Penrose office to Rotorua private car — Lani's holiday

The late November sun was already strong by the time I pulled up to the Penrose office park. It’s a bit of a maze in there, all glass and concrete reflecting the light. My client, Lani T., was waiting just outside the main entrance. She had a bright floral dress on, the kind that speaks of sunshine and warm evenings, and a tan that told me she’d been soaking up the Auckland sun for a while already. She had a single, rather large suitcase and a smaller overnight bag, perfectly practical for a solo trip.

Her destination was Rotorua, a classic escape for many seeking a change of pace from the city hustle. She mentioned she was looking forward to the geothermal wonders and maybe a bit of local craft shopping. It sounded like a good, solid holiday. As we loaded her bags, I noticed she had a small, worn book of Samoan poetry tucked into her handbag. A little piece of home to carry with her.

The run south from Penrose is always a bit of a test, especially on a Saturday. The traffic can be slow and stop-start through Manukau and the Bombay Hills, but once we cleared the main urban sprawl, things started to open up. The landscape flattened out into the rich greens of the Waikato farmland, dotted with Friesian cows that seemed completely unfazed by the passing traffic. Lani wasn’t one for idle chatter. She preferred to watch the world go by, occasionally pointing out something that caught her eye – a particularly striking old villa, or a field brimming with sheep.

We made our usual stop at The Coffee Club in Tirau, the one with the corrugated iron sheep out front. It’s a handy spot, right off the highway, and usually has a decent selection of snacks and strong coffee. Lani got a flat white and a date scone. While she was inside, I topped up the tank. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of pasture and diesel. Back in the car, she opened up her book of poetry. She didn’t read it aloud, but I could see the concentration on her face, the way her lips sometimes moved silently as she followed the lines. It was a quiet kind of peace she seemed to be seeking, a counterpoint to the busy city she’d left behind.

As we neared Rotorua, the landscape began to change. The air took on a different character, a faint, sulphurous tang that signalled our arrival in the geothermal heartland. The trees seemed a deeper green, thriving in the mineral-rich soil. Lani pointed out the steam rising in the distance, visible even from the highway. She spoke softly about remembering visiting Rotorua as a child, an annual family trip that was always a highlight of her year back in Samoa. The stories were more fragmented than a direct recounting, impressions of bubbling mud, the distinct smell of the hot springs, and the vibrant colours of the Maori arts and crafts.

Her accommodation was a small motel just on the edge of town, close to the Whakarewarewa area. It had a nice, leafy outlook. I helped her with her bags, and as I placed the suitcase by the door, she thanked me, her smile warm and genuine. She didn’t have specific plans beyond wandering, soaking in the atmosphere, maybe visiting Te Puia. It was a holiday built for letting things unfold, not for rigid schedules, which suited her contemplative mood. As I drove away, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the road, I thought about that book of poetry and the quiet strength of her journey. Sometimes, the most profound journeys are the ones taken inwardly, even when you’re travelling geographically to a place of natural wonder.