A Typical Maori Industry

The sun was sinking behind a bank of red and gold streaked sky-line, and the chilly evening breeze made dappled ripples on the water, as the small vessel, piled up with stores and boxes for mutton-birders on at least half a dozen different islands of the Mutton-Bird group, steamed out of Bluff Harbour and into the reputedly roughest strait in the world— Foveaux Strait.

The “birders” had already been at work almost a month, and this was the “half-time” trip on which mails and stores are delivered, and hundreds of fresh birds picked up, as well as some thousands of kits of salted ones. Definitely not a tourist trip, for the vessel is small, the seas round South-West Cape are high, and all hands on deck are kept busy; but, of course, if one wants to see the inner workings of the Mutton-Bird Islands … Anyway, the captain was most courteous and moved out of his cabin for my friend and myself, the crew were obliging, and I thoroughly enjoyed eating fish and mutton-birds from tin plates in the hot little “saloon.”

The first night we berthed at Half Moon Bay, below the township of Oban, on Stewart Island, the next at Port Pegasus forty-four miles south-west, and the next day at noon, the vessel anchored off Pautoma which was the first of the scattered group of islands at which we were due to call. There was no beach whatever—just rugged cliffs and steep kelp-covered rocks, and perched above the rocky shore were a few rough-looking shacks where the Maori “birders” lived during the season. The bush was low and scrubby, mostly made up of ti-tia-weka (mutton-bird trees), punui, tupri, and kaka-maka (myrtle). This island was typical of all the other islands, with perhaps the exception that on the larger ones the bush was denser, back from the shore, and heavier trees such as the rata grew in conjunction with the scrubby, lower growth.

A taut wire line ran from high up on the island down to the rocky shore, and every minute or two a kit of birds came hurtling down it at a terrific rate, to bump violently into a bag of feathers fixed at the bottom. I could plainly see smoke as the kit sped downwards, and when the cloud of fluff rose from the feather bag, eager brown hands lifted the kit off its wire hook from the line, and added it to the pile of kits awaiting the arrival of the dinghy from our vessel. The sea was fairly high and the loading of those kits was an example of real skill on the part of the boatmen. I watched the dinghy creep dangerously near the jutting rocks, saw a rope being hurled up the rocks to the group of Maoris, another apparently anchored across the stern, and held my breath in horror as the small craft was swirled upwards on the swell almost against the cliff face itself. I was sure it would be dashed to pieces any moment. But it wasn't!

I heaved a sigh of relief when the dangerous job was finished at last, and our vessel lifted anchor, and passed through a blue arm of water, walled in on each side with the great grey granite cliffs of other islands. Out again, and almost immediately we were slowing down in the shelter of Big South Cape Island, where the water changed to shadowed green to match the green-covered shores around us. I ventured ashore here as the landing was much easier and the islanders friendly. One obliging youth prodded a stick into the burrow of a mutton-bird, then shoved his gloved hand inside, (the “birders” have to wear protection on their arms and hands when catching mutton-birds, as the creatures have sharp beaks, and can also use their semi-web feet to advantage, and these scratches have a habit of festering badly), and brought to light a soft, grey, fluffy bird. The next moment he had cracked it on the head, and the poor little wings went limp. The old Maori method of killing the young ones was to place the head of the bird in the mouth, and crush it with the teeth. This method, however, has long been discarded.

Only the young ones are taken each year, and there is a penalty for anyone killing parent birds. As soon as a bird is killed, the oil from the crop is squeezed out, and a tuft of feathers page 47 stuffed into the open beak to prevent further leakage, which would spoil the scalding process. The birds are gathered up in “strings” of ten, carried back to the shacks, scalded in water kept at the right temperature, and hung up. Later they are gutted, wings, head and legs removed, dry-salted, and packed into air-tight barrels. The blood and salt form a brine, and after three days they are sufficiently cured to be removed and packed into the kelp bags which have been prepared from bull kelp. Some kits hold only twenty birds, others up to forty, and when the bag is packed tightly bark is interlaced with flax over it all, while a flaxwork or bagging overcovering makes doubly secure the bottom portion of the kit, completing a very neat job. The work is typically Maori as one might properly expect when one realises that only Maoris and their descendants are allowed to land on the islands and engage in the industry.

The habits of these sooty shear-waters, or mutton-birds, are rather remarkable. It has been proved that the main body of birds migrate to distant Siberia—a truly remarkable distance. When they return, in September, each year, they come in a dense black cloud formation. When overland—some uncanny instinct guides them to their old nesting ground—they close their wings and drop to earth. Many are killed by the fall, the others lie as stunned for a few moments, then scuttle down their holes which range from four to six feet in length. They clean out their old nests and mate, and then the female lays its one large, white, semi-transparent egg. The common belief is that all the females lay on the same day, the 25th November, but recent investigations have proved that eggs are laid during the months of November, December, January and February. When the young one is hatched the parents leave before daybreak in search of food, returning after dusk. If by chance a parent bird should be delayed in leaving in the early hours, it will remain in its burrow all day rather than venture out into daylight.

When the “black cloud” of birds bears down on the islands at night with a loud noise of thousands of flapping wings and bird cries, there is great excitement in the burrows. The young bird pushes its beak inside the mother's, and the parent brings up the partly-digested sardines and small bits of fish on which it has been feeding all day. On this fare the young one soon becomes plump, and by April is ready for killing. The old birds leave about the beginning of May on their long flight back to Siberia, but always a few remain behind for another month or so, to guide the young ones which escape—and there are large numbers of these—back to the place where they and their ancestors have migrated for thousands of years. The young ones always leave about a month later than the old ones, the reason probably being that they are gathering up more strength for the long flight. The oil which is secreted in their crops becomes stronger and is the main source of strength on which they must rely. When ready, they congregate on the rocks on a suitable edge from which they can leave with ease, and the first flight lasts till the young bird is tired, when it comes to rest on the water. After a short spell, off it goes again—longer this time —and so on until it can take long flights, and in this way reaches Siberia. The molly-hawks and other vultures of the deep know exactly when the young birds will leave, and they come from far and wide to congregate around the Mutton-Bird Islands and to wait for the easy prey that is theirs. Many are drowned each year, but in spite of this the number has, until this year, not decreased. For some strange reason this year, large numbers of old birds were found dead, and this has affected the industry. Fuel oil discharged by some vessel, or the unusual roughness of the weather, are two reasons suggested by an authority on the subject, but these are only suggestions.

Late in the afternoon we anchored in the lee of Te Mauohoaku where a number of fur seals were to be seen playing on the rocks. At the sound of the ship's siren small pretty heads were lifted above smooth grey rocks, and after a good look around some lay down again to bask in the sunshine, while others dived playfully into the water. Then on again, towards Stage Island, where the landing is perhaps the worst of all—immense cliffs against which the white-capped rollers hurled themselves in fury, and wide jagged rocks where a landing was both a nightmare as well as a thrill. After a little persuasion the Captain allowed me to get into the dinghy, and I was given instructions that I must jump from boat to rock at the precise moment that the swell hurled the boat upwards. No other woman, I was assured, besides the “mutton-birders,” of course, had landed on that wild shore for over twenty years. I could understand why!

At dusk we anchored off Rere-Wheupoko (Solomons Island), and in the early morning I glimpsed the famous saddle-back bird. This is the only place in the world where these pretty creatures are to be found. They have a soft, brownish plumage, with a bright orange saddle-shaped patch on their backs, another orange splash of colour at each side of the head and are about the size of a common thrush.

The “birders” here rely more on the second part of the season for their success, when “torching” is used to lure the birds from their burrows. The holes are difficult to get at otherwise, because of the tree roots. However, “torching” is resorted to on all islands at the latter part of the season. The birds are attracted by the flares, creep out of their burrows, and are promptly knocked on the head by the watchful Maoris.

We called back again at Big South Cape Island for more birds, passed several other landing places where groups of excited Maoris waited the arrival of the boat, and then we turned back towards the heaving rollers of South-West Cape—and home.

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