After dark, Māori wardens hit the streets to help anyone who needs it.

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A lone woman drags a battered red suitcase up the centre of a deserted Queen Street. 

It’s a Saturday night and central Auckland is empty. The usual crowds of tourists and noisy party-goers replaced by groups of rough-sleepers, huddled in doorways.

Covid-19 has kept people sheltering at home, but for the last 15 years, these streets have been Helena’s home.

Māori wardens estimate there are around 300 people sleeping rough in Auckland’s city centre.

Māori wardens estimate there are around 300 people sleeping rough in Auckland’s city centre.

She’s walking uphill to a mobile soup kitchen. Street lamps light the determined, unsmiling set of her face. The hood of her long, green raincoat is pulled tight to keep out the drizzle and cold wind, blowing off the harbour.

A white van pulls alongside Helena. “Hey babe, do you want a munch?” Deborah Parkyn, a Māori warden, shouts out the open window.

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Deborah Parkyn helps Helena, a long-time rough sleeper.

Deborah Parkyn helps Helena, a long-time rough sleeper.

Helena is handed cardboard packages filled with lasagne, fried bread, homemade pies, and ginger crunch. She pokes her head into the van to greet the four women inside.

“It’s good to see a police go to jail, instead of a Māori,” is all she says.

A day earlier, policeman Jamie Anthony Foster was sentenced to six years imprisonment for sexually assaulting a colleague. 

Point made, Helena retreats back into the shadows to eat her meal on the pavement. She’s well-known to the wardens from Nga Watene Māori o Akarana, led by manager Joanne Paikea. “She’s not been here the longest. I think that’s Ian. He’s the one with dreadlocks,” Paikea says.

Joanne Paikea leads a team of wardens who patrol the CBD at night.

Joanne Paikea leads a team of wardens who patrol the CBD at night.

Every weekend evening, wardens patrol the maze of city centre streets, looking out for the homeless and taking care of those under the influence of alcohol.

On Federal Street, just under the Sky Tower, Paikea spots an older woman sitting on a bench, a backpack next to her. She looks exhausted and defeated. 

Paikea tells the driver of the van to pull over. “The woman on the corner. She’s grumpy, cousin. See if she’s hungry.”

Deborah Parkyn, 58, jumps out of the van. She’s distinguishable as a warden in a neon yellow jacket and a navy  uniform, but this woman is already familiar with the women. “She knows who we are, she’s just our stubborn one.” Paikea explains as Turner hands over packages of food and some homemade muffins. 

“Is she still grumpy-bum?” she asks as Turner climbs back into the van. “Nah, she was kai pai, lovely.”

From the back of the van Paikea smiles broadly.

“Oh my goodness, well done.

“Obviously, we’re connecting with her and, in a way, she’s liking it. So, a big, big change.”

Paikea says the uniform they wear - and the warden’s demeanour - makes the difference between someone accepting or rejecting help.

“If a person sees a Māori Warden they are like: ‘yeah, the Māori Wardens are here’. If a person sees a police [officer], they are  like: ‘shit, run! We've got to go’.

Māori Wardens often work closely with police.

Māori Wardens often work closely with police.

“You have to talk to them like they are your relation. We just talk to them like normal. Like: ‘hey uncle, you alright?’

“Some of them won't hear you. Some of them are actually quite rude. But, I think most of us wardens have family members who are boisterous, who might be having issues. So, you’re used to it. We don’t feel unsafe.”

For Nga Watene Māori o Akarana, the night patrol starts in the early evening, handing out food parcels on a narrow street, close to Myers Park. They are expected, with the needy lining up even before the van pulls up.

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Just off Queen Street, the wardens hand out hot meals, soup and blankets.

Just off Queen Street, the wardens hand out hot meals, soup and blankets.

As well as hot meals, soup and drinks, the wardens hand out health care packs and blankets, collected and packed by volunteers.

Despite headlines claiming the Government had eliminated rough sleeping in New Zealand during the coronavirus lockdown, around 30 have come seeking help. That’s fewer than in “normal times,” Paikea says. 

She estimates there are around 300 homeless people in the city centre, but only 100 or so regularly “come to the surface.” They sleep out of sight, under bridges and in car parks, she says.

There are a few new faces. “Some of them are actually stuck here because Covid-19 happened and they weren’t allowed to move. Unless they’ve got family in Auckland, the street was the only place they knew.

In one night, we managed to take out 1500 healthcare packs. ... It's very much demanding.

Joanne Paikea

All the normal sounds and smells of Auckland at night are missing. No greasy, salty wafts from fast food joints. No stale beer odours, as noisy groups fall out of bars. The traffic - and fumes - have stopped and the streets have fallen quiet.

“You can see the relief on them,” Paikea says of those she helps.

“You can see the relief on them,” Paikea says of those she helps.

Because of that, groups linger around the make-shift soup kitchen, chatting and eating as they sit on a low, brick wall.

Dressed in plastic gloves and face-masks, the wardens cheerfully hand out parcels and check on people’s welfare. Their questions are casual and gentle.

“I suppose it's normal to us,” Paikea says. “It's like just saying come to the table and have a feed, but this time we are on the street.

You can see the relief on them … some of them are in tears. Some of them are just so happy to have something in their stomach, because [they] can't beg on the street anymore because there's no one here to get money off.

Joanne Paikea

It’s early May and the nights are turning colder. Paikea is approached by a woman, wheeling a shopping cart. “It was freezing last night,” she says. “I’ve one thin blanket. Is there any more blankets? I just need one.” 

Paikea finds her one in the back of the van and sends her off with some food. “No worries. Enjoy your dinner.”

Across the street, a man and woman are huddled in the doorway of a closed office block. The man, dressed only in shorts and a hoodie, is having an asthma attack. The wardens scramble to find him an inhaler, and calm both he and his female companion. 

Before leaving the couple, tucking into cartons of warmed food, Paikea promises to return later. “Will you guys be here so we could come back and check on you before we go home? Sounds bad, your attack, eh?”

After he suffers from an asthma attack, this couple tuck into a hot meal.

After he suffers from an asthma attack, this couple tuck into a hot meal.

During lockdown levels 3 and 4, the warden’s patrols are shorter. Between 9am and 2pm, they deliver food parcels to those who can’t get out to shop. At 6pm, they begin patrols handing out food on the streets. 

Also riding in the van are Vera Turner, 41, and Marina Diamond, 57. All four women share a close bond. “We learn to have a break and we do sleep at night,” Paikea says. “But, I think you have to have a passion to do our job.”

When the Karangahape Road bars are open, the wardens can often be out until dawn, making sure people aren’t too intoxicated or drinking in the street.

“We deal with the alcohol ban. We are often the last bastion before the police get involved. We tell them: ‘the cops are on the way, there are millions of cameras here. You have to tip the alcohol out, you have to leave.’

“You get lots of colourful people … and not a day goes by, it's the same.  It's awesome really. Even if they're grumpy, even if they’ve got attitude, we don’t care.

“We still approach them the same: bless you brother, or sister, have a good night. And hope you don’t end up in jail, kia ora.”

The food is made by volunteers and delivered by the wardens.

The food is made by volunteers and delivered by the wardens.

There are close to 1000 Māori wardens across the country.  Although the role was established to regulate unrestrained drinking, much of their work is unseen by the community. They provide security, traffic, first aid and crowd control and support young people, homeless and people in need.

Paikea, 44,  first volunteered in 2009. Raised in Whangarei, she lived and worked in Canterbury and Singapore as an early childhood teacher. 

“I used to be a spoiled child and then I realised there is people out there who need help. 

“I have had too much family inside jail and couldn't help, children getting ripped off their parents, couldn't help.

There is so much we get to do in the Māori warden movement. It’s all about aroha ki te tangata, which is ‘love for the people’.

Joanne Paikea

“It doesn’t matter who you are. Too many times our people get judged … it’s not our job to know their background.

The wardens have helped vulnerable people like Helena since the late 1800s.

The wardens have helped vulnerable people like Helena since the late 1800s.

“We just want to know if they are OK. It doesn’t matter who you are - that’s why I became a Māori warden.”

Patience and love are the most important skills for the job, she says. “The bad points is when you see people getting arrested. And when you know you could have been there to stop it. But sometimes you just can't be there for everybody. 

The other bad thing at night is going home. Because you get so drawn into your work, you just don't want to go home but you don't have a choice. It's best to go home and have a rest.

Joanne Paikea

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Words: Andrea Vance

Visuals: Iain McGregor

Design & layout: Aaron Wood

Editor: John Hartevelt

Executive Editor: Bernadette Courtney