Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Port Ligar
I've spent the past couple of weeks in an area of New Zealand called Marlborough Sounds. It is an area on the Northern tip of the South island of NZ where fingers of land haphazardly reach out for the open ocean beyond. At the far end of one of these fingers, sheltered by a curl at the tip from the windy ocean beyond, is a farm called Port Ligar. Roughly 1200 sheep, 200 cattle, and thousands of green lipped muscles call this place home. It was settled by the Shand family about 100 years ago and is in their hands to this day.
I got a ride in a few weeks ago. It was a 3 hour drive from where I was picked up, and it grew darker and darker as we drove through the setting sun, and this combined with an the ever detiorating condition of the road made me wonder where we were heading. The lined asfault surface turned to a simple, narrow assfualt, then to smooth dirt, then to heavily rutted dirt. after we had been bouncing along for a while, we came upon a truck stalled on the road. in the pitch dark all i could see in our headlights were the road, a steep cliff on the right heading upwards, and a black abyss to the left heading down toward what I presumed was the ocean. We stopped and learn the truck had stalled. The driver had been out hunting wild hogs, something which is a popular passtime in the area. Between four of us, we were able to turn their truck around on the narrow road, so it was facing downhill, and from there a pushstart was no problem. With the road clear, we finally made it to Port Ligar.
It wasn't until the next morning that I was able to see clearly where I had arrived. Steep, grean hills covered with sheep jutted out of a turquoise ocean where hundereds of egg shapped bouyes held up heavy ropes filled with growing muscles. Everyday started with some good, old fashioned poridge prepared by the head farmer, Tim. After that it was either out to the hills or out to the waves. If we were going to the hills, we climbed into a farm truck with nearly 300 kilometers under its belt. The first time I saw it I thought it was simply a rusting pile of junk waiting in the shed to be hauled out and turned into scrap metal, but then tim started it up. It had one headlight, no door on the driver's side, no windshield (or any other windows to speak of), and the wooden planks the made up the back bead looked as though they had been replaced a few times and could use another makeover. It was like a lot of things on the property. It ran though, and that was all that mattered. On our way to the sheep on the top of the hill we would check possum traps as we passed by. Some days there would be as many as 20 possums trapped for there fur which is actually worth more than sheep's wool by weight. It was a bit difficult to get used to seeing these furry creaters put to death by a quick clubbing, but I suppose it was the most efficient way. When we got to the top of the hills the sun was usually shining brihgtly and sometimes the wiind was blowing heavily. We would chase sheep into greener pastures or build fences to keep them in the right ones. My fondest memory is climbing over a ridge on one of the more beauitiful days and being met by the eyes of 600 sheep stairing strait at me while the ocean and outlying islands glistened behind them. I think they could have trampled me easily given their shear numbers, but they are timid creatures, and it only takes one to control the lot. It helps to have a few dogs along though as well and it was fun to hear the shepherds calling out various whistles and commands to their dogs as they did more efficiently what a human being would otherwise do in herding the flock. Cattle were also a part of our herding routine. One memory from that was coralling a bull which had jumped a fence on one cold, windy, and rainy day on top of the hill. It was a highland bull with massive horns and long, shaggy hair. It had gone to some effort jumping the fence and avoiding the dogs just before we finally drove it into the appropriate pasture it paused for a moment, standing in the pooring rain, steam shooting out of its nostrels into the cold, damp air while water dripped from its fur and globs of drool fells from its mouth. "Old Wooly" they called him.
The muscel farms were interesting as well. They are basically long, fibrous ropes dangling into the ocean from large boueys set in roles. It reminded me of growing plants in a field in many ways. The lines are seeded with young muscles which may take a few years to mature. Unfortunately, unwanted specieis of muscles alos make the ropes their home and these need to be cleaned off before they take up too much of the valuable food from the ocean. Also, it is difficult to predict the weight of the lines, so additional floats need to be attached as the growing progresses. These were mainly our jobs out in the muscle boat, but there was some fun to be had as well. We went out fishing a few times. The waters there are rich in blue cod, snapper, and many other fish that make for good eating. One day heading out in the late morning for some fishing. We had caught enough before mid-day for "a feed" as they say here, so we fired up the onboard stove and fried up some of the freshest fish I have ever eaten. After lunch we continued on with our fishing and cuaght heaps more for our dinner that night. Fishing was alos possible from the shore and there were a few nights when we decided it woudl be easiest to cast out for our dinner. I had no problem eating the fresh cod as much as possible and there was plenty of wildlife to see in the ocean besides that. Many birds make there homes on the rocky cliffs, including some penguins. There are also a few seals around and of course the life under the water. One day I was out fishing with a fellow from the farm. He saw pointed out an octopus in the water beside us. I was amazed simply by that proximity when he reached in and grabbed the octopus by its head and lifted it out of the water as it's legs waved around in the air. It was probably about 3 feet across. "We'll use one of the legs for bait," he said, "it will grow back in time." After this proclaimation he proceded to unsheath his knife and cut off on of the octopuses legs before heaving it back into the sea. The legs continued to move and suck for some time after being removed from the body. It turned out to be very effective bait.
So thsoe are the highlights of Port Ligar. I could tell much more I am sure, but it is late and I am ready for some rest. Port Ligar was a memorable time, but life on the farm is hard work, and I am ready to go back to "fluffing around" as Tim would say. It was hard work that was well worth it, that is for sure. A genuine New Zealand farming experience, which is exactly what I was hoping to get out here eventually. Pictures to follow....
I got a ride in a few weeks ago. It was a 3 hour drive from where I was picked up, and it grew darker and darker as we drove through the setting sun, and this combined with an the ever detiorating condition of the road made me wonder where we were heading. The lined asfault surface turned to a simple, narrow assfualt, then to smooth dirt, then to heavily rutted dirt. after we had been bouncing along for a while, we came upon a truck stalled on the road. in the pitch dark all i could see in our headlights were the road, a steep cliff on the right heading upwards, and a black abyss to the left heading down toward what I presumed was the ocean. We stopped and learn the truck had stalled. The driver had been out hunting wild hogs, something which is a popular passtime in the area. Between four of us, we were able to turn their truck around on the narrow road, so it was facing downhill, and from there a pushstart was no problem. With the road clear, we finally made it to Port Ligar.
It wasn't until the next morning that I was able to see clearly where I had arrived. Steep, grean hills covered with sheep jutted out of a turquoise ocean where hundereds of egg shapped bouyes held up heavy ropes filled with growing muscles. Everyday started with some good, old fashioned poridge prepared by the head farmer, Tim. After that it was either out to the hills or out to the waves. If we were going to the hills, we climbed into a farm truck with nearly 300 kilometers under its belt. The first time I saw it I thought it was simply a rusting pile of junk waiting in the shed to be hauled out and turned into scrap metal, but then tim started it up. It had one headlight, no door on the driver's side, no windshield (or any other windows to speak of), and the wooden planks the made up the back bead looked as though they had been replaced a few times and could use another makeover. It was like a lot of things on the property. It ran though, and that was all that mattered. On our way to the sheep on the top of the hill we would check possum traps as we passed by. Some days there would be as many as 20 possums trapped for there fur which is actually worth more than sheep's wool by weight. It was a bit difficult to get used to seeing these furry creaters put to death by a quick clubbing, but I suppose it was the most efficient way. When we got to the top of the hills the sun was usually shining brihgtly and sometimes the wiind was blowing heavily. We would chase sheep into greener pastures or build fences to keep them in the right ones. My fondest memory is climbing over a ridge on one of the more beauitiful days and being met by the eyes of 600 sheep stairing strait at me while the ocean and outlying islands glistened behind them. I think they could have trampled me easily given their shear numbers, but they are timid creatures, and it only takes one to control the lot. It helps to have a few dogs along though as well and it was fun to hear the shepherds calling out various whistles and commands to their dogs as they did more efficiently what a human being would otherwise do in herding the flock. Cattle were also a part of our herding routine. One memory from that was coralling a bull which had jumped a fence on one cold, windy, and rainy day on top of the hill. It was a highland bull with massive horns and long, shaggy hair. It had gone to some effort jumping the fence and avoiding the dogs just before we finally drove it into the appropriate pasture it paused for a moment, standing in the pooring rain, steam shooting out of its nostrels into the cold, damp air while water dripped from its fur and globs of drool fells from its mouth. "Old Wooly" they called him.
The muscel farms were interesting as well. They are basically long, fibrous ropes dangling into the ocean from large boueys set in roles. It reminded me of growing plants in a field in many ways. The lines are seeded with young muscles which may take a few years to mature. Unfortunately, unwanted specieis of muscles alos make the ropes their home and these need to be cleaned off before they take up too much of the valuable food from the ocean. Also, it is difficult to predict the weight of the lines, so additional floats need to be attached as the growing progresses. These were mainly our jobs out in the muscle boat, but there was some fun to be had as well. We went out fishing a few times. The waters there are rich in blue cod, snapper, and many other fish that make for good eating. One day heading out in the late morning for some fishing. We had caught enough before mid-day for "a feed" as they say here, so we fired up the onboard stove and fried up some of the freshest fish I have ever eaten. After lunch we continued on with our fishing and cuaght heaps more for our dinner that night. Fishing was alos possible from the shore and there were a few nights when we decided it woudl be easiest to cast out for our dinner. I had no problem eating the fresh cod as much as possible and there was plenty of wildlife to see in the ocean besides that. Many birds make there homes on the rocky cliffs, including some penguins. There are also a few seals around and of course the life under the water. One day I was out fishing with a fellow from the farm. He saw pointed out an octopus in the water beside us. I was amazed simply by that proximity when he reached in and grabbed the octopus by its head and lifted it out of the water as it's legs waved around in the air. It was probably about 3 feet across. "We'll use one of the legs for bait," he said, "it will grow back in time." After this proclaimation he proceded to unsheath his knife and cut off on of the octopuses legs before heaving it back into the sea. The legs continued to move and suck for some time after being removed from the body. It turned out to be very effective bait.
So thsoe are the highlights of Port Ligar. I could tell much more I am sure, but it is late and I am ready for some rest. Port Ligar was a memorable time, but life on the farm is hard work, and I am ready to go back to "fluffing around" as Tim would say. It was hard work that was well worth it, that is for sure. A genuine New Zealand farming experience, which is exactly what I was hoping to get out here eventually. Pictures to follow....
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