Auckland Airbnb to Tutukaka private car — Budi's holiday

The Airbnb near Parnell had a view that stretched all the way to Rangitoto, and even though it was mid-morning, the harbour was still a bit misty with a few yachts dotting the grey-blue.

Myself and the van were parked out front, ready to go. My passenger, Budi, came down the driveway looking a little concerned, gripping a small, well-worn backpack. He was much shorter than I’d expected from the booking photo, and his eyes scanned the van and then me, a touch of nervousness there.

He was heading north, all the way to Tutukaka. A holiday, he’d mentioned in the booking. Usually, people point me towards Rotorua or Taupō, or sometimes the Coromandel, but the coast north of Whangārei was a bit off my usual beaten track for day trips. It lent the journey a fresh feel, though.

We nudged into the Queen Street traffic, the usual mid-morning crawl. Budi sat quietly, watching the city buildings blur past. He pointed out a few architectural details now and then, soft murmurs about old stonework and glass towers. He had a gentle way of speaking, a quiet curiosity that I found myself matching. He mentioned he was quite new to New Zealand, that this was his first big trip outside Auckland. He’d previously worked in Singapore for a few years, but Indonesia was home – Jakarta, specifically. He’d chosen Tutukaka because he’d seen a photograph of the Poor Knights Islands and felt an immediate pull to see them himself.

Once we cleared the city, the landscape opened up. The motorway hummed under the tires, a steady rhythm that always sets a good tone for a long drive. We passed through Warkworth and then Wellsford, the road climbing and dipping through green hills dotted with sheep. The air outside started to feel cleaner, saltier. Budi occasionally rolled down his window, just a crack, to breathe it in. He’d tell me about the smells of Jakarta – petrol fumes, spices from roadside stalls, the damp earth after a rain. This was a different kind of clean.

Around lunchtime, I suggested we stop. He agreed readily. I knew a good spot just off SH1, a little café run by a family who made legendary pies. We sat at a Formica table, the van parked outside in the dusty lot. Budi ordered a steak and cheese pie, eyeing it with anticipation. He said he’d tried meat pies before, on a brief visit to Sydney, but hadn’t found one quite like his memory of the ones from a bakery back home – a bit sweeter, perhaps, with a different blend of spices. This one, he declared after the first bite, was excellent, a very good New Zealand pie.

Back on the road, the landscape changed again. The hills became steeper, more rugged, and the sea started to appear in glimpses between the trees. We turned off SH1 and headed towards the coast. The road narrowed, became curvier, winding through dense native bush before spilling out onto dramatic clifftops overlooking the Pacific. Budi was quiet for long stretches now, just looking. The usual chatter of a holiday trip wasn't really there. It felt more like he was absorbing the place, letting it sink in.

He told me he was a photographer, or at least, he used to be. He’d put his cameras away a few years back after a difficult period. This trip, he’d said, was partly about finding his way back to it. He’d brought a small, old film camera with him. He hadn’t taken a single picture yet, though. He said he was waiting for the right moment, the right light, the right feeling. He wasn't sure Tutukaka quite had it yet, but he had hope.

The sky had turned a soft grey by the time we reached Tutukaka. It was a small place, a harbour with a few boats bobbing and a scattering of houses. The air was cool and carried the distinct scent of brine and seaweed. I pulled up outside his accommodation, a clean, modern bach overlooking the marina.

He thanked me, his voice still soft. “Thank you, Harry. It was a good journey. Very peaceful.” He offered a small, genuine smile. I watched him walk up the path and into the bach, his little backpack looking even more worn against the vastness of the sea that stretched out before him. I thought about his unclicked camera, that quiet anticipation. Sometimes, the journey itself is the picture, and the waiting is part of the composition.

I turned the van around, the Pacific stretching out to my left, heading back south towards the fading light. The road home was empty, and the silence felt different now, filled with the quiet thoughts of the day's quiet passenger.