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How our seabirds fuelled life in Aotearoa
Some of Willy Ngamoki’s earliest memories are of harvesting tītī chicks with his dad. It was the early 1960s, he was maybe five or six, and on autumn mornings father and son, like generations of Te-Whānau-a-Āpanui before them, would climb the steep-sided Pokohinu Point above Ōmāio Bay in the eastern Bay of Plenty. His dad used a big thick leather glove and a mānuka stick to extract the chicks from the hole. Willy’s job was to listen and learn. But on one occasion a curved burrow entrance, with the chick sitting around a corner, meant the stick couldn’t be used, so Willy pulled the glove on—it reached all the way to his shoulder—and crawled into the hole. The chick bit the glove and latched on, and Willy’s dad pulled him out with the chick attached. He remembers the smell, the fluff. One season, Ngamoki’s dad told him he thought the tītī were dying out. Each year, more and more burrows were cobwebbed over. “The vacancy signs were out everywhere,” says Ngamoki. “[Dad] said ‘That’s it, boy, no more birds.’ So we just hung the mānuka stick up.” Keep reading...
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