Jim Hopkins: Put the cockies in charge and let 'em get on with it

Ahhhhh, Fieldays - beating heart of the knowledge economy. It's 7.30am on Wednesday and the temperature is an amiable -2C. Unaccustomed to such tropical sensuality, the cockies from Gore are wandering round in shorts and jandals.

"Jeez," they chortle, as excited as emperor penguins on holiday in the Bahamas, "any more of this and we'll be coming down with heat stroke!"

Then, as the chaste disc of the moon fades in a brightening sky, the perspiring southerners are joined by a swelling legion of famous persons. Rochelle McGill presents Breakfast weather in front of the main pavilion. Beside her, Michael Wilson lugubriously intones the latest gold and oil prices for his nationwide audience.

Author Gordon McLachlan leans on a rail outside the National Bank building where he'll shortly commence a series of seminars inspired by his soon-to-be published History of New Zealand Farming - which, it is said, devotes an entire chapter to the efficacy of the kumara as an aphrodisiac.

Yet, familiar as these and other VIPs are, it's those who have come from the country who stand out. Shaped by work outdoors and a fickle climate, they're instantly recognisable by their rough, raw, red, wind-whipped cheeks, great hairy chests, rippling biceps, thighs like pinus radiata - and the men look even wilder.

They've come, these farming folk, from every rural area - Lumsden, Leeston, Ngatea, Naseby, Onga Onga, Owake and Otematata.

There are some from Darfield, some from Dunsandel, some from Dargaville and even some from Dannevirke - proudly named by Scandinavians and never confused with Auckland.

Wherever they're from, their goal is simple: to seek out anything that offers advantage in a fiercely competitive world. Much of that is already commercially available but there are also many ideas for products still needing development.

At the Innovations Centre, 16-year-old Jason from Cambridge displays his cherished prototype, an ingenious ATV-towed machine that can ram posts and split logs, although not simultaneously, of course.

Encouraged by onlookers, Jason agrees to split a block. He flicks a switch and his heavy wedge is pulled slowly up its support, till, suddenly, the chain snaps!

Embarrassed, Jason mutters the inventor's timeless mantra, "That's never happened before," then walks away, disgusted.

While a misadventure like this would probably merit a performance bonus at Transpower, it seems this teenager has abandoned his treacherous machine.

On the contrary. He finds the nearest welding stand and asks if he can borrow their welder.

He explained later, triumphantly surveying his hasty repair, nothing was going to stop him.

It's a common attitude down on the farm yet it's not always apparent elsewhere.

Consider the chaos this week when a relatively minor weather event - at least by global standards - managed to bring New Zealand's largest city, an untold number of airline passengers and much else besides to a shuddering halt.

Dismiss it if you will but it's tempting to think things might have been different had there been the odd C.I.C. (cocky in charge).

At the Otahuhu substation, for example, you imagine the C.I.C. would have attached a precautionary bungee cord to the earth wire so it could be pulled up and out of trouble in the unlikely event the damn thing broke.

And, over at the airport, closed by stubborn fog, the C.I.C. might say, "During the war, when England was fogged in and the bombers couldn't land, the RAF used to light big drums of petrol along each side of the runway and disperse the murk! I reckon we should give it a go!"

Alternatively, he or she might say, "I don't recall Toronto, Chicago, Heathrow or Moscow being closed by fog lately. They must have some kinda machine to keep them working. Why don't we can knock one up ourselves?"

There'd be a similar attitude at the roads board. Confronted by news that snow had closed several state highways, the C.I.C.would simply say, "What's the problem? Just build a bigger grader!"

Difficult as the problems of power, flight, roads and life in general might be when the climate goes potty, they are not insurmountable, provided, like Jason, you assume nothing's going to stop him.

The past few days have left more than tangible damage. They have also left the lingering suspicion that there's one crucial difference between town and farm: towns are run by bureaucrats, managers and local authorities more interested in daft tourism promotion, snappy slogans, urban-sustainability strategies and creative-hub incubators (a Hamilton initiative) than they ever will be in mains, drains, lines and roads, while farms are run by farmers.

Insofar as every politician is an aspiring messiah and all governments now regard passing a law as the equivalent of performing a miracle, our Parliament could perhaps do every one of us a long overdue favour by immediately enacting a statute explicitly and unambiguously declaring that the previously sovereign nation of Outer Roa would henceforth be always and invariably classified in its geographic totality as one large farm and operated accordingly.

Oh, and one more thing.

From now on, they could decree, every day is officially a Fielday. That way, provided there's a welding stand nearby, we might finally be able to MAKE THINGS WORK!