New Zealand (weekly) Update #103

03rd of September 2025 to 17th of September 2025

Approximate reading time: 15-20 minutes

Lets get it started

Life in a nutshell – whenever you plan something, life laughs behind your back and pushes that very button on the washing machine. The washing machine that cleans you up. But not using the delicate, slow, low-rotation cycle. Not being gentle, calm, and just giving you a hug here and there. This mode is the real one – the tough and rough one. The fast, hot-and-cold, shaky one. Not because you are that dirty, but simply because life can and does, as usual.

So while I am writing this new blog entry, I am sitting in the sun in Wanaka. The very Wanaka we actually just left two weeks ago in order to travel and get away. To get clean. To refresh. To renew. To see, explore, and experience. But life hit hard and pushed the extreme-mode button again, and we found ourselves sitting in a church in Wanaka, attending the funeral of Sammy’s grandma, who passed away last week. Not unexpected, but still so painful and in your face. Life at its best and worst. Life as real as it is. Life as it goes and flows, making us realize how precious, short, and important it actually is.

There was a quote at the funeral: “In order to experience life, we need to experience death.” In order to appreciate, to feel, to live the real, raw, and beautiful life we’ve been given, we also need to appreciate death. We need to accept death as part of this beautiful chance we have been given.

And so, while I am sitting here, the sun shining on my face, people around me, I am thinking about life, death, all the things in between, and about what I might regret at the end of my life. Or what I would still want to do. To experience. To remember. To accept. And to realize that, in the very end, everything and nothing really matters if we have not been able to truly embrace and live the moment—even just once.

The moment is all we have. We do not have the past, nor do we have the future. We only, truly, have this very moment. And then the next. And the next. Piece by piece, moment by moment. Which is still something I usually cannot fully understand. Something I am still trying to feel, to live more.

To fully experience life, we have to experience death

So Wanaka it was, and still is, again. With lots and lots of sunshine—and with my head a bit sunburned, since I had been wearing a beanie for the last couple of weeks. For the funeral, I decided to shave my whole head again and completely forgot how strong the New Zealand sun is. And so, while I am writing, my head is a bit itchy, a bit red, and I’m thinking, “You silly Billy, you know better.”

But anyway, while we are back for a couple of days, our road trip doesn’t stop here. We decided to keep going—not out of ignorance, arrogance, or lack of interest in the suffering, the support, and the family itself. Instead, we chose to stay long enough for Sammy to catch up with all the family who came, even from overseas, to show their respect and attend the funeral.

And what can I say about this funeral? In a small church in the center of Wanaka, probably more than 100 people showed up. Family, friends, and a German fella in between. I could feel the pain. I could feel the suffering, the grief. But even more, I could also feel the joy, the smiles, the laughter while listening to speeches from Sammy’s dad, from Sammy herself, and from others telling stories about Jen, as her grandma was called.

Stories of Jen walking up Mt. Iron every single day until she couldn’t anymore. Of Jen carefully counting out the chocolate chips for the grandkids to make sure everyone got the same amount. Of Jen being endlessly curious, supportive, and such a wonderful human being.

And when the grandkids, Jen’s son Roy (Sammy’s dad), and Aleisha (Sammy’s cousin) carried the coffin out of the church, I cried with them. I felt with them. And I laughed with them.

Strange as it may sound, it was a very intense but wonderful funeral. Not just crying and grief, but full of good, positive, great emotions. Smiles. Cheeky laughter. And a bunch of supportive people. A bunch of great people showing up for what matters most.

The challenges of travelling together

And that was Wanaka again. I am now sitting in a library in Hokitika, on the West Coast of the South Island. The weather forecast: rain, rain, rain. Which collides with our travel plans, as we were supposed to do another overnight hike—the Copland Track—with natural hot pools at the end, right next to the hut. But yet again, plans are just plans, and life has different ideas.

So, while it starts to drizzle outside and will soon turn into heavy rain, I’m thinking about the last two weeks of traveling. It has been intense—full of great moments, and also full of shared privacy. Living the vanlife (or in our case, the Honda CRV carlife) comes with challenges. You share a small space, you travel together, you eat together, you sleep together. Sometimes you don’t have a shower for two or three days, and all your stuff is packed into one tiny place—the car.

Of course, you sometimes have a different pace, different ideas, different approaches, different needs, and so on. Which means, sooner or later, there will be discussions. There will be things you don’t agree on, or things you would like to do differently. One way to deal with this, as always, is to talk about it. To express what you think and feel. Communication is key. It clears away wrong assumptions, misplaced expectations, and misunderstandings. Communication is key.

And every now and then, it’s also important to have some me-time. Traveling together doesn’t mean you have to be together 24/7. It doesn’t mean you have to share every single experience on the road. Sometimes it helps to have a coffee—but not at the same place. Go in opposite directions and catch up again after 30 minutes. Take a little walk on your own. Send a voicemail to a friend while walking alone down the street. Me-time is so important, not just in everyday life, but even more while traveling together.

An example: I’m usually a morning person. I wake up and I’m ready to go straight away. Coffee, and off I go. Ready for conversation. Ready for adventure. Sammy, on the other hand, is usually “one-word Sammy.” She needs at least an hour to get her system started and to be ready to roll. Which sometimes makes it challenging to get going at the same pace, on the same level. It requires understanding, patience, and empathy.

And this applies to so much more—the way we approach travel research, where we want to stay, what we want to see, how we want to explore. I’m a bit more of a “rush-rush” person: have a quick talk about it and then let’s just do it. Just get going. Sammy takes more time, has a more relaxed approach, and sometimes overthinks options and ideas. Which actually makes us a good team, as we balance each other out. And at the same time, it can be challenging, because we often approach things in very opposite ways.

Traveling together is much more than happy adventures, great social media content, and having the time of your life. Traveling together is growing together. Growing as individuals while trying to navigate different interests, approaches, and paces. Traveling together is definitely a challenge 🙂

About sausages, rain and frost

Before leaving Dunedin behind, we made one last stop: the Chinese Garden. Stepping through its gates felt like slipping into another world, quiet and self-contained, tucked away from the city streets. Built as a sister garden to one in Shanghai, it’s an authentic piece of Chinese heritage, with curved roofs, stone bridges, and the stillness of ponds scattered with lotus leaves. The rain from earlier in the morning left every surface glistening, the rocks dark and the trees heavy with droplets, which only added to the garden’s calm, reflective atmosphere.

Walking through, it was easy to forget we were still in New Zealand. The winding paths invited us to slow down, to let our pace match the trickle of water over stones. Panels along the way spoke of the history of Chinese settlement in Otago—how men travelled halfway across the world to seek their fortunes during the gold rush, often working under brutal conditions, enduring discrimination, and carving out lives in a land that wasn’t always welcoming. The garden stands now as both a tribute to their endurance and a reminder of the cultural threads that shape this region.

We lingered longer than expected, finding a strange peace in the balance of architecture and nature, before returning to the car. The transition back to the road felt abrupt, as if leaving one world behind for another.

After leaving Dunedin, we pointed the car further south, chasing the wild edge of the Catlins. The landscapes began to shift—dense forests dripping with moss, hidden waterfalls tumbling through deep green gullies, and the coastline stretching out in dramatic sweeps of rock and sand. Nights were spent under stars and salty winds, one of them at Purakaunui DOC campsite, tucked just behind the beach. Rough, raw, and beautiful—exactly the kind of place that makes you feel small but alive.

Cooking dinner became a ritual. Our little table setup may not look like much, especially since pulling it out means lifting our heavy drawers every single time, but it works. Somehow, in that tiny space, we create meals that feel like feasts. One night, we even strung up fairy lights along the ceiling of the car. A simple touch, but enough to make the car feel like a little home—light to read by, space to chill, a glow against the dark.

From there, we carried on south, stopping for breakfast in Owaka and later laughing at New Zealand’s version of Niagara Falls—a flat, trickling stream that’s more of a joke than an actual waterfall. Someone clearly had a sense of humor when naming it.

At Curio Bay Campground, we stumbled on an odd little piece of local history. The current manager—a friendly German guy—told me that years ago, the place had been run by someone tied to gang activity. Back then, they even had bouncers at the entrance, which must have made this stunning spot feel like anything but paradise. Luckily, those days are gone. The new manager welcomed us warmly, served up some excellent Asian food (his wife is from Asia), and gave us the chance to catch up on a bit of admin while the waves rolled in just beyond the campsite.

Further along, in Tuatapere, we indulged in a sausage tasting—because why not?—before meeting up with my good friend Tanya. I had worked with her during my time at OCULA, and she had been my biggest cheerleader earlier this year when I did the Wanaka Challenge triathlon. Seeing her again felt grounding, a little reminder of friendships that stick even as everything else keeps moving.

By the time we reached Te Anau, luck struck again. Tony’s landlord—Tony being my good friend from Germany, who quite literally saved my life in April last year—offered us his and his partner Timi’s room while they were away traveling. After nights in the car and cold showers snatched from DOC campsites, having a warm space with real walls felt like luxury. We curled up with movies, thawed out, and gathered strength for our next overnight mission: the Kepler Track.

The Kepler doesn’t wait around. It starts gently enough, weaving through mossy forest and along the lake’s edge, but soon the trail tilts upwards and keeps going. We climbed steadily through dense bush, the air growing colder, until the trees fell away and the landscape opened wide. That’s when it happened: while I was filming Sammy along a rocky section, a small stone came loose and landed less than half a meter between us. A sharp reminder of how quickly things can shift out here.

Shaken but safe, we pressed on, and soon the snow appeared—first in patches, then blanketing the ridge. The final stretch towards Luxmore Hut was almost surreal: a long, flat section of trail surrounded by 360-degree alpine views, clouds drifting below us, the mountains sharp and white above. At the hut, after warming up, we took a short detour to a nearby cave, our headlamps slicing into the darkness as we explored its cold, damp walls.

That night, the hut was alive with stories. A couple who had bravely carried a double sleeping bag (and learned the hard way it wasn’t nearly warm enough) kept us entertained. Later, when they stayed too long at the cave and darkness fell with the weather closing in, we joined a hut warden to check on them. Armed with sleeping bags, food, and first aid, we marched out ready for a rescue—only to find them laughing, throwing snowballs at each other, blissfully unaware of the worry they’d caused. Relief turned quickly to laughter, and we all trudged back together.

Inside, the temperature dropped to around zero degrees overnight, but our down sleeping bags and liners kept us snug. The next morning brought one of those moments you don’t forget: a kea waddling through the snow like a penguin, curious eyes fixed on me through the window, beak tapping against the glass as if trying to peck my finger. Mischief in feathers.

Back in Te Anau, a couple of beers felt well-earned. We celebrated with another adventure: a Milford Sound boat trip, booked last-minute through bookme.co.nz. Normally, the full-day package with pickup, guided drive, and cruise costs over 300 NZD per person, but we scored it for less than half that. Our guide was a fountain of knowledge, weaving stories of the land and even rivalries among hunters, while we just sat back and enjoyed the ride. For once, it felt good not to be the driver—just a tourist, letting the fjords and waterfalls sweep over us.

When we finally circled back to Wanaka, life slowed down. Having lived there before, there was no rush to chase every sight or cram in new adventures. Instead, it was about family. Sammy’s siblings flew in from Australia, and we gathered at her dad’s place. We still slept in our car, but now with the bonus of hot showers, games, and even a round of mini golf. I managed to pick up some casual work in my favorite garden just outside Hawea, breaking up the days with cold dips in the lake, shared meals, and good company.

It was a pause—a moment of warmth and familiarity—before the road called again.

Monday, 15th of September. Ready to leave—again.

Each departure from Wanaka cuts a little deeper. The town has always been both sanctuary and trap for me, a place where beauty and beast live side by side. It offers the freedom of endless mountains and lakes, yet often carries the weight of memories: moments of success and failure, pride and rejection, joy and grief—all compressed into such a short chapter of my life. Wanaka has shaped me more than most places, and no matter how far I wander, it will always remain a scar and a treasure, stitched into my story.

This time our compass pointed west, toward the wild coastline of Te Tai o Poutini—the West Coast of the South Island. The plan had been to tackle an overnight hike into the hot pools hidden deep in the mountains, but the weather had other ideas. Heavy rain, swollen rivers, and the threat of slips made it too dangerous. So, we traded our packs for a roadie, chasing the grey ribbon of highway northward.

We parked by the beach for the night, lulled to sleep by the rumble of surf, and woke to a misty morning. A short wander took us through dripping forest and back out along the sand, where the ocean spread endless and restless. From there, we drove further north, stopping at tunnels carved through solid rock, gorges etched by centuries of rushing water, and the low-lying valleys that mark the Franz Josef region. Even in the rain, or perhaps especially in it, the landscape felt alive—rivers frothing, waterfalls tumbling straight from the clouds, the air heavy with the scent of wet fern.

By the time we reached Greymouth, the downpour hadn’t lifted, but it gave us the perfect excuse to step inside the Pounamu Pathway, an immersive journey through Māori history and culture. Here the stories of the land unfolded—tales that stretched back long before the gold rush and colonial settlement.

According to Māori tradition, the West Coast is the domain of Te Tai o Poutini, the restless taniwha (guardian spirit) of the seas. He once fell in love with a woman of great beauty, and in pursuit of her he carried pounamu—greenstone—along the rivers and valleys of this coast. The stone scattered across the land and waterways, becoming part of the lifeblood of Ngāi Tahu, the iwi of this region. For centuries, pounamu was shaped into tools, weapons, and adornments. More than just objects, these carried mana—the spiritual power of their holders—and were passed down through generations as taonga, treasured heirlooms linking the present with the past.

The exhibition also told the harder truths. When Europeans arrived, they saw not taonga but resources: gold in the rivers, stone in the mountains, land to be carved and claimed. Treaties were signed, promises made, but often broken. Entire graveyards were moved, desecrated so the land could be quarried for rock to build flood protection walls. Communities were forced from their homes, their rights chipped away like the cliffs along the coast. And yet, woven through the stories was resilience—of a people who endured loss and injustice but held fast to pride, identity, and the deep bond with pounamu and place.

Walking out into the rain again, the coastline felt different. The grey skies and crashing surf weren’t just scenery anymore; they were part of a story still alive, a story of guardians, of stone, of struggle and survival. The West Coast may seem wild and raw to travellers passing through, but for Ngāi Tahu it is something deeper: a living ancestor, carrying memory in every river and every shard of greenstone glinting beneath the water. And all of the above makes me think about my definition of home, of a safe space, a safe place, something I always want to come back to.

Home – place, people or memory?

What is home for me? Where is home? Who is home?

On the surface, those questions seem easy. But the more I sit with them, the harder they are to answer. What is the real definition of home? Is it a place you can always return to, unchanged, no matter how long you’ve been away? Is it someone who will always be there—offering safety, acceptance, and love without judgment? Or is home simply an idea, a comforting illusion of permanence, where we assume people and places will remain the same, even if we’ve been gone for years?

The more I think about it, the more I realize there isn’t just one answer.

Looking back, I’ve had several homes. The first, of course, is where I grew up. A place shaped by outside forces—family, rules, moments of safety, moments of chaos. A place of acceptance and rejection, of warmth and struggle. And yet, despite everything, I still call it home. My grandparents are there. My parents, some of my siblings. Friends who have known me since I was a child. Whenever I return, I know I’ll have a bed, familiar streets to walk, familiar faces to greet. But it’s not the place I see myself settling forever—it’s a home of roots, not of wings.

Then there’s Magdeburg, where I trained as a dispensing optician. That city still holds echoes of handball matches, two-hour drives to lose against stronger teams, and the laughter of teammates on the way back, beers in hand (except for the driver, of course). A place of early adulthood, of trial and error.

And Jena—if I had to choose one place that still feels like home in the deepest sense, it would be there. The town where I studied, lived in flats filled with music, late-night talks, heartbreak, laughter, and the kind of friendships that leave permanent imprints. Jena gave me challenges, achievements, and memories that live both in my body and my soul. Many of the people I met there remain in my life, even from far away—supporting, checking in, sharing their own journeys. When I think of Jena, I can’t help but smile.

Iceland, too, has its claim. I lived there only briefly, working on a husky farm surrounded by raw nature, cold winds, expensive beer, and endless chocolate. It was wild, beautiful, unforgettable. For a moment, I thought: maybe this could be home. But deep down, I knew it was a place to explore, not to settle. Iceland will always be a home I visit, not one I keep.

And then, New Zealand. My home now, for nearly three years. A place that has shaped me daily, giving me adventures, friendships, challenges, setbacks, and new ways of seeing myself. A place of breathtaking landscapes and equally breathtaking lessons. Here I’ve grown, been humbled, been lifted, and been broken open. Here, I’ve learned as much from pushbacks as from triumphs.

And so I’m starting to realize: home isn’t just a single place or person. It’s a unique combination of where, what, who, and maybe even when. Home is a landscape you never tire of exploring. It’s people who support and accept you. It’s the version of yourself that feels most alive, most real, in that particular moment of life.

Home, I think, is less a destination and more a shifting constellation. It changes as we change. And maybe that’s the beauty of it.

And so, at the heart of all this, there is change. Inevitable, constant, unstoppable. Places change. People change. Time flows, circumstances shift. Even when we tell ourselves that nothing has changed, it is only a comforting thought, a fleeting idea, a cloud drifting across the sky of our mind. That cloud is never still—it moves, reshapes, dissolves, reforms.

Everything changes, every single moment. Everywhere. With everyone. With everything. The landscape we see today will be different tomorrow. The person we knew yesterday is not the same today. Even our own selves, quietly, invisibly, are reshaping with every breath, every step, every choice.

And as we move, so too do we change. We are shaped by where we’ve been, by the people we meet, by the experiences we carry. We reshape ourselves, slowly or suddenly, consciously or without knowing. We are not static observers in a moving world—we are part of the flow, flowing, growing, falling, rising, learning, becoming.

To embrace this truth is to embrace life itself. To understand that the illusion of permanence is just that: an illusion. And to move through the world fully alive, knowing that each moment, each encounter, each journey changes us—and that in change, there is both loss and gain, endings and beginnings, grief and joy, fear and wonder.

We are constantly moving, constantly reshaping, constantly changing. And in that, perhaps, we find the closest thing to home: not a place, not a person, but the ongoing, living process of becoming ourselves in the ever-changing world around us.

What else to say?

Life. Death. Home. Change. Somehow different, somehow connected, and inevitable. Death makes us appreciate life. Darkness makes us appreciate light. Home gives us a sense of constancy. And constancy makes us recognize change. Change reminds us that nothing stands still, that nothing is meant to last forever, and that every moment is precious. Every encounter is unique; every smile, hug, or laugh shared is special in its own way.

Of course, it would be easy to end with classic statements like “embrace every moment” or “enjoy every moment.” But from experience, I know that I am often too much in my own head, too busy with thoughts, to fully savor, fully embrace, fully live every single instant of life. To try to do so constantly would be overwhelming.

From my perspective, it is far more important to notice the small, meaningful moments. To catch yourself, even once a day, appreciating a single detail—a raindrop on your skin, the song of a little bird, the smile of a stranger. These fleeting, delicate fragments of life are unique, special, and worth observing, enjoying, and being grateful for.

Life does not demand grand gestures or perfect attention. It asks only that we occasionally pause, look around, and recognize the beauty in what is fleeting. In that recognition, in that quiet awareness, we find gratitude, presence, and a gentle kind of joy.

Dingy, over and out.

Your DingyInternational
Felix