While our communication with the outside world depends a lot on our survival of what appear to be more frequent storms these days, we do not suffer from a lack of home grown stories - the telling of which keep us warm on those wet, violent nights.
All you need is a couple of mates with loads of life experience, a bottle of the best Johnny Walker and an open fire that provides light and warmth when the power is off.
One of the many things the locals are good at is their recollection of detail when retelling stories of famous events about things that no longer exist.
Given the witnesses to a personal moment in history are mostly dead, the whiskey allows a series of free flowing commentary that is no longer able to be fact checked for accuracy - but who cares!
My guess is that this pastime is repeated throughout the country wherever and whenever rural folk are forced to batten down the hatches waiting until the storm subsides before examining the damage.
The recent debate about replacing the Inter-Island ferries reminds me of my own personal experience of tales told on one of those many dark, cold nights.
This is a story that has grown into folk lore here on the Coast because the individuals involved in the discussion are unfortunately, like so many of our working class ancestors, an extinct species.
The story goes that three well known ageing East Coast drovers who had long since become a redundant feature of the rural scene were comparing notes in a bar at one of the local pubs. As the whisky flowed, the exaggerations of actual events took on a character all of its own and the object of the exercise was to see who could lay claim to being the biggest “bullshit artist” on the planet.
The subject of the discussion was who had been involved with the longest stock drive in this country during the time when droving was an important part of shifting large mobs of sheep or cattle from one destination to another.
The first claim to that title recalled having driven 2000 ewes from Ruatoria here on the Coast to Feilding in the Manawatu with only a team of six dogs to help him get over the difficult terrain on the way.
The second story involved a drive of 3000 wethers from Cape Reinga in the far North to Masterton in the Wairarapa on his own with only a heading dog and a couple of huntaways as companions.
Following the gasps of incredulation, all attention was on the third ex drover to see if he could beat those two incredible feats of stockman-ship.
After draining the last dram of whiskey, he began the tale that he reckoned would defeat all competition from his mates of a bi-gone era.
He recalled embarking on a journey taking 100 bullocks from the Stortford Lodge saleyards in Hawke’s Bay to a remote destination in Southland with only a “head and hunt” dog and a young “huntaway” to assist.
For anyone knowledgeable of the problems associated with driving large mobs of stock any great distance, this latest feat would appear more than enough to knock the socks off his competitors.
However, despite the effects of whiskey dulling the senses, one of his drover mates seized on his only chance to revive his own claim to the title.
“Bullshit!” he exclaimed. “How did you get across Cook Strait ?”
There was a long pause before the indignant reply - “I never went that way!”
Game over.
Clive Bibby is a commentator, consultant, farmer and community leader, who lives in Tolaga Bay.
4 comments:
What about a true story from that past era...
A drover who had trained his horse to kneel down so he could get on and off. This was because the drover had some affliction, polio or maybe part paraplegia, meaning his mobility was dramatically affected.
He also had an amazing dog team. A very successful and independent drover I gather.
Full respect that man.
Whilst sheep drives re still occasionally encounterd on remote back roads, I can recall as a boy when many dairy farmers took stock onto the road for every milking, and herds and flocks on the main roads were often encountered. Cows and cattle then had horns and my father used to worry about the exposed radiator. The merest brush from the body or whack from a tail would damage modern tinfoil cars.
Great to hear jokes again in these grim times - thanks Clive.
The drover yarn sounds like The Four Yorkshiremen Monty Python sketch too
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