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ROADTRIPPHOTOGRAPHY: KARL PUSCHMANNspectacular, both are thunderouslyloud. I watch the water tumblingdown, incessant and reckless, andwonder if, like a human doing abungie, the lunging water is whitedue to its fear.After 10 minutes walking along anarrow trail through shoulder-highgrass and hurtling winds, you’redumped unceremoniously onto thegolden sands of Surat Bay. I shouldbe more impressed, but my attentionis on the many wind-bent treesgrowing awkwardly sideways, likea grotesque Dr Seuss caricature ofhow a tree should look. When windconquers wood, you begin to suspectyou may be in for some trouble…The sand is soft and clumpy. In thedistance is the peculiar groaning ofa sea lion colony. After being gyppedby the penguins earlier in the day,I’m determined to see one of thesebeasts in the wild. The wind howlsin protest – or, perhaps, warning –and continually whips sand up fromthe ground where it should be andinto my face where it shouldn’t. Itstings. But I am determined. Throughsquinting eyes, I spot a noir bloblazing by the water far, far ahead.It fills me with purpose and I press on.After a slow-going eternity I reachwhat I judge to be the halfway point,a wooden sign pointing out to sea.I wonder if it’s by accident or designthat the signpost resembles gallows,its hangman’s beam perpetuallypointing to the spot where the sailingship Surat was shipwrecked in 1874,giving the bay its name. The placesuddenly feels very macabre.I tramp on, leaning heavilyforward to combat the strength ofthe unrelenting wind that is nowpositively shrieking and throwingeverything it has at me. I can seethe sand slithering through theair towards me like some unholyapparition. And every now and thena strained wail rings out. The soundof a sea lion no longer fills mewith hope.I stand and watch the oceanwrap and unwrap itself around alarge rotund log that’s glistening“The sand slithersthrough the air likean unholy apparition.Every now and thena strained wailrings out.“black in the wet of the incomingtide. From this distance I can barelymake out the Surat’s ghoulishmemorial. From deep in the thickof the impenetrably grassy dunesthat enclose the bay I hear themocking cough of a sea lion. I beginthe slow dredge back to the car.Balclutha is dark and cold andmostly closed by the time I drive intotown. I dismiss the notion of poppinginto the main street’s domineeringHotel South for a pint in favour ofbunkering down in my hotel withsome greasy fish’n’chips, a blazingheater and a reality show about afamily of American gun makers.It’s not very adventurous or intrepidof me, but it is frightfully cold outside.Awaking to a dilemma, I makean entirely unreasonable andirresponsible decision. What I shoulddo is turn around, double back alongSH1, hit SH96 through Gore and getthe BMW back to the Queenstowndealership on time. But I don’t. Withthis particular trip the journey is thedestination and I am determined tosee it through, to reach its official endin Dunedin. I point the car towardsMilton and drive out of town.Everything is grey and wet; thesky, the ocean, the day. The onlyupside is that the lousy weatheractively discourages any stopping,as for the first time on my journeyI feel the weight of a ticking clock.The turbulent sea feels much closerthan is safe, as it collides up againstthe roadside’s edge, frothing at therocks and occasionally spitting at meas I trundle along, winding withthe coastline.There’s no fanfare for completingall 610 of the Southern Scenic Route’skilometres. I’ve been on the lookoutfor a bookend, a smudgy brown roadsign declaring the end of the road.But there isn’t one. What there is isa set of traffic lights at the bottomof a steep hill on the outskirts ofDunedin. It seems an unfitting endto such an inspiring stretch of NewZealand. The majestic disappearingunsung into the mundane, its wildvariation and oscillating landscapesabruptly halted by a bright red spot,a gradual build-up of metal andstarkly glistening concrete. Sittingat the lights I search for a metaphor,something to make sense of or reflecton. But, then the light changes greenand I drive on, leaving the route andits wonders behind, as I try to figureout where I should stop for lunch. ←FOR MORE INFORMATIONwww.southernscenicroute.co.nzBMW X3 courtesy of BMW – www.bmw.co.nzFor maps and accommodation optionsvisit an AA Centre or www.aatravel.co.nzwww.aadirections.co.nz 59