
Local Water Done Not So Well: Public Understanding And Confidence In Framework Severely Lacking
An additional 19 per cent said they had heard of it but didnt know any details, bringing the total number of respondents with no real knowledge of the framework to 74 per cent, or nearly three out of four people.
As many district councils across the country are currently seeking public feedback on proposed models for delivering water services and who pays for it, under the Local Water Done Well (LWDW) legislative framework, new data from Perceptive, New Zealand's leading insights and market research agency, raises an important question: is the public informed enough to be weighing in?
While the LWDW framework plays a key role in shaping how waste, storm and drinking water services are planned, built and paid for in New Zealand, more than half of respondents (55 per cent) said they had never heard of it, with one person stating, 'I have absolutely no idea what it is about.'
An additional 19 per cent said they had heard of it but didn't know any details, bringing the total number of respondents with no real knowledge of the framework to 74 per cent, or nearly three out of four people.
Only a small proportion of those who were surveyed feel informed, with 4 per cent reporting a good understanding of the framework.
Mark Vincett, Director of Strategy at Perceptive, says this highlights an opportunity for councils across the country to better inform residents ahead of and during consultation phase, especially as 85 per cent of New Zealanders rely on water provided by councils.
'The lack of public awareness and understanding of LWDW is concerning and shows that more needs to be done to educate the public,' says Vincett. 'There's a big risk that Kiwis won't engage in the consultation phase if they don't know what it's about or how it can affect them.'
'Being better informed helps to nurture trust, so it's not surprising that the data also shows there's mixed public confidence in whether or not councils can decide on the best way to deliver regional water services.'
When asked about their councils' ability to deliver under the LWDW framework, one fifth (21 per cent) said they do not trust the council to choose the best option, with 36 per cent being unsure and 43 per cent trusting their council.
Some also took the time to mention that LWDW feels like a rebrand of the former Three Waters policy without any improvements, with one respondent saying 'Seems like we are redoing Three Waters… I wish our governments would stop undoing each other's work.'
Notes:
The survey was conducted by Perceptive with a sample size of 1,325 individuals. The survey was conducted between January – March 2025. All respondents are over 18 years old.
Key survey questions and datasets are below. Regional and raw data tables available on request. Have you heard of 'Local Water Done Well'?
I have never heard of it 55%
I have heard of it, but don't know anything about it 19%
I have heard of it and know a bit about it 13%
I have good knowledge of this plan 4%
Don't know 8%
I trust my local council's ability to objectively and impartially assess the options and choose the best delivery method for the current and future water services in my area.
Strongly agree 4%
Agree 39%
Neither 36%
Disagree 13%
Strongly disagree 8%
How is your home's drinking water provided?
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Newsroom
an hour ago
- Newsroom
An incident in Karori
My landlady was a slight, graceful woman who taught at a local school, and when she arrived, she took me to my room and introduced me to her little dog, Eddie, who wagged his tail and followed us as she showed me around her house. She pointed out the framed pictures of her two daughters, one of whom was living in the US. 'You seem perfect,' she said after we took our seats in her kitchen, where she told me I was welcome to help myself to her pantry before preparing dinner for us and opening a bottle of wine. 'To a new life,' she said, as we clinked glasses. The warmth that rose through my body as I drank her wine reassured me as she talked about the differences between Australians and Kiwis, before mentioning her support for New Zealand prime minister John Key. 'We have what you'd call a tall poppy syndrome here, and people don't like that he worked his way up without accepting any help,' she said. I had friends and relatives whose political views differed from mine, and so I chose not to assign too much meaning to her words. This woman had been generous to me, and on my first evening in a new country I was eager for good omens. She and her daughter were up and about when I came upstairs for breakfast the next morning. Her daughter, a young woman who had just graduated from university, was as friendly as her mother and seemed excited to learn I was a writer. Inviting me to help myself to the breakfast they'd prepared, she talked about her older sister, who was dating a Stegner fellow and had given up her career as a lawyer in New Zealand to work for a nonprofit in America. Both she and her mother urged me to make myself feel at home, and in their company it was difficult not to. 'My other daughter would love to know about you,' my landlady said, as her younger daughter stacked our dishes in the sink. 'She loves to hear about people from different countries.' Her daughter had left the kitchen when she added, 'I don't know how it is in your country, but here we open the windows to let in fresh air.' Caught by surprise, I didn't know how to respond. 'We do that all the time in my country,' I said, noticing how she was busying herself with the dishes, as though she hadn't heard me at all. 'So Monica, do you mind if you open your sliding door just a little? Just to dry out your room,' she responded, her eyes grazing my face. I returned to my bedroom and opened my sliding door an inch, hoping to push away my misgivings to the farthest corner of my mind just as I heard a knock on my door. My landlady let herself in, holding a squeegee in one hand and a towel in the other. 'Do you know what this is?' she asked, holding up a squeegee. 'Of course.' 'The next time you take a shower, hose down the walls with the shower head, squeegee them, then use this towel to dry them off,' she said, tossing them onto the bed. 'I want to keep it clean.' She had promised to take me to their village, where there were two supermarkets and several banks. After I had showered and dressed, I returned to the kitchen, where she waited for me. 'You take your time in the shower,' she jokingly said, grabbing her purse from the kitchen counter. Sensing her meticulousness, I had done a thorough job of cleaning my shower stall, but now I wondered what it was, exactly, that she wanted. But my own confusion was silenced by her insistent footsteps as she made her way to her front door, and I hurried to follow her. As we drove down a hilly road toward a cluster of shops she called their village, our easy conversation turned to the things I wanted to buy from the supermarket and the neighborhood public library that had a good selection of books. I hardly noticed when she parked right in front of an ATM—her morning cheeriness made me forget about my unpaid rent, and it was when she nodded at me that I remembered what our first order of business was. She stood a few meters from me, watching me expectantly as the machine rejected my card. I panicked, for I had expected to withdraw the funds I needed from my overseas bank accounts before my scholarship checks came in. When I finally approached her to tell her what had just happened, her face darkened. 'So you don't have my money?' she asked, her voice now a low growl. I rushed back to the ATM, pushing my card into the slot before figuring out that I had to withdraw smaller amounts from different accounts. Though astonished by her sudden hostility, I had no time to let it sink in—I was too afraid to displease her, for I had nowhere else to go. She smiled when I handed her my rent and bond, and any misgivings I had were washed away by her good-naturedness as she helped me open a bank account and accompanied me to the grocery store. 'You probably have so much more variety back home,' she said to me, as we pushed our cart past shelves of fruit. I could sense that like many older white people I had met in the US, her world remained small. It appeared like she was trying her best to welcome me into it, despite the strain my presence seemed to be exerting on its smallness. The next day, a truck driver who sped past me while I was walking to the grocery store yelled something that sounded like 'go home.' Upon my return, I told her about what had happened, and she took me into her arms while declaring, 'We love Filipinos here.' It was the reassurance I needed to quiet my uneasiness over what had just happened, or what I perceived to have happened. I spent the rest of my day trying to cast aside its unpleasantness, determined to not let anything ruin the beginnings of what was a promising new chapter of my life. The next morning, as I prepared my breakfast, she told me that her daughter in the US was upset about the incident. 'She's inconsolable,' my landlady said, her voice gaining the heaviness of syrup. 'She's mad that something like this would ever happen to you.' I knew I was supposed to feel grateful for her daughter's sympathy, and yet her words pressed on me like an odd and uncomfortable weight. Laughing, I said, 'It's nothing.' Her eyes remained pinned on me, and I glanced away from her as I poured coffee for myself. 'It's not nothing. It's terrible.' 'Yeah.' I was annoyed that she was bringing the incident up again; there was something about her exaggerated tone that made me squirm inside. Did she expect me to be unable to recover from it, when living in a body like mine made me a natural target for verbal attacks like these? Looking back at our exchange, there was something about the way she prodded the wound that makes me wonder if she was waiting for me to offer up my hurt, like a gift, to her. But I wasn't yet willing to think of it in this way. I took a bus to my university, met my PhD supervisor for the first time, and took a tour of the campus and my new office with my institute's administrator. I sat with my discomfort until it slowly withered. I reminded myself that my landlady had insisted on taking my side, even as I tried to dismiss my own hurt. Her rage made me feel safe in a strange city, though it became increasingly friendly the more I talked to people and ventured down its streets. I bought ingredients for my dinner at a downtown supermarket and took a bus back home, only beginning to notice how quickly my expenses were eating into my savings when I got down at my stop and realised just how expensive my bus fare back to her house was. She had welcomed me to use her pots and pans, and had taught me to use her expensive-looking range with prongs rising from a flat surface at the push of a button, emitting gas when I turned a dial. Encouraged to use her condiments, I twisted her Himalayan salt grinder over my simmering chicken, not realizing that the cap hadn't been screwed on tight. The grinder fell into the pan, sending bright pink granules scattering all over my dish and onto the kitchen counter just as the front door opened and her lithe, assured footsteps announced her arrival. 'Is anything wrong, Monica?' she asked as she entered the kitchen, perhaps noticing the shock on my face as I attempted to gather myself. 'I'm so sorry. I accidentally spilled your salt.' Glancing at the kitchen counter, I saw that I hadn't spilled that much, and was embarrassed at my own mortification—it was just salt, and surely it was nothing to her. But then her face darkened, and in a low voice, she said, 'That's very expensive salt.' She perched herself on a bar stool and folded her arms, her silence issuing an unspoken order as I gathered the pink crystals in my palmand poured them back into the grinder. Was this salt so precious that I had to pour it back into the shaker despite the dirt it may have touched? It wasn't something I would have done in my own household, and yet my movements were not my own as I felt her eyes watching my every move, pulling invisible strings attached to my limbs. 'That's enough,' she said, as I tried to pick out more salt from my simmering dish. She narrowed her eyes and nodded as I apologized profusely. In my room, out of her sight, my discomfort hung in the air like a low hum. I had seen the same salt at the nearby grocery store, and was sure it hadn't been that expensive. (True enough, a few days later I saw the same brand of salt in the supermarket being sold for about $3.) I had lived in my own apartment prior to coming to New Zealand, and never thought I'd be reduced to a frightened child inside the place I lived. I could hear her footsteps and then a rapping on my door. 'You're in your room all the time. This is your house. Come out and explore!' she said, throwing her hands in the air. I smiled, thanked her, and told her I was busy attending to schoolwork. 'But you can work in the living room too!' she said, her voice forming a gentle plea. Was she trying to apologise for what had happened earlier? I found myself softening to her, and my panic began to ebb as I picked up my laptop and followed her upstairs. She disappeared into the TV lounge right next to her kitchen, while I made for her living room overlooking the hills. I settled uncomfortably into a sofa, not knowing if I could get any writing done in this room that bore no trace of use. It was dark outside, and I could no longer see the hills outside the living room window, but the L-shape of the house allowed me to peer into its kitchen and TV room, where my landlady sat on an easy chair before a flickering screen. Was I a figurine in her dollhouse, to be bent and arranged according to her will? I had to admit that she had a way with me, and I returned to my room, hoping to get away from this queasy feeling. The next day she saw me opening the pantry to reach for a canister of sugar. 'When are you going to get your own stuff?' she asked, with a note of impatience. Freezing in the middle of her kitchen, I answered, 'I thought you told me to help myself.' 'That's because you didn't have anything when you arrived,' she said, her voice a sickly sweet caress. Glancing at the coffee I'd just made with her grounds in my small French press, she added, 'Can't you buy your own coffee? That coffee is very expensive.' When I returned to my bedroom, I noticed that the bathrobe she had left hanging on my door had disappeared, and when I stepped inside what was supposedly my private bath, I noticed that the bottle of bodywash she had left for me was also gone. I was spending a lot of time in the shower, she said, when I stepped outside the bathroom. 'Aren't you taking good care of that beautiful body of yours?' she asked, as I stood in her hallway with a towel wrapped around me. I didn't quite understand what she was getting at until she said it aloud: 'But power is expensive, Monica, and with your tarrying my bill's shooting up.' Taken with kind permission from the newly published essay collection Returning to My Father's Kitchen by Monica S Macansantos (Northwestern University Press, $US22), available in selected bookstores such as Unity in Wellington, or as print or ebook version direct from the publisher. The longest essay is about her unhappy experience in Karori. ReadingRoom is devoting all week to coverage of that totemic Wellington suburb. Tomorrow: a stout defence of its supposed charms by Leah McFall, author of the classic work Karori Confidential (Luncheon Sausage Books, 2018).


The Spinoff
8 hours ago
- The Spinoff
What Canterbury can teach the rest of the country about insurance stress
In Canterbury, some people are still dealing with insurance claims nearly 15 years after the earthquakes – and worsening climate change means more New Zealanders may have this emotional and financial toll ahead of them. Kate Dewes has a four-drawer filing cabinet in the garage of her house in Riccarton, Christchurch; it's filled with documents related to the series of insurance claims and disputed cases she went through to get her home repaired following the 2010 Christchurch earthquake. 'Our general experience was traumatic,' Dewes says. After filing a claim following the initial earthquake, the damage to Dewes' house wasn't completely repaired. She and her husband, Robert Green, asked for the repairs to be fully completed, which became an ordeal that sent them to the High Court, where they had to pay for their own lawyers and expert witnesses. Dewes' case was particularly high profile; it was used as a kind of test case for the Canterbury Earthquakes Insurance Tribunal and a short film was made about Dewes' experience. It is only recently, after nearly 15 years, that her family has been able to live in a fully repaired home, which doesn't leak or have falling chimneys. 'You saw how I looked in the film – I'm much calmer now. We've got our home back,' Dewes says, sitting in her restored study. Following the Christchurch earthquakes of 2011 and 2011, insurance claims were an ongoing reminder of the disaster. 'From research in Australia, and anecdotally here, we've heard that disputing an insurance claim can be more distressing than the experience of the disaster itself,' says Lauren Vinnell, a lecturer in psychology at Massey University who studies disasters. 'Insurance is a really important part of recovery; if claims are settled quickly, people are less likely to move, businesses are less likely to close.' The years following the Canterbury earthquakes showed this acutely. Ilan Noy, a professor of economics, specialises in the impacts of disaster and climate change at Victoria University of Wellington, and has pored through economic data showing how the quakes reshaped Christchurch. 'Data from eight years following the earthquakes show increased levels of anxiety and stress,' he says. He looked at insurance specifically, comparing people in the red zone who accepted a government buyout of their house at its capital value (CV) to those who made an insurance claim. On a financial level, many people made the wrong choice – they could have got more money from the government than via insurance, or vice versa, with the choice largely influenced by what their neighbours were doing. But people who went through the government buyout process tended to be happier, even if they hadn't got the best deal financially. 'It's a lot more straightforward to tick a box and get the money within weeks,' Noy says. Negotiating with private insurance meant both sides paying for experts, making arguments about what the damage was. 'It's not terribly surprising that that process is more cumbersome than just going with the CV,' Noy says. Cantabrians' experience with insurance disputes, on a financial and emotional level, has something to teach the rest of the country as disasters exacerbated by climate change continue. Natural hazards like flooding, landslides and wildfires are more intense and frequent in a hotter climate. This is already affecting insurance. Areas with recurrent flooding, for example, have had their premiums hiked; Nick Smith, Nelson mayor, has pointed out that the council's hazard map, identifying risky areas, affected insurance premiums and house sales. Hundreds of insurance claims have already been made following the recent Nelson-Tasman floods. An independent reference group led by the Ministry of the Environment recently examined the issue of how to pay for climate buyouts in a report on climate adaptation. 'In the past, local and central government have offered buyouts of up to the full value of properties affected by natural hazards. These decisions reduce incentives for people to understand and manage their own risk, can distort property prices, and have given rise to an expectation that buyouts will continue, creating a moral hazard,' the report said. It recommended slowly phasing out buyouts over 20 years, as well as changing land-use patterns to reduce future risks. It's not just people in earthquake-damaged Canterbury who will be negotiating with insurers and the government for the value of their primary asset, it will be people everywhere. Vinnell's research team, a collaboration between Massey's Centre for Disaster Research and the University of Canterbury, has just launched a survey, trying to get a better understanding of the experience of disputing insurance claims, beyond Canterbury. 'People in a disaster situation are often physically and psychologically traumatised,' she says. 'We're interested in how this interacts with dealing with an insurance dispute.' Vinnell and the other researchers will use the survey as a starting point, also interviewing people about their experiences. While she expects that most people will have had a negative experience, she's also interested in people who have had disputes resolved quickly, and how they feel about it as a result. The mundane details, of emails and photos, documentation and going through policies line by line, look like office work. But it implicates your home – a major financial asset – and where you can live. Dewes would sometimes stay up all night preparing documents for hearings in the morning. 'When I was up all night with the photocopier going, using my computer, something that kept me strong was knowing that it could help a whole lot of other people settle – but I got close to a breakdown.' Her hope is that her case will set a precedent for others. After featuring in the short film, she had people come to her house 'bawling their eyes out' over their experiences with insurance claims, and wanting to talk to someone about it. Dewes has worked as peace campaigner and researcher; she was able to pay for lawyers and experts and was confident dealing with documents, which isn't the case for everyone. Still, the experience of disputing the insurance claim felt harrowing. 'In the end, the earthquakes were an absolute doddle compared to the insurance company,' says Robert Green, Dewes' husband. Continuing to find the money for lawyers was stressful, as was the fact that Green was diagnosed with cancer in 2013. 'I don't allow myself to think about what I could have done with the last 15 years if we hadn't had to deal with this – you'd just become resentful,' says Green. Dewes imagines more time with her kids and grandkids; less time living in a cold, leaky house, waiting for repairs. Both have practical tips for people preparing to dispute insurance claims. 'Take notes, of everything,' Dewes says. When calling an insurance company, write down what you've discussed; take photos and keep evidence of work you've done on your home in case the cause of damage is debated afterwards. She's also heard of people whose computers and documents are destroyed in a disaster; she recommends digital and hard copies of documents, kept at a different location. Insurance makes calculations to insure homes based on risk and profit, Noy says. But having ultra-high premiums – like, say, $50,000 – isn't a good look as a business, so in areas exposed to severe natural hazards, insurers may simply refuse to insure houses. 'Insurance is always a one-year contract, so every year insurers can recalculate the risk,' Noy says. Events like Auckland's 2023 floods have caused insurers to advocate for greater flood protection in areas where inundation is likely. For politicians, choosing to pay for buyouts of houses after a disaster isn't a financial calculation, but a political one. 'It's more about electability than cost,' Noy says. Telling people that their home, and likely their greatest asset, is now impossible to sell because it can't be publicly bought out or privately insured following a disaster is always going to be unpopular. Noy has called the current system, where the government has no set position on buyouts, the 'worst' possible policy option – especially because money spent on buyouts is money not spent on planning and preparing for future disasters. Vinnell has talked to the Natural Hazards Commission and the Insurance Council, both of which are interested in the outcomes of her research into the emotional effect of insurance disputes. 'We're particularly interested in how one experience might shape decisions to dispute insurance in the future,' she says. Homes are linked to emotions as well as mortgages and bank accounts. 'How much do insurance claims take into account the value of staying in your neighbourhood, choosing to rebuild or repair?' The number of people dealing with insurance disputes is likely to keep rising as disasters continue. 'I can see that this problem is going to get worse because of climate change, let alone another major earthquake,' Green says. Both he and Dewes feel for the many people who share their experience of living in damaged houses, not knowing when they will get a resolution. 'My heart aches for anyone else who has to go through what we went through,' Dewes says.


Otago Daily Times
2 days ago
- Otago Daily Times
Concern 1080 will lower deer numbers
The use of 1080 poison where white tailed deer live could severely reduce the numbers of the "iconic" game animal, a hunting advocate says. New Zealand Game Animal Council chief executive Corina Jordan has recently returned from a trip to Stewart Island/Rakiura, where she talked to community members about the recent Department of Conservation aerial 1080 operation. The operation is part of a plan to save the endangered southern dotterel (pukunui) that is being preyed upon by wild cats. In phase one of the operation, 1080 bait with and without deer repellant was dropped on about 6500ha, earlier this month. Phase two of the operation will cover about 40,000ha and is scheduled to start next month. About five days after the drop, three dead white tailed deer were found with 1080 pellets in their stomachs in a hunting block where deer repellant had been used. Miss Jordan said if plans to remove predators from the whole island went ahead in 2026, the deer would not be wiped out, but their numbers would be significantly reduced. "That would put a stop to hunting on the island for quite a substantial period. "Hunters aren't going to want to visit an island that's been impacted by intrusive predator control." This would also affect the economy of the island, she said. While the council supported predator control and conservation, the use of the poison in areas where deer lived was concerning. The poison was not "authorised to be used to control deer". "It's inhumane. "There's animal health or well-being issues using 1080 on deer." The island's white tailed deer were special in that it was only one of two small wild populations. "It provides an outstanding hunting opportunity." Many people made an annual trip to the island to shoot the deer, which were not easy to hunt. "They're really intelligent and they're quite secretive." White tailed venison was also prized. "The meat in relation to quality, taste and texture is arguably some of the best." New Zealanders needed to have a "courageous conversation" about the use of 1080 to kill predators in areas where deer live and whether deer repellant should be used in the bait, she said. There was little research done on how white tailed deer responded to bait with deer repellant added. However, Sika deer research showed 10% died when deer repellant was used and 70-80% died where no repellant was used. The council was in favour of managing the resource, which had happened with Fiordland's wapiti deer population. "You can have quite substantial conservation outcomes while maintaining the hunting resource." After the discovery of the three dead deer on the island last week, ZIP operations director Duncan Kay said the operation was an opportunity to measure the effectiveness of deer repellant in reducing the impact of 1080 on white tailed deer. "It is acknowledged that deer repellent is unlikely to prevent all deer deaths."