The people we meet along the way.
Sunset along the East Cape of New Zealand
Hey there,
If you’ve been following my journey in New Zealand this year, you’ve probably heard about some of the insane interactions I’ve had along the way.
But this trip has been completely different from my last one.
Last year, I spent my days chasing surreal sights — Mueller Hut and its 360º alpine views, repelling down cliffs onto secluded beaches along the West Coast, or getting doused by 1,000 waterfalls in Milford Sound.
I was constantly on the move, road-tripping for days on end, squeezing in as many hikes, summits, and landscapes as possible.
And while there is more to see — I’m departing this evening with two friends into the backcountry; I’ll share those adventures with you when we return — this trip, I have traded experiences for interactions.
And I’m all the better for it.
My good friends Jared Kreiss & Luke Paton, both of whom I met through social media
Below the Clifftop
A few nights ago, I caught a bus to meet some friends at the beach — not some remote, untouched cove like I may prefer, but a city beach, with parking lots and restaurants and people milling around after work.
As my friends and I walked along the shore, eyes forward onto our next destination, paragliders swooped overhead. We soon passed an older man, standing alone, staring towards paragliders roaming from cliff to ocean and back.
He mumbled something as we walked by.
I didn’t catch it. Neither did my friends.
"What did he say?" one of them asked.
I shrugged.
"Maybe he just wanted someone to talk to."
There was a moment of hesitation, but a good story I am always down for, and a strong desire to hear from somebody I will never see again overwhelmed, so I turned around.
His name was Maurice. Within minutes, we were deep in conversation.
I started by asking him what he was up to:
Maurice is a charter bus driver who spends his Friday nights driving middle school kids to go surfing. A true Kiwi pastime.
We talked about youth, about drugs, about how so many people get lost in life before they even have a chance to start. We talked about what it means to be truly present — to not just exist in the world, but to experience it.
We talked about the interstate the US government offered to build after the War across the entire country, and we talked about the Kiwi's denial.
And walking away from that interaction, I thought:
If I had been rushing through these very moments, spending my days worried about where I was going next — for me, there, in a very physical sense, but perhaps for you, anxiety about work or college or relationships or all else…
If I had been focused on the “next big thing”, I’d never have caught a glimpse of the wisdom and insight sourced from a man in front of my very eyes, much more seasoned than I,
And, notably,
in pursuit of more, I would have actually created a life with less.
Making friends when Jared’s van’s battery died after visiting a church in Palmerston, South Island — a few moments of waiting on jumper cables and we all shook hands then went our separate ways.
A Fijian, A Truck, and an Unlikely Ride
A few weeks ago, I was hitchhiking from a gravel pullout alongside a gas station, standing under the harsh New Zealand sun, shifting my weight from foot to foot as car after car passed me by, often without even a wave.
(It’s always nice to be acknowledged, even if they are speeding past)
Meanwhile, truck drivers would roll by, and I’d give them a tip of my hat, and they would return a wave.
Truck drivers don’t pick up hitchhikers anymore, this is common knowledge. Not because they don’t want to — rather due to a crazy fight between a hitchhiker and a driver a few years back, companies forbid it.
(One was a Jew, one was a Muslim, and they didn't discover that they hated eachother until they were 3 hours into their drive...)
30 minutes later, standing under the blazing New Zealand sun which pierces through a hole in the Ozone layer, I saw a man walk out of the gas station, heading toward his truck.
He glanced my way, then waved me over.
The first time, I thought he must be mistaken.
But the second time, I read his face and knew what he meant:
“Hop in.”
His Fijian name, I could not pronounce then nor remember now, though the sound lingers in my mind. He was an adamant man — dark brown skin, large in stature, and confident in all expressions, including his waves.
As soon as I climbed in, he laid it out straight:
his truck had no cameras, only a GPS tracker. So despite company policy, if he timed it right and picked me up and dropped me off at gas stations, he could give me a ride without anyone knowing.
We pulled away, and immediately, he offered me one of his sausage rolls and an energy drink. I declined one, then the other, content with my sour worms and Sprite (healthy).
He chuckled, shaking his head, saying that it was cultural: he couldn’t invite somebody along and not offer what he had intended to have for himself.
As we got on our way, we began to chat. He's been in New Zealand for 14 years, driving trucks only for 1. The gentleman who brought him into this job, the Fijian has the utmost respect for.
The owner paid for him to get his commercial license, and with an attitude I have seldom seen in any of my travels, he felt a strong debt was owed to that man.
He drives routes no other drivers at the company will take, and he works hours no other man at the company will work...
As a thank you.
And at the end of it all, when Friday night comes around, he heads off into Christchurch, the largest city on the South Island, and works as a bouncer, kicking out British vacationers after they mistake him for African and call him the N-word...
But ignoring all that, he noted the absurdity in a different situation:
“People like you come to New Zealand because you love the sun,” he said. “You want to get darker.”
“Yeah?” I replied.
He grinned. “Meanwhile, my friends and I do everything we can to stay out of the sun. We want to be lighter.”
I suppose that is way of the world, huh?
Exploring a remote beach on the North Island with Grace, whose family graciously hosted Jared & I for a week.
The Hospitality Here
Throughout this journey, I’ve found myself surrounded with people who quickly become family.
Now, as I write, I sit at the dining room table of the Patons. Luke and I first connected through a mutual friend, exchanging messages on Instagram now and then.
I never intended to spend so much time amongst this family: Luke and I had only discussed a few overnight hikes. They were to be a stop along the way to a destination yet determined. But now I've spent weeks (plural) eating dinner with them, herding sheep with Luke's father, and even butchering an animal or two.
The Paton’s have been the pinnacle of hospitality.
Nowhere else in New Zealand have I, for instance, been told to ‘use as much water as you need’ while washing my hair. And nowhere else do I feel the comfort to toss my clothes in the washer without a question, or unload the dishes after dinner.
But the principle of hospitality is something I’ve encountered elsewhere, and it seems to define life in this country.
That truck in the photo above, I was offered to drive it across the country for a friend of a friend of a friend. Gas and the ferry crossing (South to North Island) would be covered, and I’d have a few days to explore en route.
There’s so much to cover in that story, I’ll save it for another newsletter, but whats relevant now is that I asked my good friend Jared to come along; perhaps he brought more adventure to this trip than me.
On our way north — an 18 hour journey in sum — we spent the night at Auntie and Uncle Gush’s. Jared grew up in the capital, Wellington, before spending his teenage years in the States. He hadn’t seen the Gush’s for close to a decade.
But here I was, sitting with an empty plate at their dinner table, only for a moment before Auntie Gush demanded I take my share of the roast beef dinner.
In true Samoan fashion, she was unimpressed by my ‘lightweight’ appetite.
Though she bought my explanation of being poor and traveling across a foreign country, often stuck eating protein bars or salami, she declared that wouldn’t fly anymore, insisting I take my fill while under her roof.
And for that, I no doubt still find sustenance and am grateful.
Likewise, upon our return, we stayed with more family friends (another email to cover this, surely) and had dinner with others — the Pau’us.
Samoan they are; dinner was a feast again. Green Bananas — I believe they are blanched and served in a coconut cream; quite sublime, in addition to four other main courses.
But what they served was more than a meal.
In our post-dinner conversation, which lasted close to four hours, approaching midnight, I found insight and wisdom once again from people I had no idea I’d be meeting a day before.
For instance, Gabriel, one of their daughters, was seeking ways to document her family’s history — both here in New Zealand, and back in Samoa.
The stories, the traditions, the culture, the identity, even down to the land ownership.
Over dessert I was getting not only a schooling on Samoan culture — which in many ways has become so embedded in Kiwi culture that it helps explains the hospitality of all I’ve met — but also insight into something I’ve longed to do myself, documenting my parents families and history
That’s the experience travel provides, when you become comfortable with the lack of rigidity.
Like life, travel teaches you when to stand firm on stone and when to let go, floating in the tides like a jellyfish.
You might not be able (or want) to hitchhike across a foreign country or drop everything to travel for months.
But the real adventure isn’t just in the places you go — it’s in the people you meet along the way… at home or abroad.
A family photo after dinner with the aforementioned Pau’us
If there’s one thing I hope you take away from my travels, it’s this:
👉 Don’t rush through the moment.
The best experiences? They’re seldom planned.
And they might only happen when you’re willing slow down long enough to let them find you.