TSS Earnslaw!

17/03/09

This morning we are looking forward to our steam boat trip. We haven’t booked it yet so we’re going to go down to the wharf and see what we can do. We start the day with a rather healthy portion of grapefruit, but then make it up with two huge bacon butties – much better! We head down to the wharf in the clear, warm morning daylight and trot along the wooden slats, hot in the sun, to the ticket office, just on the water. The girl there explains to us that there are several trips each day – one out to the Walter Peak sheep station to see sheep and have morning tea and sometimes another one, then also an evening trip with dinner and a pianist! We are torn between going for the evening one or tootling out on one of the others. Eventually we decide that here and now is good. Catch it while you can! We purchase tickets and trot for the gangplank as it is nearly ready to depart! It, sorry, She, is sitting, sleek and shiny, spotless but healthy with use, on the twinkling water, puffing lazily. We board, and admire the honey-gold wooden floors and panelling, and the brass finishings as we take in the unmistakable smell of steam-power. She is a lovely honey colour inside, and well-decorated, particularly in the rather lovely and floral saloon, where dinner is served later, apparently.
She is facing the right way this morning – sometimes she turns before she sets off, sometimes she doesn’t – so we don’t get to turn this time. One we are all on, the captain gives us a few snippets of information about the lovely steam beastie we are aboard.
She was built in 1912, which was the same year that the Titanic was built, but she has lasted far better! She burns (and I have a twinge of collective, greenie guilt at this point) one ton of coal per hour when she’s travelling on the water. They fill the lower holds with coal depending on which side is closest to the wharf and leave the other side empty. This, of course, would make the boat list horribly, so they have a gargantuan concrete block on the upper deck to compensate for the weight below. It’s a huge thing, at least as tall as my waist and square, with a little hooked handle in the top to grab it by. Simple but effective! Just because something isn’t highly technical, doesn’t mean it won’t work just as well! The captain also tells us, proudly, that the Queen and President Clinton had dinner here… So it must be good! We also find out, to my interest, what TSS stands for. It’s not some peculiar way of saying HMS, which is what I wondered; it simply denotes the type of boat, in this case, a Twin Screw Steamer.
I find, down below, not for the last time by any means, the engine room.
I am transfixed.
Enchanted.
Agog.
The engine is quite beautiful. Painted in red and black with brass gauges and dials, it is glossy and pumping busily while we move. Rather like a well-toned man work busily, the pumping, sliding pistons and the huge wheels that they power move perfectly in time and with an oiled ease, sure of their power. It is hot in here, steam escapes from a few gaps in the two massive chambers and wisps away. The steam lifts the smell of coal and oil to me, on the metal gangway above the engine, tinted oddly with lemons. A chap wanders past below me in a smutted white boiler suit and scrubs down the floor – possibly the source of the lemon smell! His mate, also in smutty white, rams a shovel into a bunker of coal and flings in accurately into the glowing furnace, which accepts it with a gleam and sparks. It would be easy to believe that the Earnslaw is a great breathing, working, sweating beast, alive and docile. For now…
We are invited to a talk from one of the other crew members. He promises us interesting things, and we follow him, gathering by the inner balcony which looks down over the glistening engine far below.
The tour of the steamer begins…
At 84 km in length, Lake Wakatipu is the third longest lake in New Zealand. It is 5km wide and 420 metres deep – the average depth is 300metres; that’s the same as looking up all the way to the gondolas, way up on the mountainside!
So, why is the TSS Earnslaw here?
Well, it all began with the gold rush, which started when men with money decided they could afford to come here and pan for gold.
Now, because gold isn’t a guaranteed income, and very few people even managed to cover their costs let alone find a sizeable amount of gold, several of the men who came out here bought big farms too; or ‘sheep stations’ as they were known (and still are). Moving the sheep around could be tricky – hard to herd when there’s a mountain in the way, and boy are there mountains! So there was a Government tender for a boat for Lake Wakatipu in Queenstown. It was won by a Scottish shipbuilder called MacGregor, from Dunedin. The bottom half of the boat was built in Dunedin down to the south-east, and was carefully numbered. Each part and plate and frame was given a number, some of which are still visible around the boat. These numbered parts were put on a steam train to Invercargill, where they were taken to the bottom of the lake on a branch line. Once there, it was rebuilt in situ and finally put on the lake at Kingston.
By the 18th October 1912, she was ready for her maiden voyage. The 51m boat steamed into Queenstown with 1500 sheep on the prom deck (though never allowed in the saloon, in case of the smell!).
During the 1920s, the Earnslaw was kept very busy. Every other day her duty was to stop all the way down the lake for sheep, dogs, feed etc, and make coal stops for herself. Coal was collected form Kingstown where it had arrived from Ohi on the train. It was shovelled off the steam train into bags and taken down to the boat. Some was left stockpiled at Queenstown in case of emergencies. On the other days, she made the same trip in the opposite direction.
On Sundays, the schedule for the crew consisted of church and then well-earned beer and sleep!

In those times, the Earnslaw was the sole method of getting from one side of the lake to the other – the little outposts were so remote and so surrounded by hills and mountains that there was no other option but to use the steamer. If a woman was having a baby at one of the outlying sheep stations now, she and her husband could either call for a helicopter to the nearest hospital, or, as is the case in many of these little places now, use their own air or water transport. However, back in the day, the trip would have been a little more fraught. The expectant mother would have to have been incredibly well-prepared (and able to count!) as the trip involved a steamer journey to Queenstown, then another one to Kingston, then a trainride to Invercargill. This would have taken around three days assuming it was going the right way on the right days – not a good way to spend your confinement!
Most of the people these days do have their own air and water transport so they can be self-sufficient.
The guide takes us through the boiler room to the other side and asks us to sit down on a long low black seat. Two of the rather more vintage ladies who have just seated themselves, look at one another in surprise and as their eyebrows rise, they leap up, chintz shirts and sensible waterproofs flapping in their hurry.
This is where the pipes for the boiler room run – either dead cold because it’s a coold day and they are made from steel, or roasting hot because of the steam! Today it is warm – not enough to burn, but sufficient that the two toasted ladies stand sheepishly rather than sit as we listen to the guide’s next part… He knew that would happen and his smile is wry and cheeky!
IT is interesting htat the boat stays clean on the bottom – I had noticed this as I got on, that there were none of the usual crustations or crustaceans that one might expect on a boat of this magnitude. This is because it is a freshwater boat, and the water is clean and free from brine and creatures.
In 1912, the boat builders WAGs got a free trip on the maiden voyage. One of them was a young mum, with a tiny babe in arms, called Isabelle. Isabelle, aged 90, was recently invited back to the TSS Earnslaw’s 90th party too! They celebrated together…

Talk over, I head back into the engine room, magnetically drawn in by the seamless mechanical beauty of it. There is a slightly damp boiler suit hanging up to dry in a corner near a small, neat pile of personal belongings and a small nest... IT won’t take long to dry down here, and it evidence that life down here is much the same as it has always been, busy and frantic but gentle and far from modern strains!
I spend the rest of the trip (minutes really) staring happily at the engine, this living breathing beast, with glossy pipes and oiled wheels, greasy cogs and perfect turns, shiny red lids and smutted bolts.
I am grinned at by a passing boiler man through the mesh as I stare, and I grin back, yelling ‘she’s beautiful!’ above the noise. He nods…

All too soon we are sliding past the great, looming, gorgeous, snow-tipped, jagged mountains, over the crystal-clear, blue-reflected waters towards the sheep station at Walter Point. We all disembark, safe in the knowledge that we have been promised sheep and morning tea – what more could you possibly want?! Walter Point is very pretty – a delightful colonial-style house nestles at the foot of the mountains surrounded by its own lush and splendid garden and next to it the sheep station stretches, with well-kept, vintage barns and dusty yards leading into paddocks which in turn make their way up the hillside. You can see why dogs would be so useful when keeping sheep out here – some of the terrain is practically vertical! First stop we are taken out to one of the paddocks to see the sheep first hand. There are two incredibly well-trained dogs which are shown to us by our guide for the day. They have sharp, utilitarian names; I believe one is called Shadow. They are well-fed, toned animals, taught with waiting, ears pricked, sleek black bodies held tight to the ground, waiting merely for the shout or whistle that will send the pair of them out; little black streaks rounding up the sheep in near-perfect control. IT is a joy to watch, this fluid communication between man and beast – his shouts carrying way up high beyond the ridge of green trees. Three ducks zoom in from somewhere to investigate the empty paddock before the dogs return and strut about, quacking inelegantly, this raises a collective chuckle. I, thinking the guide has lost the dogs and that they have lost the sheep, am surprised when, out of earshot, a flood of sheep rounds a bend and crests the hill, followed by a perk-eared, neat black arrow which zigzags behind them. The sheep elude the dogs once, circling uncertainly back towards the crest of a hill and somehow flowing between the two lithe black forms which try to control them, but are driven back around again and herded down a sharp scree, which some of the older ewes are none too happy about. As they approach closer, I see that some of the ewes are sporting goldilocks curls over their eyes. They blink, meekly through their scruffy, demure curtains of wool, looking a lot like Little Bo Peep, and trot professionally towards the paddock where the guide is rattling a tub of sheep feed.
They know just what to expect, this cheeky flock!
With sheep of various hues and varieties clustering heavily about us, we are all invited to grab a handful of feed and pat the sheep. There are several small children in the group, and they are clearly delighted by this development, feeding and patting away with happy giggles and awed silences. I donate my own meagre handful to a rather slobbery black ewe, and a fluffy, soft, pale one who I believe is a merino. Picking my way around the paddock relatively carefully to avoid getting green poo in my flip-flops I discover, belatedly, that flip-flops and cloven hooves are a bad combination. Moments after I have discovered this, the guide tells us to watch out for the sheep, they’re heavy if they step on you.
Mmmph!!!
I inspect my battered foot carefully and, apart from a potential cloven bruise, it’s fine… Sheep are bigger than you expect, being fairly hefty, square creatures, and wool’s not light either!
Limping slightly I begin to head back to the shearing shed where the next part will take place. On the way I giggle as one of the more canny old ewes, who clearly knows what’s what, mobs the guide, who is still holding his bucket of sheep feed and plants her feet firmly on him so as to get her greedy nose into the nosh bucket… Successfully. She is such a dead weight on him that he has trouble shrugging her away, though he manages it by lifting his arms high and stepping back. She is quick though, too quick for him, and she’s back on her hind legs, nose in bucket, before he can do anything about it. Man and ewe engage in a strange bucket dance briefly as he wrangles for control and she is eventually persuaded to part with the bucket. The rest of us not wearing wool troop up to the shearing shed to sit on the benches there and watch what happens next.
Our guide, clearly a dyed-in-the-wool farming man, is soon with us again and the fun begins… We can see, up on a dais, a small corral with four sheep in it. They are clearly very shaggy and in need of a haircut, but look nervous, chewing worriedly and occasionally flicking their ears, tossing their heads or rolling their eyes. They are merinos and carry a large weight of wool on their backs. This is good for them to have removed as well as good for us to wear, otherwise they become weighed down and miserable, as well as too hot, and it is a glorious day today! Our guide tells us a bit about the sheep industry, and the shearing itself, before switching on the electric shears. The sheep startle and in that kind of stiff-legged but wobble-bodied way, all lurch to their feet and try to bolt through the bars on the opposite side of the corral.
One sneezes.
Our guide opens the corral and selects a sheep to shear, dragging her out forcibly, turning her over and clamping her firmly between his knees on her back. He bends low over her, sweeping the whirring blades over her rapidly exposed tummy and explains that expert shearers can do this in moments; he’s pretty quick himself, sweeping the blades over her sides, slower over the head and delicate areas, and eventually turning her slightly to make the final few passes over her back that will free her from her woolly burden. He explains that people who do this for a living have a special harness that they can wear to take the strain off their back as they bend over dozens and dozens of sheep. This is a job for the fit, healthy and strong, wrestling the animals unwillingly to the ground and hefting them about to the right positions. While he has been working he has nicked her skin slightly in one or two places, but otherwise he has done a neat and speedy job. She looks pale, pink and startled, sitting in a puddle of her own white wool with the shearer squatting triumphantly over her with her head to one side beneath his thigh so she can’t escape. The poor contorted, stripped ewe doesn’t look at all comfortable.
The air smells of lanolin and sheep droppings, and dust and sweat and all but one of the fully-clothed ewes have averted their eyes and she is staring with horrified fascination at her near-bald colleague.
Still, the freshly-shorn ewe looks much lighter, and brightens considerably as he ushers her back onto the pen with her friends where she trots in, presumably to be consoled and gossiped with. There are further questions from the floor, once the guide has explained to us about wool weights, measures and costs and laud out the fleece for us to feel and take a little, still warm, and very soft and fluffy on the inside, from the ewe that grew it.
One priceless question from a gentleman in front of us is: ‘Are you going to tidy her up before she goes out into the field?’ Tidy her up? Andrew and I look at each other and suppress a silent snigger… Where is this guy from? It’s a wool-factory, not a hairdresser!
;)

Now it is time for ‘smoko’, over in the gorgeous colonial house. We are pointed in the right direction by our shearer guide and we walk through the most delightful garden. In this relatively unsheltered spot, on the flat land by the lake, someone, years ago, painstakingly built a wonderful, colourful, scented garden. Subsequent generations have also clearly loved this place and the lawn is surrounded by a welter of living colour: orange, bee-laden gerberas, delicately perfumed roses of every hue of pink and red, dainty little bedding plants and finely wound creepers sneaking up their trailing posts.
And a kitten.
A delightful, grey, tabby kitten who is bouncing around in the straw protecting the base of the plants, pouncing on flies and flicking her tail in annoyance when she misses. She says hello to be polite, but is shy and intent on her hunting so slinks off when she thinks no-one is looking…
I bask in the sun and wander slowly towards the veranda of the house. Next to the step are some glorious orange and yellow flowers, like tiny suns on stems, heavy with bees, who fly in in shifts, buzzing busily as they pick a spot to settle. I sit on the step and pause, like the kitten, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Andrew is pouncing too, and soon we are joined by another lady with a camera who also stands at the edge of the veranda with us to catch her own bee… She is an inexperienced photographer and happily accepts a hint from Andrew; she rolls off excitedly to the tea room when she finds she has caught her perfect bee-photo. :)
We soon follow suit.
We pass from the pleasant, blue-grey-painted veranda through into a lovely little drawing room with dainty tables spread with morning delicacies. There are scones, flapjacks and some sort of buttered tea cake to go with the tea or squash. There is also a glorious view out of the bay windows at the front of the room. It is particularly enhanced by the fact that a small and genteel party have clearly just seen the view and decided it was worth inspecting more closely. Tea and cake are poised for eating around the little bunch of pink sunny flowers that decorates the table, and an old-fashioned, broad-brimmed, straw sun hat is perched politely on the edge of the table.
Andrew and I make our way, cake-laden through the lovely, panelled rooms until we find the door to the back patio. We find a table and a seat in the sun (with a shade umbrella of course!) and stare out at the view. I eye it almost with disbelief as its beauty seems too perfect. This little place has clearly been turned from a glorious wilderness to a little patch of paradise by a careful, loving Hand. The sun is high over the lake now, blazing warmly onto us far below. It spangles and glitters off the clear surface of the lake, which ripples with each tiny passing breeze. The pellucid waters show every little pebble and ducks seem almost to hover on the coruscating surface, so clear it appears. A pink rose whispers in my ear and wafts her scent to my nose as she points out a weeping willow tree and an inviting half-shaded bench beneath. I peer in the direction she points and see the highest mountain, just snow-tipped, perfectly framed by her delicate petals and the other peaks, hazy and blue in the bright distance. The children of the party come out from the main door, led by the head tea-lady, who hands out stale buns for them to give to the ducks. The ducks come, slicing through the shimmering water for their tea, and the children fling tasty crumbs to their willing beaks in the delicate crystal sun on the clear, clean blue water.
It is perfect.
I walk across the bright lawn to the water’s edge once the children have finished and admire the silvery reflections and the way the ducks bob so oddly on the transparent surface, ducking under for interesting morsels they may have missed. The quack contentedly at each other as they fish; there’s nothing quite like a duck’s quack or a pigeon’s coo to suggest contentment… Photography done, I walk back up the dainty, flower-surrounded lawn to the patio, up a little gravel path onto the patio, raised up and separated by a nice flint wall with empty, expectant pedestals.
The tea is good, the cake excellent, and the nearer flora and fauna are also interesting. Behind our seat, there is a little flowerbed, heavily bedecked with purple pansies and red antirrhinums, and also a huge, bimbling bumble bee, busily bobbing from flower to flower. Behind him, through the doorway that we came with our cake, is a large grandfather clock, ticking away moments of every size from seconds to months, with pictures to match. On the walls there are portraits of the old owners, severe in vintage dress, surrounded by maps, ships in bottles and other ephemera, and in the distance a piano yearns to be played.
By the doorway, as I idly stare, I notice a weather stone. I would like one of these invaluable items as they sounds incredibly useful – below the hanging stone on its sturdy string there is a board bearing the legend:
Stone wet: raining
Stone dry: clear
Stone warm: sunny
Stone white: snowing
Stone swaying: windy
Stone gone: very windy
I leave a small crumb of cake for my delectation on my return and make a brief trip to the ladies.
When I return, Andrew is bent over the table, camera poised. He was taking pictures of the view, with teacups and cake included (our idea of heaven you see – tea, cake, roses and a fabulous wild view!) but was rudely interrupted. As he tried to take his photograph, a little marauder came to tea, cocked his head, stared at the cake, took a bite and went off to invite a friend over too. The two of them ate my last morsel of cake, helped by a third who spotted them eating and came to join in the fun, not a foot from Andrew’s lens. So, once they had gone, Andrew’s shot now consisted of a teacup and a few crumbs. On my return, he is faintly disgruntled by the lack of cake, but amused and happy about his little tea party, who made for an interesting photograph!
Having finished tea, we wander happily around the garden in the sun for a while, the boat not being due for another half an hour or so. We also duck into the shop, where there are many lovely woollen things to be stroked, admired and coveted, as well as a lady doing a spinning demonstration. It takes me right back to school, when we went on a trip to a similar establishment in the UK and we were shown how to spin, using the wheel or treadle and feeding the wool in onto the spindle. Andrew finds me a delightful little book called ‘The Earnslaw Dragon’. I head up to buy it, safe in the knowledge, I think to myself, that I’m sure I know someone who will appreciate it (yes, says my reality check, don’t kid yourself, it’s you!). As I queue behind a lady who seems intent on buying the entire shop and having further supplies shipped to herself (seriously, who actually NEEDS three four-foot sheepskin rugs, four hand knitted jumpers that look like an accident in a dye factory and 6 pots of lanolin face cream??) and realise that I am missing the incoming TSS as she steams through the blue waters to collect us. I abandon my potential purchases and run out onto the shingle to take photographs of this majestic and elegant boat as she comes alongside the wharf. Then I run back in, collect my abandoned items and pay for them as soon a I can – there is a long queue now, fortunately mainly of people buying one or two items rather than restocking their wardrobes and carpeting the house… The small child in front of me can’t decide whether he wants a fluffy sheep or a poseable sheep and his mum, understandably, begins to get a little frustrated with him… Fortunately he has made up his mind by the time he gets to the front of the queue and I pay and run down the sunny shingle (wincing slightly at my poor knee) and we clamber aboard the glossy Earnslaw once again and feel her thrum beneath our feet. The return trip is every bit as impressive as the outbound one. Earnslaw makes a large circle in the waters, presumably the same circle she has made here for nearly a century, and slices through the glittering waters beneath glorious blue skies and towering peaks.
Wonderful.
I enjoy the view for a while and then decide that I want to go and stare at the engine some more – I can admire the peaks from the other shore, but a working steam boat engine is something you don’t see very often… I go and lean on the edge of the walkway in the engine room again. It is hot, humid and busy, full of useful bustle, gleaming, oiled parts and glossy brass plates and dials. The heavy mesh walkway, because of its location, is, by necessity, connected to the heart of this great beast, so it thrums and throbs in time with her huge pulse that powers the effort to push determinedly and surprisingly fast through the water.
All too soon we are deposited back at the wharf in Queenstown again and have the rest of the golden day ahead of us. We pad along the wharf, wondering what to do and decide that heading for the Kiwi House would be a fun thing to do; for there is no other way we will get to see kiwis, since they are nocturnal. We head on up the hill…
My knee is unhappy.
That’s not quite fair to say that.
Both my knees are unhappy – they have made each other miserable and now they hurt.
A lot.
And they’re my sole sensible means of transport.
Hmph.
Ah well, I decide I’m blooming well going to enjoy seeing Kiwis and things because I might not have the opportunity again!
The Kiwi house is sloping and there are many enclosures of creatures, bird and animal, but mostly bird, all around it. Some of it is a little dilapidated, but all the creatures seem happy enough and the few keepers we spot seem happy too. We are issued with audio guides, which tell us where we are and what creature we are currently looking at. We wander in…
The Kiwis have a couple of huts to themselves and we dive quietly into the first one. It is very dark, lit dimly by a feebly-glimmering red light which appears to cast no shadow. We are not allowed to take photographs, as even a single focus beam could upset the Kiwis. No loud noises either; they are very timid creatures. I am sceptical that we won’t even see on in captivity, but we squint into the frond-shrouded darkness beyond the glass anyway.
Suddenly, I spot movement!
There is a small brown blob whiffling its way along the right hand wall. We edge closer, breath held, not speaking, and peer into the shadows.
She is quite small, this little member of a fragile species, but very stocky for a bird. She is rather mammalian in looks, and some of her traits. She has solid bones for instance; as she has never needed to flee from predators she has lost the need for flight. This now makes her species extremely vulnerable because of the introduced predators.
She trundles happily around her enclosure in the dark, rooting out worms and other tasties buried there by the keepers. She has long, shaggy brown feathers of two different browns; a long, curved beak surrounded by sturdy whiskers; fat, splayed feet and an odd lolloping gait.
She looks a lot like a pointy badger and trundles hairily about in just the same way as she tosses little piles of earth to and fro in her search. She is also similar to the Moa, though far smaller.
I do feel very sorry for her though. I’ll tell you why in a minute…
The next cage contains three Tuatara. I do like these creatures; they’re bright and alert, but confident and cheeky in a very lazy way. These ones aren’t wearing beads like the rakish ones in Wellington but they have the same perky, ‘look at me, I’m beautiful’ attitude. They are quite exceptional creatures, dull khaki until you look closer and see the patterns. They can live up to 200 years and their eggs take fifteen months to hatch. These creatures aren’t going to be hurried for anyone! They also have a third eye; the only creature left on Earth to show such obvious vestiges of another optical organ, especially in the juveniles.
We wend on through birds galore, raptors, parrots, water fowl… We stop to talk to a kea in a cage. He is obviously a little bored with all the attention as he ignores us studiously and preens himself assiduously. Keas are cheeky creatures generally and rather destructive. They will steal things for a laugh and are good at it. They collect things, having a particular fondness for boots and a ‘gang’ (a genuinely technical term) of teenage keas can destroy the rubber parts of a car in relatively short order – and regularly do… I surreptitiously check my wallet…

We see oyster catchers, ducks and black stilts on our way around and we hurry along a little as we want to see the afternoon show. We arrive at the net-clad arena spot on time after a wander through sun, shade, leaves and midges. We find a seat near the front and settle down to watch the show. A young woman comes out, with a gentleman assistant and begins to tell us about New Zealand birds. Birds do seem to be a fundamental part of both New Zealand and the people that live here, and the conservation effort is well-supported. New Zealand used to be a birds’ paradise until land-based mammals arrived with the first (and subsequent) settlers. She tells us a little more about the Tuatara, who also suffered when the mammals arrived: They are not lizards; but their own subgroup all their own. They are unique. They are also surprising. 111year-old Henry at a nearby zoo, has recently had eggs with a sprightly 20-something girlfriend!
The rats brought by the settlers were a huge threat to the Tuatara though, stealing their eggs and threatening their juveniles. The effect of Polynesian rat on the local fauna was devastating. But the Tuatara were saved by islands, as were many other local beasties.
Another problem creature is the competitive possum. It was introduced for fur as it is so soft but it is now even a problem in Australia, where it originated. Our talk continues as we are introduced to ‘Pestilence’. She is young Australian possum who was acquired by the centre as a baby. They killed her mother in a possum trap during a cull and found Pestilence in her pouch. They raised her from the pouch and keep her as a cute warning of how destructive the species can be as a whole. She is a large creature, though very tame and rather sweet, but she is a huge competitor and is in the process of eating the natives out of house and home.
During this talk, three trained rats, gallop along a pole across the main arena, from one little house to another to distract us. Our lady doing the talk must have some way of encouraging them without us noticing, as they seem to trot across at certain relevant points. Usually when she’s telling us about how dangerous these relative newcomers are! They are called Prudence, Gertrude and Virginia…
The next part is about Kiwis.
They are, as I have said, very like mammals. They have marrowed bones, not porous ones and their feathers are more like fur. They also have whiskers. They are technically known as ‘retites’, rather than birds or mammals. They also, oddly, have their nostrils right at the end of their beaks, so as to better sniff out worms.
Now, here’s why I feel sorry for them, well, the girls anyway.
A kiwi weighs around 2 kilos.
Its egg weighs around 500g.
OUCH!
The female kiwi is carrying around a quarter of her entire body weight in egg for three weeks, and during the last few days there will be so little space left in her gravid tummy that she cannot even eat. This is a dangerous time for the Kiwi, though all times are fairly harsh for this vulnerable little bird.
Still, it’s not all bleak for Mrs. Kiwi. After she’s squeezed out her monstrous egg, Mr. Kiwi takes his turn while mum goes off and has some dinner and leaves him to it for the rest. The egg will take 90 days to hatch, during which time, devoted Dad will sit on it and keep it warm and protect it. He risks starving to death during this time, but if he is successful the risk is ultimately worth it. When the egg hatches, in the burrow, the baby kiwi is nearly as large as its parent and almost ready to face the world, which it does. It heads off into the bush…
However, all this effort and sacrifice by the parent birds is nearly alw2ays wasted, which is why the kiwi is becoming so rare. A mere 5 out of 100 baby kiwi make it past 6 month due to another introduced predator, the stoat, who regard the kiwi as a tasty local delicacy.
The last creature to whom we are introduced is a cheeky, bright rainbow lorikeet. They have done so well that they are becoming a pest. Originally kept a pets, they were released and decided they liked it and that they would stay. They are even becoming a pest in their native Australia. They compete with native songbirds and are nest-stealers, often turfing out the eggs and young occupants, killing them. They also steal other things – this was demonstrated, to the amusement of the small audience, by a gentleman at the back holding out a note and the lorikeet (clearly trained) fetched it back to the lass giving the talk – who pocketed it and thanked him for his donation!
She relented at the end though, and gave the note back to the lorikeet who took it back to its rightful owner. Bright and friendly, but also, sadly, a pest.
The fauna of New Zealand needs all the help it can get…