There may be a number of reasons that could explain why the great Mr. Darwin let a so decidedly negative mood color his judgment of New Zealand. Perhaps, like his predecessors in the Cook expedition, he had fallen in love with the Tahitians and their paradisical island and was suffering the heartbreak of separation. But I'm a monkey's uncle (or nephew, according to his later writings) if I don't also believe he was dead wrong about it. But who can blame him, really? He never made it to the South Island, for one thing, and for another the sport of polo would not arrive there for another fifty-some years. When it fortunately did so, it followed the example of many other imported species and adapted to the country extremely well.

Royal Navy officers are credited with introducing the game to New Zealand in the late 1880s (as they did in many other places around the world-including my own home rock of Vancouver Island). Indeed, this small but passionate group of sportsmen, manning such ships of the line as Calliope, Orlando, Royal Arthur, and Warspite, spread the gospel of polo in many a Pacific port of call, organizing games from Victoria and Santiago to Auckland and Christchurch.

New Zealand polo received another early boost from one Lt. R. S. Savile when the enthusiastic aide-de-camp to the Governor of the Colony donated a silver cup to be played for annually and awarded to the country's champion team. The prestigious trophy is now one of the oldest sporting trophies in New Zealand. South Island polo established itself early, too. Christchurch teams won the Savile Cup the first four times it was played for and a number of times since. The Savile Cup tournament was held on the South Island as recently as 1995.

Polo was and is a well-organized sport in New Zealand. It is played under the auspices of the New Zealand Polo Association, which governs three provincial associations (Northern, Central, and South Island) and some two dozen regional clubs. These clubs are supported by approximately three hundred and sixty active players. The New Zealand Polo Association writes its own rulebook, which is derived mainly from Hurlingham rules. Handicaps are assigned to all players by provincial committees.

My own interest in New Zealand polo was first kindled by the stories I heard from Bill and Barbara Powell who re-established polo in Victoria, B.C. nearly forty-five years ago. The legendary Australian ten-goaler Bob Skene, while manager of the Santa Barbara Polo Club, organized a team for a visit to the North Island in 1960. With Skene as captain, the team included Bill Powell (later to become the highest rated player in Canada), David Moore, and Willis Allen. They were very well received by the friendly kiwis who-characteristically-wined and dined and put horses under them at every turn in their journey. But in return they received some very pointed criticism from the sardonic Skene, who was heard at one point to utter, "You kiwis are just a bunch of galloping cowboys."

Far from being an ingrate, Skene had a point to make which he elaborated to a local reporter who quoted him thus: "We are very grateful for the ponies which have been loaned to us wherever we have played. They are fine horseflesh, but they are not trained to the game as are the horses in other parts of the world, not least California. They are trained by New Zealanders to turn on the forequarters. We turn our ponies on their haunches. As to speed on the turn, swifter reaction and getting inside opponents, there is no comparison." Skene was also outspoken in his criticism of the "hack and slash" style of play and the generally poor quality of the fields he found there.

Skene's criticism focused attention on the style of bitting prevalent in the country at the time, which entailed the widespread use of the snaffle. So bitted, ponies inevitably turn on their forequarters. With the curb bit, long popular in Spanish-influenced California, the pony momentarily rears back on its hindquarters and can then immediately turn into the play. It must have been hard for the Kiwis to hear this from Skene who was, by the way, no stranger to New Zealand polo and widely respected there. But, to their credit, they swallowed their pride and adopted the new style that was becoming standard among better players everywhere. They never looked back and today New Zealand players are regularly found among the best. In the style of play seen in New Zealand today "hack and slash" has long been replaced by virtuostic stick handling, clear-headed anticipation of plays, and mastery of the horse.

But while New Zealand polo may have risen to the top in terms of the aspects that concerned Skene, there remains a friendly and informal quality that pervades kiwi polo, one that has to do with not forgetting polo's roots as an amateur sport whose purpose is to provide enjoyment for participants and spectators alike. This philosophy is very well preserved on the South Island where a half a dozen or so active clubs are kept in fighting trim by a strong membership consisting largely of local farmers and their families, and supporters and spectators drawn from a sports-loving public.

One such club is at Blenheim, in the lower Wairau River valley, a place that came to my notice while cruising the animated weather maps on the Internet as noticeably sunnier than other locations on the South Island. A vibrant local wine industry there testifies to the accuracy of this observation. The renowned vineyards of Blenheim thrive on this copious sunshine as well as on the limestone-rich soil prevalent throughout much of New Zealand-and this geological fact returns us to Bob Skene's correct evaluation of kiwi horses as "fine horseflesh." As in many parts of the British Isles, Spain, and Kentucky, horses grazing on such ground are taking in bone-building calcium with every bite, which does them no end of good.

Fascinating, eh? Mr. Darwin missed much by giving in to his blue funk. But what else could he do? As the Bard says, "Love's eye is not so true." But if the Great Naturalist missed a great opportunity in his antipodean adventure, I was not so unfortunate, and comfortably made my way to Blenheim by narrow gauge railway after making landfall in the city of Christchurch.

It was mid-January, equivalent to July in the Northern Hemisphere. The sun was bright and the sky was deep blue. My contact man on this long island (nearly five times the size of Vancouver's) was Kevin Loe-by no coincidence the president of the South Island Polo Association. Kevin and his wife Carol farm (which verb means to ranch in NZ) some 5000 acres of dry coastal hill country in the ancestral family hamlet of Ward. Sounds big, and it is, but in this part of the world it could be a hobby farm when you consider some of the neighbours. The nearby high country cattle station of Molesworth, for example, comprises roughly 450,000 acres (nearly twice the size of Darwin's beloved Tahiti).

The congeniality of our yet un-met host was proved before we dismounted our railway carriage. As we drew nearer to our destination of Blenheim I remarked to my wife that we must be near the Loe family homestead. Suddenly my mobile phone rang. "Welcome to New Zealand, Mate!" I later learned that Kevin was only a short distance away when he called, as the train tracks traverse his farm property.

Once we were settled in our accommodation a few miles to the north, Kevin invited us to see a significant polo event in the South Island schedule of events. "England vs. South Island was to take place on Sunday at Roddy and Deirdre Wood's Waireka Farm. The private facility includes an excellent field and a small but elegant clubhouse where Roddy's impressive collection of photographs from the days of managing the Guards Polo Club at Smith's Lawn illustrate his professional career, showing him with an array of well-known polo fans and participants from H.M. the Queen on down. Roddy, carrying a four goal rating, would this day defend the South Island's reputation along with Mark Harris (another well-known professional at five goals, currently the highest rated player on the South Island), and local three-goalers Alan Calder and Dean Geddes.

The young English team was led by six-goaler James Beim (fresh from Kerry Packer's Ellerston yard in Australia where it had become too hot to play) and included David Allen (4), Josh Tuthill (3), and Chris Crawford (2). The two fifteen-goal teams appeared to be headed for a draw in the four-chukka match until Chris Crawford took control of the ball in the game's waning moments, opened his eyes, and thought of England (not always an easy thing for a Scotsman) scoring with a spectacular cut shot. In spite of the loss, Mark Harris was pleased with his team's performance even as he congratulated the opposition. For his part, Beim put his team's success down to the local ponies they had been given to ride. "They are extremely good to us when we come here," he said, thanking his hosts. As for the ponies, he added with complete sincerity, "They are the best in the world."

As we drove along the two-lane highway back to Blenheim I chatted at length with Kevin about kiwi polo, the South Island, and his own long career in the game. He had grown up involved in the hunter/jumper scene but made the switch to polo thirty years ago. Two of his four children, identical twins Daniel and Jacob (presently at two goals each), have followed in their father's footsteps and are occupied fulltime in managing the family farm's polo pony breeding and training operation. Somehow they must all find time to care for the six thousand sheep and seven hundred cattle that share their hilly domain as well. Actually, it is not enough to say hilly. These are mountains, big ones that rise out of the valleys at dramatically steep angles but are more often covered with grass and scrub than the huge trees I am accustomed to. That's good news for the stock, and the animals quickly become amazingly fit and sure-footed as they wander around from paddock to paddock. More good news is the complete absence of large predators-nor do poisonous snakes and insects abound here. Even mosquitoes and horseflies seemed thankfully scarce. In short, New Zealand is heaven for horses and horse lovers with every equestrian sport thriving under the stewardship of a profusion of enthusiastic participants.

And, eager to join that happy throng myself, I was delighted to be invited by the Loes to try some of their ponies on their stick-and-ball field adjacent to the railway tracks I had rolled by on only a few days before.

Brothers Daniel and Jacob are in charge of the making and care of the ponies and they take their work very seriously. "Don't jerk her mouth," said Jacob when I mounted the first one, a four-year old named "Espresso." I'm not saying you did, just don't. Her mouth is very soft and we want to keep it that way." I appreciated Jacob's blunt warning. After all, he didn't know me from Adam and a good mouth on a pony is a delicate thing, not easily installed and maintained. As I collected the mare and tapped a ball I thought of Curley's left hand in John Stienbeck's "Of Mice and Men." He kept it in a vaseline-lined glove so it would be soft for his wife (some sweetheart, eh ladies?). Short of resorting to the vaseline I resolved to be every bit as considerate with these horses. As our stick-and-ball session evolved into a scrimmage, Jacob seemed happy and so did the ponies.

Of course these fine animals are for sale and in New Zealand the market is strong. Buyers from Australia, South Asia, North America and Europe regularly cruise the islands looking for and finding many examples of Skene's "fine horseflesh." At least one well-known buyer of polo ponies recently found a kiwi mare that he was willing to give the earth for, but the owner wasn't interested in selling. He even offered to lease the animal to be cloned at his expense but still the owner refused to part with her. Some things are worth more than money-a player's handicap, for example.

As the shadows grew longer on our month-long stay on the South Island, I looked forward to seeing a local tournament at the Blenheim club, the $1000 six-goal to be held the second weekend in February. Twelve South Island teams were signed up and each member of the winning quartet would receive a cheque for $250 on the spot. There were A and B grades, the former to be played open and the latter on handicap. As with almost all South Island tournaments it was to be a four-chukka affair.

The Blenheim field belongs to the municipality and is designated as the Rewi Murray Polo Park. The field is full length, very nearly full width, and fully boarded. The park also provides plenty of extra space for trucks, trailers, and paddocks for horses. The clubhouse, modest in proportion and pretension, is augmented with a marquee tent for larger events. Once on the edge of town, the polo park has been engulfed by a flood tide of new homes whose occupants apparently tolerate the odd polo ball bouncing off the roof or even smashing a window. Kiwis have a very high tolerance for sport and, happily, polo is no exception.

On a Wednesday before the tournament weekend I drove over to have a closer look at the field. Colin Cameron was cutting the grass with the loving attention of a lifelong polo player. I introduced myself and immediately was offered a horse to ride that evening, "…for a bit of a knock-around. There may be only five of us," he said, "but we'll have some fun, anyway." Colin's former equestrian passion was hunting and he informed me that there are at least twenty-seven hunts in New Zealand (slightly out-numbering the country's polo club total) but he no longer rides to hounds. In his sixties now, he talks about giving up polo, too-someday, but not quite yet. Two of his sons are at two and three goals respectively, one a local racetrack farrier and another playing professionally in Florida.

I returned in the evening for the knock-around to find that the field of players had grown considerably. Dean Geddes and his large truckload of high-quality ponies had been turned away at the nearby ferry port when high winds postponed the scheduled crossing to the North Island. There he had planned to peddle his wares at the prestigious Rangitikei Polo Club. Geddes was accompanied by the English players Jamie Beim, Davie Allan, and Josh Tuthill. With the arrival of several more local players (including the Loe contingent who had driven up from Ward), the two-a-side knock-around had grown into an impromptu warm-up for the weekend tournament. Suddenly there were eight four-a-side chukkas to play and there might have been more were it not for the fading of the daylight. After that delightful episode, players, grooms, and camp followers, gathered in the clubhouse to reflect on life in general, polo in particular, and consume some cool bottles of Canterbury's ale.

The summer schedule of polo events on the South Island includes regular trips to the various clubs, when each group has an opportunity to host a tournament in their own particular way. The distances between the clubs, while not huge by North American standards, are still significant as the roads connecting them are two-lane highways. Trucks are more common than trailers here due to licensing regulations that tend to favour shorter vehicles. Horseboxes are custom made, often by the owners themselves. Travel to events on the North Island are bottle-necked at the notoriously dicey crossing of Cook Strait where the wind never ceases to blow and cancellations of scheduled sailings are commonplace. But, in the face of fickle weather that can and does cause tournaments to be scratched after a long and expensive journey, the kiwi attitude is to soldier on, enjoy the adventure, get back home safely, and hope for better luck next time.

Heading into the three-day Blenheim $1000 Tournament the weather looked perfect on Friday with the B Grade playoffs beginning at 11:00 a.m. under cloudless skies. Just before the first throw-in I was summoned by Colin Cameron, a benefactor of my enjoyable Wednesday night chukkas. He notified me that it was payback time: I was to be best playing pony judge for the event, and the awards were taken seriously in this land of polo pony producers. Of course I could not refuse but I wasn't sure how to approach the task at first. Obviously I had to pay strict attention to all of the play. I figured I would note the prettier turns, stops, and ride-offs I witnessed, jotting down the event, chukka, and player. Later I would make the rounds asking each rider the name of the horse ridden. At the end of the tournament I would have a list of horses by name, and whichever ones came up most often would be my candidates. Aware that this was an office best filled by someone who was not planning on lingering long in the region, I planned to leave town as soon as the tournament was over.

By 2 p.m. the A Grade playoffs began with the Loe family's six-goal "Thymebank" team pumped to be the hometown challenge to a number of strong teams from the south. But after a promising start in their first face-off, "Thymebank" was knocked out of contention for the final by "Anchor" of the Amuri Club in a 5-3 takedown.

Playoffs continued for the rest of the afternoon followed by a "Meet the Sponsors" barbecue at 7 p.m. I didn't meet any sponsors but the food was delicious, especially the Marlborough Sounds mussels prepared with finesse by announcer and chef de cuisine Ian "Wishbone" Lyall.

Polo at Blenheim

On Saturday I was beginning to get into the swing of focusing on the ponies when I was interrupted by Kevin Loe. "A player from the "Composite" team is unable to play," he said, "Will you go in for him?" I thought of the responsibility I had taken on--but not for long. "Always glad to help out, Mate," I replied, and tore off for my car where my boots and helmet lay waiting for just such a miraculous twist of fate. "Go see Roger Meyer," Kevin shouted after me, "he has a horse for you--and I'll have another."

Roger Meyer is the president of the Blenheim Polo Club, a senior player with a long career behind him. As he handed me the reins of a beautiful gray mare he said, "I've been playing this game all my life and I've never had a top horse until 'Tina' here. Just go easy with her and she'll do anything for you." I was both thrilled and touched but I didn't pause for a moment. I pulled on the team's bright yellow shirt and rode out to meet my teammates.

"You've played polo before, right?" asked our number one, a dubious young lad named Ben Finney. I guess I didn't look so impressive-or maybe it was my eager beaver grin that gave him cause for concern. Anyway, I suddenly realized that the team name, "Composite," probably didn't have any deeper meaning than its literal one; this was a group of extra bodies on horseback whose job it was to fill in the blank spaces and avoid the annoyance of having a round robin. We were cannon fodder to convenience, nothing more. Still, I was glad to be out there with a horse under me and a mallet in my hand instead of sitting on the sidelines going blind trying to watch each pony's every move. Our captain, Giles Gormack, tried to size me up. "Where do want to play?" he asked. "Well, my back shot is my strongest," I replied. "OK, play back then." he said-and here came the throw-in.

I noticed Roger was playing against me on what must have been a lesser horse, if the one I was playing was his best. What a guy, I thought. Suddenly a whistle-my fault. Ben Finney's brow grew darker. A penalty 4, and they made it. Great. My big chance to leave a positive impression going up in smoke. But the polo gods weren't done with me yet. Next chukka I grabbed an opportunity and scored. "Well done," shouted the captain as we rode back to the middle. Ben looked a little happier and I probably looked… a lot happier. All I'd done was make up for the earlier foul, but foulers' names are not recorded. Scorers' are.

So, we Composites composed ourselves and did our duty-and were duly beaten, 5-2. No disgrace in that, I thought. I went back to my pony judging a renewed man.

The final battle for the weekend's main prize, the J.B. Ensor Cup came down to Herkt Retravision (from the Port Hills Polo Club, near Christchurch) vs. Jackson's Estate (also from Port Hills). Tied one goal each after the first chukka, Team Herkt took a 4-2 lead on goals from Josh Tuthill. Dean Geddes added another for Herkt, which put them beyond the reach of two more goals by David Allen for Jackson's Estate, for a final score of 5-4, in favour of Herkt Retravision. The recipients of the $1000 cash prize were Will Turner (-1), Andrew Florance (1), Dean Geddes (3), and Josh Tuthill (3).

By the end of the tournament the sky had turned to slate and the wind blew unseasonably cold, such that the usual post-game ceremonies (often an anti-climactic affair at best, as everyone down to the last Jack Russell terrier is given a chance to have a say) were a bit difficult to bear. But, I stayed to see my designated ponies led forth by shivering grooms to receive their prizes: Mark Harris's "Ballan" received Best Playing Pony in the A Grade; Dean Geddes' trio, "Kate," "Outstanding," and "Honey" walked away with the best team of three; Garth McKenzie's "Mrs. Bean" took best first season pony.

Remember these names. They could turn up on a polo field near you.

Finally we bolted for our car and switched the air conditioner over to heater mode. Summer had evaporated in the course of a single day. At dawn the next morning we were off to Christchurch to catch our flight back to Canada where winter-real winter- was invented, and leave this enchanted isle behind. The final words belong to Mr. Darwin whose tone at the end of his book leaves the impression that he regained his good sense at last:

But I have too deeply enjoyed the voyage, not to recommend any naturalist, although he must not expect to be so fortunate in his companions as I have been, to take all chances,… but at the same time he will discover, how many truly kind-hearted people there are, with whom he never before had, or ever again will have any further communication, who yet are ready to offer the most disinterested assistance.

-Charles Darwin, The Voyage of H.M.S. Beagle, Chapter XXI, Mauritius to England