His heated satire reminded me of something I’d read in the mosque’s newsletter. Among various warnings against lust, temptation and shopping malls, it instructed readers: ‘We have been commanded to oppose the ways of the Jews and the Christians.’ Whose side were they on?
Muhammad introduced a vast bearded Māori. ‘I trust this person more than anyone I know.’ The trustworthy Māori said his name was Mohammed Aissa Hussein. He had converted to Islam in 1995. ‘My pastor discovered that Jesus wasn’t a god, he was a prophet,’ he said. ‘We had a fair idea the bible was more like a puzzle. He said for me to go to Australia to look for answers.
‘I went to Sydney. I took a notebook and a bible everywhere. I met someone. It was revealed that he was a Muslim. He says, “Sit down.” He showed me a couple of videos made by an Islamic scholar. One was Is Jesus God? The other was called Is the Bible God’s Word? I went quiet for two weeks because of what I discovered.’ What had he discovered? ‘I knew who God really was.’
But who was Mohammed Aissa Hussein? He was 53, born in Whakatane. He said he came from a family of thirty. ‘I was a very sickly person. I had a motor accident back home on the farm in 1969. People said I was a bit nutty. I was a mental outpatient. I was easily led; I didn’t know what I was doing. Prison, gangs…’
His arms were heavily tattooed. The graffiti on his flesh included two swastikas. He was devout, softly spoken; he talked about ‘how the Earth moves, what moves it’; he began to chant. He was in ecstasy. He could have it. The bright winter sun cast long shadows of bare trees. The traffic on Stoddard Road roared east, roared west. They were going to a better place.
Real estate listings for Stoddard Road and its avenues routinely advertise houses as CLOSE TO MOSQUE. The block of shops at the corner of Richardson Road includes the Khoobsurat Hair and Beauty Salon, which offers eyebrow threading, and Mohammed’s Halal Meats (‘The name you can trust!’), which offers tripe, beef soup bones, lamb testes, and $8.99 roosters. A poster on a shop selling Indian saris says: REMEMBERING EK YAAD RAFI KE BAAD. A TRIBUTE TO THE LEGEND AT AVONDALE COLLEGE.
Old Mt Roskill – the white, working-class suburb that gave the world Russell Crowe and Graeme Hart, New Zealand’s richest man – maintains a presence at the corner of Sandringham Road in the shape of Giles Carpets. Established in 1981 around the corner in White Swan Road, it moved to its Stoddard Road showroom nine years ago. Entering it was like entering a family home. The three middle-aged Giles brothers, Kevin, Alan and Philip, were horsing around with each other and ducking into the staff kitchen for a hot lunch. A wall was covered with newspaper coverage of Sir Edmund Hillary’s funeral.
They talked about carpets for a little while – the in-demand Feltex Classic range, the élite Axminsters – but they preferred to talk about sport. They had set up a bar, plasma TV and a competition pool table at their nearby warehouse. They played most nights after work, competed in tournaments. ‘We’re all serious about pool,’ said Alan. ‘I played the best in New Zealand recently.’ He meant he had played national champion Glen Coutts. How’d he get on? ‘He kicked my arse.’
Alan had his arm in a sling. ‘Sunday before last I made a tackle and ripped the muscle right off the bone. I just walked off the field but I knew I’d done some damage. I’ve been around league since I was five. I’ve dislocated both shoulders, my elbow, broken my cheekbone, my hand.’
In his prime he played loose forward for Ponsonby. ‘Pocket money really. There was a $1500 sign-on fee and you’d get between 40 and 80 dollars for a win.’ Since turning 35 he had played masters, or seniors. ‘And once you hit 50, you wear red shorts. That means you’re not allowed to dump them – you just hold on to them. But they can run fast, some of those old buggers. Especially the Island boys. One in particular, Joe, he’s a big solid boy. Perfect build. Six foot two. Lean and mean. Not an ounce of fat and runs like the wind.’
He dwelt again on his injury. ‘I hit the tackle low with my left shoulder; I don’t know why it was my right shoulder got hurt. I got put on morphine, had an operation. They drilled two holes through the bone to reattach the tendon, and stitched the muscles back.’ And then he said, ‘I’ve played my last game. Ever.’ He shrugged with his one good shoulder. The words echoed through the showroom, crept over the carpet samples in colours of Aquatess, Cheshire, Hemisphere, Cayenne and Montoza. It was the end of an era.
Allah was bigger than Jesus on Stoddard Road but a cross remained visible on the low skyline. The mosque and a desolate Assembly of God behind a high fence – the two of them were like contestants in a show called God Idol. They cast their eyes to heaven. At street level, a homeless man sat in a parked car opposite the mosque, packets of food and a sleeping bag at his feet. He sprawled on the front seat in a pair of underpants. He squawked, ‘Get away from my car!’
Stoddard Creek was in an even worse state. Black, sticky, odious, it looked as though it spent its days being mugged. It was the kind of sick, polluted Auckland waterway found throughout this city of harbours, bays and rivers, this city of water pouring in on the tide. One of my favourite passages about Auckland is by the historian and poet Keith Sinclair in
