There was Eddie Reidy, 90, who arrived with his third wife Irene, fifty-seven. She said, ‘All except one of his six kids are older than me. He’s had a full life, New Zealand national umpire for bowls, a calf judge, St John’s volunteer. When he gets up singing in the morning I know he’s happy.’
There was P. J. Wallace, 60, who stood out as a Māori with a shaved head in a wheelchair. ‘I lost my leg a year ago,’ he said. ‘Diabetes. Flared up so I took it off.’ He had toured the world as a musician with Prince Tui Teka’s show band and wore an enormous crucifix. He said, ‘My ancestors were all psychics. They gave me the cross for protection. I don’t know what from.’
Afternoon tea was served. A guest from South Auckland had murmured, ‘I hear they’re quite frugal’, but there were three tables of scones, pikelets, cakes, sausage rolls, and spaghetti sandwiches on white bread. It looked like a very generous spread. There was a great deal of elbowing and snatching, and in 20 minutes the tables were picked clean.
And then there was more music, New Zealand music, an expression of good times and struggle on the back roads, in the small towns. I sat back, tapped my foot, clapped, enjoyed the show, soaked up the happy ending of my travels in the flatlands.
But the memory and the sound of something else ran beneath the entire afternoon, and into the evening, and the days that followed: small, hurt Jean Smith, strapped into her childhood guitar, perched on the couch in her Te Aroha home, very nearly making a comeback into public life, her lovely voice caressing every true word as she raised the dead and sang ‘Dust on Mother’s Old Bible’.
Miranda
Birdland
There is a field of maize on the side of the road in the sunny croplands of Mangatangi Valley near Thames, where a flock of twenty Australian galahs – gorgeous on the eye with their rose-pink breasts – arrive for a feast when the maize is harvested. The parrots are probably escaped cage birds, like the sulphur-crested cockatoos that also make cameo appearances, although both species may have originally flown across the Tasman. No one knows for sure. All birds are a mystery. They never give up all their secrets, despite the attention and close scrutiny they receive from birdwatchers.
On a summer morning filled with bright light, I travelled through Mangatangi to Miranda, where thirteen birdwatchers trudged towards the sea with telescopes and tripods hoisted over their shoulders. They had come to the white-shell shoreline to identify Arctic wading birds.
They were led by Keith Woodley, who manages the world-famous Miranda Shorebird Centre. A handsome man camouflaged behind a beard and glasses, his tall long-limbed presence confirmed the first law of ornithology: there are few short birdwatchers. He confirmed the second law, too: ornithology demands acute vision and hearing, and an alert response. Keith was deceptively slow, even languid, but he could move fast. There was a bolt of beard and leg as he darted along the line of his thirteen students to train their telescopes on the sudden arrival of a red-necked stint. It’s a small bird. It has short legs, and a short black bill pointing out of its fat brown face. It doesn’t look as if it could cross a road, but it came to New Zealand from its breeding grounds in Siberia.
‘It’s the smallest long-distance migratory bird,’ claimed Christopher Moses, twelve years old. He had signed up for the wader identification course with his mother, Joanne. They had recently returned to New Zealand after living for seven years in Tanzania. Christopher’s father was a United Nations lawyer. Joanne said, ‘He went from working on South Auckland murders to prosecuting the Rwandan genocide.’
Christopher said, ‘Tanzania’s great for birds. I’ve probably counted over 400 species. I marked down only the ones I could definitely identify. There were a few species of duck I wasn’t sure about.’ He talked about the day he spotted the rare Beesley’s lark in short grass. Yes, but seven years in Tanzania – what was it like returning home? He was an amazing boy, possibly the future of New Zealand ornithology. He said, ‘It’s been hard. I mean, you’ve got some good birds, but you have to drive for an hour to see them. In Tanzania, you have to walk only ten minutes. It’s cool coming here though. I’ve seen some waders today that I’ve seen on the Tanzanian coast – whimbrels, black-tailed godwits…’
Keith alerted his class to a sharp-tailed sandpiper ‘just to the left of that stick’. There were quite a few sticks out on the shell bank, and over four thousand birds. The high tide pushed them closer to the shore, to the birdwatchers who peered through their telescopes and then sat down to consult the field guide.
There was a pathologist from Rotorua, and a brisk elderly woman from Papakura who said, ‘I’ve seen things today I never thought I’d see.’ Christoph and Tamara Wehrmueller were on holiday from Basel in Switzerland. ‘Owls,’ Christoph said. ‘We get a lot of owls. Raptors – eagles, vultures. Crows, and ten species of raven.’ It was their third visit to New Zealand. ‘Birds,’ Tamara said, ‘are always the theme of our trip.’ Back home, they stay in touch with New Zealand by subscribing to the centre’s newsletter. ‘We read everything and keep every copy.’ The newsletters are filed by Christoph, who works as a university librarian.
As manager at the centre’s office, Keith keeps a tidy ship. There wasn’t a crumb anywhere in the vicinity of the six-slice Woodson toaster. The centre also has dormitory rooms
