Oh No... No Wi-Fi!
Unplugged Moments, Unexpected Joys
Oh No... No Wi-Fi!
We all rely so much on technology!
Well, I do anyway!
So what happens when it’s no longer there?
At first, it feels like something vital is missing, like a limb you forgot you depended on so much. There's a moment of panic, a feeling of being untethered. No messages to read, no photos to share, no instant connection to the people we care about. No one reading your blogs, your stories. It’s not just the convenience, it’s the comfort, the routine, the sense that we are never really alone.
It is astonishing how much space technology takes up in our lives. How it infiltrates our waking hours, fills our pauses, and consumes the little pockets of time we used to spend simply being. Once upon a time, we didn’t carry phones in our pockets. We didn’t send instant messages, snap endless photos, we did not have the ease of contacting someone by email when we wanted to at any time of day and receiving an almost instant response reply within seconds. We wrote letters. We made calls from public phone boxes. We waited till we got home from holiday or where we were to process the many photos we took, find the best one and show our friends and family ‘the print”. And somehow, we managed.
Today life, (and my life at both work and home definitely), is consumed by these wonderful advances in technology but can take up valuable real time of communicating with those we work with, we talk with and importantly we love!
The last few days of our time away in the Northern Territory of Australia and suddenly -no technology! No Wi-Fi, no mobile signal, no Facebook updates, no ‘selfies’ to post. How was I going to survive without my digital world? But on that day in Litchfield National Park, no one had Wi-Fi. My phone fell completely silent. "No service," it declared, bold and unapologetic. I tried everything: moving to different spots, waving it around, hopefully... nothing. Total digital blackout.
At first, panic fluttered in: No contact with my friends! No daily conversations with my daughter, my son, my grandchildren. Cut off completely from the outside world. But I looked around. No one was texting. No one was scrolling.
People were walking. Swimming. Laughing. Looking.
Everyone was present in that moment with each other! And as I looked around at the towering trees, the sun casting warm shadows through the canopy, a new thought settled in:
“Okay Lyndell, this is time out. Time for you and your husband. Just the two of you. Be here now.”
Litchfield had already felt like a different world compared to the rest of our trip in this northern part of Australia—Darwin, Kakadu, Katherine. In those places, signs shouted warnings: Don’t swim! Stay in your boat! Crocodile danger! And believe me, I was more than happy to obey. But here? Here, the signs encouraged us to dive in. The change in tone was almost shocking, but gloriously so.
Litchfield is a water playground: Names like Buley Rockhole, Florence Falls, The Cascades. Plunge pools everywhere. Waterfalls tumbling, splashing, calling us in. And we answered. We had seen advertisements in Darwin for day trips to this particular park, and I understood why. It was only 1.5 hours’ drive from the city, compact at 1,500 square kilometres, and packed with beauty. Unlike larger national parks, you cannot walk from one site to the next, you drive, but it is worth every kilometre.
On our first day of this trip, we drove 69km to Wangi Falls. Despite the heat, despite the missing hat and sunscreen, we walked the 1.8km loop up and around the falls. And then… the plunge pool. The water welcomed us like open arms. We swam across it, twice. Marc, of course, had to venture under the waterfall, too cold and too intense for me, so I floated in the centre, treading water, waiting while he played on the rocks like a kid at recess.
Some of the more remote places we ventured, like the Lost City, Blyth Homestead, and Tjaynera Falls required a 4WD. We tackled two of the three before being stopped by water across the track. My husband Marc, breaking the male stereotype, actually read the manual, discovering our hired 4WD was more suited to the suburbs than the bush. Good call.
We considered then wading in to check the water depth, until we saw the “Crocodiles. No swimming” sign. A hard pass. But as we stood deciding what to do, two men appeared from the opposite side and began wading through the water to test its depth. We stood stunned, watching (and yes, snapping photos, who wouldn’t?), quietly calculating how high the water came up their legs and whether our vehicle could make it. We didn’t follow. Common sense (and crocodile signs) prevailed. Then on our last day, we were tucked away in peaceful Batchelor, at Rum Jungle Bungalows. The pool sparkled beside me. The iced tea in my hand sweats under the afternoon sun.
Still no internet. Still no mobile signal.
Still no communication with the outside world, except this computer, the only modern device I was using to write these reflections.
Have I missed technology?
Honestly… yes.
Yes, I was looking forward to sharing our written stories and photos.
Yes, I could not wait to digitally catch up with my family.
Yes, I really missed the connection.
But also… no.
This break, this stillness, had been a gift. These days without digital distractions have let us just be. Just the two of us. No interruptions. No demands. No screen time, just real time. A secret world created in nature, held gently between sun and sky, trees and water.
So yes, I definitely rely on technology. But when it disappeared for a while, I discovered that something else showed up in its place, clarity, stillness, and the joy of undivided attention.
I surrendered fully to this quiet, to the birdsong, to the rustle of warm breezes. I relaxed in that moment that did not need sharing, posting, or recording. In that quiet space, I remembered what it feels like to truly unwind. To listen not to a ringtone, but to the wind through the trees. To look, not at a screen, but at the person beside me. To feel not the pressure to document, but the peace of simply existing, together, in that place, at that time. Without technology, I was reminded that connection doesn’t only come from a screen. It can come from eye contact, shared laughter, walking side by side, swimming silently in a cool pool. When the digital silence settles in, something unexpected happens. You start noticing the world again, the real one. The colours are brighter, the sounds clearer. Conversations slow down and deepen. You are no longer living for the next notification. You are living in the moment. Just living. Just loving. Just being.
Yes, we returned to the world of buzzing phones, overflowing inboxes, and digital chatter. And yes, I happily reconnected with loved ones, work colleagues, wrote my stories and posted the photos of those last precious days. But I did so with a quieter mind, and a deeper sense of what it means to be present.
Because now I know:
Sometimes, losing signal is exactly how you find something far more valuable.