Busy times at Wellington Night Shelter

For some it's rock bottom, for others it's a stepping stone out of street living. Kelly Burns meets the regulars at the Wellington Night Shelter and finds it's not just a refuge for the "glue-sniffing meths-drinking bums". Students, low-wage workers, job-seekers, a budding poet and a Kenyan refugee are among the homeless overwhelming the shelter.

On a bitter winter's night, men stroll through the door and, one by one, pick up their soap and towel. Some are dishevelled, unshaven and barely utter a word, others are strikingly ordinary.

Clothes are handed over to be washed and dried. Their few worldly possessions are dumped in their cubicles for the night.

In the communal lounge, it's time for telly and a cuppa, maybe a biscuit donated from a local cafe, if they're lucky. They perch seats apart, mostly middle-aged and wearing their warmest clothes beanies, woolly socks, tattered jackets and torn trackpants. There's little chatter. No need or want to speak. They are lost souls finding shelter.

The room is clean, sterile, blankets are stacked in a corner and the men sit vacantly. They watch the sports news; tonight it's the Tour de France and the All Blacks. Others, mainly the younger guys, hover outside for a smoke.

The men must arrive at the dormitory of the Wellington Night Shelter in Taranaki St between 5pm and 9pm and be gone by 7.30am the next day. And they stick to the rules. It's not charity here: they pay to stay. It's more like a helping hand and they're mostly grateful.

The new guys have to tell the two night workers their names and show identification, but most are already well known.

Outside Bryce cuts a lonely figure. He sits on a park bench, alone, staying clear of the others. He's sad, sober and just plain average.

He won't say his surname as his parents don't know he's homeless. "I don't want them to see me like this."

At 44, he's worked in construction most of his life but when that dried up he headed to Marlborough for orchard work. Then an injury in which he "broke a whole lot of bones in my foot" put an end to that. "Everything just sort of fell apart.

"Now I'm caught in a bit of a rut. Being on the benefit it was a case of where can I live and coming up with bond. It was only going to be for a couple of days. But it went on ..."

His goal is to get back to work, but "unemployment is rising, it's all part of the recession. It's hard to get a job".

Living at the shelter is not ideal. "There's always going to be conflict, 25 people in an area like that. There's always going to be personality clashes. That does get hard.

"It's not great but I'm lucky, there are other guys living on the streets. I see that day in and day out.

"The hardest part is being out. What do you do from 7.30am to 5.30pm? You just roam around the streets."

Bryce is one of the many men turning to the shelter. July was the busiest month in its 40-year history with 797 bed nights, a massive jump from 365 at the same time last year.

Men pay $7 a night for one of the 27 beds in the dormitory which has housed as many as 32 men and $105 a week for the upstairs hostel with 21 single bedrooms. In May it ran out of beds and had to buy seven from Salvation Army stores.

The maximum it can take before turning people away is 55 men and, on two nights in June, it peaked at 53 with some sleeping on mattresses.

The shelter is struggling to cope. Manager Mike Leon says the biggest driver of demand is the lack of low-cost quality accommodation. The cold weather, tight times and lack of jobs has also added to the housing woes.

"We are seeing a real surge ... yes, the recession and redundancies, especially of low-income workers, are adding to our demand."

But the men come from all walks of life the oldest is 87, the youngest just 17. Most stay a few nights or weeks, some for months. One has been living at the shelter for almost two years, but looks set to be moved soon.

"Most of the public generally assumes the homeless are a homogenous group, ie the glue-sniffing, meths-drinking bums, and that's not the case," Mr Leon says. "We have three types of `clients' here somebody's father, somebody's brother or somebody's son."

While some are locked in cycles of heavy addictions, others are studying or struggling in low-wage jobs.

* * *

That is borne out by Muigai Kimani, or Kim. The 35-year-old is a refugee who fled Kenya during the election riots last year, leaving behind family and a fiancee who is now in Dubai. He has an education degree and worked in aid development in his homeland. Now the articulate, driven and gentle giant works part-time for a minimum wage at a restaurant and lives in the hostel.

"The people at the shelter have been great while I organise myself, get a job and get my feet on the ground," he says. "For me the night shelter is a halfway home. I have a home here, but my soul is back in Africa, back in Kenya."

Others tell stories of hard lives and tough times, but aren't after pity. Most accept their fate, own their mistakes and are grateful to have somewhere to stay.

Broc, 18, says the shelter is not for ever. He's sitting outside talking smack with mates and doing a homemade tattoo. The word "Hustler" is inked on his arm; he just needs to find a needle to stab it in, he says.

After hitch-hiking to Wellington from Otara last year, he slept in the Brooklyn public toilets before coming to stay at the shelter, when he turned 18.

"I'd just get drunk and sleep, that's when I would sleep. That's the only way I could sleep. This place is better than living on the streets. You can cook your food, have a cup of tea or a Milo."

He's on the street from 7.30 each morning and goes to "Courtenay, to chill out". "Life's boring. This place is somewhere to sleep, not a place to live."

Once he was a painter and hopes to work again and get himself "my own house, my own woman".

The surge in homelessness in Wellington is a symptom of a national problem. But the capital's street people have always been especially visible - Ben Hana, or Blanket Man, even has his own Wikipedia page.

But the recession and difficult economic climate are also reflected in an increasing demand for other social services. Wellington's soup kitchen has seen a dramatic rise, serving 2065 meals in June.

One night it had 107 people for dinner, its highest number yet. And in the same month last year it served 1465 meals.

The Salvation Army says each week the recession forces 40 new households to ask for help at their foodbanks.

"The line at the foodbank door is getting longer each week," social services director Major Campbell Roberts says.

In the three months to June, there has been an almost 40 per cent increase, with 1243 food parcels given out nationally. And more people are living rough.

* * *

New Zealand Coalition to End Homelessness chairwoman Clare Aspinall says the night shelter is just the tip of the iceberg. "At this time of the year it's pretty hard for these guys to be in the elements. They're lucky they can come and have a bed at night, but it's still a very long day. It's a pretty hard lifestyle to live."

The less time spent being homeless, the quicker people can rebuild their lives. But the tough economic climate has made affordable accommodation hard to find, especially for these men.

"When you look at the people who live in the night shelter, a disproportionate number have been in institutional care, hospital [mental health], prison or Child, Youth and Family."

Maori are also over-represented and young people are doubly disadvantaged as they have difficulty getting housing and are usually on lower wages, she says.

Downtown Community Ministry director Stephanie McIntyre says in its latest newsletter that, during a recession, the smart response is to invest in social housing, creating jobs and homes.

"Sadly, in our work addressing homelessness, we've found the lack of housing options has been a major factor in our ability to accommodate people."

In the Wellington region there are just under 8800 Housing NZ homes and 357 high-priority applicants on a waiting list. There are also 2300 council units with 184 waiting for homes. Advocates say investment in low-cost housing is a must.

But back at the shelter they are also increasingly taking a new approach, focusing on helping the men into employment. By giving them work opportunities, they hope the men will eventually be able to enter the private rental market.

Its operating costs are about $200,000 a year. About 60 per cent comes from the rent it collects, another 20 per cent from a council grant and the remainder from trust grants and fundraising.

In 2007, the shelter was reopened after a $1.2 million revamp, paid for mostly from fundraising and a $250,000 interest-free Housing NZ mortgage.

Mr Leon is the only full-time worker and it has seven part-timers, who are all paid. It's a tough but rewarding job, he says. "It's a bit disheartening that these young people are coming here. You often wonder where is their family."

Almost a quarter of the men staying at the shelter are under 20. "I always see hope and potential in everyone who comes through the doors. We may not be able to help them all, but sometimes we can. We hope we can help them get back on their feet."

This year 24 men have gone from the dormitory into the hostel and are now back out into private accommodation. "The key point is we are always trying to help to move people on towards independence rather than just providing an ongoing service for the 'down and outs'."

NIGHT SHELTER

* Dormitory: 27 beds. $7 a night for a bed for the night, shower facilities, clothes washed, cup of tea and occasionally food is donated.

* Hostel: 21 single rooms. $105 a week for shared facilities. The men can come and go from their rooms with their own swipe cards. The hostel is transitional, with social workers helping the homeless address their problems, rebuild life skills and prepare for the private housing market.

BED NIGHTS

	2007	2008	2009
Jan	184	249	298
Feb	159	181	511
Mar	280	282	451
Apr	209	343	472
May	250	251	689
Jun	345	241	794
Jul	409	365	797

BLEAK BEGINNINGS GAVE RISE TO POETRY

Alex Cowley used to think prison was better than life on the outside.

Life was bleak. He slept under bridges, sought solitude and had only a handful of possessions for his 20 years. But now he has a bed, a bedroom even. And his poetry.

Alex arrived at the Wellington Night Shelter on his first day out of prison. He had nowhere to go. The nice lady at the Salvation Army dropped him off. Before then, he'd been on the streets.

As an eight-year-old he was placed in Child, Youth and Family care and moved through six foster families, with stints with his mother and father's new families.

One day last year he had had enough of life in South Auckland. He says he ditched his two jobs and jumped on a bus bound for Wellington.

He slept under a bridge in Petone for a few months. "Till I started stealing for money. Then I went to prison. I stole a couple of bikes, tools.

"I wanted to sell them, because I was hungry. And I smashed up a TV."

He was jailed in December and spent 2 1/2 months inside. But he liked it. There he traded carvings he made out of soap from flowers to fists and even Jesus Christ on a cross for cigarettes. "It actually felt like home. I wanted to stay in. The isolation felt normal."

Then it was time to leave. "The Salvation Army lady come over and said, `Where do you stay?' I said nowhere." His first weeks at the shelter were spent in the dormitory.But now he has a bedroom upstairs in the hostel. It's progress.

He joined Dyslexia New Zealand and is doing a course to learn how to read and write.

They tapped into his talent for poetry a gift that's creating waves after he won a national award and had the poems published. "I'm not good at talking or anything, but I'm good at talking through my hands," he said.

He's right. He's softly spoken, but is refreshingly earnest. When asked about his plans, he replies: "My probation officer asked me the same thing, but I said I don't know. She wants me to go to university and study. Maybe."

- KELLY BURNS/Dominion Post