Tags:
Journalism of Courage
One week in New Zealand and it already makes you wonder where are the young kiwis, apart from tourists and immigrants? Unlike India, but similar to many European countries, NZ is an aging population. It’s pretty visible everywhere you go: the bus drivers, the volunteers at the ground, at the cafes, at the sea-side and even on the hill trails. The average age of farmers has also shot up and stand at 54 now. The number of people over 65 is growing at 4 per cent a year and you can see that reflected in the mushrooming number of retirement homes at Nelson. It also has an impact on the economy: the fiscal burden of healthcare and retirement costs are going to pile up as more and more from baby boomer generation are going to join this segment soon. It’s a concern in the cricket circles as well. Nigel Muir, the Ceo of Sport Tasman, says: “We do everything at grassroots level; fund, train and coach and initially, they used to go to bigger cities of Auckland and that at least was within the country but now more and more are going off to study or work in Oz or UK and don’t come back. Where are your kids sir?! Laughter. “As of now, here, sir!”
From Hyderabad, with an immigrant’s dream
The aging population, however, is moderated by the growing number of immigrants. Typically, the immigrants tend to be younger and at the peak of their working life. So even as the young New Zealanders are going away to Australia or UK, young immigrants are coming over from everywhere. I meet one of them on my bus. From Hyderabad, his wife is studying at a college in Nelson and he plans to find a job at a warehouse in Christchurch. “Bhagwan barosey aaya hoon. Hopefully kuch kaam mil jayega. Mera dost hai idhar.” He was going to see the accommodation: 370 NZ dollars for a week, around 1,500 per month for a small two-bedroom house, he says. You marvel at his audacity and also wonder about the circumstances that makes one leave everything behind, come searching for a future even without a job in hand.
Kookaburra, not Akram’s weapon of choice
On Thursday night, I spot Wasim Akram, Aaquib Javed and Mudassar Nazar walking in the city centre at Nelson, going away for dinner. Earlier that evening, had met Aaquib for a chit-chat. He looks happy with his team’s performance. Bump into Akram at the ground at lunch. Salt, pepper daala toh,achha hai khaana,” he says.” And as ever, Akram has a mini-rant about kookaburra ball. “Yeh gend mey kuch dum nahi hai.” He does hate this ball. I nudge him about those two deliveries in 1992 and he shrugs it off with a laugh. “Tum mere record dekhna in Australia, it’s not good.’ Bloody perfectionist. Go easy on the salt, legend.
Swann nibbles on main course, reveals sweet tooth
Graeme Swann loves his desserts. I spot him at Saxton Oval and his routine is same every day: Little time at main course — roasted lamb one day, beef on the next day, and some attempt at Indian dal. Swann spends most time at the dessert table. And has a chat with the staff every day, about how good the pastry was, how good the chocolate pudding was … this and that. The staff are pleased as a punch and Swann’s tummy isn’t in danger of challenging mine but he does get stuck into desserts with tremendous, and admirable, greed.
Misplaced luggage, a blessing in disguise
Stop off at Kaikoura, on the way to Christchurch. A lovely sea-side town. Have a cup of coffee and hop back into the bus, only to find that I have left my bag behind at the café. The bus is just five minutes on road and I plead with the driver to turn back. He must have got off the wrong side of the bed today. He refuses, and says choose bag or bus. Seriously? I get off, and ask for my big bag in the scheduled place under the bus to be given to me. He declines, saying that will take too much time. Really? I make a quite a good passionate plea, or so I think, to the passengers whether they will mind if we turn back and we get delayed by 10 minutes. Silence. Not a good speech as I thought and so I am off the bus which rolls away with my suitcase. I rush back to find my bag outside the café, book myself into the next connecting bus and hit a pub whose owner is really sympathetic about my story, and tops the oohs and aahs by ‘you got to be careful mate with your bag’. Oh well. Not a bad place to be stranded though. The sea stretches out to the end of the world, cafes line up the pavement and I use this time to write this diary. By the way, if you ever get stranded at Kaikoura come to the pub Groper Garage. The wifi password is : happydays. Don’t tell anyone.
