The Māori culture in New Zealand…

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Traditional Māori meeting house near Oakura Beach. Visit this site for more information.

Note: All photos posted today were taken during our 2016 trip to New Zealand. See the post here.

Visiting New Zealand today, it is impossible not to feel the living presence of Māori culture woven into daily life. It is there in the greetings we hear at the supermarket, in the place names that roll off the tongue like poetry, and in the quiet respect shown before meetings, ceremonies, and shared moments. Māori are not a people of the past here. They are very much of the present, carrying ancient roots while navigating a modern world with resilience, creativity, and great pride.

Māori are the tangata whenua, the people of the land, whose ancestors arrived in Aotearoa centuries ago by ocean-going waka, guided by stars, currents, and an intimate understanding of nature. That connection to the land remains central today. Even in cities, many Māori speak of whenua with the tenderness one might reserve for a family member. Land is not something owned in the Western sense but something that holds identity, ancestry, and responsibility. This worldview continues to shape how many Māori approach environmental care, community life, and decision-making in contemporary New Zealand.

In everyday interactions, te reo Māori is increasingly heard and seen. For many years, the language was suppressed, and generations grew up discouraged from speaking it. Today, there is a strong and hopeful revival. Māori language classes are popular among Māori and non-Māori alike. Television, radio, and schools embrace te reo, and bilingual signs are common. Hearing a simple kia ora offered with warmth feels like an invitation rather than a formality, a small reminder that language carries spirit and belonging.

The Māori had set up tents for a special event.

Current-day Māori life is diverse. Some live in rural communities closely tied to ancestral lands and marae, while others thrive in cities, balancing careers, families, and cultural obligations. There is no single Māori experience. Many Māori work as artists, teachers, doctors, entrepreneurs, and activists, while others focus on preserving traditional knowledge through carving, weaving, kapa haka, and oral history. What often unites these varied paths is the importance of whānau. Family extends beyond the nuclear household to include grandparents, cousins, and community, creating a strong network of care and responsibility.

The marae remains a powerful anchor in Māori life. Even for those who live far away, returning to the marae for gatherings, funerals, weddings, and celebrations is deeply significant. Stepping onto a marae, as shown in the main photo above, is an act of respect and humility, where protocol matters, and stories are shared across generations. In a fast-paced world, the marae offers a place to slow down, to listen, and to remember who you are and where you come from.

Māori today also stand at the forefront of conversations about justice, equity, and the country’s future. The Treaty of Waitangi, signed in the nineteenth century, remains central to national dialogue. Many Māori continue to seek recognition, restitution, and partnership promised in that document. These discussions are not just political. They are personal, tied to histories of loss and resilience. At the same time, there is a growing sense that these conversations are shaping a more honest and inclusive national identity.

What feels especially striking is how Māori values resonate in uncertain times. Concepts like manaakitanga, caring for others, and kaitiakitanga, guardianship of the environment, feel deeply relevant in a world facing climate change and social fragmentation. Māori leaders, elders, and youth alike often speak about thinking seven generations ahead, a perspective that gently challenges the short-term thinking so common elsewhere.

As travelers, we sense that learning about Māori culture is not about ticking off experiences or performances. It is about listening, observing, and approaching with humility. The stories are layered, sometimes painful, often inspiring, and always alive. Current-day Māori people are not frozen in tradition nor separated from it. They move between worlds with grace, carrying ancestral knowledge while shaping new futures.

In Aotearoa today, Māori culture feels like a steady heartbeat beneath the surface of daily life. Sometimes it is loud and celebratory, other times quiet and grounding. But it is always present, reminding us that this land has memory, that people endure, and that identity is something lived, not just remembered.

We hope our readers have found this topic interesting.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 29, 2016:

Many place names and signs are based on the indigenous inhabitants of New Zealand, the Māori, whose language has had official language status, with the right to use it in legal settings such as in court, since the Māori Language Act 1987. There are around 70,000 native speakers of Māori out of a population of over 500,000 Māori people, with 161,000 of the country’s 4 million residents claiming conversational ability in Māori.” For more photos, please click here.

Fascinating beauty but often risky beaches worldwide…

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The rocky cliffs and sprawling shoreline in New Plymouth, New Zealand. Photo taken in March 2016. See the post here.

When we think of beaches, our minds usually drift toward postcards and daydreams: turquoise water, soft sand, the sight and sound of waves breathing in and out. Beaches are supposed to be gentle places, where time slows, and worries dissolve. Yet, as we’ve learned over years of travel, some of the most beautiful shorelines on Earth also carry an undercurrent of danger, sometimes obvious, sometimes invisible, and often underestimated by visitors caught up in the spell of the sea.

It’s this contrast that makes dangerous beaches so compelling. They look like paradise, but they demand respect.

Take Hanakapiai Beach on Kauai, for example. The hike to reach it is lush and intoxicating, every step drawing you deeper into a tropical dream. But the ocean here is unforgiving. There’s no protective reef, and powerful rip currents have claimed many lives. Standing on the sand, watching the waves roll in, it’s hard to reconcile the beauty with the warning signs. The sea doesn’t shout its danger; it whispers it, calmly, persistently. We never visited this beach while in Kauai.

Further south, Playa Zipolite in Oaxaca, Mexico, is nicknamed “The Beach of the Dead.” That name alone says it all. The waves break fast and hard, and unpredictable currents pull swimmers out with alarming strength. Yet the beach is popular, beloved even, its wide sands and bohemian vibe masking the reality beneath the surface. It’s a reminder that danger doesn’t always repel us; sometimes, it coexists with charm.

In Australia, danger feels more overt but no less complex. Bondi Beach, iconic and bustling, surprises many people by making this list. Despite lifeguards and clear swimming zones, powerful rips are common. Then there’s Cape Tribulation in Queensland, where the threats extend beyond the water. Saltwater crocodiles lurk in estuaries, box jellyfish drift invisibly through the sea, and cassowaries patrol the rainforest edges. It’s a place where nature hasn’t been softened for tourism, and it makes no apologies for that. While in this area in 2017, we walked along many estuaries with crocodile warning signs. And, while visiting a wildlife/beach area, a cassowary approached us, and we quickly moved away.

South Africa’s coastline carries its own reputation. Gansbaai, often called the Great White Shark Capital of the World, in Cape Town, is breathtaking in a raw, elemental way. Standing on the cliffs, one feels small, aware that the ocean here belongs to something older and far more powerful than us. Even without seeing a fin, the knowledge alone changes how one feels when watching the water.

Then there are beaches where the danger lies not in teeth or tides, but in geography. Reynisfjara Beach in Iceland looks otherworldly, with black volcanic sand and towering basalt columns. It feels quiet, almost solemn. But the sneaker waves, sudden and powerful surges, have swept people into icy water with terrifying speed. Many visitors underestimate the force because the ocean looks calm, almost polite. It isn’t. Although we toured Iceland in 2014, it was pouring rain, and we didn’t venture close to this beach.

Brazil’s Praia de Boa Viagem in Recife tells a similar story of hidden risk. Shark attacks increased here after changes to the coastline disrupted natural feeding patterns. The water looks inviting, warm, and familiar, but signs warn swimmers to stay close to shore. It’s a sobering example of how human intervention can quietly shift the balance of nature, with lasting consequences.

In the Pacific, Chowpatty Beach in Mumbai presents a different kind of danger. Pollution levels are among the highest in the world. Families gather, festivals unfold, laughter fills the air, but the water itself can be hazardous to health. Not all dangerous beaches announce themselves with crashing waves or predators; some carry risks you can’t see at all. Although we toured many of India’s highlights during our year in the country, we spent most of our time (10 months) in lockdown in a hotel room.

What strikes us, again and again, is how often danger and beauty walk hand in hand. These beaches are not “bad” places. They’re honest ones. They remind us that the ocean is not a theme park. It’s a living, breathing force with its own rules.

Of course, there are many other dangerous beaches scattered quietly around the world, places where beauty and risk coexist, rarely announcing themselves in obvious ways. Diani Beach in Kenya is one of those places. When we walked along the Indian Ocean, the shoreline felt almost impossibly peaceful and more beautiful than any beach we’d seen up to that point or beyond. The sand stretched on and on, pale and powdery, the Indian Ocean rolling in with a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. What struck us most was the emptiness. We barely passed another soul, and at the time, it felt like a gift, one of those rare travel moments where you believe you’ve stumbled into something untouched.

The cleanliness of the uncluttered beach along the Indian Ocean at Diani Beach, Kenya, in 2013, made us feel as if we were taking the first human step onto an uninhabited island. For this post, please click here.

Only later did we learn the fuller story.

Despite its postcard-perfect appearance, parts of Diani Beach have a troubling reputation for rampant criminal activity, including muggings and, tragically, deadly attacks on tourists in the past. The danger wasn’t in the water or the tides, but on land, hidden behind palm trees and silence. That realization lingered with us long after, reshaping the memory of that walk.

It was a sobering reminder that danger doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it arrives quietly, wrapped in stillness and sunshine. As travelers, we carry these moments with us, not as fear, but as lessons. Beauty alone is never the whole story, and awareness, like respect for nature, is something we learn to pack alongside curiosity wherever we go.

As travelers, especially long-term ones, we learn to listen. To read the signs, both literal and intuitive. To ask locals. To watch how the water moves, how quickly waves rise and fall. And sometimes, to choose not to approach, even when the day is warm, and the sea is calling.

Dangerous beaches don’t diminish our love for the world; they deepen it. They teach humility. They remind us that awe and caution can, and should, exist together. And perhaps most importantly, they show us that respect for nature isn’t fear. It’s gratitude, expressed through restraint.

Be well.

Photos from ten years ago today, January 28, 2016:

There wasn’t a post on this date in 2016.

Is there a bridge between New Zealand’s North and South Island?…

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Yesterday, I stumbled across the following video. If you’re interested in geography, this may appeal to you, along with today’s story:  https://youtube.com/shorts/-hSwHxNVoAU?si=wOYvewVJVmVWwVQL.

Standing on the edge of either island in New Zealand, it’s hard not to wonder why, after all these years, all this ingenuity, and all stubborn human determination, there is still no bridge stretching across Cook Strait. The question feels especially natural when one is living here, watching ferries inch across restless water, checking weather apps with fingers crossed, and quietly hoping the wind will hold just long enough for safe passage. And yet, the absence of a bridge isn’t an oversight. It’s a deliberate, deeply practical decision shaped by nature, history, and humility. The two islands are 14 miles, 22 kilometers apart.

Cook Strait is not a polite body of water. It is one of the most unpredictable and hostile stretches of sea in the world. Where the Pacific Ocean collides with the Tasman Sea, powerful currents squeeze through a narrow gap between the North and South Islands, accelerating with astonishing force. The tides reverse direction several times a day, creating swirling eddies, standing waves, and sudden surges that can catch even experienced sailors off guard. Add frequent gale-force winds, and Wellington is famously windy for a reason; it has an environment that resists permanent human structures.

Then there’s the depth. Cook Strait plunges to depths of more than 120 meters (nearly 400 feet) in places, far deeper than many of the world’s bridged waterways. Building bridge pylons would require anchoring into a seabed that drops away steeply and unevenly, making construction not just expensive but technically daunting. Unlike rivers or shallow channels, this isn’t a place where you sink supports and build upward. The sea floor itself seems to say, “Not here.”

New Zealand also sits astride the boundary of two massive tectonic plates, the Pacific Plate and the Australian Plate, which are in constant, grinding motion. Cook Strait lies directly within this seismic zone. Earthquakes are not a remote possibility; they are an accepted part of life. Any bridge would need to withstand powerful seismic activity while simultaneously enduring relentless wind, waves, and corrosion from salt spray. Engineering something that could survive all three in the long term would push even modern technology to its limits.

Cost, of course, looms large. Estimates for a Cook Strait bridge, or even a tunnel, run into tens of billions of dollars. For a country with a relatively small population (5.34 million), that kind of investment must be weighed against hospitals, housing, roads, and climate resilience. Ferries, for all their frustrations and delays, remain vastly cheaper and more flexible. They can be upgraded, replaced, rerouted, or paused when conditions turn dangerous, something a fixed structure can’t do.

There’s also a more philosophical reason. New Zealanders tend to respect the land and sea in a way that feels deeply ingrained. The Māori worldview, in particular, emphasizes balance, guardianship, and coexistence with nature rather than dominance over it. Cook Strait, known as Raukawa Moana by the Māori people, is seen not just as an obstacle to conquer, but as a powerful living entity in its own right. Sometimes, choosing not to build is a form of wisdom.

As travelers and temporary residents, we’ve come to see the ferries as part of life here and in many other parts of the world. Yes, they can be delayed. Yes, the crossings can be rough. But something is grounding about watching the coastline fade behind you, knowing that this stretch of water remains untamed. In a world obsessed with connection at any cost, New Zealand’s lack of a bridge across the Cook Strait feels like a quiet reminder: not every gap needs to be closed. Some are meant to be crossed with patience, respect, and a healthy acceptance of nature’s authority.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 27, 2016:

“Ah, I’m so happy they stopped by to see us!” say these cows as we walked past in New Zealand. For more photos, please click here.

Why don’t we have to pay for international phone calls from any location in the world?…

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We can call family and friends at no charge, as described below.

After years of juggling physical SIM cards, experimenting with various eSIM apps, and constantly asking ourselves “Which plan are we on right now?”, we finally reached a point where simplicity became more valuable than chasing the cheapest short-term option. A few years ago, we decided to sign up for T-Mobile in the US (two-year plan with free phone upgrade), choosing a plan that includes unlimited US calls, texts, and 5 GB international data a month (unlimited data while in the US) for both phones for US $100 a month (about NZ $168.20). For full-time travelers like us, this one decision removed a surprising amount of time and mental clutter.

At the time, our dear friend Gerhard gently reminded us of something we hadn’t fully appreciated before: WiFi Calling. His timing couldn’t have been better. He explained that as long as we had a strong internet connection, we could make and receive calls as if we were physically in the United States, no matter where in the world we were. That simple reminder has saved us money and stress.

WiFi Calling is one of those features that quietly exists on most modern smartphones, yet many people don’t realize how powerful it can be. Once enabled, you’ll usually see the words “WiFi Calling” appear at the top of your phone screen. It’s subtle, but before making any call, we always pause and check that those two words are visible. That quick glance has become second nature.

Setting it up is simple and straightforward. On your smartphone, navigate to Settings, then look for Phone or Connections, and toggle WiFi Calling to ON. After that, WiFi Calling works automatically, stepping in whenever mobile coverage is weak or nonexistent. The call still uses your phone’s dialer and feels completely normal, which is part of the magic.

Why are we so careful about checking that WiFi Calling is active? Because without it, T-Mobile international calls are charged at 25 cents per minute. That may not sound like much, until it is. It’s imperative to ensure your call is actually routed through the phone’s WiFi connection. You do not need to have a “live” cellular connection with your provider; the call simply rides on the internet, bypassing international calling fees entirely.

Last week provided a perfect real-world example of why this matters. Tom called Costco regarding price reductions on our upcoming cruises. That call, entirely worth making, lasted 2.5 hours. See that post here. Thanks to that conversation, we saved over US $6,000 (NZ $10,087.45) on four future Azamara cruises. Had that call gone through T-Mobile’s international rates instead of WiFi Calling, it would have cost us US $127.50 (NZ $214.35) in phone charges alone. Saving thousands was rewarding enough, but saving on the call itself felt like an extra little victory.

What we appreciate most is the freedom this gives us. We can call family and friends or handle business matters at our leisure, without watching the clock or calculating costs in our heads. The only issue is time zone differences, which we work around. That peace of mind is invaluable when you live a life that spans continents and time zones.

That said, we’re also very mindful about when we make calls. When we’re away from our holiday home’s reliable WiFi, driving, sightseeing, or simply on the move, we don’t make international calls unless we’re connected to WiFi. If we’re in a café or restaurant offering free WiFi, we can make calls there as well, provided we once again confirm that WiFi Calling is active.

We deliberately avoid using T-Mobile’s data connection in the car or while out and about, except for essentials like MAPS and other navigation apps, or in an emergency. Even though our plan includes 5 GB per month, we prefer to conserve that data for situations when WiFi isn’t available, such as during a power outage, a network disruption, or while traveling between locations. Experience has taught us that having data in reserve can make all the difference.

I hope this explanation is clear and helpful. If you have questions, please feel free to post a comment rather than sending an email. That way, I can share the answers with everyone who may be reading along.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 26, 2016:

We were blessed to see our first live birth of a “cria,” a baby alpaca, born on the property of our holiday home in New Plymouth, New Zealand. The cria was opening her eyes. For the full story and more photos, please click here.

Fascinating life saving event in Marloth Park with video…

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This poor giraffe had this stcu on his hoof.

Click here first to see the video of the removal of the above: https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1Q1WjLAwc9/

Click this video next to see the end result: https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1ZNcA2vLGp/

Although we are far away, we remain deeply tethered to Marloth Park through the steady, comforting influx of messages, photos, and shared concern. We stay in close touch with our many friends who live there, and we follow along almost daily through Facebook posts in the group Marloth Park Sighting Page. That simple act of scrolling, reading, and commenting has meant the world to us. It bridges the physical distance and reminds us that connection is not measured in distance, but in care. Even from afar, Marloth still feels like part of our daily lives, especially during this past month of massive rains and relentless flooding that, incredibly, continues.

Watching the storms unfold from a distance has been emotionally complicated. There is the helplessness of not being there, of not being able to look someone in the eye or step outside to assess the damage ourselves. At the same time, a shared vigilance emerges in moments like these. Posts appear at all hours, with roads washed out, fences damaged, rivers swollen beyond recognition. Wildlife sightings take on a different tone, edged with concern rather than delight. The land we know so well has been under siege, and everyone, human and animal alike, has been affected.

A few weeks ago, a series of photos caught our attention. A giraffe had been spotted with a pipe lodged around its leg, stuck just above its foot. It was the kind of image that makes your stomach drop. Giraffes move with such grace and quiet dignity that seeing one encumbered by a human-made object feels especially cruel. The pipe looked rigid and unforgiving, and it wasn’t hard to imagine what could happen if it remained there, swelling, restricted movement, open wounds, infection—a slow, painful outcome for an animal that had done nothing wrong.

Under normal circumstances, one might hope for swift intervention. But there is nothing normal about operating during floods. With roads submerged and large areas inaccessible, the Marloth Park rangers could not reach the giraffe safely. Days passed. Updates were scarce. Each new sighting brought a mix of relief that he was still moving, still alive, and fear that time was working against him. From afar, all we could do was watch, hope, and trust.

Then, a few days ago, everything shifted. We saw the video, that video, and felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. (Please click on the link above if you haven’t already.) There, on the screen, were the rangers at work, finally able to reach the giraffe. The scene was both tense and extraordinary. The giraffe was carefully darted, handled with precision and respect, and his immense body was supported as gently as possible. A generator hummed in the background, powering an electric grinder, an unexpected but necessary tool in this delicate operation.

Watching the pipe being cut away was almost unbearable in its intensity. Sparks flew briefly, hands moved with practiced confidence, and then, finally, the obstacle was gone. The pipe that had threatened so much pain and long-term damage was removed, piece by piece. What struck us most was not just the technical skill involved, but the calm, methodical compassion of the rangers. There was no rush, no drama. There was only focus, professionalism, and care for the animal in front of them.

For those of us who love Marloth Park and its wildlife, moments like this inspire a profound sense of gratitude. The rangers do not simply “do a job.” They shoulder an enormous responsibility, often in dangerous and unpredictable conditions, and they do so with humility and kindness. They intervene when human impact harms wildlife, even when the intervention requires ingenuity, heavy equipment, and hours of planning. They treat each animal as an individual life worth protecting.

From where we sit now, far away, dry, and safe, it is easy to forget how demanding this work truly is. But that video brought it all back into sharp focus. It reminded us why Marloth Park holds such a powerful place in our hearts. It is not just the animals, or the landscape, or even the memories we carry with us. It is the people on the ground, showing up day after day, quietly ensuring that compassion prevails.

Distance has not weakened our connection to Marloth Park; if anything, it has strengthened it. In moments of crisis and triumph, we are reminded that belonging does not require proximity. It requires care. And on that day, watching a giraffe freed from pain by steady, capable hands, we felt deeply grateful to still belong.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 25, 2016:

Although a little tough to see with the long lashes, Mont Blanc has blue eyes and was the “cria’ that escaped the paddock yesterday, leaving us in quite a quandary. For details of this story, please click here.

Horrific landslide on the North Island due to outrageous amounts of rain…

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Not our photo: “At least two people dead and several missing in New Zealand landslides | ITV News.”

Note: Dave, our landlord and new friend, sent me the following message a few days ago: “Hi Jessica, So far this January, we have had 274 mm of rainfall.” 40mm today. Last year at this time, we had had 37 mm, which is the average for January.”

So sorry I didn’t upload a post yesterday. I had written that we’d be offline for a bit due to necessary “bookkeeping tasks” tied to upcoming travel, but somehow I failed to hit publish. Nonetheless, we’re back today, hearts a bit heavier, to share a sobering story from New Zealand’s North Island. Relentless rain has soaked the land beyond its limits, triggering landslides that swept away homes and, tragically, claimed lives. Our thoughts are with those facing loss, uncertainty, and the long road toward recovery.

The North Island of New Zealand recently experienced rain so relentless that the land itself seemed to give way beneath its weight. What began as a stubborn grey sky, like an old bruise across the horizon, turned into days and days of torrential downpour. Rivers swelled beyond their banks. Roads vanished under brown torrents. And steep hillsides, soaked through to their foundations, finally surrendered in catastrophic landslides. The scenes unfolding across the island feel surreal, yet they are painfully real.

Somewhere between two and a half months’ worth of rainfall fell in just 12 hours in parts of the Bay of Plenty, where the earth, saturated and weary, could no longer cling to itself. Grass, trees, and soil loosened like pages from a well-thumbed book, tumbling down with a noise locals likened to moving thunder. At Mount Maunganui Beachside Holiday Park, a beloved campground perched at the foot of Mauao, “The Mount,” the hillside let loose. Tents and campervans were crushed,  and in their wake, people went missing. There were moments, desperate and human, when rescuers and bystanders heard voices from beneath the rubble only to be forced back by unstable ground.

I find myself thinking about those voices, faint, hopeful calls for help carried on rain-muffled air, and what it must feel like to be trapped under earth and sky at once. To be held by the land and yet at its mercy is a strange, harrowing duality. New Zealanders call these slips… slips, a modest term for something that can rip homes from foundations and forever alter landscapes. But on this scale, with entire sections of hillside sliding into chaos, the term feels too gentle.

Two lives have already been lost, precious human stories cut short, and at least seven others are unaccounted for as emergency crews, dogs, heavy machinery, and helicopters comb the debris. One individual was swept away near Auckland when floodwaters surged without warning. These numbers, sparse though they may seem against the backdrop of an entire island in crisis, represent families, futures, and the profound fragility of everyday life.

And it hasn’t been confined to one place. “States of emergency” have now been declared across multiple regions, from Northland to the eastern Bay of Plenty and Waikato, a chorus of alerts that feels like a nation calling in its deepest breaths, waiting for the next sky-borne assault. Rivers have carved new channels through farmland; highways and bridges lie closed or unstable under the unyielding water. Thousands remain without power. Homes stand in ankle-deep, muddy pools, while, far from the floodplains, hills tremble with the threat of further slides.

Amid the fear and chaos, though, there are stories of compassion and courage. Communities have rallied to support rescue crews. Strangers shared food and shelter with those displaced. And first responders, exhausted but undaunted, work long into the night, searching for signs of life. The Prime Minister, Christopher Luxon, has pledged all possible government support, urging people to heed safety warnings and look out for one another with quiet resolve.

This is not just another storm on another island; it is a stark testament to how weather can reshape the texture of daily life in an instant. For those of us who travel, who study landscapes with awe and affection, it is a reminder of both the beauty and the ungovernable force of nature. Rain, which falls in gentle, life-giving showers one season, can turn into something ferocious, reshaping the world and leaving deep wounds in soil and soul alike.

As the North Island slowly begins to dry, to rebuild, to search and grieve, I’m left with the echo of rain pounding on the roof at night, a sound that once lulled me to sleep on summer nights now carries the weight of loss and the promise of renewal in its wake. And as always in Aotearoa, the Māori name for New Zealand, the land will remember, and slowly people will again walk these hillsides, footprints returning, inch by careful inch.

Although the landslide occurred far from where we are staying, living day to day in this very hilly landscape brings the reality uncomfortably close. Each morning, we look out at steep slopes softened by rain, their edges blurred and darkened, and we’re reminded how little separates beauty from danger. The land here is stunning, generous, and alive, but it is not passive. After days of relentless rain, every hillside feels watchful, heavy with possibility. It’s a quiet reminder of our vulnerability, of how temporary our sense of safety can be, and how deeply we depend on the land’s willingness to hold us.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 23, 2016:

The pregnant alpaca with this adorable, unusual white marking on her face, the day prior to giving birth. For more photos, please click here.

You won’t believe what Tom did today!…

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What do these US dollar signs mean on this Azamara ship? See below for details.

After perusing Costco Travel for price drops on our four upcoming Azamara cruises in 2027, he was thrilled to see that each had dropped substantially. Not a few dollars here or there, but the kind of price drops that make your eyebrows lift and your heart beat just a little faster. The same cabins. The same itineraries. The same sailings we’d already committed to, penciled into our future like promises. Only now, suddenly, there were hundreds, possibly thousands, of dollars less expensive. Please keep in mind that such price drops may only be available to US citizens.

Without hesitation, he picked up the phone and called Costco Travel.

Normally, this is where the ritual begins. You put the phone on speaker, brace yourself, and go about your day while waiting the expected 30 to 60 minutes to connect with a live human being. It’s almost a game for us at this point: How much can you get done while on hold? Laundry folded, dishes washed, emails answered, maybe even a meal cooked. The hold music becomes the soundtrack to productivity.

But this time was different.

They answered after the second ring.

We both froze, exchanging the kind of look that says, Well, that’s never happened before. Surely a fluke. A cosmic travel anomaly. Maybe someone accidentally picked up the phone too quickly. Whatever the reason, he was connected instantly, and optimism filled the room. This was going to be easy, we thought. A quick conversation, a few clicks on their end, and voilà—money saved.

Fast-forward to the present moment as I write this: he has been on the phone for over 2 hours, 34 minutes. Luckily, he’s using WiFi calling and will not be charged for the very long-distance call using T-Mobile at $.25 per minute. But even if he were paying for the call, it would still be worthwhile.

Scroll to the end of this post for the total savings.

Over two hours of polite explanations, long holds, keyboard clacking in the background, and the occasional reassuring, “I’m still here.” Over two hours of navigating the complex inner workings of cruise pricing, fare codes, guarantees, and systems that don’t always speak to one another as smoothly as one would hope. Over two hours that might sound excessive to some, but to us feels oddly familiar, part of the unglamorous side of long-term travel planning that rarely makes it into glossy brochures or Instagram reels.

Here’s the thing many people don’t realize: when you book a cruise with a lowest-price guarantee, it’s not a simple matter of pressing a button when prices drop. There is real work involved on the part of Costco or any other booking service. Each booking has to be re-priced manually. after back and forth calls with the cruise line. Each fare has to be checked against the original contract. Each change must be approved, processed, documented, and, if necessary, escalated. Multiply that by four cruises, all scheduled for 2027, and suddenly you understand why this isn’t a five-minute task.

And yet, it’s almost always worth it.

Because this is the quiet art of travel math, the behind-the-scenes effort that can mean the difference between “just making it work” and “breathing a little easier.” Saving a few hundred dollars on one cruise might cover a pre-cruise hotel or a memorable shore excursion. Saving thousands across multiple cruises can stretch a travel budget in ways that ripple outward: better flights, longer stays, more experiences, fewer compromises.

This is especially true for those of us who travel slowly and deliberately, who plan far ahead, not out of rigidity but out of intention. Booking early gives us peace of mind, but it also opens the door to these moments when patience and persistence pay off. Prices fluctuate. Markets shift. Cruise lines adjust. And when you’re paying attention…when you take the time to check, to call, to wait, you sometimes get rewarded.

Of course, there’s also a human element to all of this. On the other end of the line is someone doing their best within a system that is anything but simple. We never forget that. Gratitude goes a long way during long phone calls. So does kindness. So does remembering that this person didn’t create the complexity; they’re navigating it alongside you.

As he continues to wait, listening to waiting-time music through his hearing aids, I can’t help but smile. This is part of our lives. The research. The follow-up. The occasional frustration, balanced by those small victories that feel disproportionately satisfying. The knowledge that, even if it takes two hours or three, this effort might quietly fund another sunset, another port, another memory yet to be made.

Travel isn’t just about where you go. It’s also about how you manage the in-between moments, the spreadsheets, the phone calls, the hold music, and the patience. And sometimes, it’s about celebrating the simple fact that the same cabin, on the same ship, sailing to the same beautiful places, will now cost a little less than it did yesterday.

Here are the savings we incurred today on each of the four cruises:

  1. US $3,080

  2. US $1,560

  3. US $1,280

  4. US $  400

Total Savings: US $6,320

That, to us, feels like winning.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 20, 2016:

Ten years ago, we began our three-month stay on the alpaca farm in New Zealand, an absolutely delightful experience which we’ll share in this section/feature over the next few months. For more photos, please click here.

Time is passing too quickly!…What does the science say?…

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There was a time when an hour felt like an eternity. As children, we could sit on the floor waiting for a birthday party to start, staring at the clock, convinced the hands had stalled just to torture us. Summers stretched endlessly, school days crawled, and the idea of “next year” felt impossibly far away.

Somewhere along the way, though, the pace shifted. Now, entire seasons seem to slip past before we’ve fully noticed them. Weeks blur into months, months into years, and we find ourselves asking, almost daily. How did time pass so fast? This sensation isn’t imagined, and it isn’t simply nostalgia playing tricks on us. There is real science behind why time seems to accelerate as we age, and understanding it doesn’t make the feeling disappear, but it does make it feel a little more human.

One of the most straightforward explanations comes from something called” proportional time theory.” When you are five years old, one year represents a staggering 20 percent of your entire life. It’s monumental. When you are fifty, that same year is only two percent. Each unit of time becomes a smaller fraction of the whole. Without realizing it, our brains measure time relative to what we’ve already lived, and the math quietly works against us.

But biology and math alone don’t fully explain why yesterday feels close while decades feel strangely compressed. The real culprit lies in how our brains process novelty.

When we are young, nearly everything is new. First days of school, first friendships, first heartbreaks, first jobs, first homes. Our brains are busy recording, cataloging, and storing enormous amounts of information. I’ve always suspected that our brains are like computers, storing every experience we have. New experiences require more mental energy, and that energy leaves behind dense, detailed memories. When we look back on childhood, those memories are rich and layered, making that period feel long and expansive.

As we age, life naturally becomes more routine. We drive familiar roads, shop at the same stores, and follow similar daily routines. The brain, efficient as it is, stops recording every detail. It doesn’t need to. Familiarity allows it to run on autopilot, conserving energy. The result? Perhaps fewer distinct memories are formed, and when we look back, the time feels compressed, as though it passed more quickly than it actually did.

This is why vacations often feel long while we’re on them, yet astonishingly short once they’re over. New sights, sounds, and experiences stretch our perception of time in the moment and expand it in memory. Routine, on the other hand, shrinks it.

There’s also the matter of internal clocks. As we age, our metabolism and neural processing speed gradually slow. Some scientists believe this subtly alters how we perceive time passing in the moment. Think of it like watching a film at a slightly faster playback speed; everything still happens, but it feels quicker, less weighted.

Emotion plays its part as well. Stress, responsibility, and constant mental load dominate much of adult life. When our minds are preoccupied with planning, worrying, and managing, the present moment doesn’t fully register. We are physically present, but mentally elsewhere. Time, unnoticed, slips through the cracks.

And then there is memory itself, which is far from a perfect recorder. Our brains don’t store time like a calendar; they store it like a scrapbook. (Yet, Tom has a memory that easily stores experiences in particular and distinct time frames). Moments with intense emotion, surprise, or meaning get larger pages. Ordinary days get small ones, or none at all. When we flip back through the years, the pages feel fewer, even though the days were all there.

This is perhaps why aging can feel unsettling. It isn’t just that time is passing; it’s that we’re aware of it in a new way. The future feels closer, the past more crowded, and the present more fragile.

Yet there’s a quiet comfort in knowing this experience is universal. It isn’t that we’re failing to hold onto time; it’s that our brains are doing exactly what they were designed to do. The trick, if there is one, lies in gently resisting autopilot.

Scientists suggest that intentionally introducing novelty, learning new skills, traveling, changing routines, and even taking different walking routes can slow our perception of time, not by stopping the clock, but by thickening the memory. The more vividly we live, the longer life feels in hindsight.

Perhaps that’s why travel feels so meaningful to us. Each new place stretches time open again, if only briefly, reminding us of how expansive life can feel when we pay attention.

Time may move faster as we age, but it hasn’t abandoned us. It’s still there, waiting to be noticed, asking only that we stay curious enough to meet it where it is, one ordinary, extraordinary moment at a time.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 20, 2016:

This huge 1.177-kilo, 2.6-pound boneless grass-fed prime rib is tonight’s dinner, to be cooked on the grill, with a side of mushroom casserole, baby asparagus, and a romaine lettuce salad with homemade dressing. Check out this great price of NZD $17.64, US $11.34! Note: It’s twice that amount in 2026. For more photos, please click here.

The horrific flooding in Kruger National Park and Marloth Park…

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Not our photos. The Crocodile Bridge is completely underwater due to flooding in the area.

Click this link below to see the flooding that has immobilized Kruger National Park and the surrounding areas.

Kruger National Park floods — Reuters TV reports

Currently, while we’re tucked away here in New Zealand, surrounded by green hills and a quieter pace of life, our hearts are anything but settled. Each morning, with coffee in hand, we scroll through Facebook and watch YouTube clips posted by friends in Marloth Park. What we see stops us in our tracks. Familiar roads are no longer roads at all. They’ve become rivers. The Crocodile River, usually a powerful but contained presence, has spilled over its banks with a force that feels both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

The Crocodile Bridge, our usual entrance point into Kruger National Park, is completely submerged. That image alone is jarring. We’ve crossed that bridge countless times, early in the morning, when the air is still cool, and the bush is waking up. We’ve sat in line there, windows cracked, listening to birdsong and watching vervet monkeys dart between trees. To see it now, swallowed by floodwaters, makes the distance between here and there feel immeasurable.

Not our photo.

In the past few days, Kruger National Park has been closed to all visitors from every entrance gate. That fact carries weight far beyond canceled safaris and disappointed tourists. Kruger is not just a park; it’s a living, breathing ecosystem and, for many people, a place of work, home, and deep emotional attachment. When Kruger closes completely, you know the situation is dire.

The devastation is widespread. Many of the camps within the park are underwater, some completely. Roads have washed away. The infrastructure that took years to build and maintain has been damaged in a matter of hours. But what weighs heaviest on our minds is not the physical destruction—it’s the people and the animals who are suffering dearly.

Our friends in Marloth Park are sharing updates that feel surreal. Homes are dangerously close to rising water. Fences twisted or gone altogether. Power outages. Uncertainty hangs thick in the air. Marloth has always lived with wildlife as neighbors, but now both humans and animals are facing a shared vulnerability. Warthogs, impalas, and even predators are being pushed into unfamiliar areas, searching for higher ground and safety, just like the people who live there.

And then there are the animals inside Kruger itself. The images are heartbreaking. Elephants standing in swirling water, trying to keep their footing. Smaller animals cling to patches of land that may not exist tomorrow. We know nature is resilient, and floods are part of natural cycles, but knowing that doesn’t make watching this any easier. The sheer scale of the flooding feels overwhelming, and the long-term impact on wildlife won’t be fully understood for months, perhaps years.

Not our photo. The Crocodile Bridge is totally underwater.

Being so far away adds another layer of helplessness. New Zealand feels impossibly calm by comparison. The rain here falls gently. Rivers rise and fall without drama. Life continues as normal, and yet our minds are thousands of miles away, fixed on a place that has come to mean so much to us. Marloth Park isn’t just somewhere we stayed—it’s a community that welcomed us, a place where we learned to live in closer harmony with nature, where the wild wasn’t something you visited, but something you coexisted with daily.

Here is an unbelievable article about crocodiles invading houses as their natural habitat is destroyed by flooding. 

We think about the staff in Kruger, many of whom live on or near the park, now dealing with both professional and personal loss. We think about the guides, rangers, camp workers, and families whose livelihoods depend on tourism. When the park closes, the ripple effects extend far beyond the gates.

This flooding is a stark reminder of how fragile even the most powerful landscapes can be. Kruger feels timeless when you’re there, ancient, unchanging, eternal. But moments like this strip away that illusion and remind us that nature is dynamic, unpredictable, and sometimes devastating.

For now, all we can do is watch, share updates, and hold Marloth Park and Kruger National Park close in our thoughts. We’re hoping for receding waters, for safety, for resilience, and for recovery, both for the people who call that area home and for the animals who have no choice but to weather the storm. The pelting rain continues.

Even from the other side of the world, our connection to that place remains strong. Distance doesn’t dull concern, and it certainly doesn’t erase love for a place that has left such a lasting imprint on our hearts.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 19, 2016:

Although far and few between, we stopped at a few scenic overlooks in the rain in New Zealand. For more photos, please click here.

Most turbulent air travel routes in the world…

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Not our photo. Ugh, we’ve experienced a lot of turbulence over the past 13 years of world travel.

The following story is from Travel+Leisure online magazine here:

“These Are the Most Turbulent Flight Routes in the World—and No. 1 Flies Through Air Notoriously Called ‘Mountain Wave’

A bumpy bout of turbulence can be an uncomfortable experience. By Michael Cappetta, published on January 15, 2026

A bumpy bout of turbulence can be an uncomfortable experience, but a new report has revealed that some air routes are more prone to rougher skies than others.

The route between Mendoza, Argentina’s El Plumerillo International Airport (MDZ), and Santiago, Chile’s Arturo Merino Benitez International Airport (SCL) was the most turbulent global route for 2025, according to a report from turbulence tracking site Turbli. It was the second year in a row that the route, notoriously nicknamed “mountain wave,” came in as the bumpiest in the world.

Within the United States, travelers in the mountainous Southwest were more likely to experience turbulence, according to the report.

The most turbulent route in the U.S. was between Denver International Airport (DEN) and Jackson Hole Airport (JAC), followed by flights between Albuquerque International Sunport (ABQ) and DEN. The route between JAC and Salt Lake City International Airport (SLC) rounded out the top three.

Several cities made frequent appearances in the top 10, including Bozeman, Salt Lake City, and Denver. In fact, DEN was ranked the most turbulent airport in the US. and the seventh most turbulent airport in the world.

To determine its rankings, Turbli analyzed measurements known as the Eddy Dissipation Rate, which is used in aviation to assess turbulence intensity.

In general, passengers may experience stronger turbulence in mountainous areas during winter months due to the jet stream, the company noted.

“Despite the chaotic nature of turbulence, there is a clear seasonal change in turbulence driven by the seasonal changes in wind, which is what triggers turbulence,” Turbli shared in its report.

Turbulence is also generally getting worse with the increase of extreme weather events. A 2023 study found that severe clear-air turbulence became 55 percent more frequent in 2020 than in 1979.

While potentially nerve-wracking, turbulence is an entirely normal part of flying. However, it could lead to injuries if passengers don’t follow the airline crew’s safety protocols, such as buckling their seat belts.

“While turbulence is normal and happens often, it can be dangerous,” according to the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA). “Its bumpy ride can cause passengers who are not wearing their seat belts to be thrown from their seats without warning.”

Nervous passengers can look up turbulence forecasts for their flight on a free app or even opt to call up a pilot who will go over everything that happens on a flight so they can board with confidence.”

If the thought of air turbulence on an upcoming flight makes your stomach tighten even a little, consider visiting the Turbuli website before you go. Checking turbulence forecasts in advance can be surprisingly reassuring, offering a sense of control and calm, especially for sensitive flyers who simply want to board with a bit more peace of mind.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, January 18, 2016:

Our ship, the Celebrity Solstice, docked at the port of Tauranga, New Zealand. For more photos, please click here.