Another day in paradise without trying

Yesterday I lay on a beach in New Zealand.
For roughly 12 hours I also explored a forest, swam in the sea and talked to strangers.
The closest I came to harm in those 12 hours was seeing a convincingly stingray-shaped rock.
When it comes to danger, New Zealand doesn't really deliver; other than a lack of ozone there is nothing that could possibly deter anyone from staying here forever and ever and ever.
And yet people don't.
Despite the Government approving around 50,000 people for permanent residence a year, we still have 10 times more sheep than people, towns that boast nothing but a gas station and a knitted crafts emporium run by the friendly but toothless locals and an entire half of an island occupied by virtual forestry nothingness.
And I would like to keep it that way. Not in a racist way. But I think our size is what makes us, what keeps us so patriotic.
As far as an alarmingly large chunk of the outside world knows, we are a small family-run farming community off the southern coast of Australia with some hobbits and a determination to claim Russell Crowe. And we are unbeatably proud of it.
If I had a dollar for every New Zealander I've met with a tattoo of the country, a kiwi or a silver fern I'd have at least enough to buy a decent pair of jandals ... Havaianas ... with the gold bits on them.
Maybe the reason for our comparatively minuscule size is our general sense of satisfaction with the way things are. Every time I drive through Huntly, I see the DEKA sign still standing strong in all its mossy, flaking splendour.
And while I still believe Huntly's central function is to act as a scare tactic for parents who want their kids to go to school, I love the fact that the sign's still there.
It could be taken down with minimal effort (a cough or a particularly violent sneeze would probably do it) and yet it remains, not because it's pretty or because DEKA is making a victorious comeback but because it's not harming anyone by being there.
So why bother? It's not that we're lazy or obnoxious, just content.
In my past two years at university I've met and befriended people from all over the world and while most of them embrace their six-month semesters of jandal blisters and ever-changing weather with open pasty arms, the one little moan they all have in common is the "behindness" of it all.
"Wireless is everywhere in the States," they say.
"Where are all your TV channels?"
"Why can't I get bacon in my milkshake?"
In an attempt to research this column, I Googled "New Zealand's internet speed". It provided me with an informational video that I couldn't watch due to New Zealand's internet speed. The reality is that we just don't care.
Personally, I'm still buzzing over the fact that now I can use the internet and make a home phone call at the same time. I can even put something in the microwave while I'm at it, hold the TV remote with one hand and text my friends about how technologically advanced I'm being with the other - anything beyond that is just getting greedy.
Despite the catastrophic inconvenience caused by our lack of Ranch-flavoured Doritos and the last season of Girls of the Playboy Mansion, some find our lack of any attempt at grandeur refreshing.
One American I talked to said he loved New Zealand because we don't try too hard. Go to LA and everything is bigger, sexier and greasier than the next thing. Come to New Zealand and what do you get? Katikati, Bay of Plenty's Mural Town; Ohakune, home of an exceptionally large carrot. While we're unlikely to be taking over the US on the power scale any time soon and while it's occasionally faster to chisel messages out of granite and post them than it is to email, New Zealand's size makes New Zealanders who we are and in turn makes it such an amazing place to live.
I'm going back to the beach tomorrow. I'm going to take a book because you don't get wireless. I'm not going to wear shoes because, unless the stingray rock decides to pounce, I'm not going to stand on anything that's going to kill me. And I'll probably meet someone who knows my Mum. Sounds like a day in paradise to me.