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Tour Cycling in Mongolia- Unexpected Friendliness

Tour Cycling In Mongolia- Unexpected Friendliness

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

The long and winding road never seemed to end. Mountains soared above us in the distance along every direction, creating a panorama of green fields as it seemed we were in the center of mother nature’s canyon. Yurts dotted the grassy plains to the left of us. Signs of life. People looked like small ants running back and forth, from one small house to another. There was one person riding a bicycle in circles along the grassy fields, rounding up cattle and going on a joy ride.

The sun was about to set and my tour cycling mate Josh and I decided it was time to look for a place to crash for the night. It was our first evening on the other side of the Western Mongolian border. We heard all the stories about the rugged locals and were quite apprehensive about what would happen to us during the night. Rumor has it that no matter where you set up camp, the Mongols know everything that is happening on their terrain and will come ride up to you on their horses and perhaps try to open up your bag looking for booze and money. To avoid a confrontation or potential robbery, we decided it was best to go and introduce ourselves to some locals and ask them to camp by their home. We were both nervous about their reaction to two guys with big bags on their bicycles. There were so many homes and several people roaming around to choose from. One teenager was wobbling back and forth on his bike, chasing around goats that were breaking the steppe silence with their grunts. “That is the guy we need to talk to,” we agreed since he was already on his bicycle. We thought the commonality would help us break the ice and persuade the locals to offer us some hospitality.

Lets do it. We steered our bicycles off the main road in the directions of the yurts. “Oh my god. This is so adventurous!” we said to ourselves. As soon as we traveled a few meters in the direction of the yurt, children gathered together to form a big mob and started running towards us. We kept our fingers crossed and hoped they would not be hostile toward the big Caucasian men heading in their direction.

A few kilometers down the road and one hour before approaching the bicycle riding teenager, a group of children stood blocking my path. I kept going straight at full speed in their direction yelling “move! move!” in English. Even though I am sure they had no clue what “move” means, I assumed they would understand what I meant by the tone of my voice and by the fact that I kept pedaling faster in their direction. Obviously their parents did not teach them to respect tourists, so I took their education into my own hands. As I moved faster and faster in their direction, they held their bodies steady, creating a barricade in the road. I suddenly found myself in a game of chicken with the kids and was not going to back down. At the very last instant they must have realized I was not going to stop and I zoomed by them. Two of the kids grabbed my bags but the momentum of a loaded up bike and an 80 kilogram man was too much for those small hands. The boldness of those children shocked me as I nearly knocked two of them down to the ground. I can play naughty too. Sometimes children need to learn the hard way. Luckily nobody got injured.

Would these children gang up on us and create a big rumble on the steppe? Images of me body slamming kids on the grass flashed through my head. The Mongolians are known for wrestling, but surely I could take out these kids one by one if necessary. What would happen if one of their parents caught us in a scuffle with their children? Perhaps they would skin Josh and I and have us for dinner alongside their roasted beavers and steppe critters. This would be a welcome change to their diet of lamb meat and noodles.

The kids sprinted towards us and the ring leader was on his bicycle in front of them. The scene reminded me of a modern day Genghis Khan and his troops approaching an enemy, but this time on a bicycle instead of horse. “Sem ben oo,” I said. Greeting others in the local language always creates rapport right off the bat and signals that I respect the local culture.

The ring leader smiled at us as Josh and I attempted to explain ourselves using body language and simple English words. “Bike. Sleep. England. United States,” we said. Much to our surprise, the teenage cyclist started speaking to us in clear English. “Sure. You can put your tent by my house,” he said smiling. “My sister speaks English well and will be happy to talk to you,” he continued.

What a relief. After so much anticipation, we finally were able to relax and let our guard down. The tension faded in an instant as the children led us to their yard. The kids helped Josh and I set up our tents and invited us into their home to share a meal. Noodles and lamb meat were on the menu and we enjoyed every last bite.

That evening, we swapped bikes and road back and forth in the endless grassy field outside of their home. The kid got to test drive mountain and touring bikes and looked so happy to be riding our solid pieces of machinery. It was obvious that our teenage friend would never forget sharing tea with us and doing a bike swap and neither would we. What started out as a bold move by two risk takers ended up being a cultural exchange that none of us will ever forget. We heard plenty of shady stories about the lawless Mongolian steppe but became the victims of vicious hospitality and friendliness.  

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Tour Cycling in Mongolia- Is it Really as “Hard” as They Say?

Tour Cycling in Mongolia- Is It Really as "Hard" as they say?

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

Tour cycling in Mongolia has always haunted my dreams. Dirt paths that lead to nowhere, harsh winds, summer snowfalls and nomads roaming Genghis Khan’s former terrain by horse were images that infiltrated my mind whenever I fantasized about riding my bicycle across the world’s least densely populated country.

Mongolia was sure to put my physical and mental strength to the test. Before crossing the border, other travelers who cycled or drove through the Mongolian steppe all summed up their experience in one word. “Hard” was the first adjective that came out of their mouths.

“Hard” has always been one of my favorite words in any language. Leaving my comfort zone and testing myself has been my life long goal. There is no sense in doing things the easy way. The easy way leads to boredom, complacency and regret. How hard would it actually be? Everyone has a different standard for the world “hard” but I was curious to see how I would react to my new surroundings.

I met a Korean friend in Siberia who had just cycled across Mongolia who had difficulties with the locals. “They grabbed my bags and just started digging through it until I gave them something. I was really scared because I was in the middle of nowhere and they could have just left me for dead if they wanted to,” he said with fear in his eyes just recounting the story.

Hearing my friend’s story sent chills down my spine. I had to mentally prepare myself to adjust to a more rugged way of life upon crossing the border.

Whenever fear enters my mind, I re-frame my self talk by thinking of past accomplishments.

“I am the guy who camped outside with lions and elephants in Namibia and Botswana, cycled through the one of the world’s highest elevated roads in Tajikistan and played basketball in the roughest neighborhoods of Detroit. If people put me to the test then let them! I can handle myself in any situation the world throws at me,” I said to myself. 

This is my way of overcoming the scared voice in my head. That voice always tries to keep me from realizing my true potential. Every time I give myself an inspirational talk, the voice falls silent and I reemerge as a warrior ready to destroy anything in my path.

Traveling in Mongolia by bicycle was sure to be survival of the fittest in it’s rawest form. Life would become all about one thing- surviving to see the next day. This is the way humans have lived for thousands of years and only until recently have we been softened by the ways of the modern world. In my everyday life I work hard to callus my mind by pushing myself to the limit. Mongolia would serve as a playground where I could live the way human beings originally evolved. I was destined to be there.

At least I was not alone. My tour cycling companion Josh was right next to me when I crossed the border. Surely I would be a lot less vulnerable with him by my side. Power comes in numbers. We were both as giddy as children waiting for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve at the thought of entering Mongolian territory. How would this place test us and how would we react? Only time would give us the answer.

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A Siberian Explosion

A Siberian Explosion

November 7th, 2018

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

The Trans Siberian Railroad is legendary. It is the Jimi Hendrix of railroads. Connecting Vladivostok and Moscow over a distance that seems farther than it would take to fly to the moon, you could ride it for one week straight and be on the other side of the world’s most massive country. Riding on the Russian train is an experience not to be missed and mine was a mere 32 hours.

My goal was to cycle from Tomsk to the Mongolian border while going through the Altai Mountains. Before arriving at Tomsk I would need to travel 2,000 kilometers- a feat that was impossible to carry out by bicycle given the one month time frame imposed on my visa by the Russian authorities in Seoul.

Irkutsk was a grand adventure but now it was time to move on. I road my bike to the train station with butterflies in my stomach the size of Siberian eagles. I had just said goodbye to the friends that had helped me out in Irkutsk. Indeed the city of Irkutsk and its residents holds a special place in my heart. I felt like a high school kid again on the way to the big school dance. Instead of my full suit, I strapped on my quick dry shirt and hiking boots. The road was calling and my Russian sized wanderlust always answers. It was time to move on and ride in the Siberian countryside away from it all. First, I needed to take what locals referred to as “a short 32 hour” train ride.

My bicycle made its way onto the train with the help of the attendant. There was only one problem. The train car corridor was the size of a Vietnamese underground tunnel. How in the name of Mother Russia was I supposed to load my bike onto this car that was more narrow than Ghandi’s midsection after weeks of fasting? The last thing I wanted was to be the inconsiderate guy from across the world. At least most people so far took me for a local Russian as long as I kept my mouth shut. The attendant just pointed nonchalantly down the  narrow corridor and waited for me to load my bike on. My bike banged against the railings and into the door of the other passengers’ dormitory. I regretted not having learned the Russian phrase for “excuse me” or “I am sorry” yet. This was not a good showing by the self proclaimed “global citizen.”

I finally loaded my bike on the car and found my dormitory room. A smiling middle aged women greeted me with unbridled enthusiasm and kindness. A younger blond haired woman with bright sky blue eyes looked at me with curiosity upon finding out I could not speak her language. These two women would become my travel companions for the next 32 hours, so I was delighted by their warm attitudes. I claimed the top bunk as I wanted to be the gentleman and offer the ladies the more convenient bottom bunks first.

It was already close to midnight when I settled in to my bunk bed. There was nothing left to do but crash for the night. The clanking noise of the rail car wheels hitting the track and the slight vibrations that accompanied it did not phase me at all. I blacked out for several hours and was awoken at 3AM by a bodily sensation much more intense than anything I had felt in a long time. All the water I drank before boarding the train caught up with me. Now I was about to explode and I could feel me face turning green with envy at everyone else who had emptied their bladders before boarding the train. The sounds of Russians snoring roared through the train car as I leaped off the top bunk and sprinted up and down the corridor looking for a place to take a leak.

The train car worker was the only one awake and my mission was to find him before warm yellow liquid made the train corridor a slippery, stank place for all. The man was in the back of the train eating a snack. The pain on my face spoke louder than any Russian words ever could. “Twalet?” I said. The Russian word for toilet came in so handy and had been a lifesaver until now. The man just looked at me stone faced and replied in a demeaning tone. “Twalet niet,” he said. The literal translation being- “toilet no.” He then walked me over to the train schedule and mentioned the Russian number for 35 minutes. I took this to mean that there was thirty five minutes left before the next stop. Thirty five minutes would be an eternity. I would be lucky to last another five minutes. My time bomb of a bladder was about to let loose right on the floor. I ran frantically up and down the train car corridor. This was a thirty two hour ride. Surely there had to be a bathroom on the train somewhere. How could people ride on this train for one week straight across the world’s largest country without using a bathroom? The thought of this train having no place to urinate was ludicrous.

A door appeared as I ran up the aisle looking for a bottle or plastic bag that would hold the liquid I was ready to spray out. What a predicament I found myself in. I grabbed the doorknob and tugged at it with all of my might. I felt like a police officer breaking into a home looking for a serial killer on the loose. I was about to go mad in a few minutes. My craziness would have landed me on the nightly news. I pictured a headline story of a man who terrorized a train by dousing everyone with smelly liquid. The door was locked and just as I was about to use brute force to bust in, the train started to slow down.

This was my big chance to relieve myself. I walked up and down the platform looking for a place to let myself rip. The train worker was a few meters away on the platform standing with his arms crossed while joking with another man. Once again I pleaded for help. “Twalet?” I asked while pointing in all different directions. Hopefully he could at least point to the correct direction and I could bolt into the bathroom before the train left again. He slowly glanced at me and did not answer. I repeated what I was looking for one more time as my face was now gleaming from sweat due to all of the pain that had overcome my body. This time the man started to speak. The words that came out of his mouth were like razor blades digging deeper into my wounds. “Twalet niet,” he said with no expression. This guy was messing with me the whole time and probably enjoyed watching me suffer.

The man next to him wreaked of vodka and smiled with concern. The stench of booze from his breath was overwhelming to my nostrils but his smile indicated that he was ready to give me a helping hand. The drunk passenger grabbed my arm and stumbled along while pointing at the staircase located right in front of us. All of a sudden I transformed myself into a cheetah and sprinted past the drunk man. The intensity of the raw pain gave me superhuman explosiveness. Moans of relief flew out of my mouth at decibel levels higher than the noise of a Trans Siberian rail car flying by at full speed. I felt more relief than a pregnant woman just after giving birth to triplets as I let all of the liquid fly. Several hours of built up tension were released at once. This indeed was utter bliss.

After letting myself go, I went back to my bed and slept like a baby Siberian tiger who gulped down several liters of mother’s milk. In the morning my bunk bed mates were ready to eat breakfast and motioned for me to join them. We spoke to each other for several hours using body language. One lady taught me the Russian alphabet with more patience than the Dali Lama. She smiled and laughed as she corrected my pronunciation. Before I knew it, my notebook was filled up with Russian numbers and phrases. She was the greatest companion one could ever meet on a 32 hour train ride. This lady was so optimistic and friendly that I completely forgot about the experience from that morning.

Nature came calling once again. “Here we go again,” I thought. Before stomping up and down the aisles creating chaos, I decided to try a different approach. Perhaps my new friend would be able to help me out. She led me to the same door that was locked early that morning and motioned for me to take care of business. This time the door opened into a full fledged bathroom! The man from last night was messing with me! There was a bathroom on the train all along. Early that morning, whoever was using the bathroom locked the door. The train employee just wanted to make my life miserable. If I would have waited a few minutes, I would have had instant relief. But no. My state of mind led me to the edge of sanity.

People are a mixed bag. The Russian railway worker was probably angry at the world and decided to take it out on me. I felt sorry for him. Anyone that treats their fellow global citizens the way he did is sure to have plenty of anger and hatred in their lives. Despite his passive aggressive behavior, I wish nothing but the best to him and hope he learns to deal with his problems in a more productive way. On the other hand, the woman I shared a bunk room with was marvelous. Through nonverbal communication we were able to enjoy each other’s company. People all have their issues and everyone resolves them in different ways. I was not going to let one guy sour my trip. There was a nice person waiting for me by my bunk bed ready to share her positive energy with me. Just having that 32 hour friendship was worth all of the pain I endured my first few hours on the train.

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Creating My Own Siberian Hell

Creating My Own Siberian Hell

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

I was warned about them from countless people before I left for Siberia. They can wreak havoc on you and ruin even the most romantic moments with your loved one. They attack by the thousands and never retreat until they meet their death from the Siberian winter cold. Poisonous snakes or spiders? Bears? Tigers? No, I am referring to an animal that has likely attacked anyone reading these words. The mosquito!

“Come on, mosquitoes? How bad can they really be?” I thought to myself. I have dealt with wild boars in the mountains of South Korea, was bitten by a dog in Western China and slept in the bush of Southern Africa with wild elephants, hyenas, hippopotamuses and lions. How bad could it be dealing with a few bugs here and there?

So far my bicycle took me to the woods around Lake Baikal and through the grasslands surrounding Tomsk and Novosibirsk. As I headed south towards the Altai Mountains, I hit the mosquito jackpot. If swatting mosquitoes were a sport, I became an experienced guru within a few short hours.

After leaving the small Siberian town of Barnaul, the horror began everyday after 8PM. They were waiting to feast on my blood like famished leeches. Siberia is known for its forests, and I am known for camping beside the road on my bicycle adventures, this would indeed be the perfect combination. After pulling off the road and into the vast wooded terrain, Alfred Hitchcock’s resurrection came into full light before you could say “lights, camera, action!”

The mosquitoes attacked me by the thousands. The man who does not believe in bug spray finally met his match. The Siberian heat left me moist and sweaty, while my diet of pancakes, cherries, plums, dates and nuts left my blood sweeter than a grandmother at the first sight of her newborn grandchild. In other words, I was ripe and ready to be eaten raw, one bite at a time.

Thoughts ran wild in my head. How would my $20 Namibian-made piece of plastic ever protect me from the wrath of thousands of mosquitoes? My tent has been with me for six long years and experienced plenty of wear and tear from its days in South Korean mountain ranges and previous tour cycling expeditions. It serves as my primary source of shelter while being my loyal sidekick while on the road. However, due to its experiences, it has accumulated several holes and a broken front door zipper, which means there are many gaps in the protective lining, more than big enough for mosquitoes to enter and feast on me for the night.

The first task was to set up my tent. Even though the sun was still blazing hot at 9PM, winter hat and gloves included, I covered myself from head to toe with layers of clothing I anticipated using during frosty Mongolian evenings. Now they served as mosquito protection. I chose to let the sweat drip rather than allowing the mosquitoes turn me into a corpse of rotten flesh. The tent went up successfully and the door zipped halfway shut. One by one, the sneaky little pests found all of the gaps in my tent and continued to wreak havoc. I suddenly lost control of my emotions and swatted away furiously at my unwelcome guests.  “Die! Take that! I’ll show you who belongs here!” I shouted out loud as I swatted away like Jackie Chan in a one on one hundred battle. “If they see all of their friends dying one at a time they will get scared and leave me alone,” I reasoned. Unfortunately, my logic was greatly flawed and they continued to enter my sleeping quarters uninhibitedly.

I quickly realized this was a battle I simply could not win. Although minuscule in size, the pests outnumbered me by a factor of several billion. There was only one other option left- to let them enter freely and share my space with them. I would never make it to sleep if I continued karate chopping the small earthlings with reckless abandon. I calmed myself down and took refuge in my sleeping bag. While making sure to cover myself from head to toe with the sleeping bag, I closed my eyes and practiced several breathing techniques designed to slow down my heart rate. Normally, I fall asleep within minutes of this activity, but that evening I was much more wound up than usual. I slowed down my breath as much as possible and finally dozed off to the sounds of buzzing several centimeters distance from my ear lobe.

My eyes suddenly opened as the sunlight infiltrated my tent. “Morning! It is morning!” I screamed in delight. I survived the horror movie! It was five in the morning but I was anxious to get on the road. I was happy to have nature as my alarm clock. The mosquitoes had dissipated to a tolerable quantity and I hopped up on my feet faster than a cheetah who just spotted its prey. I covered myself from head to toe once again and packed up my bike at record speed.

It was 160 kilometers to the Altai mountains where rumor has it I would be able to sleep mosquito free. That day I cycled faster than “el chapo” Guzman fleeing from the CIA back to the Mexico border. I was simply too fast for the mosquitoes and left them in the dust. I set a new Russian cycling record of 160 kilometers on the day and made it to the pest free mountain range where the cool air enabled me to sleep like a college student the day after final exams finished.

Lesson Learned- Be the Thermostat and not the Thermometer.

The mosquitoes won. They had me distraught and swatting away like a martial arts world champion. There was simply nothing to do but give up. After all, I was a visitor in their territory. Who was I to think I would stand a chance in hand to hand combat against the forest keepers? I was in their house as an unwelcome, violent guest. It was a one billion on one battle and I was at an extreme disadvantage. There was simply no way to win and the only thing to do was admit defeat. Siberia is their territory and they also have a right to live and feast on visitors to their forests. They are also a key part in the local ecosystem and it was simply arrogance on my part to think I could walk into their territory and dominate them. Human beings were not put on earth to dominate all other species, we are here to live in harmony together.

As soon as I calmed down the mosquitoes became less and less ruthless. They accepted me as a guest in their territory by laying off during the night. They witnessed me change from an uncivilized beast to a well mannered global citizen. Even though I brought death upon several of them, they forgave me instantly and calmed down. I was the one bringing the violence and pain to hundreds of insects and it backfired on me. Frustration and anger got the best of me but those emotions did nothing except worsen the dilemma at hand. Just as in human relationships, when one party lets their negative emotions run wild, they become the thermometer instead of the thermostat, reacting to whatever stimulus is tossed in their direction. I became reactive just like a thermometer and was unable to control my temperature. The thermostat sets the temperature and is in control of everything. I lost control quickly and just brought more pain and suffering to myself. This was extremely childish and ignorant of me. Here I was claiming to be a pacifist and environmentalist while swatting away and murdering my fellow earthlings. My actions were the very definition of hypocrisy. All I had to do was get inside my tent and calmly cover myself with my sleeping bag. It was so simple. I had been doing this each night before, but now other earthlings were there with me together. We were meant to share the forest and we finally did once I wizened up and became a thermostat.

Be the thermostat. Don’t react negatively to the external environment. You will only end up losing in the end. The thermometer is nothing but a slave. Be the chief of your own worldly experience and peace, tranquility and a good night’s sleep will all find their way to you.

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Nearly Getting Beat Up In Irkutsk, Siberia

People Problems In Siberia

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

When on the road I typically carry no electronic devices except for my camera. I opt to leave my South Korean 2G phone at home and go completely off the grid. Of course the need for communication arises occasionally and my third evening in Irkutsk I found myself at an Internet cafe in order to inform my family of my safe arrival in Russia. The cafe manager was a straight forward guy who did not care about anything other than getting his 30 rubles (50 cents) from me. I had absolutely no problem paying him in order to help his business out financially. I tried to make simple conversation with him using my survival Russian skills, but he was not impressed and showed no interest in the North American guy hacking his language into tiny pieces. The scowl on his face said it all. I quickly took my seat and headed to my computer.

A guy named Nikolay sat next to me started talking to me in English. “Contact me if you need anything at all while you are in Irkustk. I am happy to help you,” he offered as he kindly wrote down his phone number. “By the way, have you seen the manager of this Internet cafe?” he asked. I looked around and saw the guy who matter of factly collected my 30 rubles outside working on his car. “There he is outside,” I replied while pointing in the man’s direction.

All of a sudden a volcano eruption started. The manager started shouting in my direction and I had no idea what he was saying. The man was ready to tear my head off. His quick trigger personality and defined shoulder muscles were more than intimidating. Nikolay calmly started to translate. “He said do not ever point at him again. He does not seem to like you very much,” Nikolay said. “Okay. Tell him I did not mean to offend him and I am sorry to hear he is upset,” I said trying to smooth things over. After all, I consider myself to be a cultural ambassador and did not want this man’s anger to get the best of me. The last thing I needed was to get beat up during the first few days of my trip. 

 My heart started to pound and I felt like I desperately needed to take action to resolve this dilemma. The man stomped in his cafe and continued to silently fume in anger. I turned to Nickolay and quickly realized I needed his translation skills to quickly smooth this one over. “Tell him I really like his cafe and want to come back again tomorrow. The Internet speed is great and computers are very well maintained. Please write down the address of your cafe in Russian so I can find this place again easily,” I said. Nickolay was happy to help me out and swiftly relayed the message to the cafe owner. The rough attitude and scowl instantly turned to one of neutrality as the man jotted down the cafe address. I knew I had smoothed things over but needed one last translation from Nickolay before leaving. “Thanks to his cafe I was able to contact my friends and family to let them know about Irkutsk’s beauty,” I said. The man finally looked at me in the eyes with the same neutral glare.  “Harashow,” he said, meaning “good” in Russian. 

I walked out of the cafe that day feeling like I was victorious just for avoiding a potentially necessary violent confrontation. One of my missions for traveling to distant lands is to spread peace with my fellow global citizens.  All the best to the cafe owner and hopefully he will find enough inner peace within himself to muster up a smile one day. 

Reflection- Seek to Understand Others

This man confirmed all the Russian stereotypes I had etched in my head for so long. Cranky, confrontational and looking for any excuse to fight a guy like me, the Internet cafe owner was not an easy guy to deal with. I was positive I would meet someone who confirmed all of my stereotypes sooner or later. Although my interaction with this man was unpleasant, I decided to use it as a learning experience. There had to be an explanation for his terrible attitude. Why did this negative stereotype exist anyway? I was determined to understand his kind as I was well aware that I would be spending a lot of time in Russia and this was just the beginning of my journey. Certainly I would encounter more unhelpful, cranky people along the way and this man’s actions served as the motivational driving force behind my curiosity and thirst for deeper understanding.

Why are Russian people known for their frowns and not their smiles? I decided to dig into this topic and stumbled into a research article in the Journal of Nonverbal Behavior by Polish psychologist Kuba Krys whose work focuses on a concept called uncertainty avoidance, which describes a culture’s tolerance for ambiguity and uncertainty. Cultures that are low on this scale have few safety nets, unstable health care and courts. Accordingly, people in these countries may view their future as uncontrollable or unstable. To test her hypothesis, Krys had people from 44 different countries rate smiling and frowning faces using criterion such as intelligence and honesty. According to Krys’ research, as societies become more corrupt or unstable, it becomes harder to decipher peoples’ true intentions- people could be trying to trick you or else they could be displaying a warm, kind gesture. Therefore, a smile may be regarded as a confident signal of hostility, duplicity or ignorance in low uncertainty avoidance scoring countries.

It is also worth noting that there have been other studies done, which concluded that correlations exist between how hierarchical or masculine a society is and the likelihood to greet others with a smile. Also, some cultures do not value happiness as highly as others, which can aid to further explain why it is hard for some to break into a grin.

In Russia’s case, taking a good look at history may provide further explanation. Untold millions of people died during the Soviet Union during the 20th century due to war, starvation and imprisonment in Gulags, which may all be contributing factors to a rather somber national mood.

In the winter it gets down to negative 40 Celsius, temperatures so frigid that one’s limbs can fall off due to frost bite and the sun makes its appearance for only a few hours during most of the year.

I remembered my days working in Detroit during the winter. The sun would finally make its appearance when it was time for me to head into the office until 5 or 6PM. It was often very dark by the time I went home for the day. Staring at a computer all day long combined with a shortage of sunlight severely effected my mood. Depression set in and the only way I was able to overcome my negativity was through vigorous exercise, which I did religiously during my dreary years at the Detroit office. If not for my exercise routine and social connections I had during that time in my life, I probably would have been ready to tear someone’s cranium right off their spine, just like the Russian man I met in Irkutsk.

All of the above reasons could be an incorrect logical explanation for the behavior I witnesses that day in Irkutsk. I only spent a few weeks in Russia and admit it is nearly impossible to understand the national psyche during such a short visit. Anyway, it is always better to pause and seek to understand others more deeply before jumping to conclusions.

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Siberia Bicycle Touring- No More Stereotypes

Siberian Stereotype Breakers

Date- September 20, 2018

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

Stereotypes were all I had! Vodka drinking, ballet dancing, fat men hunting wild game in the cold, stone faced people with no expressions on their faces and frigid temperatures. This was the Siberia I had always imagined through a media influenced portrait. 

Several friends in South Korea who visited Russia in the past all told me the same thing. “It is a beautiful place but people there do not smile and look a bit depressed,” they stated. Was this the Russia that lay waiting for me? I was ready to investigate matters for myself.

Before leaving on my trip, I did my share of cultural research. Several Russian Youtubers all had the same advice for visitors to their country-

  1. Do not smile at strangers for no reason. People will think you are strange. If there is no reason to smile, do not do it.
  2. Do not give anyone an even number of flowers. This is bad luck and could result in your Russian boyfriend or girlfriend breaking up with you.
  3. Take off your shoes when entering someone’s home.
  4. Do not whistle around other people as this will cause you to lose money.

After living in East Asia for nearly ten years, I could completely understand the last three points. Even numbers are not looked at in a positive manner and one should never give even multiples of currency as a wedding gift in South Korea. The whistling rule was a bit different, but I can understand how my sub par skills could result in someone becoming annoyed with me very quickly.

Upon further investigation, the “no smiling at strangers” cultural tip seemed more serious than expected in more than just one way. According to BBC accounts, Russian film director Yulia Melamed was questioned by the police for smiling in public. “They said it looks out of place, alien and suspicious, so they thought I was up to something,” stated Melamed.

“Laughing for no reason is a sign of stupidity,” a Russian proverb states. The last thing I wanted was to be questioned by the police or viewed as stupid, so I practiced saying hello while frowning in Russian language over and over. “Previet,” I repeated to myself while staring at a foreign looking, angry version of myself in the mirror. No matter what I did, my mouth always pursed itself into a smile. “Is it so bad to be a happy person?” I thought to myself after I kept on failing at this simple endeavor. My motto has always been to do what the locals do in order to properly acclimate to the culture of my host country. The only thing to do was to keep on practicing and failing. I have never been a good actor and now I would have to act as serious as possible to fit in. What a grandiose challenge this would be.

The First Interaction

As soon as I arrived to Irkutsk, I assembled my bike and hit the streets to test the greeting skills I had practiced with so much vigor. How true was this piece of cultural advice anyway? Temperatures soared to 40 degrees Celsius (110 Fahrenheit- for all of you readers from the United States) and the sun scorched every minuscule amount of exposed skin on my body, but that did not stop me. I was ready to start my Russian adventure in this small Siberian town.

I spotted a kid riding his bicycle and decided to say hello. “Previet,” I said while making sure not to smile. The kid was about 16 years old and was excited to see me on a bike. “Can I help you?” he replied in English with a warm smile. I was utterly shocked at his English skills and willingness to assist me. I told him that I was simply riding around town and asked him for sight seeing recommendations. The boy’s eyes gleamed with excitement and insisted that he show me around town. Together we rode our bikes for several hours in the streets of Irkutsk. The boy explained in as much detail as he could about all of the landmarks in his hometown with a charming innocence and curiosity. “Do you like coins?” he inquired. He told me that one of his hobbies was collecting coins and led me to the market where the local salesman had a big case of shiny coins on display. He pulled out a 1,000 ruble bill and bought a nice looking gold and silver Russian collector’s edition coin. As I watched the transaction take place I couldn’t help but notice what a great taste in coins he had. He picked out the best looking one out of the collection and handed it to me. “My mother gave me this for spending money today, but I want to buy you this coin,” he told me as a big grin spread across his face.

What a nice gesture by this kid. I was so touched by his generosity and kindness toward a strange guy like me from the other side of the world. This was something I would have never expected to happen on my first day in Russia. It was getting late and he insisted we meet at my hostel the following day so he could introduce me to some restaurants that serve traditional Russian food. I asked him if he knew a good place to eat and he said he was not sure as he usually eats at home with his family. The boy promised to ask his mother and show me the next day where all the good spots are in the city. As promised, the next day he came with his bike to the hostel and we went to eat together. Mongolian food it was. He took me to a famous dumpling restaurant with huge gaudy paintings inside. What a nice time we had together. My young companion was sent to me to break all of the Russian stereotypes on my first few days in the country and he succeeded in doing so.

More Russian Hospitality

After experiencing kindness and generosity from my young friend, I assumed that he must have been a unique exception. Perhaps others in Irkutsk would react in a cold, impatient manner to a guy like me who could not speak the local language. The following day my young friend went out of town with his family so I was on my own once again in Irkutsk and test the waters.

My next task would be to find a spare tire to take with me on the road. Again I decided to ask for help from a local Siberian. This time a university student on a bike came to the rescue. “Previet,” I said once again with a smile this time. My efforts of frown faced greetings failed me and I reverted to my natural smiling state. Much to my surprise, the kid spoke very proficient English and a few minutes later two more of his friends on bicycles showed up to offer assistance. “We will help you find a tire. Don’t worry,” they said.

For the next three hours the four of us scoured the town looking for a tire that fit my wheel size. The word help was an extreme understatement. I was amazed by all of this unexpected Russian hospitality. They repeatedly said how happy they were to assist me during the tire search process. After finding a tire we all went out to dinner and the students showed me the correct way to eat Russian dumplings. They were all so amused and were excited to be there with me introducing a guy like me to their culture.  To top it all off, the three college students insisted on picking up the tab. After living in the hierarchical Korean society for so long and being a professor, I felt obligated to pay for them. However, they wouldn’t have any of it and put up a good fight for the payment.

Once we finished eating it was close to 10PM and the sun was just starting to go down. Wow! Where did the time go? When you are being escorted around by hospitable Siberians the time just flies by. Next, they accompanied me back to my hostel and we said our goodbyes. More great people putting humanity on display. Now I know the truth about the Siberians for sure! My opinions changed in just three short days. Mission accomplished and stereotypes shattered!

Lessons Learned

Stereotypes Will Always Be Shattered 

Our brain likes to keep things as simple as possible. It prefers the easy, smooth road over rough, rugged terrain just like anyone would. This is the main reason why stereotypes exist and are so strongly etched in our minds. It is much easier to draw conclusions about a group of people through things we hear from others or perceptions created by the mass media without thinking very deeply about them. No matter how unbiased, progressive or noble we try to be, our brains naturally revert to the things we have heard based on media portrayals or word of mouth. I was guilty of this as well.

People in my adopted country of South Korea always make quick conclusions about me, which can become annoying at times. Now I was guilty of the same behavior. Could I really fault the Koreans for asking me how I can eat with chopsticks and tolerate spicy food on a daily basis if I was guilty of having similar thoughts about Russians? I quickly learned how much of an imperfect person I am for making similar quick judgments about a group of people. The Koreans are influenced by their own set of preconceived notions just like I am. Even though I have several Russian friends whole smile all the time and are warm and friendly, the thoughts of frowning faces and vodka drinking all filled my mind, which was very different from what I experienced my first few days in Irkutsk.

The people I met the first few days in Russia served an important role as cultural ambassadors. My first impression of Siberians stayed with me throughout my trip and even though I experienced quite a few cranky and unhelpful people, I realized that the disgruntled are a minority just like in any other country in the world.

Always Be Your Authentic Self

In order to appease the Russians, I tried to change into a cold, frowning version of myself. There is nothing wrong with smiling and being happy. Should I really care if people think I am crazy or strange due to my inner peace and smiling outer appearance? Smiling is not a crime and even if the police questioned me for looking suspicious on the grounds of displaying my pearly whites while grinning, I would have been able to literally laugh it all off anyway.  After all the effort I put into meditation and cultivating myself into a more complete global citizen everyday, I tried to undue my efforts to please others. This was a grave mistake. Even if the majority of locals think smiling travelers like myself are up to no good, there would surely be a few people who feel at ease when they see a smile on a fellow global citizen. In short, I do not have time to associate with people who take life so seriously and are constantly worried about the minute possibility that others may cheat them. You can’t be friends with everyone, and time is of the essence in life.

If I would have approached the local kid on the street with a frown on my face, things could have been very different. Perhaps he would have been less keen to ride his bike around with me and accompany a newbie to Russia like myself around town. He had a smile on his face just like I usually do and it was very disarming. One of my favorite quotes is by Emerson- “To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” By watching a video I foolishly tried to change myself and tear down everything that I have achieved. It may seem innocent, but just as forced laughter can improve your emotional and psychological health, I am sure forced frowning can have detrimental effects on one’s well being as well. My thinking was too quick and shallow. Next time I will use better judgement. In our current world of information overload, knowing what to ignore in a powerful skill to cultivate.

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Walking The Walk For Mother Earth

Walking The Walk For Mother Earth

Date- September 11 , 2018

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

After cycling in many unforgiving parts of the world, I have become an environmentalist. My passion for tour cycling has led me to experience the reality of the world in its rawest form. I have pedaled along the world’s highest elevated highways (Karakorum and Pamir Highways), hiked through other worldly jungles with the sounds of howling animals blasting in my ears, been scorched by the unforgiving deserts of Oman and Uzbekistan while being food and water deprived, inhaled the fumes of overpopulated cities as the black dust that accumulated around my tear ducts created a dirty, black eyeliner. I have seen, felt and tasted the beauty of Mother Nature and deeply understand the importance of taking care of her. As a result of my worldly experiential education, I have made it my life’s mission to do my best to take care of all sentient being’s mother.

It was due time to apply my mission of being a good steward of the earth to my everyday life back in South Korea. One of my favorite pastimes in Korea is using my two feet as transportation for days on end while chatting up folks from the countryside. Pots of fermented bean paste in grass fields, the smell of drying anchovies in the summer sunlight, stories from elderly folks who witnessed the peninsula’s great transformation from a poor and ravaged land to a prosperous, booming economy fascinate me beyond comprehension. 

This time it would be different. Now it was time for me to deliver an important message as a global citizen living in this land of rich history and cultural heritage. I had my poster ready and spent two hours filling in the letters with multicolored markers. It was like working on an elementary school project. This child of Mother Earth had a bold mission. My stash of papers were all printed out in Korean, telling people the actions they need to take in order to do their part to combat climate change and be good stewards of the world. I emphasized two main points in the printed handouts- eating habits and consumer behavior.

My key points were as follows-

-Cows must consume 8 kilograms of vegetables in order to gain 500 grams of body weight. Raising animals for food consumes more than half of all water used in the United States. It takes 9,500 liters of water to produce 500 grams of meat but only 95 liters of water to produce 500 grams of wheat.  Therefore, eating 500 grams of beef consumes as much water as taking a shower for two and a half hours.

–Producing just one hamburger uses enough fossil fuel to drive a small car 40 kilometers (The distance from Hoeksoek Dong to Osan). Of all raw materials and fossil fuels used in the United States, more than one-third are devoted to raising animals for food.

-To grow the cotton and manufacture a pair of cotton jeans it requires 2,000 gallons (7,570 liters) of water (this does not include the water used while washing the jeans over the time period when you own them.) This is more than the weight of a small airplane or helicopter.

-A typical pig factory generates the same amount of raw waste as a city of 12,000 people. According to the Environmental Protection Agency, raising animals for food is the number-one source of water pollution.

-Of all agricultural land in the United States, 87 percent is used to raise animals for food. That’s 45 percent of the total land area in the United States. About 1 million square kilometers (a land mass the size of Egypt) of forest have been destroyed to create space to produce feed for animals raised for food.

-The meat industry is directly responsible for 85 percent of all soil erosion in the United States. More than 80 percent of the corn grown and more than 95 percent of the oats are fed to livestock. The world’s cattle alone consume a quantity of food equal to the caloric needs of 8.7 billion people—more than the entire human population on Earth.

-According to the Worldwatch Institute, “Roughly 40 percent of grain produced in the world is fed to livestock, poultry, or fish; decreasing consumption of these products, especially of beef, could free up massive quantities of grain and reduce pressure on land.

       I was so thrilled to hit the road and deliver my message. I spent two to three hours per day after work studying Korean and practiced all the scientific words until my head felt like it was about to split open and my throat was hoarse and sandpaper-dry. All my travel education motivated me to finally do something. The lion inside of me needed to come out. Everything I had worked for to this day came to a pinnacle. I was standing up for what I believe in while doing a good deed for society. It was my turn to pay back our Mother Earth and spread a message of peace to the local people while doing it. Walking and talking were the main goals of this trip and I was more psyched up than a kid who drank ten cans of Red Bull right before final exams. 

    How would people respond? Being from the other side of the world, people could tell me to go home and deliver my message within the borders of my own country. I had to make people understand that we have to reach beyond the limits of artificial lines drawn on maps and come together to solve the greatest problem of our times. It felt like an Olympic sprinter mistook my heart for a treadmill and was about to bring home a world record. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. It will all be okay. This is your destiny. Now is the time and if you don’t do this you will regret it forever.

    My friend Jared and I stepped out into the heat and grabbed our signs with our sweat-caked fingers. I held up my my cardboard poster high in the air with one hand and pointed at it with the other while yelling “jin hwang geong jeok in selg hwal hap shee da.” (Let’s live in an environmentally friendly way). Cars honked. Children rolled down their windows flashing their dimples and smooth-skinned cheeks. A wrinkle-faced grandfather showed us his gap-toothed smile while giving us a thumbs-up sign. A cute woman with way too much red lipstick yelled “fighting” (An English word used in the Korean language meaning “you can do it”). Nervousness vanished and only excitement intoxicated my brain and left me giddy. 

    Overall, reactions were great and people supported our mission. In restaurants along the way, many locals paid for our dinner and gave us offers of help whenever we needed it. We slept on the beach listening to the sounds of waves crashing along the South Sea and crept into dreamland while inhaling the salty humid air.

    It was Liberation Day. On August 15th Korea celebrates its independence from the decades-long Japanese occupation. My friend and I needed liberation from the dehydration, the rank stench emitting from our pores, and penny-sized blisters on our toes. We approached a fishing village as the sea breeze cooled us off from the sweltering climate. In the distance, a loud muffled voice filled the airwaves. “There has to be something big going on there. Let’s check it out,” Jared and I said while picking up our pace. The sounds of a festival lurked ahead of us and fed us with the zest needed to carry on.

    A few minutes later, we literally and figuratively stumbled upon a soccer game in a small village in the Masan area. The MC’s voice echoed through the air, detailing every pass, fancy dribbling maneuver, and shot on goal. The crowd screamed in suspense as one player fired a ball that ricocheted off the top goal post and slammed into an empty seat in the bleachers. After spending so many days walking through sporadically populated rice fields and beach towns, this was the most people in one place we had witnessed in a few days. There were way too many people in attendance compared to our rural surroundings. Perhaps the soccer game was the only major event happening within a one hundred football field radius  What a perfect opportunity to spread my message. I need that microphone. I crept up to the announcer and flashed my sign at him during a timeout.

    “Ney. Sam boon man duel eel key yo.” (Okay. I will give you ten minutes.) 

    Here was my big chance to grab the mic in front of a big crowd of soccer fans. My heart pounded and I jumped up and down to get myself psyched up to project my words clearly throughout the stadium. This trip took on a new meaning now and I had a chance to connect with one hundred people at the same time. For the past few days, we struck up conversations with groups of two or three people, but this was a whole different animal. One with sharp teeth and claws making me knees shake in its presence.

    Come on now. You are a professor. Your job is to share your knowledge and experiences with the world. This is what you were born to do. It shouldn’t matter what language your words are in. You have been pounding vocabulary and grammar rules into your head for the past several years. Step up to the microphone and tell everyone what they need to hear. Their lives will be better for it. Your life will be better for it. You will never forget this moment.

    My nerves faded away and I turned to the crowd and began to speak. My words came out clearly in rapid fire Korean. I spit out statistic after statistic and told onlookers the story of our walking journey, while Jared roamed the field below flashing his sign everywhere. Fragmented Korean sentences, pronunciation blunders, filler words and awkward pauses. It didn’t matter anymore. My mind became clear and ears rang as my words echoed through the liquid-soaked summer air. Before I knew it, the crowd began to applaud and the master of ceremonies signaled for me to finish up. 

    No applause. Little reaction. I stepped down from the stage and walked through the outskirts of the stadium as no one paid me any mind. Well then, it looks like my effort did not get through to the crowd. At least I gave myself a new comfort zone challenge and took action in the face of fear, nervousness and mental tension. A few steps later, watermelon armed wrinkled women waved me over to cool off in the shade and began shoving the fruit into my face. The normal interrogation began- age, workplace, marital status, hometown. I was more than accustomed to the questions. A look of astonishment filled one of the woman’s eyes.  

    “There is a kid here who attends that school. Where is Minseok?” she asked the crowd. 

   A tan kid wearing knee-high white socks and a bright red soccer jersey dashed in my direction, pushing people out of his path as if he were an ambulance worker coming to help a heart attack victim. The boy grabbed my hand with so much vigor that it nearly crushed my wrist. 

    “I am friend Hyeonook. He taking your class. My name Minseok.I calling Hyeonook now.”

    A few seconds later Hyeonook got on the line and we were face chatting it up. Hyeonook’s face lit up with laughter-produced redness as his friend passed me the phone. 

    “Wow! Georgie! Minseok my best friend. You walking there is so fantastic. You having fun Minseok. I miss you Georgie!”

    My former student was in utter disbelief that I was way out there in the village where his friend grew up. What are the chances a guy like me would have such an encounter a five hour bus ride outside of Seoul? 

    Minseok invited Jared and I to his parents’ fish restaurant, which was originally closed for business during the holiday. We plopped our sweaty bodies at one of the ankle-high tables and threw down our bags on the floor. Finally, a middle aged man flipped on the lights and ran into the kitchen. The man looked like a fifty year old version of Minseok. The same wavy hair, forehead structure, and disarming smile was a delight to encounter twice.

    “What kind of food you liking? We have so much fish. You liking fish? My father make food.” 

    A few minutes later, Jared and I were surrounded by small white plates of freshly made food. There must have been at least fifteen dishes filled to the brim with fermented vegetables. Stained red cube-shaped cabbage, paper-thin seaweed soaked in a salty clear liquid, bright orange sliced tuna- tender, raw and succulent- ready to slither its way into the taster’s palate. True craftsmanship. 

    Minsoek and his family glared at the two guests with curiosity, intrigue, and pride as we stuffed our faces full of Korea’s best tasting restaurant food. Their pure innocence allured me. Everytime we took a bite we complimented the chef. “This is the best meal I have ever had in Korea.” Minseok and his father’s cheeks turned to a light red hue of embarrassment as we lavished on the praise. Korean humility. One often downplays or denies compliments and praise in South Korea in order to appear humble in the presence of others. Minseok and his father remained silent, smiled and continued to observe our enthusiastic chopstick shoveling. Their innocent look of satisfaction will forever be etched in my memories. This was true hospitality and we were the recipients. What a great feeling to stand up for what you believe in and be rewarded by a meal made with all the workings of a masterpiece. This heartwarming moment made all the worry and effort worth it.

How to Always Receive a Discount

After making so many great memories on my walking trips in the countryside, I was determined to bring my message forward in everyday life. A true global citizen walks and breathes his mission every second on this planet. My next target location was my own backyard- Daebangdong, Seoul. I morphed into a talking machine campaigning for a cleaner, more hospitable earth everywhere I went. After all, if we take care of our Mother, she will take care of us.

After so many successful interactions in the countryside, the logical next step was to take a strong stand in the capital city. People in Seoul are some of the busiest and hardest working folks on the planet. It is often hard to pin down friends for a meeting date due to their busy schedules, especially when preparing for an important exam or job interview. Competition makes everyone work harder and drive their economy further up on the worldwide stage. Would busy Seoullites even care about what I had to say? Or perhaps their high education level would make them appreciate my efforts even more. My heart filled with vitality as I imagined myself stomping around my neighborhood while telling others what was on my mind. 

My first order of action was to voice my opinion on plastic usage at the local supermarket I frequent, Daebang Discount Market. Plastic bags are used without question when weighing and pricing produce at every shopping venue I have ever visited in South Korea. I refuse to buy anything packaged in plastic and tell all the store employees exactly how I felt about their standard practice of wastefulness. 

Shoulders back, neck straight, chest out. I beamed with confidence now that I repeated my monologue hundreds of times in the rural areas. My voice deep and loud, eye contact fiercer and more intense, my stare failed to waver as the employee reached for plastic as he weighed my sweet potatoes. 

“Whoa! Hold it right there. I don’t use plastic.”

“No plastic? What am I supposed to do them?”

“Please stick the price sticker right on the sweet potatoes. I brought my own bag. There is no need to pollute the earth.”

“If I do that then my machine will get dirty and it will create so much more work for me. I have to use the plastic bag.”

“What about Korea? Have you noticed that yellow dust and fine particulate reports are now on the news every day? When I first came here nine years ago that was not the case. Isn’t it a human right to be able to breathe clean air? Are we really helping this situation by using plastic bags? I will buy my vegetables somewhere else if you really insist on dirtying the world.”

The words fired from my mouth without hesitation as my glare became more and more intense. My eyes widened through my wire-rimmed glasses, my shoulder-width stance and slightly bent knees had me ready to pounce on anyone that dared challenge me on this one. Come and convince me that plastic bags are good for the world. Try it. I want to hear what the naysayers have to say. I was not simply a guy trying to break the harmony that is so intricate to the Confucius philosophy and Korean spirit. As someone thousands of kilometers away from my place of birth, I still have to breath dirty air everyday in my neighborhood. It is my duty to voice my opinions. Surely, there were plenty of citizens ready to back me up on my stance. Discussion and conflict can only result in a positive shift for the world. Plastic bag culture must change and I was ready to start the revolution in this supermarket.

A hush took over the store as only the blaring K-pop loudspeakers and humming of refrigeration machines remained. The man pondered on my argument for several seconds while twitching his neck slightly to the side and rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. 

Two short haired women in their seventies watched the whole interaction go down with dropped jaws of curiosity and astonished eyes that enhanced the leathery creases on their foreheads. Maybe the two ladies had never witnessed a light-skinned guy from North America speaking with such conviction in their mother tongue, or perhaps they had never seen anyone take a stance on plastic before. Either way, I had an audience of two. All the better if it was ten thousand. I wished I would have been in a stadium of spectators that day with a spotlight, LCD screens and high definition speakers to broadcast the discussion to the masses. The more people that hear about the broken culture of plastic bag use the better.

The worker’s puzzled expression never floundered as he shook his head back and forth and whispered something under his breath that was too faint for my non-native ears to understand. The man stuck the price sticker on the sweet potatoes and then gently scooped them up into my cart. Compliance, victory and satisfaction!  

Over the course of the next few weeks, the worker warmed up to the idea a customer who refused to use plastic bags. Time and time again, I trained him and before long he came to respect my controversial shopping habits. 

He quickly observed that I did not purchase any meat or processed items. My cart was always full with fruits, vegetables, rice, and beans. 

“Wow! I could never eat the way you do. That is amazing.”

“I am simply doing my best to stay healthy and protect the earth.”

He quickly picked up on this and we had several productive discussions about my eating habits. He was surprised to know about the large effect the meat industry has on climate change and admitted that it would be too hard for him to make the same personal sacrifices I do. From that moment on, his attitude morphed from one of skepticism, bewilderment and confusion to respect, admiration and appreciation. Thirty to forty percent discounts on all of my groceries became a regular treat. I pay $6 to $7 for every $10 dollars of food I buy. If the man is in a particularly good mood, sometimes I even receive massive discounts of 50 percent on my food and acquire extra free pieces of fruit as a gift. Everyday has become a discount party whenever I go shopping at Daebang Discount Market. The employee changed his views on my shopping and eating habits and now helps me do my best for our Mother Earth. Indeed it pays in various forms to stand up for what you believe in.

Lesson Learned- People Respect You More When You Take a Stand

Often times others are afraid to voice their opinions and take a stand for something they believe in. Social pressure, fear of judgment, and lack of confidence are strong impediments to speaking up in everyday situations. The desire to be accepted by others often overtakes the urge to speak one’s mind. Potential criticism from our peers can be haunting for some. Therefore, the easiest action is to stay silent. The safest road is the one with the least resistance. The one with least resistance leads to little personal growth and unfulfilled potential. Without growth one dies. The key to feeling alive and flourishing is to grow and reflect through challenges and difficult times. 

If our thoughts and feelings stay repressed, inner turmoil may result, which can stay with one for decades. Repressed inner conflict may manifest itself through other areas in life such as passive aggressive behavior, depression and sadness. For example, unexpressed anger manifests itself on the surface as sadness. 

I experienced this first hand during my meditation practice as repressed conflicts and emotions often come to light once again. Sitting still with my eyes closed can make the mind go wild and events I have not thought about for years resurface during each passing moment. Through my meditative experiences, I have come to the conclusion that the most important thing in my life is to stay true to myself. The only failure in life is not staying true to your beliefs. I must live and die for my truths or else my soul will slowly become weak and eventually reach a deathlike state. That deathlike state is a worthless existence and is the equivalent to being buried six feet under the ground or burned to ashes.

The person who lives out their personal truth is one others trust more easily. Their peers know exactly where their boundaries are and respect them without question. This is the way one becomes more magnetic and polar. Those who share your truth become drawn to you and you will always have a tight bond that is difficult to separate. Others who oppose your truth will be repelled and distance themselves. You naturally become a leader and role model to people who do not know themselves and are curious about your path in life. They may share your values, but lack the courage to stand up and take action. Due to your transparency, people will try to help you along the way because they find you trustworthy and charismatic. Charisma is nothing more than making one’s intentions transparent and being consistent to one’s values.

During my walking trip and experiences grocery shopping, it became apparent that I was respected simply because my thoughts, words, and actions aligned with one another. I was literally talking the talk and walking the walk. An intentional life can only be lived when one’s thoughts, words, and actions become one. When this is clear to others, respect comes very naturally. People become drawn in and fascinated by your path in life and try to help you any way they can. This is why I receive discounts at the grocery store and was treated to a full course restaurant meal during a holiday in the villages of Masan. People are good at reading others and know when they find someone living and breathing their truth. Everything you do in life must be aligned with your mission and truth. Settling for anything less will only lead to inner conflict that can send your mind into a tailspin. Life is too short to live outside the boundaries of your truth. Find your mission and live by it and you are bound to be successful at anything you do.

Discussion Questions-

  1. How did Cho Chunsam become interested in the preserving the environment?
  2. Describe how eating habits relate to environmental issues.
  3. How much meat do you eat in an average week? Would you like to change anything about your eating habits? Why?
  4. How often do you go shopping for new clothes? Do you ever stop and think about how your consumer behavior effects the environment?
  5. How did Cho Chunsam get a free meal in Masan?
  6. Describe how Cho Chunsam gets discounts while grocery shopping.
  7. Describe how you can easily gain the respect of other people.
  8. What is your mission in life? Are you living by that mission?
  9. Describe a time when you stood up for something you believed in.
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Russia’s Strongest Man

Russia's Strongest Man

Date- September 7, 2018

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

My bike was packed and ready to go. My cardboard box weighed in under the 23 kilogram weight limit for Aeroflot Airlines. Packing my bike for a plane ride is always an essential part of a cycle tour and I considered myself a veteran tour cyclist. I was confident everything would go smoothly and nothing would ever get in my way. Much to my surprise, Mother Nature and the Russian airport were about to throw a wrench into my plans.

My first stop in Russia would be Khabarovsk, a few hundred kilometers north of Vladivostok on the Trans Siberian railway. From there I would transfer to another plane and land in Irkutsk, a Siberian town near the famed Lake Baikal. I expected the whole process to be extremely simple and uneventful. However, my adventure was about to start much earlier than I ever expected.

Upon landing in Khabarovsk, I was surprised to see a climate very similar to South Korea.  It was so humid I could feel the water enter my lungs with each breath. Green, luscious landscapes surrounded the airport and it had quite a tropical feel to it. I was light years away from the bitter cold Russia that we often imagine in our minds. No one was waiting for me with large Soviet hats and furry winter coats like I always see in the media. A much different Russia was waiting for me and I was ready to experience the world’s largest country with open arms.

The plane dropped us off at the international terminal and my big, awkward, 23 kilogram box was waiting for me right by the baggage claim. All I needed to do now was haul the box to the domestic terminal for my flight to Irkutsk. I assumed this would be a fairly simple job. I was dead wrong.

There had to be a cart around somewhere I could use. I scoured every nook and cranny of the international airport terminal for a cart like a starving mouse on a mission to find the world’s last piece of cheese. There was nothing to be found. I motioned to an airport worker using body language that I needed to move the gigantic cardboard box that protected my bike. “Irkutsk,” I stated over and over. She just pointed outside and let me know the terminal was one kilometer away. Suddenly she began to march in place like a cadet in a Soviet military parade. “What? Walking is the only option? How am I supposed to move this big awkward thing?” my internal dialogue went on a rampage. There were no buses or trains connecting the two terminals located one kilometer apart from each other. I was expected to haul the big, heavy piece of dead weight like superman over my head. I had a good workout coming up and accepted the reality that I would have to lug the thing around and sweat it out before getting on my next plane.

The pattering noise became louder and louder. Now it was pounding. Huge raindrops smacked against the international terminal rooftop one by one. Within seconds the pattering noise transformed into a deafening booming sound that pierced through my eardrums like a needle. Now I would have to carry the huge cardboard box outside in the rain. Getting myself wet was no issue. However, cardboard weakens when it comes into contact with water. What if the cardboard box breaks on the walk to the domestic terminal and all of my bicycle parts become scattered on the streets of Khabarovsk? This had the potential to be a huge disaster.

I had no other choice but to hit the street in the rain with my big cardboard box. Before stepping outside ,I stopped for one minute and looked up at the vast Russian sky. “Dear Mother Nature, please do not ruin my Russian trip. I promise I will do my best to treat you better,” I silently prayed to the dark grey sky. I used my winter coat to cover the upper exposed area of cardboard as much as possible. Sweat poured down my face as the rain instantly cooled my body from the intense heat. This was just like one of my Crossfit workouts I had done for several months leading up to the trip and I was thankful that I trained so hard. Now I felt like I was competing in a Russia’s strongest man contest and all of my prior workouts were merely practice for the today’s big event. The rain came down harder and harder and my box was soaked instantly. My forearms felt like they were on fire from carrying the box several hundred meters. Then all of a sudden, an unexpected surprise came and took hold of me.  Out of nowhere a man appeared and grabbed my box. I had been warned about violent crime in Russia by several friends, however this man had no intention of mugging me for my box. He was already soaked to the bone and did not mind getting a little bit more wet to help a guy like me who was struggling to maneuver through the streets of Khabarovsk. Using my index finger and extremely limited Russian language skills, I told him exactly where I was headed. Together we hauled the box in the rain to the terminal and now it seemed light as a twig. The man led me all the way to the front door in the rain as sweat and rain drenched us to the core.

Humanity showed itself to me in the form of a man that helped me exactly when I needed it most. Perhaps Mother Nature heard me begging for mercy. If not for the man, I could have missed my connecting flight to Irkutsk or my bicycle box could have caved in leaving all of my bicycle parts scattered in the street. Luckily, I avoided an absolute disaster. By helping a fellow global citizen like me, the man gave me an extremely positive first impression of Russia. I am often inspired by small acts of kindness such as this man’s helping hand. This was only day one of a six week journey. Would the Russians keep up their hospitality? Stay tuned to find out more.

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Chan Meditation- Self Inflicted Torture?

Self Inflicted Torture

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

The schedule looked brutal but I was thirsty for self improvement. The path to everlasting peace and bliss is a constant struggle but I was up for the challenge. This time the retreat was only three days long but much more intense than I had ever expected. The day started at 5AM and ended at midnight. For the really motivated students, the day started at 3AM. Three hours of sleep and then back to work. This was the schedule for my Chan meditation retreat and I had no idea what was in store for me during the following days.

Chan flourished in China, and later was imported as “Zen” into Japan. It has been practiced throughout East Asia for more than 2,000 years. Master Yonghua, a monk and former MBA educated business man, is renowned for his enormous progress on the path of enlightenment and came to visit us from Los Angeles to teach this powerful meditation technique. This was indeed a very special opportunity that I had to take advantage of. I rushed to the meditation center in Seoul and was ready to tackle the inner workings of the mind.

The first day I was to be given instructions in the beginners’ hall. Much to my surprise, it had the atmosphere of a self inflicted torture chamber. The Dharma hall resembled the hall of hell minus the fiery entrance. A female monk was sitting with us in the lotus position with arms flailing and pounding on the ground while howling in pain. I wanted to go run over in her direction and make sure she was okay, but I was instantly paralyzed from shock at what was taking place. A few minutes later, tears streamed down her face as she began to slap the back of her bald, shiny head. It seemed as if she had just put herself in a jujitsu submission hold and was trying to see how long she could handle it before tapping out. People came and comforted her to make sure nothing was wrong. “Leave her alone. She is working hard and doing a great job,” exclaimed Master Yonghua. “Doing a great job? At what? Hurting herself to the point of excruciating pain? Who is this monk anyway and what exactly is he teaching?” I thought to myself in anguish.  Suddenly, everyone backed off as she was now lying on her back with her legs still in the lotus position. After several more minutes of intense yelling and pounding on the floor, she finally came out of her bondage and let out a huge sigh of relief. Now she was sprawled out on the floor recovering from her face to face encounter with misery. The hue of her face slowly transitioned from beet red to that of a healthy human being. I was in utter shock at what I had witnessed. Why would anyone do such a devilish act to themselves? I stared at the female monk dumbfounded for a few minutes before collecting myself. I have to admit the masochist in me who enjoys the physical pain of endurance sports was rather curious. After all, I used to put myself through torturous physical exercise in order to achieve the goals I desired. The funny thing was I always learned to enjoy the pain.  How different was this anyway?

I was distracted by the big scene and failed to notice all of the others in the room around me. They were all grimacing as if attempting to hold back the expression of pain that the jujitsu fighter monk so as not to draw attention to themselves. I needed an explanation very quickly.

The meditation technique is simple. Essentially, the Chan practitioner sits completely still in the lotus position until they reach their physical and mental capacity for pain. Even after practicing Vipassana for several years, I still have not been able to contort myself into anything that even resembles a half lotus position. Therefore, my task was to sit against the wall with my right leg extended and left foot resting on my right knee in order to slowly build the flexibility to sit in the lotus posture one day. Although this sounds very simple, after several minutes of practice I found myself in excruciating pain and had no other choice but to release myself from misery. Master Yonghua stated that in order to build a foundation for the path to enlightenment, one must train themselves to sit for extended periods of time in order to eliminate our fear of pain and misery.  By experiencing pain and misery over and over again, one could build up a tolerance and eventually be freed from their aversion of suffering. Once one does not fear pain then nothing will ever be able to hurt you. Life can throw unexpected things at you and if you don’t know how to handle problems then it has the potential to eat you alive. Essentially, this was preparation for the worst day of my life, all the while preparation to be a champion in everything I do. One of my favorite quotes is from runner Steve Prefontaine- “I win because I can endure more pain than anyone you have ever met.” This indeed was championship training at it’s best.

“Sit longer and longer. If you can sit for one hour then sit for two or three hours without breaking your posture,” Master Yonghua stated calmly. “Sit for several days if you can. I will keep giving you tasks that you will absolutely loath in order to make you stronger,” he continued. I quickly realized I was just a novice at this point and would have to invest more than one hour per day into my meditation practice to make any significant headway along the path of enlightenment. Master Yonghua told us stories of himself sitting in the same lotus position for too long and tearing a tendon in his knee. This was from increasing his sitting time too quickly. He instructed us to stop if we started feeling fiery, burning sensations in our legs in order to prevent potential injuries.

There was an old Vietnamese monk in the back who did not look a day younger than 85 years old. The old man was famous for sitting in the lotus posture for nine days straight without eating, drinking or using the bathroom.  He stood up during the course to offer his piece of advice, “If you can sit for three hours, then you will be able to sit for nine day.” Legend has it that he made the jump from three hours of lotus sitting to nine days. I glanced over in his direction several times during the course and saw him sleeping in the lotus position several times. Nothing phased him at that point.

Over the course of the retreat I realized how intense my aversion to pain is and set a goal of increasing my peak sitting time by two minutes per day. My time learning Chan that weekend left me humbler and more physically and mentally exhausted than I could ever imagine. I was extremely exhausted after the three day retreat. It was as if I had ran marathons for three consecutive days in a row. I limped out of the temple worn and torn from going to battle with myself, but somehow looked forward to putting this tool to work during my daily life. I am extremely gracious to Master Yonghua for teaching a tool essential for mastering the art of life and death. Enjoy the pain that life brings and nothing will ever be able to harm you!

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Police Chase In Xinjiang

The Police Save Me again

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

I was in the middle of a dream as a dark figure appeared in front of me. Three armed police officers surrounded me while I attempted to decipher reality from the unconscious mind. The sun was shining again and now it was time to check in with the Xinjiang police force. As I left the hotel the same worker who tried to charge me $250 USD for a room began to tell me that I owed him more money. The police officers snarled something which I could not understand but probably amounted to something along the lines of “Keep your trap shut.” Indeed, in some places in the world it pays dividends to be broke and have police escorts. Xinjiang was starting to grow on me rather quickly as a phenomenal travel destination.

After standing around for two hours that morning while nibbling on a continental breakfast of bread and tea I was finally released.  I was more than satisfied with my complimentary proletariat style meal which was brought to me with a smile of hospitality by a police officer. I thought of the people in that four star hotel who were stuffing food down there faces and dining on Chinese caviar or shark fin soup. If invited to join I certainly would not have refused a lavish meal, but that kind of extravagance failed to tempt me in the least bit.

Before being set free to roam the roads of rural Xinjiang again, there was one very important condition imposed by the authorities. A police escort would have to accompany me along the way. They just said that it would be exclusively for my protection and there would be no problem at all. I have to admit I was rather surprised but had learned to expect the unexpected in this remote region of China. The whole situation reminded me of my time in Pakistan when I went for a hike with five armed escorts in a remote region which was once a strong Taliban breeding ground. Surely there was no Taliban here in China, by the way things were going, even if a similar organization existed, I am sure no one would tell me anything about it. There was nothing to do but roll with the punches. Even though I felt suffocated by the authorities in Pakistan, this time it might turn out to be much different. Perhaps I could make friends with the police officer and he would make a good travel companion. It would be great if he gave me some tips on where to stop along the way. Whether an assigned or unassigned travel partner, I had a local with me, which might not be so bad.

The motorcycled companion kept a steady distance of about one hundred meters behind me the whole time. At one point he caught up and demanded I stop. The seriousness in his expression left me worried. Was I entering a danger zone? Was there someone in the vicinity trying to harm us? He stopped his motorcycle and parked with great conviction and ran full speed toward me. After shouting something in Chinese to his phone I found out what he was up to. “Lets take a picture together,” the voice bellowed from his phone. We posed for a few shots and then he sprinted back to his motorbike. He then road alongside me smiling for a few minutes before taking his post one hundred meters back.

A few minutes later we stopped at a village and another guard replaced him, this time driving a car.  This guy stayed farther behind to the point which I thought I had lost him a few times. He caught up to me and asked if anything was wrong when I stopped to urinate behind a tree. The police officer stayed on my tale for a bit until his headway kept on getting further and further away, until he became a minuscule speck in the distant horizon. I was on my own again. It actually felt a bit strange not being in the company of the police anymore. I was growing fond of having someone look out for me and take care of me. I have to admit I felt very secure with my escort there. Perhaps I was just missing my mother at that point. Anyway, only about 18 hours had passed since the police arrived on the scene and steered me in the right places to go. I enjoyed just sitting back and relaxing for a bit and not having to depend on myself for every decision.

The new found feeling of solitude would not last very long. I entered a village and people stared at me with intense curiosity and I had some casual conversation in my survival Chinese and body language. The sun was about to set so I decided it was time to eat and pitch my tent for the night. One kilometer outside of the village I stumbled upon what seemed to be the perfect spot to pitch my tent for the night. It was just far enough so no one would come and bother me at night and close enough to town so I could get some breakfast to fuel myself up for the following day. There was a patch of trees shielding me from the main road as well. Surely no one would be able to find me there. My instinct proved to be incorrect this time.

I had just fallen into a deep sleep when some bright flashes of light in the distance woke me up. My hunch was that some villagers were probably just taking care of their animals and it would pass. However, the light came closer and closer over to my direction. The blinding light was beaming with such intensity that I realized no villagers would ever carry flashlights of that magnitude. I counted five in total and now they were approaching my tent at a very quick pace. Was this the Chinese Taliban that no one had told me about? Would I become the next kidnapping victim, all the while just trying to make peace with my fellow global citizens? Whatever my fate would be I had no choice but to accept it. Everything was out of my control. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins but I was still no Bruce Lee and I had no chance in a one on five battle.

Before I knew it five armed men in fatigues had me surrounded. Once again it was the Xinjiang police. I pointed at my two wheeled machine while explaining as quickly as possible that I was just a guy traveling by bicycle who meant no harm. The men started motioning aggressively using their hands to communicate a warning that I would have my throat slit if I slept in that spot for the night. I was completely at their mercy and would comply with whatever request they made. The electronic phone translation came to the rescue once again. “We will take you to a school close to here and you can sleep there. It is dangerous here,” the robotic voice repeated. The police saved me once again.  My guardian angels arrived right on time. Who knows what my fate would have been had I stayed in that spot for the night. Perhaps my throat would have been diced into small pieces.

I loaded my bags into the police truck and was now going for one more ride. My eyes were still not accustomed to the midnight darkness and I carried no light with me. Upon explaining this to the police they came up with the perfect solution. One of the younger men would ride my bike to the school himself. After receiving orders from what seemed to be a more senior office, the young cop’s face turned to sheer excitement similar to that of a young child who was given candy by his mother. Often on my world cycle tour adventures one of the requests I always receive from locals is to test drive my bike for a few minutes. The young man was more than elated and sprinted toward my bike and hopped onto the seat right away. Quickly he realized the seat was much too high for him but immediately shifted to the spinning position.  He was off to the races in the midnight darkness.

We sped away toward the school and caught up to the guy riding my bicycle. He was pedaling relentlessly and waved at us as we zoomed past.  I was happy to have him take my bike for me, as I had been riding all day and did not plan for night riding. Also, seeing the excitement on his face made me happy to be able to contribute to this special memory for him. I am sure he would remember this moment for a long time to come. I certainly will never forget it either.

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The One With No Money Holds All The Power

Xinjiang, China- ThE Power Of Having no Money

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

I crossed the bridge from psychological distress to immediate relief. The hole in my stomach ached and begged for nutrition. Finally, the long-awaited Xinjiang village stood around the corner. I wolfed down my plate of home cooked ‘lakhman’ and feasted on the complementary fire stove baked bread like a starving beast. The sensation of food hitting my palate and becoming a part of me was nothing short of ecstasy. Tour cycling trips often bring you to the ends of your human limits. Hunger. Thirst. Mental fatigue. I was finally replenishing my life force.

People often ask about favorite foods when getting to know each other. My favorite meal up until that point was Korean fermented bean paste soup. Now I respond to that question much differently. Anything remotely edible upon reaching the point of desperation is my new answer.

After filling my stomach, the only thing left to do was lay down and close my eyes. My eyes zoomed from side to side scouring the landscape for a piece of greenery out of harm’s way to lay my head. A brown mustached police officer in a blue form fitting uniform ran over to me quickly and foiled my grand scheme. I was able to communicate with in Russian since he spent some time in Kyrgyzstan. Flashbacks of the adventures along the Pamir Highway two years prior infiltrated my brain and my survival Russian somehow flowed from the depths of my vocal chords. I was elated to take a break from speaking Chinese for a few moments and revive my Russian vocabulary. Using the words car, tent, hotel, bicycle, yes, no and nonverbal contextual cues I was able to decode the police officer’s puzzling speech. Essentially, I was not allowed to ride my bicycle within an 80 kilometer radius of the village and would be driven to another town immediately where I would have to stay in a hotel.

I quickly learned the ropes of rural Xinjiang travel. The most important rule being to obey the police at all times. I didn’t care. Once I heard the news, I was enthralled to ride in a car for an hour and get some shut eye. At least I would soon be able to get off my bike and enjoy the orange and purple contrasts of the setting sun. Although my first choice of accommodation is anywhere in the fresh mountain air, I would have to settle for a roof over my head that night. Flexibility is the name of the game when it comes to adventure travel and mine was about to be put to the test over the next few hours.

In a Chinese Dungeon

Upon arrival at the town, the officers unloaded me at a police station. The city was all lit up and now I stood in front of a big white compound. The men communicated via walkie talkie as I looked on for more than one hour. I examined the plain white walls, police walked by and stared for at least the time it takes someone to finish a bowl of rice. No one there knew what to do with me.

My broken Chinese was put to the test as I attempted to communicate my request to sleep anywhere on the police station floor in a dark place. The walkie talkies kept blaring in Chinese and I was the subject of everyone’s conversation. The only thing I could make out was the word “American” and realized I created a large stir among law enforcement officers. Two men escorted me through the old building complex into a cigarette smoke filled office. I couldn’t understand if they intended on using the space as a smoke torture chamber or a place to conduct work tasks. Four men puffed away on the lung cancer sticks, clouding my vision with foggy air. I found myself in a Chinese dungeon being forced to inhale secondhand smoke which now resembled grey London fog. My lungs gasped for air and my eyes burned from the poisonous fumes. I kept my patience in tact by some divine intervention as cigarette smoke filled my lungs with black tar and toxic chemicals. My lungs gasped for air and my eyes burned from the poisonous fumes. I quickly overturned the negative self talk into gratitude after reflection on the day’s events. Nevertheless, I was thankful to be alive after nearly being swept away by Xinjiang’s mighty currents.

One of the police officers humored me by asking if I had any American cigarettes. Through the translation device on his smartphone he described how his intense desire was to smoke Marlboro cigarettes based on their top of the line reputation. “Sweet, bitter yet a strong mocha flavor. My dream is to smoke American cigarettes,” radiated the computerized voice on his smartphone. He described in detail exactly how he imagined it to be to take a puff of a cigarette with such a high reputation. He flashed his yellow teeth and his cheeks became puffy and swollen. One incisor was missing to the left side of his mouth and his bottom row of teeth were slightly bent inward. We took selfies for at least fifteen minutes, which ended up being good entertainment to pass the time. He pointed to my teeth with a grin of satisfaction as he reviewed our pictures. “Your teeth are so white and straight,” muttered the robotic voice.  

The Power of Having No Money

Two hours later I was released from the police station and escorted to a hotel.  Apparently there was only one hotel in town that would accept Non-Chinese citizens. The stadium-sized brown structure beamed with neon red Chinese characters under the main entrance. One of the police officers and I walked into a lobby with a yellow marble floor and fire-breathing red dragon design that greeted employees and customers. A television half as large as a movie theatre screen dwarfed a black leather couch directly underneath the gigantic electronic fixture attached to the wall. Newscasters projected their voices from two knee-high speakers placed on both ends of the sofa. A crystal chandelier hovered above me as my eyes adjusted from the contrast between medium dark city night to spotlight-intense light that gave the place a swank, tacky feel.  

A man greeted me in Chinese and I began negotiating with the voice activated translate function in his phone. 

“250 dollars per night for the cheapest room.”

This little dilemma did absolutely nothing to phase me as I would never in my wildest dreams pay for such unnecessary extravagance. After nearly being swept away by a river current that morning, the situation seemed trivial and rather comical. I chuckled hysterically on the inside at the absurd idea of paying 250 dollars for a room. That was nearly half the cost of my round trip airfare. I spent less than that amount over the course of an entire month in Xinjiang so far. My eyes still stung from the cigarette smoke, but my mind was alert and ready to talk some sense into this guy.  I had already been awake for nearly twenty two hours straight and knew I would be able to snooze for ten hours on the marble floor despite the brilliant golden lights shining on me. 

The man repeated the same phrase in Chinese and the electronic voice echoed back the same proposal “250 dollars per night for the cheapest room.”

   I couldn’t hold it back any longer. Now my laughter bellowed from the depths of my navel and echoed through the hotel lobby. What a preposterous idea. At that moment, I was the one without money, yet I still had the negotiation power since there was no other place for me to go in town. How ironic. The police officers left several moments prior to my interaction with the hotel clerk and gave me a stern warning not go outside in the dark. The hotel worker saw the entire interaction go down. Like every encounter with the Xinjiang police, I was given directions without any reasons behind them. 

It was two in the morning and I had been awake for a punishing twenty two hours straight. My eyes were now drooping from fatigue and my patience ran thin. I certainly would have been able to snooze for ten hours on the cold, rigid marble floor despite the brilliant golden lights shining on me.

“Two dollars,” I said while pointing to the sofa in the hotel lobby while signaling that I expected to be able to use the bathroom to at least wash my face and brush my teeth. The hotel clerk nodded in defeat. I reached a deal that would have made Warren Buffet proud. Yet another victory for the global citizen. 

 
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Awakening On a Bed of Xinjiang Rocks

Awakening on a Bed of Rocks

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

Ice cold water infiltrated my tent at 4AM and saturated my clothing. My prayers to the sun gods were not answered. Overcast skies and piercing wind gusts were all that the heavens had to spare for a man who was thrown out of his element at the hands of Mother Nature. I continued to shiver as daybreak transformed the Xinjiang landscape into an abyss of relief. The gradual temperature increase seemed to take light years. Time stood still as suffering overwhelmed my pain tolerance.

It was time to put on my half wet clothes and mount my bike once again. The water in my clothing added another five kilograms of dead weight to the load I carried on my shoulders. Time to suck it up and keep moving. So is life. All I knew was one thing- I was alive to see another day. The incident at 4AM that morning really sucked an immense amount of energy out of my system and now I had no choice but to continue along. It was as if my life energy had been washed away downstream. The only thing that could restore it was food and rest. The giant hole in my stomach became more hollow with each passing second. I had about eighty kilometers remaining until I could have another home cooked Chinese meal at the next village. I was frothing at the mouth like a dog with rabies and ready to tear apart anything edible that brought itself into my field of vision. There were little menu options in the villages of Xinjiang but I was looking forward to consuming the same meal I had been having for the previous several weeks- a homemade version of ramen noodles called ‘lakhman.’

The road continued to go up and up along a slow but deadly gradient. It was like being on the incline portion of a roller coaster that never ends. However, I was not propelled by a motor engine but just my own willpower. The brush with death I experienced that morning left me feeling more human than ever before. I was no longer a superhero who could defeat nature and take on the world. I was just a little speck in the infinite universe whose existence was meaningless.  I am just a living being making a brief appearance as a guest on the earth for a infinitesimally short period of time. At that moment I felt as if I had overstayed my welcome. Was Mother Nature trying to tell me something? Was I not doing everything in my power to take care of her? I vowed to do anything I could to give back at that moment since she spared me. I was humbled by the thoughts that everything in the universe would have just kept moving without me had I perished that morning.

All I could do was keep moving my legs one movement at a time and not allow my weariness to defeat me. Even though I felt like a zombie from a 1980’s horror movie I was happy to be able to see another day. After about thirty kilometers into my ride I collapsed on some rocks for a nap. It never ceases to amaze me that regardless of environment I was able to sleep just about anywhere. At that moment I could have fallen asleep on a ring of fire with gasoline doused all over my boots with the flames of hell racing towards me. I still would have been able to lay my head down in peace. After all this was nothing more than heaven on earth. The beauty of life was all around me at that moment. The rocks became a part of me as they pierced into my skin. I found my bed of roses in the Xinjiang Provence that afternoon. Perhaps I was receiving natural Chinese acupuncture that aided me in arriving at such a blissful state. It was such a privilege it was just to lie down in a warm, quiet place. No bed, mattress, pillow, grass or trees needed.  The warm sun was radiating down on me finally. The rays pierced to the depths of my body and slowly restored my life energy. Food was scarce but my hunger subsided for the moment. The vitamin D intake would have to suffice for the time being. I mustered up the will to spread out some clothing around myself on the rocks in order to relieve my shoulders of the burdensome load they were carrying. The sun’s rays would work its magic and lighten the load for the next segment of my ride.

What a relief it was to lie down and let my body and mind rest. Sleep came to me within microseconds. They say nature rewards sleep to those who are living out their life to the fullest all the time. If that is the case then I was pushing my limits to the extreme. This is the polarity of life. Out of work is rest. If you want security, you have to live a life of insecurity. If you want to be authentically true to yourself then you have to take risks. Repression is the only way to avoid risk. Life and nature are not logical. There were many times when I was laying down on my soft mattress in the bed I grew up in, restless and unable to fall asleep. I had a refrigerator full of food, a bathroom with running water a few steps away, a system built into my home to adjust the temperature at a moment’s notice and a family in the adjacent room ready to support me through life’s trials and tribulations. Security was commonplace in my life and sleep would not come easily. My imagination would run wild painting pictures of all the adventures that were out there waiting for me in the world. I was not being true to myself and nature was punishing me. Now I was at my most vulnerable and all I had was a bed of rocks to rest my head on and the open sky engulfing my entire being. The irony of life was all encompassing and I was swept away into dreamland by its truth.

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Dancing Naked in the Dark- Mastering the Art of Life and Death in Xinjiang, China

Dancing Naked in the Dark- Mastering the Art of Life and Death

Date- March 29th, 2018

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

The distant sky was as dark as a Michigan summer blueberry. Thunder rumbled as if I was being scolded for daring to cycle on a segment of the earth’s terrain that was above and beyond my physical capacity. Lightening shimmered as the yellowish black contrast was something out of a Diego Rivera masterpiece. The Xinjiang sky was a work of art. Breathtaking yet terrifying. I was completely alone. A car hadn’t passed by in nearly an hour. Silence pierced its claws into my skull as my thoughts ran wild. What if the wind picks up and tosses sand in my eyes? What if it starts hailing baseballs? I don’t even have a helmet to protect my body’s most vital organ! This is rural China! Who knows what could happen to me out here. 

I was at a metaphorical crossroads. Option one- sleep on sharp stones while running the risk of having my thirty dollar tent swept away by the wind. Option two- pitch my tent under a bridge culvert that would shield me from the elements. The miniscule risk of water soaking me at night seemed so trivial. I chose option two. This is what I get for not investing a little bit more money into a higher quality tent. The painful feeling of regret filled my chest with tension and made it seem like my heart had turned into a ten kilogram bowling ball.

Please let me survive this evening, I thought to myself as I lay awake in my tent. The wind howled and whistled. The flapping plastic walls were louder than a set of Bose headphones blasting heavy metal music to my ears. I could taste the dust tossed around in the air. Chalky and congesting. I panted for breath as I inhaled sand particles. My tent would have been blown into the heavens if I chose to pitch away from the culvert. My heart pounded as if I had absorbed chest blows from Mike Tyson.

I found myself in a dreamland of warm sunshine and a nearby stream pounded against the pebbles as the soothing rhythm finally put my mind into a state of relaxation. What a lovely day and comforting contrast to the mysterious night air. I could feel the wide grin on my face pulling apart my lips, relieving the tension from my navel. Suddenly, I snapped out of it. The water rumbled and pounded in the distance. I opened my eyes to coal black darkness. What happened to all the warm sunshine? The liquid continued to crash until it reached the decibel level of an opera house front row seat with Pavarotti hitting a high note. 

Three, two, one! Icy cold liquid catapulted me to my feet within the snap of a finger. Electricity zapped through the bottoms of my feet to the depths of my chest. The cold was completely exhilarating and sent me into a state of shock. My heart exploded and I panted for breath like a dog chasing a bone up a Mount Everest incline. My dream turned into a rude reality. Passport! Money! I grabbed my two most important travel items and stood erect in disbelief outside my tent as the knee high freezing water continued to flow into my sleeping quarters.

The icy liquid instantly turned my pants and long sleeved T-shirt into bricks of ice.  I peeled off my wet layers to prevent myself from getting an illness and hung them up on the bridge above the culvert area. The stars and moon are the only source of light I use when on the road. Once my eyes adjust to my surroundings, the shimmering stars are more than enough to allow me to stumble out of my tent and find a makeshift toilet next to a lucky tree that I end up fertilizing. Unfortunately, the bright lights in the sky were nowhere to be found, so I blindly grabbed and swirled my throbbing hands through the pool of icy water in an attempt to salvage anything I could. Sock. Apple. Underwear. Carrot. One by one I fished out all of my food and clothes and hung them up to dry on the concrete.  

I was a helpless victim of Mother Nature’s wrath. It was 4:00 a.m. and the sun would come up in a few hours. My shoes were nowhere to be found and must have been washed away somewhere downstream. Along my expeditions into various parts of the economically less privileged parts of the world, I often encountered barefoot cyclists. Now I would become one of them. If they could get used to cycling while the arches of their feet dug into pedals, so could I. What makes us different anyway? Shoes are luxury that make our feet soft and weak. Luckily, I was able to retrieve my bicycle as it was parked on a point of higher elevation nearby. One by one, I salvaged all of my items and hung them to dry above me. As the sun gradually pierced through the horizon, I spotted two brown objects downstream. My shoes! I stumbled over in excitement as sharp stones massaged the arches of my feet. 

Was this real? I pinched myself. It seemed like the obvious solution to escape such an utter nightmare. I desperately craved my heated floor and warm blankets in Seoul. Reality bit colder than a starved Siberian husky. I skipped back and forth in the roadway to heat myself up. The nearest town was at least eighty kilometers away and no cars were on the road. I paced back and forth to pass the time until sunrise. The sun will come up in a few hours and it will warm up soon. One step at a time! 

That is when it all hit me. If the water had been a little bit deeper I would have been washed into another lifetime. I was lucky to be alive. I was cold and naked in the dark Chinese countryside, but alive! How beautiful it is to be alive. How beautiful this cold, dark night is! What a symbolic moment! I sported the same outfit as when I came into the world thirty something years ago. I was reborn with a new outlook on everything. My clothes were wet, the few pieces of fruit and bread carried were now gone or caked with mud. The only things I had were my passport and a little bit of cash which were rendered useless. There is a Korean proverb that says you enter and leave this world with an empty hand. I felt like I was reborn as everything I carried with me was of no use. They say the only way to master the art of death is to first master the art of life. The feeling I had at that moment was as if I had truly mastered the art of life. I felt an inner bliss just from being able to breath and jog up and down the street in the dark. I was absolutely free and life seemed so simple. Fear, stress, anger, jealousy and all other negative emotions just seemed so petty and meaningless. Why was I making things so complicated before? This was indeed a blessing in disguise. I was reborn as a Chinese tiger on that early morning. The tiger was ready to get on his bike again and continue.

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Tears of Peace and Ten Days of Silence

Tears of Peace and Ten Days of Silence

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

I sat in excruciating pain as an ax crashed down on my knee. No eye contact, speaking, writing, reading or non verbal communication for ten days. One hundred hours of meditation in ten days- all done sitting on the floor with my legs crossed. “I do not recommend you sit in a chair, just observe your pain. It is only a bodily sensation,” the meditation instructor advised.

Vipassana meditation is not about listening to the sound of birds chirping and achieving instant bliss and inner peace as we may commonly think. It is about coming out of your suffering and understanding that every experience, emotion, thought and bodily sensation arises and passes. Ten days invested in coming to a deeper understanding of this universal truth at the experiential level. When we experience high or low points in life, it is very easy to accept the saying “this too will pass” at the intellectual level. Vipassana meditation is about experiencing this for yourself through observation of your body sensations and respiration. “If Siddhārtha Gautama Buddha sat here and maintained his same posture for hours on end until reaching enlightenment, then I can at least complete this course,” I told myself three years ago during my first ten day Vipassana course in Bodhagaya, India. After all the pain and suffering I came out successful and was able to observe my physical pain in a more objective manner and had a higher pain tolerance. I mentally prepared myself for the challenge that awaited me at Dharma Korea and was ready to get back into the practice.

The Schedule

The wake up bell rings every day at 4 AM and your day is packed full until it is time to retire for the night at 9:30PM. Two meals are given each day- at 6:30AM and 11:00AM. A glass of tea is given at 5PM.

Hunger Games

I have always been a big eater and am never one to miss a meal. Therefore, the new eating schedule was one of the biggest challenges for me. I often found myself hungry by 4PM and had a hard time believing I would have to wait another 14.5 hours until my next meal. Vipassana teaches that all cravings arise and pass and hunger is no different. I found myself reasoning that nothing negative would occur as a result of restricted caloric intake. Before the course, I did extensive research on the benefits of intermittent fasting which helped myself overcome my hunger. I was becoming healthier due to my new eating schedule and hunger is only a product of hormone spikes at certain times of the day due to years of maintaining the same eating pattern. Native Americans would eat whenever they felt the urge, often going days without eating. It was only until European imperialists came and labeled natives as “uncivilized” due to their eating habits was the three meal a day habit made into a cultural norm.

The Romans only consumed one meal a day around noon. In fact, breakfast was actively frowned upon. They were obsessed with digestion and eating more than one meal was considered a form of gluttony. In the Middle Ages monastic life largely shaped when people ate. Nothing could be eaten before morning Mass and meat could only be eaten for half the days of the year. It’s thought the word breakfast entered the English language during this time and literally meant “break the night’s fast”.

I could feel my hunger arise and pass throughout the ten day period. When 9:30PM came around I was too tired to think about food and would pass out for the night with no problems. Often, I was able to focus on meditation with greater intensity during the two hour morning session right before breakfast, or the last two hours of my fast. Perhaps the Romans were onto something.

Physical Pain

Sitting on the floor with my legs crossed for ten hours a day is not the way I usually spend my day. I have always been a high energy person since childhood and sitting in one place has always been a challenge for me. I put myself through a lot of high intensity circuit training and weight lifting drills everyday but rarely stretch my body before or after. During the ten day Vipassana course I paid for a lifetime of ignoring my post workout stretching session. My knees often felt as if someone was squeezing a vice around them, especially during the one hour periods when you are not supposed to move your body at all. The last fifteen minutes would often feel like two hours as sweat would pour down my face.

The Joy of Pain

I had a major breakthrough during one of my hour long, no movement sessions. “I am just sitting here and this is giving me pain. Not from movement, but from sitting here!” I thought to myself. I suddenly burst out in laughter in the middle of the silent meditation hall as the idea of experiencing excruciating pain from remaining sedentary for an extended period of time seemed like the most ridiculous thing I could ever fathom. Here I was, a guy who used to jump over stacks of hurdles at 1PM in Texas summer heat,cycled through fiery hot Middle Eastern deserts and the world’s highest elevated highway. Now I was going through pain from sitting in one place. “This should be nothing!” I thought to myself. After that moment, my pain level decreased dramatically and never came back. Your mind truly does create and destroy pain itself. By the tenth day I started to enjoy my physical pain. Many times in life we can’t avoid painful situations so the only thing we can do is try to enjoy them. All pain is created by my interpretation of reality.

 
A Mental Roller Coaster

In society we are often encouraged to never show our emotions or feelings and keep busy or distracted instead of facing our demons. Don’t act too happy, never cry in public, don’t lose your temper and get angry. People often relieve their stress through external simulation such as alcohol, drugs, food, television or keeping busy on the Internet. By rejecting our emotions we become smaller and smaller and have constant inner wars with ourselves. Inner peace can only be attained by accepting and absorbing all of our emotions or else they will come back to haunt us at the unconscious level. Vipassana meditation makes the practitioner deal with all of their inner impurities at the deepest level of the abyss. Most of us only close our eyes when we are unconscious. By keeping my eyes closed and rejecting all external visual stimulation during my waking hours, I was able to reach deep into layers of my mind that I did not even knew existed.

The surgical procedure into the unconscious began from the first second I closed my eyes. Every major event in my life replayed in slow motion as the incision became deeper and deeper. Focusing on the meditation technique is an impossible feat to accomplish ten hours per day. The mind wandered back and forth, as emotional events I never had the courage to look in the eye suddenly reappeared one by one. The bottled up teen angst that I failed to deal with in a productive manner during my adolescence turned me into a raging beast. The following moment I would be hysterical with laughter as my mind decided to replay one of my hilarious moments on the road in a small country village in South Korea. The chatter in my mind seemed endless and I had the realization that there was nothing I could do to control it. I was indeed a slave to my mind but I was determined to set myself free.

Tears of Peace

The rain was pounding on the ceiling as the summer crickets just stopped their loud roar. Suddenly the meditation hall in the South Korean village turned into a hub of peaceful energy that I had never experienced before. When any emotion becomes overbearing and too strong tears roll down our faces. Sadness, joy, fear and anger often make us tear up. My eyes turned moist as the peacefulness I experienced became overwhelming. Suddenly, my face and neck were soaking wet from the tears this new powerful emotion I never new existed before produced. Perhaps I absorbed the peaceful energy in that room from the forty other people that were sitting alongside me.  All I had been doing was observing my respiration and bodily sensations for ten days with my eyes closed, but this hit me by surprise. At that moment I had no cravings or aversions to any thought or emotion that my mind could potentially create. It was as if the bruises and scars of my past had all been healed at the same moment. Tears of peace are something that everyone should experience in their life- no chemical substance is needed.

Negative Energy Shield

After finishing my third ten day course I felt as if no negative external energy could ever enter my plane of existence. Cranky or angry people that I often came into contact with did not stand a chance of penetrating the shield I was now carrying. After the course, an old woman came and started yelling at me because the staff at the meditation center did not pay her for the watermelon she sold them. She mistakenly thought I was a staff member and was trying to cheat her out of her money. I quickly noticed that my inner reaction had changed immensely. Normally, I would have became agitated and perhaps even snapped back at her. Not this time. I smiled at her with compassion and patiently explained that I had nothing to do with the watermelon and would relay her message to the staff when they returned. She stomped away in her anger. The old woman tried to pass on her negative energy but I refused to accept it.

A few hours later, someone bumped into me by accident as I was carrying a cup full of hot water that spilled on my hand. I just observed the hot sensation in an objective manner and did not react negatively like I normally would have. I smiled in peace as the other person quickly apologized.

I felt like a superhero whose negative energy shield could never be broken. This was the reward at the end of my third 100 hour meditation course. Like anything else in life, it took hard work and determination to arrive at that state of mind. Maintaining practice is also imperative as any skill diminishes if not practiced properly. The taming of the mind is a constant struggle that I will always deal with. The battle continues!

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Lessons Learned From Chinese Children

Lessons Learned From Chinese Children

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

“Howww!” Two Kirghiz Chinese children howled in approval as they raced each other on their three wheeled bicycles. One smacked the other on the back and took off running while panting for breath.  I observed the children for a few minutes more and then made my way back to the yurt, where I would spend the night with the two children and their mother. As I scanned their residence I noticed that the only toys they owned were the bicycles they were riding on. They were all smiles and laughs as they chased each other along the grassy terrain as a 7,500 meter high glacier loomed in the background. “Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity,” suddenly North American author Thoreau’s quote entered my mind. Keep your life simple and happiness will find its way to you. These children were a prime example.

As I fixated myself on the children playing in rural China, I had a flashback that transported me back to Children’s Day in South Korea. The sun was shining bright and the cool, refreshing breeze that was blowing against the leaves was musical. It was hard to believe that I was in the middle of a city of 12 million people. I saw vivid images of a South Korean family I saw at the park in my neighborhood in Seoul. The mother and father distracted not by their child’s naughty behavior, but by the smart phone in their palms. “Minsoo! Come over here quickly,” they yelled halfheartedly while keeping their eyes locked on the electronic device as their thumbs kept tapping on the screen. A young boy about age 8-10, Minsoo kept walking in the opposite direction, a defiant attitude at such a young age which reminded me of myself. Minsoo also had a smart phone in his hands and didn’t pay his parents any mind. Next to Minsoo’s parents was another family of four. Two parents in their early to mid forties and two children between ages 8-12 years old. This time all four were fixated on their smart phones sitting on a bench distracted from the most important thing in their lives- quality time together. As advertised by the major electronic companies, they were playing with a device developed to help modernize society and bring people together. Unfortunately, it is being abused by many to the point where people are now separated by their electronic devices and do not focus on the present moment. The dopamine spike that computer scientists work so hard to maximize in their smart phone applications was simply too much for them to resist. Even while at the park with their family, the need to be entertained by social media and the Internet was too powerful to be overcome.

Even though I had a very privileged upbringing, I could relate with the Chinese children better than I ever expected. A ball and a group of friends created hours upon hours of free entertainment, exercise, bloody noses, skinned knees and even two broken bones which proved invaluable for character building while growing up. Team building, leadership and the ability to persevere when my body refused to go any further would foster essential life skills. All I needed was a ball and friends and I was happy. This was all before the information revolution took over modern society. Now our ball has become the computer we hold in the palm or our hands while friends exist only through text, pictures and videos.

Minimalism is a way of life that everyone should adopt as responsible global citizens. We are constantly bombarded with advertisements that promise happiness through our consumption of junk. As we continue to be good consumers, our world economy thrives. We work hard to look good in the car we drive to work and show off the new clothes on our back. However, we fail to think about where the items we purchase come from and what effect our excessive greed will have on the environment. “I am just one person. This will make no difference,” we repeat to ourselves to justify our irresponsible behavior. We spend less time with others and our relationships become more and more shallow. As a result, our mental health is being depleted.  The pharmaceutical companies and psychologists in the West are making a fortune from the great paradox of our era.  My 97 year old grandfather lived through the Great Depression that resulted from the stock market crash in 1929 in the United States and claims that no one suffered from psychological depression during that era.  Perhaps this is because people back then focused on the most important thing in their lives- their relationships with others. The happiest moments in my life are when I leave behind all of the items I have accumulated in South Korea and hit the road for two months out of the year. All I need is my tent, bike, warm clothes and company of my fellow global citizens and I am happy.

Yellow dust has become an everyday part of life here in Seoul, South Korea. Eight years ago when I arrived at my new home on the other side of the world, it would make an appearance once a year for one week. Times have changed. Yellow dust forecasts accompany weather forecasts on the news everyday. Nowadays I wake up in the mornings with a sore throat and eye irritation more than three days per week.  The vigorous exercise routine that I has become an essential part of my life has been altered as a result of potential lung damage due to inhaling toxic air particles.  As I write this blog entry, I have finally been relieved of yellow dust due to a cool rainfall in Seoul which provides a brief escape. People in my neighborhood today told me there is nothing they can do about the present situation and blame the poor air quality on neighboring China. It is time we stop blaming others for the present state of the world and take a serious look at our own personal actions as mature global citizens. There is something you can do about it- all it takes is the courage to act appropriately and speak the truth as you know it.  We all have something to learn from the Chinese children in Xinjang- how to enjoy a life of simplicity as responsible citizens of the world.

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Karakol Lake- Excuse Me While I Kiss the Sky

Karakol Lake- Excuse Me While I Kiss The Sky

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

Chinese children mobbed me as I pulled into a village to rest for the night. Parents slowly strolled over to see what the ruckus was all about and Kirghiz Chinese hospitality was about to be put on full display. The adult villagers escorted me to their yurt along with a long trail of children following behind. The stoves were filled with wood as water would soon start pounding against the tin water pot. Green tea and freshly rolled naan would be served momentarily. The family insisted I stay the night with them until I heard the all too familiar word “polizia.” We walked back down to the main road and several Xinjiang police officers were waiting for me with their cameras ready. After several mug shots were taken, an attempt at deeper verbal communication ensued. “You can’t stay with the family,” a robotic voice radiated from the officer’s Chinese to English translation application on his smart phone. I figured that asking for a reason why would have resulted in a dead end as everyone I had encountered connected with the Chinese government never had given me a direct answer to the dreaded “why” question. This was a debate I had no chance of winning so I decided to save my energy.

The villagers kindly escorted me to a small highway underpass where I would pitch my tent for the night. As soon as I took my $30 USD Namibian tent out of my backpack two local teenagers grabbed my poles and pitched the plastic contraption that became my main source of shelter in so many regions of the world at lightening speed. The Kirghiz are nomadic people who roam the open fields with their animal herds for days at a time and have a long tradition of yurt construction using simple wood and animal fur, so I should not have been surprised by their tent pitching skills. Nonetheless, I have to admit they had me dazzled. My tent was indeed another simple task for them as they gathered the best stones to support the joints of the structure and had wide mouthed smiles at the notion of helping a cycle tourist. This was indeed hospitality at its best.

The next morning I stretched my legs after waking up to the sound of goats roaming the rocky terrain where I pitched my tent the previous night. Today I would make my way to the 3,600 meter high Karakol Lake and enjoy one of the main attractions of the Karakorum Highway. Wind on the highway was intense as I thought I might be knocked off my bicycle several times. Sand pelted my face for a solid hour that seemed like an entire day. I went through hell to reach heaven. It was all worth it as I made it to another section of roadway which was exactly what I imagine heaven to be like if I ever make it there. The clouds that covered the sky were suddenly gone and now there were nothing but deep white clouds scattered through the vivid bright blue sky. Muztagh Ata, a 7600 meter high glacier was staring right at me in the distance. I cycled in awe at the beauty that Mother Nature created for all earthlings to enjoy. It is places like these that motivate me so intensely to become a better global citizen and preserve the mother that provides all resources for her children.  I may only be one person, but I am doing the best I can so that all generations to come will enjoy the same beauty that I have.

Suddenly three children flagged me down and started to run alongside my bicycle. They waved me into their yurt and I took a break from pedaling. As I sat in the shade it all hit me at once. The altitude and sunlight were taking their toll on me and I felt like I was on a surreal planet light years away from our solar system. I must have been on an adrenaline high from experiencing such natural beauty as I felt no fatigue at all until sitting down in the shade. Tea and bread were served in the yurt and the mother stared to cook a pot of “plov” or “pilaf” as we call it in North America. A space with colorful blankets was laid out for me on the floor as she signaled for me to rest using body language. Fresh carrots, onions, garlic, green peppers were chopped with immense precision and simmered in a large bowl. Next came the lamb meat which provides serious calories as all daily tasks in this region of the world are completed using pure human energy. No machines included! Usually I do not eat meat when offered, but in this case I decided to take advantage of the hormone free, grass fed livestock culture that is becoming more and more scarce in the world today. The Kirghiz mother watched with satisfaction as I wolfed down milk tea and several thick pieces of naan as the smell of Central Asia’s signature dish filled the air. There is nothing like a home cooked meal with fresh local grown ingredients after a long day of cycling on the 8th Wonder of the World. Another unforgettable experience on the Karakorum Highway!

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Karakorum Highway Bicycle Touring in Xinjiang, China

Karakorum Highway Cycling in China

Written by George Balarezo, Intrepid Global Citizen

Barren landscapes with cliffs shooting into the sky on both sides of me. Snow capped glaciers along the glowing horizon. Friendly locals waving as I speed by on my hybrid two wheeled machine. After more than five years of waiting, my dream had finally come true. I unpacked and reassembled my bicycle and was ready to start cycling south along the Karakorum Highway from the ancient Silk Road city of Kashgar.

Kashgar is a city like no other. An oasis port which lies on the western tip of the Gobi Desert and home to the Uighur ethnic group who are fighting for independence from the mighty Chinese giants. Known for their artisanship, traditional musical instruments and hand made garments, the Uighur people’s unique talents are on full display in Kashgar.  Upon arrival, I quickly found out about their hospitality culture as I was invited into shops for tea and conversations using body language and the little Mardarin Chinese I could muster up. After a few days of roaming the streets and loading up on kebabs, hand made rolled noodles, fresh tandoori naan, fresh peanuts and berries I was itching to start pedaling south.

I sweated my way through the desert terrain that left my throat feeling as dry as snakeskin. Finally, a noodle shack appeared where I posted up for four hours until the midday sunshine released its wrath. I finished several pots of scolding hot green tea that come complimentary with any meal ordered in this region of the world and the sweat continued to pour like a summer monsoon rainfall. I made some progress on my book as the buckets of sweat continued to drench my clothes. On this side of the world, piping hot green tea is the beverage of choice even when the summer months take their wrath on the local population. I was left with a caffeine buzz after chugging two full pots on my own. I knew I should be careful to keep myself as hydrated as possible, but now I was on a full fledged caffeine high. The extent of my caffeine intake during my everyday life in South Korea is about one or two cups of tea per week. Now I had exceeded my weekly caffeine intake by about ten times and was feeling more energized than a bodybuilder on steroids. Nevertheless, I had to wait out the sunshine and pounded out several chapters in my book with the intense concentration of a monk who just emerged from weeks of meditation in the Himalaya. In the west, people normally drink ice cold beverages when the summer strikes full force. I have been avoiding this habit since my move to East Asia several years ago. According to Ayurvedic medicine, the west has it all wrong. Regularly drinking very warm water or tea can heal our bodies, provide digestive power and reduce metabolic waste that could have built up in our immune system. Conversely, processed cold water is devoid of many essential minerals that could become very unfavorable to the digestive tract. Anyway, hot tea has easily become my beverage of choice on a blazing summer day.

I cycled my way through the Xinjaing villages and was looking for a place to crash for the night. The open fields by the side of the road were all fenced off so I couldn’t find a decent area to pitch my tent for the night. I approached a local villager and tried to motion with him using body language that I was looking for a place to stay for the night. “Boe sheu,” he rejected my request with an angry look in his eyes. He was having a bad day for some reason I would never be able to understand. Anyway, I kept going for about thirty minutes more and then saw a sign with some horses around a pond pointing down off to a minor arterial roadway. I decided to go down the road and see what the story was. Upon arrival, I staked out a few canopied sheltered areas that looked like the perfect place to sleep. I was greeted by several men who invited me for more tea and bread. They were excited to see me there and we exchanged identification cards and they were fascinated by my passport and were trying to make out some the English. “GGeeorrgeee Alllfffreeedddooo,” they read off slowly like elementary school students. Finally, I made a request for sleeping space using my superb nonverbal communication skills. “Polizia,” one of them muttered while gesturing that he should make a phone call. Thirty minutes later a police officer arrived and inspected my paperwork. “Kashgar,” he said pointing at his car while attempting to communicate his suggestion to drive me back to where I started cycling from. “Hauw,” he said after a few more minutes accepting my request to sleep there. What nice hospitality on the police officer’s part to offer to drive me back 80 kilometers in his vehicle! Little did I know it but this would be the first of many run ins with the Xinjaing police force. The fun was just starting!

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Pakistan- The Final Verdict!

The journey back to Lahore was draining. I took the earliest morning bus back to Peshawar, and we arrived at the tunnel at around 9:30AM. At first, the bus driver was very concerned that he would have to wait at the tunnel entrance until 12:30PM, but I told him the story about the Korean engineer bending the rules for us and letting us through last time via my animated body language repertoire. In Pakistan, marketing for buses and shared vehicle service works much differently from what many are accustomed to in other countries.  Public transportation operators yell out their vehicle’s destination name at the top of their lungs while trying to lure passersby to jump on board. The driver was so delighted to have me on board his bus and yelled “Korea” while pointing his index finger in my direction while attempting to entice potential riders. Upon arrival at the tunnel there were no “Korean men” for me to negotiate with and we would have to wait. The driver looked a bit disappointed, but this situation was out of my hands. After accepting the fact that we would have to wait for three hours my Pashtun friend came to me as I was sipping tea with the locals- “come here, lets talk with the Korean men,” he stated with a gleam of elation on his face. I followed him up the mountain and he explained to the security officers what we were doing in Pashto and one man offered to take us to see the Koreans in his truck. “Lets go drink some tea first before talking to the Korean guys,” he said. I am not one to turn down a cup of delicious Pakistani chai, so we sat down with some engineers working on the tunnel project- a Chitrali geologist and a Philipino engineer.

We ended up chatting for about forty minutes over tea and biscuit refills. They shared many interesting tales about their work on the tunnel project, including one about a Korean engineer who lost his life on a stroke of bad luck sent by mother nature. The man was going back to the office from his sleeping quarters in order to retrieve something and flood waters waded him away- all this on the Philipino guy’s first day on the job in the region. The brute force of nature in the Himalaya took the man’s life. Nature is always to be respected and feared. This just reinforces that we must treat our Mother Earth the way we would also like to be treated.

I eventually talked to another Korean engineer who seemed only half interested in what I had to say. He wrote a permit for our vehicle to pass through the tunnel early. By the time I made it back down to the bus it was around twelve o’clock, which meant the tunnel would open in about thirty minutes. It didn’t matter though, everyone was absolutely thrilled that we were the only vehicle granted permission to pass through the tunnel a few minutes early.

This just shows the importance of knowledge and communication. Even though a modest fraction of the world’s population speaks Korean, I put my years of studying to use and helped me win friends in Pakistan. “When one speaks with someone in their second language, they are speaking to their brain. However, when one speaks with someone in their native language, they are speaking to their heart.” This quote by Nelson Mandela was proven true once again. Even though the older Korean man showed little emotion, he calmly wrote a permission slip. The granting of favors like this is just one language of love, even though there were no emotions verbally expressed. Never underestimate the importance of foreign language skills when establishing rapport with others.

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A Social Blunder

The scenery along the Pakistani Himalaya on the way back to Peshawar was nothing short of spectacular. At one point we stopped at a rest area so everyone could pray and I decided to shed a layer of clothing outside a restaurant as the altitude had sharply declined along the last stretch of roadway and now I was covered in sweat. Upon shedding my shalwar kameez which naturally exposed my inner long sleeve shirt a man ran up to me in panic and said, “there are women and children here. Go to the bathroom and change.” Before taking off a layer of clothing, I debated doing what he suggested as people everywhere in Pakistan are extremely covered up all the time. I thought it would be okay since I wouldn’t be exposing any more skin than I already was. I suppose he thought I was going to take it a step further. “No problem. I am finished,” I said, pointing to my long sleeves. Looks like I caused an accidental uproar.

I learned here another important lesson. Always aire on the conservative side when unsure about committing a potentially socially unacceptable act. For many of the fellow passengers on that bus, I was the only Non Pakistani traveler they had ever come in contact with. Therefore, any positive or negative actions on my part will be etched into their memory for years to come. By traveling abroad, one must accept the responsibility of becoming a global ambassador, and cultural sensitivity is of paramount importance.

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Crossing The Border To India

I ended up making it back to Lahore at about 6AM and decided to crash for a few hours and chat it up with my friends a bit. I would have liked to relax for a few days and hang out in Lahore some more as I met some very interesting people along the way.

However, it was time to say goodbye- so is life. I was off to the Wagha border again to make my way into India. Once I arrived at the dead silent border crossing there was only one man working. Apparently there was a power outage on the Pakistani side of the border so immigration could not clear me using their computers. I waited patiently while reading a book and chatting up the immigration officer. He liked my shalwar kameez and the fact that I was trying to speak some Urdu and Pashto. I raved about Pakistan, its great people and mesmerizing scenery. After chatting with him for a bit he turned on the backup generator “just for you because you are an honest man and I like your character,” he stated. Next I exchanged the rest of my Pakistani currency for Indian rupees with the same money launderer whom I met on my way into Pakistan. I told the man I remembered him and reminded him of the Korean currency I gifted him for his money collection on my way into Pakistan a few weeks ago. He lit up when I mentioned I remembered him and said “you are a good man, please come back to Pakistan soon.” I have a feeling I will have to take him up on his offer soon!

Pakistan Rehashed

If there is one word that sums up my experience in Pakistan it would have to be “hospitality.” Free meals and cups of tea on the street, offers of overnight stays in local homes, risking of lives for an adrenaline seeking tourist and genuine concern for the well being of a fellow global citizen. This was humanity in its rawest form. A standard of humanity we should all strive to reach in our daily lives. There is a warm place in my heart reserved for Pakistan and its people. A place warm enough to make you sweat bullets on a frigid night in the Himalaya. With each act of kindness I received over the course of three weeks it became larger and warmer.  Due to the mass media, unfortunately Pakistan has become the misunderstood mother in law of our world. Just like any relationship, whether between individuals, cultures or nations, we must seek first to understand and accept. If done properly and with awareness, they will naturally find a way into our heart, which contains the ability to expand with infinite potential.  Seek to understand and unleash your heart’s infinite potential!

 

 

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Into Taliban Territory

Guns

Three AK-47 armed giants dressed in fatigues brashly interrupted my meal and made themselves comfortable at my table. “We have some things to discuss with you. But finish your dinner first. We will wait for you at your hotel,” one man explained. At this point I was enthralled with curiosity about what they had to say to me and wolfed down my rice and bread abruptly. As I approached my hotel in the mountain town of Chitral, the glowing outline of five AK-47 armed men in the candlelit lobby piqued my curiosity. Several hours earlier there was a power outage ravaged through town, and now all that was left was the shimmering moonlight. “This is like a real life gangster movie,” I thought to myself. Hopefully, I would play the role of the hero that would live to see another day. One man said they were here to provide me with a security service and it was necessary for me to have two armed guards escort me everywhere while in town. “They will be like your shadow. Anytime you leave your room you have to let them know and they will go with you. We can assure you that Chitral is a safe place, but they are here for your safety,” they expounded. How wild- now they were sleeping in the room next door!

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Into Taliban Territory

“Five armed guards must escort you everywhere,” was the startling news I heard when I went to the police station in order to find out about the intricacies of visiting the nearby Kalash villages. The authorities promised it would be a completely free service and that the region was “one hundred percent safe.” Later on I found out that the number of guards required to follow you around depends on your country of origin- one guard for Japanese and Koreans, four guards for Canadians, five guards for Americans. Perhaps in increasing order of Taliban hatred? “We are just following orders from Islamabad,” stated the police officer. I attempted to maintain a positive attitude about the predicament I was faced with.  “I could become good friends with these guys,” I naively tried to reason to myself.

We left for the mountain villages along the Afghanistan border and did quite a bit of hiking along some stunning mountain roads. My escorts did not like my leisurely walking pace and kept rushing me along like there was a golden plate of rice for the first one to arrive back to town. Unfortunately, I lost the opportunity to interact with the local Kalash people as these large men with guns were strikingly intimidating to have by my side. I could sense a bit of tension between the Kalash and the guards I was with as one of the beautifully dressed woman screched and said “Muslims” in a voice that did not sound so welcoming. Anyway, I didn’t enjoy having these guys around me anymore.

Along the way back I saw some graves of Pakistani military personnel who were slayed by the Taliban. Quite haunting, I must admit. Then it all came tumbling down on me like a Himalayan landslide. I was a tourist in a war-torn land. I realized that although my AK-47 equipped companions did not seem to be the least bit animated at taking me around the surrounding villages, they would have sacrificed their lives to protect me if the situation would have turned violent. Up to five men would have passed on, just to protect one. They would have easily joined the others at the graveyard without hesitation. Laying down your life for another person’s safety is the biggest form of hospitality one could ever receive. By my standards, those men should have been given red capes and have the word hero tattooed on their chests in Urdu and Pashto.  The only reason for them to come to that area was because my of my curiosity and lust for adrenaline. Perhaps they were rushing me along because they knew the region was unstable and we were all taking a great risk due to our presence. Could I really believe the man at the police station whom insisted the region was secure? Those men all had families and responsibilities, possibly much greater than my own. This was not an ethical decision and quite selfish of me to subject those men to the potentially volatile nature of that region. I had overstayed my welcome! It was time to move on as swiftly as possible!

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Smuggling My Way Into The Korean Himalaya

The smuggler’s bazaar! Just hearing the name alone was enough to get the adrenaline pumping through my body! Known by locals as the Karkhano market along the Kyber Roadway- just one or two kilometers from the Afghanistan border crossing. In order to blend in with the locals, I took absolutely nothing with me and just put a few rupees in my sock for the bus fare. As I was on my way to this mysterious place, I spoke to quite a few people and one man called me over and said “don’t go there, these are the tribal areas, they are lawless and once they find out you are a not from around here, they will kidnap you and no one will ever find you. Get off this bus and go back. You are dressed like a Pashto but once you speak they will know- don’t open your mouth there,” he said. I thought about his advice for a bit and kept going. Adrenaline got the best of me once again! “As long as I keep my trap shut, I should be okay,” I thought to myself. After soaking up the atmosphere for a few hours at the market that smuggles drugs, guns and stolen items intercepted from the US military to and from Afghanistan, I decided it would probably be in my best interest to go back. Everyone in the area was armed with AK-47’s under their shalwar kameez (traditional clothing) which did not make me feel any more comfortable.

 

Butcher Shop

I called one guy I met on the bus and he ended up showing me around all day and even took me to his town, a few kilometers outside of Peshawar. The town, which is governed in a completely autonomous manner independent of the Pakistani government, is headed by his uncle, who took over after his grandfather and great grandfather. He escorted me to the building where everyone gathers for meetings and decision making. I was greeted by many of his neighbors and family, and we all had tea together. At one point an older man came over to me with a very stern look on his face, “I have many things to tell you!” he said as his eyes pierced right through me. “First of all, you must know we are not terrorists! The world does not understand Islam! Do we seem like terrorists to you?” he asked. The elder man said he is working to educate people about Islam and gave me a website address where he is trying to share information on Islam.

I also enjoyed talking to an Afghani refugee who came to Pakistan during the war with the Soviets. He said he can’t ever go back to Afghanistan because there is too much violence and danger. He is a very nice guy with a good sense of humor and had some friendly talks over tea and a plate of fish- outstanding experience!

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Korean Skills Come in Handy

Anneong ha sey yo! The following day I left Peshawar, and the day my Korean skills came in handy finally arrived! Riding in a shared car along the Himalaya Mountains of northern Pakistan, I would never in my wildest dreams have imagined I would put my Korean language skills to use. Think again! After traveling for about eight hours that day, security officers halted our vehicle due to tunnel construction along the new roadway. “The tunnel is closed for the day!” bellowed a man in green and black fatigues. Suddenly, an uproar in Pashto exploded in our vehicle as all passengers were in disbelief at the thought of turning back. It was now past 4:30PM, and they had to follow orders from the engineers working for Daewoo, a Korean construction company. We were in the middle of nowhere with no options but to drive in the opposite direction. However, after much debate in Pashto one man riding with us decided it would be a good idea for me to talk to the Korean engineers working in the office. After waiting for about an hour while chatting with some Pakistani construction workers over tea, they finally showed me to the building where a Korean man in his late 50s was sitting at a paper scattered desk. I started shooting off some Korean and much to my surprise, he had absolutely no reaction to the white guy dressed in traditional Pakistani clothing. I offered him some Korean chocolates from the heavily frequented tourist destination Jeju Island as his expression solidified even further. I gave up on trying to build rapport with him and finally explained our situation in his mother tongue as he listened intently. Nonchalantly, he reached for his pen and granted our vehicle permission to pass through the tunnel after daily closing time. As I returned to the car with the permit in hand, everyone was all smiles and we made it to the mountain town of Chitral just after sunset.

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