Albany address to Kawhia private car — Min-jun's business trip

The morning sun was just starting to burn off the humidity over Albany when I pulled up. The house looked quiet, almost too quiet for a Saturday morning in February – usually there’s a bit of a buzz with people coming and going. But this was different. A young man emerged, dark hair neatly cut, carrying a single, surprisingly compact, black overnight bag. He looked younger than I’d expected, maybe late twenties, early thirties. He had a precise, almost formal way of moving, and his handshake was firm and brief.

He introduced himself as Min-jun K, and confirmed our destination: Kawhia. Kawhia. Not a common stop. Most people heading out west that far are locals heading to Raglan or maybe Ōpunake for surfing. This was business, he’d said on booking, but a Saturday morning departure for Kawhia suggested something more specific. He settled into the back seat with that same quiet precision, and I pulled away, heading south towards the motorways. Traffic on the Northern Motorway was already building, a common Saturday feature, but it wasn’t too bad. We’d have to navigate the usual bottleneck through the city itself.

As we passed through the CBD, Min-jun was quietly observing the cityscape, his gaze flicking between the buildings and the shimmering harbour. No music, no phone calls, just a quiet absorption of the scenery. I decided to break the silence, mentioning how Auckland was really spreading out these days, how the old volcanic cones still stood guard over it all. He nodded, a small, polite smile on his face. He mentioned he’d landed a couple of days ago, spent a little time in the city, acclimatising. His English was very good, precise and clear, with that gentle Korean cadence.

Our route took us south through the Waikato, the landscape flattening and opening up. The usual sights: the lush green pastures, rows of grazing cows, the occasional Hinuera stone homestead. I knew Min-jun was a regular visitor to New Zealand, often for business, though this trip felt a little different. He eventually shared that his company consulted on agricultural technology, and this particular trip was a site visit for a new, experimental dairy project being trialled near Kawhia. It explained the discrete nature of the trip, on a weekend, and his minimal luggage. He spoke of the innovative approach the farm owners were taking, how they were integrating smart sensors and data analysis into their herd management, something quite advanced, he implied.

We stopped for a coffee and a stretch at a service station near Hamilton. Min-jun opted for a simple black coffee, declining anything to eat. He was already looking at his watch, a subtle indicator of his focus. As we continued, he spoke more about his work, but always with a professional distance. He showed me some diagrams on his tablet, of sensors and irrigation systems, explaining how crucial precise weather and soil data was for the success of such advanced farming operations. He wasn't bragging, just explaining the technical challenges and the potential solutions.

The turn-off for Kawhia appeared eventually, a narrow ribbon of road winding through rolling hills that gradually became more rugged. The air felt different out here – cleaner, saltier, with a hint of damp earth. The landscape became wilder, the coastline approaching. Farm paddies gave way to more scrub and tussock, and the road itself started to undulate more dramatically.

As we approached the small settlement of Kawhia, I saw a few more cars, mostly older models, parked near the foreshore. A scattering of houses, a general store, and the distinctive hills surrounding the harbour. Min-jun pointed towards a rather unassuming farmhouse just outside the main village. "That's the place," he said, his tone shifting slightly, a subtle note of purpose entering it. He mentioned he'd be staying for a couple of days, with a series of meetings and site visits planned. It was clear his work here was time-sensitive, and this initial drop-off was just the beginning.

I let him out at the gate, his compact bag in hand. He gave me a nod and a polite "Thank you, Harry", the same tone as his introduction. He disappeared up the driveway, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the quiet rural scenery. I watched him go, feeling a sense of quiet satisfaction. Another brief glimpse into a different world, a world of advanced agricultural tech and precise business dealings happening out on the fringes of the New Zealand coast. The drive back to Auckland, solo this time, would be a good chance to reflect on how the world keeps getting smaller, and stranger, with every trip I make.