Greg Koroheke sits on a wooden porch with chipped brown paint.

He's dressed in a black leather vest. In his left hand is a rollie scavenged from leftover butts of Park Drive tobacco. In his right hand, he swigs from a bottle of Waikato Draught. It's 10am and it's his third beer of the day.

Greg watches busloads of men, women and children in their flash clothes pull up at the large weatherboard building across the road.

Right on schedule, he says.

He takes another swig of beer. His eyes follow them from the bus, up the crooked path with weeds seeping from the cracks and into the front of the building. The groups disappear for an hour, sometimes two. He wonders what they do in there.

He crosses the road and strays to the edge of the path, as he has done several times before. His heart starts thumping and he turns around before someone sees him. Walking through the door is scary, so Greg retreats to the comfort of the Mob pad. He takes an empty Waikato Draught from the crate and uses it to crack open another full one.