Forty kilometres of multi-laned road and more than one hour later, we exited the highway to an enclave of new suburban homes which gave way to an older section of town. Here, sofas sat mouldering outside, office furniture littered the beach and every other fence had a sign warning of the strong-jawed dog on the other side.
This is the neighbourhood where my father found us a two-week holiday rental. I hated it. I drove 5km to another neighbourhood to run each morning, as I feared the dogs and the man I saw peeing against a local school. Later, I messaged a friend who used to live on Oahu, ready to rant about the awful place we'd stayed.
He replied: "I still have family who live there." Thankfully, I had not stuck my big-as foot in my mouth that time.
If we entertain the notion the leader of the free world did, in fact, call Haiti and Africa "shitholes" while discussing immigration last week (and really, how many people doubt this, given his taped vulgarities and Twitter messages using colourful language?); and if he did, in fact, say he'd prefer America accept immigrants from Norway, we need to ask ourselves not so much about President Donald Trump – because he's doing and saying what his base elected him to say and do. In fact, many of his supporters insist Haiti and Africa are indeed, shitholes.
The more significant question we must ask is whether we're doing an adequate job educating our children about shithole countries.
I asked Miss 13 and Master 12 if they knew these places. "MOM!" yelled Miss 13.
"You can't say that word!" rebuked Master 12. I explained shithole countries are those where people are brown, black and poor. Scandinavian countries are superior because natives are richer and white.
"That's not right," said Miss 13. "Trump can't talk," said Master 12. "He's orange." For the record, I told the kids we don't criticise how people look. And tried hard not to laugh.
I took my children to South Africa when they were 5 and 6. We visited Knysna Township on tour. Most people lived in shacks. The lucky ones had cinder block Habitat for Humanity homes. One of the children's toys was a wheel on a wire. Children with ebony and cocoa-brown skin laughed as they rolled the wheel down the road, and my son wanted to take it home. Locals served us punch and doughnuts and sang a song that made my heart flutter.
While I wouldn't spend my entire holiday in a township, I wouldn't call it a shithole, either. People live there. They cook and sweep plywood or cement floors and hang curtains and homemade artwork. They love their children and fight, cry, drink too much, or not at all, and live. Like us. It's easy to write off a place. Until you know someone who lives there. Or someone who has family there.
Many migrants in the Bay of Plenty hail from places struggling with pollution, over-population and poverty. Are they less worthy of dignity and respect than those from whiter, more affluent countries like the UK? We never know when the tables will turn. Witi Ihimaera, in his memoir, Maori Boy, recounts what happened to British migrants in New Zealand after the Second World War. They were maligned as "Ten-pound Poms" or "Bloody Poms". "Pom-bashing became a national game like rugby," Ihimaera writes.
Decades before my Irish ancestors came to America; their forebears were refugees suffering disease and famine. Americans feared the Irish would take their jobs and strain welfare budgets. History.com says the Irish brought with them crime and were accused of being rapists.
Insults and stereotypes are easy. Acting out prejudices is easy. Scientists say our brains are wired to most readily accept and trust people who look and act like us. Even if the default for many of us is to write off places where melanin's high and incomes are low - can we at least remember someone's family lives there?
- Dawn Picken also writes for the Bay of Plenty Times Weekend and tutors at Toi Ohomai. She is a former TV journalist and marketing director who lives in Papamoa with her husband, two school-aged children and a dog named Ally.
