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Thoughts, ideas, and learnings from my journey as a software engineer.
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Thoughts, ideas, and learnings from my journey as a software engineer.
The lakes, mountains and hikes were incredible, but honestly? The conversations were what made this trip unforgettable.
Solo travel creates this weird social dynamic that group travel never does. When you're completely on your own in a hostel kitchen at 7PM, surrounded by strangers from different continents, something interesting happens. The usual social barriers just... disappear. Everyone's equally displaced, equally curious, equally open to whatever conversation develops.
What I discovered is that hostels aren't just cheap (it’s actually not cheap!) accommodation – they're a lab for human connection. And the experiments that happened in those kitchens and dining rooms taught me more about life perspectives than any university course ever did.
My first hostel experience was eye-opening for reasons I didn't expect. The place was packed with long-term working holiday visa folks, and I was fascinated by their stories. Here were young people who'd decided to completely flip the script on traditional post grad paths.
One girl I met had graduated with a CS degree four years ago and never used it once. Instead, she'd been traveling the world, working as an English teacher in some places, restaurant staff in others, picking up whatever jobs let her stay longer in interesting locations. Four years of this. In Indonesia, if someone told their parents they were doing this, it would cause a family crisis. But here she was, completely confident in her choices.
The gap year students were equally interesting. Most were taking a year between high school and university, not because they didn't get into their preferred schools (like it would be viewed back home), but because taking time to explore the world before committing to studies was just... normal. Expected, even.
What struck me wasn't just the cultural difference, but how welcoming the long-term people were to short-termers like me. I expected they'd stick to their established groups, but instead they were eager to include newcomers. Maybe when you're living an unconventional life, you naturally become more open to unexpected connections.
I'd booked my Wānaka hostel specifically based on reviews emphasising it was "social" and "like-minded." Higher rating despite fewer amenities than the big corporate places. Sometimes the intangibles matter more than the facilities.
The difference was obvious immediately. Smaller, more intimate, with a collaborative energy. When I needed to arrange transport for the Roy's Peak sunrise hike, I put my name on the ride share board. Within hours, people were offering solutions, sharing advice about trailhead logistics, discussing timing strategies. This wasn't just a place to sleep, it was a community of adventurers helping each other out.
The real magic happened around the dining table during dinner. These weren't your typical hostel small talk sessions. Something about the mix of people and the setting created space for conversations that went deeper than anyone expected.
The conversation that changed my perspective most happened with this American guy, who was staying for the entire winter season. He'd been chasing winter for years: work hard during other seasons, then travel somewhere for months of snowboarding when the snow hits. Previous years, he'd lived in a van up in the mountains, so staying at a hostel with running water and heating was actually luxury for him.
Initially, I was confused. "Why come to New Zealand for snowboarding when the US has better mountains and more variety?"
His answer opened up a whole philosophy I'd never considered. "It's not just about the best slopes," he said. "It's about the journey. Different mountains, different cultures, different challenges. Plus, Cardrona has some professional park features and it’s summer in the northern hemisphere"
What started as snowboarding logistics evolved into one of the deepest conversations I'd had with a stranger. We began talking about this phase of life where you're trying to complete certain experiences and adventures before taking on bigger commitments. Not avoiding responsibility, but recognising there's a window of freedom that won't stay open forever.
"I told him this was my first solo trip and I was craving more of it, but also thinking this might be my only chance to do things I'd always dreamed about before settling into more commitments – career, relationships, maybe marriage and kids someday. We can balance adventure with those things later, but it's never quite the same."
He nodded. "The thing is, what we're chasing, whether it's travel, snowboarding, whatever, it's never ending. You have to acknowledge that and embrace it, but also know when to slow down. You can't chase winter forever."
This resonated hard. I'd been feeling this urgency about travel and exploration, like I had to do everything now before "real life" started. But he had been living this lifestyle for years and was starting to think about when and how to transition to something different.
Then the conversation went even deeper. We started talking about relationships, about family, about what kind of fathers we might want to be someday. I found myself sharing things I'd never told close friends. I also shared how I get emotional watching videos of fathers playing with their kids, how movies like Top Gun Maverick made me tear up during the father-figure moments between Maverick and Rooster, even though we know it’s an action movie.
"I don't know if I want kids more, or if I want to be a father more," I admitted. "Does that make sense?"
He shared that he'd had a vivid dream the night before about having a perfect family and raising children. Here we were, two guys who'd never met before, talking about our deepest hopes and fears around parenthood and what we wanted our lives to look like.
The whole table got quiet during parts of our conversation. Other people seemed shocked that casual hostel small talk had evolved into such profound territory. But that's exactly what made it special. The complete absence of pretense or social filtering.
Later, I mentioned this observation to other travellers, and everyone agreed: there's something about hostel conversations that makes you "open naked" sharing secrets and deep thoughts with no filter. We theorised it's because strangers don't have existing opinions about you, so you're not afraid of judgment or changing the relationship dynamic.
With close friends, you care about their opinions and worry about how revelations might shift things. But with a traveler you might never see again? There's freedom in that temporary intimacy.
I'm still working on applying this openness to my existing relationships back home. It's an important reminder that those close friendships should be able to handle the real, unfiltered you.
The other connections in Wānaka were smaller but meaningful: a Melbourne student who'd continued traveling solo after his friend group went home, two UK guys doing a South Island road trip, a German girl who ended up giving me a ride to Bob's Cove when she heard I wanted to hike there but didn't have transport. Each conversation added another perspective to my growing understanding of how diverse approaches to post-graduation life could be.
The shuttle van from Wānaka to Mount Cook turned into another unexpected conversation goldmine. I recognised a few people from the earlier Queenstown to Wānaka bus, and we picked up where previous conversations had left off.
There was a solo traveler from the UK who was taking a similar route and timing to mine, we realised we'd be in Tekapo at the same time and made loose plans to connect. But the family conversation was what really stuck with me.
A Dutch family with a young daughter had been traveling through Asia and Oceania for four months. When I asked what prompted such an extensive trip, their answer floored me: "Our daughter is starting primary school when we get back. We figured this was our last chance to travel like this as a family for a long time."
Most travel timing I'd encountered was based on typical life transitions: gap years, post-grad freedom, career breaks. But traveling because your kid is about to start formal education? That was a completely different framework for thinking about time and priorities.
It hit me like a revelation. Time and freedom are finite resources, and if you have both available, even briefly, maybe the right answer is just to use them. Don't overthink it, don't wait for perfect conditions, don't delay until someday when everything might align better.
Their approach felt like a "calling" to take advantages of windows of opportunity while they exist, because life has a way of adding commitments and constraints whether you plan for them or not.
I know, Indomie right? 😉
After a tiring day hiking Sealy Tarns, I was making dinner in the hostel kitchen when the usual evening conversation started up. People were sharing what they'd done during the day, comparing experiences, giving advice for upcoming hikes.
One guy who looked equally exhausted was making a protein shake, moving slowly, clearly wiped out from a big day on the mountains. When someone asked what he'd been up to, he said, "Mueller Hut. My legs are sore now."
This immediately got my attention. Mueller Hut was the hike I'd been admiring but considering completely beyond my abilities. When we introduced ourselves, I said my name was Nafis from Indonesia, he told me his name, he paused.
"Is your name means 'precious' in Arabic?" he asked.
"Yeah, how did you know that?"
"I've been learning Arabic. I'm from Israel."
Now this was interesting territory. Here we were in a remote mountain village, two people from countries that don't even have diplomatic relations, bonding over a shared love of challenging hikes.
I want to be clear about something: I understand why this might be controversial. There's a lot happening in that region, and I completely understand and respect Indonesia's stance regarding Israel, not just the government's position, but the people's feelings too. Many Indonesians are furious about the situation and actively try to avoid any association with Israel, advocating for boycotts and expressing their views strongly on social media.
He actually acknowledged this during our conversation. "I know what you guys are doing to us," he said with a slight giggle and side-eye, referring to the criticism and negative comments Israelis receive from Indonesians online. Which, honestly, makes sense given the circumstances.
When I later shared with friends back home that I'd had dinner and conversations with an Israeli guy, I got pushback. Some thought I shouldn't have engaged with him at all, that I should have avoided the conversation entirely.
But in this moment, in this remote hostel kitchen, I found myself facing a choice: shut down the conversation based on political complexity, or stay curious about this individual human being in front of me.
We decided to acknowledge the larger context, we literally used the phrase "there are a lot of things happening out there" without getting more specific, but not let it ruin what was turning into a fascinating conversation about mutual interests.
They sell Indomie in the vending machine in this remote hostel!
The Mueller Hut discussion was incredible. He'd borrowed crampons and ice axes from the hostel manager and shared detailed advice about gear, route conditions, preparation needed. This was exactly the kind of insider knowledge that would help me attempt similar challenges in the future. And also I learnt about some other hikes that he suggested me for the upcoming days in Tekapo and Queenstown.
But the conversation expanded from there in ways I hadn't expected. He was genuinely curious about Islam, asking thoughtful questions about the religion, three holy mosques, about Mecca and Medina. I explained what I could while being clear about the limits of my own knowledge. I didn't want to misrepresent anything.
The language connection was fascinating. He explained how Hebrew doesn't use written vowels, and readers just learn to fill them in mentally. I laughed and told him about me learning to read classical Arabic texts the same way in boarding school, adding "harakat" (vowel marks) - it’s not just memorising, think of grammar rules - and translating to Indonesian. The similarities between the languages were striking.
He shared something that surprised me: there are actually quite a lot of Muslims and mosques in Israel, and most Israelis learn about Islam as part of their education. This wasn't the picture I'd had in my head.
The conversation naturally turned to travel and visas when I mentioned needing one for New Zealand. He brought up how many Israelis really want to visit Bali but can't due to the lack of diplomatic relations between our countries.
"It's interesting," he said, "because tourism might actually benefit both sides. I know many Indonesians would love to visit Al-Aqsa, which you can only access through Israel. And obviously tons of Israelis want to experience Indonesian culture and beaches."
I explained that I understood why Indonesia maintains its current position. It's a stance that makes sense given Indonesia's values and the complexity of the situation. But I could see his point about the irony of ordinary people being unable to experience each other's cultures.
The economic discussion that followed was eye opening. When we compared grad swe salaries, the gap was massive. Israeli developers make significantly more (even compared with Aus average iirc), enough that many could easily afford regular travel to places like Indonesia if it were possible. It highlighted the economic disparities that exist even within the tech industry globally.
We talked about the minimum wage differences, living costs, career opportunities. It wasn't a political discussion so much as two people trying to understand the practical realities of life in each other's countries.
Later that evening, we walked out to the parking lot for some stargazing. The Mount Cook area has incredible dark skies, and within a minute of walking outside, we could see the Milky Way stretching across the sky with naked eyes. That shared wonder under the stars felt more meaningful than any political complexity. Sometimes the universe puts things in perspective.
The next afternoon
It ended up being one of the most interesting conversations I'd ever had. Not because we agreed on everything, but because we demonstrated that curiosity and openness can coexist with awareness of larger complications. You can connect with someone as an individual while still maintaining your broader worldview and principles.
Returning to the same Queenstown hostel for my final few days felt completely different this time. I knew people, had established connections, felt like I belonged in the social ecosystem rather than trying to break into it.
The long-term crew was incredibly welcoming to those of us on shorter stays. We'd get pizza together, play cards, share stories from our respective journeys around the South Island. There was no hierarchy between permanent residents and temporary visitors, just travellers at different points in their adventures.
One of the most interesting people I met during this second Queenstown stay was a German college student who'd hitchhiked his entire New Zealand journey. Christchurch to Tekapo, Tekapo to Queenstown, planning to continue north to complete the circuit. His stories were incredible. The logistics, the people who picked him up, the conversations that happened during long drives with strangers.
On our skiing day together (my second time ever), he patiently teach me parallel turns and sharing technique tips that would have cost serious money at a ski lessons. Just natural traveler-to-traveler knowledge sharing.
My final day created one last perfect example of travel kindness. The German hitchhiker needed to get to an intersection to catch a ride toward Wānaka, and I needed to reach the airport. Both of us had transport problems: he didn't have a bus card, I had one but no cash to top it up, and they only accepted cash payments.
A woman overheard our situation and immediately offered to pay our bus fare. "I have balance left on my card that will just go to waste anyway," she said. During the bus ride, we learned she and her friend were heading to the airport to pick up a rental car for their own Wānaka trip.
When the German guy mentioned he was planning to hitchhike from Wānaka, they casually offered him a ride. Just like that, everyone's transportation problems were solved through spontaneous human kindness.
Watching these interactions taught me something important about how generosity creates positive cycles. People help because they've been helped. Travellers look out for each other because they know what it's like to need help in unfamiliar places.
Looking back at these conversations collectively, they changed how I think about human connection and diversity. Each person I met was approaching life differently: gap years, working holidays, career changes, endless travel, winter chasing, hitchhiking adventures, family travel priorities.
What struck me wasn't just the variety of approaches, but how each person had thought deeply about their choices. These weren't random decisions or people drifting without direction. They were intentional life experiments, people testing different ways of balancing freedom, responsibility, adventure, and security.
The hostel environment created space for these exchanges in a way normal social settings don't. Temporary intimacy with strangers, shared vulnerability of being displaced, curiosity about different life paths, it all combined into something special.
Most importantly, these conversations taught me to find beauty in diversity rather than seeing differences as barriers. Whether it was cultural backgrounds, travel styles, career approaches, or personal values, the differences made interactions more interesting, not more difficult.
The world becomes more beautiful when you approach it with genuine curiosity about how other people think and live. Not to change your own values or lose your identity, but to expand your understanding of what's possible.
The adventure transformation I wrote about in Episode 2 was just half the story. Learning to navigate alpine conditions and discovering I prefer travel on foot was one kind of growth. But learning to connect authentically with people from completely different backgrounds and life philosophies was equally transformative.
Solo travel taught me it's not really about solitude at all, it's about creating space for unexpected human connections. When you're not traveling with your usual social group, you become more open to learning from whoever crosses your path.
These conversations, combined with the confidence I'd gained from completing challenging hikes and navigating complex logistics, created a version of myself I hadn't known existed. Someone comfortable with uncertainty, curious about different perspectives, confident in unfamiliar situations, and genuinely excited about whatever might happen next.
But how these two transformations, the adventurer identity and the expanded social perspective, would actually reshape my post grad direction and life planning? That synthesis is what Episode 4 is for.
This is part 3 of a 4-part reflection on my post grad travels. Episode 4 will explore how these experiences integrated to reshape my thinking about career, relationships, and life direction.