The engine light on the dashboard flashes red. Go to the Toyota dealer as soon as possible, says the booklet. Damn.

I called Snap rental help, which turned out to transfer to the AA, the ANWB of New Zealand. I was in the queue, but I was helped.

A technician comes in an hour. The cars race by, and each is hopeful at first.

A motorcycle stops in a recreational parking lot. A man with a vast mustache emerges from under the helmet. Despite the dense cloud cover, his sunglasses remain on. He drives off, unsuccessfully.

I fight boredom with a little photo project: photographing crap in the parking lot. Make a collage of it later.

An hour later, the AA technician is still not there. ‘Op zijn elfendertigste’, A says, which is untranslatable. The best guess would be ‘in the dead of winter.’

A stream flows. A car stops and drives off. Crickets crunch, and a fly buzzes around my head.

People poop and drink beer in all corners of this place: I find wipes and crushed cans.

Beyond, a meadow, crammed with sheep Beneath an electricity pylon that slants over the hills.

Occasional bleating. Then another car. But still not the AA technician. AA of the Automobile Association, not the alco-AA.

A hotel has stood here, after a wayfarers sod cottage of 1857, Way Otaraia hotel was placed here. A changing station for horses between Dunedin and Invercargill. Just like in the movie.