Animal Magic

by Carolyn Press-McKenzie

  There were tears when I called the university research department, and when we walked in the doors to their clinic they treated us with nothing but respect. We cradled Stanley in our arms and showered him with tears of love as he shut his eyes for the last time. We were given a moment to say goodbye before they took his body away. Because Stanley had a rare version of the disease, his remains were flown straight to America to another facility where they would start work on him immediately.

  Back at the sanctuary we had a debrief, and the team talked proudly about Stanley. They knew this little man, who they had treasured, protected, carried with them everywhere, while only small in stature, was possibly going to make a huge contribution to the world.

  And then it was time to say goodbye to the Community Max team. Even years after they left us to go and conquer the world, Jim and I still can’t help but smile fondly when we recall them. We ended up running the programme for twelve months before the government cut its funding, so all and all we had 24 young unemployed people come through the organisation and learn some ‘HUHA magic’, as we like to call it. In that time we even became the flagship charity for the Community Max Scheme and the kids were regularly interviewed on TV news and current affairs programmes. On several occasions I took them in to Good Morning to help me deliver a wonderfully informative segment.

  While they were with us an extra grant had allowed us to upskill the workers. Some of them went on health and safety courses, some went on computer courses, all went on first-aid courses and those who still managed to hold a driver licence were sent off to wheels, tracks and roller courses, where they got an endorsement to drive tractors, diggers, forklifts and other machinery. It was so rewarding seeing their skills and CVs grow. By the end of their time with us eighteen of the 24 went on to become employed. Only two fell back into drugs, but I personally drove them to drug and alcohol counselling sessions while they were still with us, and I was proud to see them working hard at breaking the habit. One worker even went on to become a qualified vet nurse.

  But the most rewarding part is knowing that each and every one of them now respects, values and understands animals . . . and each other. Now hopefully they also respect and understand authority figures, although every time Jim and I walk past the impressively well-constructed shelter that the building team laboured over for weeks we can’t resist a smile. It is in fact a very fine piece of construction, which made us so proud of them, but we are also smiling because if you look very closely at the strange thick coat of bright pink paint inside the shelter, you’ll see the reason why we made them paint it—to cover up the large penis they drew on the wall when they had finished building it, just because that’s what teenagers do.

  CHAPTER 34

  The fine art of protest

  My dad was one of those folk who had a highly tuned moral compass.

  He could sniff out right from wrong a mile away and he was never afraid to voice his opinion—quite loudly, as I recall. My family probably saw it in me much earlier, but I first knew I had inherited his trait when I was working on a cruise ship as a cocktail waitress.

  It was a complete con. ‘Come sail with us, see the world and earn thousands of American dollars a month,’ went their pitch. What they didn’t tell you was that they would deduct from your wages thousands of American dollars a month so you would eventually end up trapped and in debt.

  They had it down to a fine art. The three weeks training in Miami was amazing and all paid for—well, that’s what we were told. But when we got there they said, ‘Don’t worry, we will just deduct the cost of the hotel from your pay.’ Then there were the mandatory medicals, AIDS test, uniforms, flights to meet the cruise ship in New York—all deducted from our pay. Once on the ship our meals were provided, but we had to hire Colombian cleaners to clean our cabins and barbacks to wash the dishes in our bars; we had to pay them or they wouldn’t be paid at all and of course it was deducted from our wages . . . it just went on and on.

  We worked all hours and were then trapped on the bottom deck with some very inappropriately touchy feely Colombian men who only spoke Spanish. So to keep safe we would shut ourselves in. Every night I would drift off to the sound of the other girls crying. Most of them were from little villages in Europe and had come to America to find their fortune and to make their families proud. But as they slipped further and further into debt, the crying got louder and that’s when my moral compass kicked in. I did try to talk to the officers first to find a solution, but it seemed that this was a racket that had been running for many years and they relied on a defeated workforce to run their ships. So I rallied the girls and told them that their families loved them and would hate to see them so distressed, that no American dream was worth what was essentially being held to ransom. Then I staged a walkout. When we returned from Bermuda we downed tools and walked out and refused to do anything more. The walkout didn’t make the cruise company change its policies, but it gave us the immense satisfaction of taking a stand.

  I heard from many of the girls over the following months; they were home safe and grateful and happy and stronger for the experience. And, like me, they would not be so gullible next time.

  Jim, who is my sounding board, is not all that different to me in his genetic make-up in the stroppy disposition department. He, too, gets it from his father, Black Jock McKenzie. Jock was a boilermaker’s union rep in the 1970s and had been responsible for the controversial stopwork on Wellington’s Bank of New Zealand high rise, over the employer refusing to issue proper work boots.

  So where this is leading is that from time to time, I would come across a situation that I just couldn’t walk away from without a fuss.

  Being on Facebook had certainly helped us grow in so many ways. We had direct access to the community and New Zealanders could follow our journey and see our work, and we could use it to voice concern over an issue. More recently HUHA has used Facebook to create New Zealand’s largest nationwide march, which pressured the government into a law change on testing legal highs on animals.

  Our first attempt at putting our toe in the water of controversy was just a small outburst back in 2011, but the public’s reaction was quite the eye-opener.

  My post went like this:

  Grrrr. Yesterday I threw a wobbly in a Wellington store called Cranfields on the corner of Johnston Street and Lambton Quay. It’s not my usual style but I was horrified to see their wide range of South African animal pelts proudly displayed as upper-class home decor. The zebra rug, eyelids, ears and nostrils included, cost $5320. So distressing. Join me in boycotting this money-driven heartless store!!

  Maybe it was a bit over the top, but I had done a little research when I was in the store and had taken note of the company that supplied the pelts: Landed Gear. They were a South African business and not only did they farm the zebra and springbok pelts that I saw in the Wellington store, they also raised and killed giraffe. Yip, for several thousand dollars you could be walking over a giraffe skin rug in your bare feet while you boiled the kettle for your morning cup of char. Being a vegan, I get that a zebra or a giraffe is actually no different than a cow, but my theory was that the value attached to those pelts, as well as the eyelashes, ears and nostrils, made them designer trophy rugs, and in my book that’s just wrong on so many levels.

  So I emailed the store a message:

  Hi, I passed my contact details on to your staff member yesterday. I would like to meet with you to discuss the African animal hides for sale in your store. During discussions with your staff member yesterday, she made it clear that your view is that everyone has the right of choice. She also said she did not believe that Wellingtonians would find the zebra hides offensive as they are sustainably sourced. I am writing to assure you that Wellingtonians do find these hides offensive to the point that a protest is being organised to take place in front of your store. I would encourage you to meet with me as this situation could easily be diffused if the hides were to be returned to the supplier.
I do not want to give Cranfields a bad reputation as in many ways it is a lovely store. But in doing business with Landed Gear you have crossed a moral line.

  Well, between the post and the email I managed to touch a nerve and with it came some good and some bad. The good was that the store was engaging, the bad news was that I naively didn’t realise how much anger I was stirring up on Facebook.

  Folk like me were having a knee-jerk reaction to zebras being dangled from shop fixtures and they set about writing some pretty hateful things. They called the shop assistants murderers and all sorts of other unsavoury names. I was starting to feel a little uneasy. I completely stood by my reasons for making a fuss but it’s so important to communicate with manners, and to remain classy at all times. So I asked the Facebook followers to please voice their views politely and with non-abusive consideration. But welcome to the world of social media; just because you start something does not mean you have any modicum of control. And for the very unhappy store owner it was quite an unpleasant ride.

  They replied to my letter, saying they were shocked by some of the emails they had been receiving and included a quote from the Landed Gear website:

  All of our hides are from sustainable sources. These include domestic farms or over population control programs. None of the animals that we supply are endangered or protected and as such comply with all domestic and international laws including the Convention on the International Trade of Endangered Species (CITES).

  They then asked me to supply some facts to back up my accusations, and to not contact the store staff as they had no say in what stock was carried. They finished by telling me they were a small family business, whose energies were currently tied up in a ‘sad Christchurch situation’.

  My response went like this (abridged):

  Thank you for your response to my letter of concern.

  I apologise if you have been receiving ‘shocking’ emails. I can assure you that although others have mirrored my concerns, I am not aware of any individuals who would send abusive correspondence.

  I am also sorry you have been affected by the sad Christchurch situation. I took some supplies and volunteers down to assist and we returned with 47 unwanted animals. During my time in Christchurch I was overwhelmed by how positive the locals are.

  My reason for contacting you was initially fuelled after seeing a ‘trophy’ pelt hanging in your store. Although your staff member assured me that the hides were merely leftovers from legal sustainable farming, my view is that they are expensive objects of desire satisfying the dated and offensive trophy pelt market.

  If these hides are merely fashionable leftovers and not trophy items then I am confused as to why they would be displayed with eyelids, nostrils and manes. I also wonder why the zebra hide is sold in your store at $5320, and the springbok hide only $250 . . . this would reinforce my argument that zebra in particular is considered and sold as a trophy item.

  Whatever the reason or excuse Landed Gear gives for the animals’ deaths, it is not kind or couth. Incidentally, the giraffe hide also available from your supplier is worth approx $10,000 NZ. I can’t even begin to imagine the sort of person who would invest in such tasteless cruelty.

  I have travelled in South Africa and seen its government in action—I guess it is at your discretion as to whether you take solace in their farming practices. Having said that, whale meat is legal in some countries, bears dance in some countries and cat and dog is legally eaten in some countries—it just comes down to where you draw the line and I think you will find that Wellingtonians draw the line at importing upmarket home decor items/hides that are priced and look horrifically like trophy pelts!!

  Please contact me if you have any further questions. I would like to be able to put this matter to rest in an amicable way.

  In the end, Cranfields didn’t want to meet up but they did stop stocking the skins. They told us they couldn’t return or dispose of the pelts they did have because their business couldn’t take any more financial hits.

  I wrote a final post on the subject on Facebook.

  The letters I wrote Cranfields were always professional and polite, but they forwarded me some of yours—jeepers I was shocked!!! Nevertheless thank you so much for all your wonderful commitment and support, WELL DONE WELLINGTON, I guess you could call that a win—a small win but definitely a win!!!

  So I guess we had won. Because of our open and honest communication, we hadn’t needed to protest, but it wasn’t a feel-good victory and we had no real sense of closure.

  It was also my first eye-opener into social media taking an idea and running with it. It is so important to always stay professional and polite and that is entrenched in all of our HUHA team, our work and our values. The work we do is so emotional and it would be easy to lose our temper or hurl abuse as a default reaction to the ignorance and cruelty we deal with daily. And yet we firmly believe that strategic and well thought-out interactions far outweigh any kind of mad ranting. We just wish sometimes our followers would understand our strategy and take a moment to breathe before reacting.

  CHAPTER 35

  Saving nature from itself

  ‘They are all dead and dying, Jim,’ I sobbed down the phone. ‘They are all dead and dying!’

  Poor Jim. It was clear from my voice that I was semi-hysterical. I knew there was nothing he could do from the other end of the phone, but I just needed to tell him. With tears flowing and my nose streaming I felt weak and defeated. It was the most helpless and out of control I had ever felt in my whole career. I even contemplated throwing myself on the ground like an overwhelmed toddler . . . how devastating, how absolutely devastating.

  The severity of the situation had hit the moment the beach came into view. I turned to Cherie, a volunteer at HUHA, and we looked at each other in sheer disbelief. Before us, in the foamy water’s edge, lay hundreds of chubby little fairy prions, most of them dead and the rest of them dying. It looked like a massacre.

  ‘Just get a grip and pick up the ones you can. Have you spoken to the zoo yet?’ These were Jim’s sage words of advice.

  And so Cherie and I set to it, sifting through the endless dead for those still breathing.

  A freak storm from the southwest was to blame for tens of thousands of fairy prions being blown off course and washing up on the beach, exhausted. The carnage reached way up the west coast of the lower North Island.

  Our first stop was the Kapiti SPCA. They had been inundated with the survivors that the kind locals, who were out combing the beaches, had brought in to be cared for. The zoo was overloaded too and set about giving us all instructions so we could deliver the best possible chances of living to the highest volume of birds. Cherie and I stacked more birds into our car and said our goodbyes and good lucks to the small shelter. Although we had taken a huge load from them we knew it would be only a matter of hours before their little hospital was overburdened once again.

  On the drive back to Kaitoke we were silent, maybe an unconscious effort to reserve our energy for the huge amount of work that lay ahead.

  Jim came out to help us unload the 300 birds. He had made a hospital wing in our spare room. Wall to wall and ceiling to floor, dog crates had been stacked up and lined with towels and blankets and there were two large heaters warming the space. On the way home Cherie and I had stopped at a fishmongers and bought kilos of salmon. The team at the zoo had recommended we feed the birds around 15 millilitres of salmon slurry up to three times a day.

  As the birds were settled in the cages and the blender began the first round in an endless procession of moulied salmon slurry, volunteers started to walk in the door. We had called ahead and rounded up the troops. We knew the task in front of us would be endless and for several days it was. Each bird was fed the fishy slosh through a tube into its crop, and one by one we worked our way through the birds. By the time we got to the last bird it was time to bring bird number one back out and start again. The mortality rate was huge. We lost about a third, who slip
ped into unconsciousness and could not be rallied. Cherie, Vari and Taylor and the rest of the volunteers were amazing with the desperate and tireless work, and we all stank beyond description.

  On the first evening the team of vollies gave Jim, the kids and me a break. They all moved from the kitchen table to the spare room for an hour or so, so my funny family could pretend we were normal while we sang happy birthday to Jim and drank tea and ate cake. Everything tasted of fish but Jim was a trouper and understood that we were fighting for the lives of these special little characters.

  Several days later we were testing the surviving birds’ waterproofing by swimming them in a tub of sea water for long periods of time. Then we got a call from another bird rescuer who had organised the lifeguard to take us out on a boat to release the ones that were waterproof, fit and ready to face the elements again.

  As the boat settled in the bay of an island off the shore of the Kapiti Coast, we set about opening the dozens of boxes and allowing the birds to gently float away. Once again I relished the amazing feeling you get when you set a wild animal free; it gives you such a sense of achievement and closure. A few of the wee birds struggled in the waves, so we scooped them up in nets, popped them into the boxes and took them back home for further care. The tricky thing with wildlife is timing: they really need to be released as soon as possible so secondary complications that come from being held captive do not arise, but then they need to be well enough to cope with the big wide world.

  Usually it’s people getting in the way of nature, but for this rescue it was Mother Nature who dealt the blow and people who came to the rescue. The communities of people scouring the beaches and bringing these special birds to safety can all be proud of themselves.