The little things that make K Road unique are why it feels like home, says John MacDonald.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler storytelling night or read on.
I came here as an old man, just 28 months ago.
I came from the beach in Tauranga Moana.
We all come from somewhere to Karangahape, maybe Grey Lynn or Argentina, or Beijing?
And that somewhere influences our experience of the Karangahape village.
We all come from deeply rooted whakapapa,
from far off places or others closer to Karangahape.
Some of us in our village come from the church and the Bible.
Some of us from the ashram and the writings of Buddha.
Some of us from the mosque and the Koran in these days of Ramadan.
Or from a thousand gods and the Bhagavad Gita.
Some of us come from rich philosophical and rationalist traditions.
Some from the spiritual traditions of Confucius and Thor.
Or Rasta.
And we probably come from ancient gendered worlds,
from diverse economic realities,
from culturally rich ethnic communities,
and from wildly different political leanings.
And we all come to Karangahape where we are able to define our own lifestyle and behaviours, in the context and company of friends on the same but different journeys.
And tonight we come, hearing again the Karanga, the Karanga of Hape.
The call to come, whoever we are, wherever we’re from, with whatever baggage we carry with us,
to consider Karangahape and why we call it,
why we feel it's home.
Karanga mai.
Tonight we wrestle with these voices with us,
these voices within us that make us who we are,
and somehow make us feel
that Karangahape is our
way-fare
and our welfare,
our village,
– here and now, in Auckland City Centre.
But what is it about Karangahape?
What is it about this place that sees me walking to Merge Café for breakfast at 7.00 in the morning, and maybe enjoying a single malt in the early hours of the following morning at Verona?
Why is Karangahape
my way-fare,
my welfare,
my village?
I think it is
that within me are 60 years of fragmented memories
that have the opportunity to bounce back momentarily every day I’m on this street.
It’s something to do with remnant memories of home
and growing up
and maybe visiting Auckland.
Few of these memories are particularly related to this street, possibly George Court,
but I clearly remember sitting in our 1945 Vauxhall Wyvern at the Pitt St intersection
and looking into the window of Leo O’Malley’s menswear. And it's still never open Sundays.
I clearly remember sitting in our 1945 Vauxhall Wyvern at the Pitt Street intersection
and looking into the window of Leo O’Malley’s menswear.
The memories that bounce back to me on Karangahape,
I think do so because I was brought up in a village
and the benefits of that experience has infiltrated my DNA.
On Karangahape I can still buy Crown Lynn, Mosgiel blankets.
Authentic Swandri at Paper Bag Princess
and the cowboy boots I always dreamed of having are available at Vixen.
When I do buy something substantial
it is likely a ‘manual push button till’ will be used
and a receipt written on a Whitcombes printed receipt book with pounds shilling and pence columns.
And I can go and sit down on the street bench
by David Merrit,
and still smell agriculture,
hay seeds in his swani,
and we can talk about Landrovers,
tell stories about their useless door locks,
and where we might find some more old Readers Digests.
And while I’m talking to David,
a dozen people will walk past
and say "hi" to one of us or both of us
and "see you later",
which may or may not happen
but doesn’t matter because you know they are there.
And if you wander down
to Sarah's little corner in St. Kevin's,
you can get that she’s from the Coromandel,
a naked infectious spirit,
still got salt in her hair
and you can tell
she has a good father
and that he collects screws and nails, bits of timber
and old sails,
and he wears jerseys repaired by his big girl,
you just can tell,
because she meets and greets you as a great daughter does on Karangahape!
And if you watch the door of her shop there is a steady stream of ‘wanting a hug people’!
And I think of Drewe ...
And I think about Kylie,
her intelligence,
her sharp keen eyes
that can sparkle when not over taken
by darkness self-inflicted and
but sometimes not.
She just wants small change,
nothing too demanding,
and without the ‘God bless have a nice day’ response of others.
Just a minute's conversation is all she needs - thank you for being a friend
And I think of Johnnie's super-speedy coffee at Revel,
and he still thinks I’m someone I’m not,
but that’s not a problem because he doesn’t particularly like the chap he thinks I am anyway!
And I think of Drewe…….. talking of Revel
And doesn’t it do something for your day,
when you can walk down Karangahape
and see someone like Nisha,
who you saw on stage or on the tele last night
or in the magazine.
Doesn’t it just remind you that this is a village
and that there is something intimate,
something personal,
there is a village-ability
about the Karangahape ridge?
Where jay walking is a measure of your ‘at home-ness’, a skill the streeties enjoy with grace and delightful competence.
Where colours get acceptably mixed and matched
according to your own likes
rather than the mores of fashion beyond our street.
Where Vintage is actually still contemporary,
authentic without pretending,
and it will always be that way!
There is a freedom in the village
that is refreshing in a kinda ‘moth ball’ way,
deeply rooted in the past
but at the same time living and vibrant in its connectivity to the present.
And Drewe….
The other sirens,
the emergency services kind,
determine to interrupt every conversation.
The AGGS girls
giggling their way to school
and the Sikh men babbling conjoined words
in a huddle
to be negotiated through for the next red bus.
And the Chemists who feel cheated
for being merely aftermarket agents for combs and aspirins of yesterday,
but they are there,
standing at their doorways
watching out for the regulars who may need their repeat scripts,
and wondering
how they might get hold of the new generation of substances that fuel too many who pass their despondent gaze.
‘I’m Ukulele Mamma’
she laughs
and passes out her ukulele for me to tune,
but she knows I haven’t got a tuneful note in me,
but she likes that I have to sit down
and try and work out what she’s on about.
You know Selwyn’s United Nations table
outside Verona
where the ‘gentle giant’ invites everyone to convene at anytime.
Karangahape,
Where jay walking is a measure of your ‘at home-ness’,
a skill the streeties enjoy
with grace and delightful competence.
A couple of years ago Margaret passed away,
David and others keep her street bench warm now.
Others have passed since on the street,
and I think of Drewe.
Karangahape Road, where we define who we are,
liberated from the respectability of other streets,
here where art
and music
and good food
spills out
onto the street
and where we sort of become part of the scene,
invited
it's infectious invitation for the community’s comfort.
Nobody told me about Drewe,
probably not expecting that I would know her?
She was a friend who always offered ‘comfort’,
that was her line with me,
comfort I couldn’t afford even if it was a need,
however we did enjoy hot chocolate and soup.
Karangahape Road, where we define who we are, liberated from the respectability of other streets.
She gave me a can of her Cody’s one day, a precious commodity rarely shared.
and once again she told me stories of years past,
families past
partners past
and past health,
and sometimes the treatment dished out to her
by men and women on the street
who believed paying her for favours meant ownership
in despicable ways.
A 32 year old soul,
if only it was right to pick such folk up and immerse them in another world of healing love and grace
but she said she wasn’t ready,
she said she was OK.
She never arrived at Revel one day
for our meetup over soup. She…………
And that nobody told me of Drewe’s passing
reminds me that there are multiple layers
of street homeliness
and street knowledge,
that a newbie like me has no right to know
or need to know.
The heart of Karangahape is deep down,
nurtured in the soul of ancestors like Margaret
and Hape, and now Drewe
who walked and loved the ridge before me.
Karanga, the call,
the call of Hape,
the ancestor of the ridge we call home,
Hape continues to call us,
To the village,
‘K’ road,
the best known street in New Zealand.
And a PS….
Friends,
my glimpse of Karangahape,
rather romantic
but all the same grounded in the values and realities of Karangahape community life.
But these things are always being challenged
by an underbelly
that is fuelled by a colonial oppressive power
of economic development
that harvests rising values in land and property
but fails to give the time of day
to the economic value of community resilience and creativity.
Social profit,
social development,
the social economy are central drivers in what fuels the Karangahape Village,
and we must never neglect saying thank you to those community leaders,
business leaders,
and those ancestral drivers
who keep the doors open,
the music playing,
the beverage available
and whatever hospitality you fancy on the night!
Great friends of Hape,
listen to the Karanga and stand staunch,
stand proud,
stand out
and live the life that is authentic,
real and inviting for generations to come on the ridge known as Karangahape!
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
Illustration: Emile Holmewood of BloodBros.
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