Albany office to Mangawhai Heads private car — Mateus's business trip

The air in the Albany office park was already thick with the humid promise of a February afternoon by the time I pulled up. It was the kind of heat that clings and makes you reach for a second glass of water before you’ve even finished the first. This particular booking was a bit unusual for me these days – a straight corporate pickup, no hotel, no tourist trap, just a driver to get someone from a modern glass-and-steel building out to a beachside bach. I’d learned to expect a certain kind of person in these kinds of offices: sharp suits, briefcases, eyes already scanning the next item on the agenda. This chap, however, was different, almost immediately.

Mateus V. strode out precisely on time, a carry-on bag and a slim laptop satchel his only luggage. He was wearing smart casual, a bit of a rumpled linen shirt and chinos. He looked less like a high-powered executive and more like someone who’d just finished a long project and was ready for a well-earned break. His Portuguese accent was gentle, not the booming, confident tone I sometimes heard, but more of a quiet warmth. He’d explained briefly when booking that he was visiting from São Paulo, working on a short-term contract for a tech company with offices dotted all over the place, and this was his final stop before heading home. He’d been in Auckland for six weeks and his final task was a review meeting at their Albany branch.

We set off heading north, the familiar crawl through the northern suburbs testing the patience of any driver. Mateus didn't seem fazed. He had his headphones on, but they weren't playing music. He was watching the world go by, the dense suburban sprawl gradually giving way to the green paddocks and scattered houses of the Hibiscus Coast. We passed through Orewa, the beach visible in glimpses, and then onto State Highway 1, the traffic thinning out, and the open road beckoning. I could hear some faint classical music seeping from his headphones, something I recognised as Bach.

“This is my final project here, Harry,” he said, eventually taking off his headphones. “Six weeks. It’s been… intense. But I enjoyed it.” He gestured vaguely towards the passing scenery. “This country is so green. Everywhere.” He smiled, a genuine, unforced expression. “Back home, it’s different. Much more… concrete, I suppose. And the heat is like an oven, not like here.”

We stopped for a coffee and a stretch at the Warkworth service station – a standard refuel for me, a chance for him to grab a flat white and a slice of something sweet. He told me about his family back in Brazil, about the noise and the energy of São Paulo, about the surprisingly efficient public transport – the Metro system, he called it. He spoke of his work not with pride, but with a quiet satisfaction, the satisfaction of a job done well. He was an engineer, designing systems that allowed complex machinery to communicate. It sounded like a world away from the salty air and the sound of the waves that would soon be our soundtrack.

As we continued north, the landscape changed again. Rolling hills gave way to more rugged coastal scenery, the road winding closer to the sea. We passed through Wellsford and then turned off the main highway, heading towards the coast proper. The air got cooler, fresher, carrying the distinct scent of salt and bush. Mateus rolled his window down, letting the breeze in. He just breathed it in. He described how his work often felt disconnected from the real world, from tangible things like the sea air or the shape of the clouds. This trip, he said, was his way of grounding himself before returning to that abstract world.

When we finally pulled up to the bach at Mangawhai Heads, the late afternoon sun was glinting off the water. The house was small, nestled amongst flax and pohutukawa, with a clear view out towards the estuary. It was quiet. So quiet, in fact, that the only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves and the distant cry of a seabird. Mateus looked at the view, then at me. “Thank you, Harry. This is perfect.” It wasn't a dramatic arrival, no fanfare. Just a man getting from A to B. But as he walked up the path to the bach, the late afternoon sun catching the fine lines around his eyes, I had the distinct impression he wasn’t just leaving Auckland; he was taking a piece of the Northland coast with him, a quiet moment of space before facing the organised chaos of home. I watched him go, then turned the car around, the road ahead of me now empty but for the setting sun.