Steve Braunias
And then there was the time I took a road trip from Auckland to Wellington in a big white Rolls-Royce driven by a Communist. His other car was a Toyota Corolla. He used it to evenly distribute himself around the city. But the Roller needed a proper airing and it made for a good excuse to get out of town.
"Be ready," he said, "at dawn." I was ready at dawnish but he didn't mind waiting the 20 minutes. Both of us minded waiting nearly an hour, though, for the other passenger, who evidently was having a lot of trouble not just getting out of bed but also the next, important challenge, of getting dressed. He was a laconic kind of rooster and there was considerable charm in his slow, measured talk. But the driver and myself were surprised when he finally emerged from the room in his weatherboard boarding house. He had very long legs and neither of us had ever seen him walk so cautiously and kind of dubiously. Usually, he swung his legs like swords.
He got in the back seat, lay down, and fell asleep.
"Okay," said the driver, and began the epic journey south. South, from the isthmus and its two placid harbours to the edge of the turbulent Cook Strait; south, over plains and then plateaus and down over plains again; south, Auckland to Wellington, one of the classic New Zealand road trips, maybe the most classic classic. The two biggest cities in the land, bridged in a day. Eight hours and 640 kilometres, the car like a dagger through the heart of Pig Island. SH1 runs parallel a good part of the way with the railway line and a southbound car, too, feels like an express train, like it's on important business.