The ethics of eating Wild Food

Rachel Stewart's piece "Could you kill the animal for tonight's dinner?" sums up so well what I'd planned to write.  So here it is verbatim for those who don't read the Taranaki Daily Times.

"Buried deep down in the dark recesses of my psyche is a code. I don't know how it got there but it goes like this: If you eat it you first must be able to kill it.

It's enough for some to turn vegetarian - vegan even. Many have turned, and many more will, but where does that leave the rest of us - true carnivores looking for our next iron-boosting chomp of blood-red protein?

Just like nearly everybody else in this high-convenience, low- reality world, the majority of my meat comes from supermarkets in a nicely packaged, almost pretty cut of animal flesh. The human disconnect between industrial farming and slaughter processes, and the meat in our shopping trolley, runs deep.

This is obviously more of a liberal's dilemma than anybody else's. You love meat but you don't like eating anything with a face, let alone killing it too, right? Then it's way past time to wake up and smell the blood. There's a word for the likes of you; hypocrite.

Meat-eaters who judge hunters, and often their guns, need a weekend in the bush. Trust me, take up this one-time offer because the alternative - a tour through the abattoir - will make the bush trip look like a picnic.

Regular readers of my columns will know that I own guns for hunting, but I am also a falconer. Falconry is using a bird of prey (such as a hawk) for hunting game - rabbits and hares mainly.

I enjoy it for a raft of reasons, but one of them is that the prey has a sporting chance of getting away.

However, it provides enough statistical success to keep both me and the bird interested.

Many meat-eating dimwits have some rather strange opinions about hunting prey with birds. Here's but one: "Instead of killing those poor, defenceless little bunny rabbits why don't you just feed the hawk some hamburger mince?"

Hmmm, well, let me think on that for a nanosecond, dingbat.

It is indisputably more honest and ethically sound to kill and eat an animal that was raised in its natural habitat - not put through the industrial agricultural system where its death has simply been contracted out for our convenience.

Maybe some people's distaste for hunting is to do with a generalisation that all hunters are gun-toting, redneck conservatives.

In the United States the urban population in particular struggles with this caricature.

However, while it is true that many hunters err on the side of listening to Garth Brooks and wearing snakeskin boots, more and more urban liberals are looking for a way to reconcile their eating habits with their ethical values.

Hunters know in their bones that it is less about the killing, and more about the connection with nature, that keeps them going back out there.

I know many a politically conservative hunter who holds a respect for animals and the environment, unmatched by any urban liberal I've ever met.

At the conclusion of our annual North American falconry meets, and before we sit down to eat our final meal together, a bell is rung. It's rung for mates who died during the preceding year, and also for the wild game whose lives were taken during the week of hunting. In other words, we honour the dead.

I can't begin to tell you how deeply disgusted I was about the dressing up of the dead possums at Uruti school last year. Yeah, I know all the reasons why people thought it was perfectly fine to do such a thing. But you will never convince me that messing with the dead - human or non-human - is acceptable. It is not.

I have killed hundreds of rabbits and possums and they are always dispatched as quickly and cleanly as possible. They are used as meat for me, my dog, hawks or eels. No one part is wasted. Pests, or not, I respect their life and their death. Putting them in a tutu and applying lipstick and nail polish to their corpse is about as funny to me as, say, drunk driving.

Of course, I'm not suggesting that hunting for your dinner is everyone's cup of tea. Fortunately, in our pre-packaged, artificial world you don't have to. Yet.

What I am saying is that as you're tucking into that juicy steak, take a moment to ponder the route the animal took to get to your plate. Is the business of the industrialised meat trade acceptable to you and your morals? Is the reality of slaughterhouses, and the increasingly real prospect of strange substances in your meat, OK with you?

If it is then you'll be happy with the status quo. No hunting and gathering for you. But be careful not to judge those who do.

If it isn't OK, maybe it's time to remember where your meat actually comes from. Could you look that animal in the eye before you killed it? Could you gut it and butcher it? Could you eat it without any pangs of guilt?

If not, then your only honest option is to acquaint yourself with a life overflowing with an abundance of vegetables."

Acknowledgements to Fairfax's Taranaki Daily Times.

Guns and Hollywood

Cam Slater (aka Whaleoil) struck a raw nerve with his post (1 January 2013):

"A whole bunch of anti-gun celebrities have come out with a video against guns…the problem is the hypocrites have  made films, tv shows, made money from the glorification of the gun culture they now stand against…some even use guns themselves as a hobby…and all caught on camera.

Mike Hunt has taken their video and made a mashup of their utter hypocrisy:"

This video shows the raw truth of what is terribly wrong with the entertainment industry. It is appalling how Hollywood dishes up this violent gun culture totally divorced from reality and worse that we public pay to see it.  Both the creators and consumers have blood on their hands when some nutter shoots innocent people.

Hunters know well the damage that high powered rifles do to mammalian flesh and bone and the thought of them causing that to any human-being is unthinkable.  Yet it is hunters that suffer the political fallout and public odium to anybody who owns guns.  Yes there are tragic hunting accidents, some inexcusable, but fortunately they are rare.  Cars, motorbikes, and chainsaws cause tragic accidents too.

If President Obama really wants to reduce these awful mass shootings, he should tackle mindless gun violence on film and computer.  The entertainment industry wont stop it voluntarily.  

The story of Corporal Harold Smith's action in WW1 at Chunuk Bair, Gallipoli

I found this story in the personal effects my grandfather (Bill James of Whangarei). My grandfather had Harold Smith's letter published in the Northern Advocate  12th Nov 1915.

It is a tale of humour made in times of great horror. I'm publishing it again as part of the 100th anniversary of World War One and to ensure he and his mates are not forgotten .

Corporal Harold W. Smith

FROM THE TRENCHES

WHANGAREI BOY’S EXPERIENCE.

Corporal Harold Smith, writing to his friend, Mr H.W. James, Whangarei from Malta hospital on September 7th says:-

"At last I have been able to dig up a piece of paper and pencil to send you a little news.  We arrived at Suez after six weeks on the water.  Although we had a good trip I was not sorry to set foot on land once again.  We came ashore about 4 pm and entrained straight away for Cairo, and then onto Camp at Zeitoun, where we arrived about 3 am the following morning.  Our stay here lasted only about a week, when we got order to get to the front as quickly as possible.  So we were taken to Alexandria and boarded the transport which took us to Lemnos Island, a large base a few hours steam from the Peninsula.

That was “some trip”.  It only took two days, but that was long enough for me.  You know what a great sailor I am.  That ship was absolutely filthy, the stink was terrible, we were so crowded, well you had to lean over the side to poke your tongue out.  All we had to eat was bully beef and biscuits and sleep where you could find room to lie down.  I slept in a lifeboat - most remarkable I seem to patronise these safe places.  

Well, we arrived without accident, and at sunset were transhipped to small steamers and taken up the Dardanelles.  We landed in barges.  Everything went lovely.  In fact, I might say “all was merry as a marriage bell’ until we came within 500 yards of shore.  Then for some unaccountable reason everybody stopped talking and seemed to crouch down behind any cover they could find.  I put it down to the pieces of lead that were flying through the air.  I didn't know for sure because I’d never been to a war before, but a chap told me after we got ashore that the Turks were most careless with their rifles; that they would fire at anybody.  In fact I was sorry to hear this you know, as I thought they might start firing at me.  Well my son we were fired at from the time I landed until I was hit.  I tell you we had a pretty lively time.  

It was early on Sunday morning when we landed, and we started off by carrying ammunition up to the reserves.  You know how light a case of .303 is to carry, and how fresh and energetic and happy you feel after being in your equipment (which is altogether too light, weighing only 60 lbs.) for 24 hours, with nothing to appease a gnawing hunger, or a well developed thirst.  You know, my dear William, how much more pleasant it is to do these things in the dark, with wires lying around just about the level of your neck.  Of course there were not many, in fact not nearly enough.  I hit every one and from my rough estimation there were about 2000.  

However, we had a bit of a spell when we got under cover, and a feed of bully beef, and those very soft biscuits which they serve out, and then felt ready for any little job they might give us to do.  We got it too. In the afternoon, in company with some Tommy’s, we advanced up to what they called Shrapnel Gully, under heavy shrapnel fire.  We lost a few men but reached the top and dug ourselves in, and were comparatively safe.  We were to hold ourselves here to be ready for a big charge, which was to take place the following day.  

I had a good sleep that night being dead tired, and in the morning after making a little tea and scoffing some more bully beef, I was feeling pretty fit.  The shrapnel was falling round fairly thickly.  One of our fellows got a piece through the jaw and I got out of cover to tie it up for him, when ping! a shell burst right overhead and I got a piece fair in the back, just missed the spine by an inch.  As it is I have lost the use of of my legs, Bill, although the doctors say it will come back.  The wound is almost healed now, as I have been wounded over five weeks.  

I have had no mail since leaving New Zealand and do not suppose I will get any now, as they take such a devil of time to locate us.  I suppose I will be sent back to New Zealand when I get a little strength, and my wound is healed.  Although my legs are gone, I consider myself lucky compared to some of the poor fellows I saw up there and back here.  You cannot imagine it until you see it.  It is Hell!"


Death Notice:

Corporal Harold W. Smith

After prolonged suffering, Corporal Harold W. Smith, Auckland Infantry, passed away at Tooting Military Hospital, England.  Corporal Smith who was 24 years of age, received a bullet in the back in the big attack on Chunuk Bair early in August, the lower part of his body being paralysed.  After treatment at Malta, he was removed to England, and underwent an operation about six weeks ago, for the removal of the bullet.  The latter, however, could not be reached, and after a brave struggle he died on December 8th.  He was buried with military honours at Wandsworth Cemetery, many Australian and New Zealand soldiers attending.

(I am unaware if Harold Smith has any descendants or relatives. Please feel free to disseminate the above article for public good purposes), IJ

Okarito whitebait story

La Femme d'Oracle

I fish too, once a year, for WHITEBAIT.  A family delicacy.  As the only one of 9 siblings left on the Coast I'm expected to provide. 

The seasons been poor.  Two days ago I squeezed into my wetsuit on a rare day with no wind or rain. After 2-hours scooping I had 50 or 60 bait, my first for the season. They were still swimming in the one egg I whipped up, but died quickly as they hit the frying pan. I ate them all, relieved I was alone, & not expected to share my first taste.  Ahhh!  So delicious !!

So to Labour weekend. Lovely visitors. I determine to treat eldest son who shares my love of whitebait. Still raining. COLD. I join 20 other brave souls and trawl the river for 2 more hours. The bait are so scarce, I'm embarrassed to take home just half a dozen. Or is it 8.

Add 1 egg?? or 2??  They swim in water in the bucket on the kitchen bench while I thaw out under lashings of hot water (solar remember).

But no. They are admired. And photographed. And then, with umbrella to shelter them from the pouring rain, my city visitors return the luckiest ever 8 whitebait to the wetland under the boardwalk,  just over the road from our house.

Delicacies should always be presented frozen!!

The 8 lucky whitebait

Two West Coast Rain Poems

Bloody Hell its wet!!

It rained and rained and rained 

The average fall was well maintained 

And when the tracks were simple bogs 

It started raining cats and dogs. 

After a drought of half an hour 

We had a most refreshing shower 

And then most curious thing of all 

A gentle rain began to fall. 

Next day but one was fairly dry 

Save for one deluge from the sky 

Which wetted the party to the skin 

And then at last the Rain set in! 

(Anon) 

Rain come down, it all comes down to rain:

the great rain, the dark rain, the Rain Father

pissing his worst in the headwaters, Mother-

of-all-Rains squatting, showering blood, mud

rain ricochets back off the clay, the heavens

polluted, the hills collapse, slip rain, sod rain,

the fat tears of God rain, rain so thick and vast

it can drown the prayers of believers from

you back to Jesus! Fear rain, awe rain, rain no

beggared philosopher washed downstream on a

trunk of rata could ever explain: dog rain, cat and

rat rain, the rain that drowns ambition, swallows

towns and smashes bridges, train-eating, brain-

beating, roof-drumming over & over & over. Rain.

Source: Jeffrey Paparoa Holman, The late great Blackball bridge sonnets. Wellington: Steele Roberts, 2004, p. 40

Matarangi. An example of how not to build a town.

From the Coromandel highway turn-off, the road to Matarangi winds its way through a wetland on the southern side of the Whagapoua Estuary.  After several kms you reach a rather dilapidated concrete monument that marks the entrance to Matarangi.  The first sight in the settlement is the town refuse station,  followed by the CBD, an enclave of cheaply-built shops dominated by realestate businesses with flags flying.

Further on, the road leads through large areas of incomplete and unsold sections.  A place of unfinished subdivisions, halted because the money ran out.  We naturally looked for the beach but were instead led around a spider web of roads to the estuary boat ramp, decaying and silting up.  No sign of any effort to maintain or upgrade the facilities.  The sea floor was littered with rotting fish-frames, not a good look.  Backtracking we at last found the beach,  accessible down a few narrow pathways that run between empty holiday houses.  The beach itself is quite attractive.

How was such a soul-less place created?  The developers responsible for Matarangi (Hanover Group) should be charged for crimes against the NZ coastline.  They have created a settlement that privatises its prime asset, the beach.  In place of an accessible foreshore with open space and facilities it is all private holiday homes built along the fore-dune.  It is plain to see that the developer's goal was simply to maximise the number of sections for sale.

Where was the Hauraki District Council planning input?  To become viable communities, beach settlements need character and facilities.  Roads should lead visitors and residents alike to a generous central public space along the beach front with room for recreation and business growth.  Its not all about short-term gain through section sales.   The alternative is simply a disorganised cluster of empty holiday homes.

Okarito Marine and Mataitai Reserves

This year we've had major change in the legal status of our coastline and lagoon.  A new marine reserve is  agreed but not yet gazetted to include Three-mile, Five-mile and Waiho beaches.  A mataitai reserve covers Okarito lagoon and a short distance of the coastline about the lagoon entrance.

The process to create a marine reserve was driven by central government although they appointed a West Coast Forum to come up with the detail.  The goal was to have 10% of the coastline reserved, ostensibly to fulfill NZ's international responsibilities, but this has not been achieved.

As is the norm with resource matters these days, the process was an excessively drawn out battle between conservation interests and the fishing industry.  Local people's wishes were very much a sideshow; a re-run of what happened in the forest industry battles of last century.  Most local people from Okarito, liked the idea of marine reserves but their submissions as to boundaries etc. were largely ignored.

What really set off our alarm bells was the greenies idea that half of Okarito lagoon should be included in the reserve.  That in our view was ridiculous because it would have meant a split management regime for the lagoon and cut our food gathering resources in half.  By sheer good luck that idea was canned because the government took the lesser of two strategic options over the total area of reserves.

The whole process required having to submit on THREE occasions.  However,  it focussed our attention on fishing activities we had taken for granted.  Local wild food is so important to the identity of a place and where people choose to live.  At Okarito we have local shellfish and fish resources which broadly come under the challenger fishery zone regulations.  They cover a vast area of widely different local habitats.  We felt that those global catch guidelines are often inappropriate at a local level and impossible for us to have any influence on.

Gathering kaimoana in the Okarito Mataitai.

This is where the mataitai reserve enters the picture.  Our local tangata whenua,  Te Runanga o Makaawhio, raised a Mataitai proposal and after a good deal of thought locals liked the idea. The big attraction was the fact that it was locally generated and not imposed from abroad.

Let me explain briefly for those of you unfamiliar with mataitai reserves.  While they exist under the the fisheries act, they are not a marine reserve.  Rather their purpose is to recognise traditional Maori fishing grounds and provide for management of the customary food gathering by the local tangata whenua.  They generally exclude commercial fishing but allow for recreational fishing without permits by Maori and non-Maori alike.  Best of all, from our point of view, they allow for management of seafood by locals.

Makaawhio now may nominate someone as guardian, tangata tiaki/kaitiaki, for the reserve who can recommend local rules for sustainability.  As always, final control rests with the Minister of Fisheries who will undertake an "extensive consultation process" over local rules - God spare us that!

We hope commonsense will prevail and local Maori and paheka alike can feel they have the major say in the enjoyment and sustainability of their local fishery resources.