the sand at the edge of the earth

8/14/2019 The Sand at the Edge of the Earth

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K E M I N I K O . C O M

{DIGITAL EDITION}


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"Outlaws live beyond the law.

We dont merely live beyond the letter

of the law many businessmen, most

politicians, and all cops do that

we live beyond the spirit of the law. In

a sense, then, we live beyond society.

Have we a common goal, that goal is to

turn the tables on the nature of society.

When we succeed, we raise the

exhilaration content of the universe.

We even raise it a little bit when we fail."

Tom Robbins, Still Life

With Woodpecker (1980)


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y earliest and most enduring memory of Golden Bay is of the historical

pine trees at the end of Farewell Spit.

Farewell Spit is a prominent landform on the New Zealand map, seen as a sickle

sprouting east from the northern-most point of the South Island, too long to beignored for its narrowness even by the smallest representations of the country.

Formed by ocean currents travelling north along the West Coast and made

entirely from millions of tons of sand it arches 26km into the sea forming almost

half of the contour of Golden Bay.

Golden Bay is an inspirational realm of peace, freedom, and nature. Ive yet

to live there, but as a local of the extended region until I left home at 18, I spent

many holidays and weekends in the Bay. My mother introduced me to GoldenBay. Shes lived there intermittently in various housevehicles, shacks, and yurts

since she split from my father when I was still very young. Its scarce, scattered

population, abundance of hippies and other spiritual/DIY rural types, outdoors

and cheap rent has called her back again and again.

Ive never actually been to the pines at the end of Farewell Spit. Only the rst

4km are open for public use. Its a wildlife reserve, particularly for seabirds. You

need a permit to pass the 4km mark, which is impossible to get, and no one is

allowed to camp anywhere in the reserve, even at the base of the spit.

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To V. Berry


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Only one tour operator has permission to pass into the no-human zone, but even

this is limited in its access. They take you in an off-road minivan and drive you

right to the end, without stopping (under the high-tide mark of course), and

only ever on the northern convex side of the spit. Once at the end you have a few

minutes to look around, snap some photos, and see the (now automated) 1870

lighthouse with its lonely lighthouse keepers historic residence. The pines wererst planted here to shelter the keepers houses from the relentless winds off the

coast. After a too short explore you zoom all the way back to the car park, lucky

if you got a good photo the whole ride.

This cheap experience is expensive moneywise, so Ive never done it, but the

pines have always lured me as if they were a mythical destination. You can see

them from the mainland. They silently quiver as distant black mirages above the

horizon on hot summer days. Without these trees, there would be no indicationland is out there at the edge of sight, the rest of the spit is too low to be seen.

My childhood self imagined the black trees as a place of mystery and

unknown (possibly malevolent) power and I always felt they watched me

critically from up there in the sky, surveyors of all. I still get that feeling now,

but in a light-hearted, curious kind of way. Its a fun feeling, exciting, with the

promise of secrets to be discovered.


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fter hitching a ride on the oor of a van over the hairpin bends of Takaka

Hill, the rst thing we did was get off at a popular travellers swimming and

climbing spot. I know of a comparatively unknown swimming hole hidden upriver,

not bothering to check out the popular spots we arrived at our destination to nd

not one other person there! Its a beautiful swimming hole cupped by a rolling

beach of smooth round rocks and a cliff for diving, surrounded by trees and

ooded with sun. On the road to Golden Bay an old contact helped us in acquiring

a satisfying amount of tea, and we took this chance to spark up. We had been

travelling for the last three days, and sitting there in the hot sun awaiting a dip in

those tranquil waters made it one of my nest lighting up memories ever.

That evening we met up with my mother and her dysfunctional 20-year-old

boyfriend. She lives in a small housetruck, so we took her tiny 2-person tent

and set up camp clandestinely in the trees on a small seaside protrusion in the

middle of nowhere. She had been parking up there at nights recently: illegal but

unenforced. After a late dinner over the gas stove - bacon, eggs, tomato, onion,

potato - Niko and I went for a moonlit walk along the beach. A long stand of thick

old pines had been chopped down and left along the high tide mark. Bark long

gone, their sun and salt bleached interior layer shined silver on the breezy brightnight. We smoked a cone in the crook of an old tree resting in the crashing waves,

then ran across glistening sand from trunk to trunk with frothing waves lapping at

our heals.

Next day we drove out to Whariki for a walk on the remote grand beach. We

discovered cute baby seals frolicking in rock pools, ventured into cavernous sea

caves and jumped from huge dunes. Rather than go back south to people and

tourism we said goodbye to Mum and spent the next two nights covert camping atthe base of Farewell Spit.

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e arrived at the spits info centre/caf, the only business for miles around

and the main in/out axis of the reserve. Passing through colonial-era

farming pastures and patches of original native forest we promptly set off to nd a

secret hidey hole, hoping not to attract attention with our pack of camping things!On the north coast at the base of the spit, we found a perfect tent site off-track

in old-growth manuka with a view over bush, dunes, and sea. We quickly set up

camp. It was getting late, so we headed down to the beach to cook dinner and

explore.

Two towering slabs of weatherworn pancake rock standing shoulder to

shoulder in the shallow dunes cradled the light of our wispy re. Enough embers

piling up, we tossed in our meal and lay transxed by a striking twilight displayof shimmering stars and a rising moon framed by the wild bush, cliffs and dunes.

Once the sun had left us with the clear summer night and a near-full moon

bobbing over superabundant waves, our food was ready. The blackened potatoes

and sausages, sand included, was delicious. We dismantled our replace so it left

no trace, took a relaxed walk to the glinting surf arm in arm, and went to bed.

Next morning we slept till 9, the sun was well up. Perfect skies, soft breezes,

today we walk up the spit. Breakfast is muesli and yoghurt in our little goldentent under the manuka, a cone, and a half-hour walk back to the caf for a coffee,

no less! The caf is expensive despite the standard of the food, Im pretty sure

everything in the cabinet was from the supermarket. We bought caramel slice

and chocolate fudge to accompany our lattes, which were acceptable, but by no

means good. Paunchy British and American tourists encased in high-performance

outdoor textiles sat hunched in windows looking at the view they had no intention

of venturing into.

Golden Bay is a very shallow and at bay. At low tide the sea retreats far from

the shore in most places, but not so much as along Farewell Spit. The sea here

quickly exits up to seven kilometres from the beach in less than an hour. From the

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car park we started our journey with the other walkers: Spanish girls, Germans,

a sporty looking older couple. But, rather than walking along the top shore with

these sightseers, we decided to follow the retreating tide out onto the wet plateau

quickly appearing before our eyes. Where else do you get the chance to walk

barefoot over the ocean oor?

Without looking back we followed the mesmerising patterns beneath us. A thin

sheet of water lies atop the sand, never more than ankle deep, often just enough

to ll each trough in the miniature dune-scape. With nothing to scale us, we were

giants strolling over an immense desert everything under our feet appearing as

if hundreds of feet below. A gentle breeze was coming in perpendicular to the

ripples cast in the sand, making similar patterns in the water and creating a cross-

hatched effect of the two: one stuck solid and the other lively, free, and ashing

in the hot, high sun. The absorbing powers of this otherworldly landscape pulledour attention, and path, far from the mainland. When we nally paid attention

to our relative position, pulling our view up to the horizon, we saw that we had

roamed so far from dry land it was impossible to judge exactly in what direction

the ofcial 4km mark was. Theres no useful natural features on the spit to aid

navigation, its fairly at and has no standout trees. With no way of knowing for

sure, still full of energy, we picked an area from our hazy distance that looked

promising and just kept going.

rriving at the shore we knew from our long approach that just behind the

rst dune a bulging desert bloomed. From the top of a rise the view was

of immense lumbering dunes interspersed with towering, teetering wind-carved

humps, only dense nets of beach grass roots holding them together. We werent

wearing shoes. The sand was scorching, literally: Niko discovering a solefulof blisters that night. So, shoes on and a sunblock re-application, rest and re-

hydration, and a THC percolation later we were on the move again. There were no

signs of people anywhere, no wind-eroded shoe prints, nothing. We ran into the

expanding sands until there was nothing but looming mountains all around us,

seemingly forever.

Turning east we aligned with the outward direction of the spit. Dunes rose and

fell, we ran and jumped. Sand was soft in places, swallowing knee deep. Smoothrolling planes and arcs of compacted sand unsurfaced by sifting winds revealed

more rippling patterns. Walking across they bent and distorted perspective vision.

Topographic-like lines swelled and shrunk giving the illusion of dimension.

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A foot placed down may land higher or lower than expected. We held hands and

ran the illusion gauntlet! Invisible lumps would appear from nowhere, jumping

up to greet us, or suddenly the ground would snap back from step to reveal a

disguised dip. It was tripping, stumbling, laughing all the way, each helping as

best they could to keep the other up.

Occasionally hard packed sand crested a dune causing intricate wind-eroded

formations. We got down on elbow and belly to thoroughly understand their

detail. Scraps of driftwood exposed to the wind from their embedded tomb were

causing entire cities of crescent curves to be ushed out in their wake. I placed

some crusty eck on the ground to see a village grow behind it, every grain of

sand building up like the bricks of a house. Willingly submitting to temptation we

wreaked havoc on the city of this land.

In the cool bowl of a dune we discovered an obelisk of compacted sand, roughlyhewn, right in the centre. We approached it with fascination and bafed caution.

Coming up closer we realised it was the crumbling remains of a whole bush

fossilised in sand. How many uncountable years did it take for the dune that once

covered that bush to ll in and consolidate its decaying form? I gave the fossil

a solid thump with an open palm and a chunk of it fell off. Niko gave it a good

kick and the top slid off like books from a shelf; sand all through. We proceeded

to demolish the phenomenon, rst delicately separating pieces along naturalmembrane-like weakness in the fossil, places where a branch would have once

been for example, and then clambering all over it until there was nothing but a

nub left.

aced with negotiating steep thickets at the edge of the dunes we took a rightback to the shoreline. Feet back in damp sand we walked the shore for a

while. Not much changed for some distance. Dunes to the left, sunken plateau

to the right, sand, shells and driftwood underfoot. We made good time, enjoyed

the cute skinny beach, but it started to stink after a while. Faint at rst, what we

thought was the smell of seaweed in the sun, began tickling our nostrils. We also

started to become aware of the time, the sun having lost its morning crispness

and showing the rst signs of afternoon gold high in the sky. As we progressed

the odour got stronger, but we still dismissed it as seaweed fumes. Thinking we

should make the crossing to the other side of the spit soon, and possibly nd

somewhere off the beach to have lunch, we climbed a dune to assess the terrain.

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There was no easy way across; chest-high beach grasses interspersed with wild

blackberry densely packed the land. There was no telling what was beyond the

next bend. More blackberry? And for how far? There seemed to be a thinner

covering of vegetation a bit further along.

On the beach, walking faster now, the smell so pungent and stiing we hoped it

would fade with distance. Niko suggested employing mind over matter techniques

to cope and we tried to imagine the smell as if it were shrimp paste, not the

most appetising foodstuff, but the closest approximation. The thought-trick did

help, taking the acute unpleasantness off, and a couple of times I climbed a dune

to check our progress. Its a deceptive environment; every time I checked the

possible way through appeared just a few hundred meters away, exactly as it had

the last time I looked. This went on for a while longer and I started to suspect

there might not be a straightforward way across.The stink grew to be remarkably nasty; we blocked noses and held shirt collars

to mouths. I could taste it in the back of my throat, rasping at those nervous

canary-in-the-coal-mine taste buds. Strides of haste brought us into swirls of

ies. Deciding the smell (and taste) was too much to tolerate, despite the barrier

of untamed brambles and an unknown path beyond the next hill, we would begin

the crossing of the spit to liberate our chocking senses. The dunes here were very

steep. I went rst. To make the nal thrust to the top I took a clump of grass ineach hand and lunged skyward to my feet.

During the last few degrees of momentum coming to a precarious balance I

caught a glimpse of hulking blackness and bared teeth not more than a foot from

me, obscured by foliage. I gasped in surprise and fear, hand slapped to chest.

Snap frozen in position, heart racing under my palm, I ashed eyes over the scene

and in moments put all I had gathered into context.

Its OK I told myself; theyre dead and on land.

C-come up, come up! I beckoned to Niko, eyes incredulous.

What is it?

Whales!


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eing very shallow Golden Bay is infamous for whale strandings. Entire pods

can be caught on the wrong side of a retreating tide, sometimes in

numbers over a hundred. The Department of Conservation and volunteers try to

save as many as possible, but its not easy. I wasnt surprised to see dead stranded

whales; I was just surprised to see them on top of a dune - the result of team effort,

or perhaps DoC got a tractor out here for the job.

We examined the whales for a couple of minutes. There were two of them, pilot

whales, recently dead, still quite intact. They lay lengthwise head to head on their

backs, parallel to the shoreline, each about four to ve meters long. Each was slit

open down the middle to quicken decomposition. Fermenting gases engorged

organs out of each cut in clusters like party balloons, indistinguishable from their

original function. Seam structures and veins in the organs allowed for a variety of

crumpled shapes to inate, from mottled blue-brown elongated orbs, to coils oflazy crimson zigzag tubes. Masses of maggots pulsated inside the carcasses. Flies

were everywhere.

The smell was of the foulest, most hideous stabbing composition. It had a

forcible palpability in my sinuses, akin to gorse spines and bee stingers. That I had

tried to convince myself it was anything even remotely edible like shrimp paste

disturbed me greatly, and my nose more. Feeling my oesophagus rhythmically

block up in rises from below I ed back off the dune. Niko followed in agreement.So, we know what the smell is from, and we know whale strandings usually

happen in groups. It was likely the smell being stronger along some parts of the

beach was due to other whales dumped behind other dunes. We decided to walk

along the beach, into a gentle breeze, until the air was fresh and reassess the

crossing situation; least we stumble upon another whale graveyard.

Babbling with excitement we continued on. The smell lessened gradually, but

in noticeable time. We came upon another stranded pilot whale, this one onthe beach. It was belly down half submerged in sand, dorsal n sagging like a

windless ag. Maybe it stranded after DoC had left the scene.

A dune signicantly larger than the rest, a rare high vantage for navigation, was

in our sights when we happened upon another stranded whale. This one was old

though, only bleached bones left. The whole skeleton, save the skull, which was

missing, was laid out neatly on the beach riding its own brow

of sand: all pieces in place and accounted for, right down to the smallesttip-of-the-tail bone.

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We could see the open ocean from the large dune. The spit was wider and lled

with more difcult terrain than wed assumed. If wed tried to make a crossing

earlier, when faced with chest-high grasses and blackberry, wed be stuck among

endless hillocks of the same all the way. From our current position dark sprawling

wetlands posed a signicant obstacle, stretching almost from one beach to the

other. Further east along the spit the wetlands fanned out, lost the wet glint, andbroke amongst partly vegetated dunes. Somewhere yonder we judged to be the

best place for crossing, taking advantage of the dunes to island hop over marshes

as much as possible. This would probably be the only way we were going to get

across given the circumstances, god forbid we turn back. We took stock of any

environmental markers on the south side beach to help us nd the crossing point.

It was a pretty useless exercise; little could be dened from our distance, and

everything looks the same from the beach.

With an exit secured things began looking up. The stink and beached whales

unromanticised our pleasant walk, but added the distinct avour of adventure.

The demonstration of peril in the hands of nature spurred us on.

Guessing wed walked far enough, we ascended a dune. I was already

disorientated: the wetland was still wide and expansive, with a few scattered

islands. Not there yet, but not long to go, either.

It was somewhere around this time that the trees at the end of the spit becamevisible, discernible from the rest of the distant vegetation by their height. Now

their tops appeared above the spit stretching ahead, not over the sea. They werent

far off; we guessed we were about half way to the end. Id never been this close

before. It was unsettling to know wed walked so far in apparently such a short

time. In the back of my mind I was mildly anxious to know how poorly my senses

were performing. We could turn on a phone to check the time, but we were

enjoying life without digital interference.


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The beach sunk until it disappeared under marshes extending down to the tidal

plateau. Tide still out we walked along its perimeter. The sand was muddy and

soft, tugging at shoes like thick glue. The marsh was long and narrow, 10 to 20

meters across, submerged in a stagnant layer of water and mud. Panes of organic

oils radiating purple and orange lit up the muck like neon. On the other side a

stubby, wavering ridgeline ran the spit. Habitually looking east for a what next?we simultaneously realised we had to cross now or never. Id never seen a sight

so unpromising for a weary traveller. For almost as far as it was possible to see,

kilometres into sizzling brown atness, was nothing but wetlands.

We had no choice. Time to cross.

wells coming off the bay are so gentle at this shallow strand of coastline they

barely make a mark on the beach: delicate stringy creepers with trumpeting

owers tiptoed over damp sand as if they could easily retreat when the tide

returned. Years of accumulated driftwood clogged thickly over the upper section

of the beach closest to the marsh, the wood so old and brittle it collapsed to dusty

fragments underfoot. Bordering the other side of the marsh was a hedgerow of

large harakeke. It was in dense growth, but we could clearly see the small open

hillside behind them. Pinpointing the most likely gap to squeeze through we

braved the marsh.

In step behind Niko I followed a surprisingly consistent driftwood passage.

My feet sank into the muck deeper with every step. Trying to salvage as much

buoyancy as I could from the wood was of little aid; it was just as old and brittle

as all the rest. Halfway across, this path ended and I entered the marsh proper. In

the rst two strides my shoes were both left rmly suctioned in, and under, the

mud. I released my bare feet with considered yanks and retrieved my empty shoes.

I took the cue and surged through the glop as forcefully as possible; the whole

time Niko itted and skipped over the marsh as effortlessly as a pixie. Brushing

aside a harakeke bush to dry land she was spotless; I was a quarter length dipped

in mud and various bres of decaying plant matter.

Earth, actual solid ground. We didnt look back, just explored the view ahead.

The little hill we stood on stretching left and right was covered in a cloak of eshy

grasses matted a few springy inches deep, stunted by the adverse conditions of the

spit. The same undulating landscape continued on north, over the ridge.

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We found a comfortable spot and sat down to lunch. Insects clicked, not a sigh

of wind. Very hot, sunburn tingling, we could tell the furnace blaze was late in its

afternoon cycle. Lunch was sausages and potatoes from last nights re, warm

cheese, crackers, some leftover slice from the caf, and rations of our dwindling

water reserves. The food was thoroughly appreciated, and the scenery a welcome

change.

A well-worn path etched the hillside, running along it in both directions out of

sight, and there were other signs of path-making in the ora. Surely it couldnt

be people tracks? Who would be walking out here so often? The path was too

narrow for human feet to have made, anyway, we told ourselves. The thought of

horseback patrols came to mind, but that would be excessive. Besides, anything

like that would be common knowledge around the bay. We put the paths down to

wild animals, although what wild animals we could not yet deduce. There wereno droppings in our vicinity to go by. Feral goats would be likely, yet we allowed

ourselves the fantasy of an undetected legacy of wild ponies living on the spit

since the days of human habitation.

The valley between our ridge and the next was chocked with lush blackberry

brambles. We followed the path already laid out in the hope it may lead to a way

through, or around, the thorny moat. It weaved and soared along the hillside,

sometimes gouging a foot deep into the earth, the grassy uppermost edgesconverging in on each other, enclosing the pathway in its own tunnel. Multiple

braids split out where the hillside was steepest, and we would take separate routes

while holding hands, limbs stretching out still clasped together until the track

became one again.

Coming across more and more blackberry and what seemed to be a track

through, we made the decision to follow it on the presumption no other way was

going to be forged across. As far as we could tell the blackberry continued on likethis to the next obstacle, that endless marsh. Tentatively we poked steps vertically

in and out of the barbed mess to avoid snagging bare legs. Though a faint track

denitely did enter the blackberry, once inside this could easily have just been

divisions between separate plants. Enticed in by berry morsels little by little

the bushes rose up around us, and as they did the track became more dened,

obviously pinned down and trafcked on occasion, but hemming us in. I gave up

on picking aside all but the gnarliest of spiked vines; the repetitive scrapes at my

legs accepted by way of familiarity.

Then we came upon a crossroads.


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he track wed just come off didnt even look like it was there when I turned

around, closing itself up like the mud that engulfed my shoes. Now faced

with bushes up to head height and a well-trodden path about two feet wide

meandering off in both directions, my curiosity piqued, this was getting fun!

Entering the thorny moat was a good idea after all.

Appeasing out stomachs we followed the northern-most course, picking berries

as they appeared. They tasted slightly ill and salty, but still good given that we

were out of food and still hungry. Another crossroad came up, and we picked

again the northern direction. Plump trusses of blackberries covered an entire

bush, waiting for picking like punnets at a market. These ones were delicious:

sweet and juicy, in abundance, with characteristic avour. We gorged ourselves

on the spot. Reaching through the thorns clearing all the accessible berries we

shufed along, still picking.

Crossroads became plentiful, as did berries. The entire thicket was intersected

with an established network of pathways allowing for free and unobstructed

navigation. Strolling along through bush-ltered sunlight, grabbing sugary

treats at will, speculating in uplifted spirits; such a careless joy. Were two of

the few humans to have ever tasted the unique strain of genuine Farewell Spit

Blackberries.

The thicket ended abruptly at the edge of the dreaded wetland. This was a lotwider than the previous one, at least 100 meters across. Approaching it I laughed

dispiritedly at the idea of trudging through more, probably deeper, mud. Actually,

the marsh was bone dry, crinkled with gaping spidery fractures and webbed with

algal crust. Brittle clumps of grass were uniformly spaced like a calm open crowd.

Cutting through the crispy parched wetland was easier than walking down a

Wellington street.

Before us was a maze of tightly bunched dunes, dense with beach grasses, butno blackberry. All were of similar height, only a few meters, and open plains could

be seen in the near distance. We knew the sea was not far. The wind was stronger,

the air cooler. Its briskness reenergised us.

I felt like a rude stranger barging through a crowd of friends as we bush-

bashed the grasses. Some dunes were so steep wed have to jump down into their

miniature valleys, and then help each other up the next side. After scaling a dozen

or so of these they relaxed into low rolling oceanic swells, and lost most of theirgrasses. Almost at the open beach a very large semi-dried out puddle came into

view, hosting the rst birds wed seen in the reserve: two species of wader, only a

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into a pearlescent glow. After walking only a kilometre or so an upright form

became distinguishable on the stark shore far ahead. Though small in the distance,

it was obviously a large object. The erce mist shrouded its spindly silhouette, and

the closer we approached the more the outline of a helicopter revealed itself.

As we puzzled over whether it was a helicopter or not, Niko refusing to believe

this was the case, debunking every theory I proposed, a white van pulled up

from behind. Made inaudible by the wind and waves we had no knowledge

of its approach and before we had a moment to think the driver red out his

interrogations

What are you two doing out here!? he barked, You need a permit to

be out here!

I was bewildered from this unexpected appearance. Ahh

We got lost! Niko cut in with a smile and a grain of truth.

Instantly he changed his demeanour from an intimidating authority gure to

a happy camper, emphasis on camp. Oh, that happens occasionally. Hop in. Ill

give you a lift.

He got out, opened the sliding door, and ushered us in with the rest of his

cargo: seven elderly British sightseers. Two wild lookin Kiwi kids freely jostling

backpacks and fold down seats ustered their frail paid-for comfort, and they

muttered about us between themselves. We said hello, but didnt get much of

a response. Once back in the tour van the driver ignored us and went straight

back into his tour routine. He was about forty, had a weather grizzled exterior

and a thick gold ring lolling from one ear. His effeminate speech and light jokes

charmed the old folk without being too racy as to potentially offend. Speeding

along in a capsule 2 feet above the ground, I reected on the difference between

this sheltered vehicle jaunt and the rest of the adventurous day. The speed chasewas bizarre, too far from human relativity, a trip of a trip.

When we reached what I thought was maybe a helicopter, the driver took a

wide turn, not slowing down, and circled it several times, explaining; One of

these will turn up every few months or so, and leave again in another storm. It

was the giant stump of a tree, roots as thick as power poles. And, if you look at

it from this angle, it looks like a big pair of lips kissing the South Island. As we

came around the roots puckered up and kissed the cliff and bush clad promontoryof Golden Bay. A perfect photo opportunity! On command the sightseers lifted

lap-resting digital cameras and snapped away every time the van made another

pass, taking the same shaky photo souvenirs every other tourist thats been this


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way has taken (and the stump did take on the subtle suggestion of a helicopter).

At some point someone made a remark about expecting a grass skirted Maori to

jump out from behind a dune with a spear. As if to conrm the faux pa the driver

agreed, and added Maori still use the area.

At the base of the spit an excuse was made to be dropped off on the beach

to watch the sunset, rather than be transported all the way back to the base

in Collingwood. The driver had reset his odometer when he picked us up,

and it counted 14 kilometres when he dropped us off. So we easily walked a

20-kilometre day. Pretty good luck, that bummed lift.

nly visible as a tiny speck from the beach, our yellow cacoon was still safelyperched on its manuka cliff top. While in that comfy van we had a chance

to realise our bodily aches and fatigue. With the knowledge the end was near our

exhausted legs exponentially resisted further exertion ready to call it a day. By the

time wed reached the tent theyd almost given up entirely. Fumbling amongst

prodding twigs we stripped off every stitch of clothing, brushed off as much

sand and mud as possible, wiped ourselves down with a moist towel corner and

dragged our strained bodies through the screen door onto the most welcoming

bed of sleeping bags and roll mats Ive ever known.

Back with the rest of our supplies we lled up on cool water, and nished off a

tube of sweetened condensed milk. Lying naked on voluptuous softness we lost

all sensations of our aches and felt only bliss. The bliss of worn bres repairing,

the bliss of water quickening blood and sugar glossing minds, the bliss of an

adventure well done, of scale and weightlessness, of mystery and law-breaking, of

discovery and serendipity. As the light dimmed we happily lay as limp as wet rags

and giggled into the depths of restorative sleep.

The next morning our gear was all packed up and we were on the road before

the caf opened its doors. With thumbs ready we walked down the main road

south. The caf being the end of the road, and us starting from said caf, there

wasnt much morning trafc. Over two kilometres two vehicles passed us: a

courier van and a hired camper van. We didnt like our chances, but the third

vehicle surprisingly pulled over surprising, as it was a ash silver BMW with

two middle agers inside. As it turned out they were quite genial. They were a

new couple, both with grown up children, on holiday from England for a family

wedding. The back seat was piled with clothes, unpacked sleeping bags, open

O


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The Adventures Of Kemi And Niko, Volume one;

The Sand At The Edge Of The Earth (2012)

Based on a True Story in Golden Bay, New Zealand, Feb 2012

Words, Design, Images, Photography by Kemi Niko & Co.

Map courtesy of An Encylopedia of NZ 1966

Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 New Zealand License. 2012

More Adventures at KEMINIKO.COM

maps and assorted summertime things. The male, whose name I forget, had

hitchhiked all over the South Island for six months in the 1980s, and we heard a

few stories of his time. He cited this as his reason for wanting to pick us kids up,

knowing that hitch hiking can be a tiresome and frequently drawn out affair.

They dropped us off on main street Takaka, and we made direct for the famous

Wholemeal Caf with its opera hall-esque interior and sofas enough for one each.

Well have the bacon, blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, thank you.

You here for the music festival?

Nope. Were just two sun-kissed, wind beaten, sand blasted, blackberry scraped,

mud smeared, smoke scented, amateur adventuring, tired, hungry, loved up

outlaws.

the sand at the edge of the earth

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