One of New Zealand’s preeminent social documentary photographers, Quinn’s moving visual studies shot over 20 years have provided a view of New Zealand in cross-section, offering insights into the nature of our familiar yet diverse and multi-layered society. His new book, published by New Zealand Geographic, is a selection of the best.
Ripples in the force
Man versus eel
Professor Sir Peter Gluckman is tired and thankful for a cuppa—“I could take that intravenously”—when we meet at the Liggins Institute in Auckland.
They're speaking our language where?
Wealth and welfare
Under the mellow surface, there remains a flinty core to canoeist Ian Ferguson—“Ferg”—the nation’s most successful Olympian.
Neil Campbell, auctioneer, writer, art promoter, avid motorcyclist and one-time legal counsel, seems to possess just one mode—full-on enthusiasm.
Tickled pink
Quintessential New Zealand
Land— stuff to be owned, tilled, trusted. Sea—frightening and inconsistent, a realm to be plundered but never tamed. Issue 102 seems to bear out these prejudices. On January 20, Shaun Quincey rowed out from Coff’s Harbour in New South Wales and into the Tasman Sea, a body of water which his father, Colin, had first rowed solo in 1977. But despite great advances in navigation and forecasting between these attempts, any blue-water voyage is a journey into the unknown. Quincey encountered a storm front within days and was buffeted and beaten, almost into submission. “Honestly, if Dad hadn’t already rowed this, I wouldn’t have thought it was possible,” he says in this issue. Even as this magazine goes to print, Quincey is still out there, battling the odds and the weather, inching ever closer to his goal, stroke by stroke. For centuries, the sea has been considered a bottomless pit, a rich pantry for plunder on the one hand and a desolate void on the other. Either way, the beguiling reflections on the surface draw a veil over the goings-on beneath. New Zealand’s endemic jellyfish are a case in point. Writer Margo White and art director Andrew Caldwell worked closely with world-leading jellyfish taxonomist Lisa Gershwin to put together the feature in this issue. So little is known of our species that every other photograph submitted by contributors offered a surprise—jellyfish of forms not known to exist here, jellyfish with colorations not matching their scientific description, and jellyfish that were completely unidentifiable. But if the seas are a mystery, the land has been tamed, tortured even. In the feature on Canterbury, Matt Philp describes the mechanisation of the modern farm—robotic milking sheds, combine harvesters that increase productivity four-fold, and irrigators that can tend nearly a square kilometre at a time—a far cry from the early dairy farming described in the feature on the Taranaki pioneer Chew Chong. But progressive decisions made with the best of intentions today may not serve us well in the future. Dave Hans-ford looks back to the 1950s, when Pinus contorta seeds were dumped by the plane-load over the country to control erosion. Wilding pines are now spreading rapidly and conservation groups are devising increasingly sophisticated and daring methods to control them, including swinging from a 15 m chain beneath a screaming helicopter with a chainsaw between the legs. Talk about putting your life on the line—only Shaun Quincey may be able to empathise.
Young Muslims integrate best
From cheesecake to muesli
Saving those who can be saved and comforting those who cannot is all in a day’s work for St John paramedics.
Anton van Helden, Te Papa’s collection manager for marine mammals, extracted a pack of cards from his pocket and made one of those movements in which the cards seem to pour from one hand to the other.
The art of spying on birds
Flashes of dazzling colour and swishing grass skirts are the postcard portrait of an exotic South Seas paradise. But behind this romantic image lie traditions pre-dating the earliest European contact, and a calendar of festivals connecting Cook Islanders to their culture.
I knocked together a chicken coop in our backyard last weekend and populated it with three young pullets. With any luck they will grow to be prodigious layers,furnishing my small family with eggs, eating our kitchen scraps and fertilising our compost with their waste. And when they’re done, we’ll eat them. It’s an elegant symbiosis (with the fleeting exception of the coup de grâce) that brings our suburban life one step closer to self-sufficiency and sustainability. But it also brings us a step closer to the root of ills currently affecting the modern world. Domesticated animals are a reservoir for incubating and mutating influenza-A type viruses, and the avian and swine flus that course through intensively farmed populations can, from time to time, leap into humans. Every now and again those viruses can be transmitted between humans as is the case with the 2009 pandemic, and was not the case with the avian flu SARS. Such pandemics are symptomatic of high-density modern city life and living in close proximity to intensive agriculture that makes our urban habitat tenable. So it’s little surprise that the first major pandemic on planet Earth affected the most populated cities most acutely, and may even be partially responsible for the dawn of the modern world. The Black Plague came in the 14th century, killing up to 80 per cent of the population in the Italian cities of Florence, Rome and Sienna over four consecutive years, and a further 30–60 per cent of the population elsewhere in Europe. But the pandemic also destroyed feudal structures allowing more democratic participation in science, art and thought, a social upheaval which ultimately led to the Renaissance. And by no coincidence this enlightenment began at the point of greatest mortality, Florence. But as well as a portent of malady, viruses are also testament to the vigour of life. They are the simplest, most abundant and smallest forms of life, barely a 20,000th of a millimetre in size. And because of their short life-cycle and large numbers they are an example of evolution in overdrive—evolving in their modus operandi, constantly seeking new avenues, ducking barriers set to arrest them and surprising scientists with their virulence and capacity to adapt. By understanding this almost magical mutability scientists are better able to prepare for the worst, a transmissible zoonotic viral pandemic, like swine flu. Also in this issue Peter Quinn brings us a photographic documentary of Cook Islands’ festivals more than a year in the making, and Derek Grzelewski a dog’s tale of husky racing in the Pisa Range. Continuing south, Rod Rust traces the genesis of big-wave surfing on the frigid Southland coast, Brian Skerry frames a photographic portrait of the southern right whales in the Auckland Islands, and the Viewfinder spread captures midwinter at the South Pole. So enjoy these pages—a journey the length and breadth of New Zealand’s backyard, from the tiniest most virulent form of life to the largest and rarest.
Within minutes of entering a classroom, James Te Tuhi has captivated his young audience with tales of Pingao, how she was placed on the dunes by her father, Tangaroa, to nurture her whanau, the Toheroa. As the story unfolds, the Te Kopuru kaumatua reveals one of the mysteries of the toheroa’s life cycle: where and how the juveniles grow. “The spats roam in the water for up to 21 days, then get into the huka, or foam, when the tide is coming in, and Tawhiri Matua blows the huka into the sand dunes. And who’s there to catch it? Pingao!” He goes on to describe the way Pingao incubates the microscopic young before they catch a ride back to the water’s edge on spinafex flowerheads or the wind. The children are enchanted with the tale, as was Te Tuhi, when his grandmother first told it to him 70 years ago. Te Tuhi, a retired soldier and sought-after master carver, spends a lot of time passing on Maori lore and ecological wisdom to schoolchildren. This is largely through the Te Roopu Whaka Oranga O Te Taha Moana Trust, a voluntary group focused on replenishing stocks of toheroa (the endemic surf clam) alongside pingao, the golden sand sedge, on Northland’s coast. “They’re the future; they’re the ones who are going to have to look after our taonga,” he says. Independent of the trust, he has spent much of the past 30 years voluntarily planting pingao and spinafex along Ripiro Beach near Dargaville and translocating toheroa, with his colleague Barry Searle, along much of the west coast of the upper North Island. Their work has led to a steady increase in toheroa numbers. However, since the enactment of the Foreshore and Seabed Act in 2004, this conservation work has been put on hold. The traditional rights belonging to him as a kaitiaki, or guardian, aren’t legally recognised any more and Te Tuhi is waiting for the Ministry of Fisheries to grant him the authority to continue his efforts. “The numbers are dwindling, and meanwhile nothing is happening on the beach. Sometimes I get real hoha [exasperated].” As a young boy, Te Tuhi learned the lore of the coast from his grandmother, who lived at Ripiro Beach on hapu land that was also her mahinga kai, or food garden. “One of my jobs when I was a small fella was out at the beach fishing and learning about toheroa and the dunes from my grandmother. The grannies, the old ones, they had all the knowledge.” As well as his work with children, Te Tuhi has written a book in Maori about the toheroa, James Henare Te Tuhi: Te Kaitiaki Toheroa, which is used as a resource in schools alongside a book about his life and work. Te Tuhi is deservedly known as Te Kaitiaki Toheroa, the guardian of the toheroa. In 2003, he was granted an honorary master of applied science degree from the Auckland University of Technology, the same year he was awarded a Queen’s Service Medal for services to the community. Found nowhere else in the world, toheroa are among the most protected species in New Zealand. Ripiro Beach has traditionally been the most abundant source of toheroa in Northland, with local canneries in operation until 1969. Restrictions on recreational gathering have been in place since 1932 and the last open day for the beach was in 1980. Today, there is controlled customary take only, but poaching is rife. Te Tuhi’s recommendation for the conservation of toheroa is drawn from Maori custom, such as not eating toheroa that are too big. Excavation of middens in Northland shows that Maori traditionally left the bigger ones (over 100mm/4 inches) for breeding. “They have the biggest spat. It’s like a woman having a baby; the big babies have a better survival rate than the wee ones.” Consequently, to protect prime breeding stock, he would like to see customary take restricted to toheroa 70-90 mm long. Te Tuhi doesn’t believe we will see another open day on Ripiro Beach, a day hundreds of people would descend with sacks and spades to dig for this traditional delicacy. But he would like to think toheroa will still be around for future generations. “For me, toheroa is more than a shellfish; it’s a taonga, a treasure.”
We all swear, although some people swear they don’t. In one sense, swearing is benign, as in swearing on the Bible in court, or swearing by something you believe in, like a cure for warts. But we also swear in the more interesting and degenerate sense of using taboo words, of the sort we are urged not to utter in front of the kids. And kids, too, are often reprimanded or punished for using taboo words. The wonder is how they learned them in the first place. Perhaps they are spread by older siblings or adult moles, or by parents who simply can’t refrain even when the kids are around. Children anyway seem to have an instinctive reaction to overly moralising parents or teachers, and irresistibly seize the opportunity to shock. Being told one must never say a particular word creates an irrepressible desire to say it, just as being told that one must not think of a polka-dotted elephant makes it very hard not to create precisely that image in the mind. Surveys show that about two-thirds of swearing has to do with frustration, anger or surprise. As an aggressive weapon, swearing may serve as a substitute for physical assault. Studies have demonstrated that it is more common in those who rank low in social standing, in extroverts and in those with high levels of hostility, and less common in people who are agreeable, conscientious, religious or sexually anxious. Swearing can also be simply a kind of slang, often no more offensive than other cult words, such as “awesome” or “cool”. It may also be a badge of allegiance, especially among groups of men. Swearing seems to be deeply embedded in the brain. People who have lost the normal use of speech due to brain damage often retain the singular ability to utter profanities, and understandably may do so profusely. This suggests that swearing can be automatic and ungoverned. Another example comes from Tourette’s syndrome, an inherited neurological disorder characterised by involuntary swearing and cursing (coprolalia), along with tics, head jerking, spitting and yelping. Victims of the disorder are embarrassed by their profanities, but have no control over them. The earliest profanities are probably religious, prompted by strict teaching not to take the names of God or gods in vain. In an increasingly secular society, especially in the West, these taboos have largely lost their power to offend. Oaths like “Jesus!”, “Christ!”, or “God in heaven!” are now almost empty of shock value. In earlier times, religious profanities were often sanitised, as in “jeepers!”, “cripes!” or “gosh!”, but such terms have largely disappeared. In some cultures though, religious terms have retained the power to shock. In French Quebec, the most effective profanities still relate to the church and its liturgy, as in expletives such as “tabarnak!” (tabernacle) or “calice!” (chalice). “Merde!” is relatively mild. Nevertheless, religious doctrine may also underlie the taboos against terms relating to defecation and sexual function, but these too have lost much of their impact. Expressions like “bugger!”, “shit!”, “piss off!”, “bollocks!” or “cock-up” punctuate normal conversation without arousing much disapproval, except perhaps in some leafy avenues of genteel society. The F-word was once replaced by sanitised variants, such as “friggin’” or “feckin’”, but is now part of regular discourse and is widely heard on TV, often as a culinary accompaniment. The C-word is still largely taboo, perhaps due to a persisting sexual taboo mixed with the residues of old-time chivalry—and maybe a pinch of feminism. But change can be swift. In 1914, the phrase “Not bloody likely!” caused an uproar when uttered on an English stage, in 1956 the All Black Peter Jones shocked the nation by declaring himself “absolutely buggered!” on public radio, and in 1972 Germaine Greer was fined for saying “bullshit” in a speech in the Auckland Town Hall. Domains of disapproval have now largely shifted from the religious and scatological to the political, probably because we are controlled by lawmakers rather than religious authorities. The strongest taboos are against racial terms. The N-word, for example, is not heard on TV, but may surface in racist insults hurled by street gangs. Other defamatory terms for cultural and indigenous minorities have largely disappeared from everyday discourse, and retain a genuine power to offend. Taboo words will persist, if only because taboos themselves reflect necessary controls over human behaviour. Unchecked, we are an unruly species. But taboo words are also valuable in providing outlets for frustration that fall short of physical violence. A world without taboos, and taboo words, might be an altogether more dangerous place.
Loading..
3
$1 trial for two weeks, thereafter $8.50 every two months, cancel any time
Already a subscriber? Sign in
Signed in as . Sign out
Ask your librarian to subscribe to this service next year. Alternatively, use a home network and buy a digital subscription—just $1/week...
Subscribe to our free newsletter for news and prizes
