Albany address to Tongariro National Park private car — Budi's conference trip

The frost on the windscreen was a delicate filigree of ice, the sort that tells you winter’s never truly gone on the edge of May in Auckland. It was barely light when I pulled up to the Albany address. A smart, modern house, the kind with tidy landscaping that suggests a lot of thought goes into appearances. My fare, Budi, emerged precisely on time, a compact man with a neat haircut and eyes that seemed to take everything in without being intrusive. He was heading south, all the way to Tongariro National Park for a conference.

He’d flown in from Jakarta a few days prior, he mentioned, and had been exploring the city, but the drive down the spine of the North Island was new territory. He’d booked me because he wanted to see the landscape unfolding, not just the inside of a bus or train. As we cleared the city, the early morning fog hugged the lower ground, thinning as we climbed towards the cones. The Southern Motorway was its usual Friday morning self; sleepy at first, then a slow build-up of traffic heading for the Bombay Hills. That stretch always makes me feel like I’m part of a great migration, a slow crawl towards whatever awaits us further south.

Budi was quiet for the first hour or so, content to watch the farmland and scattered towns blur past. He had a small, worn notebook on his lap, filled with what looked like sketches. I caught glimpses of intricate floral patterns and detailed architectural drawings. I didn’t pry, just let the kilometres tick by, the tyres humming on the tarmac. The hills began to roughen, the Waikato stretching out before us, rolling and green even under the overcast sky. We passed through Hamilton, a city I know well as a gateway to many places, and then turned towards Tirau, the corrugated iron town that always brings a smile.

It was near Tirau, amidst the quirky iron sheep and frogs, that Budi finally opened up a little more. He spoke about his work as a botanical artist, explaining how he was fascinated by the unique flora of New Zealand. He told me he’d been capturing seeds from plants he’d seen in botanical gardens and private collections around Auckland, and that the conference in Tongariro was about conservation technologies for rare species. He pointed out a particularly hardy-looking fern clinging to an old stone wall beside the road, and I could see the intensity in his eyes as he sketched it rapidly in his notebook, noting down its location and conditions. He mentioned how he preferred drawing from life, the real thing, to relying solely on photographs or digital references.

We stopped for lunch at a small café in Putāruru. While he waited for his order, he showed me a close-up drawing he’d done of a kowhai flower he’d seen earlier. The detail was extraordinary; you could almost feel the velvet texture of the petals. He explained that his family in Indonesia were farmers, and that he’d always felt a connection to the earth, but his artistic passion lay in documenting its intricate details. He wasn't just attending a conference; he was gathering inspiration, observing, collecting visual data for his art and his advocacy. His journey wasn't just a trip; it was a pilgrimage of sorts for his craft.

As we drove on, the landscape began to change again. The rolling hills gave way to more open plains, and the faint outline of the central plateau mountains started to appear on the horizon, shrouded in a soft grey. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Budi was watching the transition with keen interest, his notebook now resting on the console between us. He’d shared enough without me needing to ask too many questions, and I appreciated his quiet dignity. He was a man on a mission, driven by a deep artistic calling rooted in a love for the natural world.

By the time we reached the foothills of Tongariro National Park, the light was beginning to fade. The wind whipped up, and a few stray drops of rain speckled the windscreen. The immense presence of Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe, and Tongariro was palpable, even through the gathering dusk. Budi confirmed his accommodation details with me, a lodge not far from Whakapapa village. As I pulled up to the entrance, the last of the daylight was catching the snow-capped peaks. He thanked me, his eyes alight with anticipation for the days ahead. I watched him go, a solitary figure heading into the mountain air, a visual collector arriving at the heart of his subject matter. The quiet hum of the engine as I headed back north felt different, somehow imbued with the sense of purpose I'd witnessed. I knew he'd be sketching for days.