Money...its a drag

It only took a few kilometers to demonstrate what a colossal mistake hiking out from Totaranui would have been. The road was an engineer’s nightmare, full of unforgiving cliffs and hairpin turns and composed primarily of loose (and increasingly wet) gravel sitting on top of rather loosely consolidated sandstone. To make matters worse, large sections of the road had dwindled to one lane barely wide enough for the bus, let alone an unsuspecting tourists traveling in the other direction. The other lane? It had slid down the cliff after, you guessed it, a heavy rain. In true cavalier fashion, our kiwi bus driver was unconcerned with the terrain, often looking back over his shoulder to chat with the passengers as we barreled along towards an increasingly certain fiery descent down the mountainside. Needless to say, I don’t think I was alone in breathing a sigh of relief as the tires finally touched onto the flat asphalt of civilization.

I had about a little less than 2 days before I was due to begin backpacking down the Heaphy Track, near Collingwood about 50km to the north. My original plan was to head north immediately and make for the Innlet, a hostel just to the west of Collingwood along the Farewell Spit. I heard about the place from Aoife, an Irish girl who I met in Marlborough a few weeks before, and was going to meet her up there before heading back into the woods. The rain, however, continued to fall unabated, ensuring that hitchhiking would remain a soggy venture, so I elected to wait out the storm and spend the night in Takaka, the town/artist colony where I had been dropped off by the bus. I wandered around looking for accommodations, and finally arrived at Annie’s Nirvana, a smaller hostel located just off of Takaka’s main drag (such that it was). Setting my gear out to dry on their back porch, I took a hot shower and tossed in a load of laundry, before blissfully napping away the afternoon.

The rain continued for the rest of the evening, but the morning brought sunshine and blue sky, so I packed up and resupplied (which left me with the uncanny feeling that there was something I had forgotten…), before wandering through town to the edge of the road. Being Sunday, most of the little shops along Main Street were closed, saving me from deciding between a week’s worth of groceries or the merino wool hats and wood carvings on display. My first ride came in minutes from a British surfer in a camper van on his way to a campground halfway between Takaka and Collingwood. He had spent the previous night at the Mussel Inn; a little microbrewery near the campground that he assured me had the finest beer and cider in Golden Bay. Even though it was 10am, by the time we came upon the entrance we were both convinced we should stop in for a quick pint, but to our dismay they remained closed for at least a couple of hours. Reflecting upon it now, maybe it was for the best.

I caught my next ride from the very first car that came along, an older hippie woman who was heading to a church just up the road. She had a tape of Bob Dylan playing with the Grateful Dead, but unfortunately the ride was too short for any real conversation. She invited me to come to church with her, but I politely declined, unsure of how easy it would be to get to a backpackers that was, for all intents and purposes, in the middle of nowhere. After 20 minutes of standing along the road I began to change my mind, but just as I was about to shoulder my bag and head for the steeple, another car pulled up and opened its door. As it turns out, they were traveling past the Innlet and could drop me at the doorstep. Coincidence?

The occupants were an older Kiwi woman who lived locally and young guy from Michigan. After several attempts at conversation that became increasingly awkward, it became clear that they were not in a talkative mood, so I passed the time gazing at the scenery, which bore a strange resemblance to Cape Cod. Thanking them for the ride, I arrived at the Innlet just before noon.

If you ever find yourself near Farewell Spit, or for that matter Golden Bay, or for that matter the south island of New Zealand, do yourself a big favor a spend some time at the Innlet. Arriving there felt like getting to your grandparents’ house after spending 11 hours crammed in the backseat of a car fighting with your sister. Nestled along the edge of a forest at the foot of some modest mountains, the “hostel” is really a large old house, full of worn and cozy furniture and interesting people, many of whom spend their entire holiday (sometimes months) taking life slowly. Throw in a cast iron stove in the living room and a pair of claw foot bathtubs near a babbling stream just off the porch, and it isn’t hard to see why.

I reunited with Aoife and we decided to spend the afternoon kayaking around the spit (yes, the Innlet also rents kayaks), and as I headed to my room to unpack a bit and change, I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten to do before leaving Takaka. I had forgotten to feed my now quite skinny wallet. I had a little bit of cash left, enough to cover my night at the Innlet, but would need more if I wanted to rent kayaks. Figuring I would just pop into Collingwood (the closest town) before going, I quickly learned that they didn’t have an ATM. Nor did Karamea (where I was headed), nor did anywhere else for miles around, save Takaka. I still had an hour before the kayak trip left, so I borrowed Aoife’s car and raced back down to Takaka.

As I waited for the woman in front of me to finish her transaction, the thought briefly popped into my head how totally screwed I would be if Takaka didn’t have an ATM either. Her cash and card spit out, and I walked up to the screen. Just as I was about to insert my card, the screen blinked and suddenly flashed. “This machine cannot conduct cash transactions.” The ATM had run out of money. Shit. There was a bank across the street, so I hurried there looking for another ATM. There was none, and it was Sunday, so everything was closed. Shit Shit. Now running, I went into a local shop and asked the woman behind the counter where the ATMs in town were. She told me about the one across the street. “I tried that, but it’s out of order. Is there another one?” I asked, trying to suppress the panic in my voice. “Yeah,” she said, as I breathed a sigh of relief. “In Motueka.” Shit Shit Shit! Motueka was at least 2 hours away, and wearily I resigned myself to the fact that I would not be spending the day peacefully paddling along in a kayak or relaxing on a well-worn couch, but standing along the side of the road. At least the sun was out.

Before heading back up to the Innlet and returning Aoife’s car, I stopped in the information center on the off chance that they might know somewhere closer where I could turn plastic into cash. “Sure,” the radiant, angelic woman behind the counter informed me, “there’s an ATM just across the street in the grocery store.” I could have kissed her.

I burst out the door and ran across the street, and it was all I could do not to jump up and down while I waited for the man in front of me to finish. Card in, PIN entered, and withdrawal amount requested, I waited in agony for what seemed like hours before mercifully the machine whirled, its magical little door opening and spiting out paper salvation into my now sweaty palm. I was so elated I stopped and bought myself a steak and bottle of wine for dinner.

My heart was still beating fast throughout the entire drive back to the Innlet, and it wasn’t until I pulled up the gravel drive that I began to relax a little. I found Aoife and the rest of the kayakers (a older German couple and Sam, our British “guide” who was really just a long-term guest), and we loaded up and headed off. The wind was howling, so we choose to paddle up an estuary, taking advantage of the high tide. In fact, the tide was running so high that we paddled further into the river than our guide had ever been before, and were greeted by a small but incredible waterfall. It was pure magic. After kayaking I wandered down to the beach for a swim, thoroughly enjoying the sunshine and distinct lack of sandflies. After a cozy evening on the couches, I dreamed that night to the sound of crickets.