I have often maintained that the only distinct difference between New Zealand and Australia is the volume at which they choose to be culturally insufferable. New Zealand prefers a smug, quiet self-satisfaction—a damp, woolen cloak of moral superiority. Australia, conversely, opts for a sun-bleached, loud-mouthed arrogance fueled by dug-up minerals and an inexplicable pride in their ability to survive their own wildlife. Yet, here we are, witnessing a demographic shift that proves, once and for all, that human beings will tolerate absolutely anything—including Australians—if you dangle an extra ten dollars an hour in front of their faces.

According to the latest metrics of despair, more than one percent of New Zealand’s entire population fled the Shire in the year ending in October. They packed up their gumboots, abandoned their overpriced, uninsulated wooden shacks, and crossed the Tasman Sea. The stated reasons? "More money" and, in a turn of phrase that makes me want to drive a rusty spoon into my frontal lobe, "better vibes."

Let us deconstruct this absolute farce, shall we?

For years, the global Left—those performative hypocrites who treat politics like a fashion accessory—held New Zealand up as the promised land. It was the bunker for the apocalypse, the billionaire’s bolt-hole, the land of Saint Jacinda where kindness was currency and COVID was just a bad dream happening to other, lesser nations. We were told it was a utopia. But as I have told you repeatedly, utopias are just dystopias with better PR departments. The reality of New Zealand is that it is an isolated farm at the bottom of the world where a block of cheese costs a mortgage payment and the housing market is a Ponzi scheme built on moldy drywall.

So, the Kiwis are leaving. They are defecting. But look at where they are going. They aren't seeking enlightenment; they are seeking Australia. They are trading a failing neo-liberal experiment for a slightly richer neo-liberal experiment. They are leaving a country run by ineffective bureaucrats for a country run by ineffective bureaucrats who happen to be sitting on a pile of iron ore. It is the lateral move of the century, a frantic shuffle from one deck chair to another on a ship that is slowly taking on water, simply because the second chair has a slightly better view of the iceberg.

Let’s talk about the money. Of course, it’s about the money. It is always about the money. The Right loves to prattle on about patriotism and national identity, but the moment the grocery bill exceeds the paycheck, patriotism evaporates faster than a campaign promise. The New Zealand economy is suffocating under the weight of its own geography and lack of scale. So, the populace is engaging in the oldest human tradition: mercenary migration. They are selling their allegiance to the highest bidder. In this case, the bidder is Canberra, a city designed by a sadist to punish politicians, representing a nation where the cost of living crisis is mitigated only by the fact that you might die of heatstroke before your rent is due.

And then there is the "vibes." Good god, the vibes. What a vacuous, hollow justification for uprooting one’s life. When a migrant tells a reporter they are moving for "better vibes," what they are actually saying is that they are tired of the specific flavor of depression that hangs over Auckland and wish to sample the manic, sun-drenched anxiety of Sydney. New Zealand’s "vibe" is the quiet desperation of a small town that knows it's irrelevant. Australia’s "vibe" is the loud desperation of a resource colony pretending it’s a superpower.

This exodus exposes the lie of the modern nation-state. We are not citizens; we are economic hostages. The moment the ransom gets too high in one cell, we beg to be transferred to the cell next door. The New Zealand government, in all its ineptitude, can’t stop the bleeding because they have nothing to offer but scenery. You can’t eat a mountain view. You can’t pay for power with a sense of community. The social contract is broken.

So, goodbye, Kiwis. Enjoy your new life across the ditch. Enjoy the snakes, the spiders, the blistering sun, and the casual racism of your bogan cousins. You will have a few extra dollars in your pocket, which you will immediately spend on mediocrity priced as luxury, just as you did at home. You haven't escaped the rat race; you've just moved to a larger maze with slightly better cheese. And me? I’ll be here, watching the percentage points tick up, laughing at the futility of it all. One percent of the country gone in a year. Give it a few decades, and the last person left in New Zealand can turn off the lights—assuming they can afford the electricity bill, which, let’s be honest, they won't.