Jet Park Hotel Auckland Airport to Tauranga private car — Budi's business trip

The smell of jet fuel, peculiar even inside the Jet Park Hotel at Auckland Airport, always takes me back. Not to flying, mind you, I’ve always preferred my wheels firmly on the tarmac. But it’s a scent that clings to people, to luggage, a promise of journeys begun and ended, often with a bit of weariness in the air. This particular Friday morning, it was mixed with the faint, sweet perfume of someone trying to erase the memory of a long flight.

Budi S. was waiting just inside the lobby, a compact man with sharp eyes that seemed to take everything in without being intrusive. He had a single, smart-looking overnight bag, the kind that suggests efficiency and purpose. He’d arrived from Indonesia only the day before, I gathered, and was heading straight to Tauranga for a series of meetings. His English was excellent, a soft, precise cadence, and we didn't waste much time getting him and his bag into the back of the Mercedes. The journey south from the airport was already ticking up its usual volume as we joined the motorway, a steady hum of vehicles heading out of the city.

We cleared the Bombay Hills, and the landscape began to open up. The Waikato spread out around us, green and rolling, still holding onto a touch of spring’s freshness in late November. Budi watched the scenery with a quiet intensity. He pointed out the dairy herds, remarking on the sheer scale of it all. He'd mentioned his work involved building materials, supply chains, the nuts and bolts of making things happen, so the vastness of New Zealand’s agricultural sector, a fundamental part of its economy, clearly resonated with him. He spoke about the contrasts between Jakarta’s relentless urban sprawl and the wide-open spaces we were traversing. It wasn’t a complaint, just an observation, delivered with that same calm precision.

Around the Karangahake Gorge, with its dramatic cliffs and the winding river, I asked if he needed a break. He said he’d be fine for a while longer, but then suggested a stop perhaps a little further on, once we were through the main cluster of towns. We found a quiet spot just past Katikati, looking out over orchards stretching towards the Kaimai Ranges. He bought a coffee from the small general store attached to the petrol station, a surprisingly good brew, and we sat for a few minutes on a weathered picnic table. He told me about the challenges of sourcing specific components for his company’s projects, the logistical puzzles that stretched across continents. It was a world away from the seemingly simple act of stopping for a cup of coffee on a New Zealand roadside.

As we continued towards Tauranga, the conversation drifted towards family. He spoke not of children, but of his parents, and how he hoped to bring them over for a visit to New Zealand once things settled down. He described their village not far from Surabaya, the heat, the community spirit, the particular smell of frying shallots that always meant home. It was a vivid picture, painted with few words, but full of affection. He was clearly a man who carried his roots with him, wherever his business took him.

We entered the outskirts of Tauranga as the afternoon sun began to slant. The traffic picked up again, familiar for a Friday, with a mix of holidaymakers and locals heading home. I navigated the streets towards the address he’d given me, a modern office building near the waterfront. He mentioned he had a late dinner meeting planned, which was why he’d wanted to get straight through. As I pulled up to the kerb, he thanked me, his handshake firm and brief. He gathered his bag, gave a slight nod, and walked towards the imposing glass doors, a figure of quiet purpose disappearing into the city’s rhythm. I watched him go for a moment, then turned the car around, heading back towards the grey hum of the motorway, the scent of jet fuel and Indonesian spices fading with the day.