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A house, two people and some rare flightless birds: Welcome to Mana Island

2023-01-07 16:32:28Lifestyle SHKRUAR NGA FLORA FELTHAM

 

A house, two people and some rare flightless birds: Welcome to Mana Island
Flora Feltham lives on Te Mana o Kupe o Aotearoa, or Mana Island, a nature sanctuary off the coast of Wellington. Time moves differently in this precious wildlife haven, half an hour from New Zealand

 

The island where I live, Te Mana o Kupe o Aotearoa, is half an hour off the coast of the northern tip of New Zealand. The island has a house and a permanent population of two people: my husband, Pat, and me. In April, this population will increase to three because we are expecting a baby.

From the mainland, Mana looks exposed. It rises from the sea like a stone slab. Once here, the view turns. The mainland stretches across the horizon and the island appears as a lush, green haven from the harsh winds of Cook Strait.

 

A house, two people and some rare flightless birds: Welcome to Mana Island
Flora Feltham, on the Isle of Man

 

From the 1830s, the island was civilized by the Vella family, but in 1987 it was turned into a nature sanctuary, managed by Department of Conservation (DOC) specialists. They sent cattle and, with the Friends of Mana Island community group, replanted 500,000 native trees on the pasture. Vines began to grow on the fence posts. The birds flocked back to the bush. Today, the Ngāti Toa tribal government and DOC work together under a vision for Mana.

Time unfolds differently here. Pat works for DOC so our rhythms follow his work shifts. Ten days in a row, four days off. When each period is over, a boat picks us up and we sail to the mainland to visit our families and see the midwife. After the weekend, we carry food for 10 days by boat and return to the small rocky beach of Mana. Our first island task is always the same: at the quarantine station we inspect all our supplies - oranges, cheese, clothes, books, but also anti-rat or weed medicine.

I write and work remotely for a library on the mainland, but I spend a lot of time exploring Mana. You can walk the whole island quite easily in two hours – when the wind blows and the seagulls don't fly – but I walked slowly. I look at seashells and learn the names of plants to later show the baby I'm expecting.

 

A house, two people and some rare flightless birds: Welcome to Mana Island
Takahē bird

 

 

"I can't leave the continent out of me," I told Pat one autumn evening when we had just moved. We walk together as he finishes his work day. He reverses the bike to the large island shelter and inspects the bird feed barrel. When I open the garage door, I mistake its sounds for the barking of a labrador. While the song of the birds entering the house sounds like the chatter of cafes; an elongated landscape of suburban urban instinct.

Pat takes care of Mana's takahē birds. He monitors their territories, feeds them and vaccinates them against beak rot. As I watch the takahēt go about their ordinary days, I think that none of these beautiful bluebirds know how rare they are. Less than 500 specimens exist in the world and six breeding pairs live here. All 500 have names: here is big, hungry Hana with her shy friend Govan. There, Pukekohe and his Astelia, who has the longest and reddest legs on the island.

These birds have evolved that way, not flying. And the sight of Astelia, strong and capable, convinces me of this. Her legs remind me of those of a dinosaur, scales all red and feet wide and clawed. A takahu's round blue body, tucked under its iridescent green back, gives the impression of planet Earth if it were swallowed by a chicken.

These birds still have their wings; each equipped with a knife-sharp chapua.

 

A house, two people and some rare flightless birds: Welcome to Mana Island
Pūkeko bird

 

 

Takahēt begin nesting in the spring. They mostly land on the tip of the fingers, up the island. I think about them constantly, as my pregnant belly grows and grows, I guess I've swallowed a planet under my sweater and I'm waiting for my baby to hatch. One sunny afternoon, from the kitchen window, I spotted two takahē, along with a long-legged chick, feasting in our vegetable garden. They pick the weeds.

Pūkeko birds abound in Mana. They are braver, but no one pays attention to them. “Honey, the pūkekots are messing around in the garbage again,” I call out to Pat one day. He runs to see them off laughing.

At night, while the takahēt and pūkekot sleep, various animals appear. As I brush my teeth in the bathroom, little brown gecko lizards keep me company and, from our bedroom, we can hear the kororā penguins squawking in their nests. These penguins are like babies, very very small, but big potters. They seem to prefer storms, as they roar even louder, to raise their voice over the rain and rough seas that sometimes keep us here beyond our 10-day shift. Some nights, it seems like the whole island is shouting and singing.

A house, two people and some rare flightless birds: Welcome to Mana Island
Gecko Lizard

In the morning, we can see where the cormorants have been, where they have walked from their nests to the newly calmed sea to have breakfast. Their journey leaves trails criss-crossing the wet grass, like giant wobbly snails or civil servants heading to Cook Strait for work.

A house, two people and some rare flightless birds: Welcome to Mana Island
The kororā penguin

Soon the takahē birds will shed their black feathers and turn blue. My body has become like those big round gym balls. Today, I went down to the beach to swim, but some seals sunbathing on the hot pebbles softened me up with their barks.

It all starts to feel normal and my continental instincts change. Last weekend in town, I again mistook sparrows for little brown geckos. I was walking very slowly and I tripped over the cork of a bottle thrown to the ground. I was hoping for calm seas and a quick return to my nest in Mana.

* The Guardian

*Flora Feltham is a writer, traveler and archivist from Wellington. She lives on Mana Island.

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