Every year pilgrims flock to a small settlement just outside Whanganui. They gather to celebrate the birthday of Tahupotiki Wiremu Ratana, the founder of a movement that changed the religious and political landscape of New Zealand.
Sparks are flying in Marlborough over a project using New Zealand falcons to protect vineyards from bird damage. Falcons for Grapes breeds and releases falcons to act as bouncers, preying on pests such as starlings and sparrows, which cause huge damage to grape crops every year. Falcons prefer to conduct their protection racket from lofty vantage points, and centuries of forest clearance have left the birds no choice but to roost on power poles. But many of Marlborough’s poles carry high-voltage transformers with unearthed wires, says project leader Dr Nick Fox: “So if they land on that box and happen to touch one, they’re cooked.” In 2006, five falcons were electrocuted on transformers, a third of that year’s releases. So far, Fox has prevented any more deaths by only releasing falcons far from electricity infrastructure, but that means releasing them far from most of marlborough’s vineyards as well. “There are areas where it’s just not feasible to have falcons, because [the transformers] are death traps,” says Fox. Ironically, many vineyards have cut trees down to stop them being colonised by pest birds, says Falcons for Grapes general manager Colin Wynn, “and there are power lines everywhere here; it’s a real spider web.” Projects overseas have fitted insulating hoods over problem transformers, but Marlborough Lines operations manager Brian Tapp says that would mean converting 700 power poles at $300 each. Falcons for Grapes has asked Marlborough Lines to sponsor that work, and while Tapp said no response had been given, the idea was “not closed”. Lake Chalice Wines supports the project, but its Renwick property is seen as too risky for a release site. Managing director Phil Binnie says the estimate was “a little bit disingenuous. They’re out there having to check the transformers anyway; is it costing them $300 to put that fix on? I don’t think so. If there was enough pressure on them, if there was public pressure... I think you would find that the cost could be brought down considerably.” But not everybody is keen to see falcons back in Marlborough. “New Zealanders are not really used to having predators around,” says Fox. “People are still busy winning the West, and anything that gets in the way of their chooks, their fi rst instinct is to kill it.” Which means, he added, that “you are never going to get a diverse, balanced ecosystem in New zealand".
For all sorts of reasons: to defend territory, attract a mate, let a mate know where it is, because it’s fun, because it’s dawn. What is unusual about New Zealand native birds (and many bird species in the southern Hemisphere) is that the females can belt out a tune as well as their male counterparts, while females of the northern Hemisphere either can’t or won’t.
I grew up with a mainsheet between my teeth, and every summer as the mercury rises, the salinity of my blood seems to increase in anticipation of another dousing. There is nothing, in all the world, more satisfying than hoisting a rag, casting off from the tangle of civilisation and sailing towards a beckoning horizon. You are the master of your own destiny and subject only to the favour of the wind and tide. Perhaps Charles Darwin, upon sailing down the turbid green waters of Plymouth Sound and into the English Channel, had a similar sense of anticipation for the five years voyaging that lay ahead of him. But by the time he arrived on New Zealand shores, the privation of ocean voyaging was beginning to sting, as outlined by Kennedy Warne in this issue. Nevertheless, what Darwin learned here about the impact of introduced species, provided formative material for the seminal work of biological science, The Origin of Species. But as we celebrate the 200th anniversary of Darwin’s birth and the 150th anniversary of the publication of Origin, we’re also aware that his dire projections for the future of endemic species in New Zealand have been borne out by history, sometimes in almost invisible ways. The decline of endemic butterflies is one of the most overlooked consequences of the changes made to our environment in the last century. Yet, despite their fragility, and as Dave Hansford reveals, our butterflies have prevailed in some of the most unexpected places. Our endemic butterflies are regularly joined by vagrants from across the Tasman, some of which have established here. But some of our residents come from much farther afield, such as the godwit unceremoniously called “E7”. In 2007, she flew into the record books and gained public notoriety when a satellite tag revealed what many already suspected: that every year these unassuming waders undertake the longest non-stop migration of any land bird. Denis Welch profiles these quiet achievers. Also in this issue, Derek Grzelewski traces the development of the olive oil industry while Aaron Smale celebrates the birthday of Ratana, and the movement he inspired. I wish you all the best for the season, wherever you set your sail.
Around about now the cicadas will be making their usual summer racket. But that isn’t the deafening sound of a single type of cicada, but a number of different species: New Zealand has five genera and at least 54 known species. “And there’s probably more,” says Jim Esson, an entomologist and cicada enthusiast who has collected two or three cicada specimens he believes to be new species.
Our enigmatic butterflies
The Moa disappeared 600 years ago, but at least one of our native buttercups—the tiny Ceratocephala pungens, found only in the Mackenzie Basin and Central Otago—continues to suffer the consequences. This is one of the discoveries Jamie Wood has made from his research into coprolites, or fossilised moa droppings, which he conducted for his PhD with the University of Otago. Wood went looking for them in Central Otago, along gorges and under ledges, places where sheep often shelter. “If it’s dry enough for sheep, its probable that birds and moa sheltered there in the past.” Wood’s digs have yielded around 1500–1800 coprolites, left behind by moa and other extinct birds, ranging from 5 mm sized lumps likely to have been left behind by parakeets, to 10 cm moa droppings. While the coprolites are rock-hard when found, they come up as good as new after being soaked in liquid for a few weeks. Close examination yields all sorts of insights, not only on the habits and habitats of different moa species, but also the impact of their extinction on surviving species. Such as the aforementioned buttercup, one of New Zealand’s rarest plants. Unexpectedly high levels of its seeds were found in the moa coprolites. “We were really blown away that these birds would eat such tiny plants,” says Wood. Analysis revealed that the plants contain high levels of calcium. As the coprolites were usually found in nesting areas, it makes sense that moa, when they were about to lay eggs, would boost their calcium levels. One of the reasons the buttercup is so vulnerable these days is that it doesn’t stand a chance against more invasive plants. (Which explains why the only places it still survives— Central Otago and the Mackenzie Basin—is where rabbits have decimated much of the competing flora.) But now scientists know that another key reason is that it is toxic to mammals, and without the moa, there are few animals left to spread its seeds. “It shows how important it is, in the conservation of plants, to understand how they evolved alongside birds,” says Wood. More revelations about the relationship between our extinct fauna and existing flora are to come: Wood and colleagues at Landcare Research and at the University of Adelaide’s Australian Centre for Ancient DNA (the only custom-built built lab designed to specifically to examine ancient DNA in the southern Hemisphere) received $768,000 in last year’s Marsden funding round.
John Reynolds, artist, recalls the time he was in a pub in the gold-mining town of Macrae’s Flat, Central Otago, and how he was telling the locals that he was planning to create a public sculpture, and that the sculpture would be made of tussock, and the locals looked at the Aucklander and laughed, “F**ing tussock!?”
My garden’s doing pretty well right now. At the risk of sounding both sanctimonious and trendy, it’s a Good Thing to grow your own vegetables, despite the fact that clinging to the side of a Wellington hill means developing a taste for an awful lot of silver beet. The explanation for the relatively lush growth on an unpromising clay base is a regular application of horse manure. The explanation for the horse manure is a horse. Of course. It’s conceivable that a horse could be specially trained to defecate on the garden without either eating or stomping all over the plants, but as far as I know it’s never been done. Even Clever Hans, the famous 19th century mathematical horse was apparently merely reading his trainer’s facial expressions in order to know when to stop tapping his hoof—which seems quite clever enough, actually, given that I am unable to train my horse to stop and go in an orderly fashion no matter how many facial expressions I employ. Both square roots and the targeted fertilising of vegetables are beyond us at this point in our relationship. So what I do is, I feed the horse elsewhere, collect the copious product of its digestive system, and put it on the garden myself.I am the link between horse and vegetable. I do not mean that in an evolutionary sense, you understand. However, it does seem that I need the horse in order to have vegetables. I don’t, of course, need vegetables in order to have the horse, but it does help to make an approximately virtuous circle out of an activity that in truth is quite indefensible. You see, I don’t have the horse for its bowel movements alone. I also ride it. Horse-riding is often associated with noble and romantic ideas of Harmony and Nature and the Great Outdoors, but the brutal reality is that it involves forcing an animal into leather contraptions akin to the tools of trade of a dominatrix and shoving a piece of metal into its mouth in order to bend it to your will. We tell ourselves the horse enjoys it, although that’s wishful thinking because it’s very hard to tell what a horse enjoys. A horse is an inexpressive type of animal, not disposed to effusions of affection or enthusiasm for anything much except food. So my horse and I have a deal. I give him food, and he lets me sit on him and make him do very unnatural things. It’s a primitive kind of arrangement with a very thin veneer of moral acceptability, due to the fact that I don’t intend to kill and eat the horse at the end of it all—at least, not unless the silverbeet is stricken with a disastrous blight which wipes out the entire crop and it comes down to the horse or me. And also due to the fact that the horse could quite easily kill me at any time, though I think even he may draw the line at eating me. This unspoken agreement (well, obviously it’s unspoken—we’re not dealing with Mister Ed) to let each other live allows me to pretend it’s a partnership, even though sometimes he seems to think he’s entitled to cause a little physical damage, the odd minor concussion or broken bone, just to remind me who’s really in charge. If you have a horse, unless you’re a very rich person with minions, there’s a lot of mucking out to do. It’s called mucking out because horses used to live in stables, but now they’re free-range, and technically it should be called mucking off. Whatever, mucky it is, and over a large paddock instead of a small stable. I know what you’re thinking. I thought it myself once. If horse dung is good for the garden, why not just leave it where it falls so that it can do good for the grass? Well, it appears that concentrated piles of horse manure left sitting on the grass turn it sour, and although the grass eventually grows green and lush in those places, the horses won’t eat it. And thus, with a kind of emissions trading scheme, I’m able to offset the vice of equestrian activity with the virtue of homegrown organic vegetables. Isn’t nature wonderful?
The idea of establishing the Women’s Royal New Zealand Naval Service—known as the Wrens—was first floated in May 1941, but it was another year before the navy appointed a Director, Miss R Herrick and her deputy, Miss F H Fenwick, and recruitment began in earnest. Selection standards were high: of the first 870 applications received up to January 1943, 350 were turned down for being unsuitable, not qualified enough or for having inferior health.
The New Zealand that Charles Darwin dismissed as “the land of cannibalism and all atrocity” after his short visit in 1835, later featured prominently in his writings on evolution.
Tongariro is by far the most popular national park in the North Island, attracting tens of thousands of skiers, walkers and trampers every year. The park centres around three active volcanoes: Tongariro, Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu, all of which are considered by local Maori to be sacred ancestors. In 1887 the chief of the local iwi Ngati Tuwharetoa, Horonuku Te Heuheu Tukino IV, gifted the peaks to the government as the basis for the country’s first national park. The mountains continue to play an important spiritual role for both Tuwharetoa and another iwi, Ngati Rangi. In recognition of their strong spiritual links to the volcanoes, in 1993 the park became the first to receive joint World Heritage Status for both its landscape and cultural values. Needless to say, many multi-day tramps in the park are possible, with the Tongariro Northern Circuit a popular choice. One of the eight Great Walks, the track crosses some of the most colourful and remarkable volcanic topography anywhere on the planet, with expansive views and good huts. Be warned, however, that part of the track overlaps with the Tongariro Crossing, perhaps the most popular day tramp in New Zealand. On this section you will likely meet a steady stream of people, and it’s far from a ‘wilderness’ experience. The circuit is exposed to the weather no matter which direction it comes from, a fact which has led to many deaths for ill-equipped walkers. You’ll need to take warm and weatherproof clothing as the weather can change with lethal speed. In winter, skills with an ice axe and crampons may be necessary too. Whakapapa to Waihohonu Hut (29 bunks) 5–6 hours The track begins from Ngauruhoe Place, some 100 metres from the Whakapapa Visitor Centre. Two options—the upper and lower tracks—lead to the spectacular Taranaki Falls: either takes about an hour. From the falls, a further two-hour tramp crosses exposed terrain to Tama Saddle—the low point between Mts Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu. From Tama Saddle it is possible to take a short side trip to visit the nearby Tama Lakes (one half to one and a half hours return). Past Tama Saddle a further two to three hours tramping down the Waihohonu Stream leads to the new Waihohonu Hut, passing the side track to the historic Waihohonu Hut (built 1903–04) en route. Waihohonu to Oturere Hut (26 bunks), 3 hours After leaving Waihohonu Hut, the track climbs a ridge then crosses a beech-clad valley. Beyond, the track traverses barren, undulating terrain, with good views of Mt Ngauruhoe. Oturere Hut also has views of the imposing volcano. Oturere to Emerald Lakes, 1.5–2 hours An endless variety of jagged lava flows from the Red Crater eruptions between 2500 and 87,000 years ago cover the glacier-formed Oturere valley, making it a surreal place to visit on a misty day. From here the track begins a steep climb up to the lip of Central Crater, right beside the Emerald Lakes. These are three old explosion pits now filled by highly acidic lakes, all of an arresting blue-green colour that change hue according to the light and time of day. Emerald Lakes to Ketetahi Hut (26 bunks) 1–1.5 hours The Tongariro Northern Circuit heads up Red Crater, but many trampers opt to spend a night at Ketetahi Hut. Desolate Central Crater provides flat, easy walking, ending with a zigzag ascent to a basin occupied by the dazzling Blue Lake. After skirting the western shores of Blue Lake, the track descends into a rocky gully, and zigzags down to Ketetahi Hut. The hut has commanding views over Lake Rotoaira, Mt Pihanga, Lake Taupo and the Kaimanawa mountains. Emerald Lakes to Mangatepopo Hut (23 bunks) 3–4 hours Back at the Emerald Lakes, the circuit resumes, beginning a climb up the scoria slopes of the colourful Red Crater. Loose rock can make this a tough climb. Above Red Crater lies Pt 1886m, the highest point on the circuit and an outstanding viewpoint. Ngauruhoe rises starkly from South Crater, with Ruapehu partially hidden behind. A poled side trail leads to the summit of Tongariro (1967 m), lowest of the three major peaks in the park. From Pt 1886m, there is a steady descent along a ridge to South Crater. Poles lead across the flat expanse of South Crater ending on a lip overlooking the Mangatepopo Valley. From the lip, there’s the option of climbing Ngauruhoe (2287 m), an energy-sapping but rewarding scramble up steep scree slopes. Otherwise head downhill on a series of sharp zigzags that end beside the bubbling Mangatepopo Stream. Old lava flows originating from Mt Ngauruhoe dominate the valley. Toilets exist near the Soda Springs. Mangatepopo Hut lies just 20 minutes from the Mangatepopo roadend. Mangatepopo to Whakapapa 3–5 hours Many people choose to end their tramp at Mangatepopo, and do not complete the full circuit back to Whakapapa using this track, which is eroded in places and crosses several streams. After leaving Mangatepopo Hut, head towards the Mangatepopo Road. The track to Whakapapa branches off after five minutes. Initially the track rounds the western slopes of Pukekaikiore, thought to be one of the older vents of the Tongariro complex, then passes Pukeonake, a low scoria cone. Views of Mt Ruapehu open up as you approach Whakapapa.
Wind is one of the hardest weather elements to depict in paintings, yet Rita Angus succeeds magnificently in her watercolors of the lakes in Central Otago. By showing choppy waves whipped up on the lake’s surface, and trees leaning over with their foliage streaming out downwind, she conveys the excitement and movement of a strong breeze. The trees are particularly eye-catching, and the confident brush strokes of the flowing foliage contrast dramatically with the rigid tracery of the tree’s limbs, showing something of the influence of Chinese and Japanese landscape painting.
Thanks to satellite tracking, we now know that godwits fly the 12,000 km journey from Alaska to New Zealand without ever stopping.
Most linguists and cognitive scientists agree that we humans are uniquely blessed with the gift of language. Compared to human speech, animal calls are stereotyped and fixed, and tied to specific situations such as mating, territorial claims, expressing aggression, or raising alarm. The nearest equivalent to speech seems to come, not from our nearest relatives the great apes, but from birds. Parrots, for example, can imitate human speech, and even be taught to answer simple questions, like naming the colour of a block, or counting the number of objects in a display (but only up to about six). Songbirds in the wild generate complex songs, but these are largely repetitive and probably serve primarily as identification codes. They have none of the individual variety that enables humans to express a virtually infinite range of ideas, thoughts and opinions.
Olive oil gains traction
On January 23 1863, the German-born geologist Johann Franz Julius von Haast reached the mountain pass that bears his name; a momentous occasion as he believed his party of five to be the first Europeans to traverse the 564 m crossing.
Fine documentary photojournalists are as rare and as delightful to encounter as any of New Zealand’s endangered species. As this magazine's art director, I am all too aware of the difficulties that a complex photo-journalistic assignment poses. An instinct that puts a photographer in a certain place at a certain time with an eye for the right frame/moment is vital. “The fight for Otaki” in our last issue and “Ratana” in this issue, both of which were written and photographed by Aaron Smale, highlight this instinct. But once there, the very act of pointing a camera at people who are conscious of a photographer heavily influences the scene that unfolds. The first challenge is to be ignored by those in the viewfinder. For that to occur there must be a link between photographer and subject: empathy and trust, after which, the photographer seems to become invisible. Another important ingredient for an assign to express this in a way that would be succinct and truthful. Hitting all these targets is no mean feat. The requirements are quite paradoxical: you must hold the big picture in your mind’s eye while teasing out the vignette; you must be the most awkward and visible person in the room, yet go unseen. Addressing this problem Smale says: “I don’t have any particularly coherent philosophy of photojournalism—I just like taking pictures, particularly of people. I find people and images of people endlessly fascinating. Photography is just an extension of that. Eventually they forget you’ve got a camera and then it’s just a matter of waiting and watching for the image, that little sliver of time when the elements converge and you capture something special. When that comes together well, what you capture in your lens will hopefully give the viewer the experience of being there.”
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