How did “Don Buck Honey” get its name? When I was making plans for retailing my honey, I wanted a name that was grounded in my local setting and locally produced honey. Living in the west Auckland suburb of Massey, I had thought of “Massey Honey,” but when you said that, it simply didn’t sound quite right.
Eventually I sprung upon the name “Don Buck,” which is the name of the main road through Massey which also lends its name to a local primary school and a range of local stores and a small park at the bottom end of Massey.
“Don Buck” is also the name of a memorable historical figure. In an earlier time of my life, I trained to be a high school teacher for the subjects of classics, social studies, and history. During the training we had to research on some aspect of local history, and while doing this I discovered that “Don Buck Road” (which was also the street address of my student flat) was named after a person.
Little is known of Don Buck’s early life, but he was known to be a Portuguese settler, living between c1869–1917. His real name was Francisco Rodrigues Figueira; his nickname was created by locals who found his name difficult to pronounce. He is remembered for his digger’s camp set up in the 1890s, when Kauri gum was a coveted resource to be found in swamps.
This camp was located around the southern end of the modern Don Buck Road. Many of its workers were men and women who had been charged with petty crimes in Auckland (now the Auckland CBD). These opted to work for Don Buck rather than face a short prison sentence. He was known as a firm but fair employer.
Eventually life at the camp got out of hand and was closed down by the authorities. Don Buck died shortly afterwards, but remained something of a local legend to West Aucklanders.
I liked the figure because he reflected the entrepreneurial, pioneering, and industrious approach to life that would be nice to see more of today, and it is great to connect him to my own side-business.
For the full story, I invite interested readers to read the entry on him by local historian Marianne Simpkins, found HERE, the entry in the blog “Timespanner” (HERE), as well as the poem Simpkin’s wrote, copied below.
The Ballard of Don Buck’s Hill
by Marianne Simpkins, local historian.
West and away from Auckland town,
A man rode out one day,
A Tall dark man, with eyes deep brown,
Who spoke in a foreign way.
For gumland he was seeking,
And on he rode until,
He came to a place that bears his name yet,
They call it Don Buck’s Hill.
When I asked the old gum digger,
He shook his frosty head,
“They weren’t the true gum diggers,
On Don Buck’s Hill” he said.
“Just wasters and ne’er-do-wells
Who cut up rough in town.
Were told to quit the boundaries,
Before the sun went down,
The man who couldn’t hold his drink,
And tried to start a fight
Remittance man, his cheque all spent,
And no bed for the night.
Well, Don Buck’s was the nearest place,
Such like could earn a crust,
Their bunk and gear and grubsteak free,
The rest would be on trust.
Don Buck was very seldom crossed,
For you can bet your life,
They knew that he was Spanish,
And lightning with a knife.
Emanuel Figuaro, I think that was his name,
Some say Randoff Francisco,
But now it’s all the same.
People went by nickname then,
More than they do today,
Jimmy-the-Devil was one of that mob,
Bushranger once they say.
There was one quiet bloke called Lonely Joe,
He lived in a whare apart,
The roses he grew were a sight to be seen,
But his face, it would break your heart.
Remittance man, by rights a Duke,
With a cat called Buntuk Jim,
Starved himself for that blessed cat,
Yet his folks wouldn’t do that for him
Don Buck was tough but he was fair,
And treated each man the same,
Never asking the whys and wherefores,
Or even a fellows name.
They lived in a fair sized bunkhouse,
With a ditch and wall around,
Where he weighed the gum they brought him,
And paid them by the pound.
Then shedfull by shedfull he stored it,
And sold when the price was right.
What he did with his money was anyone’s bet,
But the diggers they mostly got tight.
Now a decent place like Sinton’s camp,
Allowed no drink at all,
And this was wise, for on Don Buck’s hill,
One night they had a brawl,
They couldn’t remember next morning,
What had been done or said,
They only knew that one of the crew,
Driscoll by name, was dead.
It all came out in the papers,
But the Judge didn’t close the camp down,
The jail was too small to hold them all,
Far better they stay out of town.
And righteous folk and passers by,
Gave the place wide berth,
“That infamous place,” the Judge had said,
Was a blot on God’s own earth.
Yet a little man from Lebanon,
Planted grapes nearby.
“You can’t grow grapes on gumland, mate”
Said Don Buck’s boys, “why try?”
But Assid Corban smiled and said,
“I’ll grow grapes on this land.
They grow them back in Lebanon
On dust-dry-rock and sand.”
West and away from Auckland Town,
A man rode out they say,
But only a few of the ones who knew,
Can tell the tale today.
The others lie forgotten,
In graves unmarked, uncrossed,
Their diggers gear has rusted,
Their stories are ever lost,
Past vineyards named Mt. Lebanon,
Where grapes are growing still,
A signpost clearly point the way,
Beyond—to Don Buck’s Hill.
[This is sung by musician Chris Priestly on YouTube HERE]