Destructive, screeching kākā win back Wellington

2026-03-14 - 17:06

Comment: After more than 70 years of regional extinction, kākā have burst back into the Wellington landscape. With their prehistoric “skraaking” call, raucous behaviour, and beautiful plumage, this boisterous bush parrot has won the hearts of many residents and become a much-loved poster child for Wellington’s conservation success. The city’s original kākā were destroyed by the landscape impacts of colonisation – habitat loss and predation from introduced species meant numbers collapsed. Their recovery began in 2002 when six birds were released into the Zealandia ecosanctuary, establishing a founding population that has thrived. The progeny of this population now spills far beyond the Zealandia fence-line, supported by city-wide pest control programmes. Yet despite their current popularity, kākā dispersal into the city hasn’t always been smooth sailing. Equipped with sharp beaks and a taste for sap, their practice of stripping bark from trees has proved deadly for a number of the city’s tree species. Many mature conifers, including the Wellington Botanic Garden’s widely loved redwoods, have had to be removed. Kākā are also given to other beaky escapades, damaging decks and other property. In the years after their release, this behaviour sparked a flood of complaints to Zealandia and the council. A Zealandia staff member at the time recalled that just about every other phone call was a complaint about kākā damage, prompting concern that public opinion might turn against the birds and the conservation efforts supporting them. Attempts to dissuade the birds from damaging trees failed. One arborist remembered trying to scare the birds with air horns: “First time with an air horn, it was so loud I had to wear earmuffs and the bird took off. Second time, it just looked at me and was like, ‘What are you doing?’ They’re such intelligent birds ... it didn’t work again.” Despite dire warnings from some conservation experts, the widescale anti-kākā pushback failed to materialise. In fact, kākā have risen in popularity even as their deadly impact on beloved city trees has become more noticeable. Although there are still some complaints about kākā, there seems to have been a substantial shift in opinion from concern, uncertainty, and in some cases outright hostility, to celebration. So, what changed? This is a question I explored in my Master of Environmental Studies research and I suspect the answer lies in the way we understand conflict. Human-wildlife conflict, as contentious relationships between humans and animals is known, is mostly seen as a bad thing. Often, we want to either avoid such conflict (by making sure animals and humans don’t interact) or immediately resolve it (by stopping the interactions that are causing strife). The stories we tell about these instances of conflict are often simplistic. Conflict is typically cast as being caused by either misbehaving wildlife, or intolerant humans who need to be persuaded to think or behave differently. Underlying these narratives is a rigid and static understanding of human interactions with animals. Conflict (bad) is presented as the opposite of coexistence (good). So, the story often goes that we either coexist with animals in perfect, peaceful harmony, or we experience friction and conflict with them. But, in reality, our relationships with wildlife are far more complicated than these simple narratives imply. Research suggests conflict is often an indication that a particular set of ideas and way of living is being challenged. This is neither inherently good nor bad, but simply part of all relationships; where there is diversity there will likely be friction and discord that may prompt change, or reinforce the status quo. For example, disagreements between neighbours, while upsetting and difficult, can also instigate opportunities to learn about different ways of living. These disagreements may even (although not always) eventually lead to better understandings of each other’s needs and improvements in community relations. What does this have to do with kākā? I suggest the same can be true of inter-species relationships. In Wellington, people’s relationships with kākā have been changing dramatically over the past 20 years and conflict has been an aspect of this flux. We went from most of us having very little knowledge or interaction with kākā in urban areas, to having these loud, brash, and occasionally destructive parrots take up residence next door. For many, it was delightful and exciting, but it was also challenging, particularly when damage to property started becoming apparent. Counterintuitive as it might seem, I suggest it is precisely because of this friction, this conflict, that kākā have been subsequently embraced and increasingly beloved in Wellington. A bird that sits prettily cooing in your tree is lovely, but it is also easily ignored and doesn’t challenge your way of life. A bird that starts ripping up your favourite fruit tree on the other hand, you’re taking notice! The destructive habits of kākā forced people to think about the city and its environment. For many, this led to a change in perspective about which beings belong. People who loved their fruit trees and houses decided the damage caused by kākā was part of sharing space with these sassy, beautiful parrots. That the city is better when it’s wilder. What might this mean for our approaches to human-wildlife conflict? Conflict needn’t be a permanent state of affairs and it shouldn’t always be treated as a failure. It’s an indication of a relationship in flux. Two parties finding their footing and working out what living together means.