lowland canterbury landscapes in the making

© 2005 The New Zealand Geographical Society Inc. Published by Blackwell Publishers Ltd.

New Zealand Geographer

(2005)

61

, 167–175

Blackwell Publishing, Ltd.

Landscape

Lowland Canterbury landscapes

Landscape

Lowland Canterbury landscapes in the making

Eric Pawson

1

and Peter Holland

2

1

Department of Geography, University of Canterbury, Private Bag 4800, Christchurch, New Zealand

2

Department of Geography, University of Otago, PO Box 56, Dunedin, New Zealand

Abstract:

This article explores environmental imaginaries of colonization in lowland Canter-bury. In 1844 Edward Shortland observed that his M

å

ori companions had an exceptionally detailedgeographical knowledge of the area and its resources, yet a few years later European settlerswere viewing it as an empty stage on which to envision newly-constructed landscapes.The terrain was contested, but colonial ‘improvement’, through the creation of spaces of modernity,took no cognizance of this. The legacies of that transformation are a simplified, orderlylandscape, and fractured but persistent memories of indigenous ecosystems that are nowbeing revived.

Key words:

environmental imaginaries, indigenous knowledge, lowland Canterbury, spaces

of modernity.

On 3 February 1849 Charles Torlesse wroteto Edward Stafford in Nelson: ‘I have beenemployed in making a sketch map of the [Can-terbury] district which I cannot help telling youI am much pleased at’ (in Maling 1958: 53).The map (Fig. 1) has often been attributed toCaptain Thomas, the Chief Surveyor of theCanterbury Association. It shows a space, asTorlesse saw it, of extraordinary emptiness. Likeland surveyors as agents of empire the worldover, he was working at ‘the cutting edge ofcolonization’ (Byrnes 2001: 5); his map was asmall canvas on which he was engaged in animaginative quest to read the unknown and toenvision landscape.

None of the lands that Alfred Crosby (1986)has termed ‘neo-Europes’ were as bereft ofpeople as the exercise of such artifice implied;the terrain over which the cartographic net wascast was mostly contested with its indigenousinhabitants. In what was to become New Zealand,

land was central to the survival and prosperityof both M

a

ori and P

a

keh

a

yet they understoodits use and organization in radically differentways. For P

a

keh

a

, spaces already occupiedand possessed by others were generalized andrepresented to suit their own ends. In effect,these spaces became the stages upon which thegeometries of modernity could be imposed.

With the Torlesse map as a starting point,this article seeks to contribute to our growingunderstanding of the environmental imaginariesof colonization, being the ways in which differ-ent peoples understand nature, interpret andconceptualize it (McGregor 2004). In theserespects our insight has been greatly strength-ened by the work of Evelyn Stokes, notably herresearch into resources contested by M

a

oriand P

a

keh

a

(Stokes 2002) and a series of mapsin the

New Zealand Historical Atlas

(Stokes1997). She has also made leading contributionsover a long period to the work of the Waitangi

Note about the authors: Eric Pawson is Professor of Geography at the University of Canterbury; Peter Holland isEmeritus Professor of Geography at the University of Otago and President of the New Zealand Geographical Society.

E-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]

© The New Zealand Geographical Society 2005.

168

E. Pawson and P. Holland

Tribunal. From that body’s published reportswe gain a more subtle, multi-centred appreci-ation of the meanings of land and water to thedifferent peoples of Aotearoa/New Zealand.We are now in a much better position to re-interpret history and reconsider its transfor-mations in ways that reveal the particularitiesof human contact and circumstance in specificplaces (Sorrenson 1989).

Envisioning landscape

The Torlesse map is a representation of lowlandCanterbury as Europeans then saw it. How itwas constructed has been dealt with elsewhere(Montgomery & McCarthy 2004). Here we mayobserve that it contains elements of a modernway of looking, identifying a potential infra-structure for the exploitation of resources,and ‘claiming’ territory by means of ‘naming’

(Kirkpatrick 1997). The ‘Whateley’, ‘Sumner’ and‘Wilberforce’ Plains, for example, highlightedthe names of the Archbishops of Dublin andof Canterbury, and the Bishop of Oxford,respectively, each a prominent backer of theCanterbury Association. Large rivers weresimilarly identified: the Cholmondeley and theCourtenay for the Rakaia and the Waimakariri.Torlesse also showed sites for towns: Lincoln,Mandeville and Stratford – the latter two whereKaiapoi and Christchurch, respectively, weresubsequently planted near the coast; Oxfordand Buccleuch lie close to large inland forests;Goulburn adjoins the coal deposits of theMalvern Hills.

This was ‘the country intended for the settle-ment of Canterbury’, to use the title of the map.Here was a specific territory, which the tech-nology of the surveyor sought to incorporate,conceptually, textually and visually (Byrnes

Figure 1 The map produced by Charles Torlesse for the Canterbury Association. The fact that few of his namessurvived into everyday usage does not deny the discursive intent. Reproduced with permission of Land InformationNew Zealand, Christchurch.



169

2001). Surveyors saw what was useful to theirpurpose and were either unaware of or over-looked what was discordant with the conceptionof landscape they used to frame their repres-entations (Pound 1983). Like other colonialarchives, such as scientific reports, populationstatistics and land records, the map is an arte-fact of imperialism rather than a repository ofdata

per se

(Ballantyne 2004). Torlesse recordedareas of timber, notably the mixed podocarpbush of Banks Peninsula and the beech-podocarpforests of the alpine front ranges, or the ‘snowymountains’ as he called the latter. In otherrespects his map is almost devoid of environ-mental information: rather it is richly suggestiveof possibilities. The only acknowledgement ofa M

a

ori presence is a small table at the bottomof the map showing numbers of indigenousresidents in the region. They totalled just 369individuals, and occupied ‘Native Settlements’on Banks Peninsula, around Lake Ellesmere,in Lyttelton Harbour, and at Kaiapoi.

Those few people were the remnant popula-tion after several destabilizing years of diseaseand internecine dispute (Waitangi Tribunal 1991).Whether or not he recognized it, Torlesse wasmapping territory that had been in wide andpersistent use to support a traditional way oflife based on hunting and gathering, with hor-ticulture in warmer sites (Evison 1993). EdwardShortland, an Assistant Protector of Aborigines,while travelling up the Pacific coast from Bluffin 1844, was surprised by his guide’s intimateknowledge of this seemingly featureless land-scape. ‘[E]ven in this thinly populated part ofthe country, names had been given to manysmall streams and ravines, which one would haveimagined scarcely worthy of notice; Arawhataseeming to know the names of the places wepassed, as well as the guard of a mail coachdoes those on his own line of road in England’(Shortland 1851: 236).

Contested terrains

Shortland’s choice of metaphor is telling. Inseeking to render the unknown in terms familiarto himself and his readers he uses the word ‘line’,a geometric concept that was to become the

conceptual stratagem of colonization (Curnow1989). Lines of communication and lines ofdemarcation provided the framework withinwhich terrain could be incorporated. However,whilst colonization was concerned with creatingboundaries, surveyors frequently visualizedspace in the absence of boundaries. As Byrnes(2000) points out, this was a central contradic-tion of the colonizing vision: land had to beconceived as boundless if it was to be bounded,and as empty if it was to be filled.

The ‘emptiness’ of the map had a M

a

oriname,

Ka Pakihi Whakatekateka a Waitaha

,meaning ‘the seed bed of Waitaha’ (Evison1993). The scale of the map elides the fabric ofM

a

ori geographies, aspects of which becameevident to observant Europeans by other means.Shortland (1851: 236–7) noted in his diary inJanuary 1844, while on the beach north of theRangitata River, that ‘when my natives sawthe birds hovering over the waves close toshore, they slipped off their loads, and rushedto the spot. In this way, they obtained two largekahawai, quite fresh, and very little injured’.Indigenous knowledge of where and how to seekthe foodstuffs and other renewable resourcesof the everyday economy was detailed and, asWilliams (2004) shows, southern M

a

ori usedthis to comprehensively manage resources inways that might ensure their intergenerationalpersistence.

The seedbed of Waitaha extended from theHurunui River in the north to the lower Wai-taki valley in the south, and from the Pacificcoast inland to the front range. It was ‘nowaste land, but a rich food store’ (Evison 1993:183). People were clustered in villages on andaround Banks Peninsula, including Kaiapoi,and in the Temuka district, but also movedseasonally to harvest

mahinga kai

. ‘Ngai Tahuused the general term

mahinga kai

to referto places at which food and other commoditieswere extracted or produced’ (Anderson 1998:111), although access was regulated by use of

wakawaka

, a share or division of land and oftenincluding adjacent water or sea. Waihorapeople travelled to the Mackenzie country forthe annual weka hunt, the Oxford district waswell known for its rat runs, and Waihora itself


170


for eels (Anderson 1998). When Walter Mantell,Commissioner for the Extinguishment ofNative Claims, crossed the lower WaimakaririRiver in August 1848, he found a complexlandscape of tussock grassland, wetland com-munities, forest and shrub land aboundingwith bird life, wild pigs, and all the harakekeand raupo that M

a

ori could use (Evison 1993).On a journey from Riccarton to Mount Grayin the same year, Edward Ward (1951)encountered M

a

ori in small encampmentsharvesting waterfowl and eels. Despite the largebags recorded in their diaries European colon-ists scarcely valued native species of bird andfish. Through the efforts of acclimatizationsocieties, trout and game birds were releasedin Canterbury to the disadvantage of M

a

oriwho risked being fined if they inadvertentlyhooked a trout while fishing for eel and othernative species (Evison 1993).

Of the several hundred traditional sites forharvesting food and fibre in lowland Canterbury,those around Te Waihora – named the fish-basket of Rakaihautu after a revered ancestor– were of prime importance to Ngai Tahu. ToFrederick Tuckett, the surveyor who traversedthe area in 1844 while searching for a suitablesite to situate the planned Presbyterian settle-ment of Otago, Lake Ellesmere was ‘an un-attractive and almost useless lagoon’ (in Evison1994: 23). His words are not surprising, giventhat Europeans then feared swamps for theirassociations with disease and dampness, usu-ally only valuing them for their productivepotential after reclamation (Park 1995, 2002).Te Waihora/Lake Ellesmere is a notable exampleof inverted and contested values in terrain.Commissioner Kemp’s deed of purchase of 1848was assumed by Europeans to have includedtitle to the lake bed in recognition of its agri-cultural potential, an assumption disputedby successive generations of M

a

ori until it wasresolved in their favour by the Ngai Tahu settle-ment of 1998 (Te Taumutu Runanga 2003).

Spaces of modernity

The culture of colonization was that of moder-nity, and in terms of environmental imaginaries

it was ‘improvement’ that was its characteristicdriving force. In 18th-century Britain, where‘[“improvement”] was a principal tenet of aprogressive age’, the term implied planting andwoodland restoration (Seymour 1998: 116) aswell as swampland drainage (Park 2002). Incolonial contexts, wetlands, forested districtsand native grasslands were dramatically re-made, as ‘improvement and its synonyms andantonyms [such as “civilizing the waste”] wereintrinsic to formal and informal practices oftaking and allocating land’ (Weaver 2003: 5),that is, of creating spaces of modernity.

Reclaimed wetlands were the epitomeof modernization. They were scattered andvaried in size, with those along the coastal stripbetween the Waimakariri and Waitaki riversbeing very large (Fig. 2). Despite the abundanceof harakeke, appreciated by Europeans for itsstrong fibre (and long traded for with M

a

ori),wetlands were valued for their productivepotential once drained, each such transformationcounting as an ‘improvement’ for the purposesof a lease. For example, places with abundantcabbage trees were recognized as indicators ofmoist friable soil and were favoured sites forhomesteads. Mapping of patterns of early landalienation around Christchurch shows newfreehold farms extending in fingers to the northand south of the town, each finger picking outrich swamp margin soils along lines of road(Cant 1968). The drained wetlands permittedestablishment of productive permanent pas-tures, sown with ‘English grasses’ essential tocattle raising and dairying. This was the initialbasis of closer rural settlement – to provideemployment for residents of small towns indairy factories, freezing works and other siteswhere primary produce could be processed forexport and sale outside the district. A centurylater du Faur (1966) was still extolling the bene-ficial effects of drainage on plant nutrition andherbage yields.

Accessible timber was more problematical.In 1845, five years before the CanterburyAssociation colonists arrived, John Deans hadwritten to his father in Scotland about its scarcity.‘There are still remaining six or seven clumpsof trees – the one at our place [Riccarton]



171

being about the smallest; if 20 other settlerswere to use as much [wood] as we have donethere would not be a good tree in the bush.Although I have not been in any of the others[on Banks Peninsula and in the western foot-hills] I should think from all accounts that

there would be enough timber in them for thewants of a considerable settlement’ (Deans 1964:41). Banks Peninsula did indeed have extensivetracts of kahikatea, matai, rimu and totara,even if early Polynesian fires had burned offits western and northern edges.

Figure 2 Lowland landscapes of Canterbury, as portrayed in surveyors’ notebooks and manuscript maps completedmostly in the 1850s and 1860s. That information was subsequently transferred onto 1 : 63 360 maps by W.B.Johnston and later re-drafted for publication in Johnston (1961). This version has been scanned and redrawn fromJohnston’s working copies by Tim Nolan.


172


Timber was of intrinsic value in the colonialeconomy, as the basis of infrastructure, beingfashioned into railway sleepers, telegraph poles,fences and buildings (Wynn 2002). Nonethe-less, within 30 years the Conservator of StateForests could say: ‘I am astonished at the reck-less and improvident manner in which thetimber lands of Canterbury have been man-aged. It would appear that the [native] timberhad been considered and treated as an encum-brance on the land rather than a source ofwealth’ (AJHR 1877: C-3). In fact bush was seenas another marker of land productivity, and astrees were cut and burned, cocksfoot andryegrass, two harbingers of the modern imper-ial economy, were sown in the cooling ashes.Petrie’s well-known maps (reproduced inJohnston 1969) show that a heavily forestedBanks Peninsula in 1860 was extensively cutover by 1880, and was as bare of trees as it hasever been by 1920. Throughout this period,its cocksfoot was harvested and seed soldto reproduce the process of bush-to-grasslandconversion across great swathes of the south-ern North Island, much of it on land acquiredby stealth from its indigenous owners.

Fire, along with fencing, was also an initialtransformative tool in the open tussock grass-lands. ‘Openness’ was a frequent term, employedby immigrants used to enclosed treed andshrubby landscapes, to describe the huge skiesof the plains. Purposive burning facilitatedaccess by stock, reducing the standing crop ofunpalatable herbage and promoting a flushof nutritious growth (Dunbar & Hughes 1974).On the best-managed stations, re-burning ofan area occurred at intervals of several years toa decade, although when stock feed was scarcethe temptation was to burn more frequently,to the detriment of soil and vegetation. Landdemarcation was by shallow ditches, sod banks,post and wire fences, and hedges of fast-growingexotic shrubs such as gorse, broom and haw-thorn. Green (1912) advised that several nativeplants were suitable, but problems of commer-cial availability, because of perceived slowinitial growth, restricted their use. Nativesmight have required close control until estab-lished, but thereafter would have been low

maintenance. Conversely, the exotics grewquickly from planted seeds or rooted cuttings,soon formed a dense barrier to livestock, thenrequired long-term close management (Holland1988). Hence the high-maintenance, closelysegmented landscape of gorse, and later pine,boundaries that is the signature of the Canter-bury Plains (Price 1993).

By 1890, small farms predominated on theplains, with large pastoral holdings restrictedto hill and mountain country (Cant 1968). Theextent of cultivated land, including improvedpastures, increased from 292 950 acres in 1871to 1 307 847 acres 10 years later, and 2 191 185acres in 1895. Development of water races tomeet the needs of farm animals went hand-in-hand with the spread of cultivation and theshift from Merino to coarse-wool sheep suchas the Leicester, Dorset, Lincoln, Southdownbreeds, and the Corriedale, a Merino-Romneycross-developed in North Otago and refined inmid-Canterbury. Merino did well on open tus-sock country but proved susceptible to footrotin sown pastures. By 1890, they had virtuallydisappeared from the lowlands but remainedin the high country.

Changing stock patterns hint at the intensiveexperimentation that characterized the ‘improve-ment’ of spaces of modernity (Pawson & Holland2001). The economic and environmental con-ditions of individual properties lacked stabil-ity. Andersen (1916), for example, found thatpastoralists had to contend with one bad year,followed by two or three years of recovery, outof every six years because of adverse weatherand cyclical demand for wool in Britain. Henceproducers sought out the most productive, effi-cient, reliable, and easiest managed systemsof economic plants and animals. By the 1930s,many of the hard decisions had been takenand productive systems had begun to stabilize,with shelter, mineral fertilisers, irrigation andseed certification providing buffers against risk.That situation was to last until the late 1960s,when major changes in the country’s externalmarkets initiated a new phase of experimentationevery bit as far-reaching as that which hadenergised rural New Zealand during the late19th and early 20th centuries.



173

Transformation reconsidered

The Torlesse map betrays Schama’s (1995: 61)meaning when he writes that ‘landscapes areculture before they are nature; constructs ofthe imagination projected onto wood and waterand rock’. The map represents a stage set,albeit one more diverse and transactional thanTorlesse was able to portray, upon which theEuropean imaginary was to be worked out. Foras long as they have been occupied, the plainsof lowland Canterbury have been disruptedand re-made by people. The European incursionresulted in highly ordered landscapes, ‘utili-tarian and wholly without frivolity’ (Holland1984: 25), whose form in the 20th century wascharacterized by such extreme rectitude thatthey required continuous, expensive inputs fromlandholders to ensure their viability and effi-ciency (Olson & Holland 1995).

Transformation produces winners and losers.In South Canterbury, between the HuntersHills and the Pacific coast, there remain threehundred small and just two larger patches ofnative forest. Habitat modification, hunting,and predation by naturalized vertebrateshave caused the disappearance of at least 10species of forest bird and a further four speciesnative to other habitats. As many as 23 nativespecies of birds face local extinction, and only11 of the 40 or more native passerine speciesnow breed regularly in the area. Molloy (1971)observed that the scenic and conservationreserves of Canterbury are concentrated inthe formerly forested areas of Banks Peninsulaas well as in the foothills and mountain landsto the west. He noted, however, that highlymodified and dispersed fragments of nativeecosystems remain in the lowlands and couldbecome seedbeds for a network of nature reservesacross the Canterbury Plains. Most of thelowland plant communities extant in 1850 arerepresented somewhere in the area, albeit inhighly fragmented form, but they requirescientifically informed management, eradi-cation of pest plants and animals, and controlsover access if they are to persist, let alone thrive.

A century and a half after Kemp’s Deed,settlement of the Ngai Tahu Treaty claim

recognized that M

a

ori interests in the environ-ments of lowland Canterbury had not beenextinguished in 1848, despite their virtual dis-appearance from landscape making since then.The Crown returned some resources to iwi titleand sanctioned new regimes to manage

mahingakai

, now celebrated in the public art of CathBrown (O’Regan 2001: 5). The lowland Canter-bury landscape is being re-imagined in morecomplex ways than the European cartographyof colonization envisaged. Indigenous environ-mental knowledge has been formalized in iwiand hapu management plans (Tau

et al.

1990;Te Taumutu Runanga 2003), and names suchas Te Waihora and Aoraki have been officiallyadopted. Just as the closely ordered environ-ments of colonial landscape construction dis-rupted but did not eradicate populations ofnative plants and animals, so M

a

ori memoriesof the land and its resources were fracturedby European colonization but their lineamentspersist. Environmental change in lowlandCanterbury since 1850 has been extensive, andinevitably it continues.

Acknowledgements

We are grateful to Garth Cant for his helpfulsuggestions on a draft of the manuscript, andto Jim Williams for his insights into indigenousresource use and management.

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lowland canterbury landscapes in the making

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