Nothing says “Christ rising from the grave” quite like blasting away several thousand little furballs. Nathan discovers the annual Easter ritual that is the Central Otago Bunny Hunt.
DESPITE TEN YEARS OF SUNDAY SCHOOL IN THE BIBLE BELT OF THE SOUTHEAST OF THE UNITED STATES, I’VE ALWAYS FOUND EASTER CELEBRATIONS SLIGHTLY CONFUSING. THE CROSS, THE CAVE AND THE ILLOGICAL LEAP TO MAMMALS LAYING CHOCOLATE EGGS ALWAYS SEEMED A STRETCH TO ME. BUT LIKE MOST KIDS, I WAS WILLING TO SUSPEND MY DISBELIEF AND ROLL WITH THE STORY IF NERDS, BOTTLE CAPS OR CHERRY FLAVOURED PEZ WERE ON THE LINE.
When it comes to illogical yet awesome resurrection activities, however, the indisputable G.O.A.T. is the annual Central Otago Great Easter Bunny Hunt.
Let’s get this out of the way, just in case PETA is watching: Oryctolagus cuniculus (a.k.a. the European rabbit or, colloquially, bunny) is an introduced species in New Zealand which threatens both native biodiversity and carefully- manicured lawns. New Zealand’s Department of Conservation considers them a “significant agricultural and ecological pest”. Conclusion—the Easter Bunny Hunt is God’s work. Also, this story contains large amounts of ammo. I suggest you take a smoko, PETA, and sit this one out.
Given my American accent, I was flattered to have been invited to what is basically the World Championship of small game hunting. Over the last two decades I have aggressively, and unconvincingly, attempted to hide my hillbilly upbringing; I try not to wear camo socially, turn up Hank Williams Jr’s ‘A Country Boy Can Survive’ on the radio, or drink Jack Daniel’s from a mason jar.
But there was no hiding my giddy excitement when a fleet of 4×4 utes outfitted with turrets and gun racks arrived at my house. I felt like Molly Ringwald at the end of Sixteen Candles, but with the combined casts of Red Dawn and Mad Max picking me up instead of Jake in his cute red sportscar.
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A taller, more grizzled Patrick Swayze was my driver. On his dash, an aluminium foil bowl containing what smelt like salted, honey-glazed ham.
“Ham?” Patrick offered.
Patrick must have seen me drooling. My people are quite fond of swine, and he was a man of few words.
“Been curing it for the last four days in my smokehouse.”
“Will you marry me?” I wanted to say, but I played it cool and savoured the road trip delicacy.
We arrived at our location and took up residence in the woolshed where the team had gathered for a safety briefing with the station owner. This was clearly nobody’s first, second, third or even tenth rodeo, and everyone was anxious to get going. I was nervous to ask a question, but I decided I was more nervous about screwing up with a 12-gauge in my hand.
“What don’t we shoot?”“Well, for starters, don’t shoot any birds.” “And?”“And, that’s about it. Have fun boys.”I had found my people.
“You get in the back, Yank,” Patrick yelled as we approached his ute.
The protocol was pretty straightforward—kill as many rabbits (and other mammalian pests like stoats and ferrets) as you can in a 24-hour period. To my amazement, we could use spotlights and suppressors (silencers). Both of these are illegal arsenal accouterments back in the Motherland, and yet, oddly, machine guns are handed out at Bingo.
Patrick was taking us to his “hot spot” in a hurry, eager to tally up a few points in the hope of winning some kind of Grand Prize, which seemed an unnecessary motivator considering how much fun just participating was obviously going to be— kind of like earning the MVP trophy at an orgy.
Standing in the back of the ute with the wind in my face and a small armoury on top of the cab, a calmness fell over me. I looked over at my wingman; he was also grinning from ear-to-ear as we topped 70 kph down the straightaway. Then a rabbit jumped up on my side, heading away from the rear of the vehicle. I hadn’t fired a gun in over ten years, but without thinking I reached for the Browning Over/Under 12 Gauge, my grandfather’s firearm of choice. It’s a gun that feels like a home cooked meal. Maybe it was muscle memory, DNA or luck, but the bunny did a somersault. Patrick slammed on the breaks and we all lurched forward.
“What the f%$#, you guys okay!?!”
Had I shot too soon? In the wrong place? Had I screwed up my invitation to country-boy Disneyland? My heart sank. But just as I convinced myself I was off the team:
“He freakin’ got’m!”
“Nice shootin’ Yank!” Patrick yelled as he mashed on the accelerator.
My cover was blown. I am not the civilised character I’ve pretended to be over the last two decades. I did grow up buying 22 shells by the gallon. Meat in the freezer was a form of currency. And while the people around me did not know the difference between pinot noir and merlot, they could, like me, drop a Double Pumper Holley Carb on a bored-out 350 blindfolded (and the “wine” they drank could actually be burnt in said engine).
Despite dispatching thousands of Easter bunnies, we came up a few hundred short of fame and glory, but nobody seemed to care. And that’s when I realised it: I had run so far away from my childhood, I had fully circled the world and ended up right back where I started. Here, in the backcountry of New Zealand, I was home.
(POSTSCRIPT: For the record, I’m Allman Brothers Southern, not Lynyrd Skynyrd Southern. There is a difference.)
NATHAN WEATHINGTON
