Thunder of a distant war
Aotearoa couldn’t be further from the Russian invasion of Ukraine, but social media and global news make the war all too close for the many New Zealanders who have roots in the region.
Aotearoa couldn’t be further from the Russian invasion of Ukraine, but social media and global news make the war all too close for the many New Zealanders who have roots in the region.
Moths, sharks, seahorses, stick insects, crab spiders and spider crabs all use different forms of disguise to hide from those who want to eat them—or to better ambush their prey. What can we learn from them?
Making remote portraits of New Zealanders in isolation—using only their phone cameras.
Scientists have identified three new bird species from fossil bones unearthed at St Bathans in Central Otago—which was a massive lake 16-19 million years ago. Among the fossil finds is a wingbone so strange it has sat on a shelf, eluding scientific description, since 2008. “We’ve been puzzling over it, trying to work out what on earth it could be,” says Paul Scofield, a palaeontologist at Canterbury Museum who has been part of a team uncovering the fossil treasures at St Bathans for more than 20 years. The team had hoped to find more matching bones to assemble the skeletal jigsaw, but with more than a decade passing since the discovery, it was time to “give it a name and come up with a hypothesis”, says Scofield. Because of its classification-defying features, they have created a new family for this mysterious bird, calling it Zealandornis relictus. The wingbone displays some similarities to those of mousebirds, a type of sparrow-sized bird with a stubby, finch-like beak and a long thin tail. There are just six living mousebird species, all in Africa, but the fossil record shows that mousebirds were once common across Europe and North America. If this bone does belong to a mousebird, it would be the first Australasian example. But there’s another tantalising option. “There’s a possibility … it is the wingbone of a flying kiwi,” says Scofield. “But the problem is, we simply don’t know what the wingbone of flying kiwi would look like.” Without more bones as evidence, scientists can’t say—and the fragmented nature of fossils at St Bathans means that the record may remain incomplete. Equally, this wingbone could be from a bird with no present-day counterpart, says Scofield. “This animal could well be from a missing lineage, a failed experiment in evolution that didn’t lead to a modern species.” The other new species are more familiar: Manuherikia primadividua is a duck. It’s closely related to another fossil duck from the palaeolake, M. lacustrina. But the two ducks were found in different layers, meaning one is older than the other, which is allowing scientists to put other fossil finds into a rough timeline for the first time. “You might think, ‘Oh, it’s just another dead duck,’” says Scofield, “but it’s an important step in building up a picture of how the animals and plants living on this ancient lake changed over time.” The third new bird, Aegotheles zealandivetus, is part of the owlet-nightjar family, a type of small owl-like bird with big eyes and a wide mouth—although this species was a “big, stout-legged thing” quite different from living examples in Australia and New Guinea. It’s the oldest owlet-nightjar fossil uncovered. The finds are the latest remarkable species uncovered from a site that has yielded a giant parrot dubbed Squawkzilla, a tiny kiwi one-third the size of today’s kiwi, and crocodiles that may have spent more time on land than in water. There’s more to come, according to Scofield: “Every trip, we’re still finding new species.”
The handwriting of New Zealand’s most famous author, Katherine Mansfield (1888–1923), was notoriously difficult to decipher, as those who have studied her manuscripts can attest. It was perhaps fortunate, then, that towards the end of her life she came into possession of a typewriter and from then on used it enthusiastically or, depending on her health, had others type up her manuscript drafts. Mansfield’s typewriter was donated to the Alexander Turnbull Library by her long-time companion Ida Baker in 1971 and deposited in 1972 by Mansfield scholar and Turnbull manuscripts librarian Margaret Scott. The latter met Baker (commonly referred to as LM, or Leslie Moore, in Mansfield’s papers) in 1971 on her research travels to England and France as the second recipient of the Katherine Mansfield Fellowship. In her fascinating 2001 memoir, Scott describes how Baker gave her Mansfield’s ‘little Corona typewriter’, which was ‘a very primitive affair but it still worked’. The typewriter had belonged to Mansfield’s husband, John Middleton Murry (1889–1957), who bought it brand new in March 1920 for £15 15s 0d (the equivalent of the cost of a mid-range laptop computer). We do not know exactly when Mansfield began using the Corona on a regular basis, but entries in her notebooks would suggest that it was some time around the middle of 1920. From 1921 until the end of her life, depending on whether she and Murry were together or apart, the typewriter was at her disposal. This probably indicates that Murry gave it to her, as it was among her possessions that went to Baker after Mansfield’s death on 9 January 1923. This popular model of the Corona 3 was one of about 21,000 manufactured as early as January 1920 by the Corona Typewriter Company in the United States. It was small, light and compact, with a carriage that folded over the keyboard so it could be stored in its purpose-made carry case and easily transported. That would have suited Mansfield well; she changed address around eight times during her final two years as she sought relief and a cure for her tuberculosis. Mansfield spent most of her writing life in England and Europe, remaining ambivalent about her connection to her country of birth and upbringing.
Coal warms our hospitals and schools, ripens our tomatoes, makes roses bloom, turns ironsand into steel, dries milk powder for export, and generates electricity when hydro lakes are low and gas production sputters. Coal also releases close to double its weight in carbon dioxide emissions—and, in 2021, New Zealand imported record volumes of it. If we’re to meet our net zero emissions target in time, we’re going to need a game changer.
There’s a cost to our existence. There’s coal mined to forge the steel to build the cities we live in and the cars we drive; the forests we’ve cleared to produce our food; the land we’ve peeled away to build new subdivisions; the river rapids drowned under the dams of the hydroelectric schemes that keep us warm at night. Yeah, we know. No need to go on about it. But it’s worth talking about, because we need to understand our footprint and be comfortable with its consequences. Presently, we designate some areas for total exploitation, and others for total protection. These protected places are salves for the conscience, our national parks and wilderness areas and marine reserves, as though they cancel out the places we’ve irreversibly changed. Some have suggested this approach seems old-fashioned, that we need to co-habit with the natural world, and exploit it sustainably. It’s a theme, in particular, of the Māori worldview, which is partly why national parks vested as Crown land and no-take marine reserves don’t sit easily with some iwi. We know that our wild places are affected by what we do everywhere else, and as a result, we’re trying hard to unexploit some places—rewilding suburbs, creating bird corridors, planting stream margins—all of these an acknowledgement that we need to reduce the sum total of human exploitation on the world, or we’re going to ruin the whole thing. Yet conservation science tell us that protecting some places and fully exploiting others often has better results than a little bit of exploitation everywhere. This is most obvious in the sea, where the convection of life is constantly stirring all things together. There, having some areas untouched is critically important to the structure of the ecosystem—otherwise everything is compromised. These are among the challenging terms of reference for the panel deciding the fate of stewardship land. Should it be entirely protected—no use permitted—or entirely exploited? Other voices, predominantly Māori ones, are pointing out that perhaps this all-or-nothing approach isn’t necessary, and that, historically, the concept of kaitiakitanga allowed for both protection and utility, even commerce. You could have your birds and eat them, too. We can’t copy-and-paste exactly the same tactics today—there are too many of us who are too comfortable using lots of resources—but the same principles apply. It may be possible to use and protect, and it may be necessary, too, because all of the natural world requires our care, and all of it bears our signature. Many of us would like to see a reduction in the net total of human exploitation, but most of us haven’t calibrated our expectations around what that would look like, or how that would affect our lives. If we stop burning coal for heat, that deficit will need to be paid in reduced consumption or increased generation, which may require rivers turned into hydro lakes, or significant government subsidies for switching coal boilers to biofuel. These are unpleasant choices. Yet this is something we’re all part of—this is not only a national project, but a global one. More than ever, we need to listen to one another, communicate respectfully, and weave these threads of knowledge together to find a new and more durable approach to living in Aotearoa.
The actor, writer and director’s play Dawn Raids is being restaged, 25 years after he wrote it.
In Palmerston North, it doesn’t take a big effort to go bush. There are plenty of pathways close to the city that offer a glimpse at the region’s impressive biodiversity.
In 1975, New Zealand established the world’s first marine reserves, which became the gold standard for marine conservation and environmental outcomes. Half a century later we lag far behind the rest of the world in protecting our marine estate—an approach more similar to Russia and China than states most Kiwis would consider hold similar environmental values. New Zealand has not commited to the United Nations goal of 30% marine protection by 2030 and the Labour government has failed to meet its own goal of 10% protection by 2020. “For decades New Zealand has played an important role in ocean governance, opposing whaling, reducing by-catch and advocating for the elimination of fisheries subsidies,” says Bronwen Golder, a Kiwi, and fellow at the Stanford Center for Ocean Solutions. “So it’s staggering that we’re not more active in protecting the marine environment to ensure its health, productivity and resilience in the face of climate change, pollution and fishing pressure.”
Stewardship land has gone from obscurity to primetime in 2022. All eyes are on a new national panel of experts, a new mana whenua panel of iwi representatives and the Minister of Conservation as they decide the fate of nine per cent of Aotearoa’s total land area—with the first million hectares to be dealt with in eight months.
This past summer was a scorcher, not just on land but in the sea, too. In some of New Zealand’s coastal waters, temperatures reached four degrees higher than normal, while in the Bay of Plenty, a marine heatwave began in November and continued into March. Globally, marine heatwaves have bleached coral, flattened kelp forests, changed whales’ behaviour, wiped out fisheries, and allowed invasive species to spread. They can also cause problems for aquaculture, says MetOcean’s João de Souza, director of The Moana Project, which tracks ocean temperatures around New Zealand and forecasts marine heatwaves one week ahead to help companies farming salmon, mussel and oysters to prepare. (A marine heatwave takes place when temperatures reach a certain level above baseline averages for at least five days in a row.) The abnormally toasty conditions were already evident last winter and intensified over summer, de Souza says, the result of both atmospheric and marine conditions working together. Worldwide, the ocean’s average temperature has increased by nearly 1°C in the past century. On top of that, “the Southern Blob”—an Australia-sized patch of overheated water to the east of New Zealand—has lifted sea temperatures even higher for at least the past decade. This summer, the warm air and clear skies brought by La Niña contributed too, making it New Zealand’s most extreme marine heatwave since records began in 1981. The problem is, once-rare events are becoming normal, says Kisei Tanaka from the US National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in Hawaii. “What we once considered extreme is not extreme anymore—because it’s happening every year.” In a recent study, Tanaka and his colleagues used two 150-year datasets tracking sea-surface temperatures worldwide. In each place, they identified the hottest month between 1870 and 1919—a once-in-50-year heatwave. By 2014, more than half of the ocean’s surface was hitting or exceeding that threshold. Tanaka’s study showed that in New Zealand, too, marine heat events have significantly increased in frequency since the 1980s. Between 2010 and 2019, more than half of the country’s exclusive economic zone exceeded the historical ‘once-in-50-years’ temperatures during at least six months of every year. For Tanaka, it’s a stark reminder that climate change is not just “waiting for us on the horizon”, he says. “It’s happening now, as we speak, and it has been happening for quite some time.”
The attack is already underway when the researchers find the blue whale. A huge chunk of flesh has been ripped from its nose, its dorsal fin has been bitten off, and teeth rake scratches scar its body. Still, the whale tries to flee from its attackers. About a dozen orcas continue their hunt, and after 20 minutes, the whale is bleeding profusely. The end is near. Three orcas line up to deliver the fatal blow, ramming into its flank and forcing the whale under. One orca noses her way into the behemoth’s mouth and begins to feed on its tongue. Over the next six hours, around 50 killer whales converge on the 20-metre-long carcass for a blubbery feast. This is the first authenticated record of orcas hunting, killing and devouring a blue whale, the largest animal ever to exist on Earth. The encounter was reported by researchers from Australia and the United States, alongside a further two instances of blue whale predation by the same group of orcas. Whale tongue appears to be an orca delicacy, with two of the three hunts featuring individuals targeting it. Different orca groups often specialise in different hunting tactics: the resident orca population in New Zealand is known for stalking stingrays, while some in Antarctica are seal specialists. Orcas off the Baja California coast may also hunt blue whales, with video footage posted to the internet showing attacks—but no kills.
A symphony is taking place beneath the waves, as many different animals call to each other, scare off predators, stun their prey, or munch on algae. What happens when humans drown them out?
Where do Tamatea/Dusky Sound’s dolphins go? Starting in 2009, researchers spent a decade trying to find out, setting out 178 times in small boats in all seasons to track and identify the sound’s resident bottlenose dolphins—around 120 of them. They found that the animals preferred to hang out in certain parts of the vast waterway, and that they particularly liked Te Puaitaha/Breaksea Sound (the long fiord at the north end of Dusky Sound) and the Bowen Channel (between Resolution and Long Islands). However, from 2016 to 2018, the dolphins began to leave Breaksea Sound. Fiordland may be one of the wildest places in New Zealand, but human presence is increasing. The researchers suspect that increased boat traffic, the depletion of blue cod by recreational fishers, or the spread of the invasive weed undaria in Breaksea Sound could have something to do with the change. As large predators, bottlenose dolphins are a critical part of the Fiordland marine ecosystem. Nearby Doubtful Sound/Patea and Milford Sound/Piopiotahi have special safeguards in place for dolphins, but not Dusky. The researchers suggest a number of options to protect them: extend the boundaries of existing marine reserves to include dolphin hotspots, restrict vessel traffic in those areas, and lower recreation catch limits within the entire sound. These ecosystem-based approaches would be more effective than another suggestion, the creation of a marine mammal sanctuary, says the University of Auckland’s Rochelle Constantine, who was not involved in the paper. “It’s better to look after the whole area so all the marine life is taken into consideration.”
Sea-level rise doesn’t affect coasts equally—one bay may be drowned while the beach next door remains the same as ever. Predicting sea-level rise needs to take into account tectonic movement of the land, prevailing winds, coastal erosion and Arctic meltwater. Now, the first-ever detailed map of New Zealand’s coastlines shows what may happen.
A machine learning algorithm has identified potentially meteorite-rich sites in Antarctica. The icy continent is a mecca for meteorite hunters—the dry, cold environment keeps the rocks in pristine condition, and their dark colour makes them easy to spot against the white landscape. Still, you need a good dose of luck to find a meteorite stranding zone: areas of ice where wind conditions result in a high concentration of space rocks. The algorithm identified 600 stranding zones with more than 80 per cent accuracy. The findings suggest that there are plenty more meteorites yet to be recovered from the ice—including rare Martian specimens.
New Zealand’s largest lake lies atop a sleeping giant: the Taupō supervolcano, which last erupted some 1800 years ago. But new research suggests that residents of the central North Island need to be wary of earthquakes rather than volcanic blasts. Eruptions may be more dangerous, but earthquakes are much more common. “It doesn’t erupt very often,” says Finn Illsley-Kemp, a seismologist at Victoria University of Wellington. Instead, earthquakes—either caused or affected by the volcanic system—occur on timescales that are more likely to occur within a person’s lifetime. Illsley-Kemp points out that seismic activity has affected the region multiple times in the past 150 years, including an earthquake in 1895 estimated at magnitude six. More recently, earthquake swarms during a period of unrest in 2019 ruptured a major sewer pipe. (These were thought to be at the gentler end of Taupō’s seismic spectrum.) Aside from earthquake risks, the research draws on data from different areas of science to try to understand what’s rumbling in Taupō’s belly: a large chamber of magma five to seven kilometres below the surface. “We don’t really understand why sometimes the magma chamber is ready to blow and why sometimes it’s not,” says Illsley-Kemp. Scientists do know it would give warning signs—but because Taupō hasn’t erupted in the modern era, they don’t know exactly what those would be. To help keep a close eye on the volcano, the research team drew up a range of scenarios, including various triggers for an eruption, such as large earthquakes and interactions with smaller volcanoes nearby. For example, says Illsley-Kemp, scientists detected changes in the Taupō volcano triggered by the 2016 Kaikōura earthquake. “In terms of monitoring, we can’t just focus only on what’s happening under the lake,” he says. “We have to look at the wider system.”
Auckland Museum—open now
Directed by Lula Cucchiara unafraidthefilm.net
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