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Published: February 7th 2007
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By the time our Air New Zealand flight was “wheels on pavement”, Gina and I were definitely ready for something more than lounging by the beach on a secluded South Pacific island.
The flight crew had dutifully informed us of the strict Customs laws in New Zealand and the hefty fines levied for even honest mistakes on passenger entry forms - starting at $200 and topping out somewhere near $100,000 and a long time with some guy named Bubba. Having declared everything from our hiking shoes and trips to Polynesian villages with farm animals to the various dried goods from Trader Joes, we approached a female Customs agent who proceeded to play twenty questions while scouring our declarations. Several minutes passed until we received a nod and “Line 2.”
As we cleared the formalities of entering New Zealand, wallet intact, Gina and I proceeded into the terminal to find our car rental agency - another brilliantly executed budget-driven decision on my part. My eyes scanned the familiar
Hertz, Budget and Avis signs until determining Advantage Rent-a-Car didn’t occupy a vendor location at the airport. At this point, I wasn’t too concerned and approached the friendly looking elderly woman behind
the information kiosk and inquired whether she had heard of our car rental agency. Thankfully she responded in the affirmative and pulled a binder from under the desk. As she flipped, I saw several full page ads for rental car agencies, some familiar, others not, until she reached the back cover of the binder which held an orange Post-It note. Hand scrawled was
Advantage Rent-a-Car 08009322486. Not a good sign.
I proceeded to the closest payphone and dialed the number.
Ring, Ring, Ring, Ring, Ring, Ring, Ring - An automated system: “Please Hold the Line.” A few nervous seconds later, while Gina looked on in amusement, I received the dreaded busy signal. Not surrendering so quickly to Gina’s inevitable teasing, I repeated the effort hoping that I misdialed something along the way. Defeat set in quickly after 4 more fruitless attempts.
My eyes started bouncing around the terminal hoping that I had overlooked something along the way. Focus locked on a group of men holding signs, those usually reserved for individuals meeting limousines or cruise ships, and I started in their direction hoping someone would have answers about my mysterious rental car agency. No sooner did I approach
their position than did I see not one, but two signs emblazoned with
Gene Sawyer. However, the signs sat by their lonesome, no driver attached. Below my name the sign said, “Please use the closest payphone to call Advantage Rent-A-Car 08009322486.” I couldn’t believe it. It was like I had turned to page 56 of a chose-your-own-adventure book and my character had fallen into a pit of vipers.
One of the waiting drivers took notice of my despair and commented, “Oh, she was here about 20 minutes ago and left with someone else. She’ll be back.”
So we waited. Another 15 minutes passed until a dainty woman, clad in a knee-length green sundress, emerged from a crowd of passing tourists. “You must be Gene.”
Silently, I experienced a sigh of relief as Gina and I gathered our belongings and followed the woman out of the terminal. We walked about 50 meters before stopping in front of a tuna fish can-sized Toyota. Our rental car agency representative opened the trunk and motioned for us to put our belongings inside. Gina shot me this look of:
I hope this is the car she’s taking us to their office in and not the one we’re traveling in for the next 3 weeks. No such luck. Before we knew what hit us, I sat and filled out paperwork curbside, taking guardianship of the extremely subcompact vehicle which was missing its front passenger side hubcap, tattered with pockmarks and sporting 145,000 km on the odometer.
As we buckled ourselves in, Gina in the left seat (passenger) and me in the right (driver), I thought to myself:
This isn’t so bad. Little did I know that 8km from the airport the
Check Engine light would illuminate and throw yet another wrench into our first day in Auckland.
Slowly pulling the car over to the left hand side of the road, I watched Gina cringe up in the fetal position and exclaim, “YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THE CURB!”
I didn’t, of course - until later in the day.
Having gotten our wounded vehicle from the lane of traffic, I fumbled for the rental agency paperwork and proceeded to call the woman’s cell phone to advise her of our situation. “No worries, (A common Kiwi expression) I’ll be right over.”
Another 20 minutes passed until a worn minivan approached and
pulled in front of our position. The same woman emerged, clad in her green sundress. She came back to the car, which I had let idle not wanting to turn off the engine for fear the dummy light would not re-illuminate, and asked me to pop the hood. Quizzically, I complied and proceeded to watch her check everything from the oil to the timing belt. While I appreciated the initiative, I couldn’t help but find the whole situation comical and slightly unprofessional.
“I’m not sure what’s wrong. Maybe the mechanics just forgot to reset the light,” she offered.
I responded, “While that may be the case, I’m not comfortable driving this thing 1800km over the next three weeks with the dummy light on.”
“Ok. Well I have another vehicle that’s slightly larger that I can upgrade you to. It’s a bit older, but will have better pick-up on the hills of the South Island. Why don’t you just drive this car to your B&B down the road and I’ll bring the new car to you?”
I thought this was a sufficient solution to our issue, so we parted ways with her promising a new car within
an hour. We drove another 2km down the road before Gina’s earlier prognostication came true. “Bam!” - I rode up the curb and back down onto the road while making a turn. Luckily, we were getting a
new car.
A short time later we checked into our B&B, an architecturally modern home formed with wood, metal and glass, and took well needed showers. An hour passed, and then some, before a worn Nissan Pulsar pulled up to our B&B and the same woman materialized from the driver’s seat. Gina and I looked out our window in amusement as the woman began circling the car with a camera taking photos. “I wonder what she’s doing.” Gina inquired.
I didn’t say anything in response but knew the woman was documenting the
condition of the car before handing it over. (And when I say condition, I really mean the damage.) As I approached our ‘upgrade,’ I took notice of the lovely gash on the passenger side door as well as the speckled rust which coats the entire paint job. “I think it was parked under a tree, or something…” the woman said nonchalantly.
I laughed, completed a few more pages
of paperwork and took the bent key to our New Zealand touring machine knowing that the next 3 weeks would be full of stories.
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Mikkie
non-member comment
No Worries....
May I suggest.... give your car a name - recognize it and say hello each time you get in, give it praise for each hill it climbs - and I'm certain that it will never let you down...