Pest Control

“I’ll plan it, don’t worry it’s my job”. Sean left the planning for travelling around Australia and New Zealand for a month to me, just paid the money. A terrible call by him in hindsight. I was working in a backpacker travel agency in Brisbane at the time, and it’s not that anything went wrong, everything was booked correctly, and went smoothly, from buses to tours to flights.. It’s what was booked that breathed the regret.

We drove 4x4s, hopped in cages with 30 foot crocodiles outside them, drove from Darwin to Alice Springs dodging roadkill and roadtrains, jumped the highest Bungee in the Southern Hemisphere in Queenstown, white river rafted, zorbed, jetboated, heli hiked on glaciers, flew stunt planes, and generally had an amazing, if adrenaline filled, time. And pints. But it was Blue Duck Station, Whanganui National Park, North Island New Zealand that stood out the most. We’d been on a hop on hop off bus with a great bunch of other travellers, but our packed itinerary meant not a lot of downtime to party it up. The bus driver, sympathetic to our plight, told us that Blue Duck Station was where a costume party would be held, and we’d have a great night there, and a day to recover after. So we bought pirate costumes, toy guns, and several litres of rum, ready for a good time.

Blue Duck Station is a beautiful location. A working farm, in the misty mountains of Whanganui National Park, vibrant green. Exactly as you’d envisage a more mountain-y The Shire. Or if Ireland had deep river canyons, surrounded by fern forest. I’d signed us up for Pest Control, not really knowing what it pertained to. I’d assumed it was laying rat traps or something around the farm, a bit of craic, and something to do on the second day, nothing too strenuous. When we rocked up to the Station, supplies in tow, we met a few other guests. It was a lovely set up in fairness, a wooden outhouse converted to modern bunks, large kitchen area with loads of seats, bookshelves and dark wood. We opened up the rum, and spent the night drinking rum, shouting about Somalian pirates, and making friends. One of the lads there, Nicolas (German), dropped out early. He had no interest in our toy guns, he was excited to go shooting tomorrow. Probably got to bed by 2 or 3 in the AM, it was all a little hazy.

Woke up with the walls spinning, to rapid knocking on the door - “Wakey Wakey, Conor and Sean? you signed up for activities today, what would you like to choose along with Pest Control - Clay Pigeon Shooting or Buggy Rallying”. Mark, a salt of the earth local lad, was organising the activities and going to show us the ropes. Wow. Two fantastic choices when you’re feeling the rotation of the earth beneath you. We opted for the shooting - it was on site and quicker. Plus not sure our stomachs could handle rallying.

Nothing beats the crack of a shotgun while trying to aim and balance with one eye closed, while aiming at tiny fast moving targets. Especially in our state. Accuracy wasn’t great. Nicolas was there, enjoying it more so, although, he said he preferred shooting live animals. Nice. After an inaccurate hour we headed back to swallow down toast before rushing back out to Pest Control. Mark was in good humour.

“Ah cuz don’t worry, you’ll hit more on pest control. Good to have people signed up.They're breeding like rabbits out there we need to cull them.”

Nicolas was already in the buggy, in his oilskins, this time with a new weapon - a rifle. Maybe we aren’t laying traps. We mentioned this to the guide.

“Traps? Nah mate we’re going shooting turkeys.And goats. And maybe pigs if we see them. They’re a real pest here, they eat the native birds eggs and have no predators. We’re going up the canyon in the buggy to see if we can get a shot at them across the meadows. They tend to hang out on the hills across there.”

He handed us a set of oilskins each. “Have you ever fired a rifle? Nah? All good cuz. I’ll show you how its done up in the trees.”

Attired correctly, Mark packed the rifles on the buggy, and we hopped on the back..Lucky we didn’t want to do the buggy rallying, because we got to do it anyways. Mark took off on the muddy dirt tracks, tearing through the mud, while the rain soaked us. After winding and sliding our way deep into the forest, we stopped. “We’ll get a few practice shots here so you can get used to the rifle. It’s got a kick.”.

Mark sauntered through the trees, and lined up a few old cans. “We can’t do this back at the station, too many guests around. Here, take and load the rifles, I’ll show you how to brace properly.”

Nicolas was impatient. “I wish to get out and shoot, I have done this before”. Thanks Nicolas. This extra 30 minutes might help clear our heads. Mark back behind us, those cans were unmoved after a pair of shots each. No problem for Mark. “Pigs are bigger”.

We hopped back in (on). Rifles back on the roofrack. Meandering through the woods, not ideal for the stomach. But luckily, we were holding on for dear life so couldn’t focus too much on them. Landing up at the meadow, the rain had stopped but the clouds had dropped. It was some scene, the grey blue of the rocky hills above the electric green meadow. Not a rush in sight.

“Look! On the right - turkey. Sean grab a rifle and come here. Put it on my shoulder to keep it steady- aim for the breast. Bang. Unlucky son. Nicolas your up”. A puff of feathers later, the turkeys scattered. Nicolas got his kill. Delighted with it, he threw it up on the buggy and off we moved again. Dinner sorted for tonight?

Around the other side of the hills, there was activity on the hills - goats! Egg and plant eating bastards, as Mark called them. My go. “Line it up, rifle on my shoulder, aim to get it in the chest, through the heart”. Mark, getting it anywhere near the target would be an achievement. Closed one eye, locked on, bang. Goat falls down. We walk over. It’s gone to goat heaven by the time we’re over. “Nice shot! A big billygoat! We’ll get the meat off him later”. We drag him back. All I can smell is wet goat, and wet goat blood, on my hands. I wipe them in the grass. It doesn’t help, and definitely doesn’t help the queasyness.

Sean got another shot, goats further in the distance. No luck. Nicolas had another pot. Goat collapsed. Big wide grin on his face “This is fun, yes?”. “Yes Nicolas”.

Turkeys later on. I had a go, missed. Sean got another - more feathers. More turkey for dinner.

I wasn’t feeling great on the drive back - it was late afternoon, we’d had no lunch, and we stank of goats. But we needed to get the meat off while it was fresh, and pulled up at the piggery. “These guys will demolish anything, bones, hide, no worries. Now lets get this billy skinned.”. Mark got down to business.

“Ok first, we cut the skin around the ankles, then we break the bones there and take off the hooves. Who wants to go first? No volunteers? No worries I’ll do it”. I’ll never forget the crack of the bones breaking, it’s a horrible sound. For those who have never broken a bone, the sound it a vivid internally painful crack, where you grit your teeth and scrunch your face.

“Ok, so now we cut each leg out, a strip down each leg, and pull the skin from the meat on the leg - then along the belly, a line from it’s asshole to its neck. Chop his fellas off. Now, we hang him up and punch him down.”

We hoisted him up on a hook and assisted Mark in pulling the skin off- a rough job. Better to do now while we smell like goat already. Then, it was getting the guts out. None of this helped the hangover. Finally, we got it down to the carcass.

“Best meat is this sliver on the back - take that, fry it with salt and pepper, you’ll be right”. Mark then turned his back to us. “You fellas know, its a Maori tradition, that when you kill the male goat, you take some of his essence with you. Here, I took the liberty of slicing this up for you. “ He turned around from the testicles, and handed me a spongy slice. “Go on, get it into ya, it’s good for ya anyways”.

I swallowed it down. Gagged. That raw goat testicle, unsurprisingly, had an overwhelming taste of goat. That kind of taste that hangs around for a long long time.

In the shower later, I contemplated the day. I can see why people are vegetarian. Maybe I should become vegetarian? All I’d eaten for the day was a piece of butter and toast. I could do this.

Then I got the smell of cooking meat. The strips of wild goat meat, cooked, shrunk to the size of two fingers. And tasted amazing.