Howick address to Rotorua private car — Kenji's conference trip

August mornings in Auckland have a bite to them, even deep into winter. The kind of chill that creeps into your bones if you’re not wearing enough layers. I pulled up to the Howick address, a modern place with clean lines, just as the sky began to lighten to a bruised purple. It was still dark enough that the streetlights cast long, shimmering trails across the damp asphalt. A man stepped out from the house, carrying a single, smart-looking suitcase. Kenji T. He was dressed in a dark suit, not the kind you’d wear for a casual conference, but something sharp and professional, the kind that says ‘important meeting’. He looked a little younger than I’d first guessed from his email, maybe late thirties, with quiet, observant eyes.

He settled into the back seat and immediately produced a small notebook and pen, looking out the window as we navigated the quiet suburban streets, heading towards the motorway. He didn’t seem like the chatty type, and that’s fine by me. I find those long, silent drives can be some of the most peaceful. Auckland’s southern corridor was relatively clear for 7 am on a Saturday, but the usual crawl through the Bombay Hills loomed. I knew he had a conference in Rotorua, starting mid-morning. He'd booked the longest possible sedan trip – a clear indicator of its importance to him, and possibly a sign not of leisure but necessity.

As we cleared the Pokeno bottleneck, the Waikato landscape opened up. Rolling green hills, still damp from overnight dew, stretched out on either side. The sun was starting to burn through the early cloud cover, painting the sky with streaks of pale orange and gold. Kenji had put his notebook away and was now looking out the window with a more relaxed expression. He pointed to a lone hawk circling high above a pasture. “Majestic,” he murmured, his English accented but clear. A single word, but it made him seem more approachable. I found myself slowing down a fraction, wanting to give him a better view of the sky.

We stopped at the BP in Tirau, famous for its corrugated iron sheep and dog. Kenji just wanted a black coffee, strong, and a brief walk around. He seemed to appreciate the quirky town, taking a quick photo on his phone of the giant corrugated dog statue. Back in the car, he shared a little more. He was presenting research on sustainable urban development, something he’s passionate about. He’d flown into Auckland the day before and had spent the evening reviewing his presentation slides. He mentioned that the techniques he was presenting were developed in Japan, but he felt Rotorua was the ideal place to share them, given the city’s ongoing plans for geothermal energy expansion. He spoke about his family back home, his wife and young daughter, and how he missed their bedtime stories.

As we drove through the flat, straight stretches after Tirau, the land began to change, becoming more volcanic, the air carrying a subtle scent of sulphur. The Rotorua signs appeared, and the energy in the car shifted. Kenji straightened his tie, his focus returning to the professional task ahead. He thanked me politely for the smooth ride and the quiet atmosphere, saying it had helped him prepare. I dropped him at the Rydges hotel, where the conference was being held. He gave a slight bow, a gesture of respect I always appreciate, wished me a good day, and disappeared into the lobby.

The drive back north was quiet and solitary. The sky was a vast, unbroken blue now, the kind of clear winter day that feels rare and precious. I thought about Kenji and his research, about the small, rural town in Japan he’d left behind, and the important work he was doing here. It’s a strange thing, the life of a private driver. You’re a silent witness to so many different journeys, brief encounters that ripple outwards into the wider world. I stopped in Cambridge for fuel and a Sausage Roll, reflecting on the journey. Just another Saturday, another long drive, another story carried back north on the quiet roads.