Public Address - Southerly (Home)

Of Men and Monotremes | Dec 22, 2006 07:50

"Well, there was this woman who worked with a friend of mine," I said. "And she was engaged to this bloke, and they were both Christians."

"And because of their Christianity they had decided -- as you do -- that there would be no hanky-panky before the wedding. Now for some reason this weighed on my friend's mind. In fact, she even expressed her concerns to the Christian workmate by saying: 'Wow, I don't know if I'd be too relaxed about getting married without knowing how he performed in the hanky-panky department'. But the Christian workmate replied: 'I know that God has chosen the perfect man for me, so I'm sure the hanky-panky will be a real knockout'.

"Anyway, the wedding was fast approaching, and already the happy couple's parents had paid for the venue. All the female friends and relations had bought new dresses, and the blokes had hired penguin suits. The church pastor had interviewed them both. It's even possible that the majority of the wedding presents had been wrapped.

"Neither the bride nor groom wanted a tacky bachelor party or hen night. So they decided to spend the weekend before the wedding at the hot springs in Hanmer with their close friends from church. I don't know why, but hot springs are a magnet for Christians -- they just can't get enough of them. Maybe it's because they don't expect to be particularly warm in the afterlife.

"The whole situation was extremely wholesome, of course, and there was no hanky-panky amongst anyone in the group. But naturally they had to wear swimming togs in the pool. And, as it happened, this was the first time that the happy couple had seen each other without full attire. And this was the moment when everything went to custard.

"It transpired that the groom had a certain amount of body hair. And it also transpired that the one thing the bride couldn't stand was body hair. Of course, it had never occurred to her that God would choose a guy with body hair to be her perfect bloke -- and naturally she was quite upset.

"So she called a crisis meeting among her women friends. And they suggested all sorts of solutions: 'He could shave', 'He could wax', 'He could have electrolysis'. But the bride wouldn't even consider it. 'It'll grow back," she said. 'Even with electrolysis.' And so, in the end, she actually called off the wedding. She totally ended the relationship. They never got married.

"And, I repeat, simply because of her fiancé's body hair."

I swigged down the last of my beer. "Makes you think, doesn't it?"

"The Lord moves in mysterious ways," said Michael from Bavaria. "But even so, I don't think you should give the English Writing Competition prize to Carl from Sydney. Maybe it's not so bad to be hairless, but he had chronic sweating as well. You can't give the prize to someone like that -- it would be disgusting."

I had agreed to meet Michael for a quick beer at the Twisted Hop to discuss his entry. He rapidly pinned me down with a remorseless line of argumentation. The logic being roughly as follows:

1. Michael should win.
2. His prize should take the form of alcohol.
3. The prize should be awarded right now.

I had explained that I could only stay for an hour because I had a blog to write. But as the delicious pints of Challenger Ale slipped down, the evening seemed to speed past on fast-forward. At one point a chap drove his Landrover SIIA up onto the footpath. He tooted his horn, and one of the barmaids handed him a pint of beer.

"That never happened when I drove a Landrover," said Michael.

"Me neither," I said. "And I owned a Landrover for thirteen years. But even if I had been handed a pint every time I tooted the horn it wouldn't have been worth it. I had to spend half my life fixing the thing."

"Me too," agreed Michael. "I'd never buy another one."

I staggered off to visit the lavatory. Two blokes were standing at the urinals having one of those standing-pissed-at-the-urinals-having-a-piss conversations.

"Now take your monotremes, for example," the first bloke was saying. "You've got your platypus."

"You've got your Short-beaked Echidna," said his friend.

"You've got your Western Long-beaked Echidna..." continued the first guy.

Back at the table, Michael had procured our fifth pint. The bloke in the Landrover was sitting with his feet on the bonnet smoking a massive pipe -- the stem alone must have been half a metre long. When he'd finished the pipe, he tooted his horn again, and a beautiful woman emerged from the pub. She climbed into the Landrover beside him.

"She's probably Dutch," said Michael. "Dutch women are very uninhibited. You know, I would buy another Landrover."

"I'd buy one in a heartbeat," I said.

We watched a fight in front of the pub between the barman and a drunk. It occurred to me that my hour of drinking might be up. I looked at my watch. More than six hours had elapsed. It was time to go home.

Michael wobbled off on his bicycle -- while I tried to flag down a taxi. It was nearly two in the morning before I sat in front of my computer, and began to read through the entries in the English Writing Competition. Perhaps it was the evening of beer drinking, but I thought that all of the submissions were excellent. It seemed to me, however, that three writers showed exceptional talent.

The first finalist is Moira from Glasgow, who produced this minor masterpiece:

Last Rites

The rituals surrounding an English funeral are as old as England herself.

"It is time to place Klaus in the special burial deckchair," said Mr. Brown. "Following our age-old custom, his footwear must be removed and his trouser legs rolled up to the knee. On his head we must place a white handkerchief. A knot on each corner of the handkerchief will represent the four great Englishpersons of history -- Walter Raleigh, Lord Nelson, Shakespeare, and Princess Diana."

"Lastly we must place a newspaper over his face," said Nanny.

"Yes," said Miss Brown. "Because Klaus was an Englishman it shall be The Sun -- opened at Page 3."

After three days it was time for the burial. Everyone at the funeral displayed the famous English stiff upper lip

During the ceremony the Brown family were given bloater paste sandwiches and boiled ham to eat. "This is the only food allowed at an English funeral," explained the vicar. "This rule cannot be bent."

Very subtle humour, and -- may I say -- nice to see Princess Diana assume her rightful place in history. Alas, however, there is no such subtlety in the second finalist, a last-minute re-entry from Carl of Sydney:

The End of the Browns at the End of the World

Englishmen often take their holidays in the British colonies. "Welcome to Australia," said the immigration officer. "Your luggage has been stolen."

"This is good," said Mr. Brown. "As an Englishman I know that all Australians are criminals -- so this confirms my ignorant prejudices."

Later that day the Brown family visited the outback. Nanny cooked a barbeque while the rest of the family went swimming.

"Goodness! We have experienced the real Australia today," said Nanny, when she returned. "Miss Brown was poisoned by a box jellyfish, and Gretchen was poisoned by a funnel web spider. I tried to call the hospital but my handy had been stolen. Then, while I was burying their corpses, I was bitten by a serpent. Now I am waiting for the toxins to reach my heart."

"I have been stung by a platypus," said Mr. Brown. "In my English ignorance I had not realized that monotremes are venomous."

"Oh look, a crocodile!" said Nanny.

Funny how you hear a word for the first time, and then just a short while later you hear it again. Luckily, for all the platypus fans out there, I can reveal that monotreme venom is not actually fatal. Well done, Carl. Underneath your hairless and sweat-soaked skin lies considerable talent.

The last finalist is Listener and Avenues art critic Andrew from Christchurch:

The Browns Visit the Country

One Sunday the Browns drove to the country after church.

"This is a very pretty village," said Mr Brown, "but not nearly as pretty and well organised as those in Bavaria."

"Yes," agreed Nanny, and then she died because someone shot her. The English are prone to criminality.

"Oh dear," said Mr Brown, "this is a rum do, what?"

There is no police presence in the English countryside, and all rural crime must be solved by elderly spinster women or lesbian gardeners on television. They have a Landrover.

"I wish we had a BMW or a Mercedes Benz, or some other excellent product of German engineering," said the lesbians.

"It was Klaus," said Miss von Marplestein and the two lesbian gardeners.

"Tickety boo," said Mr Brown. "I will now marry Miss von Marplestein because the gardeners are both lesbians and do not like Englishmen. Please now cook me some eggs."

Nanny was displayed in the garden.

Andrew has produced an evocative and moving tribute to English country life. And, incidentally, he should be given full marks for including a subtle allusion to Jake "Cook the Man Some F**king Eggs" Heke. I also suspect that Andrew's lesbian gardeners will greatly enhance Public Address's search engine hits.

And now the winner...

It transpires that I'm terrible at assessing the nuances of quality, and so it seems to me that this can only be judged a three-way tie. On this basis I'd like to declare all three finalists as joint winners of Southerly's inaugural English Writing Competition. Congratulations to you all! I'll be in contact soon to arrange delivery of the prizes.

Furthermore, in the interests of fairness, I shall also award a prize to Morris from Vienna whose superb work was featured in last week's post. Michael from Bavaria's consolation prize (which took the form of beer) has already been awarded.

I had meant to spend my last post of the year doing something of a post-mortem on my first few months at Public Address. But it's getting very late (or very early), and my bed is beckoning irresistibly. So I'd just quickly like to thank all the Public Address readers who have written to me this year -- I really appreciate that you took the time to send me your thoughts.

I'd also like to thank the other Public Address contributors for their helpful suggestions and reassuring words. I'm extremely grateful for the opportunity to step into Che Tibby's big shoes. I realize that I haven't quite managed to fill them yet -- but I'm working on it.

And on that final note: goodnight and Merry Christmas. See you next year.

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And Now... Letters from Our Readers | Dec 15, 2006 10:28

Anyone who has ever been the dictator of a small country will be familiar with the exhilaration which comes from having absolute power.

In particular, it must be a terrific thrill to enact whim-based legislation. Former FPP cabinet minister (and Dominion Post columnist) Michael Bassett is reputed to have restructured the daylight-savings calendar simply on the basis of his preferred bedtime. If I were the Minister of Internal Affairs I would pass a law requiring the devious Dr Bassett to strip naked, put an apple in his mouth, and lie in the middle of a platter at the parliamentary Christmas lunch. I'd just be interested to see if anyone would notice. Isn't it wonderful how we all have different whims?

Alas, I shall probably never run the country, or have the opportunity to put this sort of sensible policy into practice -- but I have experienced the next best thing. My career as a university lecturer was short-lived but action-packed. The Head of Department appointed me with the (possibly unwise) words: "You have complete control". Mussolini can have felt no less entranced when Victor Emmanuel III granted him rule over Italy.

As I discovered, complete control will turn even the most boring administrative chore into a delight. One of my first tasks was to arrange the tutorials for the course. My predecessor did this by splitting the students into alphabetical groups according to their surnames -- an approach that struck me as completely crazy. I implemented an entirely new system which arranged students into different themes.

One tutorial group (including the tutor) was composed entirely of people called Andrew. Another contained only Matthews, Marks, Lukes, and Johns. A third group consisted solely of students with names like Moon Unit and Kimp Jangle. This led to the fascinating revelation that people with funny names find humour in other people's funny names. The tutor for this group -- a pleasant fellow called Creon -- visited my office after his first class. "You know," he said, "the strangest thing happened when I called the roll in my tutorial this morning..."

My pièce de résistance was a sociological experiment in which I put the five highest-GPA women into a tutorial group with the five lowest-GPA blokes. Could love triumph over the barrier of differing academic ability? Not really -- as it turned out. Four out of five of the low-GPA blokes never turned up. However the remaining chap attended every single tutorial, and eventually passed with flying colours. He took the trouble to shake my hand after the final lecture, and enthusiastically told me that it was the best university course he'd ever done. "Especially the tutorials," he added.

This is the kind of comment that swells the heart of any dictator -- knowing that his or her efforts to make the trains run on time have been truly appreciated. In a similar vein, I am always delighted to receive feedback from Southerly readers. Last week I announced the new English Writing Competition, and there has been a veritable tidal wave of responses. Although, admittedly, none of them are in strict compliance with the rules of the competition.

Despite this shortcoming, all three entries border on genius. Take this example from Morris in Vienna:

Danke to das Englisch lernen mit den Browns, mein Englisch ist fucken good geworden in just einen kleinen Zeit. Schit, sage ich zu meinself -- es ist nicht nur akademik, ich kann talken mit dem Slob in der Strasse. "Ow's yer Vater, y'alt cobber bastard?" ich say, alt chap. Herr Brown ist ein Kolourvoller Bloke und ein properer Englischer Tschentelmann. Tschermans are nicht Tschentelmann, wir buyen das Bier von vending Maschinen bei der Autobahn, nicht von quaint Seeseit Cafes unter der Menu heading "Englisher Traditioneller Supper." Es macht me want Englisch zu be, und therefore habe ich meine teeth since 10 Months nicht gekleaned. Now kenne ich der Reason, Alles the same tastes fuer den Englischmann. Well, ich had better geh collect mein Frau von den front Garten, wo sie has been fuer drei days. Sie ist nicht well. Herr Brown understands Frauen very good -- Er insperiert mich home zu kommen und shout "Geschlectsrollendifferenzierung, Du alte Bat!" und "Dreikugelwirbelwannenbrennraum!". Sincerely, Morris von der Vogelweide.

Morris's entry is unquestionably a linguistic masterpiece. It made me wonder if he might be a descendent of the famous medieval Austrian poet Walter von der Vogelweide. Although perhaps I could suggest a couple of slight corrections to his English prose, as follows:

Thanks to 'Learning English with the Browns' my English has become extremely good in just a short time. Goodness, I say to myself -- it's not just academic, but I can also talk to the average man in the street. "How's your father, my good friend, old chap?" I say. Mr. Brown is a colourful bloke and a proper English gentleman. Germans are not gentleman. We buy beer from vending machines by the motorway, not from quaint seaside cafés under the menu heading "Traditional English Supper". It makes me want to be English, and therefore I haven't cleaned my teeth for 10 months. Now I know the reason that everything tastes the same to Englishmen. Well, I had better go and collect my wife from the front garden, where she has been for three days. She has not been healthy [ever since her poisoning]. Mr. Brown understand women very well. He inspires me to come home and shout "Gender role differentiation, you old bat!" and "Triple hemispheric combustion chamber!"*. Sincerely, Morris von der Vogelweide.

Morris includes a helpful postscript giving the delivery address for his prize. However I note that for all his assertions about "we" Germans -- Morris is, in fact, Austrian. Could this be a bit of gentle Austria vs. Germany humour?

An authentic German sends in the next entry. Michael from Pfraundorf, Bavaria writes:

I have lived in a more-or-less English-speaking country (New Zealand) for seven years without knowing a word of the language. So I was completely isolated from society prior to reading 'Learning English with the Browns'. In just a few quick minutes your English programme has transformed my life! Now I am completely fluent, and have even been asked to serve on a jury!

My improved English skills have meant that I can now understand New Zealand television for the first time. In fact, when I phoned to complain about the quality they offered me a job as a newsreader. Yes, that's just how good my English has become!

I'm really looking forward to becoming a local media celebrity. In the meantime I have already read Struwwelpeter. May I have some form of alcohol as my prize instead? Servus, Michael.

Michael's moving account of the struggle to overcome his language demons really brought a lump to my throat. But his story is small fry compared to that of Carl from Sydney, who confides:

Before reading 'Learning English with the Browns' I had never found success with ladies. Sometimes I wondered if I would die a virgin.

But now I have found success with literally thousands of attractive women -- and am getting paid big $$$. My new boss has even complimented me on my weight, and constantly tells me I have an intellectual forehead.

'Learning English with the Browns' has a positive influence on my life in so many ways. I no longer fantasize about having plastic surgery, and I'm feeling so confident in myself. My over-eating problems have disappeared as well as my chronic 'sweats'. I even think some of my hair is beginning to grow back.

I heartily recommend this English language programme to anyone who wants to earn $$$ or have meet with attractive ladies. Thank you Southerly for changing my life! Will posting the prize to Sydney be a problem?

Jesus wept! I hardly know who is more deserving of a prize -- Carl or the thousands of attractive ladies who have had to endure his hairless sweating body. But after careful consideration I am doubtful that I can award him a prize, or any of the other entries so far. Despite their genuine brilliance they simply don't conform to the rules. And I must have conformity! There shall be no exceptions!

Just a quick reminder about the competition details:

• Write your own final chapter to Learning English with the Browns and submit it here.
• Entries should be around 150 words in length.
• Entries should be submitted by Wednesday, 20 December 2006.
• The winning entry (and selected finalists) will be published on Public Address on Friday, 22nd December 2006.
• First prize is this magnificent book (delivered anywhere in the world).

Don't force me to give the prize to Carl -- a man who has already been amply rewarded by attractive ladies and big $$$. Submit your own literary masterpiece now.

*There is a slight possibility that I have translated this word incorrectly.

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Learning English with the Browns -- The Final Chapter | Dec 07, 2006 08:38

Play the audio for this post MP3, 1.5 MB

Each week we improve our English by learning about the Brown family of England. Over the past year our language skills have improved, and we have learnt much about the culture and mentality of the English-speaking people.

This final part of the series contains five lessons. Take your time and read carefully through each exercise. By the end of the lessons you should be able to host your own English-language television series, or even write a Booker prize-winning novel!

XLVI. Mr. Brown Goes to Court

In England, you are allowed to smoke in the cinema. "Today we shall all go to the cinema," said Mr. Brown.

The Brown family took an omnibus into town. Every Englishman likes to eat fish and chips when he visits the cinema. "Five kilograms of fish and chips, please," said Mr. Brown. "Do you like fish and chips?"

"Yes, I am an Englishman," replied the cinema attendant.

"I too am an Englishman," said Mr. Brown, "but I do not wish to buy fish and chips for Klaus, my daughter's boyfriend."

"Klaus shall buy his own fish and chips," said Gretchen.

Inside the cinema, everyone had a cigarette. Later that afternoon, Mr. Brown went to court.

In England, they do not have a judge. Twelve Englishman decide whether a criminal is innocent or guilty. This is called the jury system. Blind people are not allowed in court. "Mr. Hans Brown is innocent," said the foreman of the jury.

"Now I am free to marry Nanny," said Mr. Brown.

Above: Blind people are not allowed in an English court.

XLVII. A Visit to Buckingham Palace

In England, married couples must sleep in separate bedrooms. "I am now the new Mrs. Brown," said Nanny happily.

"Let us have maypole-dancing," announced Mr. Brown, "as is our usual English custom after a wedding."

"Sexual education is forbidden in British schools," said Nanny as she danced. "Therefore I believe that maypole dancing will bring me children. How ignorant we Englishmen are!"

After the dancing, the Brown family went to visit the Queen at Buckingham Palace.

"In England, we have the class system," said the tour guide. "If you are a king or a queen you are required to marry from the upper (or bottom) class. Englishmen of this class do not like women, therefore the English queen must marry a German like King Albert."

"Was King Albert clever and handsome?" asked Gretchen.

"Yes, and he also produced many offspring," said the tour guide. "He is our greatest monarch. All English people agree on this."

Above: Upper-class Englishmen do not enjoy women.

XLVIII. At Public House

One evening, Klaus took Mr. Brown for a drink at Public House. "Let us sing a rousing drink-song," said Klaus.

"In England we do not sing drink-songs," said Mr. Brown severely. "We Englishmen must play wearisome games such as dominoes, shove-ha'penny, or darts."

"This is correct," said Klaus. "As an Englishman I have known this since childhood."

"In England," said Mr. Brown, "many young boys find employment as chimney-sweeps. If they are orphans they must sleep in a coffin. Every Christmas I send them an orange."

"When I go to the circus I amuse myself by throwing coconuts at a stick," said the barman.

"Yes," said Mr. Brown. "The English mentality is very strange. We permit chicken-fighting, and yet we love all animals. Every Christmas I shoot a fox for dinner."

"Perhaps, after we are drunk, we may address each other by the intimate 'you'," suggested Klaus.

Above: A typical English family prepare for Christmas dinner.

XLIX. At the Doctor

In England, you may visit the dentist for free. "The dentist has drilled holes in my teeth, and filled them with molten lead," said Gretchen.

"This is the way we Englishmen prefer to have our teeth," said Nanny. "When you are older they will fall out, and you shall have false teeth instead."

"Now I must go to the doctor," said Gretchen, "because the dentist's poor hygiene has given me a disease."

In the doctor's waiting area, Gretchen and Nanny sat next to a retarded-looking man.

"Is this person a tramp?" Nanny asked the nurse.

"He is an Englishman from New Zealand," said the nurse. "His back is very painful."

"Despite my urgent condition I shall let him go before me," decided Gretchen. "He is very brave to suffer such a serious condition without complaint."

"Yes, he is the bravest patient we have ever had," said the nurse.

Above: English teeth.

L. At the Seaside

At summer the Brown family took an omnibus to the seaside. "You shall play in the rain all holidays," said Nanny to the children.

"I shall drink beer for supper," said Mr. Brown. "This is a typical English seaside meal."

"In England," said Miss Brown, "it is permissible to build sandcastles taller than 30 centimetres."

"Yes, how disorganized we are," said Gretchen. "Our fellow Englishmen will ruin the beach by building sandcastles of an anti-social size."

"We should move to a properly-organized country like Germany," said Nanny.

"I do not wish to visit Germany," said Klaus. "I do not like the Germans because they are so hard-working. I am a jealous Englishman."

"You have the lazy English way of doing things," said Mr. Brown. But Klaus was silent. He had been poisoned.

"Now we must display him in the front garden for three days," said Mr. Brown.

Above: A typical English seaside meal.

ANNOUNCEMENT: English Writing Competition!

Has your English improved? Why not show off your newly acquired language skills by entering our English writing competition! Simply write your own final chapter to 'Learning English with the Browns' and submit it here.

• Entries should be between 140 and 160 words in length.
• Entries should be submitted by Wednesday, 20 December 2006.
• The winning entry (and selected finalists) will be published on Public Address on Friday, 22nd December 2006.

First prize is a brand new copy of Struwwelpeter -- one of English literature's greatest works!

Above: First prize.

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The End of Lake Ellesmere? | Dec 01, 2006 09:57

On a recent assignment for Avenues Magazine I had the pleasure of working with American photographer Brian Harmon. Although he has only lived in this country for a few years, Brian has managed to capture some extraordinary images of New Zealand. He's a photographer who is absolutely packed to the brim with talent and ability. Unfortunately, he is also a photographer who likes to get up early in the morning.

Brian: I was thinking of starting quite early.

Me: Ten o'clock?

Brian: I was thinking more like five.

We were spending a day with one of the last commercial fishermen on Lake Ellesmere. I tried to imagine five o'clock at the lake on a winter morning. It seemed inconceivable that anyone would want to subject themselves to such horror.

As I scraped ice from my car's windscreen at half-past five the next morning, I cursed Brian and his entire profession. We had compromised on seven o'clock: which still required me to leave my house at an ungodly hour. And yet somehow -- as I drove through an empty and slumbering Christchurch, and into the pre-dawn countryside -- I began to see that Brian might have a point.

It was good to be awake, and to be getting the most out of the day. In fact, I began to pity my fellow citizens lying in their beds. They were snoozing their lives away -- whereas I was making each minute count. I resolved to rise this early every morning from now on. I would seek new employment at a worthy organization. I would donate half of my income to sick children. I drifted into a reverie as I contemplated how beautiful my life would become.

My car sped into the darkness: past the lights of Lincoln University; through the townships of Springston, Doyleston, and Leeston; and finally into Southbridge. After Southbridge I turned off the main road, and bumped along a gravel track to the village of Fisherman's Point. The peak of Mount Herbert was turning pink in the distance. Lake Ellesmere lay before me like a gigantic black tablecloth.

Brian's car was parked beside the lakeshore. "Decided I might as well get here at five anyway," he said. "I've got some nice shots of the dawn." He was bristling with cameras and enthusiasm. "Can't wait to get out on that lake and shoot some more film," he added.

His cheerfulness was already exhausting me. I felt an overwhelming urge to go home and return to bed. But in Fisherman's Point village, people were beginning to wake up. A light was switched on in a kitchen window. Smoke began to puff from one of the chimneys. Brian and I wandered down the main street. Our friendly fisherman, Clem Smith, lived in the last cottage before the harbour.

Clem was loading fuel cans into his ute. He was obviously a man who didn't believe in wasting words. "Gidday," he said. "We've got to drop by Malcolm's place, and pick up some long-fin eels for release."

Malcolm's hut was a only few hundred metres down the road. In his backyard, a row of deceased eels were waving stiffly in the breeze -- strung out on a whata to dry. Half-a-dozen live eels were writhing uneasily in a barrel beside the hut. Clem explained that low lake levels over recent years have meant that eels can't return to the sea by themselves. The lake fishermen must release some of their catch into the ocean, so that the eels can breed and maintain the population in Ellesmere.

It was a short drive to the sea. Malcolm's grand-nephew Taura helped Clem to empty the barrel out onto the beach. Clem's dog went barking mad at the eels, and Brian's camera clicked like a Geiger counter as he recorded their slithering journey into the waves.

Back at Lake Ellesmere the fishing boat was ready to go. I climbed aboard and immediately fell over -- hitting my head painfully on the fish hold. This seemed to give everyone a good laugh. To my surprise, Clem's boat was something of a speed machine, skimming along the surface of the lake at a tremendous rate, and amplifying the wind-chill to Antarctic proportions. Even Brian looked slightly chastened by the icy breeze.

We stopped at the first net, and Clem and Taura lowered themselves over the side of the boat. I winced with sympathetic hypothermia as they waded waist-deep through the wintry lake water. They lifted the net -- heavy and swollen with eels -- and Malcolm grunted with exertion as he hoisted it into the fish hold.

Clem, Malcolm, and Taura are the inheritors of a 150-year tradition of commercial fishing on the lake. In the late 1800s, at the height of the Ellesmere fishing industry, more than a hundred commercial fisherman worked here. In those days Ellesmere was the fourth-largest lake in New Zealand. Since then a third of the lake has been drained, and Ellesmere has dropped down the rankings to fifth-largest.

Nowadays the lake's area is just under 200 square kilometres. But when viewed from the swaying deck of a fishing boat it still looks unbelievably vast. It seems inconceivable that such a large body of water could be on the verge of environmental collapse.

Unfortunately, however, Lake Ellesmere's failing health is well documented. An Environment Court judge recently declared it to be eutrophic -- so polluted by nitrogen and phosphate compounds that algal growth has become over-stimulated. This is a hazardous state for a lake ecosystem. As the rampant algal growth decomposes it causes a reduction in the dissolved oxygen content of the lake water. Oxygen levels may eventually become so low that fish life will be unable to survive.

The eutrophication of Lake Ellesmere is the result of three main factors. Firstly, Ellesmere's 2,700 square kilometre catchment area produces a large inflow of fertilizer, animal waste, and industrial run-off. Secondly, the filtering wetlands which previously surrounded the lake have been largely destroyed. And thirdly, the lowland streams which feed into Ellesmere have been severely reduced in flow.

This last factor may be the final nail in the coffin. The reduced stream inflows are thought to be caused by excessive water extraction from aquifers in the countryside surrounding Ellesmere. As the stream inflows diminish, the pollutants in the lake become more concentrated, and the rate of eutrophication increases. With the rapid conversion of the Canterbury plains to dairying there is no expectation that the extraction of water will be reduced. In fact, it is anticipated that vastly increased amounts will need to be pumped from the ground.

All of this suggests a grim future for the lake. And it seems extraordinary that Ellesmere -- one of Canterbury's iconic landmarks -- might deteriorate into a large muddy puddle without any real public awareness of our loss. I had spent a fascinating day on the lake with Clem, but as I drove home I wondered if Ellesmere's precarious future might not be a better subject for an article. By a happy co-incidence, Jon Gadsby (the editor of Avenues magazine) agreed with me, and cheerfully accepted an environmental piece about a lake in lieu of a human-interest story on fishermen.

A few weeks after the article was published I had an interesting conversation. An acquaintance suggested that I had been too idealistic in my analysis. "Humans are part of the ecosystem as well," he pointed out. "We can't stop living our lives just because Ellesmere is in trouble. Lakes only have a finite existence -- and you should just accept that Ellesmere is finished. The sensible approach is to drain as much of the lake as possible, and turn it into pasture. Two hundred square kilometres would make a lot of dairy farms."

I would certainly agree that humans are part of the ecosystem, and I am pragmatic enough to accept the significant impact that we must make on the environment. But the loss of Lake Ellesmere is a heavy price to bear. If we give up on our fifth largest lake -- a piece of landscape big enough to be easily visible from space -- then where do we stop?

Since writing the article on Ellesmere I've kept sporadically in touch with Clem Smith. It transpires that his economy in spoken language is counteracted by an abundance of written prose. He is the author of numerous short stories -- beautifully-crafted observations on the human condition -- ranging from descriptions of office romances to affectionate portrayals of family life. It is extraordinary work, particularly from the pen of a bachelor fisherman.

On cold Canterbury days -- when the southerly rolls in and the rain hammers down -- I often imagine Clem out on the lake planning his stories. I'd like to think that in twenty years time Lake Ellesmere will still be there, and Clem too. Lifting his eel nets, and contemplating the human condition.

More on Lake Ellesmere:

1. Brian Harmon has generously made a selection of his Ellesmere photographs available online.
2. Avenues magazine have kindly allowed online access to my original article which provides much more detailed information on Ellesmere.
3. The Waihora Ellesmere Trust (WET) has recently been formed with the aim of improving the health and biodiversity of Lake Ellesmere. Their website can be found here.

All images used in this post © Brian Harmon, 2006.

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