Nestled between Manurewa and Papakura lies the forgotten land.

Takaanini. Honoured with the name of a chief, his legacy lingers like that of a decorated soldier history has turned its back on.

Takanini. There is no need for excess.

______________________________

Rising prices, high rise. Urban sprawl. Wasted city. Lost opportunity.

South Auckland – a loaded term. Trigger. Thirty second highlights package. Misrepresented, under-represented, misidentified, under-valued. Headline. A reputation years in the making is hard to shake loose.

South Auckland / Auckland South. Words that speak volumes.

A parallel existence. They are not one in the same. Unaware of the other, ignorance is bliss. Gentrification is the word on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

First home buyers chasing dreams down the Southern Line.

_______________________________

Sub/divide and conquer, what happens when we carve out space with a heavy hand?

The land that occupies the in-between, with fertile soil and forgotten dreams, the perfect conditions for growth. The world’s most liveable city, but for whom?

It is said that 1000 men once took up residence on this land seeking to extract a living in a depressed economy. A lush Kauri forest makes an attractive proposition. Willow Camp now immortalised, the address of new settlers. Place names hold history / repeating.

Sub/divide and distract. Marketing to an outside world. Uninitiated, perception is everything.

Addison Park. The land of milk and honey; golf courses, pony clubs, orchards, vineyards, upperclass cafes and a playground for recreational aviators only a stone’s throw away.

Divide. One block. North. Children of caravan park renters walk to school wondering if they’ve made it in time for the breakfast club. Hot milos and toast. Decile one. The Koha Shed fields desperate pleas for furniture and food. Community cushioning harsh realities of modern day life. $14.75 an hour falling a daily flat white short of a living wage. Rising prices, urban sprawl.

Redevelopment motivated by the promise of a transport connection no longer in the works. The closest station? One Block. North. The Southern line of possibility and hope.

Forgotten land of plenty.

She looks at me and asks, “Can you hear that?”

Silence echoes throughout. The fluorescent lights and carefully crafted soundtrack keep us on our toes, their inconspicuous buzz is a familiar ambience.

The murmur of bodies occupying space is deafening.

Not all crowds create racket but if you listen closely you can hear the chaotic harmony.

Yet no-one is talking.

Isle three is occupied by a mother searching for quick dinner options, a newly married couple still working out how to best accommodate both of their needs and a man staring into the shelves, the world buzzing around him.

Children appear exempt from our understandings of silence, they fill space with tantrums and tired wrestlings.

The checkout operator exchanges pleasantries, asks for your card and you wait in fear of that all-too familiar ‘decline’. Fumbling for your phone, a quick transfer saves you from the walk of shame, you explain that you never transfer enough money into your spending account. The shuffling of bodies behind you quickens your breath.

We stare at each other and let silence wrap around us.

They say for some loneliness lurks even in a crowded room, the black dog too. A shadow, forever chasing it’s tail. Isolation is both the enemy and the ally.

At times, we are victims of our own doing.

Hour-long train rides, passing time in the company of strangers. People watching’s ultimate fantasy.

The introverts’ unkept secret.

Every so often we break ranks, disrupting our solitary state and find comfort in a passing conversation. 

Pubic/private. Secrets spill over stained seats. Loyalties carved into plastic thrones. 

Phone calls echo down carriages. One sided conversations are a welcome distraction from our solitary thoughts.

Tales of late night escapades for all to hear, opinions kept tight lipped, cowardice confused with politeness.

A blissful daze interrupted by speaker announcements that cut through the crisp, recycled air, never quite allowing us to drift into total ignorance. Time stands still and yet we are so aware of it’s passing. The state of sleep our only true escape. Electric dreams lull us into contemplative slumber.

Our collective silence speaks volumes. Bodies occupy space/ time. Disconnect.

Panicked words fall from tired tongues, filling silences, untamed. Society’s anxious murmurs, home to white lies and unkempt ramblings.

She glances out the window, a break from her musings on home affairs and stumbles over the artist’s plea, clearly an unwelcome disruption in an otherwise pleasant journey. She declares her disgust, her loyalty to a laughable leader. Not our future.

Spray paint renegade, allegiances are declared. Crimes of passion do not always end in spilt blood. The ‘rent-a-crowd bunch’ employing artists of the night.

The voice softens and my mind wanders. Up/rise early morning. Arms interlocked, travellers of a path well trodden, we walk with our heads held high. Her voice reaches out into the air. It is in this moment that our two histories intertwine, if only for a second.

Familiarity is not my comrade but a quickly welcomed acquaintance.

Front and centre, we walk.

Power to the people

because people have the power

tell me, can you hear us?

Getting stronger every hour

Together our voices merge, drowning out office politics and rush hour chit-chat, broken harmonies repairing lost connections.

Strength in numbers. Divided they fall.

Disrupt.

The automated voice cuts through the crisp recycled air. The next station is… Otahuhu.

I stare off into into the distance, the rolling landscapes, a welcome escape.