Sudima Auckland Airport to Opotiki private car — Marco's family visit

The smell of jet fuel and that faintly metallic tang that always hangs around airport hotels. Sudima is usually a good spot, feels a bit more polished than some of the others. This time, though, my priority was just getting Marco and his rather large, rectangular suitcase out of the building and onto the road.

September. Still that crispness in the air, not quite summer but the days were definitely starting to lengthen again. Marco stood by the kerb, looking a bit out of sorts, his dark hair a bit ruffled. He’d travelled a long way, that was clear. He’d told me on the phone earlier that he was headed east, to Opotiki, for a family visit. Italy, he’d said. That explained the suitcase size. They pack for a different kind of permanence, the Italians.

We cleared the airport precincts and I pointed him towards the Southern Motorway, easing into the Thursday morning traffic. The route east out of Auckland can be a bit of a gamble, but it was moving reasonably well. He watched the city recede in his rear-view mirror, the Sky Tower a familiar, distant landmark from this angle. He had a quiet intensity about him, not unfriendly, just… contained. I asked him if he’d been to New Zealand before, and he shook his head. This was his first time, and he was excited to finally see everyone. Apparently, his aunt had moved out here some years back and he hadn't seen her since.

The conversation drifted, as it does on these longer drives. He spoke a little about his home in the south of Italy, the kind of pace of life that felt a world away from the urban sprawl we were leaving behind. He’d worked in a small engineering firm, designing specialised equipment. Precise work, demanding attention to detail. I could see that in the way he held himself, the careful way he observed things. He pointed out a flock of fantails flitting about near the Pokeno exit, their quick movements a blur against the green pastures. He mentioned the birds back home, the different species he was used to.

As we crossed the Waikato River at Huntly, the sky began to cloud over. Not threatening, just a softening of the light. I thought about stopping for a coffee, but he seemed content just watching the landscape unfold. The rolling hills of the Waikato gave way to the more undulating terrain as we headed towards the Kaimai Range. We passed through Cambridge, then Tirau, both places with their own charm – antiques and corrugated iron art respectively – but on this particular journey, they were just passing points, markers on the way to the coast.

We turned off the main highway towards Tauranga, then continued along State Highway 2. This is always a good stretch. The air changes, becomes saltier, fresher. The road winds through patches of bush before opening up onto glimpses of the Pacific. It gets tricky further on, particularly if there’s been recent rain, but September usually sorts itself out weather-wise. He was looking out the window now, more animated. He’d mentioned he was coming to Opotiki to help his aunt with some renovations to her bach, a real Kiwi holiday home. He seemed to relish the idea of the physical work after his desk job.

By the time we reached the Karangahake Gorge, the clouds had broken, and sunlight was dappling through the trees that clung to the steep hillsides. The river below was a rushing turquoise. He commented on the dramatic scenery, the sheer scale of it compared to the gentler landscapes he knew in Europe. We stopped briefly at one of the pull-offs, just to let him stretch his legs and take a proper look. He took a few photos, not with his phone, but with a proper-looking camera. He was capturing the details, the light on the water, the texture of the old mining tunnels visible in the rock face.

Back on the road, the final leg to Opotiki. The road straightened out a bit, the vegetation becoming more subtropical. Lush green ferns, towering trees. He seemed to be absorbing it all, his earlier reserve melting away with the miles. When we reached Opotiki, the town had a sleepy, late-afternoon feel. The light was softening, painting the buildings gold. I pulled up outside the address he’d given me, a pleasant-looking house with a wide porch. A woman was standing there, waving. His aunt, no doubt. He thanked me, a genuine smile now on his face, and wrestled his suitcase out of the boot. He stepped out of the car, ready for his family reunion and what was to come, and I headed back towards the main road, the faint smell of salt still lingering in the air.