Floundering

During a family picnic at the mouth of the Waimakariri River, I caught a large flounder on an old hand line baited with a pipi. Not my first fish, but like any nine year old, I was proud of my fishing prowess! The gathering was because to celebrate a long weekend, and I inadvertently left the fish in the family car probably in the rush of swapping vehicles so I could spend a couple of nights with my sister. Nobody gave another thought about the fish until it began to stink out the family car! It became putrid, because the car wasn’t used that often! And I drew the short straw to become the cleaner!

Fast forward to early 1963 when as a forest ranger trainee, I was in a group of six sent to Tuatapere where there was a single men’s camp, sent there to measure and estimate the volume of indigenous trees in preparation for logging. ‘Timber cruising’, it was called in those days. Each man had his own hut with a bed, rudimentary furniture and a small potbellied stove for heating. The cooking facilities and ablutions were communal in a dedicated building.

Jim, the boss welcomed us to the area and during his orientation talk he told us that there was a flounder-net belonging to the camp that we were welcome to use. Our eyes sparkled at the thought, because being poor, hard-up trainees we were always on the lookout for free tucker. None of us had used a drag net before, but undaunted, we spread it out to find that it was about twenty yards long, attached to a sturdy pole at each end. There was a top and a bottom; on top there were cork floats and on the bottom there were lead weights. We rolled it back up and waited for an evening when there was little wind and a full tide.

Down at the beach there was another group with a net so we watched them to see how they did it. One person was out among the breakers with one end while another two were in knee-deep water. They just dragged it along the beach for a chain or so. [Sorry, a chain is twenty two yards – or a cricket pitch length, no longer common terminology.] So we sent Gordie out the deep end! Well he was the prop-forward among us and as strong as a lavatory without a lid! When he was up to his guts in the surf he began pulling the net parallel to the beach. It was heavy and he kept losing his footing, so I was conscripted to go out! I have an aversion to cold water! Like a barley sugar, I’m afraid of dissolving in the stuff!  But food was a motivator, so out I went. We, in unison with the beach team dragged the net along for around thirty yards, then turned towards the beach and hauled our catch in. There were fourteen flounders and  three sole! That was plenty to feed us for a while so we went back to camp to hang out the net for drying and to have a big cook-up. As we gutted the fish, some of us thought the livers might be worth saving to make some patties, which turned out to be a culinary delight for the boys! Rich but very tasty as our entree! Then we stuffed ourselves with fresh fish!

The permanents in the camp told us the record for one evening’s catch was fifty seven, so of course, you can’t expect a bunch of young fellas to turn down such a challenge! We formulated the theory that the net needed to be on the bottom all the time. Gordie and I had bobbed up with each incoming wave, which we reckoned allowed a few fish to slip underneath! As Gordie and I were the ‘experienced ones’ we took the deep end again! As a matter of fact, we were the shortest in the group, which seems odd, thinking about it later! Anyway, we took turns staying under as the waves went over, forcing the bottom of the net to stay down! We weren’t in the surf very long, when Gordie noticed the frantic waving from shore! They seemed to be pointing at something. He looked around and spotted the black fins!  He shouted, ‘shark’ and we made a beeline of the shore! I think Gordie actually walked on water!

It turned out they were dolphins, playing and surfing in on the breakers. We watched them for the best part of an hour until they moved away. We were aware that there had been shark sightings about the coast at that time, so caution was the better part of being brave buggers! Back to the netting, where we spent an hour or so pulling that heavy bloody net! Holding the net hard down on the bottom made a huge difference. We broke the record well and truly and as well as flounder, we had a number of sole and plaice! Of course we didn’t have a hope of using all those fish, so we sold most to the commercial fishermen. Part of the deal was that we had to gut them! The bonus in that was those tasty livers!

We used the revenue from the fish to visit the local grocery store to stock up. Maybe those livers were a cholesterol risk, but gorging on fresh white bread, lathered with butter and apricot jam was probably no better. Nevertheless a treat for us, and anyway, we worked it all off measuring those trees and traipsing in the bush!

Tyre Change

We had to replace the rear tyres on or car the other day because they didn’t pass the warrant of fitness test. I know, not all countries have such tests, but they are a regulation here, for older vehicles every six months and for more modern ones annually or even longer apart. The tread depth of tyres is supposed to be six millimetres and if they don’t measure up, they must be replaced. I just left the car at the garage for the job to be done, after discussing the quality of new tyre I wanted. There was a disposal charge of three dollars for the old ones.

My thoughts took me back to back to Manjis Service Station in Arusha. In the earlier days they were about the only outfit to sell LPG and we had a gas cooker for when the electricity was off, or not paid.  So the frequency of power outages saw us heading off to Manjis on a reasonably regular basis. They were always busy! As well as the gas, they also sold a lot of tyres. A memory popped into my head about the time there was no gas available, apparently the ship ferrying it to Dar es Salaam caught fire – now that’s a situation to be avoided!  

The owners of the business were Indian, brothers or a family perhaps and like a lot of businesses in Arusha at that time, the owners were Indian while the workers were local. Having said that, the Indians were at least third generation so were also locals. At least it was employment for the African workers, though sometimes their treatment could have been better, but at Manjis they were busy and always helpful.

Manjis was one of those businesses that did not negotiate prices, a bit against the norm in business practice in Arusha at the time. The prices were fixed by the brothers, making it a take it or leave it situation. I think they were just too busy to have the time to negotiate. With plenty of workers, the transactions for gas were quick and efficient. The same went for the tyres, but tyres were a slower end of the market. You had to talk to one of the brothers and hand the money over to him, because tyres were a big ticket item.

After purchasing the tyres, there was a queue to get them fitted. They had a good balancing machine and the workers were happy, efficient Africans. The Indian boss-of-tyre-fitting had a cubbyhole of an office and did the charging. It paid to stand over they tyre fitting and balancing because in the middle of your four, someone may come in with a ‘rush job’ which either could hold you up, or end up being charged to you. Being on good terms with the fitters and balancers paid off too, so it was worth shouting them a soda. Everyone had their specific job, even the guys who undid the wheel nuts and then replaced the wheel later. Some nuts were better than others, so a eagle eye was kept.

The fun part was about the used tyres. The Agency retained the New Zealand culture of changing the tyres when there was still six millimetres of tread left on them. On the other hand, the Arusha people would wear them down to the canvas because of the cost! So there was a ready market for my used tyres. There were young men, not employed by Manjis, who hovered around the workshop hoping to make a profit. Sometimes they competed with each other. It was their way of making a living, by buying the used tyres as cheaply as possible and on-selling them for as much as they could get.

Any NGO, has to raise money to carry out its activities and the Agency was no different, but with the culture that partially worn out tyres were no longer of use, any profit that we could make could be used for things that were outside the budget. There were plenty of those, from repairs to the Agency’s equipment to extra cost in setting up a volunteer’s living space. So we were out to get the maximum for the tyres as well.

The boys knew me and I knew them, but it was the ritual to be coy. I wouldn’t approach them, so would set about loading the used tyres into the back of the vehicle. By the time I had loaded the third tyre, an approach was made that I usually fobbed off by telling them I had a sale for them in one of the villages. They would counter with a low offer and slap their pocket to show they had actual money there. I would say that they are loaded now, so I will just take them. Their counter was to ask if I had actually seen their money. They knew and I knew money out in the villages was in short supply.

So the bargaining would begin and I enjoyed the encounter, knowing that they wouldn’t go past the limit that they reckoned would realise a reasonable profit. But it’s a hard enough life for them and the Agency wasn’t all that broke, so that after we had settled on a price and the money handed over, I would usually return the amount equivalent to one tyres. At best we were only talking USD20 per tyre.

These sorts of encounters brightened a boring day watching the job being done and protecting the Agency’s investment. In life, if you can’t help a neighbour, the outlook is always going to be bleak.

According to Russell

As a young forest ranger I was sent to Herbert Forest because the boss was in hospital battling cancer, a fight that he was destined to lose. Russell came back, more or less on light duties and I felt that he wanted to instill in me some of the intrinsic values of his place in time. He had been a deer culler in his younger days so was adept at survival and self-reliance. His schooling may have been limited, nevertheless he was intelligent, resourceful and he taught me a lot that you don’t find in textbooks! He was deeply interested in local Maori history and appreciated my willingness to listen.

His accent was southern New Zealand, and it took a little time for me to catch on. For instance he asked me to preserve a special tree known to me as Pokaka, but he pronounced it a P’cawcaw. I knew he knew what he was talking about but I didn’t to twig his accent until he talked about the slope of a hill down the main road. Rather than using the actual creek name that is Kakaho, but locals for years had dropped the ho. So Russell referred to it the Cawcaw so from then on I understood him.

It’s been established that there was a Maori Pa on a ridge to the north of Hood’s creek, and in the early days of colonisation, the ridge was ploughed in preparation for a crop of wheat. According to Russell two sugar bags of Maori artefact were revealed and picked up, but somehow they have disappeared, somehow lost. We think of a Pa as being a fortified encampment or village, but it seems more likely this had been a simple, regular encampment. We associate artefacts as being greenstone or stone tools, but such things would have been valuable to the residents, so the two sacksful of artefacts may not have been of value in the opinion of the finder so were perhaps discarded.

Throughout the forest, especially within the vicinity of the Pa site, there are large depressions in the ground that are recognisable as umu, Maori ovens. Heated rocks were used in the pits to cook ti kouka, cabbage tree taproots, which was the only source of carbohydrate for South Island Maori. Russell and I never found bone or stone implements around those sites. It is likely, according to Russell, that the encampment was where the seasonal cooking of ti kouka took place, rather than needing a fortified position. However there would have been plenty of birdlife in the area to supplement their diet while they were camped there.  

According to Russell, another lot of artefacts were found in what was called the Otepopo Bush. Some remnants of the bush area remain, but not much of it. Again, none of the remnants are displayed or catalogued anywhere but apparently the artefacts showed there had been a battle there. It is likely that it was the same group of Maori that cooked the ti kouka, who were living in a more substantial settlement near the mouth of the Waianakarua River, a good place to fish and where there was plenty of flax for weaving.

These Waianakarua Maori had warning that a marauding North Island tribe in several waka, canoes, was on their way. They were looking for a fight, had been capturing slaves or stealing pounamu, greenstone. The news was that they were dangerous. Apparently the Waianakarua Maori gathered all their pounamu and hid it in a pond, surrounded by Ngio trees situated on the hill to the south of the river mouth. It is speculated that the pounamu was never recovered! Not by the owners or later by fortune-seekers.

Taking heed of the warning, the Waianakarua Maori prepared to repulse the invaders. According to Russell, there were two places where fortifications could be prepared. The first is adjacent to Mount Charles, where there is a small, steep hill with a flattened top. A pile of spoil can be seen to the side. According to Russell, what we don’t know is how long did they have to do the work, or if the site was already prepared. The other site is a steep bluff overlooking the confluence of the north and south branches of the Waianakarua River. If time was short this would be a good place to make a stand but there was access behind this area, so it was not quite so secure.

Regardless of which area the Waianakarua Maori chose to make their stand, somehow the main battle occurred in the Otepopo Bush, slap-bang between the two possible sites. The outcome of the battle, and we don’t even know if there had been skirmishes or if it was one pitched battle, but the Waianakarua Maori drove their attackers ‘into the sea’. Even that term may be misleading. In retreat were the attackers picked off? Did some manage to refloat their waka and escape by sea? Or did the Waianakarua Maori stand with arms folded and watch as the invaders paddled away into the distance.

There is a curious addition to the tale. A woman and a boy who were unrelated, became separated from the attacking party and managed to escape up into the hills, the area the forest now occupies. They lived up there for two years, supposedly in a cave in Hoods Creek. I have scoured that creek and there is no cave there, it is all schist rock, but across a couple of ridges the rock type is different and there are rock shelters, one of them quite substantial. We found a small, charcoal drawing of a man and a dog, just above the entrance to it, but was that the pair, or others who drew it?

There is another story there, but not according to Russell.