Grassroots NZ

So flying into Blenheim last night was great fun. We were in one of the pencil-planes – no trolley-dollies, one seat either side, 2 pilots in the front with no curtain shielding them from our view.
I was sitting right up the front and was enthralled throughout the 25 minute flight – man there are a lot of buttons and knobs and hand signals and levers. My favourite thing was the altimeter spinning round and round as we cruised up to an enormous 6000 feet. Me being me, I felt like I could climb in the fly the thing after watching just once. Awesome. Plus, the pilots were young hotties. Excellent.
Arriving at Blenheim airport on a cold, wintry night, I’m dismayed to see no gleaming line of taxis. Instead, there’s one rattly shuttle van, that’s been booked by a well-to-do couple heading home after an overseas holiday. I ask the driver if he can drop me off too. “No worries,” says he.
Driving out of the airport, he’s chatting away to the other passengers. I see, out of the corner of my eye, some headlights approaching us from the left. We go through a roundabout, with the headlights zooming ever closer. They don’t slow down although we have right of way. We’re on a collision course, and I squeal out something along the lines of “SHITFUCKSHIT!”
No-one else says a word. The driver slams on his brakes and a farmer in a flash ute just misses us and continues speeding up the road. Doesn’t slow down.
My fellow passenger says nonchalantly, “I think he might have wanted to give way there.”
The driver starts to accelerate slowly. “I think he may have too.”
No-one says a word.
Later, I get out of the shuttle and ask the driver how much I owe him. He says eighteen dollars.
Crap. I’ve only got ten in cash.
No worries, he says. You saved me $1000 excess by squealing before. Sorry about that by the way.
Kiwis. I love them.