QT Auckland to Turangi private car — Aino's trip

The rain was just starting to tickle on the window panes of the QT lobby when I pulled up. Looked like it might lash down properly, typical Auckland March weather – holding onto summer’s warmth but shedding its sunshine.

My passenger, Aino K, was waiting right near the entrance, a sturdy-looking backpack at her feet and a small, practical suitcase. She had that neat, almost severe good looks you sometimes see in Scandinavian travellers, an air of quiet capability about her. She’d booked from a private residence out east, a quick detour for me before heading south.

Made my way to the Southern Motorway, the city traffic already starting to thicken despite it being mid-morning. Aino was heading all the way down to Turangi. Not a common destination for people without a specific reason, like a fishing trip or visiting family. She’d mentioned something about ‘following a story’. Intriguing, but she wasn’t one for elaborate explanations, not right at the start anyway.

We cleared the city limits, the drizzle giving way to a lighter mist as we skirted the Bombay Hills. The Waikato spread out before us, green and rolling under the grey sky. We passed the Pokeno exit, the smells of bacon from the bacon factory momentarily wafting in, a familiar roadhouse scent. Aino didn't seem to notice, or at least, didn't react. She sat looking out the window, her focus seemingly internal.

Around Te Rapa, I stopped for fuel and a quick coffee. I got myself a flat white, and offered Aino something from the chiller. She politely declined, saying she’d brought her own thermos of water. Sensible, always prepared. She told me then a little more about her 'story'. She was a journalist back in Helsinki, and she was travelling New Zealand for a series on places that have seen significant changes or had a particular kind of resilience. Turangi, with its history tied to the Tongariro hydro-electric scheme and the subsequent decline and town revitalisation efforts, fit her brief perfectly.

She spoke about the vastness of Finland, the forests, the lakes, the long, dark winters and the almost blindingly bright summers. She compared it, in a way, to the landscapes unspooling outside our windows – the open country, the dramatic volcanic peaks that would soon start to appear as we headed south towards the Central Plateau.

As we climbed towards the Mamaku Ranges and then descended towards Rotorua, the rain intensified. It drummed a steady rhythm on the car, a soundtrack to the long drive. We bypassed the main Rotorua tourist drag, sticking to the southern bypass that took us directly towards Taupō. The landscape became more stark, more geothermal. Steam vents puffed lazily in the distance, a reminder of the powerful forces beneath the surface. Aino showed a flicker of interest then, pointing out a particularly active-looking plume with a quiet word about the energy that had shaped this land and its people.

The final stretch to Turangi was through rolling hills, dotted with sheep and the odd patch of native bush still holding its green even under the persistent rain. The Tongariro River became our companion for a good portion of the way, its grey waters churning. Turangi itself appeared under a heavy sky, a tidy town situated by the impressive Tongariro National Trout Centre.

I pulled up to the specified address, a modest house on the edge of town. Aino gathered her belongings, her compact suitcase and that reliable backpack. She thanked me with a firm handshake and a direct gaze. There was a sense of purpose about her departure, as if she’d arrived exactly where she needed to be, ready to start digging into her story. As I drove away, the rain easing to a fine mist, I thought about the quiet strength of people who undertake long journeys with a clear objective, following threads of narrative across the world.