Pullman Auckland to Waitangi private car — Tevita's holiday

The rain had set in for the morning, a persistent, drumming rhythm on the Pullman Auckland’s atrium roof. It was one of those late March days where spring hadn’t quite committed, and autumn was still making its presence felt with a vengeance. I waited near the lobby, watching the revolving door spit out a predictable stream of business types and hotel guests. My fare for the day wasn’t due for another half hour, but I’d learned to find a quiet corner and settle in. Intercity Cabs is all about the journey, and sometimes, the journey starts with simply waiting.

Around 10:15, a man emerged, looking significantly more relaxed than the suits rushing past. He had a broad smile and a distinctive islander physique, carrying a single, surprisingly compact suitcase. Tevita M. He’d booked online for a long haul up to the Bay of Islands – Waitangi, to be precise. His purpose: holiday and a bit of sightseeing. He’d specifically requested a private car, wanting the freedom to stop and ‘take it all in,’ as he’d put it in his booking notes. It was a refreshing change from the usual business sprints.

We loaded his bag, and he settled into the back, pulling out a well-worn map of the North Island. He seemed genuinely excited about the drive north, pointing out places he’d read about. The city traffic was its usual frustrating self, and we crawled through the Khyber Pass and along the motorway heading out of Auckland. The rain, thankfully, had eased to a drizzle by the time we hit the Bombay Hills, and the sky was starting to lighten. He’d mentioned he was from Tonga, and that this was his first real trip around New Zealand outside of the usual tourist hubs.

We stopped for a quick coffee and a bite to eat at a small café in Warkworth. He told me he’d been working in Auckland for a few years, saving up, and finally decided it was time to explore. He’d always wanted to see the Bay of Islands, especially Waitangi. “My grandfather told me stories,” he said, his eyes distant for a moment, as if reliving them. “Stories of the land, the sea, the people who came before. I want to see it for myself.” He’d bought a small notebook and was already sketching little drawings of the roadside scenery, mostly in muted greys and blues, reflecting the overcast day.

As we drove further north, the landscape began to change. The rolling farmland gave way to more undulating hills, and the air felt cleaner, sharper. We passed through Wellsford and eventually reached Whangārei. The light drizzle had stopped entirely, and patches of blue were appearing. He was quiet for a while, just watching the scenery, occasionally turning the pages of his map with a deep interest. He pointed out a sign for a coastal road, and I explained that while it was beautiful, it would add considerable time, and it might be best to stick to the main highway to reach Waitangi before dark. He readily agreed, understanding the need to keep a reasonable pace.

He showed me some photos on his phone – vibrant images of palm trees, clear blue water, and local festivities back home in Tonga. He spoke about the warmth of his people, the importance of family, and how he missed the rhythm of island life. He spoke with a deep affection for his home, but also with a clear respect for the journey he was on now. He was curious about everything – the types of trees lining the road, the names of the smaller towns we passed, the way the light hit the distant hills. He absorbed the details of the Northland landscape with the same quiet intensity he showed his sketches.

By the time we reached Waitangi, the sun was making a more determined effort, casting long shadows across the winding road. He knew about the ferry to Russell but planned to stay right there in Waitangi. His accommodation was a small motel overlooking the bay, the kind that has seen better days but still offers a quintessential Kiwi bach experience. I helped him with his bag and wished him a wonderful stay. He thanked me, his smile genuine, and said he was eager to walk down to the waterfront and just breathe it all in. As I pulled away, I saw him standing on the motel balcony, silhouetted against the softening light, looking out towards the water. It felt like the beginning of something for him, a connection to his own country’s stories, perhaps, viewed through a new lens. The drive back to Auckland was quiet, the wipers now dormant, the road ahead familiar but no less interesting for the passing encounters it carried.