(First published in the Curmudgeon column, The Dominion Post, November 8.)
THE ELECTION campaign reminds me of a catchphrase made famous by British television comedians Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise. “What do you think of it so far?” Morecambe would ask halfway through their show. And the answer was always the same: “Rubbish!”
One of the consequences of MMP is that the major parties have become more risk-averse and more centrist. The defining ideological differences that once separated National and Labour have narrowed to the point where they are reduced to fighting over a shrinking patch of centre ground.
What this means is that election campaigns are matters of tone and nuance rather than the great contests of ideas that they should be. It’s all about “branding”.
There’s no fire, no galvanising vision. At a Business New Zealand pre-election conference addressed by the party leaders last week, it was the minor parties that presented the bold ideas (and Pita Sharples the wit).
In difficult times like this, an election campaign provides an opportunity for the nation to debate whether to tear the house down and start again. But John Key and Phil Goff are like a married couple squabbling over which shade of off-white to paint the kitchen.
Both are decent, well-meaning men, but this campaign could do with the fiery idealism of a Norman Kirk or the biting wit and charisma of a David Lange.
In fact it’s almost enough to make you yearn for the days of Robert David Muldoon. He may have been a nasty little bully, and a socialist to boot (despite leading a supposedly conservative party), but at least he stirred people up.
* * *
NONETHELESS, election campaigns have a way of bringing certain things out into the open.
Asked on TV3 News which major party the Maori Party would support, co-leader Tariana Turia replied: “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Here, in stark relief, is one of the fatal shortcomings of MMP. We have no control over what happens after we cast our votes. We don’t know who will get into bed together, what compromises will be made and what policies will be traded off.
The politicians, having gone through the three-yearly ritual of prostrating themselves at our feet in order to win our support, will be back in the driver’s seat and the voter will be merely an impotent onlooker.
Opponents of FPP say that things were no better under that system; that once in power, governments were free to do whatever they liked regardless of any promises made beforehand. But the difference is that under MMP, post-election horse-trading behind closed doors is more than just a risk; it’s an integral feature of the system.
Under FPP, governments that broke promises or introduced policies without consulting the electorate knew they risked being punished at the next election. Now parties can justify almost any breach of faith with their supporters by saying it’s the price we pay for a system that depends on compromise and negotiation.
I won’t be voting for a return to FPP, which was a demonstrably unfair system, but neither will I vote to retain MMP. We have replaced one seriously flawed setup with another.
* * *
MR SHARPLES illustrated another unattractive aspect of the new political environment when he attacked the rival Mana Party on the basis that it has Pakeha candidates, namely John Minto and Sue Bradford.
How can people with white skin, Mr Sharples asked, pretend to represent Maori?
This was a naked appeal to identity politics, whereby people define themselves according to whatever minority group they belong to – be it Maori, gay, fundamentalist Christian, disabled or whatever – and frame their political goals accordingly.
Identity politics runs counter to the idea of communities acting in concert for the common good. It also promotes the divisive idea that to represent someone with brown skin, a politician must be of the same colour.
Mr Sharples’ party depends heavily on identity politics for its appeal. So does Hone Harawira’s Mana Party, though it seeks to mop up disaffected ragtag Pakeha as well as Maori.
In a useful report on the forthcoming voting referendum, the centre-right Maxim Institute highlights the choice voters will be given between systems that elect MPs to represent the community as a whole and ones that emphasise representation for narrow interest groups.
The report describes identity politics as “murky ground” but also acknowledges the unfairness of electoral systems that don’t give minority parties any chance at all.
Maxim doesn’t come out in favour of any one system, but on the basis of its analysis STV and SM, while far from perfect, look to be the best compromises between the two unpalatable extremes.
Call me sceptical, but I suspect that whatever electoral system we come up with, the politicians will find a way to turn it to their own advantage.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
The avoidable death of Sukhraj Singh
WHEN A CHILD dies an avoidable death, it’s not entirely surprising that the grieving family looks for someone to blame.
In the case of toddler Sukhraj Singh, who drowned in the Taruheru River at Gisborne last week, blame has fallen on Gisborne District Council for not fencing off the river.
Only the flint-hearted could not feel sorry for the family. I can't think of any event more heartbreaking than the death of a child. But the primary cause of this terrible accident, if news reports are accurate, is that the mothers of Sukhraj and his cousin Achilles Kaui – who also nearly drowned – didn’t notice that they had wandered off.
According to the Dominion Post’s account, 10 or 15 minutes passed before the two women realised the little boys were gone – more than enough time for a child to get into fatal trouble.
It’s now almost a kneejerk reaction to blame some imagined bureaucratic failing whenever awful accidents happen. A similar thing happened in 2009 when Aisling Symes fell into a manhole in Henderson.
But the primary responsibility for children’s safety will always rest with parents. Far more children die because their parents were distracted at a crucial moment than because councils didn’t put up fences or follow up reports of manhole covers coming loose.
Public authorities can never identify, still less eliminate, every potential hazard, and it’s not their function to do so. Active, inquisitive children will always find ways to put themselves at risk; that’s why their parents need to watch them at all times.
When there’s water nearby, the need for vigilance multiplies.
In the same week that Sukhraj died, an inquest was held into the drowning of a two-year-old girl at Waiwera Thermal Pools north of Auckland. The coroner was told that Nylah Vau wandered away from the kiddies’ pool while her parents were otherwise occupied.
The Vau family will now have a lifetime in which to mourn the tragic consequences of inadequate supervision. Such incidents are far too common.
If events follow the usual course in Gisborne, the district council will feel compelled to conduct an inquiry into the death of Sukhraj Singh and will very likely announce some time later that action has been taken to prevent a recurrence.
The trouble with such outcomes is that they perpetuate the dishonest pretence that public officials can eliminate risk – and even more lethally, they encourage the mindset that it is the responsibility of public officials, rather than parents, to ensure that tragedies don’t happen.
In the case of toddler Sukhraj Singh, who drowned in the Taruheru River at Gisborne last week, blame has fallen on Gisborne District Council for not fencing off the river.
Only the flint-hearted could not feel sorry for the family. I can't think of any event more heartbreaking than the death of a child. But the primary cause of this terrible accident, if news reports are accurate, is that the mothers of Sukhraj and his cousin Achilles Kaui – who also nearly drowned – didn’t notice that they had wandered off.
According to the Dominion Post’s account, 10 or 15 minutes passed before the two women realised the little boys were gone – more than enough time for a child to get into fatal trouble.
It’s now almost a kneejerk reaction to blame some imagined bureaucratic failing whenever awful accidents happen. A similar thing happened in 2009 when Aisling Symes fell into a manhole in Henderson.
But the primary responsibility for children’s safety will always rest with parents. Far more children die because their parents were distracted at a crucial moment than because councils didn’t put up fences or follow up reports of manhole covers coming loose.
Public authorities can never identify, still less eliminate, every potential hazard, and it’s not their function to do so. Active, inquisitive children will always find ways to put themselves at risk; that’s why their parents need to watch them at all times.
When there’s water nearby, the need for vigilance multiplies.
In the same week that Sukhraj died, an inquest was held into the drowning of a two-year-old girl at Waiwera Thermal Pools north of Auckland. The coroner was told that Nylah Vau wandered away from the kiddies’ pool while her parents were otherwise occupied.
The Vau family will now have a lifetime in which to mourn the tragic consequences of inadequate supervision. Such incidents are far too common.
If events follow the usual course in Gisborne, the district council will feel compelled to conduct an inquiry into the death of Sukhraj Singh and will very likely announce some time later that action has been taken to prevent a recurrence.
The trouble with such outcomes is that they perpetuate the dishonest pretence that public officials can eliminate risk – and even more lethally, they encourage the mindset that it is the responsibility of public officials, rather than parents, to ensure that tragedies don’t happen.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Oz Spectator honours Kerr
The latest edition of The Spectator Australia, out today (well, in Australia, anyway; New Zealand gets it next week) devotes an editorial to the late Roger Kerr, crediting him with helping to kick-start a dramatic reform agenda – “cutting income and business tax, privatising state-run industry, floating the exchange rate, slashing agricultural subsidies and protective tariffs, changing the rules of welfare, deregulating the labour market (and eroding the source of union power)” – that made Paul Keating, the champion of economic reform in Bob Hawke’s government, blush.
The editorial tribute, written by Spectator Australia editor Tom Switzer, describes the long-serving Business Roundtable head, whose funeral service yesterday packed Old St Paul's in Wellington, as a public intellectual in the best sense of the term. “His wit, civility and intellectual honesty contributed hugely to the respectability of the cause of free markets and small government in a nation with deep socialist roots.”
The editorial tribute, written by Spectator Australia editor Tom Switzer, describes the long-serving Business Roundtable head, whose funeral service yesterday packed Old St Paul's in Wellington, as a public intellectual in the best sense of the term. “His wit, civility and intellectual honesty contributed hugely to the respectability of the cause of free markets and small government in a nation with deep socialist roots.”
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Rolling across America
(This article was published in the travel section of The Dominion Post, October 26.)
THERE can be few better ways to travel than in the observation car of an American train on a golden autumn afternoon with a cold beer in hand.
I’m on the California Zephyr, speeding westward through the gently undulating farmland of Illinois. We’re about four metres above the ground, on the upper of two levels, and the train is quiet and smooth.
To my surprise, the observation car is half-empty. Either my fellow passengers have all done this trip before and become blasé about the sights, or they are unmoved by the beauty of the landscape.
The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows gives new meaning to the line from America the Beautiful about amber waves of grain. Cornfields stretch to the horizon in all directions, interrupted here and there by dark clumps of trees indicating the presence of a lonely farmhouse. Some of these habitations look like exquisite little doll’s houses.
We are at the start of the great Midwestern prairie and it will take us the rest of the day and all of the night to cross it. The landscape changes little but it’s easy on the eye and I’m never bored.
As evening approaches, we cross the Mississippi into rural Iowa. The sunset is like molten copper. Much later, in the darkness, we rumble across the inky-black waters of another mighty river which a fellow passenger confirms is the Missouri, the border between Iowa and Nebraska.
My wife and I boarded the California Zephyr in Chicago at two in the afternoon. If we were to stay on the train all the way to Emeryville, near San Francisco, it would be a 52-hour trip. But because we couldn’t get a sleeper compartment and didn’t fancy sitting for all that time, we’ve decided to break the journey for a day and a night in Denver, Colorado, before resuming.
We could have saved time and money by flying, but it goes without saying that you see a lot more from a train than you do from 30,000 feet. Rail remains one of the most rewarding forms of travel – and sociable too, since you naturally fall into conversation with your fellow passengers. As on a ship, a camaraderie soon develops among the people temporarily brought together in this confined space.
In the dining car on our first night we sit opposite a genial young man from Perth, Australia, and a shy female student on her way back to Stanford University after the summer vacation. Because space is limited in the dining car, people are required to share their table with strangers; but rather than being an imposition, it adds to the enjoyment of the journey.
Our companions at dinner on the second night are a charming elderly couple, retired teachers from Wisconsin, who are on their way to visit relatives in Oakland, California. They have a sleeping compartment but complain that it’s claustrophobic – that once they’re in there with the door closed they feel shut in.
It’s a comment we hear from other passengers too, and we’re pleased that we’re travelling coach class. We even sleep reasonably well, since the train is barely half-full and each of us is able to stretch out over two seats. The only problem on the first night is that it’s cold – a malfunctioning thermostat, apparently.
The food in the dining car could be described only as basic – at best, on a par with airline meals. It’s not cheap, either, but you either eat it or starve, since there’s no opportunity to buy food along the way. But the dining car serves wine and beer, which makes the meals seem more palatable; and in any case, no one ever travelled on an Amtrak train for the innovative cuisine.
It’s the scenery that makes this journey unforgettable. The prairies, pretty as they are, are merely an appetiser; the main course, in visual terms, is served once the train starts climbing into the Rockies west of Denver.
Here the California Zephyr passes through terrain that makes the usual superlatives seem feeble: spectacular rocky bluffs, deep canyons, rushing mountain creeks and idyllic alpine meadows. Though it’s only early autumn, the forest foliage at this altitude (the railway climbs to nearly 3000 metres) seems to show off every colour in nature’s palette, from pale yellow to brilliant scarlet.
We’re soon following the upper reaches of the Colorado River, where we pass parties of white-water kayakers, the occasional fly fisherman and even a prospector panning for gold. Here the railway passes through Upper Gore Canyon, whose walls rise nearly 500 metres and seem to reach out menacingly over the train.
But wait: there’s more. After the Rockies come the vast deserts of Utah and Nevada – a lunar landscape where wind and rain have sculpted the rock into all manner of improbable shapes. In the distance I see massive buttes, similar to those of the famous Monument Valley, rising from the desert floor.
The train rolls through the desert all night, occasionally passing desolate little towns almost hidden in the sagebrush. At 3 am we stop briefly in a place called Elko, Nevada, where there’s not even a station – just a shelter with room for two or three people. Obviously someone got off, or on, the train at Elko and I can’t help thinking the latter would have been the better option.
We also pass the town of Winnemucca, where the conductor, a man with a voice that reminds me of Fozzie Bear in The Muppet Show, tells us Butch Cassidy robbed the bank in 1900.
But there are more mountains to come yet – namely, the majestic range known as the Sierra Nevada. Here we cross the Donner Pass, scene of one of the darkest episodes in the history of American settlement. Trapped by thick snow in the terrible winter of 1846-47, 39 members of a party of 87 settlers died of malnutrition and exposure. Some members of the party famously resorted to cannibalism.
It’s hard to reconcile this grim story with the scene presented by Donner Lake on a gloriously sunny day, shimmering under a powder-blue sky criss-crossed by vapour trails.
Once out of the mountains, the train makes a last dash across California’s broad Central Valley and skirts the shores of San Francisco Bay before reaching its ultimate destination. From Emeryville, we catch an Amtrak bus across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, where we say our goodbyes.
We’ve spent 33 hours on the California Zephyr since Denver but it doesn’t feel like it. In fact we get off the train feeling infinitely fresher than at the end of a 12-hour flight cooped up like battery hens on a Boeing 747. Even as lowly coach-class passengers we have experienced travel as a pleasure in itself, rather than merely as a means of getting somewhere.
EXTRA STUFF YOU MIGHT WANT TO KNOW ...
State-owned Amtrak operates the California Zephyr service daily each way between Chicago and Emeryville, in the San Francisco Bay area of California – a distance of nearly 4000km. The train leaves Chicago at 2pm and arrives at 4.10pm two days later. In the reverse direction the train leaves Emeryville at 9.10am and arrives in Chicago two days later at 2.50pm. Cities it passes through include Burlington, Iowa; Omaha, Nebraska; Denver, Colorado; Salt Lake City, Utah; Reno, Nevada; and Sacramento, California. “Superliner” sleeping accommodation is available and the dining car provides a full meal service, including wine and beer. Smoking on the train is prohibited. Prices range from $US152 for a coach-class seat (not including meals) to $US1396 for a superliner bedroom for two (meals included). Superliner bedrooms are self-contained with their own hand basin, toilet and shower. Note: fares may vary depending on the time of year.
THERE can be few better ways to travel than in the observation car of an American train on a golden autumn afternoon with a cold beer in hand.
I’m on the California Zephyr, speeding westward through the gently undulating farmland of Illinois. We’re about four metres above the ground, on the upper of two levels, and the train is quiet and smooth.
To my surprise, the observation car is half-empty. Either my fellow passengers have all done this trip before and become blasé about the sights, or they are unmoved by the beauty of the landscape.
The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows gives new meaning to the line from America the Beautiful about amber waves of grain. Cornfields stretch to the horizon in all directions, interrupted here and there by dark clumps of trees indicating the presence of a lonely farmhouse. Some of these habitations look like exquisite little doll’s houses.
We are at the start of the great Midwestern prairie and it will take us the rest of the day and all of the night to cross it. The landscape changes little but it’s easy on the eye and I’m never bored.
As evening approaches, we cross the Mississippi into rural Iowa. The sunset is like molten copper. Much later, in the darkness, we rumble across the inky-black waters of another mighty river which a fellow passenger confirms is the Missouri, the border between Iowa and Nebraska.
My wife and I boarded the California Zephyr in Chicago at two in the afternoon. If we were to stay on the train all the way to Emeryville, near San Francisco, it would be a 52-hour trip. But because we couldn’t get a sleeper compartment and didn’t fancy sitting for all that time, we’ve decided to break the journey for a day and a night in Denver, Colorado, before resuming.
We could have saved time and money by flying, but it goes without saying that you see a lot more from a train than you do from 30,000 feet. Rail remains one of the most rewarding forms of travel – and sociable too, since you naturally fall into conversation with your fellow passengers. As on a ship, a camaraderie soon develops among the people temporarily brought together in this confined space.
In the dining car on our first night we sit opposite a genial young man from Perth, Australia, and a shy female student on her way back to Stanford University after the summer vacation. Because space is limited in the dining car, people are required to share their table with strangers; but rather than being an imposition, it adds to the enjoyment of the journey.
Our companions at dinner on the second night are a charming elderly couple, retired teachers from Wisconsin, who are on their way to visit relatives in Oakland, California. They have a sleeping compartment but complain that it’s claustrophobic – that once they’re in there with the door closed they feel shut in.
It’s a comment we hear from other passengers too, and we’re pleased that we’re travelling coach class. We even sleep reasonably well, since the train is barely half-full and each of us is able to stretch out over two seats. The only problem on the first night is that it’s cold – a malfunctioning thermostat, apparently.
The food in the dining car could be described only as basic – at best, on a par with airline meals. It’s not cheap, either, but you either eat it or starve, since there’s no opportunity to buy food along the way. But the dining car serves wine and beer, which makes the meals seem more palatable; and in any case, no one ever travelled on an Amtrak train for the innovative cuisine.
It’s the scenery that makes this journey unforgettable. The prairies, pretty as they are, are merely an appetiser; the main course, in visual terms, is served once the train starts climbing into the Rockies west of Denver.
Here the California Zephyr passes through terrain that makes the usual superlatives seem feeble: spectacular rocky bluffs, deep canyons, rushing mountain creeks and idyllic alpine meadows. Though it’s only early autumn, the forest foliage at this altitude (the railway climbs to nearly 3000 metres) seems to show off every colour in nature’s palette, from pale yellow to brilliant scarlet.
We’re soon following the upper reaches of the Colorado River, where we pass parties of white-water kayakers, the occasional fly fisherman and even a prospector panning for gold. Here the railway passes through Upper Gore Canyon, whose walls rise nearly 500 metres and seem to reach out menacingly over the train.
But wait: there’s more. After the Rockies come the vast deserts of Utah and Nevada – a lunar landscape where wind and rain have sculpted the rock into all manner of improbable shapes. In the distance I see massive buttes, similar to those of the famous Monument Valley, rising from the desert floor.
The train rolls through the desert all night, occasionally passing desolate little towns almost hidden in the sagebrush. At 3 am we stop briefly in a place called Elko, Nevada, where there’s not even a station – just a shelter with room for two or three people. Obviously someone got off, or on, the train at Elko and I can’t help thinking the latter would have been the better option.
We also pass the town of Winnemucca, where the conductor, a man with a voice that reminds me of Fozzie Bear in The Muppet Show, tells us Butch Cassidy robbed the bank in 1900.
But there are more mountains to come yet – namely, the majestic range known as the Sierra Nevada. Here we cross the Donner Pass, scene of one of the darkest episodes in the history of American settlement. Trapped by thick snow in the terrible winter of 1846-47, 39 members of a party of 87 settlers died of malnutrition and exposure. Some members of the party famously resorted to cannibalism.
It’s hard to reconcile this grim story with the scene presented by Donner Lake on a gloriously sunny day, shimmering under a powder-blue sky criss-crossed by vapour trails.
Once out of the mountains, the train makes a last dash across California’s broad Central Valley and skirts the shores of San Francisco Bay before reaching its ultimate destination. From Emeryville, we catch an Amtrak bus across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, where we say our goodbyes.
We’ve spent 33 hours on the California Zephyr since Denver but it doesn’t feel like it. In fact we get off the train feeling infinitely fresher than at the end of a 12-hour flight cooped up like battery hens on a Boeing 747. Even as lowly coach-class passengers we have experienced travel as a pleasure in itself, rather than merely as a means of getting somewhere.
EXTRA STUFF YOU MIGHT WANT TO KNOW ...
State-owned Amtrak operates the California Zephyr service daily each way between Chicago and Emeryville, in the San Francisco Bay area of California – a distance of nearly 4000km. The train leaves Chicago at 2pm and arrives at 4.10pm two days later. In the reverse direction the train leaves Emeryville at 9.10am and arrives in Chicago two days later at 2.50pm. Cities it passes through include Burlington, Iowa; Omaha, Nebraska; Denver, Colorado; Salt Lake City, Utah; Reno, Nevada; and Sacramento, California. “Superliner” sleeping accommodation is available and the dining car provides a full meal service, including wine and beer. Smoking on the train is prohibited. Prices range from $US152 for a coach-class seat (not including meals) to $US1396 for a superliner bedroom for two (meals included). Superliner bedrooms are self-contained with their own hand basin, toilet and shower. Note: fares may vary depending on the time of year.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
A tribute to Roger Kerr
News of the death of Roger Kerr, executive director of the Business Roundtable, comes as a shock even though we were primed to expect it. He died last night of metastatic melanoma, a particularly evil form of skin cancer that was diagnosed last year.
I wouldn’t describe Roger as a close personal friend, but I had known him for more than 20 years. He had led the Business Roundtable since its inception in 1985, having come to it from a distinguished career with Treasury and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade.
I admired Roger for his formidable intellect and grasp of the big issues confronting New Zealand, but even more for his dogged perseverance and optimism in pursuing what he believed in. He was an articulate and persuasive champion of an open economy, free markets, smaller government, deregulation and individual freedom – causes that he pushed tirelessly despite vicious attacks from the Left and apathy from politicians for whom bold economic reform was just too hard.
He always seemed polite, upbeat and good-humoured. To his great credit, he never descended to personal abuse, although at times he must have been sorely tempted to respond in kind to the verbal assaults on his character. Perhaps he just developed a thick skin.
Roger persisted in giving politicians the message even when it was clear they didn’t want to listen. He gave them credit when they did the right thing but was always urging them to do more.
He kept up the pressure right till the end. His latest statement, stressing the need for more decisive action on the economy and government accounts, landed in my inbox on Wednesday, following Treasury’s issue of the pre-election economic and fiscal update.
Roger was often wilfully misrepresented by his opponents. He was characterised as a sinister, behind-the-scenes manipulator who sought favours for “big business”, but I don’t believe special treatment for business was part of his agenda. What he wanted was an economic and regulatory environment that would enable New Zealand to perform to its full potential, to the ultimate benefit of everyone. Above all else, he was a patriotic New Zealander.
My sympathy goes to his wife, Catherine Isaac, and to his family.
I wouldn’t describe Roger as a close personal friend, but I had known him for more than 20 years. He had led the Business Roundtable since its inception in 1985, having come to it from a distinguished career with Treasury and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade.
I admired Roger for his formidable intellect and grasp of the big issues confronting New Zealand, but even more for his dogged perseverance and optimism in pursuing what he believed in. He was an articulate and persuasive champion of an open economy, free markets, smaller government, deregulation and individual freedom – causes that he pushed tirelessly despite vicious attacks from the Left and apathy from politicians for whom bold economic reform was just too hard.
He always seemed polite, upbeat and good-humoured. To his great credit, he never descended to personal abuse, although at times he must have been sorely tempted to respond in kind to the verbal assaults on his character. Perhaps he just developed a thick skin.
Roger persisted in giving politicians the message even when it was clear they didn’t want to listen. He gave them credit when they did the right thing but was always urging them to do more.
He kept up the pressure right till the end. His latest statement, stressing the need for more decisive action on the economy and government accounts, landed in my inbox on Wednesday, following Treasury’s issue of the pre-election economic and fiscal update.
Roger was often wilfully misrepresented by his opponents. He was characterised as a sinister, behind-the-scenes manipulator who sought favours for “big business”, but I don’t believe special treatment for business was part of his agenda. What he wanted was an economic and regulatory environment that would enable New Zealand to perform to its full potential, to the ultimate benefit of everyone. Above all else, he was a patriotic New Zealander.
My sympathy goes to his wife, Catherine Isaac, and to his family.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
My cousin Brendan
(First published in the Nelson Mail and Manawatu Standard, October 26.)]
I was privileged last week to attend an unusual funeral in Nelson.
It was the funeral of a first cousin whom I barely knew. Brendan was born intellectually disabled and placed in care while still in in infancy. He was to remain in the care of the state all his life.
As was often the way then (this was 1953), his parents were advised that institutionalisation was the best course, both for him and for them.
Brendan was sent to the Braemar Home in Nelson. We can barely imagine the heartache this caused his parents, a warm and loving couple with one other child, an older daughter.
Letters that Brendan’s mother wrote to Braemar inquiring about his health and wellbeing give a small insight into the pain and grief she must have felt at giving up her baby son. Reading them today (they were kept on his file) is painful. But parents in those days were more inclined than they are now to defer to “expert” opinion. Doctors knew what was best.
In the wider family, Brendan was barely mentioned. It was normal in those days to draw a veil over such matters – not out of shame or fear of stigma, but more as a way of coping.
Attitudes were different two generations ago and it’s pointless, and I think unfair, to judge what happened then by today’s standards. People put heartbreaking events behind them and got on with life as best they could.
As it turned out, Brendan’s mental disability wasn’t severe compared with some, and, in hindsight, less limiting than his parents (who died many years ago) were led to believe. Today a child with his impairment would probably be raised at home and possibly even sent to a mainstream school.
Brendan grew up at Braemar and from the very start, it seems, was showered with love and affection by those caring for him. Although his communication skills were limited, people were drawn to him by his engaging, outgoing personality and obvious enjoyment of life.
In the 1980s the government adopted a controversial policy of de-institutionalisation which resulted in Brendan being moved from Braemar into the community. This meant living with other intellectually disabled people and caregivers in an ordinary suburban house.
The benefits of de-institutionalisation are still being vigorously debated today. It’s fair to say that the policy worked well for some but not for everyone.
In the case of mentally ill people, as opposed to the intellectually disabled, it often had adverse consequences. But Brendan seems to have thrived in the new environment.
The many photos displayed at his funeral were evidence of a full and active life. He enjoyed trips to the North Island, accompanied by a caregiver, to visit his sister and a much-loved aunty who took a close interest in him and encouraged his love of music.
When the plane touched down on these trips, a delighted Brendan would thrust his arms aloft in the thumbs-up signal and loudly call out “Good one!”, much to the amusement of his fellow passengers.
He was taken on a two-day kayaking trip in the Abel Tasman National Park. He took a flight in a light plane and drove a go-kart and dodgem cars (his caregivers drew the line, though, at bungee-jumping).
He loved Maori culture and the haka, which he pronounced “ha-ha”. One photo showed him proudly posing with a grass-skirted Maori entertainer in Rotorua. Brendan’s principal caregiver for more than 20 years, a cheerful, no-nonsense nurse named Lyn, joked that he had such an affinity for Maoridom that people wondered whether there was Maori blood somewhere in the family (er, not to the best of my knowledge).
Brendan’s physical state deteriorated in recent months and he was moved from the home where he had lived for several years to another that provided a higher level of care. He developed pneumonia and died peacefully on a Sunday morning, not in a frightening and unfamiliar hospital ward but in his own room, surrounded by people and things he knew. He was 58.
As I said at the start of this column, I barely knew Brendan. I now wish I’d known him better.
I went to the funeral with my sister not knowing quite what to expect, but it was a joyous occasion. Rain was forecast but never eventuated, so we gathered in the bright Nelson sunshine on the deck of the spacious, modern home in Richmond where he spent his last weeks.
Brendan’s caregivers, present and former, turned out in numbers, as did his fellow residents (or clients, as they’re called these days). There was a lot of laughter – they’re a jovial bunch, these caregivers – and a few tears.
The stories told about Brendan portrayed a man who, for all his disadvantages, led a full and happy life. He certainly deserved to be more than a dark family secret, as was once the fate of such people.
For me, it was something of a revelation to learn of the warmth and devotion that surrounded Brendan in death and in life.
Most of us think that looking after the intellectually disabled must be a particularly thankless field of health care, but there was no mistaking the love and dedication of the staff who gathered to farewell my cousin, or the reward they got in return. I was told that Lyn had postponed retirement several times so she could continue caring for him.
Another nurse told me Brendan would rush up and cuddle her when she turned up at work each day. “What other job is there,” she asked me, “where you’re greeted with a hug every morning?”
Some of Brendan’s fellow residents are immobile and incapable of communicating or doing anything for themselves. It takes a particular type of person to do this work: someone possessed of infinite patience and able to see that inside the helpless body and contorted face, there’s a human being who deserves love, attention and affection.
Very few of us are equal to this challenge, yet society’s ability to care for those totally dependent on others is a fundamental measure of our humanity. We are collectively in the debt of these largely unsung heroines and heroes.
I was privileged last week to attend an unusual funeral in Nelson.
It was the funeral of a first cousin whom I barely knew. Brendan was born intellectually disabled and placed in care while still in in infancy. He was to remain in the care of the state all his life.
As was often the way then (this was 1953), his parents were advised that institutionalisation was the best course, both for him and for them.
Brendan was sent to the Braemar Home in Nelson. We can barely imagine the heartache this caused his parents, a warm and loving couple with one other child, an older daughter.
Letters that Brendan’s mother wrote to Braemar inquiring about his health and wellbeing give a small insight into the pain and grief she must have felt at giving up her baby son. Reading them today (they were kept on his file) is painful. But parents in those days were more inclined than they are now to defer to “expert” opinion. Doctors knew what was best.
In the wider family, Brendan was barely mentioned. It was normal in those days to draw a veil over such matters – not out of shame or fear of stigma, but more as a way of coping.
Attitudes were different two generations ago and it’s pointless, and I think unfair, to judge what happened then by today’s standards. People put heartbreaking events behind them and got on with life as best they could.
As it turned out, Brendan’s mental disability wasn’t severe compared with some, and, in hindsight, less limiting than his parents (who died many years ago) were led to believe. Today a child with his impairment would probably be raised at home and possibly even sent to a mainstream school.
Brendan grew up at Braemar and from the very start, it seems, was showered with love and affection by those caring for him. Although his communication skills were limited, people were drawn to him by his engaging, outgoing personality and obvious enjoyment of life.
In the 1980s the government adopted a controversial policy of de-institutionalisation which resulted in Brendan being moved from Braemar into the community. This meant living with other intellectually disabled people and caregivers in an ordinary suburban house.
The benefits of de-institutionalisation are still being vigorously debated today. It’s fair to say that the policy worked well for some but not for everyone.
In the case of mentally ill people, as opposed to the intellectually disabled, it often had adverse consequences. But Brendan seems to have thrived in the new environment.
The many photos displayed at his funeral were evidence of a full and active life. He enjoyed trips to the North Island, accompanied by a caregiver, to visit his sister and a much-loved aunty who took a close interest in him and encouraged his love of music.
When the plane touched down on these trips, a delighted Brendan would thrust his arms aloft in the thumbs-up signal and loudly call out “Good one!”, much to the amusement of his fellow passengers.
He was taken on a two-day kayaking trip in the Abel Tasman National Park. He took a flight in a light plane and drove a go-kart and dodgem cars (his caregivers drew the line, though, at bungee-jumping).
He loved Maori culture and the haka, which he pronounced “ha-ha”. One photo showed him proudly posing with a grass-skirted Maori entertainer in Rotorua. Brendan’s principal caregiver for more than 20 years, a cheerful, no-nonsense nurse named Lyn, joked that he had such an affinity for Maoridom that people wondered whether there was Maori blood somewhere in the family (er, not to the best of my knowledge).
Brendan’s physical state deteriorated in recent months and he was moved from the home where he had lived for several years to another that provided a higher level of care. He developed pneumonia and died peacefully on a Sunday morning, not in a frightening and unfamiliar hospital ward but in his own room, surrounded by people and things he knew. He was 58.
As I said at the start of this column, I barely knew Brendan. I now wish I’d known him better.
I went to the funeral with my sister not knowing quite what to expect, but it was a joyous occasion. Rain was forecast but never eventuated, so we gathered in the bright Nelson sunshine on the deck of the spacious, modern home in Richmond where he spent his last weeks.
Brendan’s caregivers, present and former, turned out in numbers, as did his fellow residents (or clients, as they’re called these days). There was a lot of laughter – they’re a jovial bunch, these caregivers – and a few tears.
The stories told about Brendan portrayed a man who, for all his disadvantages, led a full and happy life. He certainly deserved to be more than a dark family secret, as was once the fate of such people.
For me, it was something of a revelation to learn of the warmth and devotion that surrounded Brendan in death and in life.
Most of us think that looking after the intellectually disabled must be a particularly thankless field of health care, but there was no mistaking the love and dedication of the staff who gathered to farewell my cousin, or the reward they got in return. I was told that Lyn had postponed retirement several times so she could continue caring for him.
Another nurse told me Brendan would rush up and cuddle her when she turned up at work each day. “What other job is there,” she asked me, “where you’re greeted with a hug every morning?”
Some of Brendan’s fellow residents are immobile and incapable of communicating or doing anything for themselves. It takes a particular type of person to do this work: someone possessed of infinite patience and able to see that inside the helpless body and contorted face, there’s a human being who deserves love, attention and affection.
Very few of us are equal to this challenge, yet society’s ability to care for those totally dependent on others is a fundamental measure of our humanity. We are collectively in the debt of these largely unsung heroines and heroes.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
A field day for kibitzers
(First published in the Curmudgeon column, The Dominion Post, October 25.)
KIBITZER is a wonderful Yiddish word for which there’s no precise equivalent in English. It means someone who stands around giving unwanted advice.
Kibitzers, usually men of a certain age, have had the time of their lives since the container ship Rena hit the rocks. Tune into any talkback show and you’ll hear them expounding on all the things the authorities have done wrong and how, with a pair of tin snips, a garden hose and a roll of duct tape, they could have had the containers offloaded, the oil pumped out and the ship safely refloated within 24 hours. If only someone had asked them.
Listening to talkback radio, I am agog at the depth of engineering knowledge – salvage expertise too, it seems – acquired by Kiwi blokes who have spent a lifetime changing the oil in Mark II Cortinas, sharpening the blades on the Masport and clearing blockages under the kitchen sink. I mean, who would have thought?
Speaking of the Rena, I worry for Britain because it seems we’ve pinched all their experts on maritime safety and salvage operations. As was also noticeable in the aftermath of the Christchurch earthquakes, a striking number of the officials who appear on the TV news each night to update us on developments speak with British accents.
There was a time in New Zealand when virtually every union spokesman had an accent that identified them as English or Scottish. Nothing puzzling about that; they were simply carrying on the class war. But can anyone explain why so many British immigrants end up working for regulatory authorities?
* * *
I WAS SHOCKED last week by the cost of a return air fare between Wellington and Nelson, particularly when compared with a recent international flight. So I did some sums.
Wellington-Los Angeles return via Auckland is a round trip of roughly 22,000 kilometres. Cost flying Air New Zealand: about $2400.
Wellington-Nelson return is a round trip of about 264 kilometres. Cost flying Air New Zealand: $361.
I’m no Einstein, but I calculate that flying to LA (with meals and drinks provided) costs slightly more than 10 cents per kilometre while the cost of flying to Nelson (with a complimentary drink of water) is $1.36 cents per km, or nearly 14 times as much.
You can’t help but feel the national carrier is taking advantage of its virtual monopoly on some provincial routes, particularly when a friend tells me he booked a return flight on Air New Zealand from Wellington to Queenstown for less than $160. The difference? Competition.
Oh, and I paid $27 for nine hours’ parking at Wellington Airport when you can get all-day parking for $12 in the CBD. But no one ever pretended that capitalism is perfect.
* * *
IN A RECENT column I complained that making a one-off donation to a charity invites a barrage of unwanted mail for years thereafter. The assumption is that having given once, you’re fair game.
More recently I’ve been reminded of another fundraising technique that’s even more intrusive. This happens when you respond to a telephone charity appeal and then get phoned annually by someone asking if you’ll be repeating your donation.
The expectation seems to be that you’ll comply. I object to this because it puts people on the spot in a way that a letter doesn’t. Many New Zealanders are too meek and polite to say “no” to someone soliciting donations on the phone.
Old-fashioned door-to-door salesmen knew that the key to making a sale was to get inside the house. Most householders – usually women at home alone – were then psychologically vulnerable because they thought the only way to get rid of the intruder without any unpleasantness was by making a purchase.
Telephone appeals use essentially the same technique. Once they’ve got you on the phone there’s nowhere to run.
Worse still, some charities follow up the phone call with what they call an “invoice”, which implies a legal obligation to pay. I accept that raising funds is a challenge in a market crowded with hundreds of deserving charities, but this is getting perilously close to a hard sell.
* * *
A MOMENT’S silence, please, while we mourn the loss of another good word.
“Passion” was once used mainly to describe a particularly ardent form of love. But like so many other words, its piquancy has been eroded by misuse.
“Passion” these days is something sports writers ascribe to sports teams. In future, no writer will be able to use the word without conjuring up images of Brad Thorn.
It’s just one of a grab-bag of New Age, psychobabble cliches that are now applied to sport. We constantly hear about teams possessing self-belief, having their character tested, being on a journey, wanting to express themselves and - perhaps worst of all - “living the dream”.
Good grief. I bet Colin Meads never talked like that.
KIBITZER is a wonderful Yiddish word for which there’s no precise equivalent in English. It means someone who stands around giving unwanted advice.
Kibitzers, usually men of a certain age, have had the time of their lives since the container ship Rena hit the rocks. Tune into any talkback show and you’ll hear them expounding on all the things the authorities have done wrong and how, with a pair of tin snips, a garden hose and a roll of duct tape, they could have had the containers offloaded, the oil pumped out and the ship safely refloated within 24 hours. If only someone had asked them.
Listening to talkback radio, I am agog at the depth of engineering knowledge – salvage expertise too, it seems – acquired by Kiwi blokes who have spent a lifetime changing the oil in Mark II Cortinas, sharpening the blades on the Masport and clearing blockages under the kitchen sink. I mean, who would have thought?
Speaking of the Rena, I worry for Britain because it seems we’ve pinched all their experts on maritime safety and salvage operations. As was also noticeable in the aftermath of the Christchurch earthquakes, a striking number of the officials who appear on the TV news each night to update us on developments speak with British accents.
There was a time in New Zealand when virtually every union spokesman had an accent that identified them as English or Scottish. Nothing puzzling about that; they were simply carrying on the class war. But can anyone explain why so many British immigrants end up working for regulatory authorities?
* * *
I WAS SHOCKED last week by the cost of a return air fare between Wellington and Nelson, particularly when compared with a recent international flight. So I did some sums.
Wellington-Los Angeles return via Auckland is a round trip of roughly 22,000 kilometres. Cost flying Air New Zealand: about $2400.
Wellington-Nelson return is a round trip of about 264 kilometres. Cost flying Air New Zealand: $361.
I’m no Einstein, but I calculate that flying to LA (with meals and drinks provided) costs slightly more than 10 cents per kilometre while the cost of flying to Nelson (with a complimentary drink of water) is $1.36 cents per km, or nearly 14 times as much.
You can’t help but feel the national carrier is taking advantage of its virtual monopoly on some provincial routes, particularly when a friend tells me he booked a return flight on Air New Zealand from Wellington to Queenstown for less than $160. The difference? Competition.
Oh, and I paid $27 for nine hours’ parking at Wellington Airport when you can get all-day parking for $12 in the CBD. But no one ever pretended that capitalism is perfect.
* * *
IN A RECENT column I complained that making a one-off donation to a charity invites a barrage of unwanted mail for years thereafter. The assumption is that having given once, you’re fair game.
More recently I’ve been reminded of another fundraising technique that’s even more intrusive. This happens when you respond to a telephone charity appeal and then get phoned annually by someone asking if you’ll be repeating your donation.
The expectation seems to be that you’ll comply. I object to this because it puts people on the spot in a way that a letter doesn’t. Many New Zealanders are too meek and polite to say “no” to someone soliciting donations on the phone.
Old-fashioned door-to-door salesmen knew that the key to making a sale was to get inside the house. Most householders – usually women at home alone – were then psychologically vulnerable because they thought the only way to get rid of the intruder without any unpleasantness was by making a purchase.
Telephone appeals use essentially the same technique. Once they’ve got you on the phone there’s nowhere to run.
Worse still, some charities follow up the phone call with what they call an “invoice”, which implies a legal obligation to pay. I accept that raising funds is a challenge in a market crowded with hundreds of deserving charities, but this is getting perilously close to a hard sell.
* * *
A MOMENT’S silence, please, while we mourn the loss of another good word.
“Passion” was once used mainly to describe a particularly ardent form of love. But like so many other words, its piquancy has been eroded by misuse.
“Passion” these days is something sports writers ascribe to sports teams. In future, no writer will be able to use the word without conjuring up images of Brad Thorn.
It’s just one of a grab-bag of New Age, psychobabble cliches that are now applied to sport. We constantly hear about teams possessing self-belief, having their character tested, being on a journey, wanting to express themselves and - perhaps worst of all - “living the dream”.
Good grief. I bet Colin Meads never talked like that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)