Christmas shoppers join the maul at St Lukes mall this week. Photo / Dean Purcell
Christmas shoppers join the maul at St Lukes mall this week. Photo / Dean Purcell
From mall to shining mall, Steve Braunias takes an odyssey - and the train - through seven Auckland malls in one day, in search of the spirit of Christmas.
Auckland is at the mall, and I went looking for Auckland. I travelled to seven malls on Tuesday, on the train, trundling through the isthmus on a long day's journey into night. It was a spiritual journey. It was holy. The last place to find that kind of thing was at church; the mall is Auckland's temple at this time of year, the place we go to for a shared experience, to be with each other in our tens or even hundreds of thousands, to queue at the foodcourt and buy from Bed Bath And Beyond.
I expected good cheer. I took two notebooks to record the spirit of Christmas. The odyssey began at WestCity in Henderson. It's an excellent mall, spread over two levels - elevation makes a lot of difference, suggests an architecture of the epic. A long, wide skylight floods the top floor in natural light. It can feel like you're eating outdoors in the foodcourt. Tangi Tutini, 66, was enjoying such a picnic, a Burger King breakfast; she said she avoided the mall in the afternoons. "Too crowded. Christmas shoppers, so many in a bad mood! I see parents leave their kids to cry, they don't care. They just want to shop. Sometimes I want to punch their ears."
It was not yet 10am and the mall was only coming to life. One of the entrances crosses the inky, oozing Oratia Stream, where a seal sunbathed last week - 2015 has been such a plague of seals in cities, in places they don't belong. I went out to see if it had returned. There was a guy in an Oakland Raiders shirt smoking on the bridge. He said, "Got some change?" Henderson, with its broken lattices and couches dumped on verges, its district court and Pak n Save, on a grey, damp morning - Christmas weather in Auckland.
Wok Wok, Matsu Sushi and Shamiana were setting up. Shirley Smith, who turns 80 on December 29, was polishing off her McMuffin. She looked like a sweet old dear. She said, "I hate Christmas. Since my husband died, and the family moved away, it's not the same. We had four children. One died. My husband was 55; it was a brain haemorrhage. Dead before he hit the ground."
She ate in very dainty nibbles. She said, "It's been a shit year. Well, good and bad. On Saturday, I've got a funeral - my sister-in-law, from bowel cancer. She was 85, but still. I've had skin grafts, been in and out of hospital. Roll on 2016."
I said, "You mentioned there were good things, though. What were they?"
She thought for a minute, and said, "Nothing."
Things were going downhill, fast. I ordered my own McMuffin and fled to another table, then ran into Henderson criminal lawyer Dr Michael Field - the doctorate is in theology, from the nearby bible college in Lincoln Rd. I clung to his side as he walked through the mall. "Doctor," I said, "where is the spirit of Christmas? Is it here?" He said, "The true spirit is giving of yourself. It's not giving presents." But he'd just bought a present - a $19 mobile phone from The Warehouse. He said: "Life's an unfolding, isn't it?"
I mused on his curious insight, and wandered the mall. Muffin Break, Taro Cash, Super A$ve. WestCity is built for comfort; there are numerous chairs and couches for rest stops. "I love it here," said Trevor James, 63, a cheerful, very alert man relaxing around the corner from the foodcourt. "I have three favourite places to sit and rest. This one, the one in front of Countdown, and upstairs in the cinema lobby." I mentioned how I always noticed one particular guy on the mall's cleaning staff; his work ethic at the foodcourt was truly impressive. "Oh, yes, I know who you mean. I seen him last Thursday night having a meal at the Salvation Army." Trevor lived nearby: "I've been told I'm the star boarder."
After chatting to Carole Prosser, 40, who was buying her husband a Tapout wrestling shirt, and Bethnee Clark, "in my 60s", a palliative nurse who worked the 11pm to 7am shift, and had done her Christmas shopping in October ("I like to be organised"), I crossed the road to the railway station, where they always play soothing classical music over the PA, and caught the 11.42am to New Lynn. The train was a kind of mall, too. It was bright and clean, a vessel, an indoor space.
Christmas shopping at St Lukes mall a week out from Christmas day. Photo / Dean Purcell
Lynnmall, recently reopened after its $36m revamp, was long and flat and stretched out on one boring level. Inventively, the mall also colonised an outdoor space, where I found Des and Pete drinking a jug of Lion Red from Cleaver & Co. With his long beard and acts of kindness, Des was a half-cut Santa; Pete set his mouth in a sardonic, resentful scowl. Des fetched me a glass, and I raised a toast to Christmas.
"I can't stand Christmas," said Pete. "It's over-rated."
Des said, "Christmas Day's good! There'll be a strong possibility of alcohol."
We stood at a table in front of the carpark. It was full; traffic was piling up. "Always like this," said Pete. "Choc-a-bloc. Hopeless." He lit a Pall Mall. "Those lamp-posts? Used to have Christmas decorations. Not anymore. Cheap." I pointed out an abandoned steakhouse just beyond the carpark, and said I'd enjoyed a good meal there once. "I had a beer there once," said Des. Pete said: "Terrible food. No wonder it closed."
We drank in silence for a while, and then I came up with an original observation. "Phew!", I said. "It's heating up." Pete said, "It's gonna rain." Ian Dury sang from bar's sound system, "Hit me with your rhythm stick!" Des sang along: "Hit me slowly, hit me quick!" He went to the bar, and returned with another $25 jug.
Pete said, "Are you still going to put that pig on a spit on Christmas Day?" His relentless cynicism had left him. He asked the question with real longing, tenderly, hopefully. "Wild boar, isn't it?"
Des said, "Wild's right. Bastard ran off!"
JB HI-FI, Muffin Break, Number One Shoes. There were crop pants for 29.99 at Glassons, and copies of the best-seller The Scene of the Crime for $38 at Whitcoulls. I found Graeme Hudson, 61, a lean, handsome teacher from Nelson, at Robert Harris. He was in a philosophical mood. "Globalisation," he said. "That's the mall experience. Capitalism at work. Molecule by molecule, minute by minute. You don't have to worry about the environment here."
I said, "There is no environment in here. That's the point of a mall, isn't it?"
"We're all prisoners," he said, and brooded over his coffee.
Shaun Bennett, 49, was begging outside the mall. "I'm not allowed to ask," he said. "I have a sign. I do it for extra cash; I'm incapable of working. I have a temporal imbalance." I asked whether Christmas made people generous. He said, "Some days I'll make $30. Once I get that, I'm gone for the day. But the best day I ever had was two and a half years ago in Avondale. I made $150 in four hours."
Just then Sarah Sparks came over to say hello. I wrote about her long-running marital property wrangle a few weeks ago - Sparks and her ex-husband are disputing the sale of their properties in St Heliers, worth perhaps $17 million. "Sarah, this is Shaun," I said. "Shaun, Sarah." They shook hands.
It began to drizzle - cynical Pete was probably saying, "Rubbish weather" - and I left to catch the 12.54pm to Morningside. From there it was a 10-minute walk along Sainsbury Ave to the St Lukes mall. I resented having to take the stroll. The outside world wasn't as contained or ordered as a mall - it had an environment in it, the chaos of nature and mankind. There was a dull playground, hysterical dogs.
The outside world wasn't as contained or ordered as a mall - it had an environment in it, the chaos of nature and mankind.
Smiggle, Valley Girl, Muffin Break. St Lukes is the grand old dame of Auckland malls, gigantic with its two levels and pleasing downhill slopes, but there are too few rest areas and the foodcourt is a disgrace, the dining hall hemmed into a tight, crowded space downstairs without natural light. I filled my face with two delicious tacos for $8, but the noise and the smell were intolerable.
I moaned and bitched about it to Volita Bioletti, 28, who was at the foodcourt with her 8-month-old baby, Desdemona. She was very serene, and said she liked the mall just fine.
Her younger brother Gabriel joined the table. I was in the presence of rock cool - Volita, Gabriel and their brother Moss are the brilliant three-piece indie band Neo-Kalashnikovs. They were planning the release party that night for their new CD, Cream.
The mall was lively, packed. On the 10-minute walk back to the Morningside station, the streets were deserted, with old washing machines dumped in front of houses; the view on the 2.38pm to Newmarket was coils of barbed wire, and shabby clumps of flax. I hated the outside world, and longed to be inside the 277 mall. The train pulled in. On Broadway, a giant Santa gave a Nazi salute. 277 was Rodd & Gunn, Hugo Boss, Michael Hill. There wasn't much else; it was a boutique mall, up an escalator, kind of obscure, rich, white, slim-waisted. A beautiful domed skylight gave the mall a feeling of holiness and grace. It was like the Vatican with shops in it; I didn't want to disturb anyone, and sat in the foodcourt with views of two of Auckland's volcanoes, at peace, lulled by wealth. I was about to leave it all behind.
Christmas shopping at St Lukes mall a week out from Christmas day. Photo / Dean Purcell
Southmall in Manurewa was opened in 1967. It'd be nice if it was still around to mark its 50th anniversary. I took the 3.46pm on the southern line from Newmarket, through zones of shipping containers and wooden pallets, past power stations behind forests of fennel, past Middlemore Hospital (isn't a hospital a kind of mall, too?), past trackside plots of taro and sweet corn, arriving in Manurewa at 4.21pm. Southmall is below street level. It's a low building with a crazy floor, collapsed and sinking - it goes downhill, fast.
There was a cafe, a hairdresser, Countdown. Mainly, there were $2 shops: Nice Shoppe, J & J Clothing, Selena Boutique, Fulsun 1-2-3, Top Range. It felt like capitalism had come to Southmall to die. But there was also an Indian sweet shop, with a charming sign: "As pure as mother's love." And there were more things for kids to clamber on than at any other mall - a miniature carousel with pretty horses, a Sesame Street car with Bert and Ernie, Sammy the train with three carriages.
I talked with Tania Fataaiki, 45, a striking beauty dressed in black and gold. "I got this singlet with the sequins for $4," she said. The platform shoes? "$14.99 from Save Mart." She was saving up for a Christmas present for the kids: "I can only afford the one thing. A swimming pool." A swimming pool? "From the Warehouse. You blow it up. Actually they'd also like some water guns. Yeah. That'd be fun."
A blind woman tapped her cane across the mall. Michael Jackson sang over the PA, "I saw mummy kissin' Santa Claus!" A message on the noticeboard advertised a 2-year-old cow for sale. Lani Clarkson, 72, was eating a chicken gravy roll, and said, "None of my family think too much about Christmas. Who's got the money? We get the kids presents on their birthdays. I didn't even get a tree this year."
The grilles were coming down; management gave shops the option of staying open late for Christmas, but most were closing. I took the southern line two stops down to Puhinui, and waited for the 5.45pm on the eastern line to Manukau. A jet flew over the station, close enough to smell the petrol.
Manukau mall served as a reminder that capitalism was, in fact, alive and well - it was a happy place, packed and vibrant. Taro Cash, Smiggle, Muffin Break. Light came in through windows running high along the walls, and a magnificent stained glass creation by artist Shona McFarlane blazed with all the colours of the rainbow.
It had very comfortable couches, too, where I found Western Kingi, 45, sitting and smiling. "I come here just to observe," he said. "I'm apparently homeless. I'm camping in a hut." A hut? "I'm really comfortable in my independence. I've simplified my life. The gentleman who brought me up said always have a roof over your head, keep clean, and have food to eat." His hut was an empty power transformer. He'd put a bed in it, and a gas cooker, and found plywood for a roof. What did he do for food? "I don't window-wash, busk, or beg. Have you heard of dumpster diving? Yesterday I found boxes and boxes of high-quality coffee. They don't expire till next year."
He was articulate, eloquent, beautifully spoken. I asked if he read much, and he said, "Oh, yes. I'm a bibliophile." I excused myself; I wanted to withdraw $20 from an ATM and give it to him, but when I came back, he'd vanished.
I wandered around and picked at a lousy meal from Magic Wok. Everyone was really well dressed, and in terrific spirits, chatting, laughing, eating; it was like a carnival. After chatting with Faletao Leiataua, 38, a roadworker who was waiting for his wife Merini to buy a dress to wear at her graduation from teacher's college, and Leilani Williams, 21, a Jehovah's Witness ("Christmas is nothing special, sir. Jesus was born in May"), I walked back to the station in the fresh air of early evening, past rows of stately gum trees. There was one more stop to make. I was going to heaven.
Christmas shoppers join the maul at St Lukes mall this week. Photo / Dean Purcell
Sylvia Park is an immaculate conception, just about the perfect mall, the eastern star.
I caught the 7.29pm from Manukau in bright, low sunshine; cattle were warming themselves on the lower slopes of Hamlin Hill. I had sore feet. I'd walked for miles through a ubiquity of Muffin Breaks. Malls are a nightmare of consumer society - the classic horror film Dawn of the Dead is set in a mall, where zombies mindlessly roam the shops. Malls are the best we can offer, acres of retail all the same, a symbol of loneliness. Shirley Smith bitter at WestCity, Western Kingi on the outside looking in at Manukau...A remarkable feature story in the New York Times this year profiled a young, isolated American woman who was targeted online by Isis operatives: "Her life, which had mostly seemed like a blurred series of babysitting shifts and lonely weekends roaming the mall, was now filled with encouragement from her online friends."
But these were extremes. As the train took me from mall to shining mall, I knew I would eventually find the spirit of Christmas, and there it was at Sylvia Park - New Zealand's largest shopping centre, magnificent with its giant carousel of pretty horses, its countless elves upside down in the rafters, its classy rest stops - in the very content shape of Colin Grieve, 66. He said: "I love Christmas. It's awesome! I enjoy everything about it." He was shopping with his family; they were waiting for him at the foodcourt. He couldn't be happier.
Paper Plus, KiwiYo, North Beach, Bed Bath And Table, and its sequel, Bed Bath And Beyond. The sun had set; the last of the soft, dusky evening light fell over the mall, which was packed with shoppers, choosing gifts for others.
They were Dr Michael Field's prophecy: the true spirit of Christmas is giving of yourself. The whole place felt tremendously cheerful. I spotted Colin Grieve walking towards the foodcourt. He waved out to someone in his family, his arm held high, the fingers spread. And then I lost sight of him in the crowd.
