I think about wanting a shower and how many people will be in my dorm room tonight. Whether I’ll be able to sleep. Whether the bed will be comfortable. If I’ll find my people. “Where are you from?” someone asks from the next table, but I am so exhausted from traveling that the question doesn’t quite reach me.

I am tired, dirty, confused, and a little irritable. The noise swells, everyday honks that sound like roars in the night. Music I can’t comprehend. The smell of food, the barking of dogs. Everything screams that I am back in Asia.

The Western Gaze and the Need for Coming Back to Asia

Last week I was in Croatia, where everyone kept asking me why I insist on coming back to Asia. What it is about this culture that fascinates me so much. “I couldn’t do it,” they tell me repeatedly while I search for flight tickets to India. The answer isn’t simple, nor is it definitive. Because Asia isn’t a place; it’s more of a state of mind. The chaos, the collision, the clash, the destruction. The place I come to learn, to force myself to be uncomfortable, to die and be reborn.

“But it’s full of chaos and filth,” people explain to me without ever having been here. What they don’t know is that Asia’s beauty cannot be measured by the Western values we so proudly try to replicate. That behind the smoke and the chaos of street vendors lies a strange kind of order we cannot perceive. That if you manage to look past the annoyance of the noise and the traffic, you will find a tranquility that simply doesn’t exist in the West.

Between the Himalayas, the Kumari Goddess, and the Chaos of Kathmandu

How do I explain this country, Nepal, and the collision that exists between its mountains and its deities? The Himalayas worshipped as ancient gods, the dust of old-town Kathmandu, the power lines continuing to pile up without anyone doing a thing about it, the monkeys, the dogs, the shops selling trekking gear for those seeking to climb the highest mountains in the world. The crowd of believers gathering to worship a young girl goddess, the Kumari, gazing at them as if they were mere flies. Faith, faith bleeding out everywhere. The river, the ghats, Buddhism and Hinduism merging without everything exploding.

Contradictions I still cannot and do not want to explain. Because what I understood on my second trip to this continent is that Asia doesn’t need or seek to be defined or compartmentalized by us or our Western eyes. It doesn’t care to be explained through the perspective of a 31-year-old Argentine. And knowing that allowed me to let the place pass through me without the need to solve it. I simply observe the fire and attempt, with a certain clumsiness, to write down the experience in a few lines.

Finally, I don’t return out of caprice or boredom. I return because I believe that coming to Asia with a seven-kilo backpack is the fastest way to learn. Being with yourself in the middle of the fire. Observing without judging. Trusting the universe and whatever lies ahead. If you can do all this, maybe this could be your journey, too.

If you are interested in Asia, you can check out more articles in this cathegory 🙂

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I arrived in India on a Sunday morning after spending a month in Sri Lanka, getting to know myself and registering each and every one of my limitations. With a backpack full of doubts, I was hyper-aware of all my fears and how much I would have to grow if I wanted to travel to India alone for the first time. It wasn’t just about ignoring the warning words people had thrown at me: “Don’t go, it’s dangerous.” “You’re a girl, Nadia.” “You’re going to get killed there.” It was also about facing the unknown, the uncomfortable, the chaotic, and the unpredictable on my own.

It was about deciphering that invisible code that governs the chaos of the country. Those threads that hold together an entire system that always seems on the verge of collapsing. How the transportation worked. What to eat, where, and how. Where to stay, how much to pay. Where the limit was, what I could do, where I could go. All these questions erupted silently when I made the choice to travel to India alone and landed at Kochi airport with less than ten kilos on my back.

My first hours in India: The glass box at Kochi airport

In silence, with the weight of loneliness clinging to my back like a parasite, I kept repeating to myself the steps to follow: “Get a SIM card.” “Withdraw cash.” “Find the safest means of transportation,” the voices told me, while I watched the travelers who had arrived on the same plane. But they had no fear, no doubts. They had already been here. The clothes they wore, the way their feet moved without a single worry let me know that the challenge of travel to India alone was something new only to me.

While looking for the hostel’s address with trembling fingers, I sat in one of the chairs facing the outside of the airport. As if trapped in a glass box I didn’t dare to leave, I tried to glimpse the reality awaiting me outside. “Taxi drivers will try to convince you that your hostel is closed to take you somewhere else.” “They’re going to rip you off,” I had been told more than once.

But I couldn’t just stay there, at the Kochi airport, hugging my backpack until the fear went away. A fear that had begun to erupt like boiling lava. Sooner or later, I had to step out and face that reality with open arms. To confront whatever happened. That’s why I had gone all that way, and I had to be enough for myself.

The ultimate culture shock in India

And when I finally got into the taxi, the entire reality of what India was supposed to be shattered against the windshield. But it wasn’t what I expected. That chaotic jumble I was anticipating never appeared. The shot I thought I could foresee never hit me. Simply, nothing happened. There was only the falling of my own thoughts, crashing down like hail.

Because I realized that I understood nothing.

India was not the chaos I had been warned about. But it wasn’t peace either.

I knew what India wasn’t. It escaped any absolute definition, refusing to be synonymous with poverty or wealth. It belonged neither to the past, the present, nor the future; it was far more than just culture or historical heritage. I understood, with something close to desperation, that India could not be captured by a single adjective.

The day I arrived, as I walked through Kochi, I realized that the only thing I could affirm about India was that it was a massive land that escaped any kind of definition or categorization. Worse still: India had no interest in being defined under any Western conception either. I, my experiences as a traveler, my ideas, my history—everything was utterly miniscule compared to that country that had swallowed me as if I were inside the jaws of a dragon.

It was the first time I felt completely insignificant within a system I could neither read nor comprehend, an environment that could devour me if I didn’t have the capacity to adapt and decipher those codes that slipped through my fingers. Arriving in India meant becoming aware of the space that existed between my present self and the woman I had to become to travel from south to north.

Learning to move through the chaos

Two days passed in Kochi until I felt the need to move, but I didn’t know how. Logistics in India felt like an invisible, deceptive spiderweb. The train system stretches across the country like a backbone. The long-distance buses seemed to have no beginning and no end. How to buy a ticket, and which one? What was safe and what wasn’t? All these questions paralyzed me on the hostel couch as I endlessly read blogs on how to travel through India alone

“I’m going to Munnar by bus, you can come if you want,” an Italian guy at the hostel told me when he saw my bewilderment. Without many options, I said yes, asking him to also explain the trains, the buses, and that entire system that seemed infinitely complex to me.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t, if you just let yourself go and allowed people to help you.

To travel in India alone is to be swept away by a current

I don’t know how many buses we took that day. At least three. I don’t know because we reached Munnar as if swept away by a current that couldn’t be stopped. People told us to get on, to get off, promising they would let us know when to change buses. “Where are you from?” the driver would ask, while the rest of the locals stared with a certain curiosity. The windows were down, the music blended with the noise of the street, and the smell of earth clung to the walls like paint.

The same current that took me to Munnar dragged me to Varkala, but this time by train. I was no longer with the Italian guy, but with Addy, a girl from the United States who had already been there. We traveled for three hours by train alongside the locals, who did nothing but help us. When we arrived, we were greeted by a horizon of palm trees and clean water that had absolutely nothing to do with what you usually see on social media.

Traveling to India alone: shattering prejudices

The fear began to fade, and something resembling confidence took a tighter hold. I still didn’t understand many things. But I knew exactly what it was that I didn’t comprehend yet.

I had only been in Kerala, and I had learned to move there. But I knew that the other states in India were completely different. Every journey, every change of scenery, would bring a new adaptation. New rules. Different food, different codes. And so, with the absolute certainty of my own ignorance, I went to an Ashram, then to Goa, Rishikesh, Delhi, Varanasi, and Rajasthan.

Each new state was a different hard reset that sometimes consumed my energy voraciously. What I had experienced in Kerala had nothing to do with what I lived through in Rajasthan. But I knew it: that moving from one place to another was also a small reincarnation.

Rajasthan was a poetic, intense, flammable chaos that had nothing to do with Goa or Rishikesh. The people were different, the language, the architecture, the food, the coming and going, what I could wear and what I couldn’t, how I could travel. It was a brand-new code to decipher. But there was no longer any fear or doubt.

Embracing the Ignorance

I had embraced my ignorance and turned it into my fire. Questions became certainties, and that void of not knowing was no longer a blank space. It was like a tightrope I walked over the abyss.

By the end of my trip through India, I had abandoned the clumsy Western habit of naming and pigeonholing. Today, a couple of months after returning from that land on fire that we reduce to a mere name, I realize that the decision to travel to India alone forced me to look into the greatest semantic void I have ever seen in my life.

Its beauty doesn’t lie in one specific thing. It’s not the landscapes, nor the people, nor the food. It is that explosion of contradictions that we must learn to look at as if it were a hurricane. Without controlling it. Without defining it. Simply appreciating those tensions on the verge of exploding, frozen in a second that feels infinite.

If you are interested in India, you can check out my other articles:

Varanasi: death in the city that breaths fire

Solo travel in India

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This city is an interruption of common sense by the simple fact of its existence. Without effort. Without pretension. It is chaos elevated to the status of the sacred. Varanasi is contradictory, incomprehensible, indefinable, and unbearable. But it is also peaceful, healing, and reasonable. Its streets are a labyrinth where time stands still and space compresses. Yet, it is also where everything seems to expand exponentially.

The presence of death in every corner

Arriving in Varanasi is tumultuous, unpredictable, almost violent. There is no time to adapt because the city hardly lets you breathe. You want to think, feel, reflect, contemplate, and understand. But you can’t; there isn’t a single moment where nothing is happening. You want to walk the streets, but you get lost. You want to find a place to stop for a moment, but it feels as if something invisible is shaking your shoulders, forcing you to walk without knowing where. Then you realize you have to press yourself against a wall to let a cow, a motorcycle, or a group of men carrying a body wrapped in orange silk pass by. You cannot stop; you must keep going. You are inside a kaleidoscope or a surrealist dream.

Temples, cafes, clothing stalls, poverty, filth, fire, and water. Death as an obvious promise and life as a question mark. The Ganges River, as sacred as it is polluted, without that being a contradiction. All of this is Varanasi.

I arrived with the knot in my stomach of one who travels alone and feels the world is too big. But in Varanasi, that knot is forced apart because the city is so real it verges on the cruel. There is no room for pretension when the smoke from the funeral pyres seeps into your pores. When the chants echo through a city so ancient it seems to have escaped time itself. When life and death do not collide as opposites but fuse into a unity that, in Varanasi, feels natural.

Hinduism and the spiritual meaning of death in Varanasi

To understand why Varanasi breathes smoke, one must understand Hinduism. For the devotee, dying here is not a tragedy; it is the ultimate privilege: it is to achieve Moksha, the final liberation from the cycle of reincarnation (Samsara).

While in the West we struggle to retain, to accumulate, and to remain, in Varanasi, the goal is to let go, to release, to accept, to flow. The fire at Manikarnika Ghat is not merely combustion; it is the vehicle that returns the five elements to the universe. Observing the pyres that burn twenty-four hours a day is to witness the fulfillment of Dharma, the sacred order of things.

Death is an absolute that springs from each and every stone of the city. But it is not a full stop; it is a continuation, a bridge between this life and a higher order. A positive sign that resignifies and challenges our Western worldview regarding the act of dying.

I saw no tears, nor was there a tragic air in Varanasi. It wasn’t indifference either. Rather, it was a profound understanding that the body is merely an envelope. A radical acceptance of death that allowed the dead and the living to coexist, drinking chai while watching the fire with curiosity.

It was a certainty that I found moving. A promise that no one spoke because it wasn’t necessary to put into words. The infinite, the unnamable. That which all religions attempt to articulate—often in vain—was what I saw in the eyes of the people who went to Varanasi to die.

Cultural shock: What the West silences, Varanasi screams about death

My three days in Varanasi led me to compare the conception of death in both cultures. In our Western world, we have turned death into an uncomfortable secret. We hide it in sterile hospital rooms and dress it in black, as if silence could hide the inevitable. It is the subject no one wants to bring up at the table. A taboo. An inconvenience. A reason to be swept away by self-destruction. Tears and sorrow. Dark funerals, dismal nights.

Varanasi spat a different truth at me: death is bright orange and smells of fire.

By normalizing the end, the city resignifies life. There is no fear in the eyes of the elders waiting for their turn on the banks of the Ganges; there is a radical acceptance that denotes an absolute faith, which has nothing to do with Christianity. Seeing death so closely, without filters or marble walls, forced me to look at my own existence with a sharpness that hurt.

If death is as natural as the flowing river, why do we spend so much energy pretending it doesn’t exist?

Varanasi: A Radical Acceptance of the End

Walking through this chaotic city was like looking into a mirror of what we try to ignore. Watching children and dogs run among the bodies lying patiently by the river, I understood with a certain peace that death is not something that should be hidden.

Varanasi breaks your mental frameworks because it teaches you that peace does not come from avoiding the end, but from knowing that smoke is part of the air that we will all, sooner or later, breathe. In the end, we take nothing with us, except the lightness of having learned to walk through the flames without getting burned.

Varanasi was just one stop on this journey of deconstruction. You can find more chronicles and reflections from my travels through Asia here.

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A dread that often turned into panic, and other times into a blind faith toward something I couldn’t quite define. That’s how I spent nearly three months, wandering through a continent that wasn’t mine. Praying to something I didn’t know well. Some anonymous God. Some belief I imported from another life. A certainty that wouldn’t stop whispering that everything was going to be okay. And the fear, crawling up my back like a putrid shadow, tucking itself into my backpack. A duality that split me in half for two and a half months: the contradiction of solo female travel in India and the constant pulse between blind faith and fear.

The Fear: Navigating solo female travel in India

Many people ask me if it is dangerous to travel this way. The honest answer isn’t a yes or a no; it’s a sensation. I felt fear. All the time. But not because of what was happening around me, but because of what was happening inside me. The noise of India was merely a trigger for everything exploding within my mind. Like a bomb buried in some long-forgotten war, about to detonate.

Navigating this country alone means living with constant noise—not just from the streets, but from your own prejudices. It’s the fear of not understanding the “invisible order” of a place that seems to be perpetually on the edge; the fear of radical solitude and the gaze of others that you cannot decipher. The sounds, the smells, the words—the collision of thousands of realities exploding around you. People asking for photos, your friends back in Argentina saying: “How can you go to India alone?”. The air was burning, and with it, my need for control burned too.

I quickly understood that the possibility of controlling what happened was a utopia in a country that collapsed and was resurrected every minute. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t foresee even what would happen in an hour. I didn’t know where I was going to sleep, or where I was going to eat. How I was going to get there, what I was going to do. But over time, it started to be okay. It began to make sense. It became part of the charm of India—a country built on the idea of a permanent “now.”

Blind Faith

However, in the moments when fear seemed to win it all, blind faith would appear. I’m not talking about religious faith, but an absolute surrender to uncertainty. A certain absurd, naive surrender that surfaced every time I was dying of fear. Every time I felt a chill down my spine, when a voice told me to go back home, that the discomfort was too much. “You’re crazy,” they’d tell me while I tried to book train tickets in a system I didn’t fully understand. But I stopped listening to everything—the honking, the barking of street dogs.

Because I knew everything was going to be okay. I don’t know if it was intuition, confidence, or stupidity. But that was what allowed me to board a train without knowing exactly where to get off. That blind faith—intense, explosive, and foolish—was what pulled me out of my comfort zone in Croatia and led me to take that bus to the airport. In Sri Lanka, I began the journey full of doubts; in India, I ended it understanding that blind faith isn’t believing everything will go well, but knowing you’ll be capable of managing it if everything goes wrong. That there is a being inside you that is larger, more unpredictable, eclectic, mystical, sacred, and chaotic than India itself: you. Yourself.

Managing Contradiction in Chaos

The hardest part of solo female travel in India wasn’t the physical exhaustion, but managing emotions like frustration in a totally chaotic context. A permanent noise that transfers to the spirit, one you don’t stop hearing even while lying in silence in your bed. It was there, listening to the noise of the nightly silence, that I understood the secret isn’t trying to eliminate fear so that faith can appear. On the contrary: fear and blind faith need each other. Two sides of the same coin, two extremes that touch and collide. Fear kept me alert, conscious, and present. Blind faith allowed me to keep walking despite it all.

The Silent Fire

Today, in the polar silence, I feel the trip is only just beginning to settle. India is a country that burns; it is immense and indefinable. Unfathomable, eclectic, mystical, sacred, dirty, contradictory. A collision of palaces, death, poverty, and reincarnation all on the same street. Faith, cows, cities, mountains, temples, street food.

India is the country I loved most because it is a process of combustion. Everything explodes, and you are no exception. It is a country that demolishes you just to see what you are capable of building with the pieces. And here I am, in the middle of the ice, looking at my remains and understanding that only when you are in pieces can you choose which parts of you deserve to be rescued, and which ones stay back there, burning forever in that air that was on fire.

If you are interested in Solo traveling, you can check out this categories:

Asia

Nomadic Life.

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Crossing the border from Thailand to Cambodia: the rustic train ride from Bangkok

Our journey started very early, at 5 a.m., when we took the train from Bangkok to the border with Cambodia. My friend and I, both Argentinians who would rather die than travel on an organized tour and known for being fiercely independent, decided to walk from the hostel we had booked on the outskirts of Bangkok with our backpacks and passports in hand.

We had heard there weren’t many options to travel to Cambodia from Bangkok, and that the best was by plane. But we wanted the adventure — and the train cost just over one euro. The train, especially the third-class car we paid for, was rustic but still charming.

The stops were frequent, each one with its own story and characters. Street vendors offering fresh fruit, curious children waving at us, and an atmosphere that only a slow train can create. We, two fiercely independent Argentinians, felt both free and a little out of place, but happy to travel at our own pace. “Good thing we didn’t pay for that crappy tour,” we laughed, while watching the tall grass sway through the window.

The border, the smoke and the corruption

After several hours, we arrived at Aranyaprathet station, the last stop before officially crossing the border. With our backpacks on our shoulders, we walked under the blazing sun, weaving between trucks and cars, until we reached a yellow building where the long migration wait began. The line stretched out and branched endlessly, and those two hours became a true exercise in patience and adaptation to the chaos that awaited us.

“Welcome,” they told us once we got our visas, right after the officer casually overcharged us three extra dollars as he stamped our passports. Luckily, we had read a bit online and carried exact change so they couldn’t come up with another made-up fee. We paid, resigned, realizing that this little scam was part of the border ritual — a reminder that in Southeast Asia, order and transparency aren’t always part of the deal.

Crossing the Thailand – Cambodia Border via Poi Pet

At the border, we found ourselves in Poi Pet, the gateway town from Thailand into Cambodia. This town, seemingly frozen in time, is completely chaotic from a Western perspective. Full of street vendors, neon signs, monks walking everywhere, noise, beggars, and children chasing us to greet us. One detail to keep in mind is that this town is full of casinos. Since gambling is illegal in Thailand, many tourists cross the border for the day just to spend hours locked inside trying to win some money.

Admiring the diversity coexisting in this space—monks, begging children, and Europeans emerging from big, luxurious buildings—we shared our first impressions of Cambodia. We walked for about ten minutes, fully convinced that we would find a bus station where we could wait for our ride to Siem Reap. “I don’t know what time the bus will be, but worst case we’ll just grab something to eat there,” I told my friend as we stared in awe at the surrounding chaos.

After a few minutes, we reached the bus station. However, the parking lot was completely empty, and everything was shut down. I can still remember the look of confusion on my friend’s face and the wave of frustration that hit me when I realized the station was abandoned. Without meaning to, we were stranded at the border between Cambodia and Thailand.

When plans fall apart: embracing travel uncertainty

What do you do when your only ride feels unsafe, and you’re stranded at the border with no plan? We had no SIM card, no clear information, and were surrounded by people trying to sell us everything—from tours to souvenirs. The already tense atmosphere seemed to collapse before our eyes. As if they could smell our panic, they came closer, shouting “Where are you from?”, “Where are you going?” while we tried to figure out what to do, my stomach twisting with unease.

Ignoring one tuk-tuk driver who wouldn’t stop chasing us, we entered what looked like a private taxi company to ask for help, but had no luck. Only one person spoke English and kept repeating that the next bus would leave in eight hours from somewhere around there, not really paying attention to our panic.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, we stepped into a small local pharmacy, just looking for a pause. A boy inside helped translate, and the pharmacist, a very kind woman, offered an unexpected solution. She said her husband could drive us to Siem Reap if we paid him. At that point, it didn’t matter how much he asked—we told her to set a price. Hesitantly, the man told the boy thirty dollars. He looked at us expectantly, as if he’d asked for a fortune for a three-and-a-half-hour ride.

We said yes, not only because it was cheap, but because there was nothing else left to do. Getting into a stranger’s car wasn’t exactly safe, but in that moment it felt like the only way forward.

Trust and fear on the road to Siem Reap

The ride started off strangely, and it didn’t take long before the first moment shook our nerves and made our hearts race. Within the first half hour, the driver veered off the main road without explanation and stopped in front of a small house surrounded by trees. When we saw him get out and greet three men who appeared at the door, we looked at each other in fear.

Our survival instincts, honed in Latin America, screamed at us to get out of there immediately. “If he does something weird, I’ll grab the car keys,” she whispered, while I searched my backpack for a pen or anything I could use to defend us. “If he opens the door, I’ll stab him,” I said, knowing it was a lie neither of us actually believed.

The fear we felt in that minute turned into relief when the four men approached the trunk… just to take out a couple of boxes of ice cream cones. What we had assumed might be a kidnapping was, in reality, a simple delivery on their way to the final destination.

Nervous laughter followed as we looked at the tiny dot of our location on the map and promised ourselves never to travel without internet and to call our families as soon as we reached the hostel. We couldn’t yet understand that nothing bad was happening — we were simply interpreting the situation through our Western perspective. For us, that unknown moment was an exclamation point; for them, it was just another stop.

Unsettling moments on the road

The unexpected kept finding us. At one point, the driver tried to overtake a truck with sharp, zigzagging movements. In the middle of that chaos, he ran over a dog. He didn’t stop, didn’t even flinch. Half an hour later he pulled over — not to check on the animal, but to look at the lights and the hood for dents. The dog, as if it had never existed, was left behind on the road.

For us, it was shocking — the suddenness of it, the silence that followed. But maybe for him, it was just another ordinary scene on a road where accidents happen every day. Not cruelty, but a kind of detachment, a way of carrying on.

That made the whole ride even more uncomfortable. We couldn’t communicate with him. The only word exchanged during hours on the road was a single “Bathroom?” when he asked if we wanted to stop. We shook our heads. No. No more surprises. No more unexpected detours for the rest of the day.

Crossing the Thailand – Cambodia Border again: When Organization Meets Chaos

The journey back to Bangkok was, if possible, even more unpredictable. Swearing we would never go through a situation like that again, we bought bus tickets and decided to spend a little extra to travel safely. To our surprise, a man on a tuk-tuk came to pick us up from the hostel and took us to a secluded spot about half an hour outside the city. Pointing to an old car parked there, he told us to get in and that it would take us to the border.

With some distrust, we saw a middle-aged woman and a child in the back seat. Completely exhausted, we loaded our backpacks into the trunk and settled in, bracing ourselves for three and a half hours of total discomfort. “I don’t get it, we did all this to avoid a repeat,” we complained, our shoulders heavy with fatigue. We didn’t yet know that this was just how things worked in Asia, and that this kind of situation would repeat several times in our first weeks in Southeast Asia.

Lost in Poi Pet again: chasing the van to Bangkok

After three hours, we found ourselves in Poi Pet again, walking among rundown houses and luxurious casinos. We asked the driver what to do, and he said there was a white van waiting on the other side to take us to Bangkok. He asked for a photo so they could find us, and without smiling, we let him take it and send it to who knows who. “That’s it,” I muttered to my friend bitterly, thinking of all the stories in Argentina about white vans.

After a long wait at immigration, a stranger approached, pointing at the photo on his phone that had been taken hours earlier. “Bangkok,” he repeated over and over. With no energy left to argue or feel afraid, we followed him.

The White Van

We followed him to a parking lot where we found other travelers. We argued three times trying to get someone to take us to the promised drop-off; everyone else wanted to leave us on the outskirts of Bangkok so we’d have to pay for a tuk-tuk. “Khao San,” we repeated, sipping a Coke to keep from fainting in the nearly forty-degree heat.

After many twists and negotiations with several drivers, one finally agreed to take us. We stopped a few times along the way, traveling surrounded by backpacks and with no air conditioning. The white van bounced and rattled, uncomfortable and loud, but not dangerous. Other travelers chatted about their journeys; we, exhausted and tired of socializing, put on a movie we barely managed to watch while the driver zigzagged along the roads of eastern Thailand.

By the time we reached Bangkok, we realized we had arrived five hours later than planned. But it didn’t matter anymore; all we wanted was to find a hostel, throw down our backpacks, and take a breath. To shower, change, eat something, and finally sleep after that chaotic day.

Travel Lessons: Learning to Flow in Chaos

When I talk about Asia, I always say the most important lesson it taught me was to trust the universe and let go of control. The beginning and end of our trip to Cambodia were marked by uncertainty that only made the story more beautiful. I had read many times about Buddhism and the importance of accepting impermanence and trusting the plan that our higher self designed before reincarnating in this world, but that was the first time I truly experienced it.

I embodied that feeling of full trust in what the future held and what destiny had planned for me. Like life itself, I didn’t know how or when we’d get there, but I was sure we would arrive safe and sound. Cambodia taught us that traveling isn’t always a straight path, but the best stories come when we let the universe lead and accept what comes.

Finding Beauty in the Chaos

What many might call chaos, for us was a scene full of life, authenticity, and learning. Amid the disorder, we discovered the beauty of the unexpected, the magic of improvisation, and the richness of letting the journey unfold naturally. Crossing the border from Thailand to Cambodia overland wasn’t just a chaotic experience — it was a constant reminder that travel means living fully connected to the unpredictable, and that’s exactly where the true essence of the journey lies.

If you are interested in Asia, you can check out this category here 🙂

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My first days in Bangkok were loud and chaotic, but a sense of stillness found me after visiting the temples of Ayutthaya. It was the first time I stood before the remnants of an ancient Asian civilization. What I had read about Buddhism now appeared before me—silent, tangible, and alive.

After a short train ride, we arrived in today’s Ayutthaya—a town far removed from the grandeur of its past. We rented bikes for just over a euro and cycled all day between temple ruins, stopping at 7-Eleven shops to grab drinks and snacks. Of all the sites we visited, the ruins of Wat Mahathat stood out the most. The image of a Buddha head embraced by tree roots was more than striking—it was symbolic.

This moment sparked reflections on the relationship between Buddhism in Ayutthaya, nature, and the cyclical view of time. While I had read that Buddhism sees all beings as interconnected, it was something else to witness how nature is deeply integrated into spiritual practice. Meditation and yoga are often done outdoors, in open spaces surrounded by trees, as if dissolving the boundary between body and earth.

The Buddha head in Wat Mahathat doesn’t just represent impermanence—it is a living metaphor for it. The statue, once carved and revered, now rests within the growth of the roots, showing how the spiritual and the natural are forever intertwined.

Wat Mahathat: A Symbol of Buddhism in Ayutthaya

Founded in the 14th century during King Ramesuan’s reign, Wat Mahathat was once a key religious center of the Ayutthaya Kingdom. Like many Buddhist temples, it was a space for meditation, learning, and worship. Its bond with nature is evident in its design, the carvings on its walls, and the way the ruins have merged with surrounding vegetation.

The most iconic image is undoubtedly the Buddha’s head embraced by roots. This visual isn’t just captivating—it carries profound symbolic weight. It represents how Buddhism in Ayutthaya views wisdom not as separate from nature, but as something grown within it.

In Buddhism, everything is subject to change. The tree roots surrounding the Buddha head are a vivid reminder of this. What once stood in isolation is now part of a living system—a dynamic exchange between time, matter, and meaning.

Impermanence as a Central Teaching in Buddhism in Ayutthaya

Interconnection is key in Buddhist philosophy, but impermanence is perhaps its most essential lesson. Everything changes, and surrendering to this truth is part of the path. Nature is a perfect mirror for this transience: plants, animals, rivers, even mountains—nothing escapes transformation.

We often think things remain the same, but Buddhism in Ayutthaya reminds us otherwise. As the saying goes, “You never step into the same river twice.” The water flowing beneath your feet today is not the same as yesterday—it is constantly moving.

In The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, Sogyal Rinpoche reflects on this:
“Life is like a river, with every thought, word, and action creating ripples that extend beyond what we can see. Everything that arises is destined to dissolve; everything that begins, must end.”

The river, then, becomes a metaphor. What we believe to be stable is, in reality, always in motion.

Cyclical Time and Buddhism in Ayutthaya

The intersection of nature and Buddhism is also reflected in the concept of cyclical time. Unlike the linear time we often use in the West, many Asian cultures perceive time as a repeating cycle, deeply connected to nature and spiritual beliefs.

Belief in reincarnation—the endless cycle of birth, death, and rebirth known as Samsara—shapes this cyclical view. Every death is not an end, but a pause before a new beginning. Life ends only to start anew in a different body, a different place, until Nirvana is reached.

As The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying states, “Just as day follows night, and seasons turn in eternal return, our lives are caught in the cycle of rebirth until liberation is found.” Like the seasons, days, and growth cycles of plants, human life moves in circles.

We do not travel in a straight line but always return to start over. Just as leaves fall in autumn only to bloom again in spring, our behaviors, experiences, and challenges unfold in cycles.

This applies not only to death and rebirth but to everyday events. Each day begins with sunrise and ends with the moon’s rise. We know the sun will return, and we will rise again with it. Life’s cycles include periods of crisis, joy, growth, and rest. Often, times of introspection and mourning are necessary for new flourishing—much like trees that bloom after a long winter.

Wat Mahathat: Ruins as Symbols of Impermanence and Transformation

At Wat Mahathat, the temple ruins are more than reminders of time’s passage—they symbolize constant renewal and transformation. Though the temple no longer serves its original functions, impermanence has transformed it into something new and no less beautiful.

I like to rethink the idea of ruins—not as mere decay, but as symbols of impermanence and the ongoing cycle of creation and dissolution. Thinking only in terms of decay is too simplistic and overlooks the renewal that follows.

Ruins witness life’s transience and time’s flow, but they are not just echoes of a lost golden age. Viewing them solely as remnants risks missing the deep meanings gained over time.

If we see the temple only as ruins, a sign that points back to an irretrievable past, we lose sight of the significance it has acquired. Observing how nature has invaded and altered its structures invites reflection on nature’s vitality, which continues regardless of human presence.

Reflections on Buddhism in Ayutthaya and Contemporary Spirituality

The relationship between Buddhism in Ayutthaya and nature is essential to understanding Thai spirituality. Wat Mahathat exemplifies how Buddhist principles manifest in the natural world. The roots encircling Buddha statues and the stone ruins overgrown with vegetation symbolize the deep connection and interdependence of all life.

The teaching of impermanence, present both in Buddhist doctrine and in Wat Mahathat’s landscape, invites visitors to reflect on life’s fragility and the need to live harmoniously with nature—cultivating compassion, wisdom, and inner peace.

Cyclical time, as explained in The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, reminds us that everything that begins has an end but that within every end lies the chance to begin again. Like Wat Mahathat’s ruins—and our own lives—things break down and are reborn. Impermanence is the gateway to liberation and deep understanding of life’s eternal cycle.

Ruins may be understood through the lens of cyclical time rather than as final endpoints. Freed from their original meanings, these spaces become symbols of transformation. They invite us to contemplate the new meanings that time bestows.

To see ruins only as decay and destruction ignores the transformations that enrich their symbolic power. Like humans, we break, perish, but we always are reborn and reinvent ourselves—gaining wisdom and experience through countless cycles.

If you are interested in Asia and buddhism, you can check out my category here.

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During my trip to Malaysia, I visited the famous Putra Mosque, also known as the Pink Mosque, located near Kuala Lumpur. Its architecture is stunning: pink marble, majestic domes, and a serene lakeside setting in Putrajaya. But beyond its aesthetic beauty, what truly marked me was the experience of covering my body inside the mosque. It was a symbolic act that went beyond the physical. Upon entering, all women were required to wear a robe that covered our entire bodies, from head to toe.

It wasn’t a hijab—the veil that covers the hair and neck—but an abaya or jubah, a loose, long robe provided to visitors as part of the entrance protocol. While I was used to covering my legs and shoulders when visiting temples in Asia, this was the first time I had to completely cover my body.

This time, I found myself wondering: why did my body have to disappear in order to be accepted in that space? From my Western, feminist perspective, I don’t intend to judge a religion I don’t practice, but rather to highlight the issue Islam has with the female body.

Are some bodies more acceptable than others? Why? And from my position as a traveler, where do we draw the line between respect and self-effacement? Are we supposed to simply follow imposed rules, or is there room for questioning?

Covering the Body in a Mosque: Respect or Silent Submission?

In Islam, women’s dress codes are linked to the concept of modesty (haya), respect, and devotion. These rules apply not only in religious spaces but also in the daily lives of many Muslim women, deeply rooted in cultural, religious, and social traditions.

My visit to Asia was my first real encounter with this culture, so distant from our Western imagination. While I had met Muslims before, I had never been surrounded by such orthodox practices, nor in a place where all women had to be fully covered.

Not just in Malaysia, but even at the airport in Qatar, I saw women wearing these long robes, which they didn’t remove—not even to eat. Even in the region’s humid heat, only their hands and eyes were visible.

Although seeing women completely covered made me uncomfortable, I understood I was immersed in a different culture. But when those rules were imposed on my body without my consent, tensions arose that were hard to ignore.

It became a choice between staying and respecting their customs or leaving, unable to experience the culture I had traveled to explore. Was donning that robe about respect—or about control? Cultural integration or silent submission? Was I wrong for not wanting to wear it, or were Muslim women wrong for accepting being segregated, veiled, and placed in a separate prayer space?

So I wondered: how much should a foreign body adapt, blend in, or even disappear in order to enter a sacred religious space? What does it really mean to “respect” a culture, and where does that respect end?

Judith Butler and the Regulated Body in Religion

These questions inevitably led me to think of Judith Butler, who in her works Gender Trouble and Bodies That Matter, argues that the body is never outside of discourse. It’s always shaped, produced, and marked by social and cultural norms. In her words, “The body is a regulatory fiction; its materiality is shaped by norms determining what can appear as a body and what cannot.”

Wearing that robe at the mosque, I felt like an external norm was regulating my entire physical being. I wasn’t just asked to cover myself—I was asked to disappear as a visible subject, as a woman. It was as if every part of me was inappropriate and had to be hidden—not just my legs or shoulders, but even my hair.

I couldn’t help but wonder: why would that God care whether I was male or female? Why must all traces of femininity be erased in order to have a spiritual experience? If this is truly about modesty and free will, then why was I forced to cover myself, from head to toe?

In that moment, I realized the idea of the female body in Islam is built on very different foundations than in the West. To be accepted, the female body must be concealed. To be a woman is to be covered and silenced—as if respect is tied to invisibility.

Travel, Adaptation, and the Right to Question

Travel inevitably requires stepping outside of your own framework—and sometimes, entering a space that demands symbolic sacrifices. In the name of respect, we’re sometimes asked to leave parts of our identity behind, to soften them, to quiet them. This is seen in Buddhist or Hindu temples, which require long pants or skirts and covered shoulders—regardless of gender.

But in mosques, it’s specifically the female body that must be completely concealed. Not just knees or shoulders, but every aspect that marks a body as feminine. As if it were something impure or shameful, we are expected to cover even our hair, like it’s something we should be embarrassed about.

As a traveler, I’ve always embraced my status as a foreigner—respecting others and taking a step back to observe. But that day, wearing that enormous robe, the discomfort was too intense for me to remain a passive observer.

Experiencing it firsthand made me question how women raised in this system feel. Do they truly feel comfortable? Is there space for questioning, or is this simply a norm they’ve followed unquestioningly since childhood?

This raises the question: does being an observer mean we have to be impartial? We often assume that not belonging to a culture invalidates our insights. But maybe our position—free from the doctrines instilled from early childhood—allows us to form valid and valuable perspectives.

Shouldn’t travel also be an opportunity to question these norms, instead of just obeying them? As travelers who have seen many cultures, we are in a unique position to build a view that is not impartial, but perhaps more complete and global.

Final Thoughts: What It Means to Cover the Body in a Mosque

Wearing that robe at the Pink Mosque was deeply uncomfortable. Not just because of the physical heat, but because of what it symbolized. It reminded me that some bodies must hide more than others to be deemed worthy of entering sacred spaces. The female body, seen as temptation and corruption, is not welcome unless completely erased.

In this sense, what’s called “respect” for a culture often reproduces unquestionable patriarchal structures. When following a rule that silences millions of bodies is considered “respectful,” we lose the ability to question it.

This isn’t about judging a religion or culture. It’s about reflecting on how we, as travelers, position ourselves. As women who don’t belong to the Muslim world, we must ask: what are we willing to accept, what makes us uncomfortable, and what can—or should—we question?

We must also find balance between passive acceptance of foreign customs and the imposition of our own values. Our perspective may not be “right,” but it’s shaped by lived experience—and that experience is rich, and valid.

We can observe without condemning. And we can question without imposing.

I believe it’s necessary to reflect on the very act of covering up. It’s not just physical—it’s a powerful gesture of silencing that needs to be told, analyzed, and even resisted. Because covering the body in any mosque isn’t just a rule: it’s a way of saying which bodies matter, and which ones must disappear in order to be accepted.

Have you ever had to cover yourself to enter a temple or mosque? I’d love to hear your experience.

If you’re interested in culture and religion in Asia, check out these posts:

• Buddhism in Thailand
• The Duality Between the Traveler and the Fugitive
• Bangkok: Between the Sacred and the Profane

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Angkor Wat, a temple complex located in northwestern Cambodia, stands as a testament to the greatness of the Khmer civilization. Beyond its architectural grandeur, the spiritual meaning of Angkor Wat reveals profound insights into the religious beliefs and cultural transformations of its time.

When I visited the complex in early December, my eyes welled up with emotion standing before that monumental work. Perhaps these temples were no longer at their peak, yet their grandeur far exceeded my expectations. I believe that thinking of them merely as “ruins,” in the sense of remnants of a civilization, limits the breadth of their meaning.

What I perceived were numerous meanings and the transformation these temples had undergone over nearly a thousand years. One thing that captured my attention was the coexistence of Buddha statues alongside Hindu figures. Although Angkor Wat was built to honor Hindu gods, over time Buddha images were incorporated.

I find it interesting to think that, although this temple was built based on Hindu religion, the spiritual meaning of Angkor Wat evolved over time. It became a space where two distinct religious currents — Hinduism and Buddhism — could coexist. In this sense, what initially was a place to worship gods became a place where different lines of thought lived side by side. One was no longer related to gods but to Buddha and the promise of enlightenment.

Finally, the abandonment of the gods did not mark the end of the Khmer civilization nor of Angkor Wat. Rather, it marked the beginning of a new period and a paradigm shift. In this way, its existence was redefined but not ended. Simply, following the principle of impermanence, destruction led to the rebirth of that culture and society.

The Spiritual Meaning of Angkor Wat: The Rise of a Civilization

Built between 1113 and 1150 AD, Angkor Wat was designed by King Suryavarman II, one of the most emblematic monarchs of the Khmer Empire, who reigned in Cambodia in the 12th century. The temple was originally dedicated to the Hindu god Vishnu, considered one of the three principal gods of Hinduism, along with Brahma and Shiva. During this period, the Khmer Empire reached its peak, extending over vast regions of Southeast Asia, and Angkor Wat became its religious, political, and cultural center.

The temple reflects the transition of the Khmer Empire from a predominantly Hindu culture to a Buddhist one, which would occur later in the region’s history. Although originally a Hindu temple, Angkor Wat is also considered by Buddhists as a symbol of their own spirituality due to later adaptations and the continued religious importance of the site. However, its connection with Hinduism, particularly the cult of Vishnu, remains one of the most notable aspects of its identity.

Angkor Wat: A Reminder of Impermanence and Its Spiritual Meaning

One of the most fascinating aspects of Angkor Wat is its architectural design, which is not only an engineering marvel but also carries deep symbolic meaning. The temple was conceived as an earthly representation of Mount Meru, a sacred mountain that, according to Hinduism and Buddhism, lies at the center of the universe. In Hindu traditions, Mount Meru is the home of the gods and the axis of the world, a place where heaven and earth meet.

Angkor Wat is oriented to resemble Mount Meru, with its five main towers representing the five peaks of this mythological mountain. In the temple’s design, the central structure of Angkor Wat, with its large towers, symbolizes the summit of Mount Meru, while the outer walls of the complex are aligned with the mountains that surround this sacred mountain in Hindu cosmology. This symbolism reflects the connection between the earthly kingdom and the divine, the human world and the spiritual.

Angkor Wat as a Reminder of Impermanence

This concept of impermanence is deeply reflected in the ruins of Angkor Wat. Despite being conceived as an eternal spiritual center, the passage of centuries has transformed the temple. Rain, heat, and the invasion of the jungle have eroded its structures. Statues of Vishnu and other gods, once revered with devotion, are now partially defaced and covered in moss. This deterioration, however, does not erase the glory the temple once represented; rather, it underscores the message that even the most sacred and powerful places are subject to the cycles of destruction and renewal of the universe.

Angkor Wat, in its magnificence and eventual ruin, reflects the paradox of life itself: everything created is destined to disappear or transform. The gods of Angkor Wat, in their sculptural and symbolic representation, were once objects of veneration and worship, but over time they have been forgotten, or at least have lost the prominent role they once had. The disappearance of Hindu religious practices in Cambodia and the gradual transformation of the temple into a Buddhist site are reminders that beliefs, cultures, and civilizations are destined to evolve, and what today seems eternal can be replaced or even forgotten tomorrow.

However, destruction should not only be understood as a loss. Impermanence is not just a reminder of the fragility of existence but also of the capacity for adaptation and resilience. The ruins of Angkor Wat, though eroded by time, remain a place of veneration and reflection. In Buddhism, which eventually prevailed in the region, acceptance of impermanence is seen not as something negative but as an opportunity to find peace in embracing constant change.

Conclusion: Reflections on Impermanence and the Legacy of Angkor Wat

Angkor Wat is not just an architectural marvel; its spiritual meaning transcends time and connects with the very essence of life, death, and rebirth. Its relationship with Mount Meru and its symbolism in Hinduism teach us about the fleeting nature of power, beliefs, and civilizations, while reminding us that everything built—whether a mountain, a temple, or a culture—is destined to transform.

In its decay, Angkor Wat reveals its deepest message: the acceptance of impermanence as a fundamental part of the human experience. Walking among its ruins, we can learn to embrace the transience of everything we love and find peace in the fleeting world around us

Have you visited the temples? let me know!

Interested in asian culture? you can check out more articles in this category!

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From the unique architecture to the kindness of its people, spirituality is undeniably a key aspect of Bali. Meditation centers, yoga retreats, monks, smiles, rice paddies – the island seems like a haven for those seeking spiritual awakening. However, there’s also nightlife, alcohol, noise, western food, and thousands of tourists flocking to Bali just to get drunk.

At that point, the face of the monk smiling at the protagonist in the film started to fade a bit. I quickly let go of the idea that I’d be doing yoga in the mornings and meditating in the afternoons, only to realize my nights were more about getting drunk than achieving enlightenment. Consequently, the promise of self-reconciliation, which had seeped into my generation’s consciousness, started to fade as I spent more time in different parts of Bali.

However, my trip was not in vain. Bali wasn’t the idyllic place we had been promised, but it turned out to be a blank canvas, open to various interpretations. As a result, I often asked myself: Where does devotion end, and performance begin? Are we truly seeking a spiritual experience, or are we just consuming spiritual products?

Spirituality in Bali as a Stage

Since Elizabeth Gilbert published Eat, Pray, Love, Bali has stopped being just a Southeast Asian island. In fact, it has become a symbol – a tropical sanctuary where broken western travelers come to heal among yoga, rice paddies, and ancient wisdom. Bali is now seen as a lost paradise, promising reconciliation for every conflict.

In this idealized version, spirituality in Bali is portrayed as accessible, warm, and ready to provide us with the perfect mantra for our Instagram feeds. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying Bali isn’t a paradise, nor that its people aren’t kind. Bali can offer us spiritual experiences, but it’s not the only thing you’ll encounter on the streets of this island.

The truth is much more complex, more human, and certainly less Instagrammable. Just like life itself, the island appeared to me as an ambiguous terrain, inviting the exploration of various phenomena. Yes, there is spirituality in Bali, but there’s also a massive amount of consumption – not just of material goods, but of all kinds of experiences.

The experience promised by the screen – yoga, meditation, and rebirth – recycled endlessly, ready to be exported to the West as just another product. For instance, photos with long dresses in rice fields are the result of an extreme production process, far removed from the real experience of visiting these places.

Bali is nature and beauty, but it is also consumption and the mass production of experiences designed to be posted on Instagram. No longer are we collecting fridge magnets; instead, we collect experiences on our feeds, experiences that rarely reflect reality.

Spirituality in Bali as a Contradiction

My experience in Bali was marked by contradictions: on the one hand, I did come into contact with the island’s Asian Balinese culture and everything it entails. Everywhere you go, you’ll find traditional food and encounter Balinese architecture. Nevertheless, I also found myself in a space highly influenced by Western culture and tourism. International restaurants, hotels, clothing brands clearly from abroad, and the exploitation of local experiences.

In Ubud, for instance, I saw meditation centers, Balinese ceremonies adapted for the tourist gaze, and shamans who seemed to be influencers. The famous Monkey Temple, where tourists desperately scrambled to take pathetic photos with the animals. Moreover, thousands of Australians and Europeans moved to Bali to “escape” Western life, all while knowing that the island was the perfect representation of Western culture in Asia.

Balinese religion, a deep mix of Hinduism, animism, and community rituals, is still alive. At the same time, it’s also being invaded by the Western desire to find “the meaning of life” in a yoga class overlooking the beach. This is the constant contradiction that pervades the island: local families living in continuous coexistence with foreigners. For example, on the streets you encounter more foreigners than locals. The promise of spirituality in Bali, but also the mass tourism, the commercialization of experiences, and the endless pursuit of money through the sale of all kinds of products.

Bali: Spirituality and Tourism

To begin with, if you’re planning to visit Bali, buy that ticket and embark on your new adventure in Southeast Asia. But don’t expect to find the fictional paradise portrayed on the big screen. Bali, in the end, is a far more complex and contradictory product than what we were shown in the movies.

Indeed, spirituality in Bali does exist. You can feel it in the culture, the temples, and the genuine smiles of its people. But it also coexists with mass tourism, turning that spirituality into a product ready for consumption. Bali isn’t just a destination to do yoga or meditate at sunrise; it’s a space of contrasts, where tradition mixes with the Western desire to find meaning in exotic landscapes.

In reality, Bali embodies the desire to escape the mechanical Western life, only to migrate toward a more comfortable reproduction of Western society. This island is like a small world where you can find all the comforts and luxuries of the society you are trying to escape.

Furthermore, The much-criticized capitalism is once again visible in the commercialization of experiences: in the staged productions for tourists to take photos in rice fields wearing dresses no one would wear in Bali’s climate, or the exploitation of animals to create Instagrammable experiences for travelers.

Conclusion

For those seeking an authentic experience, Bali offers far more than just a picture-perfect postcard for Instagram. It can be an uncomfortable mirror that asks us why we travel, what we’re truly looking for, and what fantasies we carry in our luggage. Are we seeking to genuinely connect with the local culture, or are we simply looking for a replica of our cities in a more pleasant setting? Do we want to learn from the place, or do we want to consume products just to tell others that “we’ve been to Bali”?

Ultimately, beyond what we saw in a movie or read in a book, the true journey in Bali begins when we stop seeking certainty and open ourselves up to the complexity of what the island truly is. When we realize that the product representing that fiction hides the many contradictions this Southeast Asian island carries.

In the end, only then can we truly appreciate the real beauty of Bali. Behind the product sold to us, which has been ingrained in our collective imagination, the island represents the integration of Western and Balinese culture. Bali is endless nature, but it is also the plastic object of consumption reproduced in thousands of Instagram feeds.

The journey to Bali depends entirely on what kind of journey you want to embark on. If you want to gain self-knowledge through integration with the local culture, or if you just want to consume products made from artificial experiences ready to be posted online. Whatever you decide, Bali has something to offer.

More

If you’re interested in learning more about Asia, check out my post on the dualities of Bangkok and Buddhism in Thailand.

Did you visit Bali? Let me know in the comments!

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While many hit the road to grow and evolve, others use travel as a way to flee from a past that still haunts them. Their journey isn’t about mindfulness or exploration, but about silencing their inner noise. These fugitives aren’t truly exploring the world—they’re trapped in a loop of consuming experiences and people without ever pausing to reflect.

Despite months or years on the road, nothing seems to satisfy them. There’s a thirst that no drink, drug, or night out can quench. You’ll find the fugitive wandering through nightclubs in places like Bangkok—lost, disconnected, not knowing where they’re going. They’ll talk to everyone, but no one really knows them.

They smile, ask how you’re doing, but they’re not present. They’re just trying to keep running. Like suffering from permanent amnesia, the fugitive moves from hostel to hostel, starting over every day in a desperate race to escape themselves.

The Inner Conflict of the Fugitive

Over time, I began to notice a deep contrast among travelers. Some are clearly on a quest for self-knowledge, diving into culture, solitude, or spirituality. Others—the fugitives—use motion as a shield from pain. What looks like freedom is often a form of avoidance.

This made me think of Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell, where the journey is symbolic—a metaphysical descent. Much like the fugitive, the poet embarks on a path of anguish, suffering, alienation, and self-destruction. The journey becomes a mirror of internal chaos.

Rimbaud’s raw, surrealist language captures the spiritual crisis of someone unraveling. And just like the fugitive, he walks toward the abyss, each step further into confusion and detachment.

When the Road Leads to Hell: The Fugitive and the Traveler in the Modern World

Rimbaud’s hell wasn’t just literary—it was deeply personal. And today, that same hell exists in the chaotic nightlife of Southeast Asia, in places like Ho Chi Minh City or Bangkok. Flashing lights, loud music, and a crowd of strangers offer the perfect backdrop for the fugitive looking to escape themselves.

Their journey is not spiritual—it’s numbing. A desperate attempt to drown out their own thoughts in excess. This is the path of the fugitive—one of disconnection, avoidance, and compulsive consumption. It’s not about adventure; it’s about anesthetizing pain.

What Rimbaud described—demons and despair—can now be found in overstimulated spaces where the modern traveler hides: clubs, hostels, and alleyways filled with cheap thrills and hollow conversations.

A Modern Samsara: The Eternal Loop of the Fugitive

This hellish repetition—the sleepless nights, substance use, the emotional hangover—isn’t accidental. It’s the pattern of the fugitive who repeats the same cycle endlessly. A new city, a new bed, a new escape—but the same internal suffering.

I started to wonder: are these fugitives unconsciously searching for truth through destruction? Is their chaos a form of spiritual seeking? Maybe the same desire that drives some of us toward clarity drives them into oblivion.

We may be walking different paths, but maybe we share the same destination. The fugitive and the spiritual seeker are both confronting the self—just from opposite directions.

The Fugitive vs. The Traveler: Two Sides of the Same Journey

What feels like heaven for one may be hell for another. Traveling, for me, has been a process of shedding layers, finding myself, and learning to be present. For the fugitive, it’s a race to stay distracted. But both paths involve destruction. Both require confronting the self.

Perhaps backpacking and self-destruction are two faces of the same coin. Both lead to chaos. Both end in identity loss. Some of us try to make the journey more peaceful, more meaningful. But whether you’re a mindful traveler or a fugitive, the process of personal fragmentation is the same.

Rimbaud knew this when he wrote about the breaking of the self in hell—and modern nomads are still living it, one way or another.

Conclusion: Are We All Fugitives?

The road can be liberation or damnation. For some, it’s a sacred path. For others, it’s a way to disappear. But whether we like it or not, as a traveler or a fugitive, many of us are walking the same line between awareness and escapism.

So, whether you’re a soul-seeker or a fugitive, remember that the journey strips us all down to the core. And maybe, just maybe, we’re all looking for the same thing: to be reborn from our own ruin.

Want more?
Check out my posts on Bangkok and Buddhism in Thailand to dive deeper into the contrasts of travel in Southeast Asia

Would you like to dive deeper into the concept of inner journey and self-destruction in literature?
Explore a detailed analysis of A Season in Hell by Arthur Rimbaud in this literary article.
Additionally, discover how Dante Alighieri addresses the spiritual journey in The Divine Comedy in this academic study.
For a broader cultural perspective, read about the concept of the journey to the underworld in Greek mythology in this National Geographic article.

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