Somehow, I missed the fact that there have been over 23000 visits to this blog since it started back in 2008. That’s despite not having written for 6 of those years! I know some people would only have stumbled upon it after googling New Zealand or something similar, and left after a few seconds of realising it wasn’t what they were after, but still, 23000 visits! I'm not doing this for the fame or glory though, there certainly isn't any of that. When I am feeling philosophical and reflective, I need to write and then let the words speak back to me. Things become so much clearer and more comfortable. Problems seem to diminish, angers seem to subside and contentedness becomes heightened. That is why I am here and that is why I am doing this. For me and my sanity.
Something which has come to light during the national recovery of the post Covid-19 era, is domestic tourism needs help. New Zealand's biggest earner is tourism, international visitors arriving in their millions to our island nation. As a result, tourist activities and accommodation have now priced domestic travelers out of the market. Recent studies have shown the unsustainable reliance we have placed on international visitors splurging with the euphoria of travel. They are willing to spend big on accommodation, extra on tours, seek out more experiences with the attitude that after all, we are on holiday so let’s live a little. Now, we need domestic tourism to kick in to stave off tourism business failures, but their are few of us that can afford the same prices demanded by tourism providers. You can't have it both ways. Make is affordable for the domestic market, or stop complaining you don't have the support of domestic customers. Simple.
I used to think that going back to somewhere special was a senseless risk not worth taking. Whether it be a special location, a rewarding workplace or extraordinary experience, these things are always preserved at a point of high regard. I have many of these accumulating in my life so going back to any could alter whatever it was that made the place or memory so special - it could be crushed. However, not too long ago it was with some trepidation but a little excitement that I ventured back to one such place. For many years it had survived on as the epitome of my formative experiences, from which everything I am today was based upon and to where all my achievements can be credited. But I felt I was ready to return, and indeed needed to. Something about it felt unfinished. Maybe a return would complete some sort of unseen cycle that I started all those years ago. And it did. Going back did complete the cycle. I left with a lighter sense of being than what I had going in, still without any real clarity of what that was, but it felt like that chapter finally closed. I can see now though that this place had lived on unchanged in my mind for years, and because of that, I sensed I was missing out on great things as I was no longer there. But going back made me see everything was different. I was different. My memories had hybridised and taken on lives of their own, never to match the reality that time had changed the place, the people and the protagonist – me. So as that chapter is now closed, I still have the memories, but time to start a new one. And I no longer think going back to somewhere special is a risk – it’s a gift.
I take it as given that serious travel experiences must involve long distances, expensive flights or months of planning - preferably all three. The thought is we cannot possibly have worthwhile experiences or once in a lifetime opportunities without the effort and expense equaling reward. I also recall an old saying about fences and the grass been greener, or something along those lines. So here I sit, having just traversed some of the most stunning countryside in all my travels, all within a few hours' drive of my home. Yet I still can't shake that thought as I plan my next trip - it's got to involve a long distance, it will cost a fortune so I had better start planning it now. That grass is always going appear greener.
We have come a long way from living in caves while fighting off mega beasts and eating whatever we found, simply to survive to the next day. We were as equal to all others creatures in the evolving ecosystems, liable to be eaten, defeated by the elements or die of starvation. Then we got wily and developed tools and fire and thus began our journey towards modern humans. So, waking up in a tent to –4 Celsius this morning should be in my DNA, but it felt tough. But as I thought about this, it felt like I had betrayed someone deep within me. The caveman who fought off mega beasts, the early tribal clans who clashed with their neighbours, the explorers from all continents who suffered great loss and hardship as did the cultures they encountered. Then came a sudden realisation that I had become soft to the real meaning of life being tough. I just need to make another cup of hot coffee and get over it.
Travel, I feel, is a basic human instinct. Our ancestors did not sit on a couch scrolling social media. They wandered the earth searching for food, shelter and territory, expanding across vast oceans and great continents. Over a millennium this instinct has weakened for many, but not for me. As a young child I dreamed of places far from my humble small-town surroundings, where my imagination was lifted by the dry winds that parched the surrounding desert. Not knowing where these places were and what I would find when I got there, did not diminish the awareness I sensed that destiny would be my guide. And so it has been, but the journey of discovery is not over yet. I hear that familiar knock at my door, I have to go, again.
