In search of New Zealand's most mysterious penguin

If, like me, you ever become overwhelmed with a desire to see all 18 of the world’s penguin species, I have good and bad news. On the upside, this quest will take you to four hugely varied continents, to dusty cliffs and frozen beaches, remote islands and — perhaps surprisingly — major cities. On the downside, you’ll have to cope with jet lag; deal with heartbreak when you discover how climate change is destroying penguin habitats; and come face to face with the namu.

These black sandflies are said to be the wicked emissaries of Hine-nui-te-pō, a Māori goddess of death. As I stand on a South Island beach swatting at them, this origin story feels very believable. Myths flourish in the extreme west of Fiordland National Park, and I’m here because there’s a penguin named after a shape-shifting god of lightning, Tawaki.

Also known as the Fiordland penguin, this forest-dwelling bird conducts much of its life hidden in deep foliage, largely inaccessible to humans. Researching my book about the world’s penguins and their habitats, I never found another species like it: whereas others make highways through snow, this bird follows freshwater streams into the jungle; and while most nest in the open air, this one does so under the rainforest canopy.

Considering the protections afforded by the national park and the Tawaki’s clandestine nature, it’s one of the most mysterious of its kin — and some effort is required in spotting it. Wilderness Lodge Lake Moeraki offers tours to this secret beach via an almost overgrown forest path. The lodge’s owner Gerry McSweeney, with his white hair and beetling black eyebrows, tells me 35 years of hard work and environmental obstinance helped him preserve this place. “It’s treasured not because of the history — of the Māori or old pioneers — but because we managed not to do certain things.” he says.

In 1989, this whole area had been earmarked for clearance; scheduled to be logged and divided into 16 dairy farms. Endemic birds including keas, kākās, kiwis and Fiordland penguins would’ve seen their habitat razed for milk and money. Instead, it was preserved for ecotourism, allowing these creatures to thrive.

Before people arrived in New Zealand 800 or so years ago, bats were the only mammals. It was the ultimate avian kingdom, home to the earliest penguins. Given the strangeness of many of the archipelago’s birds — there are 16 flightless species, including kiwis and parrots — it’s no surprise this land generated something as weird as the penguin. Yet, even proto-penguins could migrate by water. They stretched their territory, pushing far and wide around the world’s oceans. There were successes and failures, evolutions and extinctions. They became vital cogs in complex marine systems and then, when people arrived, precious parts of our world, too. After five years of writing the book, I’m no more immune to their charms than a child seeing them for the first time in a zoo.

As I sit on the unkempt shore, a lone penguin appears from the water and begins preening its wet feathers. The Tawaki looks like many other crested penguin species, with a flamboyant hairstyle and ruby-red eyes. From about 100 metres away, through binoculars and long lenses, our small group watches the bird shake saltwater from its white-gold crest, then begin its clumsy journey to the treeline.

A second penguin emerges from the forest, slip-sliding down a muddy chute, dirtying its white front. When the two birds eventually bump into each other on the beach, they yammer some unknowable conversation, before the dirty one appears to forget its original mission, turns and habitually follows the other back into the greenery.

Moments later it’s back, perhaps having been reminded that it needs water to live. Our group chuckles. Then the penguin dips into the Pacific, where its terrestrial awkwardness is replaced by something more instinctive and graceful.