I leaned my clubs against a rail and entered a modest clubhouse,
noticing to my right a selection of golf shirts, shoes and caps randomly
arrayed. Because this was a New Zealand golf facility (Kaitaia Golf Club) tucked
in an obscure New Zealand town (Ahipara), I wondered if things might be other
than as they seem. Sure enough, that wasn’t logoed merchandise displayed for
sale, it was several months worth of clothing left behind in the Kaitaia locker
room, available at no charge to anyone who spotted an item they thought would
look good on them.
And that, in a nutshell, is New Zealand: We’re here. You’re
welcome. Come take whatever you need, mate.
A month’s travel in this sublime netherworld continually turned up
examples of the Kiwi ethic. On the basis of an email introduction, an officer of
the New Zealand PGA invited me to stay with him and his wife for as long as I
wished. A gentleman with whom I played one round of golf in the north told a
friend in the south to look out for me, which is how I came to play the
picturesque Queenstown Golf Club three weeks later with the son of the club’s
founder, who had helped his father lay out the course. An American couple I met
told me that if you spend any time at all in this land without being invited
into someone’s home, there must be something seriously wrong with you.
I’ll tell you all about golf in New Zealand if you promise me one
thing: No scouting for property down there until after I’ve bought my house.
