Last Chance to See

Scotsman from DOC named Ron Tindall. He was politely blunt with us. He said that there was a lot of resentment among the field-workers about our being allowed to go to Codfish, but a directive was a directive, and we were to go. One man, he said, who was particularly set against the whole idea was Arab himself, and it was just as well that we be aware of the fact that he was coming under protest.
    A few minutes later Arab himself arrived. I had no idea what I expected a freelance kakapo tracker to look like, but once we saw him, it was clear that if he was hidden in a crowd of a thousand random people, you would still know instantly that he was the freelance kakapo tracker. He was tall, rangy, immensely weather-beaten, and he had a grizzled beard that reached all the way down to his dog, who was called Boss.
    He nodded curtly to us and squatted down to fuss with his dog for a moment. Then he seemed to think that perhaps he had been a little curt with us and leaned across Boss to shake our hands. Thinking that he had perhaps overdone this in turn, he then looked up and made a very disgruntled face at the weather. With this brief display of complete social confusion, he revealed himself to be an utterly charming and likeable man.
    Nevertheless, the half-hour helicopter trip over to Codfish Island was a little tense. We tried to make cheerful small talk, but this was rendered almost impossible by the deafening thunder of the rotor blades. In a helicopter cockpit you can just about talk to someone who is keen to hear what you have to say, but it is not the best situation in which to try to break the ice.
    “What did you say?”
    “I just said, ‘What did you say?’ ”
    “Ah. What did you say before you said, ‘What did you say?’ ”
    “I said, ‘What did you say?’ ”
    “I just said, ‘Do you come here often?’ but let it pass.”
    At last we lapsed into an awkward, deafened silence that was made all the more oppressive by the heavy bank of storm clouds that was hanging sullenly over the sea.
    Soon the sombre bulk of New Zealand’s most fiercely protected ark loomed up out of the shining darkness at us: Codfish Island, one of the last refuges of many birds that are hardly to be found anywhere else in the world. Like Little Barrier Island, it has been ruthlessly purged of anything that was not originally to be found there. Even the flightless weka, a fierce and disorderly duck-sized bird, which is native to other parts of New Zealand, has been eradicated. It wasn’t a native of Codfish, and it attacked Cook’s petrels, which were. The island is surrounded by rough seas and strong currents, so no predator rats are likely to be able to make it from Stewart Island three kilometres away. Food supplies toisland workers are stored in rat-proof rooms, packed into rat-proof containers, and rigorously examined before and after transfer. Poison bait is distributed around all possible boat-landing places. There are people ready to swing into immediate fire brigade action to eliminate any rat invasion if a boat wreck occurs.
    The helicopter came thudding in to land, and we clambered uneasily out, hunching ourselves down under the rotating blades. We quickly unloaded our bags and walked down and away from the tussocky hillock on which we had landed toward the wardens’ hut. Mark and I caught each other’s eye for a moment and we realised that we were both still hunched over as we walked. We weren’t actually rats, but we felt just about as welcome, and we hoped to God that the expedition was not going to go horribly wrong. Arab stalked silently behind us with Boss, who was now tightly muzzled. Although tracker dogs are rigorously trained not to harm any kakapos they find, they can nevertheless sometimes find them a little too enthusiastically. Even wearing a muzzle, an overeager dog can buffet and injure a bird.
    The wardens’ hut was a fairly basic wooden building with one large room which served as a kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and workroom, and a couple of small dormitory rooms full of bunks. There were two other field-workers already installed, the eccentrically named, or rather spelled, Phred, who turned out to be the son of Dobby and Mike, and also Trevor. They greeted us quietly and without enthusiasm and let us get on with our unpacking.
    Soon we were told that lunch was ready, and we realised that it was time for us seriously to try to improve our general standing around the place. Clearly