Episode 9: A Hoon of Kakas
Goededag allemaal.
We begin this edition with our Word of the Week, which this week is Kaka. Like much of the indigenous bird population, Kakas are obstreperous bastards who are quite comfortable giving humans the proverbial finger. Their collective noun, then, is appropriate; a hoon of Kakas. Bikey Mikey - my Dutch/English host on Waiheke island, husband of Wacky Kathy - described a hoon as a load of hammered blokes leaving the pub. His analogy resonated with me, because of a raucous few days in Auckland which I will now narrate for your amusement.
I initially intended to crash the Nicholls family for a single night only, as a stop-gap between Christchurch and Waiheke Island. (For those who don't know, Waiheke Island is an almost-tropical islet, the largest of Auckland's archipelago. It is a haven for wine drinkers, sunset appreciators, beachgoers, tourists, and the elderly. I obtained a contact there through Amy's mum and thought I'd check it out, being within striking distance of Auckland airport). However, it takes barely an hour in the company of Nicholls Corp before I realise I am onto a good thing.
David is my age, which makes a nice change, and is ringleader of a large group of mates from Auckland Uni. Just sitting around drinking and talking with a group of lads is a privilege you don't realise you miss till you're deprived of it. Jeni is Katy's cousin and among the most chill mums/people you'll ever meet. Adam is the younger brother I always wished I had, with respect to my sisters. Sally is the blonde-haired blue-eyed gets-away-with-blue-murder youngest, wise beyond her years, providing cynical analysis of her brothers' shenanigans. Rob is the soft-spoken outdoor pursuit enthusiast, as much peer to his children as father. Their house is full of a rolling cast of teenage waifs; friends of their children, or indeed brothers of friends of daughters of far-flung cousins. I postpone my Waiheke port of call, get compensated embarrassingly generously for some work in their garden, and hit town with David and his chums.
A small manifesto in defense of the indefensible. There is something about a tactless, classless night out with the boys. Objectively, drinking an offensive quantity, holding loud, long, and derogatory conversations, and behaving like degenerates until daybreak is all pretty reprehensible. But there is nothing quite like the belly laugh that you laugh. No matter the weather, the night feels balmy and mild. I think that the collective resignation to the fact that all will not be well the next morning lends itself to the sensation of being IN the euphoric moment; it is in those moments that you experience that rare epiphany of being conscious of "the good old days" whilst they are in session, rather than in wistful retrospect. You are making core memories. Nights out, at least meaningful ones like this one, are a litany of mistakes, which as we agreed earlier, make us who we are. Riders on the Storm, right? A hoon of Kakas.
I stay another couple of nights, because I really enjoy their company and they don't seem to give a toss how long I spend sleeping on their sofa. There's an ulterior motive as well, because they're going fishing on Sunday, which means I can hitch a lift to Waiheke without having to pay for a ruinous ferry ticket. They own a dinky little launch, called the At Last. We pile aboard, crank up the rock tunes, and whizz off across the blue waves, downtown Auckland our backdrop. I am grinning like a Cheshire cat for the duration. Davo and Rob (colloquially known as Bob) cast their lines, and I learn the ropes. I succeed in catching a Snapper, which I'm dead proud of.
I am dropped off on the picturesque Oneroa beach, and I wander off into this idyllic island to find my new hosts. Mike I find in his bike shop - living up to his moniker - and Kathy I find holding a serious conflab with the chickens - living up to hers. I am caricaturing Kathy for sensationalism's sake, but in fact she's very sharp, with French, American, English and other nationalities under her belt and a prominent role in local politics.
Mike is a patent officer, with a plethora of stories and a keen interest in cycles, both motor and bi. He has his fingers in Austrian, Dutch, English and other national pies too. Their daughter, Lucy is around and about. They have a lovely house, with a spectacular west-facing balcony overlooking a smaller beach and verdant green landscapes. The sunsets, almost without fail, are breathtaking. We sit out on the balcony every night, drinking delicious wines and setting the world to rights.
Mike remarks that Waiheke is like the Truman show - the whole place is a live action movie set, suspended in time and with a constantly revolving cast. I get on the back of his BMW motorbike - my first time on such a vehicle, and I didn't half look the part in my leathers - and we go to some bloke's house who moved from England, lamented the lack of proper pubs, and decided to rectify that by opening one out of his living room. He brews his own beer and very delicious it is too. He attracts a hilarious crowd of 65-year-old blokes, all of whom could be colourful characters in a Wes Anderson movie.
We go to a Karaoke night in the only club on the island, and who should show up, but Princess Chelsea. You don't know her name, but you know who she is. You know that TikTok song that goes "it's just a cigarette and it cannot be that bad"? It’s called Cigarette Duet. Yep, that's her. I refuse to download TikTok, as does Chelsea herself. But it's made her song one of the most recognisable in the world to my generation. She's a wicked person as well.
Tomorrow, I'm going to start the long process of signing off my New Zealand chapter. I'm returning to Auckland, to start rolling the classics, the curtain calls. I'll be seeing Amy and hopefully Sean again for dinner. I’m dropping in to see Jim Bruty and pick up a shirt I left there. I'll be staying with the Nicholls again, just because they're that great. I'm completing the full circle by finishing up with David and Nicola back in Orewa. And it seems like a bit of a long shot, but shall I give Agnes a call? Why not. You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take, ay.
Tot ziens. Fxx
