Impressions of Wellington – night and day

Tu Tangata, Issue 10, 1 March 1983, Page 30

Impressions of Wellington - night and day

by Samson Samasoni

HE RERENGA KORERO/Social Comment

Steve, a 16-year-old, said he’d show me the streets of Wellington. A city in which I’ve lived for 19 years and it seemed, a city I really didn’t know too much about.

His dreadlocked hair was shorter than the norm set by those rastafarian’s seen on T.V. and on the front of album covers. Although his clothing was the usual outfit one expects when the name ‘street-kids’, is mentioned.

A blue swanee, well worn blue jeans and a light coloured shirt kept him warm physically.

He’d told me of Jah and the peace of reggae music, then he told me some of the excitement he’d experienced on the street both the good times and the bad.

The other, a guy I had known for some time came along just to watch out and introduce me to the night scene many Wellingtonian’s don’t see.

Joe was dressed in his usual overalls and t-shirt, his well known jandals replaced by basketball boots. He also warned me of previous happenings he’d been involved in.

“Look,” he said. “It may not happen eh, but if it d0e5....”

With that I was kept alert and uneasy.

It’s only a few minutes before midnight. Earlier hordes of Friday night shoppers had kept the streets alive. Now only the dulling rain and shop night lights seemed to be awake.

It was decided to go to a nightclub, not the one’s where everyone is trendy and fashionable, where alcohol is served till the wee hours and all have cars or taxi’s to go home in. No, not the one’s I knew.

Inside the music’s loud, no more than thirty people are there. Joe used to come here quite often he knew the regulars and the one’s in charge of the place. “Hey,” he says to me. “You see those queens over there”. “Yeah,” I reply. “They say you look like a ‘D’.” He laughed. I didn’t think it was a compliment to be mistaken for a cop, so I gave them a weak smile. “Oh, who are these nice strong young men,” I turned to where the deep voice had come. She wore a bright flimsy dress, hardly appropriate for rainy weather, I thought. Joe began to talk to her, we were introduced. “This is Sam, he’s straight as a fish,” he told her. About 1.30 am we’re sitting with Joe’s mates from the coast, he gave me some money and told me to go to the bar and

buy some drinks. “Coke or lemonade,” I said. “Just say it’s for Joe,” he told me. I came back with three glasses, I had a drink. The alcoholic flavour was quite strong. “Sam,” Joe said to me. “Look behind you,” he pointed, whispering. I turned round to see three men who seemed to have quite honest reasons for being in the place. “They’re ‘D’s,” he told me. I saw the people at the bar running round trying to straighten everything up. At 2 o’clock the band had stopped playing and were beginning to pack up. A guy on the table across from me was pulling out a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. “You want to try a ‘barb’,” Joe asked me. I took barb as meaning barbituate. “No thanks,” I answered. Two girls walked in, they waved at Joe and walked straight to the man with the plastic bag. “You see those two,” Joe asked. “Yeah.” “They’re pro’s.” I just gave him a surprised look. I watched the man pour some pills into a smaller plastic bag. The two girls sat beside him and began to talk to the other’s at the table. When he had finished they handed him some money and left, waving to Joe as they went. We decided to leave not long after, Joe and Steve returning to their flat, planning to return to the streets the following night. Saturday night I decided I would go on my own, walking the streets. About 11pm and I hear some heavy footsteps running towards me, I sit down and wait to see what happens. “Hey, hey stop, stop,” a guy wearing only trousers runs out in front of a taxi. The taxi carries on. Five guys inside a white Holden shout abuse at him as they drive past.

“Up ya bastards,” he yells after them. Patting himself to keep warm he walks up and down the road waiting for another car to pass. “Got the time, mate,” he asks me. “bout 12 I think.” “Thanks mate.” Two other guys walk up the street. Laughing and talking they head for their car. The first guy approaches them. “Hey look mate I need a ride to Karori.” They just look at him. “Here I’ll pay you, I got some money eh,” he pulls out some s’s and 10’s. “Waddaya think,” the driver asks his friend. “Yeah might as well.”

“Thanks mate, getting bloody cold out here eh.” He hops into the mini. I continue walking. A scream. I stop and walk towards the women’s voice. Two guys come out from Plimmers Steps. One says, “them’s the breaks”. The other laughs and they carry on down the road. The woman still screams.

When I get there, a guy is lying halfway down the steps. Eyes almost shut. Blood from his nose dried up, his hair resting in a pool of red. The step stained from the blood that trickles from his head. Four other are around him, one calming the girlfriend. Another kneeling beside the guy trying to wake him. Two more helping. “What happened," they ask still panting. The girlfriend crys, “eight Maori guys... the big one... he asked Bob for some money... they beat him up... then pushed him down the stairs.” Her screams become louder. Police and ambiance arrive. The police ask the girlfriend about the incident as the ambulancemen attend to Bob. A friend of Bob’s takes off his jersey to keep him warm, another asks if he can help. He replies sharply, “no. No you can’t and anyway you’re a honky, piss off.”

The ambulance man bandages his head and lifts him into their vehicle. Everyone starts to move away. I continue walking up the steps. At the top of the steps three guys are being questioned by the Police. I walk around them. “Excuse me, sir.” It’s one of the policeman. “Where have you just come from?” “Around town,” I reply. “Are you sure you weren’t in Nitesite.” “No, I wasn’t.” “You see there’s been some trouble down Plimmers Steps and we’re looking for some Samoans, you seem to be Samoan.” “Well do you mind if I take your name,” he was already pulling out his notebook. “Yeah as a matter of fact, I do.” “Can you tell me why.” “Because it’s my right not to.” “You might be a suspect if you don’t.” “Well then you’ll have to find me” I begin to walk away, “see you later.” “Do you smoke dope?” I stop. “No do you?” I ask. “What’s in your bag?” I was wearing a small shoulder strapped army bag. “Nothing.” “Can I see.” '

“Why.” “Cause I can search you under suspicion of drugs.” I gave it to him. There was nothing in it. “Where’s your badge,” I ask. “I don’t have to tell you,” his badge number was not visible. “What’s your badge number,” I ask again. He hesitated. “7573,” he says. “Thanks,” I begin to move away. “Dave Barker’s the name, 7573.” I turn around, “right... Dave Barker 7573”. The walk around town that followed was only watching police cars drive up and down the street. So I decided to go home. About 3am I walked to the station, people were still around, some at the portable take-away stand. Others sitting on the chairs as if waiting for something to happen. At 4.30 am Sunday morning as I was walking home, a young girl came out of a street and looked around. She saw me then went back into the darkness of the street. I walked down further then stopped and waited for her to come out again. After a few minutes she comes out again looks up and down the road. She then walks over to the dairy and grabs a bundle of newspapers and runs back into the dark street. I had taken the papers to be the dairy’s delivery of New Zealand Times. I decided to follow her up the street and see where she was going. Just as I turned into the street I saw her little body go into a garage halfway up the road. I walked past and looked in. “Piss off ya bastard,” a boy’s voice said from inside. I kept walking. I had seen three bodies, young people lying in the garage with newspapers spread out over them. Tiredness and sore feet began to take over and I felt it was time to make my way home. As I was going through Newtown I was again stopped by the Police, the same thing happened. This time they were more insistent and said. “If you don’t give us youi; name we’ll have you taken down to central.” There were two one on either side they made sure I was unable to move away. I gave them my name and occupation and they left.

5 in the morning and I’ve brought it all back home.

you think he’ll let us in?” I asked, eyeing the uniformed guard on the other side of the revolving door. We all inspected each other, clad in humble jeans, jackets and sneakers.

“I don’t know, but there’s only one way to find out,” was my mate’s reply.

I had never been through a revolving door before, so that in itself was a new experience. Having lived in Wairoa all my life where the buildings are never more than 2 storeyed and traffic lights are a thing of the future I had been totally overwhelmed by the dominating past life of the city.

Wellington. At first I feared it; even avoided crossing the road. Then I began to loathe its loneliness, hated its complexity and confusion, wanted to go home to the security of a town where the faces I knew outnumbered the ones I didn’t know. Only during the last few days of my week-long stay did my feelings about the capital begin to change.

The guard returned our anxious expressions with ones of suspicion. My three friends and I quickly made our way to the polished, marble stairs, not because we knew where we were going, but more as a form of escape. The stairs led us to another uniformed, middle-aged man, only this time more friendly.

“I’m afraid you can’t go in there, girls. That’s the Speakers Gallery.” The other three girls were blushing too. “You can watch from in here, and if you want, you can go across to the other side.”

“Thank you,” we mumbled. What had started as a joke had developed into quite an interesting experience. We in turn took seats at the edge of the balcony and peered over the rail in anticipation.

Below us they sat. Correction. Below us they sprawled themselves; the men who controlled Aotearoa; the men who made all the big decisions about us, about me. Some were writing, others just slouched in their sheep-skin lined seats, most reading the evening papers. A couple were fast asleep.

Below us they sat in their green vinyl seats surrounded by green velvet curtains protected by green-clothed veterans; all with very, very bored expressions on their faces, similar to that of an eight year old boy during a Beethovan concert. Even the man wearing the wig at the head of the room who banged the baton and groaned “order, order” looked like he’d have more fun doing crosswords in a cemetary.

Some of them would wave to wives and children in the gallery, sometimes

taking more interest in them than in the affairs of the country. In a style they labelled “debating” they snapped and bickered, argued and growled in a childish manner. While one speaker was in the process of trying to deliver his speech, the opposition would boo and baulk him into embarrassment with such rebuttle as “aah shut up, you’ve lost the debate anyway”, “sit down, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” “boo hoo, whooey”, “blaa blaa blaa”, “bull”, as well as a number of loud exaggerated yawns.

Parliament wasn’t as I expected it to be. It was hard to believe that these men were full-blooded 100% New Zealanders; they seemed of a foreign culture, spoke in foreign language, and I begun to understand why so many Maori and Pacific Island people find it so hard to fit into the system. Where was the aroha?? The friendship that kiwis are so famous and well know for?? Was it just a gimmick to attract tourists??

As we turned our backs on the cold grey of Parliament building and begun the slow decent down the stairs, a light shower shadowed windy Wellington City.

Two of the participants in Wellington’s Summer City programme, Nikki Ratahi and Rosana Love pose in costume during cultural activities.