Postcards from Aotearoa (or: how we flew 30 hours to watch a penguin take a nap)
Some places feel oddly familiar even before you get there. Like you’ve dreamt them, or maybe just seen too many tourism ads. For me, New Zealand was that place.
I’d seen the mountains in National Geographic, the rivers in slow-motion drone shots, and the landscapes doubling as Middle-earth on screen.
I assumed the real thing would be a slight letdown — like most things that get hyped to oblivion.
It wasn’t.
We (Sina, the kids, and one slightly over-packed dad with a film camera) landed in Aotearoa with no expectations beyond “let’s not crash the camper van.” And somehow, the whole trip managed to be both a wild adventure and the world’s calmest group therapy session.
There’s something about New Zealand that feels inherently analog. Slow. Intentional.
It made sense to bring the Rollei AF35. Digital would’ve felt rude.
We missed most sunrises, but luckily New Zealand is generous with light — and we made the most of the hours we were actually awake. One sunrise we did catch in the South Island, looked like someone turned the saturation all the way up — gold pouring over mountains, mist floating through sheep paddocks like a Zelda cutscene on max graphics.
Sina, who clearly has falcon DNA, kept spotting birds I couldn’t even find in the search bar. Bright flashes in the trees. Wings where I saw just leaves. She always sees the quiet stuff first.
The wildlife? Absurd in the best way. Seals lounging like they owned the coastline. A kea attempting a full backpack heist, undeterred by our presence. Dolphins with somewhere to be, while we had absolutely nowhere.
And then there was the penguin. Singular. In Oamaru, we waited nearly 90 minutes — expecting a cinematic march of tiny tuxedoed birds returning from sea.
What we got: one lone penguin who shuffled ashore, plopped down near the waterline, and then... did nothing.
For an hour.
Just vibed.
Honestly, I respected it.
It wasn’t just the wildlife. The people were their own kind of magic. No guide, no plan — just a series of wildly kind strangers who somehow always appeared when it mattered.
The kind who give you their best local tips without being asked. The kind who drop everything to help someone get their car unstuck from the sand — ten people, three vehicles, zero hesitation.
It was the sort of quiet generosity that catches you off guard. The kind you don’t forget.
At some point, it stopped feeling like luck and started feeling... suspicious.
As a European, you grow up with a certain default setting: politeness, wrapped in a thin crust of emotional distance. In New Zealand, the kindness is so immediate and unfiltered, you start wondering if friendliness is part of the school curriculum (turns out, it kinda is. But that’s a different story for the blog.)
Or if maybe — just maybe — we’ve overengineered this whole “society” thing back home.
No one was trying to sell us something. No one wanted a favor in return. It was just human-level decency, offered without fanfare. The kind that makes you question everything you thought was “normal.”
Now, a few weeks later, I’ve picked up the photos. The grainy kind, where shadows have texture and mistakes have charm. When I look at them, I remember the wet air at Doubtful Sound, the beaches, the sound of gravel under boots, the way time moved differently there.
I don’t think you can fully capture a place like New Zealand. But if you’re lucky, you can take a few good frames — and a penguin anecdote that never quite lands at dinner parties.
And when I look at these images, I’m transported back, and that’s more than enough.
(You can see the penguin on the first photo at the lower right corner next to the white spot…)
(The photos are in no particular order. And there are also some from Australia, where we stopped on the way back of the family nomad trip.)
