All Black Cowboy

Update: 25

It was a dark and stormy night and as the three happy backpackers (Damo was still with us) stood under the eaves of a building in Montevideo, the rain belting down and the whole - let it be said: capital - city in the grip of a power cut, two strangers seeking shelter from a storm huddled up next to us. As is so often the case in South America, when two gringos meet, a conversation in English follows. Ours went like: "Where are you guys from? Where are you going? New Zealand?! Cool, come and stay on my farm, bye".

So we took contact details and as the rain abated, went our separate ways. None of us expected much to come of it, much less what actually did.

***

A few days later (not wanting to appear desperate) we dropped Roly a line to see if he was serious or whether he'd been under the influence when he'd made his offer. In true farmer-style we received a one sentence reply: I was serious, you can come whenever you want.

So we did.

And what a move!

We spent the night in Auckland which reminded me a bit of Copenhagen. Spotless and beautiful with an obvious sense of respect for the environment with Scandinavian-style first world treats thrown in like free buses (not all of them) and rickshaw-type bicycles especially for tourists which were also gratis. People obey laws here. The little red man means stop and do not cross the road. And nobody does. This is amusing the first time you see it, but when you're rushing across town to catch the 2:40 to New Plymouth and everybody is standing on the side of the road, not a car in sight, waiting for the Beep Do Do Do Do Do (sight and hearing impaired people are cared for too!) of the little green man before they step into the road, it can be frustrating. Should a car appear, you can be sure that it will be  slowing down from a sensible speed to a sensible, secure halt.

The British love to moan about the Nanny State that they think Britain is becoming. I have to say that the All Blacks beat you here too. Sorry. Bearing in mind that we'd just come from a place where you take your life in your hands when you step into the street, perhaps the stark contrast of New Zealand to Latin America means that I'm being harsh, but I don't remember seeing these signs in the UK:

• (In a pub) Alcohol will not be served to anyone who is intoxicated.

Can you imagine the uproar? Telling your average Brit that you're not going to serve him because he's smashed is like telling Italians you're cancelling his pasta order because it contains carbohydrates.

• (In a hostel) Kitchen under 24 hour surveillance

What the hell? This is a kitchen, not a bank!

• (In a hostel) Please close shower curtain for your own safety

Thirty years of negligently showering without checking the curtain. It's a wonder I've made it this far. As for that negligent boarding school I went to where they didn't even have curtains to protect us from ourselves, I'm lucky to be alive.

• (In a cinema) Due to occupational safety requirements suitable footwear needs to be worn.

This is a good sign to have on a construction site. I must be honest though, this was the first time I ever considered the possibility that wearing flip flops to the movies could land me in jail.

On the bus to Te Awamutu near Roly's farm we were protected from ourselves again. The driver informed us over a public address system that FOR OUR OWN SAFETY we were not to eat any food whilst on the bus and that drinking out of any type of bottle or can was not permitted. As I spread out over two seats to open up the New Zealand Herald I tried to think of all the dangers of a Coke can. Just then, the driver asked me to sit properly and fasten my seatbelt. So there I was feeling like an idiot - all that space around me to stretch out but sitting upright in a bus doing fifty fastened in sensibly. The irony wasn't lost on me that all these announcements came from the driver using one hand to steer and another to hold the microphone. Reckless, I tell ya. Reckless!

 ***

We arrived, safely, sensibly and on time in Te Awamutu to be greeted by Roly's beautiful wife Karen who'd been told at the last minute to expect us. What followed was an introduction to Kiwi hospitality.

Karen had prepared - not a room - a house for us. Our very own three bedroomed guesthouse decorated with impeccable taste (I sensed a female touch here a little stronger than a sheep farmer's) with some fresh milk and butter in the fridge - next to a bottle of bubbly - and fresh bread and jam "for toast at breakfast but of course you'll be eating with us," Karen instructed. To say this was comfortable accommodation doesn't do it justice: this was the kind of house we be happy to have as a home! As we stood on the balcony that the double doors of our room opened onto, we looked at our view of rolling hills and countryside reflecting the colours, smells and sounds of spring and really, couldn't believe our luck.

We dumped our rucksacks and went down to the main farmhouse for tea after which Roly suggested we go and have a look at the farm. "Can you ride a bike?" he asked me. "Um yes, but I haven't for a while." "Good, you take that one," he said before climbing onto another with Tam (see the faith she has in me) and leaving me for dirt.

After a few uncertain moments involving a very sensitive accelerator, I managed to catch up to them. My use as a farmhand made itself very apparent more than once. Roly was explaining various techniques he applies to make this farm successful and a few times I heard him mention "dry stock" and "wet stock". Showing interest, I asked what dry stock was. "Beef and sheep" he informed me. "Oh, I see," I replied, "so then wet stock is fish?" I half asked half stated.

"Um, no," Roly politely corrected. "Wet stock is dairy."

There was nothing I could do to save any face there, so I shut up.

It wasn't too much later that, well aware my outdoorsy childhood was not making itself as obvious as I'd have liked, I found myself stalled on the side of a steep hill behind a rock that I would never have been able to get the bike over. Tam and Roly at this stage on the other side of the hill chasing sheep.

Industriously I climbed off the bike tried to move it back a bit so that I could start her up and go over the upper side of the rock. As I did, gravity worked her magic and the beast started rolling downhill with me trying to brake. That didn't work and I slipped. Roly, showing some unusual concern for me, appeared from nowhere as I lay with a handle bar in my nuts, my thumb inadvertently pushing the starter button and an in-gear 250cc's back wheel spinning furiously trying to find some traction. Thank god it didn't because no matter how you phrase it, Castration by Handle Bar is not pleasant. 

"You ok?" He shouted. "Yeah, fine," I squeaked.

Back in the farmhouse for lunch, we were introduced to various neighbours and friends. Again, I realised how out of touch I was with rural living. When asking where people lived, I sort of expected answers like "in town," or "the next farm" or "not far from here". What we got in reply was: "you see that tree over there? Well past there and beyond that shed." Or "See the rocks over there? Well in a straight line going left, you can see a tractor, no? Behind that tractor and in the valley."

 After lunch Roly invited me to go with him to round up some cattle. He probably noticed I had a bit of cowboy in me.

I hopped onto what was becoming my own bike, paying careful attention to how I positioned myself (a large bruise was developing in a sensitive area) and we headed off into the countryside.

Roly started issuing instructions like: "Ok, you head up there and send them down here. I'll get the gate."

Soon he was saying things like: "Ok, you get the gate and I'll head up there and send them down."

When he said, "You wait here, I'll get them." I should have realised he was losing respect for my ability as cattle rustler but it was only when he eventually shouted as he was flying off to scare some disobedient bull, "LOOK - JUST GET OUT OF THE WAY!" that I realised my skills were more "Excel and Windows" than cattle, bikes and gates.

With tail between legs, I sheepishly followed Farmer Roly back home for another cup of tea. As I walked inside, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window. What sort of idiot goes cow herding in a luminous orange checked shirt?

That's when I decided to keep behind the scenes when farming was taking place in front of me. So I was quite comfortable staying behind Roly as he was shuffling bleating lambs into a barn where they were to get their backsides sheared for hygiene purposes before being sent off to "The Works". ("The Works" is the term used in front of sheep so as not to upset them before they go off to get their throats slit.)

Looking a little lamb in the eye as it has just been separated from its mother for the first time in its short life, the day before it goes to the works puts a lump in one's throat.

That evening, after a tough day of getting in Roly's way, we knuckled down to a good wholesome farmer's dinner. Karen prepared the best lamb shank I think I've ever tasted.

Two days in, when Roly and Karen lent us their car, it came as no surprise. These were people to whom hospitality and kindness came easily. I felt ashamed at all those times I'd been annoyed at having to break from my routine in London because someone wanted to sleep on our floor or needed a lift to a bus station. That won't happen again.

***

Thinking back to those five minutes in Montevideo. it's just as well the majority of us were from The Colonies because, if we'd all been English, we probably would have dipped our heads in recognition of each other and then gone our separate ways as there was no one there to introduce us. 

***

Finally, before I sign off, this is worth noting: The NZ Ladies' Rugby Team is referred to in the NZ Herald of Saturday 9 December 2006 as "The Black Ferns". I think that's a bit risqué, but maybe that's just me.