Born in Nelson, raised in Blenheim and university-educated in Christchurch for an MA in Theatre and Film Studies, Ruth Spencer is an archetypical urbanite but she has just co-authored Kiwi Country: Rural New Zealand in 100 Objects with husband Te Radar. Here, she shares what it’s taught her about the rural urban divide – and if it exists at all.
I’m what you’d call a townie. There are more glamorous words for it: urbanite, cosmopolitan, even Uptown Girl, but no one would call you any of those with a straight face in this country. Being a townie was an accident of birth; unlike literally dozens of animals who manage it every day without any prior training, I failed to be born on a farm.
For the last year though, I’ve been correcting this oversight, delving deep into the hinterland to research and write a book. Not just any book – that would be weird - but specifically Kiwi Country: Rural New Zealand in 100 Objects by me and Te Radar. Speaking as someone who is more Carrie Bradshaw than carry chainsaw (although my hair will always look like someone applied the latter to the former) I’ve learned a few things about rural New Zealand.
Let’s begin with the amount of work it takes to be a rural person. If you don’t have to scrape the effluent of several species from your Manolos when you enter your townhouse, you’re probably unaware of some of the microtasks that go into rural living. It’s usually a longer walk to the coffee machine, for a start. In fact, sometimes the coffee machine is – and I hope you’re sitting down – a jar of Nescafé. I know. Then there’s inclement weather, which for rural people is something that actually happens to you, not just something to complain about on the weekends.
There’s some common ground: dogs, for example, need to be fed in both the city and the country, but we urbans don’t have to make a sheep go upside down over a pit first. It’s not as fun as it sounds, especially for the sheep. Nothing is convenient, even the conveniences, which depending on the rural property might be represented by an outhouse. It can be an egregiously long walk to the dunny at first, until you get near it and wish it was further away.
Then there’s resourcefulness. You knew it was coming; rural people are famous for their ability to rise to meet all sorts of tricky situations. Call it Number 8 Wire mentality. In the city we call it ‘Agile’, as a noun - again, I know - for which I can only apologise; this is what happens when you let HR run things, but if you don’t, they tend to pace in their cages.
In terms of rural resourcefulness, some objects only exist because circumstances demanded ingenious solutions to difficult problems. Rural people don’t live within cooee of a supermarket, hospital or drycleaner, so you need other options. Take the Rawleigh’s tin, containing the cure-all ointment sold by travelling salespeople as a kind of first aid for when you’re not sure if you really need to call the rescue chopper yet. Or a net curtain as an ad-hoc meat safe when you’ve just shot a deer and are hours from a fridge. Duvet covers also work, which begs the question whether Spotlight can be considered a hunting supply store.
One of my favourite resourcefulness objects is Aunt Daisy’s Book of Handy Hints. It’s full of the kind of info you might need if you live a long way from anywhere and need to turn your horrible old carpet into horrible new lino. Or identify a poisonous mushroom with a terrifyingly casual approach to accuracy. Or clean your xylonite – be honest, how dirty is your xylonite? Shame. My favourite entry is her instructions for waterproofing a tent, a skill I hope to never need, as I never want to be elbow-deep in sugar of lead, whatever that is. Aunt Daisy believes in us and our ability to face any situation without having to go to Kmart for the third time this week. The only problem she can’t solve is that we actually want to go to Kmart; the Halloween things are in.
One thing I’ve come to newly appreciate is that “rural” isn’t just farming. Rural is wild hot pools, kids fishing off wharves, trig stations, orange orchards and community halls. It’s wine and rugby teams and flamethrowers, hopefully not all at once. New Zealand is a place where ‘rural’ is still no more than half an hour’s drive away for anyone, even if you, like me, live in Auckland.
I may be urban fringe with an urban fringe, more likely to be found behind a laptop than the wheel (is it a wheel?) of a road grader. They almost never let me loose with the gelignite. But even I have picked a quince on a golden afternoon, shot a rifle off a corrugated-iron porch, burnt rubbish in a 44-gallon drum and learned to take great care around bungee cords. I’ve shivered in a midnight dunny and had to scrape things off before I was allowed in. Here in New Zealand at least, there’s not so very much distance between townie and country.
