FIGHT OR FLIGHT SAVING THE KEA
Phillip was a star. Phillip was king of Monkey Creek, where tourists stopped on their way to Milford Sound. Phillip worked the crowd, peered into campervans and leapt from vehicle to vehicle, with photographers trailing him. He ripped out rubber seals with a beak like an ice axe, attacked aerials, and pecked at bags: Phillip was king, but also a common thug.
He danced around the carpark hoping for treats, accosting tourists and tugging on shoelaces. He was neither anxious nor angry, but constantly busy.
Surrounding him were great granite peaks, vertical slabs of glistening grey with snow on top and bush below. There were waterfalls, valleys where glaciers once lay, and a blue sky that coloured in the gaps between summits.
And here was Phillip, now on top of a white campervan, which was on the move, pulling out of the carpark and rejoining the highway. He slid a little, but steadied himself as the van picked up speed and swept round a left-hand bend 100m away. Phillip hung on tight, and was last seen, one wing stretched out as if for balance, feather tips riffling furiously, gloriously car-surfing through a tunnel of beech forest.
Two days before, in nearby Te Ānau, 100 people gathered in a hotel, with Phillip on their minds. He was the archetypal kea – curious, cheeky, charismatic – and at real risk of dying. Those attending the Kea Conservation Trust’s conference in December knew these risks and knew the birds’ worrying plight – but also knew most New Zealanders have no idea how bad things are.
The population of the world’s only alpine parrot is hard to pinpoint, but best estimates are that just
