Why My Mom Swears She’ll Never Visit New Zealand Again: A Travel Cautionary Tale

My mother made her third journey to New Zealand, this time to care for my sister during her confinement.

She is a woman of the 1970s, born and raised in the countryside, where she spent her life tending to the land. Her marriage was far from happy, but in those times, divorce was not even a thought that crossed a woman’s mind. She poured all her energy into simply surviving.

In her younger days, she earned work points in the production team, rising before dawn to head to the fields. Later, when the land was contracted to households, she single-handedly cultivated five acres of rice. When she moved to the city for work, an unscrupulous agent cheated her out of her deposit.

The phrase she most often said to me was, “You don’t understand.” I couldn’t fathom why she hid cash under the rice in a jar at home, why she endured toothaches rather than see a doctor, or why she always said, “It’s a blessing to suffer losses.”

Now, as she ages, the only stubbornness she clings to is, “Don’t be a burden to the children.”

Despite never traveling far in her life, she braved a 12-hour flight for her daughter. She doesn’t speak English, can’t read road signs, and isn’t used to the local meat. Even the rice in the supermarket confuses her. Yet, she never complained, silently enduring the hardships, always mindful of not being a burden.

She arrived with a suitcase packed with ginger, dried sweet potatoes, and dried vegetables, as if relocating. She explained that these items are unavailable here and worried we might miss the flavors of home.

She has high blood pressure and didn’t bring enough medication. During the days leading up to my sister’s delivery, she suffered from insomnia and splitting headaches, but she held on without a word—“Medical treatment is expensive, don’t be a burden to the children.” It wasn’t until we video chatted that she was forced to reveal the truth.

This reminds me of a line from “The Legend of 1900”: “That city is so big, it seems endless. What stops me is not what I see, but what I don’t see.” For my mother, New Zealand is like that. The English signs on the streets, the unfamiliar cold cuts in the supermarket, and even the sun, which feels “not as warm as at home,” all make her feel out of place.

She said, “After this trip, I won’t come back.” It’s not just a dramatic statement; she is genuinely scared. The dizziness and vomiting from the 12-hour return flight left her completely drained, and the fear of getting sick and having to tough it out lingers.

We often assume our parents should adapt to new environments, but we forget that their generation is deeply rooted in the countryside. Their sense of security comes from familiar neighbors, the calls of the market, and even a handful of dried ginger. It’s not that New Zealand is bad; it just can’t accommodate the habits they’ve developed over a lifetime.

Before she even set foot back home, I was tasked with purchasing a variety of farming supplies to be delivered and ready for her to unpack upon her return. In the first week back, she mentioned being too busy to video chat, as she was tending to her chickens and planting vegetables. She described the air at home as carrying the comforting scent of familiar earth.

During one of our video calls, I saw her standing in the courtyard, the sun casting a warm glow on the newly planted seedlings. The way she bent down to pull weeds was just as meticulous and dedicated as it had been thirty years ago in the fields. I know in my heart that she will never come to New Zealand again—not because she doesn’t miss us, but because her entire world is now centered in that small, cherished courtyard.