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The divers had told her to flash fry it in butter, and that’s what we did. Almost all of New Zealand’s abalone is exported to Japan. Abalone is the shellfish that comes out of those gorgeous iridescent shells. We were both going to be staying in the island’s only hostel, and we agreed to cook this exotic dinner together. “They gave me some,” she told me on the ferry. They were the only people who could harvest it in this way, and there was a strict quota on what they could remove from the ocean. She had been camping near Bluff and had made friends with some of the Maori divers who have precious inherited rights to freedive for abalone. I had run into a fellow backpacker, a French girl. Getting off the ferry, I was greeted by a sign that said: Next Stop, Antarctica.īacktrack to the ferry crossing itself over the Foveaux Strait. Yes, it is legal to eat it in a very specific part of New Zealand on Stewart Island, 75 kilometres from Bluff on the South Island. So by the time I got to New Zealand, I was ready to eat cormorant. Later, I deeply regretted my lack of courage to even just try samples of both kangaroo and horse. I had the can of heated tomato soup, eaten straight from the tin. The horse cuts they had bought in a butcher’s shop. “Did you find that dead at the side of the road too?” I stared at it, and then I realised what it was. It also smelt incredibly weird, but nothing as bad as the roadkill kangaroo. It was some kind of steak, but of a size I knew had to have come from an animal larger than a cow. “Next course!” And they returned to the Esky again.Īnother giant piece of meat was put in front of me. One stuck an unopened can of tomato soup on the barbecue for me instead. “Coward!” they laughed at me, tucking into the grilled roadkill. The smell was so terrible I just couldn’t do it. Feral as I had become during my year of hitchhiking across this vast, wild and beautiful continent, I had not yet come across road kill on a barbecue. We left the rest for other critters to eat.”īack then, kangaroo was not usually on the menu in Australian restaurants. Glen here, his dad is a butcher, so he got out and did a bit of skinning, a bit of butchery.
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I looked in to see a huge and unfamiliar piece of meat. “Do you know what that is?” one asked, and invited me to look into the coolbox. It was not a smell I’d ever come across before. He looked at me and grinned, as he lifted its lid off.Ī smell so strong it was almost as physical as a slap emerged from the Esky.
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One man set about lighting a fire, and the other busied himself with taking things from the boot of the car, including an Esky the coolbox that lives in the back of every Australian vehicle. A few hours into this road trip, the guys pulled up, and announced it was time to eat. The usual thing to do was stop, make a fire, cook, eat and then continue the journey. Journeys in Western Australia were long and places to eat along the way were few. I was somewhere in western Australia, when I got picked up by two men in a Holden panel van, the large car-stroke-truck everyone drove back then. The first experience I ever had with roadkill was back in 1987, when I was hitch-hiking around Australia by myself, with tent and rucksack.