Isaac_Hickman

Isaac Hickman: Mapping the Heart of Mangere Kia ora. I'm Isaac Hickman. Born and raised in Mangere, right here in the heart of Auckland, and yeah, I still call it home. These days, I write about this place—its streets, its people, its soul—for the CamoWallet project over at camowallet.app. But the path here? It's been anything but a straight line. It's a story of people, relationships, and the science of connection. My story. June 26th, 1975. I came into the world at Middlemore Hospital. You can practically see the runway from the maternity ward—planes from what was then just Mangere Airport, now Auckland International, flying low overhead. My first sound wasn't just a cry; it was probably mixed with the rumble of a 747 gearing up for the long haul to somewhere else. Funny to think about now. We lived just off Massey Road, in a state house that was always full—full of cousins, full of noise, full of that particular Pacific Island and Maori warmth that defines this part of Auckland. The air always smelled like salt from the Manukau Harbour and, depending on the wind, the unmistakable aroma of the George Court & Sons bacon factory. You never forget that smell. It's the smell of home. Growing up in Mangere in the 80s and 90s was, well, it was an education. A real one. My mates and I, we'd spend weekends down at Otuataua Stonefields, pretending we were ancient warriors, not realising we were literally walking on centuries of history. School was Mangere College, and that's where I started paying attention. Not just to books, but to people. The way they paired up, the dramas, the unspoken rules of attraction that seemed to govern the entire playground. I remember this girl, Sione's cousin from down Bader Drive. She told me, Isaac, you watch people like my uncle watches the rugby league. You're studying them. Maybe she was right. After school, I did a stint at the Mangere Community Law Office, helping with… well, let's just say I saw what happens when relationships go bad. Really bad. It was a front-row seat to the collision of love, money, and pure, unadulterated mess. It lit a fire in me. I ended up studying psychology and human sexuality through Massey University—distance learning, while working part-time at the Ōtara Pool and Leisure Centre. Talk about a contrast. Teaching kids to swim by day, studying the complexities of human desire by night. That was my life. Honestly, my career was a series of deep dives. I spent years as a sexology researcher and educator. I worked with couples, ran workshops out of a tiny office on Queen Street, even consulted on dating apps back when they were just starting to explode. I saw it all. The loneliness, the euphoria, the brutal pragmatism of how money weaves its way into our most intimate moments. I've sat across from a wealthy businessman crying because he couldn't buy connection, and a young couple from Ōtāhuhu figuring out how to budget for their future together. It taught me that vulnerability isn't a weakness; it's the whole damn game. That work, all those thousands of conversations, they gave me a lens. A way of seeing the hidden architecture in how we relate. But after a while, I needed to apply that lens to something closer to my heart. So, I came back to the streets I grew up on. Now, I write. For the CamoWallet project, I'm creating a different kind of map of Mangere. Not the streets and landmarks you'll find on Google Maps, but the emotional geography. I write about the park bench on the corner of Orly Avenue where generations of kids have had their first kiss. I write about the pressure of a big family wedding at the Due Drop Events Centre and what it means for a young couple's finances. I'm documenting the soul of this place. I like to think I'm competent. People trust me. Maybe it's because I've seen enough of life not to be shocked anymore. Or maybe it's because I'm from here. I know that when I talk about the struggles of intimacy in a city where the cost of living is through the roof, I'm not just quoting statistics. I'm talking about my neighbours. I'm talking about the guy I buy my morning bread from at the Māngere Bridge Bakery. When I explain the complex dance of dating in the digital age, I'm drawing on years of watching smart, good people from this community navigate it. I've made my own mistakes, plenty of them. Fell hard, got up, learned. That's the thing about being a so-called expert in human behaviour—you're never above the lesson. It just means you have a better vocabulary for describing the fall. Living in Mangere is a constant, grounding reminder of why I do this. My day starts with a walk along the Kiwi Esplanade, looking out over the Manukau Harbour. The tide is always either coming in or going out—nothing stays the same. You see the planes taking off from the airport, carrying people to their own stories, their own connections. And you come back down to earth, to the streets, to the Saturday morning chaos of the Mangere Market selling everything from taro to toolboxes. This place is a tapestry. It's the sound of church choirs on a Sunday, the sizzle of a hangi, the quiet dignity of a family just trying to get by. It's a thousand overlapping communities, and somehow, the common thread is this raw, unvarnished humanity. For me, Mangere isn't just where I live. It's the reference point for everything I know about people. It's the data set. It's the heart.