Paekakariki

I grew up in a small coastal town nestled in the lee of a scraggy, sharp-faced spine of hill with wide, loose sections of scree held back only by sprawling wire nets and the roots of trees that have grown at angles of 45 degrees or more owing to a constant wind that comes raging and constant off the sea.

Tunnelled along it, a train-line that sees commuters to Wellington station and back, reading their books and having their loose, paper tickets clipped by people in il-fitting blue uniforms and sensible black shoes.

Coming into the town from the north you have to navigate a tricky right turn in the car, with an endless stream of traffic coming over the dip in the highway ahead, crossing the bridge. At first they seem to be coming at a decent clip, so you hesitate—only to realise you’ve much more time than you thought to make it.

As you sit, idling, you might look over to your left, at a road angling up into the mountain and, underneath it, the old BP with a sad ‘Hot Coffee’ sign in the window. Whatever it became got swallowed by a flood and avalanche of mud, stick and stones. The old flame was also extinguished, though that happened long before.

Up the gully, where that road that leads to Ken’s house winds alongside an idyllic stream bringing you out in the marshy flats of Pauatahanui, is the usual foot-way to the top of Paekakariki Hill. We’d attack it differently every time, throwing stones at dead sheep’s swollen, distended innards—uprooting dead trees and finding solitary black spiders under lichen-coated rocks.

We’d eat lollies at the top, sat on a concrete roof underneath the radio towers, throwing the plastic bags that had held our drinks into the updrafts; maybe roll a stone or two down the face before skidding down the quarry-like wave of escarpment.

Once, closer to the highway, after I’d crossed, I watched some idiots unloose something massive, seeing it rolling and bounding at great speed and over the eight-wire fence and shooting across the bonnet of a passing car.

Approaching the town from the south, the turn’s much easier. Sometimes there’s a small wait, side-by-side with what could be your neighbour, as a train trundles by, or freight cars hurtle and shake.

As you bump over the tracks, immediately to your left is the Old Rumbling Tum, and what’s left of its Video Shack—an ode to Hong Kong yet filled with the creations of Taiwan, Japan and puberty. My brother and I used to mop the floors there and clean the ice-cream machine. It was where lovely, large Dave pointed out my first spell of the ‘dry horrors’ and where Elan and I got the Mexican pie into the pie warmer. The mechanic is still next door, or at least the smell of grease and metal is. That was where dad would get our rego done, and the certificate of fitness.

Over the road, the Paekak Pub, much changed. Before I left it was Debo’s and full of swappa crates, pokies, and familiar faces that sat smoking and drinking in the window from opening time. In the bottle shop we bought dozens and received the familiar ribbing that boys too young to buy would get upon doing just that. Later on we’d be teased for moving to the big smoke.

Also on the wide, slow strip that is Beach Road; Horace’s dairy. Now with PayWave, but once where pebbles came by the cent, and in thousands. Over the road, the hairdresser who in 1998, indulged my wish to turn blue; and the old credit union building, now a library, where we’d withdraw much more than we’d deposit. St Peters Hall stands grandly across the road, white and sacred. In 1992 it was place of chagrin, and a chance of fame gone begging.

When we moved to town, you could still get Commando-Ms, hung up like pairs of jandals at the hardware store around the corner on Ames street. Like all good tool shops it was dark inside and smelled like fertiliser, oxidising metal and plastics. It was in the garage next door that we’d pick up our piles of papers to pedal our Evening Post routes. It’s now the Dominion Post I think.

Now, you could go straight up over the hill past Joelle’s old house if you wanted a quick tiki tour of the beach before going home—driving slowly along The Parade, more often than not covered in sea mist. Far out to the left you’ll see most of the South Island’s western reaches, on a good day—curling up towards us. Further left, Pukerua Bay and the tip of Mana Island. Dominating the view though is Kapiti Island—the region’s namesake and start of many an illustration.

If you were in no particular rush at all, or had just learned to drive and been given the keys to get milk, a milky bar, or mum’s “things”, you might drive on up to Campbell Park. On the winter weekends a rugby game may have been on, now it’s girls soccer.

If it was cricket, well, you would have been out there already; negotiating the uneven bounce and sending balls into the sea that made them slick and slimey, or smashing them into the pebbled walls of the embankment, scuffing, and warping their shape. We created our own team, named after Asia’s marauding, seed-planting khan. Our record was patchy but we would often conquer the post-match and smoke weed at practice; our gear-bag switching from Ken’s boot to mine and our deaf, kind opening bowler Mark terrifying both batter and those behind the stumps. I would have scored a century once if those dicks had been counting.

If you took a right before you hit the park though, you’d follow Ocean Road back up to Wellington. On the hill above you, Dion’s old place, and a blind corner that strangely never saw an accident. In early years we came down the other way with pipes out the windows with skyrockets burning out of them. But then we’d never heard of Baghdad before the pictures began on the front pages, and never ended.

A junction then, and a right to turn home; past that really weird family that know one seemed to know, Ms Jonas on the hill, the Walkers on your left, some fertile feijoa tress we used to fill plastic bags with, and the Stevens.

Turn left and you’d hit the local primary school. With building in a U-shape, juniors to the left, the rest in the main. At the end of the block was the swimming pool we’d jump into out of hours, and spin like a washing machine in in the mornings. The boys toilets probably still smell like piss and damp cold musk. We never found out if they smelled like sex. Maybe we just didn’t know what sex smelt like then.

The sunburnt field that saw so many games of bull-rush, danish rounders, sprints, and more. Forts that got spay-painted, then demolished. A pyramid of tyres the wrenched out of the ground and squashed half a class.

On that green-brown rectangle we also enjoyed long seasons of sunday soccer, 30-a-side. It was when the older guys would sweat out their Jack Daniels and cigarettes, and when Rick and Eddy would wait in the goal square for the crumbs, no matter the looks; and shirtlessly fobbing away late-comers, no matter the pedigree or their place in the local hierarchy. All even on the pitch then, just some less even than others.

If you head across the field and over the fence (by Tom Jolly’s place) you reach a quiet bend of a street that takes you down (as we did most lunchtimes) to Tilley road. There at the T junction is a high row of trees we like to call the “bouncey bushes”. A perilous climb full of laughs, falls and scratches that took you 100 metres end to end, and 10m or so up and down. The kids that had been around for a while new the way well enough, and the sound of the power station fizzing behind it. But no one was perfect. The smell of the sap and oils from the trees would stick with you all afternoon. It’s much less itchy than rolling around in grass.

If you turn left here, you cruise down into the flat, lowest corner of town. If we weren’t all already over the tracks this would have probably been called the “bad side” of them. Small houses with small families and, sadly, smaller opportunity. It was around here that me and my brother first met the town bully, and it was probably all that jumping on trampolines that spared us from many of his violent bounces later on.

Up a steep quiet street you find yourself once again on Wellington Road, the spine of the town; with streets sticking off it like ribs. Turning right and taking another couple of hundred steps past the Steiner school, you’ll hit Queen Elizabeth Park, Paekak’s crown jewel. A place of picnics, pot smoking and heavy petting, we’d shoot videos here, learn to drive, run orienteering courses, and hear music with Elan’s parents in the Pickle Pot. If you followed the road as it wound by the beach, past the many BBQ spots along the way, you’d reach the coastal path that took you to the Raumati pools in about 20 minutes (on your BMX). We’d often make our way to one of its many lookouts, and then tumble through the scrub to the valleys below, without fear of snake or spider bites.

Driving back now homewards, about a kilometre I’d guess, you’ll pass on the top of the aforementioned Campbell Park. A place where (regretfully) mean things were written by everyone on the playground, and mean balls were delivered by tall Dutch boys against the wall. The skate ramp that once glowed, then rotted, the Scouts Hall filled with tents, torches, bean bags, badges, and rolled up newspapers. At the crest of the hill, where to road to the left went back down to the high green hedge, or right and winding, one way, back to the beach, was a house that we threw stones on every Wednesday night, and past that, dipping down to the school again. On this side is the tennis court where I bounced onto a basketball rim and then fell off it, breaking my arm and screaming for Mandy. On the neighbouring netball court Elan would think he broke his arm too, and Ken would get a ball in the balls, Chris would land insane tricks, and Dad would pull in the Holden Commodore at speed finding my sister Jane, born with wanderlust in her. We found out late how to turn the lights on.

And again along Wellington Road, up and over the hill and easing right into our little side road, where three low trees surround an unused picnic bench on the grass. Cars are still parked all around there, in front of the shed filled with shit and locked with a rusty hinge and padlock. There’s a bamboo forest to its right, behind the vines. In its centre a hollow filled with what’s left of a stack of rain-sodden, sticky porn mags and fantasies.

Circling up around it is a driveway so steep that the concrete tried to slide off, and cars went over the edge. It also meant engines revving enough to giveaway people’s arrivals when you may have been doing something at home you shouldn’t.

If you followed the little detour from the main road, and didn’t turn up the drive, you’d come to another dangerous bit of road, having to speed out quick when you got your chance. Coming right off the road, almost in a direct line ahead of you, Cecil Road.

On the corner there is the Mills’ place—full of incense, purified water, late nights, Bob Dylan and chickens. Next door is the local fire station, which is still manned by volunteers. Every Saturday at 12pm its siren reminds you when lunch is. Most of the other times it sounded were in the dark when car crashes called.

Across the way, a small whitewashed building that would be many things, but usually a fish n chip shop. For a time it did fried rice and Street Fighter II. Keep up Tilley Road hill and to the left and you’d pass the old Withams’ house where computer code was being written, amongst the dirty clothes and yellow light.

Further up the street and down a wooded drive lived the giant Krimps in their giant house with their giant Volvo. Mum and Dad’s rental property is near too, hung down a hill in the shade, overlooking the road north, a billboard, and the water tank we used to climb. Elan and I found a meat cleaver in a car near there one night but got spooked by someone and threw it in the bushes.

Turn right from the shop, and what was once ‘Salty Towers’ (where Marcus crashed the Ford into the parked car right after he bought it) and you once would reach the gravel lot in front of the train station where Dad let me do circles in the Ford Falcon. Now it’s paved. Off to the left, spare carriages, junk, and the turning wheel where Jackson Kapa got his leg squashed. At the end of this road that had houses dropped on it, where we used to walk back our cases of beer, away from prying eyes of the main road, was a little back alley that came around to the pub again. This was the route the Paekakariki Express took I guess.

To the right are the tennis court’s high fences and storied concrete. So many balls stolen for backyard cricket, so many old coke bottles of water filled in the summer sun, so many sets, too many tantrums. You used to know who was playing by the cars parked close to the kerb along the street that left no room really for two cars to pass. Over the fence is the bowls club, on land that was once under water, and became that way again. It’s still full of silver foxes, dicky knees and leader boards.

Not many people know, or bother, but you don’t have to leave town the way you came in. If you continue straight ahead from there, passing the Backpackers up on the hill, you jump on straight through the Beach Road intersection, past St Peters Hall again, past the hardware store. On your immediate right on Ames Street is the shed that once had its windows smashed out by you-know-who and friends. Up over a few judder bars, past Adriano’s bloody lawn, is the cheeky little exit that takes you back down to the Highway One, and yet another black spot. Before you turn is a small bit of parkland where my brother used to take his girlfriends, and beyond that, where we used to take boogie boards to the sand dunes.

Back on the road again and heading city-ward, again in the crook of the hill, you’ll pass the fish truck that’s been there long before food ones got to Twitter; its fresh catch flying into the backs of cars, but never to the table over the road where the dish of the day still an unending salad boat, and the chicken tenderloin of my tender youth.

To your right, and in your memory, the expanse of green-grey sea, running cold, white-capped and fast against the coast, washing over rock pools and tugging at the plastic jacketed fishermans’ nylon lines.

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On Reading Rimbaud, The Little Asshole

Is it possible to make one’s face so lifeless that it becomes invisible?
I think it might be. I know it
In fact, it’s as easy as an icebreaker through three-foot thick drifts
I’ll practice it, become a famed magician, conjuring horizons and bending light round my body
What time I’ll buy, a non-person, a no-one
Free as an asteroid out of orbit, tracing a silent arc through the endless dark
Only to reappear at will, saving face, playing the percentages
I’ll be a rich man, rich and redundant
The world getting along just fine without knowing my step
Energy distilled into a direct beam
Hot enough to melt sand and make a mirror in which my reflection is seen only by me
Self-sustaining, vampiric, in unholy, solitary, unfettered happiness

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A Serbian Cemetery in Country Victoria

It was surprising, the grand brick church sat at the end of the remote boulevard
A little slice of the Balkans, beyond Melbourne’s south western suburbs

There seemed to be no one around, except the puffing groundswoman who was moving flowers from patch to pot
Inside, wrapped in silence, we crossed our hearts while she took us back in time
Old habits evident and superstitions including walking backwards out of the door

In a messy little nook around the corner we burned votive candles
There had been a fire in the church so now they kept them away from the pulpit
I lit two, for my parents, but I didn’t ask about the other one burning

Back out the gate we followed the dog-leg road to the community cemetery
A pair of smiling ladies were cleaning graves, washing marble with holy water
They come every Saturday, praising young love where they see it

On the headstones (many garish) are head shots – all model relatives
Near the entrance was a fresh mound of earth
Another baba interred, waiting with infinite patience for the full regalia

More rows had appeared from the last visit so it took a minute to find our place
When we did, we poured our own libations
Setting in vases the small orange roses that we bought at the beach

I left the two of them alone, walking to the tree-line
In the fading light, the magpies were in dogfight flight
Swooping from their eeries

White-tailed rabbits were holding inter-paddock summits
Keeping up their end of the pact to re-populate the planet
While all around them, rock-like sheep chewed grass

Over the opposite green field, where the sacred stones sat, came the sound of folk music
So the men were there after all, circling an old radio, playing backgammon and smoking cigarettes
I couldn’t tell you what brand they were (maybe Dunhill) — the war-torn butt I saw in the rusty urinals was sodden and faded

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What a Sound the Sea Makes

It sounded like tearing sheet metal when the wave broke
Another offcut ribboned from an aluminium sea and left on the sand
Behind us, the blue cloud was banking and bruised
Hiding the Kilamangiro that couldn’t be there
Finding a short stick we mapped a rough outline of the bay
Using our memories as sounding weights
We zoomed in on the long, eroding beaches down the coast
Where we jumped from rocks in between swells, falling faster than spit
As the rain began to wet the top of our shoes, we washed the orange juice from our fingers
And chose the steepest path back up the hill to the house, to the pot of hot coffee
At the escarpment’s top, a shove of wind—the kind that had felled bigger trees than us
The proof at our feet, a splintered trunk laying heavy in the pine needles
A stone-like Ozymandias, now fuel, all transitioning power
What a sound chagrin makes
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What’s Mine is Mine

A place is someone’s when they’ve fought hardest for it
When they’ve left skin on the streets
Wept tears in the gutter
Spent money over the bar
Made love in its beds
It’s not just how long, but how you’ve lived

After Melbourne’s Coldest Weekend

This dark chill is theft—daylight robbery
The sun roped up in the back of the van
Our good humours gone with it

To a human we’re phlegmatic, melancholy
And no draft is too crafty
No teeth or bones too still

They say it’s a vortex that’ll last the week
And eBay is selling out of finger-less leather gloves
But we’ll get up anyway

And at night, well, we probably won’t think of those in bed alone
But we should
God knows it was me once

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Blood Is All I Can Think About

Old blood that was in me soaks a hand towel on the bathroom floor
New blood is being made, though it’s blue and too much of it is in one place
That same blood that’s within me races in her presence
A rapid tattoo loud in my ears
This blood went cold when he called
Pumping slow and thick through his heart instead
My family blood that is me will soon be in another
Maybe it will have superpowers

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On A Sunday, Hearing Hymns

Down the road and round the corner
Hymns break strong and bright
The father he looks down on them
The son casts yellowy light

A little girl, stood small near mum
Questions why, and how
And underneath the learned sun
Says she, “that’s how it is, for now”

Dying leaves fall from branches
As faith feathers their wings
But after omnipotent winter
They’ll live again with spring

Father, son, mother, daughter
Life will fill the nest
But it never hurts to say your thanks
Each weekly day of rest

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