Traveller Inceptio

Lush rainforest-covered mountains hemmed the valley where scattered flocks of woolly sheep fed like plump maggots on green meat. For the past few hours, they had driven past classic pastoral scenes, all emerald meadows framed by golden poplars. Hurley commented that they looked like scenes from a bloody jigsaw puzzle.

Their lengthy commercial flight from London to Auckland, New Zealand arrived around daybreak and the men passed through customs as tourists. A connecting flight to Christchurch preceded a short drive to a nondescript house where they received an issue of New Zealand military kit before being driven straight out to here, wherever ‘here’ was.

They turned from the bumpy rural track, glimpsed the picturesque icy peaks of a not-too-distant mountain range, passed through a gate and into a forest where the road was little more than muddy parallel tracks on the dappled ground. The meagre daylight was unsuccessful in piercing the moisture-laden gloom as the occasional lonely birdcall rang like crystal through the green. It was cool and they wore warm, bulky combat jackets that made them look and feel like huddled gorillas as the minibus burrowed further into the forest like a grub. Before long, the road ascended, and narrowed to a precarious track that Hunter thought might not permit the vehicle further access. The road then hair-pinned up the side of a steep ridge until it presented them with a spectacular view of the primeval forest below. Unable to turn safely, the Maori driver had to reverse backwards and forwards until he made the bend. Hunter imagined that more than one of his fellow passengers envisaged a claustrophobic death as the vehicle plummeted over the edge to fall through the forest canopy below, while they were jammed like sardines in a can.

The driver was huge, with a shock of black, curly hair that stuck out in a frizz, completed by a couple of black dreadlocks that hung from the back of his head like lambs’ tails. His impressive bulk reminded Hunter that many of the monster extras for the classic Lord of the Rings movies were Maori men selected for their impressive size. A mountain of a man, he drove the rental bus with consummate skill, though he turned and tittered in a falsetto that belied his bulk.

“Don’t worry, fellas,” he said, “I haven’t driven a bus off here yet, only a truck.” He paused to look out of his right-hand driver’s window and peer down the escarpment where the remains of a truck could indeed be seen through the tree ferns below.

Morris decided to play his game and asked, “How did you survive?”

The driver tittered again. “Jumped out, bro.” He smiled. “Lost a keg for the boys though”.

Morris laughed and Hurley snorted.

“Never driven a bus up here before, so let’s see how I go, eh?” chuckled the driver.

Having already noted the lack of escape possibilities when they had entered the bus, Hunter knew the only chance of survival in the eventuality of the mini-bus going over the cliff would be that they were so tightly packed, those in the middle of the vehicle might survive. There was little to do but laugh along with their driver.

After the hairpins, the minibus emerged into heathland where scattered bushes soon merged into a dense tangle of prickly undergrowth. The path followed a spine of rugged ridges that gave a view of the beautiful, yet harsh country, surprisingly raw and untouched by modern civilisation. Finally, the bus pulled to a stop at a cluster of crude huts constructed from locally sawn timber. As he disembarked, Hunter viewed the muddy ground, low cloud and dripping tree fronds. They were up for a rather wet time. There was a spectacular view, squally clouds chasing each other across the valley as they trailed grey curtains of rain. It was stunningly peaceful.

Murdoch waited by one of the huts with a tough-looking Maori who succeeded in making her look even more diminutive. While Murdoch was dressed in her usual camouflage fatigues, her companion was clad in a warm, tartan-woollen coat that reached almost to his unlaced forester’s boots. As the men disembarked he watched without smiling, though he gave a jerk of the head and raised eyebrow in greeting as not unfriendly eye contact was made.

The driver clambered from the front of the vehicle to a groan of suspension as the minibus bobbed up in relief. Wearing a similar fleecy jacket, he only wore baggy shorts and was barefoot despite the near-freezing temperatures. He walked through the mud with no apparent lack of comfort, the heels on his huge, spade-like feet decorated with deep, black cracks. With hairless tree-trunk legs and massive calves, he was a man with whom none would want to tangle.

“Gentlemen,” Murdoch began without preamble, “as you know, we’re in the South Island of New Zealand. Meet your guides and instructors for the duration of your visit.” Murdoch turned to the man beside her. “This is Kai Whitianga and this is his cousin, Wallace”. She nodded to the driver, who leaned against the tray of a dilapidated truck.

He grinned to expose a black hole of decay between his top front teeth.

“These men are hunters. We want you to learn from them.” She looked over her team and nodded as if satisfied. “They use no guns, bows, not even spears to hunt. Make no mistake gentlemen, these men know their business and will help develop your skills in ways you can only imagine. I think you’ll find the next weeks particularly…stimulating.”

The cousin with the incongruous name of Wallace giggled again, and reaching to the rear of the truck, pulled back an old tarpaulin to expose a large, ugly-looking beast. Its body was a mass of stiff, dark-brown and tan bristles, while from its mouth protruded sharp, yellow tusks. The men gathered to examine the creature, which was plainly a feral pig.

“Captain Cooker. Pig, eh. Live all about here in the bush. Hunt them with the dogs, eh,” Wallace explained as he gestured with a meaty hand to a half dozen vicious-looking dogs that gathered around the wheels of the truck and sniffed to where the dead feral pig lay. Stocky and strong, the pig-hunting dogs had short hair over bodies latticed with scars. Hunter noted that Wallace appeared to control them with ease, though he suspected that once their blood was up, they would be difficult to manage. One pale dog, larger than the rest, pushed past Leishman and jumped onto the back of the truck to snarl and violently attack the body of the pig. Wallace grabbed the brute by the collar, and without saying a word, effortlessly heaved the beast back to the ground. He covered the pig’s body with the tarpaulin to settle the dogs.

Murdoch cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you to it then. Kai Whitianga is your instructor for the duration of this exercise. You’ll divide into three teams and be allocated a guide who will show you the ropes.” She smiled and nodded to Kai. “They’re all yours.” Without another glance or word, in typical Murdoch fashion, she stalked to the minibus and drove off.

The men stood in a semi-circle around Kai and waited for instructions. A thin drizzle fell and a couple of the men hunched their shoulders to prevent the icy rain from dribbling down the back of their necks. The New Zealand gear was warm, and like the British uniform, designed for wet conditions. To Hunter, their guide seemed reserved and a little nervous, and he wondered how much he knew of the men who stood before him. Like many Maoris, Kai was a big man and sported a bushy black moustache and black beanie, but he was otherwise neatly shaved and kept his hair short. Despite tribal tattoos on one of his hands and a tear tattooed below his left eye, Hunter suspected Kai to be ex-military, possibly even ex-New Zealand Special Forces, a group who had a reputation for toughness.

“Welcome to our camp, gentlemen,” Kai announced. “As Murdoch told you, we have some time together where we’re to do a little pig hunting the Maori way.” He pronounced Maori like ‘moudy’, rolling his r’s and clipping his vowels even shorter than the usual New Zealand accent. “There are a lot of wild pigs around here, ey. Big buggers!” Without moving his hands, he raised his eyebrows and indicated the surrounding area with a jerk of his head. “Our people hunt pigs and deer here and the elders have given permission for you to hunt with us. Four of you will come with me, three with Wal, and three with Blue, who’ll be here soon.”

He pointed with his chin to the huts in which they would be camped, an earth closet, and water tank for water. “Here’s where you’ll stay. Toss your gear into the sleeper huts—there’s a dunny—and the rest you can sort out yourselves. There’s no electricity. You all have knives? They have to be sharp.”

The men merely nodded.

Kai shrugged. “Ok, let’s have a feed and then we’ll start”.

They moved to an open shed which was a kitchen with only three walls, a large campfire and a heavy table where it looked to Hunter that everything from butchering feral pigs to eating took place. The building overlooked one of the most stunningly beautiful views he had ever seen. Green hills and rugged, snow-capped mountains again reminded him of Middle Earth. On the table were a few large, round loaves of bread, a stack of corned beef in tins and a huge pot of a watery stew.

On the invitation for dinner, Wallace stormed to the table and demonstrated that there would be no niceties as he tore off a chunk of bread and ladled some of the mix into a huge, chipped enamel bowl. The mix was a homemade soup with green vegetables and meaty bones.

“Pork bones and puha. Best kai, brothers! Come on, don’t be shy. Eat up!” Wallace called out as he placed his larger-than-life serve onto the table and took a seat on a heavy wooden bench. Without any preamble, he tucked into his meal, tearing off pieces of bread with his teeth as he forked the fatty meat and leafy native puha, a common weed highly valued as food by many Maoris, into his vigorously chewing, grinning maw.

Taking his cue to mean that hesitation could result in going hungry, the men tucked in. Tins of corned beef were opened and Hunter felt the whole meal take on a surreal air as a squad of some of the world’s most skilled survival experts, government problem solvers, and military mission specialists squatted or sat in a strange uniform where pork-bone and puha was good food. As they ate, the men introduced themselves to their guides. Though experts in their deadly skills, each man in the team was intelligent and friendly, so were expected to make friends quickly.

Hurley sat with Hunter, and as they ate, grunted in appreciation. “We ate like this as kids. It was all in or miss out, you know. With a big family, you could easily go hungry.”

Kai nodded, his face closed as if unsure of the men.

“How do you know Murdoch then?” continued Hurley.

Kai smiled and then gave a bark of laughter. “No matter how much you try to get on with life, some things always turn up, don’t they? Murdoch is like that.” He paused to take a mouthful of stew and a bite of bread. “Murdoch is the proverbial old penny, eh. She always turns up in the oddest places. I met her when I was in the forces.”

“Special Forces?” asked Hunter.

Kai only nodded. “My Dad died, so I had to return and look after the family. He was a chief, so I had a lot to live up to. My people live by hunting pigs and deer.” He paused and grunted again. “It’s a good life, but Murdoch mentioned taking some time to train her boys, so who am I to refuse? Besides, extra money’s always useful.”

Hunter nodded as he ate. The food was hearty and filling, but nothing fancy. He had become a little spoiled by the fare in old Welbeck. He watched Wallace toss his sucked-clean bones to his dogs where they immediately scrambled and fought over the scraps. The big man then ladled another massive serve and tore off a new chunk of bread with gusto. He giggled at a joke when a new man wandered into the cook hut. Tall and thin, he had a shock of red hair and a large nose with a lit cigarette inserted into his left nostril. Wallace greeted the man with a wave and an invitation.

“Haere mai Kite kai,” Maori for come and get your food.

Hurley asked, “Who’s that?”

Kai looked uncomfortable for a moment. “That’s Blue. He’s the husband to one of Wallace’s sisters.”

“Endearing habit,” Hurley commented with a small smile, but the tone had Hunter look to his friend, who had obviously taken an immediate dislike to the sullen man.

A charming nicotine stain ran from Blue’s nose to his mouth and the tip of the roll-your-own cigarette glowed as he took a drag and silently shook his head at Wallace’s invitation.

“No worries, bro, more for me,” giggled Wallace again as he resumed shovelling.

Kai noticed Hurley’s cold-eyed look to Hunter and gave a small smile.

Blue looked at the gathered men as if he resented their presence, then spoke to Wallace. “I have me dogs in the truck and I’m ready to go,” he whined, his tone belligerent. “I don’t want ’em getting restless or they’ll start fighting.” He paused and spat.

Wallace nodded, grunted, and then raised his finger for Blue to wait until he finished eating. Blue snorted again, which Hunter thought was not a mean feat with a nostril full of lit cigarette. Without another word, he turned and walked out. Wallace kept eating. Kai gestured to his cousin with his head and gave a small smile. “Nothing gets between my cuz and his food. I’ve seen Wallace polish off half a hangi. Us Maoris don’t eat till we’re full, we eat till the food’s gone,” he continued with a laugh. They watched Wallace grab a few more gulped mouthfuls until nothing remained but bones and gristle that he tossed to the dogs. Suddenly in a hurry, he promptly stood and glanced at the remaining food with regret before he hurried from the eating area.

The men soon finished and sauntered into the thin drizzle.

“I haven’t eaten corned beef in a while,” commented Hunter.

Hurley nodded. “That’ll get the system going. There’ll be a line-up for the shitter soon,” he muttered and nodded to the old dunny that stood off to one side.

Hunter snorted in agreement. “I can’t imagine it’s too clean either. I just hope they have some sawdust or I’m shitting in the bushes.”

Wallace gathered his dogs together and they leaped and yelped with enthusiasm. About ten metres away, Blue also had his dogs around him, five large, savage-looking canines with massive chest muscles. Their panting breath steamed in the cold. Wallace’s dogs almost skipped around the back of his truck in excitement as they ran over the pig’s body. The bigger, dominant dog, which Wallace had dubbed Prince, alternated between glaring at one of Blue’s dogs to bark a threat and savaging one of the dead swine’s trotters that peeked from beneath the tarpaulin. The other dogs barked and whined as Wallace busily laced wide, leather collars to their short, muscular necks. He spoke as he worked. “These collars, they protect the dog when it’s attacked by a pig. The tusks can gut a dog or tear out their throat, so the leather collars look after them, eh.”

Hunter noticed Prince had scars that pinkly decorated his shoulders where tusks had found their mark.

As ordered, the squad divided into groups to follow their guides. Hunter decided to join Wallace while Hurley gave Blue a hard look and then joined his group. Leishman and Morris also joined Wallace and they waited by the truck while Kai sorted his dogs. Wallace glanced at Blue and noticed him make ready to move off. It was obvious there was some competition between them, so Wallace called to Kai, “We’re off,” and led the three men in the opposite direction to Blue’s team.

“Have fun,” Hunter quipped.

Hurley gave a grim smile and nodded. Without preamble, they headed into the undergrowth.

Hunter soon discovered the hunt was interesting for more reasons than just chasing feral pigs through the New Zealand undergrowth. There was no preliminary tracking or quiet easing into the dense foliage. Wallace gave his dogs their head and off they ran, scurrying into the scratchy heather with the four men in pursuit. Wallace had donned a pair of lumberjack boots, and despite his bulk, was deceptively agile as he sprinted through the impenetrable vegetation. Hunter was cautious. Running through this country would take a toll on your fitness and clothing, he figured. Steep hills and valleys hid treacherous dips and rocks that could easily turn an ankle or cause a fall, while thorns and branches tore at their skin and uniforms. The cold, drizzly weather set in and visibility dropped to only a couple of hundred metres. This could be deadly.

They made contact after only half an hour as a feral scream rent the misty air to broadcast that the dogs had found their first ‘Captain Cooker’. Kai had earlier explained that the pigs had been introduced in the 1700s by explorer Captain James Cook and the beasts soon found their Eden. With an abundance of food and lack of predators, the population exploded. Now, in some of the most rugged parts of the country, the pigs had become large, well fed, and potentially vicious when cornered. Hunting these and feral deer supplied important protein and export income to Kai’s traditional Maori community.

With the pig cornered, Hunter knew they had to move fast. Wallace sprinted through the undergrowth to get to his dogs before they could be injured or killed by the vicious tusks. Following hard on his heels, Hunter, Morris and Leishman burst into a trampled circle of heather where four of the dogs had seized a pig so effectively it could barely move. The large dog, Prince, had a savage hold of the bleeding snout while three others were fixed to an ear and tail, keeping the darkly bristled beast off balance. A fifth dog ran about in excitement as if unsure what to do until it decided to grasp the other ear, resulting in another ear-piercing squeal of fury.

Without wasting any time, Wallace pulled his long, sharp knife from its sheath and pushed through the trampled bushes to slide in next to one of the dogs at the pig’s head. He stuck the knife cleanly, almost to the hilt, into the side of the pig’s neck and pushed the handle downward to sever the carotid artery. A spout of blood squirted over one of the dogs and sprayed into the nearby foliage. There was a shrill scream. Within moments the beast dropped, dazed, and convulsed as it died. Wallace pushed and shoved the dogs, cuffing Prince angrily as the dog wouldn’t relent. The dogs milled excitedly. Wallace showed the three novices the finer points of where to stab the pig and how to best avoid tusks and dogs. He explained he would normally carry the pig on his shoulders, piggyback style, but today he tied the front and hind legs together before threading between its legs a staff he had carried to allow two of his companions to be the beasts of burden. Hunter and Morris were the first to bear the weight between them and it made for a tough hike back to camp. Hunter wondered how Wallace could have carried the pig by himself and his respect for the big man soared. As they struggled, he had plenty of time to examine the pig, its large tusks and stiff dark-brown hair. It was an intimidating sight, though the pungent smell gave him little doubt as to how the dogs were able to track it so effectively.

To Wallace’s obvious delight, they were the first back into camp, and as the drizzle set in, he stoked the fire and made a huge iron pot of tea. Sweetened with condensed milk, the welcome hot cuppa was just what was needed. Hunter and Morris’ legs wobbled from their exertions and they chatted until Blue arrived with Hurley and Anderson struggling under the carcass of a similar-sized pig. McFee, the red headed Scotsman, and Blue followed. All were soaked.

Kai’s team arrived shortly after with two small pigs carried individually by piggyback. He and the others gratefully accepted a tin mug of steaming tea after the beasts were loaded onto the back of Wallace’s truck. As his dogs clambered excitedly over the carcasses, Wallace climbed into the cabin, and with a crunch of gears and a billow of greasy diesel smoke, drove off. The beasts were to be stored in a portable cold-room at a nearby settlement.

Hunter was grateful for the rest, even if it was on a rough bench. The tin mug was hot in his chilled hands and he savoured the strong, sweet tea. Hurley sat by Hunter with Morris and Leishman as they nursed their mugs.

“That’s one hell of a way to hunt pigs.” Hurley grinned.

Leishman grunted. “Man,” he shook his head, “these guys are crazy, but what a rush. Is that how they do it here in New Zealand?”

Morris chuckled and added, “I know of a few backwoods boys who do something similar in Canada, but I’ve never actually hunted pigs with only a knife and a few dogs. It’s pretty intense, though a few times I thought Blue would be the one squealing with a knife in his neck.”

They laughed.

“So as full of charm as we thought?” asked Hunter.

Hurley smiled, but his eyes were like flint. “Oh, our guide was a lovely lad. He started to give us a little attitude and, well, I took him aside and told him to settle the fuck down or one of these lads will settle him. I believe he recognised the error of his ways.”

Morris laughed out loud in his usual way. Leishman added, “I think he understood where we were coming from. He’s been a model of decorum ever since.”

Hurley raised his tin mug in a friendly salute to Blue who had just come in from settling his dogs. On seeing Hurley, the redhead gave a nervous smile, a nod, and a carefully friendly, mug-raised salute in return.

They took a few moments to stow their gear in the huts. Each housed three double-decker bunks. Without any comforts, cold-water washes were completed in time for Wallace’s return. He arrived with more food, cartons of beer, and three Maori girls who were probably relations. Hunter was certain they weren’t supposed to be there. He noted Kai’s frown, then the shrug of his shoulders as he submitted himself to the inevitability of what was probably Wallace’s ability to milk the maximum fun from any occasion. Wallace carried boxes of garments still in their protective plastic packaging and tossed each of the men one of the large woollen shirts that he, Kai and Blue wore. Wallace called them Swanndris and they were warm, tartan, heavy woollen shirts that hung almost to their knees. Perfect for the New Zealand outdoors, they were waterproof to all but the most penetrating downpours. As the men cast off their uniform jackets and donned the Swanndris, they almost looked like locals.

Giant steaks, boiled potatoes, links of sausages, and kumara sweet potatoes were eaten and washed down with beer or hot tea. One of the women looked like a female version of Wallace. She was just as large, strong, and barefoot. Introduced as Rose, with her frizzed black hair and missing two front teeth, she looked like Wallace in a dress. Rose’s hearty laugh rang throughout the dining area as she consumed her food with Wallace’s signature joy of life.

Hurley nudged Hunter and nodded at the huge woman. “There you go, Hunter; she’d keep you warm on these cold nights.”

Hunter smiled. “I think she’d kill me. More Morris’s style perhaps?”

Hurley laughed as Morris grunted out a curse.

The food was good, hot and plentiful, and they were constantly reminded by their hosts to, “Eat! Eat!”

To Hunter, these rural Maoris were some of the most hospitable people he had ever met, with a love of life as colossal as they were.

After the meal came freshly baked cakes and more beer while guitars were passed around and singing started. The girls joined in for a few traditional Maori ballads and Hunter found one of the younger girls to be quite attractive. They noted with amusement that, as the evening progressed, she cast doe-eyed looks at Poxon, the youngest and undeniably the most handsome of their group. Their hosts took great pleasure in their music, so they played guitars and sang with their powerful voices until late into the night. Hunter and Anderson impressed their hosts with their playing while Kitchener demonstrated his soulful rhythm-and-blues singing. The music would have gone all night if Kai hadn’t reminded everyone that they had a big day tomorrow.

Eyelids drooped as they headed for their beds in anticipation of another tough day.