Mt Eden Airbnb to Waitangi private car — Anjali's special occasion

The late January air was already thick and humid as I pulled up to the neat little villa in Mt Eden. The place was buzzing with activity, a mix of colourful saris and the murmur of unfamiliar languages, all adding to that festive, slightly chaotic energy you get before a big event. Anjali R was going to be my passenger for the day, heading north to Waitangi.

She emerged from the house with a small suitcase and a bright smile, looking a touch younger than her late twenties, maybe. She was attending a cousin’s wedding up there, a family reunion of sorts. Her parents had flown in from Bangalore, and she’d been staying with them in Auckland for a few days before they all headed north. She settled into the back, the fragrance of jasmine and something sweet, like cardamom, clinging to her. The wedding was today, and she was cutting it a bit fine, but apparently, that was part of the plan – a grand entrance, perhaps.

We bypassed the city centre traffic through Sandringham and headed onto the Northern Motorway. The familiar ribbon of grey asphalt unfurled before us, bordered by the varied landscape of the North, from open farmland to stretches of bush, as we got further from the city. The temperature climbed, a typical Auckland summer day promising warmth all the way up the coast. It was Australia Day down south, a public holiday for them, but just a regular Monday for us, which meant the roads were busy enough without being gridlocked.

Anjali was quiet for the first hour, scrolling through her phone, presumably sending last-minute messages or checking timings. I got a sense she was a bit nervous, not about the drive, but about something more personal. You pick up on these things after a while – a certain stillness, a way of holding oneself. She mentioned she’d been working in Wellington for the last few years as a software engineer, but even that felt like a preamble to something else. I just drove, letting the miles melt away, the Auckland sprawl giving way to more open country, the occasional dairy farm dotting the landscape.

We stopped at a small roadside café just north of Whangārei for a coffee and a quick stretch. The air was heavy, still, and the cicadas buzzed incessantly. Anjali’s WhatsApp must have been busy, as she was a little preoccupied. She told me then, leaning against the car, that the wedding wasn't just about her cousin. It was complicated. There was someone she hadn't seen in years, someone from her past, who would be there. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, the festive excitement of the morning replaced by a tremor of apprehension. It was clear this wasn't just about a wedding; it was about navigating personal history on a day dedicated to new beginnings for others.

I could see the reflection of the bright sky in her eyes as she looked out towards the distant hills. She asked if I’d ever been to Waitangi. I told her I’d dropped people off there many times, driven past the Treaty Grounds, but never really stopped to take it all in. She nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. She said she hoped she’d get a chance to see the Treaty House itself after the ceremonies, to feel the weight of the history there.

The final stretch felt different. We passed the turn-off for the Bay of Islands Airport and then onto the historic road leading towards the Treaty Grounds. The sign for Waitangi loomed, and I knew we were close. She gathered her small bag, her earlier nervousness now mixed with a quiet resolve. As I pulled up to the entrance of the reception venue, a wave of music and laughter spilled out.

"Thank you, Harry," she said, her voice much clearer now, more self-possessed. "It was a peaceful drive."

I watched her walk towards the brightly decorated entrance, a splash of vibrant colour against the afternoon light, a story unfolding within the larger narrative of family and celebration. She had travelled north not just for a wedding, but for a moment of reckoning, a chance to perhaps close a chapter. I put the car in gear and headed towards my overnight accommodation, the cicadas still singing their summer song, the weight of her unspoken story settling gently in the quiet of the car as I drove a short distance alone.