My name is Sacha. A life-loving soul with an insatiable curiosity and a heart that forever longs for the horizon. Traveling has never just been about moving from A to B for me — it’s a way of being. I don’t follow route planners, I follow intuition, an open gaze, and the quiet promise that the unknown always holds beauty.
From a young age I loved to explore. First hand in hand with my parents, later on my own, carrying nothing more than a backpack and a bundle of dreams. These were the days before smartphones and wifi. Back then, traveling meant truly letting go: getting lost on unfamiliar paths, trusting whatever showed up along the way, and embracing the unexpected.
I remember summers camping with my parents. No luxury glamping, no perfectly fitted caravans — just a leaky tent, a tiny gas stove, and the patience to be creative. When the rain came through the canvas, we set out pans and buckets. No complaints, just improvisation, laughter, and finding beauty in simplicity. Along the way, my parents taught me what traveling really means: to see. Not only the mountains and lakes, but the gestures, the customs, the small wonders that only reveal themselves if you are still enough.
As a teenager my longing for the world grew. I would spend hours watching movies, dreaming away at images of the Statue of Liberty, the Petronas Towers, the Sydney Opera House. It felt as if the world was whispering: come, discover me. I knew I had to see it all for myself — not through a screen, but with my own eyes, feet, and heart.
At twenty I set out into the world for the first time. I landed in Hong Kong with no smartphone, no wifi — only a fax sent from my hotel to let my parents know I had arrived safely. Was it nerve-wracking? Yes. But more than that, it was liberating. It felt like coming home to freedom.
The adventures kept unfolding. At twenty-one I traveled to the United States, where my Dutch student travel card somehow worked as an ID to get into a club. Simpler times.
My biggest adventure began when I left for six months in Australia. Backpacking! I thought — yet there I stood with a suitcase. Today I laugh at the memory, now that I roam with a 24-liter pack. Back then I insisted on bringing everything: my camera and endless rolls of film. Each roll held just 36 frames, so every click mattered. Sometimes you ended up with a blurry memory — and yet, even that was beautiful.
Armed with a paper map, a stack of travel guides, and a head full of dreams, we went searching for the iconic VW campervan. Without internet that meant combing through local newspapers, scanning tiny ads, and making calls to numbers scribbled in ink. Until we found it: a rusty, loyal VW Combi. Our moving home, our freedom.
Back then, staying in touch meant phone booths, pockets of coins, and “collect calls.” Short, costly conversations — but precious, because they carried more weight than endless messages ever could. Sometimes we’d stumble into internet cafés, paying by the minute, rushing to log into Hotmail, check emails, or book a hostel.
I left with Dutch guilders in my wallet and came home to a country that had switched to euros. Confused, yes, but richer in every way that mattered.
Over the past twenty-five years I’ve wandered through more than thirty countries. Each with its own rhythm, its own magic. And yet, Australia keeps calling me back — my number one, always waiting beneath its endless sky.
But perhaps that is the essence of she who wanders: every place, every encounter, every journey shapes us. Not because we want to own the world, but because in wandering we lose ourselves — and find ourselves all over again.
