Buchanan Project

See the full Fiji gallery here

If there is one piece of advice I could offer when planning your travels, it is choose your accommodation wisely. The place you stay will have a profound effect on the people you meet, adventures you tackle, and the depth at which you immerse yourself in the local culture. Nowhere did this become more apparent than in the islands of Fiji.

If you ask the average American to describe a vacation to Fiji, they would probably conjure up images of high-end resorts on private islands, where guests drink expensive cocktails beside a white sand beach. And if someone described Fiji in this way, they would not be wrong. On a quick boat tour Frances and I took of our surrounding area, we passed many stunning islands that we were not allowed to go near. We did get to watch from a distance as lucky guests anchored their mega yachts and partied beside some incredibly extravagant pools.

Without some deeper reflection, it was hard to not be envious of the so-called lucky ones. While I was supplementing my one serving of vegetable fried rice with canned beans and leftover nature valley bars I carried from Kyrgyzstan, these guests were dining on mouth-watering buffets at every meal. And instead of having to scavenge for coconuts, the resort folk had waiters and waitresses bringing them pina coladas at will. They were in their own little bubble, with everything one would want on a trip to paradise.

I’ve been fortunate enough to exist in this bubble before, while working as a medic and surf guide at Kandui Villas. I have to say, it is wonderful having filling food delivered at predictable intervals, and the ease of knowing staff members are always ready and willing to help minimizes the stresses of being away from home.

Although resort vacations provide the rest and relaxation we all occasionally need, there are some serious drawbacks to having everything catered. For one, the cost prohibits many people from spending long periods of time abroad. I can honestly say if Andrew and I had not been scavenging for food, sleeping on beaches and mountains, and bargaining for transportation, we would have blown through our budgets in under a month. Instead, by being willing to rough it and find our own way, we stretched our savings to last a year.

Finances and luxury aside, another major consideration when choosing a place to stay is the demographic of travelers it attracts. While the prices at resorts tend to limit the guest population to successful middle-aged couples and families, hostels and home-stays are accessible to people from all walks of life.

For instance, in the surf hostel I stay at in Fiji, I met two friends who travelled all the way from Spain. One of them was ending his second gap year, so he was filled with stories of worldly adventure. When I brought up the idea of renting a car to explore local villages on the island, the two of them instantly were enthusiastic about the idea—something that would be hard-pressed to find in people living in the safety of a resort.

Another couple had negotiated a deal with the owner to sleep in a tent on the hostel’s lawn. By doing so, they had spent five months in Fiji and gladly shared tales and wisdom from their time on the islands. On the whole, I’ve found that people in hostels tend to be more open to meeting others, and if you take the time to dig, they usually have some very intriguing life experiences.

In addition to meeting other travelers, hostels and home-stays give the opportunity to interact with locals. In Fiji, one boat driver named Suji turned a surf trip into a powerful cultural experience. I started spending time with Suji because he was the only boat driver who felt comfortable launching and landing the kite from a boat. Thus, Suji and I spent multiple afternoons together cruising the outer reefs, and when Frances arrived, Suji took the both of us to some of the most beautiful sandbars and lagoons we had ever kited.

On the way back from one kiting session, Suji asked the two of us if we would come to a party his village was throwing. He explained that it was an annual fundraiser, where each family in the village was expected to contribute one month’s income to a communal fund that was used to feed and house orphan children and elderly people. He said that the members of his village gladly donate to the fund because there has never once been an instance of embezzlement or misuse of funds.

It is customary to invite guests from other villages, or other countries in our case, to join for a night of singing, dancing, and eating. In exchange for the guest’s donations, the host family cooks a local meal. From our time on the boat together, Suji recognized that both Frances and I are vegetarians. However, the meaning of vegetarian seemed to get bent in translation.

“Suji told me you don’t eat meat” his sister said. “So I cooked up a few fish my husband caught. Are you sure you don’t want any chicken?”. These were the questions Frances and I awkwardly had to answer, while Suji and his two sisters were laying out a feast of four whole fish, 6 chicken legs, roasted taro root, caramelized onions, and Fijian chilis.

In addition to not particularly enjoying the taste, for moral, environmental, and health reasons, Frances and I both stopped eating animals from both the land and the sea. But, in this particular situation, we both set aside our convictions to not risk offending a gracious host. With our mouths tingling from the surprisingly spicy homegrown chilis, the chicken and fish went down just fine, and the taro was quite delicious.

The only thing I wish I did different was save room for the next course. The dessert was not what you may expect. To end the night, Suji prepared a traditional Fijian drink, kava. Kava is made from an extract of a local plant. The extract is mixed with water and served in coconut bowls. In a traditional ceremony, guests gather in a circle while one person brews the kava and serves.

As Frances and I sat on Suji’s porch, slowly feeling the inebriating effects of the kava, we were lucky enough to meet a few of Suji’s friends. One was a professional surfer who was selected to compete on Fiji’s olympic team. He told me of his struggles to gain sponsorship and support from the Western surf companies and graciously offered to take me surfing with him if I came back.

Another was an Emergency Medical Technician (EMT) for the Fijian Army. When he learned I too was an EMT, he asked me many questions about the treatment protocols we followed in America. He said once his training concluded, someone in the Army gave him access to a closet full of medicine. The only problem was there was nobody on the island to teach him when to give the medicines, or how much to administer. He very clearly wanted to learn because he said the people he was responsible for helping desperately needed care. Sadly, I was not able to answer many of his questions because EMTs in America are not taught to administer most medications.

I told him that I hope to one day return, with more medical training, to give him the guidance he needed. It was disheartening watching someone who had so much selfless drive not have access to the education necessary to help others. I can’t imagine Fiji was the only place I travelled this year that had this issue.

That aside, all of us thoroughly enjoyed our night drinking kava in Suji’s village, even if Frances and I couldn’t keep up with the liters of kava everyone else was able to consume. “What happens if you drink too much kava,” I cautiously asked. “You will be on Fiji time in the morning!” they all shouted. And yes, I was indeed on Fiji time the next morning, but sometimes it is okay to slow down and enjoy one’s surroundings, especially in the South Pacific.

Luckily, my body supercharged from a little bit of relaxation, and I got to enjoy a four-hour surf session at flawless Cloudbreak. After motoring out during a psychedelic sunrise that turned the whole ocean pink, making it out of over 10 barrels, and nearly getting decapitated by a stand up paddle board, I came in from my last session before going home to Los Angeles. One could say things peaked at just the right time.

I thought this was going to be my last time in international waters for a long time, but with South swells building, cheap tacos calling, and our big red Suburban possibly on its last leg, we may be ending this year’s travels just how they started.

Stay tuned…

-Chris Buchanan

Here is a full gallery with photos from my trip to The Mentawai Islands in June 2018 and Bali in May 2019

There were a few moments this year that made me ask myself “what the hell are you doing?” Why in the world did I invest hours of travel and hard-earned savings to voluntarily ride lumps of water that were detonating over razor sharp coral heads? 

Placing myself in these precarious situations should have gone against every survival instinct, and the fear of potential carnage should have sent me scurrying for the safety of solid ground.

To give you an idea of what can go wrong in surfing, I have outlined a few of my more memorable predicaments from this year.

The first was at the very start of my adventures, in June 2018. I had traveled over 40 hours to Indonesia’s Mentawai Islands, where I was working as a medic and surf guide for a local resort.

The incident occurred when I fell on a wave, jammed my finger so hard into my favorite board that I damaged the board, and then resurfaced to a second wave that dragged my back across the reef.

As I sat in the boat, trying to breathe through the unrelenting pain of salt water and sunburn irritating my  wounds, I started to reflect.

The thoughts continued 10 months later in Tahiti, after I found myself being pushed by a mass of whitewater into a fully-exposed shelf of live coral.

My favorite board, and ironically the same board as in the Mentawais, was flying along beside me. The two of us smashed into, and then over, the shelf together. By some miracle, I escaped with only a few scrapes. My board had taken the brunt of the impact. It was creased down the middle and had multiple chunks taken out of the bottom.

The last of these close encounters came in May, when I was in Bali. I was beyond exhausted and unhealthily dehydrated from surfing Uluwatu, for over 3 hours, under the blazing Indonesian sun.

The only way up the towering, rocky cliffs was through a cave. At high tide, the exit through this cave must be timed perfectly by navigating an unrelenting current that pulls along the cliffs at rates faster than anyone can paddle. To add to the excitement, waves regularly smash into the cliff side, sending spray 10-20 feet in the air.

In my sunburnt, dizzy state, I managed to sneak my way into the cave, only after getting swept past the entrance once and being forced to do an entire paddle back up the point to ride down with the current again. 

In all three of these situations, trained instincts, a quick reaction time, and a lot of luck saved me from anything catastrophic, but things could have easily ended much worse.

So why was I willing to partake in such a risky activity? It would be much safer and easier to get the same workout in a pool.

I was clearly missing something.

The answer to my questions came a few weeks later, when Andrew convinced me to start an online meditation course. I’ll admit, I was a little skeptical at first, but I trusted in Andrew’s consistent enthusiasm around his newfound understandings.

Within the first few lessons of the course, I quickly learned how out of control my mind was. Under the guidance of closed eyes and a steady posture, the wandering nature of the mind became readily apparent. Thoughts disappeared as quickly as they appeared, and no matter how much I tried to focus on the sensation of breathing, my consciousness would inevitably fall victim to a stream of unending thoughts.

This realization began to consume me, and frustrate me, to no end. As I went about my day-to-day life, I began to recognize how much time I spent planning for things that were yet to happen, or reminiscing on things that already happened, and dreaming of things I wanted to happen. All the while, some of the best times of my life were rolling by, and my mind wasn’t there to realize it.

Why could I not fully involve my mind in the moment?

If you take the time to observe children, you’ll see they do a much better job than adults. Without the brain development necessary for higher-level thinking, planning, and processing, children are free to immerse their consciousness in their immediate surroundings. By engaging more fully in each moment, children aren’t as easily consumed by stresses of upcoming events, and they are more quick to let go of lingering emotions from the past.

One of the main goals in meditation is to gain this ability that comes so naturally to children, so when we don’t need to plan, process, and analyze, we can truly engage with what is going on around us.

When I think back about times where I was fully in tune with my senses, without judgement or worry about the past or future, those were the best times in my entire life. 

Whether I was entranced by the roaring crowd and thumping bass at a concert, or completely engaged in deep discussions with friends, or feeling the water whiz under my feet as I glide down a wave, they all have the same underlying connection; I was completely and unequivocally living in the present.

Those brief, fleeting moments are so rewarding and addictive that they alone are what drive me over the edge of waves and into a situation where my mind can’t help but focus on its surroundings. For me, surfing is a way to feel the same bliss that is sought out in meditation. 

I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way. The many participants in other adrenaline-infused activities are likely seeking out the same internal reward, even if they aren’t aware of exactly why they are doing so. 

After finally understanding my motivation to surf, I’ve started looking for other aspects of my life, where I find a similar focus on the present. Yoga requires a deep level of attentiveness at times, as does kitesurfing, and so too does a conversation where both parties are actively listening to one another.

But once you become aware of where your attention is placed throughout the day, you will begin to notice little snippets in time where your attention is kept solely in the present. Savor those moments. See how long you can make them last, and you just might surprise yourself with how incredibly rewarding such a simple shift in consciousness can be.

-Chris Buchanan

This article was written by Bill Buchanan–our dad.

“Mom and Dad…..We are going to take a gap year”

No longer a dream discussion, the statement was a bold commitment and it jolted me.  I was relaxing with the boys in the jacuzzi one winter day and paying nominal attention to the conversation. “Would you be ok with that? We are paying for it ” was the follow up.  It was well played and a cornering move as the normal tool kit parents use in such situations had just been disarmed.

The boys had worked and earned their money. They had done well in school and were motivated. Futures were promising and this was not an attempt to escape these things.

“Ye…es” I answered sincerely. There was a palpable uneasiness and they knew it. It wasn’t taking a gap year that concerned me. Rather it was their wanderlust for the extreme and remote world; a zeal for the jaw-dropping and unexplored adventure.  Scary and unpredictable stuff. In a flash I saw the stress this would put on us as parents. I knew we couldn’t share these fears with others. With the plans they had floated, there would already be more than enough material to fuel pushback by a more general audience.

“What do you think Mom will say?” 

“She will probably be very worried. You will have to ask her.”

Fast forward. It is 18 months later. I am now sitting in an Air BnB in the town of Almaty, Kazakstan. I am enjoying a closing moment in this saga. Someone above had acted on our prayers. The wild adventures did happen as I foresaw that day. Miraculously, all went well. I am peaceful and reflective now. To provide the reader context I will tell about our last adventure.

As a finale to their year, I was invited to join them for a 50 mile backpacking trip through the most remote corner of Kyrgyzstan near China; a place that abuts against a contested border zone. As such, it requires very special permits. Our trek would start  12 miles beyond an abandoned ex-Soviet mining town. We would spend the week in a place that doesn’t see tourists and hadn’t had visitors this season. Five hours of mud, snow, and ice in a rebuilt Russian paratrooper 4-wheel drive vehicle and 2 military checkpoints later, we were dropped somewhere in nowhere with a promise –  despite a language barrier – that the Russian speaking driver would return to pick us up. “Here.” “RIGHT HERE,” I remember stating emphatically as he nodded with apparent understanding. Yes, he would return. And he did. But his return was a harrowing story – all told with gestures – of a snowstorm in the mountain pass and news that he almost didn’t make it home the first trip.

I’ve told this story so that you understand what kept us up at night this last year. Real fears. Not just the terrorist and kidnapping risks that most Americans incorrectly associate with this area. Those alone were already becoming a popular concern expressed by those feeling a need to influence our decision-making.

A reprieve came when the Morehead-Cain Scholarship group unknowingly intervened.  “We would like to contribute toward Andrew’s gap year,” they wrote. With the caveat that “it meets certain safety requirements.” A Security Team would be reviewing and closely overseeing the plans and travel abroad. Kudos to them; a reassuring calm ensued. Andrew was “now safe” – we explained to our friends. “And Chris?” they asked. Frances, his girlfriend, was going to be with him; he is a college graduate, and other than intersecting with Andrew occasionally, he would be primarily in English- speaking countries, I explained. “Sounds a lot safer,” was the typical response. For them, but not for me. I know he lives to surf the world’s biggest waves. As his dad, I worry about what others don’t; that these “safe plans” morph with the cyclonic storm patterns of the South Pacific. NOAA doesn’t provide a “Safety Team” for people like him. I could only hope that airline fairs and his girlfriend Frances might discourage him from chasing the color purple that Surfline shows when ocean swells are expected to exceed 40 feet.

The decisions good parents make are not easy ones, and the discussions my wife and I had were not superficial. We weren’t on the same page with everything. “Reasonable” and “Safe” are highly subjective concepts. My worries weren’t necessarily hers, nor hers mine. For 18 months we shared our boys lives vicariously through FaceTime, their stories, and photos. We worried. And when things went well we we laughed at ourselves. The cycle repeated itself a lot. Denial is a poor defense mechanism in the world of technology.

So as I prepare my return home I will make a confession. We dodged a bullet. What if something had happened? As parents were we really accepting of the risks they chose to take? They are our self-funded adult children; arguably completely independent.   But sometimes a parent’s supporting opinion is more influential than a parent who is dissenting, exposing parents to an unnecessary confrontation if the risk materializes into reality. Maybe that’s why good parents just say “no.” It’s just easier. While we were mostly on the same page we did not clarify what we would accept and what we wouldn’t. The process moved along with plenty of distractions to keep us from these deeper conversations. As we motored over the last icy pass and looked over the cliff below before settling into the AirBnB in Kazakstan I promised myself: I will advocate to anyone else in this situation to have those conversations. 

With that disclaimer in the open, I will say it was fortuitous that Rena asked me to join them on two separate trips: driving Baja, and border crossings in Central Asia. Originally this was planned to fill some of my travel cravings while at the same time mitigate specific fears we had. By luck it was also their first and their last trips. “Bookend trips,” Rena says. But by the time these trips happened, I had decided this for me would be about two things:

First, I have publicly advocated there is an explicit value to taking a gap year. Now it was time to find I was right or wrong and in what ways. I could compare the bookends. How would my boys change ?

Second, I had decided to comply with their plans for minimalism and poverty on the last trip. Could I do it at this stage in life? and what could I learn by doing it….?

It’s More Than Growing Up….

Someone told me children “grow up” during experiences like these. I wondered how that might be different than just going to college. Children go to college, they “grow up” and then get jobs. College seems to be a perfect transition. Structured learning in a social playground protected with the safety nets young adults might need. Students can always find food, housing, entertainment, companionship, physical and mental health solutions when they need such help. All of this would be starkly absent I noted, as the boys embarked on their respective adventures in February carrying nothing more than 40 lbs of life’s needs strapped to their backs. 

February was different than the bookend trip I took with them November. In November, Brad’s truck and our suburban were fully packed with food, toys, money, music, and for good measure— two doctors. A large catamaran awaited us at the tip of the peninsula. A great trip punctuated by some adventure. But nothing like the scene in March, when Andrew, dressed in his now duct-tape-patched jacket, living frugally and meeting a personal challenge, had decided to sleep at a bus station in China. And recounts the story as meaningful because he had the chance to share a meal with a homeless man. That was the adventure he wanted to have. Chris, arguably enjoying a more tropical life, was frugally trying to make ends meet. Instead of going to the store or a cafeteria, he described in a text with accompanying pictures of his forages in the woods and the star fruit he’d found for dinner. Both boys were quite proud of these moments. When I met them in Kyrgyzstan I cringed, laughed and almost cried before I realized I was achieving the second of my goals on the back end trip. Six days into our seven day camping trip, I found myself complying. We had ample food for extra days but I too was  packing morsels of pasta, raisins and small quantities of grains into bags. “This is what we do dad. It’s kind of hard to change, even when you tell us we’re going to a restaurant tomorrow. It feels good to know we don’t need that much to be happy.”

When Chris was younger, he said he wanted “one of the biggest houses in Palos Verdes,” and Andrew within the last two years did say, “I want to make a fortune as a business man; then I will probably give it away when I’m old.” Children change their views with age. They “grow up” after high school in our systems of advanced education and with the responsibilities of adulthood. But I think something else happens during a gap year like this, where personal challenges become formative to one’s personality.

Getting the Most from Minimalism…

I wondered if I could still be like a young adult and be happy spending 4 weeks with just two shirts, pants, underwear, and socks. I doubted myself and took three. I was wrong; two was enough. Would I miss the comforts of home? This would be a true test, I thought. Simplicity and nature bring out the best if you accept the challenges of minimalism in this environment. As time passes on these kinds of trips, there’s great joy in mastering the challenges of little things. Packing differently so that you can now quickly reach your rain gear. Cooking a quick meal that tastes better than the last. Working more efficiently as a team to set up or break camp when challenged by the weather. Each day brings happiness by discovering the smallest achievements. I salvaged a broken backpack strap with some creative lashing. It was a great day. Chris and Andrew each talk of separate successes building fires in inclement weather.    Memorable stuff for them; I know as I’ve heard the stories a few times. Andrew described backcountry hygiene strategies that he learned in his NOLS course. Chris and I tried them—with success— and now I have changed. Sitting here writing I think these seem to be little challenges now, but I still see them as big successes. Getting a lot from something small. Feeling rich without money. At age 61 I didn’t think “essential oils” would become a notable addition to my packing list. But at the end of a hard day of hiking, a drop of lavender oil did exactly what the boys claimed; a new attitude, new smells and a great night sleep. I’m grateful to them for giving me this trick (and for very different reasons grateful essential oils weren’t part of my Boy Scout upbringing).

You don’t need much to live on trips like these. I suggest the actual challenge of using even less makes it more rewarding. Marie Kondo trekking I think. For better or worse, as a post script note I will tell you that upon returning home Andrew promptly removed and gave away half the clothing in his closet. He has a very small closet. “I just don’t need this much.” When Chris was much younger he gave me a gift. He painted inside our closet, “The best things in life aren’t things.” I thought so much about that during our trip.

Much more than fiscal responsibility….

What happens to young travelers on budgets? Having met a few of their hostel “colleagues,” I have an observation. Unlike their college counterparts (“the only time they call is when they need money”), the backpacker tries to extend the trip as far as possible on the budget they have. These guys keep talking about trying to go farther and stay longer limited only by money or time. They say things like, “I wish I could have gone there; I ran out of money.” It’s subtle but they don’t say, “I need more money.” Think about it. It’s about the experience, not the money and not the things. And that may be why hostels are safe environments. Theft is reportedly low, your backpack is safe, and people help each other.

But just outside of the hostel, the world may be hostile. And since “street smarts” aren’t learned in the classroom, Rena and I tried to educate our sons with our losses as young travelers. Despite their objection, and to their amusement, we packed a wad of emergency cash amongst their toiletries. It made us feel better. We didn’t know how things might go for them. We hoped for nothing bad but wondered if there might be stories.

On the second bookend trip, the three of us decided to share a taxi with a fourth backpacker, an architect from NZ taking a year off. The trip cost was 1500 som for a 2-hour journey. Cab drivers frequently try to exploit the language barrier and it’s a vulnerability the boys explained. “This guy only speaks Russian. So I entered the exact amount on his calculator screen in advance to confirm it,” Andrew said. They’d been victims before in the Caribbean, Chris said. So we were now five miles down a lonely road in Kyrgyzstan and the cab driver tells us the cost was really 2000 som because no one told him about the “extra person.” Andrew instantly disagrees. The new number is clear on the calculator; the reasoning is muddy. “Niet Niet Neit” say the boys. “1500.”  Then the process gets a bit ugly. The man from NZ says he’s easy; he’ll pay whatever. I’m now quiet and fascinated. My chance to see how my boys are changing in their gap years. This is going down in a foreign country in a foreign language and my boys aren’t giving an inch on what’s now being framed as a compromise for their misunderstanding. “Stop the car. We’re getting out. It’s all about principle.” Guess what? The cab driver laughed, the boys laughed, and the architect and I shared looks; we’d probably read too many Gulag stories. We finished the 2-hour ride for the original 1500. That’s not something you learn in college.

Type 1 and Type 2 Fun……

Type 1 Fun…what most people call fun; enjoying the exact moment in which it occurs because it’s fun; instant pleasure. Type 2 Fun … enjoyment or an appreciation after a challenge or adversity. Okay; those are my definitions after listening to my offspring describe things. A bit like “good” and “bad” cholesterol when it comes to things affecting your overall health. Surfing, Kiteboarding, riding on Brad’s catamaran in November – a lot of Type 1 fun. Sandblasting and vortex winds camping in Baja at San Carlos; Type 2 fun they figured a few days later. But a lot of Type 1 fun in November on the first bookend trip.

And the culmination trip in Central Asia? Especially in landlocked countries for Chris? Almost all Type 2 fun. The boys think you need both. But as you “get older” (grow up) it appears they are liking more Type 2 fun. As a dad, I think its more like the cholesterol model; less of one and more of the other is healthy but yes, you do need both.

Challenges and more challenges….Isn’t that just more Type 2 Fun?

By the time I had joined the closing trip, everything had become a challenge. Better cooking, lower costs, the most remote and more challenging hikes. Surviving rain. Going to the bathroom in the rain. No toilet paper. “Part of the adventure,” I said. “Type 2 fun,” they responded. No longer children, they weren’t complaining. They were interpreting these difficulties as delayed gratification by virtue of accomplishment.  Chris, who hated sleeping outside, hates being cold and can’t live away from the ocean, wants to go back. He’s officially a backpacker now. And Andrew, now at home, isn’t wasting much of the day. It starts before sunrise; he’s training for a triathlon again but realizes the early hours of the morning are much better for cycling, and he prefers this to staying out late at night even though it’s summer vacation. That I think must be more Type 2 fun. 

Finding Better Ways to Find My Way….

By October I had researched navigation in Baja. maps.me provides country downloads that leverage your GPS tracker even if you don’t have a local SIM card. As a backup I ordered two detailed paper maps. Brad and I used these paper maps; there were so many routes I just didn’t see on the digital formatting. But we still couldn’t find Shipwreck’s until we had made a call back stateside. Even though Baja wasn’t a real problem, I now think there are better ways to navigate. What I do know now is that there are many other ways to get really good information. I now know that Google Maps downloads work very well with GPS navigation and that things travelers need are readily available in that format provided you plan accordingly. Except in China where it doesn’t work. Alibaba maps is the answer if you need to know.

“How did you know THAT ?” I asked someone. “You have to talk to the local Hostel travelers. They know all about the other (local) Apps, the ones that work, the free ones, the ones that show you the non-tourist prices. Sometimes you have to buy a local SIM card but it’s usually worth it.” Sometimes you find this stuff on Lonely Planet or search platforms but sometimes you don’t find out unless you ask the right traveler. “Yandex” will get you a guaranteed-price taxi in Russian-speaking countries; pick up and drop off language translations. Other related apps will show you all the local bus routes and map your buses with realtime GPS progress mapping without a local SIM card. Saves a lot of money when you are poor, but more importantly, embeds you in the community. My take-home learning: connect with the backpacking hostel crowd or the couch surfing crowd on their digital platforms. These folks are better than travel agents, they willingly share, and they are experts in prices, good finds, and current local information.   Even if you don’t plan to travel or live in the same style.

“Get out of your routine”   

That’s my personal take-away as a guest on their gap year adventures. And that’s my resolution going forward now. Stripped of all but the essentials, I noted while wandering on our journeys, left me vulnerable to the influence of my boys’ ideas.  Instead of “no I have work to do” excuses I found myself compliantly “going along.”  Much like we all do on any vacation with others. But in this environment the impact was more significant. I relinquished and adopted their line, “Ok, let’s try it.” And that’s how I rationalized things one evening as the sun was getting low and the air cold. No longer backpacking, we were day-hiking on a whim. We had limited water, limited food and limited money in the daypack. We had left a warm town in Kazakstan and our warm clothes behind and decided to try and ascend a mountain to a popular lake. We could have hired a guide to drive us…..or we could just set out on foot …. and bus…and see what happens. That’s the stuff I really worry about. We didn’t appreciate that the bus line terminated early and that the ascent to the lake was significantly more miles and vertical feet than depicted in our information. And we had already hiked 6 miles to the beginning of our short bus route. And now we were another 6 miles up the mountain road. “We could hitch-hike Andrew suggested.”

“Okay, lets try hitch hiking,” I said.

Now extract yourself from this story. You’re presumably in the US. This is Kazakstan, the country is Russian-speaking and it’s a short travel to some really dangerous tribal places. I’m nearing retirement age and not poor. Yet I’m agreeing to hitch-hiking. Ask yourself -would you do this? Have I lost my mind? Is this craziness because of my new commitment to try new things? Or is it out of desperation? The answer is really important. If in November you told me I would be hitch-hiking in a remote are of Kazakstan I would have not gone on the trip. I would have guessed it to be a  desperate situation or some form of really bad judgement. It was not bad judgement and we were only minimally desperate. But by getting out of my routine I went to Kazakstan. l then learned about the people and the culture. Riding with others is safe; it’s encouraged and most all of the locals do it. You give them a little money; it’s a win-win. We had watched it happen a lot. So, a van that had picked up two Russians we had met previously while hiking stopped to give us a lift. We saw the lake, enjoyed their company. We told stories and took pictures with them. And got a ride back with them back to the bus line. Warm and dry. That night we were tired. Instead of going back to the hotel after dinner I reminded Andrew about my new found philosophy; getting out of my routine and suggested we walk down another street. We found and then were entertained by an older Kazakstan man playing the accordion. He had something he wanted to communicate to us. Several people stopped by to help. I think the group tried 5 languages before we met a Russian who spoke Spanish. That worked for me.  Turns out he had spent 3 years riding a motorcycle around South and Central America.  The organist- he just wanted to sing and play us a song in Italian. So we all had a wonderful evening together. Getting out of my routine. That’s what I learned on this trip.

To see photos of Uzbekistan, check out the gallery! 

 

The thought of leaving Australia for Uzbekistan tortured me. My final night was miserable.  

Why was I about to go to a double-landlocked dustball, whose history (a major draw for travelers) I knew embarrassingly-little about, in a region so proximate to Taliban-controlled Afghan mountains that I could bike to an explosion in hours?

Coupled with the fact that Australia is a paradise–world-class waves, wild beaches, and beautiful women–I had finally undone the ghastly physical damage that “roughing it” in China inflicted on my body. I started to look like a triathlete again, not a vaguely-emaciated lump of jaundiced dough.

On the verge of tears, I shuffled through the grocery store, greedily snatching jars of peanut butter and bags of muesli: these will delay the onset of decrepitude, right?

On the way to the airport, I phoned home: “Uprooting the familiar is good,” my Dad consoled. “I’m proud of you.”  The flight was a blur, and soon I was in China for my extended layover.

After a scary encounter with some bad people in Beijing, I fled to the airport a day early to hide. I thought maybe I’m headed to Uzbekistan for asylum now?

In hindsight, this raging battle to drag myself to Uzbekistan is a comical period of personal growth. Unsurprisingly, my fears never manifested.

I was stunned by overwhelming hospitality, mouthwatering Uzbek food (an Indian/Mediterranean/Asian blend), and the frequent surprises brought by exploring an ancient hermit kingdom with travelers from remarkably-different backgrounds.

The first clue that Uzbekistan would be fun was the collection of intrepid travelers it attracts. At the hostel, I met a young Belarusian girl, a Swiss cyclist riding home via the Silk Road from Malaysia, Afghan and Pakistani doctors who live in areas unseen by most Westerners, and one hilarious Russian man who, though he couldn’t speak much English, communicated perfectly using body language and vodka.

At dinner with the Swiss cyclist and Afghan doctor, we discussed geography, travel, and politics. After four pots of tea, way too much “shashlik” (veggies and meat roasted in a smoky clay oven), and a loaf of Uzbekistan’s famous homemade bread, the Swiss man paid our dinner.

“I’ve been treated more times than I can remember while in Uzbekistan,” he added. “I want to return the favor before I leave.”

This act of generosity set a tone, and from thereon out, almost every meal shared with friend or stranger brought a battle to cover the check. I have never experienced such generosity from people I’ve known for such a short period.

The next morning, while visiting a local mosque with the Swiss and Afghan, an Uzbek man spotted us as outsiders. He came up, politely introduced himself, and offered to show us around the grand mosque. For the next hour, he patiently showed us all parts of the site, doing his best to fight through the language barrier.

Before departing, the Uzbek had us kneel as he recited prayers aloud in Arabic. The Afghan man, who is Muslim and speaks eight languages including Arabic, was shocked. On our way out, the Afghan translated and explained how exceptionally kind those prayers were.

There was no bid for donation or religious conversion; the Uzbek man just wanted to welcome us into his place of worship, teach us about his practice, and wish us wonderful lives in the presence of his God.

Way too often in the West, “Islam” and “Muslim” are immediately followed with political rants or the latest updates on extremist groups. It’s easy to forget that Islam is the world’s most practiced religion: a peaceful one.

Later that afternoon, I was reminded of Uzbekistan’s bizarreness. While wandering through the Soviet-era metro system with the Belarusian girl, we were taking photos of the grand halls that, during the Cold War, doubled as nuclear bomb shelters.

People marveled at us like we marveled at the gorgeous metro stations. Until 2018, no photographs were allowed to be taken in the metro system, and passersby are still shocked at the novelty of foreigners photographing these once “classified” areas.

Even the countless military personnel on patrol (Uzbekistan is still a police state) were bewildered by our entertainment. Unlike at home, however, officials must not be photographed, or else you run the risk of having all digital photographs seized and destroyed.

While walking the metro halls with the Belarusian girl, whose natural beauty already attracted a lot of attention, every head turned our way. They smiled at her and raised an eyebrow at me…I think “surfer attire” made its debut in Uzbekistan, and locals weren’t stoked.  

Eventually, one tall, young Uzbek man with gentle eyes stopped and offered to show us around. Riding the wave of hospitality, we welcomed him to our entourage. He took us to the various stations, showed us around town, and eventually, we ended up eating the famous Uzbek “plov:” a mouthwatering dish of dates, nuts, and buttery rice. Ours included horse meat.

He would not let us pay for dinner. The average Uzbek earns $120 per month.

At home, people care more about driving luxury cars than tipping their server or spontaneously treating someone to a meal. Once again, Uzbek hospitality opened my eyes and made me reflect on my own habits.

Back at the hostel, a party was gathering to celebrate the Belarusian girl’s 26th birthday! The hostel owners spent all afternoon barbecuing, and various guests contributed dishes from their home nation.

All expenses were covered by the hostel. Their only request? Sing a song for the crowd from your country. I panicked and sang “Row Row Row Your Boat” to a baffled group of Russians and Japanese.

The next morning, I went running and bought a sleeper train ticket to visit Khiva: an ancient city on the other side of Uzbekistan. The train would leave at night, so I spent the day poking around bazaars and seeing the capital, Tashkent. At night, just before I needed to leave the hostel, the Afghan and Pakistani doctors invited me to observe the first night of Ramadan with them.

They fasted all day–not drinking or eating–and with night would bring a massive religious binge! They wanted to include me. For some reason, I knew observing Ramadan would be more meaningful than seeing one more ancient city.

That night had us out till 3am. I heard stories of their travels through Afghanistan, the Eastern perspective on Osama Bin Laden’s assassination, and the tribal belts of Pakistan. I was repeatedly invited to visit both! Over hookah that night–no alcohol of course–I promised to pay Pakistan and Afghanistan a visit. Next year, perhaps.

On our way home, Zalmai, the Afghan doctor, bought a bottle of Vodka to surprise Vladimir, the bald Russian man. Though Zalmai doesn’t drink for religious reasons, he wanted to make Vlad happy, and boy did his big bald head turn red as Vlad jumped and hugged Zalmai!

One stereotype that did hold true was the Russian affection for Vodka. Between Vlad and another Russian, the bottle was gone in the morning

The next morning, when buying a replacement train ticket, I found myself tied up in an outrageous bureaucratic explosion that was astronomically-intensified by my ineptitude in the Russian and Uzbek languages.

The Uzbek train ticket counter made the DMV look functional.

Short lines were misleading, and long lines meant death. I was rerouted through three lines, and one shut down five minutes early for lunch as we reached the front. Customers frequently pay with enormous bricks of 1,000 som bills for a 180,000 som ($12) ticket: the equivalent of paying in pennies, and every bill is counted.

Due to poverty and inflation, the Uzbeks are stuck with a crippled currency.

After some three-way translating and single handedly restraining a pod of elderly women in colourful babushkas from plowing in front of the line, I bought my ticket! Through bureaucracy and old women, I would not miss that train.

Before departing on this Soviet-era night train to ride across Uzbekistan, Vlad gave me a traditional “Russian Sendoff:” a quick prayer followed by shot of vodka and a hug. Vlad got a great kick out of this as I hadn’t been drinking the whole time till then.

The train was surprisingly comfortable, and stepping out of the doors felt like stepping out of a time machine: Bukhara is an ancient city with thousand year history.

I’d be lying if I said exploring the hallowed, ancient cities of Bukhara and Samarkand for the next week was the highlight of my time in Uzbekistan, but it was a completely different pace than Tashkent.

With Silk Road heritage, these breathtaking mosques, trading domes, fortresses, ancient bazaars, and desert oases felt unlike any other portion of my gap year: I was a time-traveler, food connoisseur, and historian at once.

During the daytime, the arid, scorching “dustfest” kept everyone shade-bound. Only at dawn could I be free to run, and as I quickly learned, this window of time is a rare opportunity of magical solitude. Running is always fun, but passing through the empty, millennia-old buildings that saw the likes of Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Amir Timur while the city rested was unbelievably fun.

It’s hard to give justice to seeing the sun rise over a desert oases whose buildings all look like something from a history book. I got a glimpse of our past.

After these long runs, I inhaled copious amounts of fabled, traditional recipes with spices from Mediterranean, Indian, and Asian influences. Between meals, a massive loaf of fresh Naan bread could be acquired on any street corner for fifty cents.

With this satisfying combination of running, eating, reading, and touring the ancient cities, the last week of Uzbekistan flew by.

When back in Tashkent, the capital, for my final night, I once again broke fast with Zalmai. It felt like reuniting with an old friend–we understood each other, but still found tons of new topics to entertain at meals. Unlike most “last meals” with traveling friends, this goodbye was easier: I know I will see him again. With his humble personality, doctor’s intelligence, and wit, he’s the perfect companion for visiting Pakistan and Afghanistan.

In case it didn’t come across already, this trip to Uzbekistan lit a special fire for me.

I’ve always been drawn to remote areas–places most people don’t go. I want to see endless horizons, surf empty waves on untouched coastlines, and sleep on the side of cliffs. I want to feel the bitter winds of Patagonia biting my face, watch the sun rise from the side of some distant mountain, and give my heart and soul to get there.

Surprisingly, Central Asia satisfies this craving for remoteness. A rich culture and hospitality are friendlier variances of the wetsuit and sleeping bag, but I’m able to ride trains, use currencies, and observe cultures that most English-speakers are entirely unaware of.

After Uzbekistan, I flew to Kyrgyzstan, where I’m writing this post. For the next month, I will chase the physically-isolated mountains of Kyrgyzstan.

In other words, for the “grand finalé” of my gap year–the pièce de résistance–I will backpack through beautiful, isolated mountains in the most bizarre place I could think of…

Stay tuned.

 

Article by Andrew Buchanan. To see the ancient cities, mouthwatering cuisine, and friendly faces of Uzbekistan, explore the gallery! 

I wish my story from Thailand was a heartwarming tale of adventure and humor. Instead, I need to share a profound takeaway from my experience, as a tree-hugging surfer from California, traipsing through the open-air butcheries of Bangkok. 

It might not be what you expect, but it is something we all should hear.

On my first morning in Thailand, I awoke in a Bangkok hotel, starving as usual. Bangkok’s famous street markets seemed like the best place to find the tropical fruits I was craving, so Frances and I packed a bag and ventured out to the chaotic concrete jungle below.

The city immediately flooded our senses. The sputtering of moped engines and honking of car horns drowned out the soft rumble of air conditioning units, and the hot, humid air carried with it strong odors of exhaust and sewer pipes. 

As we walked towards the market, we followed a murky stream that was contained by concrete walls. With each structure it passed, the stream collected a new human artifact: suds from someone’s laundry, oil droplets off a motorbike, or a plastic straw blown in by the wind.

The first place we entered the market did not have the fresh fruit I desired. It looked more like a scene from a horror movie than somewhere that sells products for human consumption. Pigs were strung up by their hind legs and filleted open from stomach to throat. Their entrails laid in a pile beside the corpses, where people vigorously sifted through feet of intestine.

Countless chickens were clustered on top of one another in small rusty cages. Occasionally, they would let out loud screeches as one would be plucked from the pack and thrown into boiling water. Beside the chickens lay all manner of fish flopping about in less than an inch of water—gasping as they baked in the tropical sun. 

My feet grew dirty as I walked through the puddles that gathered in the market. The puddles came not from rain, but instead from the constant washing of butchering blocks. The water carried animal remains as it slowly made its way into the same stream that wove between people’s homes and eventually flowed to Thailand’s famous beaches.

I could feel my appetite quickly fading. Knowing I would regret leaving empty-handed, I found a few fruit vendors scattered amongst the carnage. I quickly grabbed a few bags of dragonfruit, mangosteen, and rambutan, then fled the market.

As much as I wanted to ignore everything I had just seen, there was an inescapable pit of discomfort growing inside me. With each black cloud of exhaust spewed from passing trucks, and every piece of plastic I saw lining the streets, I grew more upset. What I remember the most is a few vines sprouting out of the most minuscule cracks in the concrete. Their leaves were covered in brown from the rusty structure they so delicately balanced on.

These stunted vines were all that remained of the mighty jungle. The rest was smothered in concrete that laid a foundation for the human species to display its unrelenting, unapologetic, consumption of the natural world.

It’s not easy to process our ills. 

Our psychological coping methods are quite impractical, if one takes the time to analyze them. Some justify their actions by claiming they are stuck in a larger system that is too great for one person to fix. Others find ways to deny involvement or make their actions seem less extreme in comparison. To escape the discomfort, people even seek ignorance and distraction in attempt to hide from the problem, as if that would suddenly make it vanish.

To quell my internal distress, I reminded myself of how I didn’t contribute to the destruction I was witnessing. I don’t eat meat, so animals aren’t being harmed because of me. I have a reusable water bottle and dispose of my trash in garbage cans, so I’m not contributing to plastic pollution. And of course, I planted pretty flowers and trees in my backyard, instead of cutting them down.

This line of reasoning worked for a time, but deep down, it didn’t sit right.

It took me until later that evening to recognize the irony of my reaction. Sure, I may not consume as many animal products as others do, but I have been burning far too many fossil fuels through all of my plane flights. And while my plastic trash may end up in a landfill, where I won’t have to look at it, I still am creating demand for an unnatural product that will take thousands of years to decay.

I came to the realization that I was so bothered by my time in Bangkok not because the Thai culture is more destructive, but because the Thai culture made no effort to hide humanity’s dark side.

In Los Angeles, our cars emit clear fumes, so we don’t have to think about the greenhouse gasses spewing from our exhaust pipes. We hide our waste water beneath the ground and send our trash to landfills in far-off basins, so we can ignore the messes we make. We pump in water to grow plants in an area that is naturally a desert, so the sprawling concrete jungle looks more palatable.

Instead of seeing where our meat comes from, we expect it to be delivered in nice, neat packages to our grocery store with labels like “organic,” “grass-fed,” or “free-range.” The Thai cows were probably grass-fed, but actually witnessing their limbs get dismembered makes the practice of raising and butchering animals far less palatable than the American labels let on.

Lastly, and probably worst of all, we do a lot of our dirty work in other countries. The factories that dye our clothing and the mines that extract rare metals for our electronics are conveniently kept out of the American public eye in other continents. The average American probably has no idea of the environmental impacts of those practices. 

The complexity of these problems is yet another reason American travelers need to reserve judgement, especially when visiting developing nations: there is blood on all of our hands.

My point in all of this isn’t to convert everyone to being a vegan or expect we all immediately stop using single-use plastics. I recognize that is far too much to ask. What I do hope to shed light on is our truly destructive relationship with this planet and the many species we share it with.

I want people to take ownership over the choices they make and genuinely understand the consequences of their actions. If we continue to blindly believe that buying organic items in trendy recycled packaging is enough, then we will fail as a species.

Don’t try and make a drastic change immediately. Instead, next time you want to buy a coffee, think about the impact of your consumption. Decide if the land cleared in the rainforest to grow the beans, and the plastic cup and straw it comes with, are worth the caffeine buzz. Sometimes it might be, and sometimes it might not. 

What matters is we make decisions with that same depth of thought and moral conscience.

So carry on with a more astute, discerning mind, and make your decisions based in reason. Be honest with yourself, and others, about why you’re making certain choices. And lastly, don’t be too upset because if you’ve made it to this point in the article, you’re probably a good person. 

I know this post wasn’t the easiest to read. It certainly wasn’t the most fun to write, but sometimes we need to have the difficult conversations.

I don’t want to leave you on a sour note, so here is a gallery featuring all of Thailand’s natural wonder. Outside of Bangkok, the scenery was stunning, and meeting the workers and elephants at Patara Elephant Farm was enough to put a smile on the most cynical of faces.

There is still a lot of beauty left in our world; thank you for caring about it.

—Chris Buchanan

Sidenote: If you want to see elephants in Thailand, Patara is the most ethical place to go. It is a hospital and sanctuary for mistreated elephants that rehabilitates and releases them into the wild.

(See the full China gallery here)

 

When I landed in Kunming, China, I thought it was over: my swashbuckling days of rogue adventure travel were on hold. 

I surrendered my advanced biometrics data to the Chinese Communist Party’s “Big Brother” program to be monitored by street side cameras, at grocery stores, and even through my own phone.

I had to go running at 5:00 am to avoid great pods of pedestrians that dominated all other hours. Car and train horns echoed through towering skyscrapers at night, and there was always an open noodle shop.

I even paid for my hostel by scanning a QR code with my iPhone.

All signs indicated that wild adventure travel in China would be tricky because of strict government oversight, a massive population, and my decrepit Mandarin skills. 

I would never have believed that, nine days later, I would complete a grueling 24-mile holy Buddhist pilgrimage to altitudes above 15,800 feet and in an area so remote that I wouldn’t see another person until mile 23.

I never thought that one week later I would have the honor to observe a sacred Tibetan sky burial—a traditional method of disposing corpses by cutting and feeding them to vultures. 

At that moment, in Kunming, I could not have imagined that I would hitchhike partway across the Tibetan plateau, find a yak stuck in a concrete drainage canal while walking to hot springs, and be treated to dinner by a wonderful Kham Tibetan woman–all within the span of 24 hours. 

I have a somewhat-dorky, unintentionally-condescending, and thoroughly-generous Chinese backpacker to thank: Wang.

This short, middle-aged Chinese man who carried his laptop in a satchel and thought I was 34 years old boasted about China’s “Wild West,” but discouraged me from going. He talked for hours about how much he loved the overland route, but in the kindest way possible, Wang explained, I lacked the language skills and my timeframe offered little margin for error. 

I smiled and nodded as he simultaneously described the remote cities and mountains while exchanging my 19-hour “standing” train ticket for a “sleeper” ticket (un-doing my first of two ticket blunders).  Wang described the epic route from Chengdu, across the Tibetan Plateau, and down to Shangri-La. 

This route requires taking public buses great distances through no-man’s land and to cloud-scraping altitudes above 15,400 feet. It demands proficiency in Mandarin. It offers full immersion in Tibetan culture in towns just outside of the “official” borders of Tibetan Autonomous Region (an area restricted from Americans). 

In other words, this long overland route goes through a remote area with a culture that is normally kept hidden from Westerners. 

One week later, it happened: I followed in Wang’s footsteps and left the bustling Chengdu for an adventure through China’s Wild West. 

I got to the bus station as it opened 6:20 am and bought a ticket for the one daily bus to Litang that left at 6:30 am. As I scrambled to get everything onboard, I felt proud of how far my Mandarin skills progressed: I was able to locate the bus station, buy a ticket to the correct destination, and get on the bus all within the 10 minute window. Maybe luck was on my side!  

As the Chinese bus gurgled and rolled, buildings give way to tunnels, and eventually snowy mountains appeared. We stopped for the bus’s annual safety check—an hour of sitting in a cold parking lot while mechanics poke the engine. 

When the 9-hour bus ride from Chengdu ended around sunset, I put on my massive backpack and wandered through the Tibetan town of Litang. Litang boasts vast grassy flatlands, rolling hills, and distant mountains. It’s a small town without a tree in sight, and in the winter, most things are brown.

The dry, cold air at 13,000 feet bit my skin, and I looked homeless. I even considered sleeping on a nearby hill.

Several miles later, I accidentally found a hostel called “Medok’s Inn.” I entered, was offered a reasonable price, and struck up a conversation with the receptionists. 

Like most Chinese people I meet, they were bamboozled and entertained with my Mandarin proficiency. They phoned the owner, Medok, to come meet the “American who spoke Chinese.” I met Medok—a sweet young Tibetan woman who spoke fantastic English. After telling her about my travels before and in China, about Buchanan Project, and hopes for the overland journey, she could not have been more supportive. 

Medok told me—staring with intrigued, gentle eyes and a soft smile—that she’s met enough people that she can identify good and bad ones simply through eye contact. She smiled and told me I was a good person. 

Medok invited me to dinner for the following night, gave me detailed instructions to find the 7th Dalai Lama’s birth house, told me about the local hot springs, and invited me to witness a sacred Tibetan “sky burial” the following morning. 

I had mixed feelings about observing the burial as an outsider, but everything else sounded great!

In Tibetan Buddhism, once a person dies their soul ascends to heaven and their body is nothing more than an empty vessel. The act of feeding the body to birds is seen as one final gesture of selflessness and kindness, for they offer their remains to birds.

The ritual, Medok explained, is in a public area and is often accompanied by lighthearted and happy behavior, as this is supposed to ease the soul’s transition to heaven. I would be welcome, but should observe from afar. 

Of course I would go. 

At the crack of dawn, I went downstairs and loaded into a car. I was dropped off on a distant hillside before sunrise and saw bundles of prayer flags. Soon, I spotted hundreds of hammers, axes, and knives on the ground.

Piles of Tibetan prayer tablets and flags lined the hills while bird feathers and human bone splinters speckled the dry grass. In the predawn light, the hillside felt powerful. After stumbling upon a severed hand, I grew uneasy and wandered away. 

I climbed a nearby ridge and watched the sunrise, drank tea, and meditated for an hour. When I returned, there was still nobody in site, so I hiked more. Several hours later, on my return walk, I saw dozens of gargantuan birds circling in the distance and heard their screeches grow in intensity and frequency. 

I walked towards the commotion and saw a burial beginning: several men unloaded a bare corpse from the back of a car as monks burned incense. I sat on a hill far away, quietly observing the sacred ritual. 

One man cut the body as the others shooed birds away, waving trash bags to intimidate them. The cutter would detach pieces of the corpse and toss them to the frenzy of birds. The whole process was very raw, peaceful, and loud. No tears, just the thud of an axe and frenzy of birds. No grieving, just smiling monks.

Once most of the body had been methodically dismembered by the monk and consumed by the massive flock vultures, the monks crushed the remaining bone into a powder, mixed it with tsampa and other spices to make it more palatable for the vultures. I don’t know how long the burial took: it was a blur.

For Westerners, sky burials seem violent and grotesque. But on the Tibetan plateau, the practice is sacred as it is practical: the hard soil would not allow for bodies to decompose, and a lack of trees make cremation financially impractical. With sky burials, all of the body is returned to the earth instantly. The family of the deceased does not attend the burial, and all grieving, prayers, and goodbyes are done before the ritual.

As I walked across the flatland towards town after the sky burial, I realized that this may have been the most “out there” experience I’ve had traveling thus far. I am incredibly honored and grateful for Medok’s inviting me. I strongly discourage people from attending a burial unless they are expressly invited. 

Sky burials are not a tourist attraction. 

I soon arrived at the 7th Dalai Lama’s birth house. A large Chinese military convoy parked on the street with large weaponry and full riot gear. Their job, in this quiet and dusty town, is to smother incendiary behavior; the Dalai Lama is an extremely controversial figure in China, and Litang has been a center for Tibetan protests and monk’s self-immolations (burning oneself alive in protest). 

All across Litang, there are scars from the Tibetan resistance: intense police presence, cameras, signs prohibiting any public speeches. Even the annual horse festival was cancelled some years back due to incendiary speeches and spontaneous protests in 2015. 

How could this little town be the epicenter of a powerful resistance? And why was I allowed to visit?

Seeing as I already had experience being detained and interrogated by Chinese police (for taking photos near a Mao Zedong statue), I kept a low profile and left quickly. But not until I launched my VPN—a tunnel under the Great Firewall of China—and read a more complete history on Litang. 

Next, I traversed the outskirts of town in quest of hot springs. The sun set before I arrived to the warm pools, but I found beautiful monasteries and prayer flags on the walk.

I even saw a yak, split from its herd, frolicking in a deep concrete moat trying to climb out. 

Tractors converted into go-karts—carrying everything from a solo rider to a whole family—rolled past as their scrappy engines sounded like explosions in the crisp air. They would fit in Mad Max. 

Where the hell am I? Litang could not have been more different than Chengdu. 

Once back at the hostel, Medok welcomed me to into her cozy dining room. We sat across from each other at a square table and tucked our legs under blankets, which hung from the sides of the table like overgrown moss on a tree. At the center of the table was an electric hot-plate, which kept the yak dumplings and the blanket warm.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Medok I’m a vegetarian.

I prepared a cup of Chilean yerba maté (see Patagonia article) to share with her, and she poured me a cup of jasmine green tea. Over the next few hours, our conversation took many turns and covered a wide range of topics. 

Medok was an expert at telling stories between the lines: using her eyes and facial expressions, she communicated more than her words when addressing topics like women in Tibetan culture, how Litang has changed since she was a young girl, and the future of Tibet. 

Her confidence and composure was engaging, and like an expert politician, she carefully danced around anything that would get her in trouble with the government while still communicating her thoughts on controversial issues. 

Around midnight we started talking about homosexuality, and that’s where our cultural differences most starkly contrasted. I fear my beliefs may have offended Medok, and she politely thanked me for joining her for dinner—my cue to go to bed. 

The next day, with utmost kindness, we thanked each other for the friendship and parted ways. I joined another backpacker who was also at the hostel, Xiao Ma, to hitchhike the next leg of our trip. 

We walked along the highway with our thumbs out looking for a ride to Yading Nature Reserve—a massive national park one hundred miles away. A minivan with a husband and wife adventure duo pulled over and welcomed us in. This ride lasted several hours, and the road went up to 15,400 feet through a windy, snowy mountain pass. 

Wearing aviator sunglasses and a confident, “no B.S.” facial expression, Xiao Ma reminded me of an Asian Jack Kerouac. His sense freedom was contagious; I too felt like I was in the ‘60s. 

Though I helped Xiao Ma practice his English, most of our conversations were in Chinese. Hours of conversation with Xiao Ma, who was patient and supportive of my developing language skills, greatly improved my speaking. 

His fluency in Mandarin and street savvy made travel much easier, avoiding all tourist traps and expertly negotiating low prices much more efficiently than I could have. 

By our last leg of the trip, in a hired minivan, I was growing irritated. Like many of the Chinese drivers I’d encountered before, ours blundered any attempt to modulate his voice and yelled everything. Partway through the nauseating, bumpy ride, he parked the car on the roadside. Reaching under his chair, he pulled out a decorated yak horn and removed the silver cap covering its base, and revealing a secret compartment filled with small pills. 

He poured several pills onto his hand, pinched them, snorted the powder, and continued yelling. This mysterious yak drug induced even more yelling and aggressive driving. I channeled all of my inner zen and slept.   

By the end of the day, Xiao Ma and I were exhausted and settled in a Tibetan hostel in Yading. The nature reserve becomes remarkably crowded during the high-season, but being the tail end of winter, we had the place all to ourselves. 

It was like visiting Disneyland on a Monday morning.

The park looked like Yosemite meets the Himalayas: massive, jagged mountains with valleys at 13,000 feet indicated Asian giants, but the deep green forests and grassy meadows reminded me of my home in the Sierra Nevadas. For the first time since arriving in China, I felt nostalgic: mountains and forests have always elicited an enchanted familiarity. 

I wanted nothing more than to to hike deep into them. 

That night, I told the hostel owner my intended route for my next day’s hike, asking him to send a search party if I didn’t return. I would, alone, hike 24 grueling miles over three mountain passes and up to 15,800 feet, circling one of the park’s three sacred peaks. 

The hike is so grand that it was sanctified by an early Dalai Lama, and many Tibetans complete the same annual pilgrimage over several days on horseback. For me, one day on foot would suffice.

After calling my parents to share the plans, sending them a map, establishing check-in times, and packing the appropriate survival gear as precaution, I went to sleep early. A growing sense of anticipation made me restless: tomorrow would be grueling and magical.

At 6:00 am, long before sunrise, I ate my oatmeal, drank maté, and set out with a daypack. I said goodbye to Xiao Ma and began descending the asphalt switchbacks to the trailhead. Something about that morning created a sense of relief: I felt free of the congestion in China, free from my massive backpack, and free from everyone else. 

Nobody was in the park. I was alone for the next ten hours in the presence of holy mountains.

As the sun rose and cast a blood orange light across the holy peak, Mt. Chenresig, I picked up my pace. By mile seven, I found water in a meadow and started the uphill portion. I called my parents to let them know where I was and to expect another phone call within eight hours. Then, the real hike started. 

Up a steep, rocky scree slope, I huffed and puffed like an overweight, asthmatic adolescent fulfilling PE credits. 

At the first iconic stop, a psychedelic multi-colored glacial lake so holy that swimming in it is strictly forbidden, I paused for some crackers. At just under 15,000 feet, the air was frigid moving quickly. I snapped a photo, put in my headphones for music, and continued to the first col at 15,500 feet. 

At the col, I stepped over snow and prayer flags to see a stunning view of multi-colored lakes and valleys below. Euphoria washed over me like a rogue wave, and tears of gratitude filled my eyes. To this day, I have only had one other experience being so struck by emotion while in the mountains: summiting Olancha peak on my Senior Year backpacking course.

Mountains have always been a place of magic and awe for me. Their grandeur provides a humbling sense of scale in a physical and chronological sense. They bring me peace. I feel most alive, challenged, humbled, and happy in the hills. 

These mountains were not only holy for me, but to the Tibetan Buddhists they are the homes of gods. I’m not Buddhist, but I clearly understood the spiritual value of the hills for the locals. 

With excitement of the situation, I jogged the next mile on a slight downhill, passing old stone huts. At 15,000 feet and 13 miles in, I felt incredible. How was this happening? 

By mile 17, the altitude and exhaustion rolled over me like a Prius hitting a raccoon. 

I paused on the most grueling portion of the hike: a 2-mile uphill walk ending with a 15,800 foot col. I ate a Clif bar and brewed maté with the last bit of hot water in my thermos, then continued. 

One excruciating shuffle at a time, I worked my way up the final 1,000 foot climb. At the summit, the snow had accumulated so much that the trail was now at the height of the hanging prayer flags: I had to crawl through a nest of flags, light-headed and panting for air. I did not get altitude sickness, but my lungs were never satisfied with the amount of oxygen per breath. 

Once out of the flags, the rest of the hike was smooth, gradual downhill with an up-close view of the Mt. Chenresig.

Once back at the hostel, less than 10 hours from my start, I had completed a 24 mile hike with total elevation gain of 5,700 feet. I retrieved my bag from a surprised hostel owner and got on the bus to leave the park. Xiao Ma met me at the park exit and arranged transportation for us both. He helped carry my bag as I was too exhausted to function well. 

That night my stomach began hurting, and I did not eat much. 

In the morning, I said goodbye to Xiao Ma and boarded a predawn bus to Shangri-La in Yunnan, China. On the bus, I grew nauseous and never regained my metabolism. With loud passengers and drivers smoking inside, I became increasingly irritated. My solution? Sleep.

Finally, at Shangri-La, I carried my bags through the toasty, crowded streets for a mile to get to my hostel. I splurged on a single room and planned to hibernate for the next day. Little did I know, I would become very sick.

The next four days were miserable. I had flu-like symptoms, could not eat, and barely had the strength to leave my bed. Shangri-La is slightly lower in elevation at 11,000 feet, but it was still difficult to stay hydrated. In stark contrast to the days before, I had no energy and missed home. 

Like all moments—miserable and euphoric— it passed. Meditation and five gallons of water helped. 

Four days later, I left the hostel and continued my journey to a major metropolitan city: Lijiang. Thankfully, my metabolism returned and I spent my final few days in China making up the lost calories with Lijiang’s delicious street food. 

While Lijiang had its own flavor of adventures—stamped by bustling markets and pods of tourists—it would feel very tame. In comparison to my trip from overland journey from Chengdu to Shangri-la, Lijiang was leisure.

The overland route through China’s Wild West would satisfy my desire for adventure, challenge me physically and emotionally, and introduce me to wonderful people and land: all of the clichés. 

By all accounts, China’s Wild West was most unorthodox for a solo American teenager. 

—Andrew Buchanan

Some people view traveling as a wonderful opportunity to sample local cuisine and dine on delicious meals unique to the area. Andrew is one of those people. He’s the first in line to try the odd-smelling green mush being served on the street, even if he can’t pronounce the name of the dish. Andrew has also been violently ill in foreign countries more times than I can count on all my digits.

I am not like Andrew. I am now a strict vegetarian, who would rather skip a meal or two than brave the green mush. Although New Zealand’s food is quite safe, and easy to pronounce, the quality comes at a price—a very high price. As an unemployed traveller, I need to make every dollar count, so consistently eating out is not an option.

On this last road trip through Southern New Zealand, I was faced with the challenge of not having access to a grocery store, except at the start and end of the journey, and having no method of refrigeration in the car. Still, I was determined to fuel my caloric needs without breaking the bank, so I concocted a few different dishes that met three very basic standards—vegetarian, shelf-stable, somewhat healthy. 

The following is a list and review of basically everything I ate for a week. I set up two parameters to rate the dishes. First is taste, which is self-explanatory. The second, satiety, rates the food’s ability to meet my caloric needs. 

Dish: Peanut butter and banana on brown rice crisps
Taste: 3/5
Satiety: 3/5
Comments: Rice crisps are lightweight and don’t get stale as quickly as bread. Much better with banana than without.

Dish: Canned Beans
Taste: 2/5
Satiety: 5/5
Comments: Should have invested in hot sauce. Do not mix with an entire onion or stomach will not be happy. Invest in pull-off top on cans to avoid frustration when you forget can opener.

Dish: Trail Mix
Taste: 5/5
Satiety: 5/5
Comments: Absolute necessity. Don’t eat too fast, or the bag will be gone, and you’ll feel disgusting.

Dish: Instant Rice
Taste: 2/5
Satiety: 4/5
Comments: Tastes fine when cooked in hot water. Tastes disgusting raw.

Dish: Campbell’s canned minestrone
Taste: 4/5
Satiety: 1/5
Comments: Not great when consumed cold but was forced to. Mix with rice or you’ll need many cans to be full. Don’t drink too many cans—they are very salty.

After seven days of rotating through canned soups, beans, trail mix, and sometimes-cooked instant rice, I gained access to a BBQ and roasted myself a feast of vegetables and tofu sausages.

With the leftovers, I made a sandwich out of an entire baguette stuffed with a sweet potato, three veggie sausages, onion, hummus, and three tomatoes. On my final hike, I finished the entire concoction at the summit.

Dish: Roasted vegetable sandwich
Taste: 5/5
Satiety: 5/5
Comments: I wish I had access to fire sooner

Despite my stubborn budgeting, I couldn’t leave New Zealand without a sample of the local cuisine. On my last afternoon in Queenstown, I tried a local favorite—the fergburger.

As I sat in a park and enjoyed my falafel burger, I remembered exactly what I had been missing out on. Even though, my food may not have tasted the best, it fueled me to reach some incredible locations. See everywhere I got to enjoy my canned beans and cold soup here.

—Chris Buchanan