The concept of communal spaces in New Zealand’s second largest city is almost entirely absent. In spite of being known as ‘the garden city’ the only place where groups of people seem to congregate are the numerous suburban malls, frequented by people living in suburban homes, driving suburban cars down suburban streets, and listening to suburban music.

I was walking through such a mall the other week, planning on dealing with cultural adjustment by delving into my national pastime and heading to a bar (having just arrived I foolishly believed that the beer might be palatable). Like an omen of doom I found the same purveyors of ‘traditional native American music’ who had once haunted my walks through central Edinburgh. For the benefit of anyone who has been lucky enough not to come across this highly mobile group of pantomime red Indians playing Andean versions of popular hits, including the likes of ‘Hey Jude’ I need not explain the problematic aspects of their set. What is more remarkable is that someone seems to have set up some kind of franchise based around these traditional forms of expression. There are few more poignant images of globalisation than the sight of these people dressed in the wardrobe of a cheap western dancing about with pan pipes. There is nothing I would like more than to be able to position Dick Gaughan next to them and watch him drown them out (despite their over indulgent PA system) with his version of ‘Geronimo’s Cadillac’.

At the other end of the spectrum I recently attended a folk session consisting of four excellent tunesters in Christchurch bar ‘The Irishman’. The place looked liked a front room untouched since the 1970s, with its red paint and ultra violet light adding the air of one of the locale’s many massage parlours. I sat with my first decent pint of Guinness in a while, and listened to some tune playing that would not have been frowned at in even the most cliquey sessions back in the old world.

Without thinking twice I applauded enthusiastically at the close of their first set. However the reaction this created from both the other drinkers and the musicians was equally surreal. The pub in general seemed to glare at me as if I had just defecated on one the countless pieces of ‘Irish’ memorabilia adorning the walls. The musicians were equally shocked at such an acknowledgment of their abilities, clearly being used to remarks from customers such as ‘oh look their diddling! Great!’ followed by laughter that seemed to equate their presence to that of a lonely pub dog.

The music then had to be stopped as an historic rugby match unfolded on the plasma screen in the corner of the room. What was very telling about this country’s appreciation of traditional music is that the musicians themselves didn’t seem to mind setting aside their instruments to listen to the kiwi commentator screech about this remarkable occasion. Unfortunately it coincided with my first session experience in two months. Yet such is the life of a folkie in a country that ignores culture and reveres sport.