Visiting New Zealand’s Kapiti Island is a bit like stepping into Jurassic Park. The nature reserve feels primordial and teems with endangered birds which show little fear and act as though the island is theirs. And it is.
Kakariki parrots, tui songbirds, kereru (huge, green and white native wood pigeons), and blue-tinged huia dart in and out of the canopy, their calls layered into a constant and riotous soundtrack.
Lift the front doormat at a lodge building and find pair of little blue penguin nesting a finger’s length away. Wind your way down forest paths and you’ll be swooped by the glistening black tui that sing a haunting conversational warble. Step into earthy-smelling dark spaces under the kanuka trees, and tiny New Zealand robins hop through the branches just behind you, waiting to catch bugs turned up by your footsteps.
This six-mile long sliver of an island came into being when it was forced upward from the sea by earthquakes, leaving one side a sheer face of rocky, 1,709-foot cliffs facing out to sea. Though the island feels isolated when you’re on it, it’s actually only 90 minutes north from New Zealand’s capital city of Wellington, and a 15-minute boat ride from the lattes and shops of the sleepy Kapiti Coast district.
Yet, few people ever visit Kapiti Island. It is forbidden to step foot on it without Department of Conservation permission, in order to keep it pest free and protect the birds, and only two tour companies are allowed to take small groups across. The one I travelled with, Kapiti Island Nature Tours, is run by a family descended from the Maori people who lived on the island before Europeans colonized the country.
The day we visited, the boat cut through clear, dark water reflecting like glass. The captain kept up a commentary, telling us to watch out for seals, dolphins, whales and orca – which are occasionally spotted from the boat – and everyone on board craned their heads about and chatted happily.
Like many other isolated islands throughout the world, New Zealand’s flora and fauna developed in isolation with strange, unique and beautiful features. Three species of bat are New Zealand’s only land-dwelling native mammals.
Birds rule the roost at every level of the food chain. At the top, Karearea (New Zealand falcon), have recently re-established themselves on Kapiti. Even by falcon standards they’re fierce and fast.
New Zealand has led the world in using islands as an ark, to try to create safe spaces where introduced predators are eradicated, so rare and endangered wildlife can thrive.
Kapiti was set aside for the birds in 1897, one of the first ever conservation sanctuaries. Supporters began wiping out the introduced pest species – sheep, goats, possums, and stoats. One hundred years later in 1998, in its biggest victory and a world first for an island of this size, Kapiti Island was declared rat free.
The island plays a crucial role in the survival of a number of bird species. Several species here have less than 2000 individuals left in existence, but almost all are regaining ground.
In a place set aside for birds, people are the minority and the birds seem fascinated and entertained by us. They watch us, fly above us, chatter about us, show off and turn on both charisma and stealth to try to steal lunch from our hands.
Two rare weka, frustrated they were not allowed to eat with us, break off into a fury of puffed brown feathers and throaty whomp whomp noises, and tussle with each other among white, chalky whale vertebrae in a garden behind our lunch table.
Local Maori legend tells of Kahe Te Rau o Te Rangi, the daughter of a leader of her tribe, who was on Kapiti island and spotted a far-off raiding party of canoes – then swam the three-mile wide channel with her child on her back to raise the alarm at her tribe’s village on the North Island coast.
At different points in its pre-European history this strategic island was home to a succession of local tribes, who were later joined by European whalers. Kahe the swimmer married a trader known as John Scotch, and she crewed for him on trading voyages.
Today, one last piece of the island still owned by Maori is the only piece not in Department of Conservation hands. It is lived on and visited by a wide network of family descended from three local tribes and the early settlers.
This land is important because it continues to draw the family together, says Manaaki Barrett, our guide for the day. His family takes seriously the ancestral philosophy that they are guardians of the land, and they work alongside the Department of Conservation to protect it.
Manaaki is an ecology student at the university in Wellington, and when we land on the island he talks us through the its birds, ecology and history.
The family’s land hosts a small collection of glamping tents and cabins nestled into a valley behind their lodge, where kitchen helpers serve a wonderful lunch spread including New Zealand specialties such as lamb and fresh kai moana (seafood).
One of Manaaki’s favourite parts of the job is sitting outside the lodge with overnight visitors in the evenings, where more relaxed conversations unfold with a glass of wine. Germans, Scandinavians and British tourists are some of the most common guests, as well as local Kiwis.
Hospitality (often translated into the word manaaki), is another value precious to Maori. Manaaki’s family believe welcoming visitors and encouraging them to see the birds up close ensures support for ongoing conservation efforts.
After the talk, we are free to roam the island, from coast to coast and tip to tail, barring a few plots fenced off for family homes.
At the flat, north end of the island I walk past a glistening lagoon, through the stands of kanuka where I am accompanied by robins, and out to the seaward coast. Here, the winds from Cook Strait have caused the vegetation to change from lush forest to stunted wiry forms that mat the rocky coast underneath huge cliffs. On a previous visit, I climbed the steep forest paths to the top of the island, and looked out on the cliff tops across a breathtaking blue expanse.
Groups of birds follow me everywhere, and fly out above the cliff drop, soaring. Their joy and chatter leaves me feeling hopeful that there is still a way they can be saved from the brink of extinction, and brought back.
