Nambin – A Journey That Began Down Under

How a spontaneous trip to the Australian Outback became the seed for a life rooted in self-love, transformation, and yoga.

I quit my job in insurance, left my apartment, sold most of my things, packed a few boxes to store at my mom’s house, and—with nothing but a backpack and a flight ticket to Taiwan and New Zealand—I left Germany. That was almost 10 years ago, in January 2016.

Since this isn’t a travel blog, I’ll skip most of the adventures in Taiwan and New Zealand. Especially because I hadn’t planned on going to Australia at all. But one night in New Zealand—while working at a vineyard—I found myself feeling a little restless. I felt the urge to go somewhere else. Quickly, I looked into the requirements for an Australian Work & Holiday Visa, and, as I sometimes do, I followed my intuition. I applied for the visa and booked a one-way ticket to the Gold Coast. Plans? None!

Some time later, I met a guy in Brisbane who told me about a road trip he was planning through Western Australia. It sounded fun. A few weeks later, I flew to Sydney, then from Sydney to Perth—where the real adventure began.

We had a big 4WD, a route Patrick had planned, some basic gear, and off we went—up north along the West Coast, a route I’ll never forget. The road trip was fun, but I didn’t feel entirely comfortable—not because of Patrick, but because I was overwhelmed. I was 26, suddenly aware of adulthood catching up to me. I was in a deep transformation, still struggling with old life challenges. If you ask me whether I miss my twenties… NOT AT ALL! They were exhausting. I don’t know about you, but mine were confusing and chaotic. So much societal pressure and so many questions about the future that I simply couldn’t answer. Today I know: nobody can. And if you could predict the future, well—I’m not sure I’d want to know. That would take the magic out of it.

After about two weeks on the road, camping and cooking outside, I started to worry about my budget and decided to look for a job. Patrick dropped me off in Broome, and I headed farther inland. I ended up staying in Kununurra, and thanks to a coincidence and a new friend I met at the hostel, I landed a job in the Outback—in a place called Turkey Creek, or Warmun, as the Indigenous people call it. I started working at the roadhouse, right in the middle of the Northern Highway. Long roads, red earth, wild nature, a few other backpackers, and me.

After a while, the locals started to recognize me and get used to me. Being quite a chatty person, I ended up having a few conversations with Gabriel, a local man working in the community and at the art center. We got along well, and one day, he asked if I wanted to join a trip into the bush with him and his cousin (I think it was his cousin). I said yes.

One morning, on my day off, they picked me up in a truck. I got a little nervous, but my curiosity won, and I jumped in. Just before Gabriel started the engine, I turned around and saw a rifle. Maybe someone else would have left immediately (and honestly, I’d encourage that in most cases!), but for whatever reason, I stayed. I just asked what the weapon was for. Gabriel replied, “We’re going to shoot a kangaroo.” I believed him and simply hoped nothing bad would happen.

We did go into the bush. They did shoot a kangaroo. They explained so much about the local nature—the edible plants, the dangerous ones, the poisonous snakes and spiders, and wild stories about crocodiles and floods during the rainy season (which I later experienced myself). They taught me how to fish with just a rope and a hook, using my bare hands as a fishing rod. I caught a few fish, and we cooked them in the ground and made rice, eating everything with our hands. After a few more adventures like that, I eventually felt it was time to leave the Outback. I was sad about it, but it felt like the right moment to move on. Though, as it turned out, not forever.

After some more travels—including a birthday trip to Vietnam for my 27th—I returned to Australia. Feeling kind of lost in Adelaide during Christmas, I took up my old manager’s offer to come back to the community supermarket, where I had previously worked after switching from the roadhouse. It turned out to be a great decision.

The Outback during the wet season is a different world—floods, thunderstorms that make you question your sanity when you’re out on a bike. I once had to call my manager, Danny, to pick me up because I was terrified a lightning bolt would strike if I kept cycling. Back then, I wasn’t into any kind of exercise (believe it or not, I even used to smoke!). But boredom led me to take the staff bicycle out every night and ride a few kilometers on the highway. I also started getting into functional training and stretching. The beginnings of yoga, perhaps? I couldn’t see it back then.

I quit eating meat. I spent a lot of time drawing and working out. There weren’t many backpackers around during that season. I became close with Damian, the groundskeeper. He took me hiking sometimes, and once even on a motorbike ride. A road train passed us at full speed and the wind almost threw me off. Damian grabbed me by my jacket and pulled me close—otherwise, I’m not sure I would have survived flying off that bike into the wild.

My evening bike rides became a ritual. Every single day, the scenery changed. Even though I always took the same route, the sky, the light, the elements—it all shifted constantly. One evening during a new moon, I saw the moon hanging low like a bowl in the sky.

Did you know the crescent moon in Australia doesn’t point left or right? In the Southern Hemisphere, it often appears “upside-down” compared to the Northern Hemisphere—curving upward like a smile. It’s all about perspective, and where you are on Earth.

That night, I stopped on a little hill I knew well, looked up at the bowl-shaped moon, and felt tears in my eyes. My heart was full. And I knew: I am an independent being. Only I can change my life. Only I can take action toward a better, more passionate, more meaningful life. I understood that I am the one responsible for my well-being. I can cut the cords of the past.

Just like the first time, I stayed three months during my second visit. Gabriel took me on more trips. The last one was a farewell journey. We went deep into the wild on a sunny day, and nearly got stuck because the car broke down—but somehow, they fixed it. We made it to a waterfall where Gabriel gave me a blessing and wished me the very best. On the way back, as they dropped me off at the roadhouse, he told me about skin names.

Skin names are part of Aboriginal culture in Australia and show how people are connected—a bit like an extended family tree. They define social relationships, show how people should treat one another, and express a person’s place within the community. Sometimes, a skin name is given to someone from outside the community as a form of acceptance, a symbolic gesture of deep trust or friendship.

And that’s what happened to me.

Nambin is the skin name Gabriel gave me. My dearest friend, whom I often think about. I hope he is still healthy, still guiding curious souls into the bush of Warmun, Turkey Creek. I hope he’s still creating beautiful art. And I hope he hasn’t lost more teeth—although I’m sure his kindness and love would remain unchanged, no matter how many teeth he has left.

This is the story of Nambin—my journey to yoga, to self-love, to adventure.

It’s the story that makes me who I am:
Liana. Lia. Nambin.