashed the whole village.

I already can't wait till next year.

As per my personal mission statement, to uncover and give away as much information as humanly possible, I was seeking to try and bring you a series of interviews with relatively famous New Zealanders about what they thought it meant to 'be a New Zealander'.

I failed.

It seems that despite R.Brown's effort to paint me as some kind of minor celebrity, I don't carry enough weight to talk anyone famous into anything. Although, now that the cat is well and truly out of the bag, I will blog at some point about the perils of working in the Public Service and blogging. The good news is that it's all good. Maybe I'll just run a few interviews with 'real' New Zealanders in the meantime.

In the meantime though, let's turn to something a little more boring. Nation-building yay!

I love talking about this stuff. And I'm not sure why. Maybe there's something about being a member of such a young country? Something that means we all get a chance to chip in our five cents and make the most of trying to herd this great mass of lumbering cotton and wool-clad people into that great corral of national unity.

Ah well. Even better news is that plenty of other people do too. Hat Tip to Just Left who pointed out this speech by Colin James. I'd recently approached James about an interview for the identity project, and he kind of knocked me back with an indication that the Bruce Jesson speech would be his last word on the matter for awhile. Which is a pity, his take seems to be a relatively non-partisan version of the more liberal wing of the National Party, to which I've directed another blog.

Putting aside my disagreement that the Treaty is reaching the end of its use-by date, and the issue of the new New Zealander being as indigenous as the tangata whenua, both of which are destined for another time and place, I'd like to address the idea of belonging. Not belonging in the way I've been discussing it for the past few months in the Metics meanderings, but belonging as a mythology in and of itself.

As I see it, the thing that transcends all this to and fro about who is, and who is not, is the conversation itself. Once you get over the preoccupation with race or distinct language the essence remaining is the content of a national conversation. A ramshackle conversation, a bundle of memes and familiar phrases we repeat to one another every day. A long-winded diatribe we share with family, workmates and strangers about who we think we are, why we think it, and how they share our point of view.

In turn, people repeat our ideas back to us, reinforcing what we think we already know, and so a little circuit starts, turns, repeats.

All the myths James indicates as means by which people stake their claim to belonging are well-known, and shared by a number of individuals who utilise them to tie themselves to the greater whole. A statement like "I belong because [insert relevant clause]" is something you can't say in a vacuum. But there is another way to see this talking.

And that is to see the talking as a song. People don't just speak their identity to one another, they feel it in the way you do your favourite song. Identity-speak rises up out of some primeval fount, a deeper place where we keep those feelings of belonging. The fount gives rise to all kinds of other emotions, but the song that feeds them is the one constant.

The song that is our identity floats around us on a daily basis, uttered through the words of newsreaders, chirped by crappy jingles, blasted out of radio stations playing favoured hits that only a New Zealander loves. The song is the one thing that ties us to one another through the generations. It's there writ large in the words on a McCahon, it's hidden in the pages of a Ihimaera, and splashed in that characteristic washed out colour of a Sleeping Dogs or Came a Hot Friday.

Whether you want to or not, you're part of that song. Whether you're bitching about the 'bloody Māoris' or grasping your tenuous Māori roots like a fat man on a bacon sandwich, you're singing rhyme and verse of a colossal song we each carry.

Each of those statements of belonging James includes are single lines in that great song, small lines spoken by the small people who voices make up a great cacophony, a white noise of opinions, questions, demands, beliefs, answers and knowings.

So listen carefully to what those around you say, and sing it back the way you want it heard, for better, or worse.

Well, you know when you've seen a Kiwi in full flight, your day is complete. And you heard that right, a Kiwi in full flight. And no, not an OE bound youngster on Air New Zealand, but a genuine Little Spotted Kiwi.

Our guide Ron was further up the path, and beckoned us all to come closer, but very quietly. Earlier in the trek our group had been divided in two, and we'd heard from the others that they'd seen two Little Spotteds out on a path not far from here. Most of that sight was the Kiwi's bums though, as the light-shy creatures turned tail and ran from the nosey humans. I wasn't excited about seeing much the same.

When we'd gotten close enough to where he was standing, Ron flicked on his torch. And there she was, Doris the Little Spotted Kiwi, busted in profile. Seriously, her name is Doris. Her mate is apparently called George!

We'd heard another mating pair calling to one another perhaps a five or ten metres from us at another part of the reserve, but this time we'd really lucked out. Doris kind of jumped upwards, turned a complete 180 degrees, and bounded off in full flight behind a Kawakawa that had been framing her.

Yup. Lame joke, but there you have it.

Regardless, my first decent sighting of a genuine Kiwi in the genuine outdoors.

When I talked a few mates into going on Kapiti Island Alive it was mostly on selfish motives. I'd heard that the marine reserve there provided great diving, and thought that it was a good opportunity to get the wetsuit into the brine again. As it turns out I was in for more than I bargained.

Don't get me wrong, Waiorua Bay (directly in front of the Kapiti Lodge) is simply fantastic, but I hadn't done my homework on the sheer variety of native birds I'd see. Pretty much as soon as we were off the ferry from Paraparaumu a couple of Kaka were checking us out, the place was crawling with pesky blimmin Weka, there were Tui and Bellbird singing everywhere, we saw Robins, Kakariki, Kereru, and there was rumour of a couple of Takahe out back of the property somewhere.

With predators completely eradicated from Kapiti the place is pretty much the way it would have been pre-Europeans, and the word is that the bird life will only improve as the forest continues to regenerate back from the farming era. Likewise, with the marine reserves in place the fish and other water life are bouncing back.

Originally I'd just wanted to go diving, but my dive buddies fell through. I'd contemplated going out alone, but there's a couple of fur seal colonies not far from the Lodge, and a quick web search informed me that it is currently pup season. Sharks are very fond of seal pups, I'm told.

On a recent dive to Mana Island I found out that the Great White known to inhabit the area is called Brutus, and I wasn't prepared to tempt fate and meet it in person. I couldn't resist a quick snorkel though, sucker I am for the water.

As I drove out of Wellington, the coast was looking pretty damn milky, and I wasn't fancying my chances. I shouldn't have worried. The water in Waiorua bay, near the tip of Kapiti, gave up what I guessed to be 8 to 12 metre visibility, and was quite simply, gorgeous. Remarkably shark-free too, which is always nice.

I've long though that the best thing about the water is the unusual things. A dive in Mebourne had me looking at near 20m visibility in shallow water, and I used to time to explore for the tiny or interesting little things you'd normally overlook. The number and variety of seaweeds in the bay was outstanding, with a mass of colours, textures and shapes. The fish life? Dull. But I saw the biggest freakin stingray I've ever seen and the water teemed with all kinds of bizarre planktonesque 'stuff'.

People like to talk about the tropics and reefs, but to me a tropical reef is the marine equivalent of a bottle blond. Damn nice to look at, but undoubtedly dull and uninspiring.

Waiorua bay is a fantastic shore dive. You can get there, including DoC permits, ferry and the like for less than the cost of your average boat dive, and it's far and away the best water I've snorkelled in the North Island. I already have another trip booked for February.

And the Lodge! John Barrett switched on the hospitality for us like you wouldn't believe. Included in the nights accommodation cost are four meals, and take it from an old lush like me, they were worth every toasted sandwich dinner I put up with to save for the trip.

You'd want to be quick though, the Lodge is already booked out until mid-January, and only sleeps ten. Get yourself a few good friends, some nice red wine, and get on over there. You won't regret a moment.

I tried to hold off on responding to Tze Ming, but I just couldn't. I was thinking of distracting myself by watching Close Up, but it was only offered at 25% Off for about a week, and I missed the opportunity.

As a believer in the worth of the Treaty to the country, I'm inclined towards being both pleased and concerned about the perspectives she offers. I had a similar conversation with Keith a week or so back over a beer, and I think it's a very good thing that people are talking rationally about the place of the Treaty.

Sure as hell better than yelling half-truths at one another.

I'd say that the first hurdle in this type of conversation is the issue of the relevance of the Treaty to people often considered outside the 'Crown-Māori' bond. Tze Ming, being born in Mt. Roskill, is a New Zealander. But if someone is more recently introduced, a metic shall we say, then their consideration of the Treaty is bound to be very different. Presumably.

A slightly skewed example might be a recent English immigrant. Because they might not have the experience of growing up in the mixed culture environment of many smaller New Zealand townsfolk, you can assume they aren't used to getting to grips with how biculturalism works in practice. They might be cool with multiculturalism, but that's a very different kete of fish.

This means that Tze Ming has to be considered part of 'the Crown' side of the equation. Plenty of people will then argue till dawn about what 'the Crown' means, but that's another subject altogether. It's long been my perspective that immigrants are kind of obliged to buy into the Crown's side of the equation. Naturally, and immigrant forming their own relationship with Māori society is both normal and to be encouraged. Who the hell wants to be bunched in with the former colonialists, right?

And as it happens, many former colonialists don't want to be bunched in with other former colonialists. If this Treaty politics situation is anything, it's convoluted and tricky.

Anyhow. The discussion with Keith and a mate 'Tory' was useful, because it highlighted to me the way in which the value and the application of the Treaty are very different.

If you get down to nuts and bolts, i.e. how do you make the Treaty meaningful to contemporary life, you're going to run into hurdles unless you have the value of the Treaty properly sorted out in your head first.

If you think the Treaty has no value, then you'll see no worth in trying to apply it. Or will apply it in a tokenistic or 'half-arse' way. The way some public agencies seem to do, allegedly.

The Treaty does have a place in New Zealand though, because a not-insignificant number of citizens see it as having not only value, but meaning. It's become somewhat fashionable to try and downplay this value and thereby minimise fallout from accusations of things like 'the PC'.

And that's the downside.

Up until the 1980s, the arguments for minority rights in New Zealand and Australia, or even in the Civil Rights demands of the USA, were all remarkably similar. Not identical, but they shared a broad consensus about the need to improve to the lot of minorities.

In Australia this consensus started to lapse just as things were picking up for Māori. And why? Two reasons, firstly, Australia was simply too diverse, and there was little impetous for Aboriginal political differentiation. Which is me being PC and not saying Australians were basically just stingy towards them. Secondly, Aboriginal people didn't have an 'anchor' in the way that Māori do.

That's the value of the Treaty, in my humble opinion. When you start to generate arguments about the application of the Treaty you need to understand the Treaty as a simple outline of absolute minimum rights. Māori have the right to both be Māori, and be citizens.

It's trickier for Aboriginal people though, because while they today have the full rights of citizens, their right to be Aboriginal is limited to their personal lives. Political lives in Australia are always more successful when you appear Anglo.

And that kind of assimilation is the last thing we need in New Zealand. The Treaty anchors us well away from that particular rocky shoreline.

Something I've noticed about Club Politique is that it tends to descend into a lot of long diatribes from myself to you, the reader. Now, I don't think this is a very healthy idea, so here's something a little different.

Che: In the interests of assuring you that the art of conversation isn't dead, I've brought along a friend.

Girlie: What are we going to talk about?

Che: Ah.... Dunno. How about I just get to typing and we can see if we can get into a fluid, rambling kind of thing?

Girlie: Oh, cutting edge blogging you mean?

Che: Yup.

Girlie: It's all a bit Dog Biting Men though isn't it?

Che: Yeah, but they stopped making funny stuff awhile back, so someone had to take over.

Girlie: True... So, what's that thing?

Che: The monitor? The TV thing?

Girlie: Yup.

Che: This isn't just a typewriter, we use that to look at the words while I... waitaminute... you're taking the piss aren't you?

Girlie: Yup.

Che: Thank Christ. I was worried you might be an idiot.

Girlie: Ay!

Che: Ay! No hitting! Ow... that smarts a little.

Girlie: Serves you right.

Che: Yeah, spose it does. So, how long have you wanted to be on a famous blogger's column?

Girlie: Did you just call yourself famous? You're kidding right?

Che: Hell yeah I'm famous! Just the other day David Farrar was fantasizing I was a woman.

Girlie: I hear he does that kind of thing a fair bit. But, in his defence, you do pout a lot.

Che: Take that back!

Girlie: There you go... pouty pouty...

Che: What?! Look, we can't just argue online. People will wonder what in the heck this is all about.

Girlie: It's all about the kind of rambling conversations we have.

Che: Pout...? Me...?

Girlie: Sorry. You'd don't pout. Can we get back to talking?

Che: I am famous you know.

Girlie: Of course you are. There, there.

Che: You're patting me on the shoulder and taking the piss again, aren't you?

Girlie: You know, you'd think famous people would catch on faster.

Che: I managed to slip that double entendre about columns past you.

Girlie: Ay? What?! Oh.... That's quite rude you know.

Che: Hee hee.

Girlie: I might be able to see David's point. Maybe he really does think you're a girl?

Che: That's sexist. Not all girls pout and giggle.

Girlie: You apparently do.

Che: You do realise you're drawing a fairly long bow here?

Girlie: Just keep telling yourself that.

Che: Wha...? Now who's being rude?

Girlie: I'm blushing.

Che: God, you are too... I'll change the subject. You know only the famous bloggers get to make the corny gags, ay?

Girlie: Them and bad comics.

Che: Is there a difference here?

Girlie: Apparently not.