Global Bars, Part 1 – Cocktails with the Oystermen
Tucked away, like an afterthought, at the very bottom of New Zealand’s two main islands is a third; a small triangle of land butting out from the rounded base of the South Island like a tiny pectoral fin. The Maori believe it to be the anchor of their lands – literally – as it held fast the canoe of the demigod Maui after he caught a huge fish, snagged on a bone hook baited with blood from his own nose. That fish of Maui (Te Ika a Maui) became the North Island; his canoe (Te Waka o Maui) the South Island; and the holdfast, Maui’s anchor (Te Punga o Te Waka a Maui), became Stewart Island.
Otherwise known as Rakiura, it’s undoubtedly as far south as I’ll ever go (I can’t see myself penguin-spotting on near-polar Atlantic islands, or fjording around the imposing tip of South America anytime soon). Bouncing across the roughly chopped green waters of the Foveaux Straight nine years ago, that very thought occurred to me. With each buffeting hop over a whitecap, I was going as close to the pole as I was ever likely to get. The weather certainly contributed to the exploratory mood – blustering and piercingly cold; the ferry from Bluff having set off at dawn.
Three-quarters of Stewart Island/Rakiura is National Park, with the only settlement of note a small jumble of streets backing onto the wide, crescent-shaped beach of Halfmoon Bay. Named after a Scottish equivalent, Oban feels like an out-of-season fishing town – or it did on that July morning, in the depths of a winter depression. But that remoteness, that feeling of isolation, is what brings visitors across to it; because it has served to maintain as much of the island’s native wildlife as possible. And it was that we had braved the Foveaux to see.
As a result, within a few moments we had crossed the totality of Oban and were standing on another jetty, this one facing to the interior of the island. Whaka A Te Wara, or Paterson Inlet, is the large, sheltered crack reaching into the centre of Stewart Island/Rakiura. It contains a few small islets, the largest of which being Ulva, also with a Scottish namesake. On a map, Ulva resembles a small sea-horse, swimming from right to left into the inlet. From a six-person water taxi, it’s merely a line of trees and a rocky shore, a quick zip away from the larger landmass.
As soon as you step onto Ulva Island the first thing you should see is the huge quarantine sign, warning visitors of the dangers of rats, mice and other introduced predators. In our case, it was the second thing we saw, as a small round Weka sidled up to us within seconds of getting off the taxi. Looking like a cross between a grouse and a kiwi, it poked about, looking for insects, a few feet away. I took a picture of it (above), and then turned to read the questioning sign: ‘Have you checked for rats and seeds?’ Seeing as our bags were back in Oban, a self pat-down of the pockets was enough to check for island-disturbing rodents.
Ulva was declared rat-free in 1997, and although a few have been trapped intermittently since, it is almost entirely mammal-free. Aside from rats, possums are a big danger to the endemic bird life – and with these enemies cleared, a predator-free paradise has developed. A dripping, dank paradise maybe, but stepping silently as we could through the tree-ferns, it became quickly apparent that there were birds everywhere. Stopping, and remaining silent, proved this; slowly, as we waited, flitting shapes appeared from all directions.
Despite the thick, cloaking, moss-covered greenery, we saw birds of all shapes and sizes. From small robin-like darters to the dipping, faltering flight of the Kereru – a black and white pigeon the size of a small chicken. Parrots riffled amongst the higher branches – Kaka and Kakariki, according to our guide, barely whispering. But it was the Tui that really stood out – literally – alighting on a branch just in front of our group, and belting out sixty seconds of song like nothing else I’ve ever heard. Clicks, whistles, booms, hisses – it was captivating, even to a selection of backpacker bus piss-artists.
After that, there really wasn’t much that could top it. Soon enough, we were bellying back across the inlet to Oban. Following a quick skirt around the town, darkness had fallen, and it was time for a night out. We ended up somewhere I have very little recollection of – other than it was one of the best nights out I had the entire time I was in New Zealand. Still in good spirits following our encounters on Ulva Island, we got further into the spirits with a bunch of oystermen, having turned up at cocktail hour in a small hotel bar.
Having lived in Australia, hotel bars are far more common – and appealing – drinking destinations than they are in the UK, as they are visited by non-guests on a more regular basis. We were staying elsewhere, in a draughty dorm-room; and obviously the fishermen weren’t residents either. But when they discovered we were on a bus trip of the islands, they welcomed us into their group, laughing into their lagers as we polished off these semi-lethal island cocktails, hand-poured like we were in a Spanish partytown.
It’s rare that I write about a bar whilst remembering so little of it, but somehow that seems fitting; Stewart Island/Rakiura is the kind of place that feels forgotten – or, at least, overlooked – and the local drinkers who worked in the shellfish farms seemed to be glad of our company. Who knows, maybe they were just amused by our drinking rate. We were simply glad to be there, full-stop, particularly having witnessed the wonders of Ulva Island, earlier. I have no idea what I drank that night, and to be honest, I don’t care. The return mainland crossing was an ordeal, as a result, but it was a worthy trade-off…
