Being There – Otama

In the middle of the mud humbly sits Otama. Otama protectively grasps it’s last few possessions. A wise white church. A tired brick hall. And a school. Only a stretch of tar seal has ever penetrated Otama’s grasp, cleanly cutting the establishment in half – hall and church on one side, school on the other.

You follow the stretch of cracked tar, realise it goes nowhere significant, and turn left onto a dusty gravel road. Pause again. Admire this insignificance. Admire the way young lambs frolic across emerald pastures. Admire the way that casual Romney ewe leans her aged head on the school fence as she nibbles on a mouthful of leaves.

The steady spring sun yawns as you now arrive at the school gate, steel and coated in a chipped green paint. A hand carved wooden sign welcomes you: “Otama School – Little footprints .. Big steps”. A white flagpole towers over the school’s two brick classrooms, patriotically flying a bold Southern Cross cornering a timid Union Jack. The tender breeze offers the soothing scent of freshly cut grass. It whispers to you, telling you that the school paddock has been mown for hay. If you listen carefully, you can almost hear the gentle sighing of the Otama Creek, mesmirised by the day’s tranquility.

And just like that nature’s peaceful dialogue is sharply interrupted. A hand held brass bell melodically chants to it’s children. The two classroom doors fly open, in unison spewing out youth teeming with new found energy. Some children run to your left, past the copper-tainted water fountain and sun burnt PE shed. They find a netless basketball hoop, tennis court and bird packed native garden. Some children run to you right, past the paua shell eyed whakairo and student-crafted planter boxes. They find the bark chip floored playground, tractor tire swing and sports field.

Cabbage butterflies, paper winged and clumsily dotted with black vivid, awkwardly flutter out of the children’s erratic trajectories. Brown birds bustle off of the playground’s wooden fort as it is succumbed by the brave Otama infantry. Balls of various shapes and sizes are kicked, thrown and bounced onto the long luscious school field. A cluster of juniors, no older than Year 3, find themselves absorbed by the native garden. White pebbles crunch underfoot as they admire leisurely lancewood, hide under a humble horopito and eat their lunch by a persuasive pepper tree.

Soon the children will be bused home to jam rolls and Spongebob Squarepants. Your Otama will be once again left in peace and quiet. Children’s laughter will be replaced by bleating sheep and purring quad bikes, deep into the evening. Then the young lambs, nestled into their mothers, will gently close their eyelids and all of the birds will fall quiet. The last quad bike will be parked up for the night, it’s rider now tucking their children safely into bed. The small settlement of Otama will now go to sleep.

But Otama sleeps with one eye open; vigilant and weary of what it is likely to become.