Motropolis: Motueka men can do anything

Motueka may be a welcoming place, but it still expects a few core competencies from its menfolk.

The only thing that concerned me about returning to live in a small South Island town after 20 years in the California big smoke was my memory that such towns had never been that welcoming to anyone a bit different.

Tolerance, I feared, was not a big virtue, especially towards anyone who sounded different (tick), liked to read (tick), or exhibited a taste for loud shirts (tick, and watch out Motueka, for the yellow polka-dot number I'll be unveiling this summer).

In fact, my view of Oamaru (admittedly addled by time and adolescent trauma) was of a contempt for any smattering of intellectualism that rivalled that of the Khmer Rouge, notorious for executing anyone wearing glasses. I didn't do myself any favours by then going to high school in Dunedin with a bunch of vindictive Southland sheep farmers.

I knew Motueka was beautiful and would offer a wonderful lifestyle; I was less sure about the reception I would be offered, as I no longer sounded that Kiwi and have a loud American wife. (For those worried about my safety, this description has been OKed by the wife in question.)

I couldn't have been more wrong. My first neighbours were half Dutch and were the kindest, most welcoming neighbours I've ever had. Next door to them were a young French family who promptly made us an Alsatian tart and became fast friends.

Once I got to know multicultural Motueka, I could see that my fears were either 20 years out of date or the town was a tolerant exception to provincial small-mindedness.

I suspect a bit of both. Local historian Eileen Stewart told me she thought Motueka had always been a welcoming place because of the long history of itinerant pickers who descend on the town every year, once for tobacco and hops, now for apples and kiwifruit.

And I'm convinced that warm weather helps melt the icy binds of southern hearts. Face it, it's hard to be judgmental when your daily uniform is jandals and stubbies.

It's not just me that has noticed Motueka is a remarkably tolerant town. When I interviewed departing principal Rex Smith about his 7 1/2 year tenure at Motueka High School, he said he was most proud of the school's acceptance of difference, and said he thought part of that was because of the influence of the town. And Michael Jackson hairdresser Tommy Sims, who has adopted Motueka as his hometown, told me that despite being a gay hairdresser, he had never encountered any prejudice in the town.

However, I've decided there is one trait that is not tolerated, and that is incompetence. In Mot we value self-sufficiency and there is no greater shame than admitting that your trailer-backing skills leave a lot to be desired.

I made the mistake of confessing this to my friend Ang, whose scorn was withering. I had to confess that not only do I not own a trailer, my car does not even have a towbar.

Ang, founding member of Motueka United Professional Housewives (MUPH) and the proud driver of a sea-green 61 Holden EK, is justifiably proud of her own trailer-backing skills. "Bring it," she said. "I am the master."

She told me that backing a trailer was high on the list of Things a General Kiwi Man Should Be Able to Do. Intrigued, I asked what else was on the list, and after a morning of gossiping with her fellow MUPH, Sarah, during which I suspect they pondered their own husbands' shortcomings, she got back to me with a long list:

Change a headlight bulbUse tie-downs correctlyChange the oilClear a blocked drainFix a dripping tap ("I don't want to have to call in a professional.")Repair a bike punctureUse a chainsawTune the TVBe responsible for home security (this apparently means being the one to lock the door at night and, should there be any strange sounds in the night, be the one to get out of bed to investigate before your wife elbows you in the ribs).

Ang took pains to emphasise that she can't do all these things personally but that there wasn't really any excuse for me or any other incompetent Kiwi male.

Thus was launched my brainwave of starting a class that taught these basic manly virtues. I realise there might be a PR problem though who would want to admit that they had joined such a class? So we'll do it in stealth mode by calling it Advanced Studies in Scarlett Johansson Appreciation or perhaps a Professional Workshop on the Deficiencies of the Wallabies Backline.

But why stop at Kiwi males? I bet there's a tourist opportunity here. We'll play up the weight-loss benefits of such activities and market them as adventure health tourism. Before you know it, Motueka will be crawling with devotees of the latest fitness craze, the Useful Kiwi Bloke Workout.

We'll give them uniforms of swannies and gumboots and run them up hills with armloads of warratahs, fencing the Kahurangi. They can chainsaw trees, split logs and back trailers of firewood in the Fine Motor Skills part of the syllabus. I can see it now, this will be the biggest Kiwi craze to hit the world since Lord of the Rings.

Of course, I wouldn't teach the class that polka dot shirt would be a dead giveaway of my incompetence. Instead we'll get one of those taciturn southerners that the Speight's ads specialise in.

Why stop at a class? We'll make it a two-for-one deal and put the star students to work running up a deck in my back yard. We'll give it a veneer of prestige by calling it the Honours programme. Instead of Woofers, we'll have Hambys Hollywood Anorexics in My Back Yard.

This is a great idea and will be a valuable earner of foreign exchange. All I need is a million-dollar feasibility grant from Minister of Tourism John Key. Mr Key? Mr Key? Hello?

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