Market Research

I suspect I am a terrible person on whom to conduct market research. I don't wish to sound egotistical or anything, but I think too much. Often the multiple choice options don't include my view, and then I deliberate interminably over my response, as the researcher rolls their eyes, fidgets with their pen and generally just wills me to get on with it.

Wherever possible I feel compelled to answer surveys. This stems in part from a childhood of reading magazines with my best friend, when we took all the quizzes to see how compassionate or fashionable we were; what type of holiday companion we would make; or what animal we most resembled (very/ not at all/ tolerable/ a dog - the last was particularly hard for my 11-year-old self to take).

Furthermore, when I finished my English degree, many of my fellow students got jobs as market researchers (slightly preferrable to call-centre operators) and stood on the aptly-named Market Street in Manchester clutching a clipboard and harrassing passers-by with queries about their shopping habits and entertainment preferences. Naturally I would always take time to answer them - after all, there but for the grace of God and everything... Not that I had much to be thankful for; I was working in a book shop on arguably the lowest pay rate in the retail industry.

Anyway, the other day I passed some bored-looking geography students who were sheltering from the rain and trying to drum up enough data to write a report on tourism in Queenstown, or some such earth-shattering masterpiece. The questions ranged from 'how old are you' - they didn't even ask me to choose an option (although I could clearly see on the upside-down form that there were several brackets) to 'do you consider your occupation to be a) directly related to tourism, b) indirectly related to tourism, or c) not related to tourism at all?'

Now, to the (as you can imagine) obvious delight of the teenagers, I considered this question carefully. I am a full-time writer and work part-time as a dental receptionist to pay for groceries - or to put it another way, for peanuts. Forget what you've heard about crime; it's writing that doesn't pay. So what would I consider my 'occupation'. Is that what I do? Or what I do to earn money?

Assuming it's the latter, despite the number of front teeth shattered by snowboards or chipped during tandem sky-dives, dentists aren't really dependent on tourism. However, if there were no tourists, there would be no Queenstown. People in hospitality and tourism serve them directly; people who work in retail, trades or services administer to them indirectly, and everyone who lives here is affected by them on a daily basis.

Only the farmers are independent of their influence, although those who turn their stations into 'experiences' so Koreans can adopt a sheep, or those who havest grapes on their land to join the burgeoning tourism wine trail clearly rely on them too.

So, how to answer that question honestly? I picked c) in the end, rationalising that the occupation itself is not necessarily related to tourism, even if the location in which it is conducted is. I am certain I lost a lot more sleep over this than the hapless lads asking the questions.

You see, I used to be on the other side. I translated cold hard statistics into 'content-rich' (how I hate that expression - as opposed to what: vaccuous?) website pieces about career choices. I remember struggling with a sentence that informed me '72% of executive assistants work in Auckland'. I immediately wondered what the other 28% of executive assistants in Auckland were up to - filing their nails and drinking coffee? Skiving off to the pictures? Checking the cricket scores? Bleating on TwatFace? I was told I had 'uncommon and irregular thought processes' (of which I was silently proud) and that no one else would interpret this statistic as such.

Please tell me I am not alone!

The Otago Settlers Museum

The Otago Settlers Museum is a strange collection of modern interactive exhibits and fusty traditional records. In the transport section there are examples of carriages, steam trains, motorbikes and cars throughout the ages. I was fascinated by the tandem bike although I can’t imagine my intrepid sister and brother-in-law looking sweet upon the seat of this bicycle made for two as they take their annual European jaunt. I also admired the penny farthing – those things are monstrous – you can clamber up and have a pedal, if you so desire.

In the main hall exhibits are dedicate to the immigrants (settlers is a much nicer term, don’t you think?) who populated this town and glass cases display the things they brought with them. There are separate areas for Germans, Māori and Chinese, with a smattering of Scots throughout. Dunedin was meant to be the Edinburgh of the Southern Hemisphere (although even the planners conceded that other than the street names there is practically no resemblance) and this museum was founded to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the planned settlement.

Much of Otago was established through the mining of gold and coal and there are homages to both, including a curious diorama of a stuffed miner in a tent who has clearly seen better days. The circular wooden carved table at which people used to fill in their deposit slips at the bank is magnificent, however.

The Smith Gallery is a classic Edwardian portrait gallery in which the pictures line the walls like criminal mug shots recording the original immigrants. The wealthier families could afford oil paintings which are hung symbolically above the lower class daguerreotypes – faces stare in silent soulless surrounds.

Samplers of genealogy and heavy wooden furniture such as stiff-backed chairs and cumbersome pianos cram the room. It’s oppressive and impressive at the same time.

A display called ‘Housekeeping Made Easy’ might more correctly be termed ‘Domestic Drudgery’. The washing, ironing, cooking and cleaning appliances look more like instruments of torture and I began to think how even the names – mangles, beaters, washboards, irons, plungers – have connotations of historical persecution.

In her brilliant book, The Feminine Mystique, Betty Friedan pointed out that these ‘improvements’ that were supposed to make the lives of women easier were actually paternally tyrannical. Whereas you used to beat the dust out of the carpets once a year in spring, now you have to hoover once a week or face accusations of slovenliness.

‘Across the Waves’ is a multimedia exhibit relating to the trial by sea that many faced to arrive here. The videos enacting the conditions on ship and the passages of writing on the walls are taken from passengers’ diaries. Usually kept by women, this is how we know the colour of the journey – who danced with whom; who was boring or petty; how tiresome it was to eat the same thing and see the same scenery every day – rather than the dull masculine descriptions of time and weather. The faithful replica of the tiny bunks in dark lighting with creaking noises and a swinging lamp to indicate pitch and roll is perhaps a little too colourful and actually quite nausea-inducing.

Toytown has collections of eerie-looking toys that children used to play with. Sombre soldiers, garish painted wagons and sailor-suited dolls are among the curiosities. There are no pastel colours or soft fluffy animals – my, how times have changed.

Apparently there used to be a TV studio in Dunedin and it was here that the New Zealand version of Playschool was filmed. In addition to the familiar British characters, it featured a Māori doll called Manu (replacing Hamble, whom no one ever liked anyway) and a kiwi called Grubber.

Big Ted, Jemima, Manu and Humpty are displayed at Te Papa, and Dunedin gets the leftovers: a prototype of Humpty, Grubber, and a headless Little Ted. The sign next to the cabinet says that Little Ted was ‘tragically blown up’.

Further investigation – well, the woman at reception – led me to discover that he was actually blown up by the film crew on completion of the final series. So the decapitated body is in a glass case to terrify children, although they’re probably desensitised to such things these days, and to traumatise adults.

I stumbled out from the macabre murder mystery to the freezing winds of the town’s streets and roamed about admiring the architecture and the hardy plants and flowers.

Dunedin railway station

While down in Dunedin recently for work, I had a bit of spare time on my hands, so I pottered about like a tourist.

Rumour has it that the railway station is the most photographed building in New Zealand. It is certainly stylish in an apparently revived Flemish renaissance style. Its contrasting dark basalt, creamy Oamaru stone and pink granite give it a distinctive façade, and the neat gardens that surround it set it off nicely.

At a kilometer in length, the platform is the longest in the country and the fashion parade that takes place every year along it claims to perform on the world’s longest catwalk. The 37-metre clock-tower is a Dunedin icon, and can be seen from almost everywhere around town.

Joseph Ward both laid the foundation stone in 1904 and opened the station in 1906. It was built on time and within budget – those days are long gone.

In the booking hall, the closed ticket booths monitor the mosaic floor comprised of approximately 750,000 glass tiles from Minton.

The floor subsided and was entirely rebuilt in 1966 – original pieces of the floor are displayed in the Otago Settlers Museum. I know because I went there too.