Grand Mercure Auckland to Waihi private car — Khalid's holiday

August in Auckland can still hold a bit of a bite, especially when you're starting the day before the sun's properly committed to it. I parked the Mercure just as the sky was trying to decide between grey and a hopeful sort of blue, the kind that promises something better later but doesn't quite deliver first thing. My passenger, Khalid, was waiting near the entrance, looking more like he belonged in a warmer clime. He had that distinguished air about him, a neat leather jacket over a smart shirt, and a small, expensive-looking carry-on bag that suggested he wasn't planning on roughing it.

He was heading east, towards the Coromandel Peninsula, just a few days of exploring before heading back to his work in Saudi Arabia. A holiday, he’d said over the phone when booking. He’d been in Auckland for a business conference and decided to treat himself to some local scenery before his flight home. Waihi was his first planned stop, a place he'd apparently read about and thought sounded ‘tranquil’. That’s usually code for 'not too busy'.

We pulled out onto the motorway, the city slipping away behind us, replaced by the familiar patchwork of suburban sprawl and then the rolling green of the Waikato. I always find the stretch out of Auckland can be a bit sluggish, especially on a Wednesday morning in August, but we were lucky and the traffic flowed reasonably well. Khalid was quiet at first, gazing out the window, his expression unreadable. He’d brought a small notebook and pen, and would occasionally jot something down, or make a quick sketch. I wondered what he was capturing. The flat, industrial parks of South Auckland? The surprisingly dense forestry that lines parts of the southern motorway? Or perhaps he was sketching his impressions of the cars around us, so different from what he was used to.

Our first real stop was just outside Paeroa, a town known for its 'World's Famous in New Zealand' Lemon & Paeroa soft drink. It’s a quirky little town, and a good spot to stretch the legs before the gorge. I got him a flat white from a small bakery there. He took a slow sip, looking around with a faint smile. ‘Very… unique,’ he commented, gesturing with his takeaway cup towards the giant L&P bottle statue outside the shops. It was a small observation, but it felt like a door opening slightly. He was taking things in, processing them through his own cultural lens, and finding a sort of quiet amusement in it all.

Back on the road, the landscape started to change as we got closer to the Hauraki Plains. The terrain flattened out, and the air began to thicken with the scent of damp earth and pasture. Then, the Karangahake Gorge. I always love driving through this section. It’s dramatic, with the river carving its way through steep, bush-clad hills, and the old mining remnants lending a sense of history. It’s not a particularly fast road, twisty and shaded, but it’s beautiful. Khalid watched the scenery intently, his notebook now being used more actively to capture the play of light and shadow on the dense foliage. He pointed out a particularly striking rock formation, and I found myself slowing the car a little, giving him a better look. He looked up at me, a genuine smile this time. ‘It is like a story,’ he said, his English thoughtful. 'The rocks… the trees… they have seen many things.'

He told me a little more then, about his home country, not in a grand exposition, but in brief snippets of observation. He spoke of the vastness of the desert, the heat, the ancient history that seemed to rise from the sand. He mentioned how he appreciated the ‘greenness’ here, the abundance of water, the sheer variety of plant life. It struck me that for him, this landscape was as exotic as the Arabian desert might be to a New Zealander. He wasn't just a tourist; he was an explorer, collecting experiences and impressions that would form his own personal narrative of Aotearoa.

We rolled into Waihi in the early afternoon. It was a quiet town, sleepy even, precisely the kind of ‘tranquil’ he’d been looking for. The autumn air was crisp, and the sun, finally breaking through more consistently, cast long shadows. I dropped him at his accommodation, a charming little place overlooking the goldfields. He thanked me, a polite nod and a handshake that felt genuine. ‘Thank you, Harry. You have shown me a good path.’ As I drove away, I thought about his notebooks, his sketches, and the quiet way he absorbed the world around him. He’d come seeking scenery, but I suspected he’d found small pieces of a story, too, one that would travel back with him, across the sea, to the sands of Saudi Arabia.