Globalization and colonization have made countries across the world appear increasingly similar: with globalized ethnic expressions (think pagodas in Chinatowns from San Francisco to Sydney), ubiquitous verticality (skyscrapers as symbols of progress from London to Lagos), transplanted European aesthetics (Parisian architecture connoting cosmopolitanism in Bordeaux as much as in Baku), and other diffusions of international styles. However, one country stands proudly as an architectural anomaly in this world of convergence: Bhutan.

As I described in a previous post about this small Himalayan kingdom becoming the first and most carbon-negative country in the world, if there is one word to describe Bhutan, it’s “intentional.” Every visual element within its borders, from the placement of prayer flags to the carving of window frames, reinforces connection to the present — human to earth, neighbor to neighbor — as well as to the hereafter — with ambient Buddhism connecting humans to supernatural deities.

Bhutan's architectural unity isn't born of scarcity, but rather a deliberate choreography of resources. It’s not that Bhutan lacks the means to erect steel and glass towers; rather, it possesses the wisdom to sculpt its landscape with respect, honoring its heritage and the earth, while strategically integrating modernity. While embracing progress, Bhutan maintains its inherent balance, with tradition acting as a reflex, not a negotiated concession. From the capital, Thimphu, to the serene rice terraces in the Himalayan folds, Bhutan's uninterrupted visual landscape stands refreshingly apart in today's modern world. Bhutan's architectural consistency is remarkable, especially given its history as disjointed nomadic tribes living according to the rhythms of nature, not in fixed dwellings.

Architectural uniformity can often connote an oppressive soullessness (think planned Soviet apartment blocks or cookie-cutter American gated communities). But in Bhutan, harmony is not monotony. Traditional Bhutanese architecture follows strict guidelines: intricate carved wooden window frames, natural materials such as wood, stone, and rammed earth, and a balance of modern conveniences with cultural heritage. Yet, within these guidelines, there is ample license for artistic expression. Intricate wood carvings embellish window frames, and various Buddhist protective symbols adorn walls—the most eye-catching motif being the phallus, popularized by the “Divine Madman,” a 15th-century monk known for evangelizing enlightenment through sex.

The government of Bhutan has long recognized that national identity is not merely felt, but also seen. Being Bhutanese is a sensorial experience—engaging the mind through Buddhist teachings, the eyes through the natural and built environments, as well as the heart, as the only country in the world with a ministry devoted to happiness. Unlike other countries that designate historic districts, Bhutan mandates architectural aesthetics nationwide. Every building—be it a residence, school, government office, or commercial space—adheres to its Driglam Namzha guidelines, right down to the color of roofs: green for residences, red for schools and administrative buildings, and black for royal properties.

The highest register of Bhutanese architecture is found in dzongs, fortress-like structures that serve as administrative centers, monasteries, and hubs of community life. These Buddhist beauties have whitewashed stone walls, wooden balconies, and intricately painted windows, all of which amount to visual serenity. Historic buildings in Bhutan are hardly mere relics, as dzongs remain active, serving their centuries-old spiritual and administrative purposes (there is decidedly no separation between temple and state).

Nothing in this kingdom of intention is accidental. From monumental dzongs to humble farmhouses, Bhutan's architecture serves as scaffolding for its virgin and pious soul. Its visual uniformity offers a lesson: how to leverage globalization without being overcome by it. This architectural consistency isn't mere policy; it reflects deeply held values that prioritize cultural continuity over transient trends.

🕹️ Travel tip: For a discerning traveler seeking a perfectly orchestrated and culturally rich Bhutanese adventure, Breathe Bhutan comes highly recommended. Their personalized itineraries, balancing iconic sites with authentic local experiences like village visits and rice harvest participation, demonstrate a commitment to what Bhutan is all about: genuine connections to the earth, supernatural, and each other.

Bhutan is a kingdom of anomalies, as one of the few places that embraces modernity without being spoiled by it. This tiny Himalayan nation takes what it wants from the 21st century but doesn't let the gilded promises of globalization compromise its soul. From the moment I touched down in Paro—known for having the world's most challenging airport landing, a heart-stopping descent between mountain peaks—I could see and smell that Bhutan was unlike anywhere else. As the first and most carbon-negative country in the world, this kingdom of fewer than a million people removes more carbon from the atmosphere than entire countries emit.

I previously wrote about how Gabon became the second-most carbon-negative country in the world. This resulted from a national commitment to protecting its forests, which is credited with making Gabon home to the largest population of endangered African forest elephants, among other wildlife. Bhutan and Gabon, like all developing countries, face the temptation to exploit their natural resources for short-term economic gain. But in Bhutan, development isn't just about accumulating ngultrum (the Bhutanese currency). Here, humans and the earth are equal partners in progress, bound to the same fate, choices, and trade-offs.

Beyond the environment, Bhutan is generally a country that does things its own way. For instance, this is the only country in the world without a single traffic light. Not even North Korea, a country I visited in 2015 (and documented as having the world's emptiest roads based on vehicles per capita), can claim that. The one intersection in Thimphu, the quaint Bhutanese capital, that ever gets busy enough to warrant traffic control is managed by a part-time, old-fashioned traffic cop. Even the Bhutanese post office is unlike any other. It's the only one in the world where it’s common to get legal, usable stamps with your own photo on them—a quirk of individuality in a highly collective society. My longtime travel companion and I ordered a sheet of stamps with our photo on it from Punakha Dzong, Bhutan’s largest fortress and temple, and the architectural highlight of our trip (and, we hear, of the country overall).

An old-fashioned crossing guard and personalized stamps might seem to have little connection to Bhutan's status as the world's most carbon-negative country. But they all stem from the same source—a country that makes deliberate choices, unencumbered by the homogenizing forces of globalization. It shows how societies that are collectivist at the micro-level can, if they remain true to themselves, be decidedly individualist on the macro world stage.

This kingdom was destined to be different due to a combination of factors: its geographic isolation within the world's tallest mountain range, the fact that it was never colonized, and a population small and homogenous enough (the vast majority Buddhist) to share a common vision. But destiny alone doesn’t fully explain Bhutan's à-la-carte approach to modernity. Its leadership has made intentional choices to manage the competitive pressures of the global economy.

Little of what makes Bhutan unique, especially its environmental record, is accidental. The Bhutanese constitution mandates that at least 60 percent of its land must remain forested forever, a commitment to conservation and carbon sequestration of unmatched scale. My itinerary included daily hikes through the pristine forests that blanket over 70 percent of the country. These forests act as a giant carbon sink, absorbing millions of tons of CO2 each year.

Stepping into a postcard. Endless rice paddies of Punakha Valley sculpted by generations of farmers.

The good, bad, and ugly of globalization have infiltrated almost every corner of the world. I learned this when I saw my barber's son in North Korea shyly thumbing through a cartoon Lion King book in a country that supposedly has zero exposure to the outside world. I was also surprised to see how globalization persisted in Syria, even after George Bush labeled it part of the "axis of evil." Despite the Assad regime's proud rejection of Western influence, Kentucky Fried Chicken—a quintessential symbol of American culture—managed to operate for over two and a half years into the civil war. It was one of the very last foreign businesses to shut down (you can read more about this in my article in The Atlantic). In yet another example, after arriving in Socotra, Yemen, one of the most isolated islands on earth, I was picked up in a Jeep blasting "Smack That" by the Senegalese-American rapper Akon. Consumerism is pervasive, but when it comes to environmental protection, Bhutan has tamed it—redefining the paradigm for how developing countries approach industrialization.

Life in Bhutan moves at a gentler pace, in tune with the rhythms of nature. Farmers tend their fields with traditional techniques, forgoing pesticides in favor of organic methods that have sustained them for generations. Rushing rivers fed by glacial melt generate enough hydropower for Bhutan to export, mainly to India, bringing in revenue without environmental harm. In 2021 alone, Bhutan exported over 80 percent of the hydroelectricity it generated, helping neighboring nations reduce their own emissions.

Joining Bhutanese farmers in the age-old tradition of harvesting rice by hand, together.

Bhutan's embrace of hydroelectricity extends even to its spiritual life. Hiking past prayer wheels that turned, not by hand, but by the power of rushing rivers, I couldn't help but think: this is akin to the earth itself praying. The wind in Bhutan also prays. The Bhutanese say that the multicolored prayer flags, which ripple in even the most remote regions of the country, are equivalent to human windpipes reciting mantras.

In Bhutan, even the earth seems to pray. Hydroelectric prayer wheels, powered by the flow of water, spin endlessly.

Prayer flags ripple in the wind, their movement equivalent to the prayers of humans.

Bhutan enshrines its environmentalism in its national philosophy of development, famously known as Gross National Happiness (GNH). This measure of well-being isn’t just rooted in wealth and GDP, but also in spiritual, mental, and environmental health. Bhutan’s restraint toward and reverence for the natural world made me feel closer to the way things are supposed to be—a world in which development doesn’t mean sacrificing nature but living in concert with it. With its limited resources but boundless dedication, this small kingdom has achieved what many larger, wealthier nations have yet to accomplish.

Bhutan is living proof that sustainable progress is possible, that balance and prosperity can coexist, and that true wealth lies not in the exploitation of resources but in their preservation. By standing by its values in a world that has largely succumbed to consumerism, Bhutan has redefined what prosperity itself means.

🕹️ Travel tip: For an itinerary organized to perfection and with painstaking attention to detail, I highly recommend Breathe Bhutan. Their personalized approach is highly attentive without being overbearing, ensuring you experience both iconic landmarks and authentic Bhutanese life, like joining a local rice harvest or exploring remote villages. They made falling for Bhutan even easier.

On the Philippine island of Bohol, beneath a canopy of bamboo and dense foliage, I encountered a marvel of miniaturization: the Philippine tarsier. At just 85 to 160 millimeters long, with a tail that doubles their size, they weigh about as much as an apple — yet carry the weight of evolutionary history in their diminutive form.

Tarsiers, the world's smallest primates, are found only on Bohol and a few surrounding islands. These tiny creatures are prime examples of "island dwarfism"— a phenomenon where the limited resources of isolated island life result in species evolving to be smaller. Miniaturization allows them to thrive in environments where larger competitors, needing more food and being more visible to predators, might struggle.

Numerous examples of island dwarfism exist, but few have survived human hegemony over the natural world. The Channel Islands, an archipelago off the French coast of Normandy, once hosted pygmy mammoths that stood only about 1.7 meters tall at the shoulder. Mediterranean islands like Sicily and Cyprus were once home to dwarf elephants, while Madagascar had diminutive hippos.

But some case studies of island-bound adaptations remain. The Key deer of the Florida Keys is a more petite relative of the mainland white-tailed deer. The Island scrub jay of Santa Cruz Island off the coast of California is smaller than its mainland relatives. And the Australian island tiger snakes have reduced body size and venom glands.

As for the tarsiers, both their smallest and biggest features are deftly Darwinian, including, and most noticeably, their enormous eyes. Measuring 16 millimeters in diameter, they are the largest eyes relative to body size of any mammal in the world, each roughly equivalent to the size of its brain. Their eyes are perfectly adapted for nocturnal hunting, further aided by their bat-like ears, which twitch and swivel independently at the faintest sounds of prey. Even more, their heads can swivel almost 360 degrees in an owl-like maneuver, providing a panoramic view of both prey and predators. And their powerful hind legs, much longer than their front legs, are coiled like springs. In a blink, they can launch up to 40 times their body length with acrobatic prowess, propelled by elongated tarsal bones, for which tarsiers are named.

The tarsier diet is exclusively carnivorous: insects, small lizards, and birds fall prey to its swift, silent attacks. With long fingers equipped with adhesive pads, they cling effortlessly to branches — perches from which they both hide by day and stalk their next meal by night. Tarsiers are solitary by nature, though some species form small family groups. In the dark, where communication is key, they emit a range of high-pitched calls and ultrasonic vocalizations, most beyond human hearing.

Sadly, tarsiers show how even the shrewdest adaptations cannot guarantee a species' future in a world of human hegemons. Habitat loss and illegal hunting have rendered all tarsier species threatened. Once widespread across Asia, Europe, and North America, tarsiiform primates have dwindled to isolated pockets in Southeast Asia. The last official sanctuary for these primates on Bohol Island is named after Carlito Pizarras, the Filipino field biologist who dedicated his life to protecting them.

Leaving the sanctuary, I reflected on the Philippine tarsier's anatomical uniqueness and inevitable vulnerability — a creature small in stature but grand in its evolutionary legacy. With the impact of geographical isolation etched in their DNA, tarsiers are tiny capsules of the origin of species.

🕹 Travel tips: The tarsiers are only the beginning of Bohol’s zoological, geological, and entomological (insects) anomalies. When in Bohol, don’t miss the following.

The Chocolate Hills: a formation of over 1,500 cone-shaped hills, covered in lush green grass, transforms into a rich chocolate brown during the dry season, creating a landscape unlike any other. The ATV tour here is a must!

The Sardine Run: Massive schools of sardines just steps from shore engage in a ceaseless, underwater ballet at Napaling Reef. Unlike the famous sardine run in South Africa, which is seasonal, this sardine school here swarms year-round. Often numbering in the millions, they form tight, swirling clouds to evade predators. Snorkel or dive among them at Napaling Reef.

Whale Shark: Swimming beside the largest fish species on Earth, growing up to an astonishing 40 feet (12 meters) long, is a maximally minimizing experience. These endangered gentle giants are typically migratory but reside off the coast of Bohol and neighboring Cebu island year-round. Go to Lila to see them, but be warned — they are fed to congregate here as human spectacles.

Fireflies: Different from species commonly found North America, Bohol is home to the synchronous fireflies (Pteroptyx), known for their mesmerizing synchronized flashing patterns. As darkness falls, the mangroves that line the serene Abatan River come alive with thousands of tiny lights, blinking in unison like a living Christmas tree. Go to Loboc to see the spectacle after sunset on a boat or a SUP (stand up paddleboard).

In a world dominated by sports like soccer, basketball, and gymnastics, where Olympic athletes train for years in state-of-the-art facilities, there’s a global event that celebrates a different kind of athlete—those whose skills are honed not in gyms, but in the great outdoors, while living lives deeply intertwined with nature. This is the World Nomad Games, a gathering that could be described as the Olympics for the rest of the world—the world of nomads.

For the 240 million people who are either nomadic or semi-nomadic, the traditional Olympics don’t quite resonate. These are people for whom athletic talent is not something distinct from their daily lives, but rather an integral part of their survival and culture. In their world, sports like archery, horseback riding, and wrestling aren’t merely pastimes or diversions; they are skills with direct utility, honed over centuries of living close to the land. The World Nomad Games is the largest sporting event representing cultures with no permanent address.

Held every two years, the World Nomad Games bring together participants from over 100 countries, many of whom come from the regions with the highest percentage of nomadic populations. Here, in Central Asia, the cradle of nomadic culture, the agility, strength, and skill of nomads (and settled athletes who have learned their sports) find a global stage — honoring a way of life that the modern world is slowly forgetting.

The term “nomad” conjures images of vast open spaces, herds of livestock, and people constantly on the move. And indeed, for some participants in the World Nomad Games, this is still a reality. These games celebrate athletic prowess passed down through generations of pastoral nomads, hunter-gatherers (once, before the agricultural revolution, the way all humans lived), and peripatetic artisans. The events themselves are capsules of their lifestyle: Kok-boru (or Buzkashi), for instance, is a horseback sport where teams compete to carry a goat carcass across a goal line. It’s often referred to as “dead goat polo,” but that term doesn’t do justice to the strength, horsemanship, and teamwork required to excel at this ancient game. Like nearly every sport at the Games, Kok-boru has a direct practical application: playing with the dead goat helps tenderize the meat before cooking.

In the match I watched, Kazakhstan won 16-0 against the Nomadic Cowboys from the United States. This decisive victory was hardly surprising, but the fact that a team of Americans, mostly Texans, could be found in this remote corner of the world honoring a largely forgotten culture defies expectations.

Kazakhstan annihilates the United States (“Nomadic Cowboys”) in kok-boru, or “dead goat polo”

Then there’s Er Enish, a form of wrestling that takes place on horseback. The riders grapple and twist, each trying to unseat the other while maintaining control of their own horse. It’s a sport that demands exceptional balance, raw strength, and an intimate understanding of horse behavior. For the uninitiated, it’s a thrilling spectacle; for the participants, it’s a reflection of their intimate command of and ties to the horses that are so central to nomadic life.

Er Enish, wrestling on horseback, in action

As I watched the Fifth World Nomad Games unfold in the Kazakh capital of Astana, I was struck by how different the event was from the Olympics the rest of the world watches. Yes, there were still million-dollar corporate sponsorships—after all, there is no higher-stakes event for nomadic sports, so much so that the presidents of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and various other nations were in attendance. But the focus was clearly on the skills that have allowed these cultures to thrive for centuries.

Mas-wrestling, a strength sport where two athletes battle for a stick, featured both male and female athletes

The word “sport” seems inadequate to describe what I witnessed at the World Nomad Games. These events—ranging from Kok-boru (a ferocious contest where mounted horsemen vie for a goat carcass) and Er Enish (a brutal test of grappling on horseback) to Alysh (traditional belt wrestling), Mas-wrestling (a stick-pulling contest of strength and endurance), and Salbuurun (the ancient art of hunting with golden eagles)—felt more like distilled fragments of nomadic life, showcasing a near-telepathic connection between humans and animals.

The horse, arguably the most efficient and enduring mode of transport ever harnessed by humankind, transformed life on Earth. Nowhere is this more evident than on the steppe, the vast grasslands of Central Asia, where the horse enabled the nomadic pastoralist way of life. Consider mounted archery, a sport demanding extraordinary equestrian skill and marksmanship. The rider, galloping at full speed, must shoot arrows at targets with precision—a practice once essential for both hunting and warfare. To witness a competitor in full traditional attire, bow drawn, arrow released in a fluid motion honed by generations, is to feel the weight of history in every gesture. The synergy between horse and rider, the intense concentration, the unwavering accuracy—these are not mere athletic feats; they are testaments to a way of life lived in exquisite harmony with nature.

These archers make it look easy! Watch them hit targets while riding at full gallop.

The highlight of the World Nomad Games was the opening ceremony—a spectacle that spared no opportunity to wow, blending ancient traditions with modern theatrics. The extravaganza began with a flag procession, with Kyrgyzstan parading first, as they originated the Games a decade prior—similar to how Greece leads the opening ceremony of the Olympics. Athletes from Antigua & Barbuda to Zimbabwe proudly marched, with especially large contingents from countries I expected—Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Mongolia (the country with the highest percentage of its population still living nomadic lifestyles today), Uzbekistan (the only country in Central Asia without a significant nomadic history), and Russia (the region’s behemoth). Then came choreographed dances and cultural demonstrations, coordinated across what must have been hundreds of performers clad in elaborate costumes (most notably “golden men”, the symbol of Kazakhstan), navigating the stage with pinpoint precision and moving to rhythms that throb with a deep connection to the land.

The World Nomad Games kicked off with a vibrant opening ceremony that showcased the rich cultural heritage of nomadic peoples and nearly rivaled the production value of the Olympics. With the presidents of several participating nations in attendance, it was clear these Games hold immense cultural importance for the participating nations.

I felt a strong sense of pride, and ironically, nationalism (the idea of a nation-state with fixed borders clashes with the fluid nature of nomadic identity), not just in the athletes, but in the spectators, too. For the nomadic communities represented here, the World Nomad Games are more than just a competition—they’re a celebration of a way of life that is often overlooked in a world that increasingly values stability and settlement over movement and change. Here, I witnessed a celebration of the hunter-gatherer roots of our species, from which most of us have moved on.

The history of the World Nomad Games is relatively short, but runs deep with the desire to preserve the traditions of nomadic cultures in the face of globalization. The first games were held in 2014, the brainchild of former Kyrgyz President Almazbek Atambayev, who envisioned an event that would bring together the diverse cultures of Central Asia and beyond. Held on the shores of the shimmering Issyk-Kul Lake in Kyrgyzstan, the games were an immediate success, attracting athletes from 19 countries and showcasing ten different ethnosports. Since then, the games have grown exponentially. By the third edition in 2018, over 2,000 athletes from 80 countries were participating, with new sports and cultural activities being added to what is now a full-fledged platform for cultural exchange.

History, with its predilection for monuments and capitals, often overlooks those who tread lightly upon the earth, leaving behind not grand edifices but the faintest of traces. Long before the Silk Road emerged, some 5,000 years ago, nomads traversed the steppe, their herds their compass, their horses their wings. They were the threads connecting East and West, mountain and desert, the burgeoning civilizations of China and Europe.

All of humanity once lived nomadically, bound only by the natural barriers of forest, river, mountain, and desert. The World Nomad Games, however, unfold in a world starkly different—a world fragmented by borders, highways, and the confinements of nation-states.

Yet, at the Fifth World Nomad Games, I found myself immersed in a way of life still deeply intertwined with the land, the animals, and the rhythms of nature. For the nomads, athleticism is not a separate pursuit but an intrinsic expression of their being. In a world increasingly detached from such primal connections, the Games serve as a reminder of the profound harmony that can exist between humans and the world around them.

🕹 Travel tip: The World Nomad Games is held biennially in the heart of Central Asia. While you're there, be sure to explore the fascinating Ethno Village, offering a window into traditional nomadic life. But the real highlight? Kok-boru, an adrenaline-fueled competition where horsemen engage in a fierce struggle for a goat carcass. And if you're lucky, you might even witness national presidents among the spectators. To truly experience the Games, don't miss the electrifying opening ceremony. A word to the wise: secure your tickets well in advance through a travel agency, as they tend to get bought up before going on sale to the general public.

Archeology meets botany in an extraordinarily crisp way in Almaty, Kazakhstan. In this city, apples were born. In a world where apples are so ubiquitous that they have permeated our language and culture — where we advise “an apple a day,” extol “the apple of my eye,” and compare “apples and oranges” — the idea that all these fruits have a singular botanical origin seemed like a revelation.

Today’s apples that we take for granted—Granny Smith (first bred in New South Wales, Australia in 1868), McIntosh (the 1796 discovery of John McIntosh of Ontario, Canada), Fuji (first cultivated in Japan in the 1930s), and thousands of other varieties—can all trace their lineage back to the Malus sieversii that still grows in the mountains of southern Kazakhstan. My search for the wild ancestor of every apple we eat today (that is, except for the European crabapple) took me from the city, into the surrounding Tian Shan mountains, where the largest, most diverse, and perhaps last population of the Malus sieversii remains. It was here in 1929 that Russian scientist Nikolai Vavilov first traced the original apple genome.

The apples hanging from the wild trees’ branches were varied in size and not particularly sweet by modern standards. Yet, they possessed an undeniable charm, a raw and unrefined beauty that spoke of their ancient origins. It was easy to imagine how early humans, thousands of years ago, might have been drawn to these fruits, selecting the best ones to cultivate, and in doing so, unwittingly laying the foundation for the 7,500 Malus domestica varieties we know today. That’s quite a botanical legacy for these remote Kazakh forests to leave.

From the Tian Shan foothills, bears, Silk Road traders, and other mammals spread apple seeds. They did so both unintentionally, through defecation or tossing apple cores along roadsides, and deliberately, by planting seeds from China, to Persia and Caucasia, to the Mediterranean and Europe. Apples, commonplace in Kazakhstan and neighboring Silk Road countries since 8,000 B.C., didn’t reach the Western Hemisphere until the year 1692, when the Boston Bay Company placed an order for apple seeds from then colonial Europe. By the turn of the 20th century, the Malus sieversii had spawned 650+ different varieties.

Almaty might be the true and literal “Big Apple.” The city derives its name from the Kazakh word for apple, “alma,” and its former name, Alma-Ata, means “Father of Apples.” Even today, the importance of apples to this region is evident in its sprawling apple orchards, apple-themed sculptures, and an annual autumn festival that celebrates the fruit’s cultural and historical significance.

A local botanist explained to me that each wild apple tree is unique: one might be more resistant to drought, while another might have a natural resistance to pests. It’s this diversity that makes the wild Malus sieversii so valuable. In essence, these trees are a living gene bank, a resource for breeding new apple varieties with various strengths: taste, texture and resilience. Their flavor varies from sweet to sour depending on the bees that pollinate them; they also diverge in size and shape, from flatter to conical, as well as color, from golden yellow to solid red.

The apples we eat today are the result of thousands of years of human intervention cashing in on the Malus sieversii’s bank of genetic possibilities. By comparison, the gene pool of cultivated Malus domestica varieties is shallow, and that means a single disease can wipe out thousands of trees in weeks. Yet, here in the Kazakh mountains, the original apples still thrive, untouched. It’s a spectacular thought: something as simple and familiar as an apple could have a singular ancestor rooted in this remote corner of the world.

One of the highlights of my journey was encountering the famous Aport apple on a visit to the Green Market, the largest in Almaty. This large, flavorful variety was once a symbol of the city and a prized export before its cultivation declined in the 20th century.  The Alma Project, a partnership between the Kazakh National Agrarian Research University and the German Federal Foundation for the Environment, aims to put Almaty Aport apples on the map as a Kazakh brand, similar to how Parmesan cheese hails from Italy’s Parma province and champagne from France’s Champagne region. This brand association, they hope, might catalyze their broader mission to preserve the Malus sieversii’s vital repository of genetic variation, the raw materials for future apple varieties.

Why is this mission urgent? The original apple, a fruit so commonplace that its longevity is taken for granted, is now endangered. Habitat loss due to agriculture, urbanization (Almaty’s city limits more than doubled in size from 2001 to 2021), and logging has taken a devastating toll on Kazakhstan’s wild apple forests. It’s a sobering reminder that even something as ubiquitous as apples can be vulnerable, and that the preservation of these wild forests is crucial for maintaining the genetic diversity that underpins the future of apple cultivation.

Botany today is, in many ways, the cumulative result of countless human choices (selective breeding) made over millennia to mold the natural world. My encounter with the first (and perhaps last) wild apple forests underscored the value of preserving the origins that have enabled such choices. In a world where the apple’s ubiquity belies its singular origin, these wild forests reminded me of the delicate balance between nature's blueprint and human intervention.

I admire how Almaty, and Kazakhstan as a whole, honors not only its human history but also its botanical and geological heritage. This deep connection echoes the country’s nomadic roots, where respect for the earth was paramount. Nomads, after all, understand and interact with their environment in a way that can only be achieved by living in harmony with it, not by seeking to dominate it. It’s somehow fitting that something as fundamental as the apple would originate in a place where the nomadic spirit, with its deep reverence for the earth in its rawest form, still endures.

🕹 Travel tip: At the Almaty Botanical Garden, a small but significant collection of Malus sieversii trees can be found in the heart of the true “Big Apple.”  But hike through the Ile-Alatau National Park to fully take in the significance of wild apple trees. The park is a verdant expanse of rolling hills, dense forests, and crystal-clear streams – all framed by snow-capped peaks of the Trans-Ili Alatau mountain range looming in the distance.

Mumbai, with its soaring skyscrapers and Bollywood glamour, buzzes with the energy of India's dreams. But in its heart lies Dharavi, often referred to as the world's largest slum. I've roamed the most frantic megacities on the planet, but none could have braced me for Dharavi's singular, all-consuming intensity. With an estimated population of one million, Dharavi's density surpasses that of Manhattan tenfold. The narrow alleys seem to stretch forever, pulsating with life. Tiny workshops, crammed with people and machinery, churn out everything from leather to recycled plastic. The smell of spices mingles with the acrid tang of chemicals and sewage.

Dharavi is a dizzying maze of narrow streets and shoulder-to-shoulder alleyways. Each one of them buzzes with a variety of factories, workshops, and shops. Look up, and you'll see inspiring murals through shrouds of pollution. Look down, and you might find yourself near an open sewer. Look straight, and you'll be engulfed in a hive of activity outside single-room houses, often shared by multiple families. Look within, and you'll sense residents pushing through exhaustion with grit and despair with hope.

Dharavi is a complex place. It is both impoverished and vibrant, with residents hailing from all over India and representing different castes, religions (including Hindus, Muslims, Christians, and Sikhs), and ethnic groups. The slum is also home to several successful businesses that contribute over $1 billion to the Indian economy. The majority of Dharavi's residents earn their livelihoods in the informal sector, engaging in activities such as waste recycling, providing diverse services, and manufacturing goods.

If there's one thing I took away from Dharavi, it's the unyielding spirit of its people. They may have been dealt a hard hand, but they play it with a fierceness that's both humbling and inspiring. The 2008 film 'Slumdog Millionaire' put a spotlight on Dharavi, and while some found its portrayal exploitative, its core remains true: hope can bloom even in the grimmest of places. Here, every sunrise is a battle won, every smile an act of defiance.

This spirit is on-display in Dharavi’s towering murals, which serve as reflections of residents' lives and visions of a better, imagined world. These artworks provide a cathartic experience and visual escape from the hardships faced by the community. Early murals, created by local and international artists, often depicted the shared challenges of overcrowding, poverty, and limited access to basic services. To the residents, these murals convey messages of recognition and unity, expressing sentiments of "I see you" and "we're in this together." Over time, the artists shifted towards more celebratory themes, highlighting diversity, creativity, and resilience. These inspiring themes encourage residents to amplify the positive aspects of their lives and take pride in their strength to endure in the face of adversity.

I was surprised to find relative peace and harmony in Dharavi. Here, the historical flashpoints of Muslim-Hindu tension simmer at a far lower temperature compared to other parts of India. Perhaps it's the sheer necessity of coexistence, or maybe the interwoven economic tapestry – a Muslim potter reliant on a Hindu cloth merchant, a Hindu family renting from a Muslim landlord. Whatever the reason, religious tolerance in Dharavi feels less like a lofty ideal and more like a practical necessity for survival. In this microcosm of Mumbai, diversity isn't a source of friction, but a thread strengthening the intricate fabric of the community.

🕹️ Travel tip: Explore Dharavi while giving back to the community through responsible tourism. Opt for Reality Tours, a socially responsible enterprise that utilizes a profit sharing model to support their sister-NGO, Reality Gives. With 80% of post-tax profits dedicated to funding high-quality education programs in the communities they serve, your visit directly contributes to positive change.

In North Korea, the world's most isolated nation, I stumbled upon an astounding anomaly: StarPust, a coffee shop within the elite Pyongyang University of Science & Technology (PUST), the country's sole reference to a Western commercial establishment. PUST itself stands in stark contrast to the nation that surrounds it; devoid of international brands and saturated with relentless political messaging, the university is an intentional paradox. Founded by a South Korean-American entrepreneur and secretly sustained by religious groups banned in North Korea, it cultivates a broader “international outlook” within a nation defined by its seclusion. StarPust is the epicenter this contradiction – PUST's unexpected rise as North Korea's most prestigious educational institution and its unlikely gateway to the globalized world.

PUST is North Korea's first and only privately-run university. Its enigmatic founder, Dr. James Chin-Kyun Kim, a South Korean-American Christian with an impressive resume, was handpicked by the regime to establish it. He drew on his experience building a similar institution, Yanbian University of Science & Technology (YUST), in northern China. Dr. Kim's own story is a paradox. A veteran of the Korean War who fought against communist forces, he has resided in the U.S. since the 1970s. This unconventional background raises eyebrows, considering North Korea's deep suspicion of foreign influence. Yet, Dr. Kim was entrusted with constructing their sole window to the outside world, and even attended the funeral of former leader Kim Jong-il, where he reportedly shook hands with the current leader, Kim Jong-un.

North Korea's national identity hinges on a rigid “us versus the West” narrative. PUST, however, stands as a stark counterpoint, with its mission to “bring illumination to the Korean people and the world” through a resolute “international outlook.” Fulfilling this objective requires a foreign faculty who teach in English, creating North Korea's most extensive foreign community. PUST's schools – Agriculture & Life Sciences, Electrical & Computer Engineering, Foreign Languages, International Finance & Management, Medical Sciences (including a dental school), and Construction Engineering – draw professors from around the world. Notably, before the 2017 ban on American travel, nearly half the faculty hailed from the United States, North Korea's foremost adversary. Texas A&M University faculty were especially prominent, contributing expertise in agricultural economics, a crucial field for a nation grappling with chronic food shortages.

PUST's inception in 2010 resulted from an unlikely collaboration between the North Korean regime, where religion in any form is strictly illegal, and Christian groups based in South Korea, with whom the nation remains officially at war. While many professors come from Christian backgrounds, practicing their faith covertly, even the possession of a Bible, singing a hymn, or openly praying can lead to severe punishment. Despite periodic detentions of PUST professors on charges of “hostile criminal acts,” typically associated with clandestine Christian activities, the regime has allowed the institution to persist.

Unlike in most other countries, PUST's primary objective is not social mobility through higher education. Rather, the university empowers a select group: approximately 500 children of elite generals and officials who have the most to lose should the current regime falter. These privileged youth receive a technical education that equips them to drive the country's economic development. PUST graduates are fluent in English and often another foreign language, like Chinese or German, granting them exposure to a globalized world otherwise off-limits.

Opening the minds of North Korea's emerging elite can be a precarious endeavor, yet PUST is not a reckless gamble for the regime. PUST's modest computer lab hosts more than half of the country's accessible internet connections outside of government and military domains. However, access is tightly controlled, with strict filters blocking social media, international news, and email. The lab is closely monitored by a dedicated overseer, while the campus, situated in the countryside beyond the capital, is guarded by the military. Each PUST student is meticulously hand-picked and vetted by the regime to receive a Western education. During hall periods and on their way to the cafeteria, students extolling the virtues of their leaders in patriotic chants. It's a delicate balance – strategic openness, but with firm devotion to the regime.

StarPust stands as a testament to the undeniable influence of globalization. Even in the most secretive corners of our planet, complete disengagement from today's interconnected world proves impossible. PUST treads a fine line, teaching students to navigate the realm of capitalism without fully embracing it. In conversations with students over StarPust coffee, it became apparent that they were unfamiliar with concepts such as Wall Street, credit cards, or even Michael Jackson. While these students may dress like white-collar professionals in the West, donning black suits, white shirts, red ties, and carrying briefcases, their exposure to the capitalist world remains minimal, if existent at all. StarPust, deriving its name and inspiration from capitalism, offers its coffee free of charge, staying true to the country's Marxist-Leninist principles. The coffee shop embodies the university's mission to serve as a window to the outside world, without striving to bridge the ideological divide.

🕹 Travel tip: Visiting PUST requires a special arrangement with your tour provider. If you manage to go, make sure to have lunch with the students. It's one of (if not) the only opportunities for foreigners to have a real, face-to-face conversation with North Koreans who aren't their trip minders.

Tucked between modern skyscrapers and the ceaseless hum of highways in Mumbai lies Dhobi Ghat (Hindi for "washerman's landing"), the world's biggest open-air laundry. Dhobi Ghat is among the most jarring juxtapositions that define India's megacity—stark wealth brushing shoulders with poverty, and economic ascent coexisting with intergenerational hardship. Here, between 8,000 and 10,000 washermen, known as "dhobis," labor tirelessly, hand-washing mountains of laundry for Mumbai's hotels, hospitals, restaurants, and residents. Dhobi Ghat's frenetic activity has even earned it a Guinness World Record for the "most people hand-washing clothes simultaneously in a single location" on the planet.

At Dhobi Ghat, the laundry process unfolds with a meticulousness that belies its chaotic surrounds. Clothes are sorted with practiced eyes, colors and fabrics dictating their place in the cycle. Dhobis plunge into their work, scrubbing garments in vast concrete basins that have a restless soundtrack of flowing water and slapping wet cloth. Clotheslines become vibrant tapestries as garments are hung with precision; staggering volumes of over 100,000 kilograms of laundry—the weight of roughly 20 adult elephants—are washed daily. Yet, for all the labor, returns are meager; a shirt, meticulously cleaned and dried, might fetch a mere 10 rupees, the equivalent of a few American cents.

The scene echoes a centuries-old global tradition of outdoor laundry. Yet, while modernity brought indoor plumbing and whirring machines to many corners of the world, South Asia's dhobi tradition endures—a tenacious blend of practicality, economic hardship, and the lingering legacy of caste.

Dhobi Ghat, a symbol of socioeconomic immobility, stands in stark contrast to the economic ascent embodied by its bordering skyscrapers. Here, change and stasis coexist in an uneasy embrace. Every dhobi belongs to a hereditary caste linked to their occupation, a system where life paths are often predetermined at birth. Even within marriage traditions, the caste system persists. A dhobi woman's dowry might include an iron, subtly reinforcing the division of labor within the Dhobi Ghat community: women traditionally iron, while men handle washing and delivery.

Centuries of lineage have shaped the dhobis into a distinct caste, bound by the practice of endogamy, marriage within the group itself. The Mumbai Dhobi Ghat is a world unto itself, with temples, schools, and even a hospital. Founded in 1990 by a dhobi collective, its efficiency is born of shared resources and sheer scale. The location was strategic, near a water source and with the open air space needed for the sun to do its work.

Dhobis belong to India's scheduled castes, groups officially recognized as among the country’s most socioeconomically disadvantaged. The 2001 census suggests dhobis make up roughly 6 percent of India's scheduled caste population. Yet, the lines of tradition are blurring. Not every member of the dhobi caste now works as a washerman. In the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh, for instance, dhobis pursue professions as diverse as farming, medicine, and law. Literacy rates among dhobis in Bihar and Assam even exceed state and national averages for scheduled castes.

A visit to Mumbai's Dhobi Ghat made it brutally clear: the caste system isn't a dusty relic, but a very present force shaping modern India's economy. While capitalism may have chipped away at some of the caste system's rituals, it's also exacerbated economic inequality. Here, the washermen seem as bound to their work as they are to their socioeconomic status.

🕹 Travel tip: To fully immerse yourself in the experience of Dhobi Ghat in Mumbai, take a guided tour that allows you to witness the bustling activity and interact with the washermen. If tight on time, the best view of Dhobi Ghat can be experienced from the bridge that runs parallel to the laundry area. From there, you can witness the sprawling expanse of concrete wash basins, rows of clotheslines, and the bustling activity of the dhobis.

Picture an art studio sprawling across an area the size of 17 football fields – that's Pyongyang's Mansudae. Its 4,000 state-sponsored artists work within a complex resembling a university campus, complete with cafeterias, sports fields, and saunas. Here, artistic expression takes a backseat to meticulously crafted propaganda for domestic consumption. Yet, Mansudae's influence isn't confined by borders. Its “Overseas Project Group” exports both artists and artworks, leaving its mark on plazas and ministries from Angola to Zimbabwe. This hyper-nationalist art factory forces a fundamental question: where does artistic expression end, and propaganda begin?

The line between art and propaganda depends on where you stand. Propaganda has a clear goal: to persuade. Mansudae's boldest works promote “juche,” North Korea's philosophy of extreme self-sufficiency. These paintings and sculptures tell tales of heroic battles against the Japanese (ignoring a little help from the Soviets) and the glorious rise of a workers' paradise under the Kims. At Mansudae, the state sets the story, and the artists find ways to make it visually compelling. It's not a new trick – think grand portraits of European kings designed to awe the peasants.

Walking though the studios, I felt that Mansudae itself is a monument to the very idea of a monument. The regime is the heart of North Korea, the military its might, and Mansudae its face. Art here isn't about self-expression, it's about cohesion. These colossal paintings and statues aren't meant to spark introspection, but to serve as a visual handbook for the ideal North Korean citizen. Much like the education system and state-controlled media, Mansudae hammers home the regime's message with relentless repetition: slogans, imagery, and themes all designed to equip citizens with the vocabulary and vision of a perfect socialist utopia, one where unquestioning loyalty to the Kim dynasty is paramount.

For art to function as the regime's ideological handmaiden, it must be clear and easily understood. Mansudae’s artists prioritize a recognizable, enhanced reality over individual imagination. This is seen in the countless bronze statues of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il, or Pyongyang's monumental tribute to the Korean War. Mansudae isn't meant to be a space for free expression; it incubates the juche ideology. Works avoid ambiguity, instead reinforcing the party line with unwavering clarity. However, Mansudae artists aren't mere copyists. They imbue their work with a subtle perspective, aiming to encapsulate a historical narrative within a single, visually striking image.

Mansudae acts as the regime's velvet glove to its iron fist—a complement to North Korea's colossal military, the world's fourth-largest after China, India, and the U.S. Inside the country, themed paintings function as motivational posters that motivate workers with idealized scenes of socialist bliss. Abroad, Mansudae's “Overseas Project Group” leaves its often-unnoticed footprint in over 50 countries across Africa, the Middle East, and even Europe. These bespoke monuments cater to a range of ideologies, allowing North Korea to etch its name on the global stage, one airbrushed strongman at a time. More importantly, the OGP fuels the regime's coffers, a crucial revenue stream for a nation under sanctions and with a penchant for nuclear pursuits and other equally newsworthy endeavors.

Think of Mansudae as the hammer and sickle's answer to New York’s Madison Avenue. Here, art isn't about consumerism, it's about cultivating unwavering loyalty to the Kim dynasty and its autarkic juche ideology. Mansudae produces propaganda, yes – but propaganda wielded with undeniable skill and a commitment to visual storytelling that transcends mere slogans. It leaves you pondering the slippery nature of art: Is it mere beauty, or can it be the polished face of the powerful? Does it have to be a force for liberation, or can it be the opiate of the masses? I don't have the answers, and I'm not sure Mansudae does either. But for anyone wondering about the power of the image, about art's ability to both reflect and shape our world, this place isn't just a curiosity – it's a plunge into the mind of the world’s most enigmatic country.

🕹️ Travel tip: A visit to Mansudae Art Studio provides a rare opportunity to observe the artistic legacy and ideological expressions of North Korea. It is important to note that visiting Mansudae requires making advanced travel arrangements through authorized channels, as it is not typically included in standard North Korean tours due to sanctions imposed on the Overseas Project Group (OPG). But with some advance planning (think bespoke tours, not package deals), you can snag a rare visit and witness the artistic engine that churns out North Korea's unique brand of socialist realism.

If you've ever wondered where on Earth you could be furthest from any ocean, I found it. The Eurasian Pole of Inaccessibility (EPIA), tucked away in a remote valley of China's Xinjiang province, lies over 1,600 miles (2,600 kilometers) from the nearest coastline. That's farther than the distance between New York and Denver, a 5-hour flight. Picture yourself marooned not on an island, but in the heart of the world’s most vast continent. The desert that claims the EPIA also lays claim to the Turfan Depression, the second-lowest point on the planet. Here, oven-like temperatures can spike to 120 Fahrenheit.

I thought a place so geographically remote would also be a sleepy backwater. It is anything but. The area surrounding the EPIA has become the linchpin of "One Belt, One Road," China's grand strategy to link itself to the economies of western Asia. For a nation so often associated with its eastern coastal megacities, this is a westward lunge of historic proportions.

That ambition, though, comes with a human cost. The Uyghurs, a Turkic Muslim people, see Xinjiang as their homeland. Their cultural ties run deep into Central Asia, not Beijing. And now they find themselves caught between the ambitions of the world's second largest economy.

China’s furthest flung province wasn't always one place ruled from afar. Xinjiang – a merger of the Uyghur Tarim Basin and the Tibetan-Buddhist Dzungaria Desert – means “New Frontier” and is a 19^th century Qing Dynasty creation. The echoes of America's "Manifest Destiny", a period of zealous westward expansion from the Mississippi River to California in the early 1800s, are hard to miss. Remote territory rebranded, resources untapped, the locals, well... that part gets messy in both stories.

Modern China has made the area around the EPIA a hotspot. By encouraging Han and Hue workers and their families to settle in this remote province, the demographic makeup has undergone a profound shift, with non-native populations now comprising the majority. Ironically, the farthest point from any ocean is now the site of one of the largest economic resettlements in modern history.

🕹 Travel Tip:   Xinjiang isn't DIY territory. Work with a reputable specialist to handle the red tape.  Kashgar is a must for anyone seeking authentic Uyghur culture -  the Old City, Id Kah Mosque,  Abakh Hoja Tomb- they're all extraordinary. Tread softly though.  Local rules matter, sensitivities run high.  

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I clutched my backpack, water bottle, and other belongings tightly as I approached Lopburi’s ancient Phra Prang Sam Yot temple. It was the last Sunday of November, and I was about to witness the world’s most extraordinary primate feast. Mountains of artfully arranged fruits, trays of sticky rice, and even a birthday cake were on offer – not for humans, but for the thousands of ravenous long-tailed macaques that call this city home. Durian fruit, a crowd favorite, is particularly known for inciting food fights among them.

This annual feast isn't merely the world's largest monkey buffet; it's a tradition rooted in the Thai epic of the monkey god Hanuman. Legend has it that Hanuman brought power and luck to those who honored him. In 1989, a savvy businessman transformed this legend into action, creating the Monkey Buffet to boost Lopburi’s fortunes. Today, tourists flock here every November to capture the spectacle. At this event, humans can't merely be spectators; they need to be on guard. These macaques are bold, snatching loose items, peering into open bags, and eyeing my camera strap with a glint of mischief.

When the buffet begins, chaos erupts. Monkeys scramble, screech, and occasionally squabble over morsels of food. It’s a whirlwind of flashing teeth, insatiable appetites, and assertions social hierarchy. Amidst the chaos, there are moments of both tenderness – such as friends grooming each other – and debauchery, with fornication erupting between courses.

The primate’s kingdom spills beyond the temple walls into Lopburi’s streets and rooftops. The city, it seems, is as much theirs as it belongs to human residents. Monkeys exist here in higher concentration than any other urban area on Earth. While they typically embody good fortune in Thai culture, in this city, they pose challenges for property owners and farmers. Their playful antics may bring visitors smiles, but for locals, the mischievous side of these primates looms much larger.

Despite their small size (10-15 pounds), macaques have the confidence and audacity of King Kong, exhibiting a penchant for stealing from humans and displaying greed among fellow primates. They are social animals, forming groups of up to 50, fearlessly interacting with humans, and thriving in various habitats – including forests, grasslands, and even urban areas like Lopburi.

Macaques are so good at reproducing (female monkeys can reproduce twice a year) that they also represent fertility in Thai culture. Since Covid-precipitated declines in tourism, the monkeys have grown hungrier and more aggressive. In response, the government’s national parks department has had to step in with a sterilization campaign to prevent primates from ambushing people.

The 13th-century ancient Phra Prang Sam Yot temple (fittingly known as the "Monkey Temple"), once a Hindu shrine during the Khmer Empire, transformed into a Buddhist temple in the 15th century. True to its name, the temple grounds are home to hundreds of macaque monkeys, swelling to thousands during the buffet event. These primates have inhabited the area since the 16th century, a time when the temple lay abandoned, offering an ideal environment for them to invade.

Lopburi embodies a primate paradox. The ancient Phra Prang Sam Yot temple stands as a symbol of piety, juxtaposed with monkeys indulging in their primal instincts, including fornication. The playful and shameless monkeys of Lopburi are both a blessing and a burden.

🕹️ Travel Tip: The event takes place annually on the last Sunday of November at the Phra Prang Sam Yot Temple (or "Monkey Temple"). If you’re determined to visit the annual Monkey Buffet in November, remember you’re entering primate territory. Secure your belongings, or risk them becoming monkey loot.

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To truly unravel the mysteries of North Korea, I had to venture 100 meters below ground into the world's deepest subway system —the Pyongyang Metro. This underground marvel showcases the face that the Kim dynasty seeks to put on to its people and to the world. Every aspect of the Pyongyang Metro, from its architecture to its daily operations, offers rare insights into North Korea and the state’s philosophy of juche — the Marxist-Leninist state philosophy centered around independence, self-reliance, and self-defense.

Built in the 1960s with assistance from China and the Soviet Union, the Pyongyang Metro isn't just a means of transportation; it's a subterranean showcase of carefully curated propaganda. The stations’ grandiose mosaics, imposing portraits, and gleaming chandeliers echo the architectural drama of the Moscow and Kyiv subways. Yet, beneath the artistic grandeur lies a darker purpose. The sixteen stations across Pyongyang's two metro lines, primarily serving the more developed western side of the city, also double as nuclear bomb shelters. This serves as a stark reminder of the nation's ever-present sense of threat — a paranoia cultivated by the regime to bolster its image as a protector against a menacing West.

The Pyongyang Metro felt like an underground laboratory for North Korea’s state-run art studio called Mansudae. With a workforce of around 4,000, Mansudae is the world's largest producer of nationalist and dictatorial artwork, including countless statues depicting North Korea's leaders and commissioned international works. Mansudae misses no opportunity to bathe the Metro’s approximately half a million daily passengers in propaganda. Each station is an artistic tribute to a theme that commemorates significant moments in North Korea’s history — including the liberation of Korea from Japanese colonization after the Second World War (Liberation, Rejuvenation, and Reunification stations), the Korean War (Triumph, Korean War Victory, and Glory stations), and the realization of Supreme Leader Kim Il-sung's juche ideology (Red Star, Golden Fields, and Construction stations).

My fellow passengers received a daily dose of juche ideology on the platform, where they gathered around newspaper stands displaying headlines that boast defiance against Western imperialism, abundant harvests (despite reliance on food aid), and superiority over the moral failings of its chief adversaries, South Korea and its U.S. backers. Speakers blared Pyongyang's radio stations and triumphant propaganda music on-loop in the stations and on the trains. In each car, overhead portraits of the revered Supreme Leader Kim Il-sung, who ruled from 1948 to 1994, and his son and successor, the Eternal General Secretary Kim Jong-il (1994-2011), kept watchful eyes over passengers.

The Pyongyang Metro’s original Chinese-made trains were sold back to Beijing after the Cold War and replaced with retired East Berlin cars. Budget constraints meant the scratched windows remained, and today, remnants of German graffiti made me reflect on how Berlin is now reunited while Korea remains bitterly divided and at war. Since 2015, newer, domestically-produced trains began to grace the rails, featuring LCD screens and continuous propaganda documentaries. Only a handful of these “prototype” trains, tested by current ruler Kim Jong-un himself, are in operation today.

The Metro's daily operations reflect the carefully controlled facade projected by the North Korean regime. The fare – a mere five North Korean won (less than one U.S. cent) – has remained unchanged since 1973, in accordance with the regime's Marxist-Leninist ideology and the portrayal of itself as a provider for the people. This low cost, the cheapest metro fare in the world, finds another parallel in a different way the Metro embodies the regime: the closure of Light station to the public since 1994. Located beneath the Kumsusan Memorial Palace, where the embalmed bodies of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il lie in state within glass coffins, this closure and the subsequent slowing of trains as they pass through are symbolic of the regime's deep reverence for its leaders and its ideological emphasis on their legacy.

Like mass transit systems around the world, the Pyongyang Metro serves as a reflection of the society it operates in. It functions as a unifying force, connecting people, neighborhoods, and institutions in pursuit of the shared objective of mobility. In North Korea, this holds true as well. Deep beneath the surface, the subway system showcases the national narrative of this isolated nation, providing a window into its unique character and way of life.

🕹 Travel tip: Foreigners can ride the Pyongyang subway by joining organized tours with authorized guides. It's important to follow your guide's instructions and adhere to local rules and regulations. Don't miss the elaborate station designs, adorned with mosaics, artwork, and chandeliers that reflect North Korean history and ideology. Pay attention to the propaganda posters, newspapers, and music playing on the platforms and inside the trains. Take note of the portraits of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il, and observe the passengers' orderly behavior.

Good luck is for sale at Hong Kong's Mong Kok goldfish market. Rows of goldfish, housed in individual plastic bags functioning as miniature aquariums, symbolize prosperity and abundance, attracting fortune-seeking shoppers.

It is no coincidence that the Chinese word for fish, yú (魚), shares the same pronunciation as the word for wealth or abundance, yù (裕). Over the past millennium, goldfish have become synonymous with good luck in Chinese culture. The Jin Dynasty (265-420 AD) played a significant role in cultivating freshwater carp, the ancestor of the modern goldfish. The Tang Dynasty (618-907) later selectively bred the fish for its gold-colored genetic mutations. During the Song Dynasty (960-1279), golden carp transitioned from ornamental gardens to the world's first recorded outdoor fish tanks. When the Song Empress banned commoners from owning yellow carp, the color associated with the imperial family, goldfish became a symbol of prosperity.

Following the Song Dynasty, goldfish cultivation expanded beyond the imperial realm, leading to larger-scale breeding. As breeding intensified, mutations increased, resulting in certain breeds being unsuitable for outdoor pond life. This led to the birth of the first pet fish during the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644), as these mutated breeds thrived only in indoor fish tanks. By the 17th century, Chinese goldfish exporters had popularized these unique breeds, including bubble eyes, goose necks, and pompons, in Europe, and later in the 19th century, in North America.

Today, as younger generations embrace the Western practice of raising dogs and cats as pets, goldfish culture is on the decline. However, in Hong Kong's space-constrained apartments, and with goldfish being seen as symbols of abundance, the Mong Kok market remains vibrant. The market offers a wide variety of good luck charms in the form of more than a hundred types of goldfish, each distinguished by their color, scales, fins, and eye shape.

Mong Kok is a captivating blend of vibrant aquariums and the hopes and dreams that bring each shopper here. Since the 1950s, goldfish shoppers have flocked to Mong Kok during the Lunar New Year, when it is customary to wish loved ones prosperity. Goldfish represent the well wishes of both the working class in small fishbowls and the wealthy in opulent aquariums.

🕹️ Travel tip: To make the most of your visit, explore the Goldfish Market in the late afternoon or evening when it is brimming with activity. After dark, the illuminated walls of fish in their aquarium-like bags create a visually stunning spectacle.

Happy Diwali from the Golden Temple, the most significant spiritual site in Sikhism, an Indian religion and philosophy with the fifth highest number of adherents among organized faiths worldwide. During Diwali, Indians light over 55 million candles, and one of the grandest celebrations of the festival of lights takes place in the Sikh heartland of Amritsar. Generosity is a core value in Sikhism, and they practice what they preach. The Golden Temple's kitchen serves up to 100,000 free meals per day, and during Diwali, this number reaches four to five times that amount, making it the world's largest community kitchen.

Originally completed in the late 1500s, the Golden Temple has endured a history of destruction and rebuilding, from Mughal and Afghan invasions to the turmoil of 1984's conflict between Sikh separatists and the Indian government, resulting in numerous deaths. Despite this tumultuous past, the gurdwara (Sikh assembly and worship place) continues to showcase extraordinary generosity, offering free daily meals to tens of thousands, promoting equality and compassion.

The Golden Temple complex features various structures around a pool and a golden sanctum, with the langar (dining hall) being the largest. In the langar, Sikh hospitality ensures every diner is treated with equality, seated together and feasting as equals. The standard meal includes a hearty platter of lentils, a vegetable main course, kheer (rice pudding), bread, and pickles, with seconds encouraged.

Operational 24/7, the langar, run by volunteers known as sewadars, serves a full vegetarian meal to all visitors, irrespective of faith, gender, or socioeconomic background. This inclusivity is particularly significant in a country with a deeply rooted caste system.

While charitable feeding has roots in Indian and Sufi-Muslim traditions, Sikh langars distinguish themselves by being open to all, transcending religious and social boundaries. Since the religion's establishment in the 1500s, Sikh community kitchens, including the Golden Temple's langar, have been true institutions of charity and equality.

The langar operates continuously, with a brief half-hour break from 4:30 to 5:00 AM. Over 100 large metal vats simultaneously cook most menu items, each sizable enough to feed an entire village. The only exception to large-batch preparation is the bread (chapati), which requires individual rolling before baking. The daal (yellow lentil stew) alone, a secondary dish, demands 400 kilograms of onions, 100 kilograms of spices, and substantial quantities of lentils daily. Despite relying entirely on volunteer labor, the kitchen incurs an annual cost of over $4 million to operate.

As night falls, the gilded shrine of the gurdwara, adorned with 750 kilograms of gold, casts a shimmering reflection in the surrounding pool. This visual spectacle enhances the Golden Temple's appeal, creating an ideal backdrop for the Indian festival of lights. Beyond its visual splendor, the gurdwara embodies the essence of Diwali, celebrating light triumphing over darkness. Nowhere else exemplifies the message of Diwali more sincerely than the community kitchen, radiating a spiritual light through the largest act of altruism of its kind worldwide during the festival.

🕹️ Travel tip: The Golden Temple is an astonishing display of generosity any time of the year, but if you can time your visit with Diwali, your experience will be truly unforgettable.

The Attari-Wagah ceremony, known as the "Beating Retreat," is a microcosm of the complex relationship between India and Pakistan. Since 1959, this daily border closing ceremony has showcased the shared history, culture, and rivalry between the two countries. Taking place every evening at sunset for approximately an hour, the ceremony reaches its climax with the lowering of both nations' flags. During the ceremony, Indian and Pakistani border guards face-off in a dance that is so synchronized, it shows that beneath the hyper-nationalism, the countries are two halves of a fractured whole.

🇮🇳 India's performance of patriotism in 10 seconds

🇵🇰 Pakistan's performance of patriotism in 10 seconds

🇵🇰 v. 🇮🇳 Fraternity and rivalry in a coordinated face-off between the 2 Punjabs

Punjab: Two Halves of a Fractured Hole

The Indian and Pakistani states on either side of the border share the same name: Punjab. This unified region was once home to Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, and various minorities until the 1947 Partition, which divided India into two countries: Pakistan to the west and India to the east. Punjab was greatly affected by this Partition – the largest mass transfer of population in history, with around 16 million people uprooted and an estimated one to two million lives lost. Today, the Attari-Wagah border remains the only land border open to the public between India and Pakistan. The ceremony both embodies and attempts to heal the deep historical scars that binds Indian and Pakistani Punjab in the tragedy of the Partition.

Choreographed Patriotism: Theatrical Display of Hard and Soft Power

Although Punjab was once unified, decades of separation and forced population transfers have led to the development of distinct cultures on each side of the border. The Indian ceremony reflects this divide with an eruption Bollywood song and dance, including women participants, reflecting the country's less conservative nature. In contrast, the Pakistani side is more formal, subdued, and less participatory.

Nationalistic chants from both sides turn the ceremony into an exhibition of patriotic fervor. The Indian side reverberates with patriotic songs like "Sare Jahan Se Achcha" ("Better than the entire world, is our India"), while the Pakistani side responds with their own equivalents, including the repetitive rendition of "Qaumi Tarana," the national anthem. In this daily nationalist theater, culturally distinct but ethnically and historically intertwined casts share the same stage.

The ceremony initially aimed to ease tensions between two nations divided by three wars, decades of mistrust, and even a nuclear arms race. Indian border guards don khaki uniforms and flamboyant hats, while their Pakistani counterparts wear black suits with equal fanfare. Together, they engage in a choreographed performance of halting and kicking, exerting both bluster and harmony.

This spectacle of patriotic theatrics is a demonstration of both hard and soft power. The guards captivate thousands of spectators through intense stare-downs, chest-thumping bravado, and synchronized marching drills. Simultaneously, the Indian side reverberates with Bollywood hits, including "Jai Ho," the chart-topping song from the acclaimed film Slumdog Millionaire, which garnered numerous Academy Awards in 2008, including Best Picture.

The Attari-Wagah ceremony reflects the state of India-Pakistan relations: bombastic military chants representing their division, while the pinpoint coordination in their choreography serves as a reminder of the shared heritage beneath the rivalry. The world's largest border closing ceremony at Attari-Wagah is a captivating spectacle that narrates the story of two bickering powers, once united as one people but now torn apart by religious divisions and colonial legacies.

🕹 Travel tip: Attend the ceremony from Amritsar on the Indian side, where the festivities are at their liveliest. As a foreigner, ensure a hassle-free experience by having your passport ready, arriving early to avoid long lines, and accessing the VIP section (only place where foreigners are permitted) through the designated gate.

North Korea has the world's lowest car-to-resident ratio: just one car for every 1,000 people. Besides the capital, Pyongyang, the nation's extensive road system stretches over 26,000 kilometers (16,000 miles) and remains mostly unpaved, making them the planet's least trodden. South Korea, despite its smaller size, boasts four times the road length and a remarkable 800 times more vehicles compared to the North. In North Korea, these deserted roads symbolize an intriguing mix of calmness, and enigma.

In this tightly-controlled nation, a strict registration system dictates citizens must obtain special permission to travel outside their designated area. This leads to rural North Koreans rarely venturing to the capital, Pyongyang, which is reserved for the privileged elite. The lack of transportation options beyond major cities curbs suburban development, further reducing road traffic. Most vehicles found on North Korea's streets are public transportation, including locally-built and imported trolleybuses, trams, motorcoaches connecting major cities, and a narrow-gauge rail line from Hamhung to Hungnam, respectively the third and second most populous cities.

Besides these mobility restrictions, resource shortages and bureaucratic barriers also quiet the streets. Only specially-permitted civilian drivers can travel alone, while others must carry passengers. Drivers must annually renew certificates for driver training, authorized fuel sources, and vehicle mechanics. Yet, cars are often unaffordable or scarce due to factors like prioritizing rubber tire stockpiles for military use, and the recent pandemic exacerbated this by closing borders with China, a key tire supplier.

North Korea takes a careful approach to governing its sparsely-populated streets. Vehicles carry stars, each symbolizing 50,000 kilometers (31,000 miles) traveled accident-free, with different colors distinguishing their purpose and safety record. The streets are patrolled by highly-regarded traffic cops who direct traffic using batons while dressed in crisp blue and white uniforms, with an emphasis on employing attractive, young women in Pyongyang.

Traffic cops have a deep-rooted role in North Korea, dating back to post-Korean War road construction. Today, they remain essential due to widespread traffic light dysfunction, caused by electricity rationing, which leaves many households with just two hours of power daily. Prioritizing power for military and manufacturing plants means traffic lights are unreliable, making traffic cops crucial for maintaining order.

Recent efforts to update North Korea's traffic management have resulted in cycling lanes, a bike-share program, and refurbished traffic lights. Kim Jong-Un's modernization plans call for a shift from women traffic cops to a combination of traffic lights and male officers. However, this modernization is less prioritized in non-elite areas, where male traffic cops, particularly in Hamhung, the third-largest city, continue to serve.

Despite the absence of cars, North Korea's streets are far from lifeless. Most activity unfolds under the cover of darkness. The barren streets offer a glimpse into the enigmatic complexities and contrasts of North Korea.

🕹 Travel tips: While most North Korea tours focus on the capital city of Pyongyang and the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), the true essence of the country lies beyond these showcase destinations. To experience the real North Korea, it is essential to venture outside and explore the lesser-known regions. Keep in mind that traveling outside the capital requires proper arrangements and guidance from experienced tour operators like Young Pioneers Tours, which can navigate the unique challenges of exploring this enigmatic nation.

In the heart of China’s most modern city, a uniquely traditional phenomenon unfolds every weekend. Shanghai’s Marriage Market draws hundreds of concerned parents eager to find suitable matches for their unmarried children. This age-old custom stands in stark contrast to the swipe culture of modern dating apps like Tinder, where superficial attributes often take center stage. Here, at the Marriage Market, practical qualifications and traditional values dominate.

A Cultural Crossroads

The Marriage Market is not just a place; it's a cultural crossroads, where the old meets the new, tradition lashes out at modernity, and familial concerns intertwine with individual aspirations. In a rapidly changing society, the Marriage Market provides insight into how China adapts to evolving relationships, marriage, and family dynamics.

To grasp its significance, consider the numbers: China boasts a staggering 200 million unmarried individuals aged 20 to 49. Among them, professionals increasingly delay marriage, departing from the earlier norm of early matrimony. This shift, coupled with evolving relationship norms, has resurrected the age-old role of parents as matchmakers.

The roots of the Marriage Market can be traced back to China's One Child Policy, which was in effect from 1979 to 2015. During this period, families were constrained to having just one child, leading to a gender imbalance with more men than women of marriageable age. But interestingly, it is primarily daughters for whom parents seek suitable husbands at the Marriage Market.

Parents of daughters often proudly flaunt their daughters' age, education, temperament, and sometimes even physical appearance. For sons, expectations extend to factors such as owning a car and an apartment, as evidenced by a Shanghai household registration record called a hukou. The high cost of living and property ownership in Shanghai further exacerbate the gender ratio gap at the Marriage Market, resulting in a notable overrepresentation of parents seeking relatively fewer qualified males for their daughters.

How the Market Operates

At the Shanghai Marriage Market, parents have two distinct options for discovering potential partners for their children: the "free zone" and the "amateur matching zone." In the "free zone," parents take on the task themselves, sifting through numerous advertisements containing comprehensive biographical details about the singles — including birth year, ethnicity, religious background, and marital history.

The "amateur matching zone" caters to parents who prefer the assistance of "professional" matchmakers. These matchmakers curate compiled lists of singles' profiles and contact information, streamlining the search process. It's worth noting that there exists a pricing discrepancy based on gender, where females pay a modest fee while males are exempt from charges. This pricing disparity reflects the higher number of females seeking partners in comparison to eligible males.

Cultural Significance and Criticism

Beijing pioneered this cultural phenomenon in 2004, but it's Shanghai's Marriage Market that has now claimed the title of the world's largest. The movement began as a gathering of retirees who, while participating in morning exercises, formed connections and shared concerns about their unmarried offspring. This grassroots tradition has since spread to other major cities like Wuhan, Hangzhou, Tianjin, and Shenzhen — all of which now have their own public matchmaking venues.

While arranged marriages are no longer the norm, the desire to select socially and economically advantageous partners remains strong. Marriage markets provide a platform to navigate these pressures, prioritizing the advancement of the family collective over individual preferences, in line with Confucian beliefs that emphasize family unity.

In contrast to traditional hūnyīn (marriage) customs, China's present cultural landscape has undergone significant changes. The 1950 Marriage Law abolished arranged marriages, male dominance, and neglect of children's interests. Further departing from traditional norms, the more recent celebration of singlehood on Singles Day on 11/11 — an intentional date, with the numeral 1 representing an unmarried man in Chinese internet slang — has become the world's largest online shopping event.

Critics of marriage markets often perceive them as prioritizing financial stability over happiness. In reality, these markets reflect the genuine concerns of traditional Chinese parents worried about their children navigating life without the safety net of marriage. China's market-driven reforms have indeed led to unprecedented improvements in income and living standards for billions. Nevertheless, rapid societal changes create uncertainty among traditionalists who fear the perceived risks of a capitalist and individualistic society. For like-minded traditionalists, the Shanghai Marriage Market offers solace, optimism for potential matches, and a way to preserve a cherished bygone era.

🕹️ Travel Tips: To experience Shanghai's Marriage Market, head to People's Park on a weekend morning. Explore the meticulously organized ads, categorized by birth year, background, and marital status. Take note of the strong emphasis on qualifications and the poignant sight of parents seeking ideal husbands for their daughters. Immerse yourself in the unique dynamics and cultural intricacies that shape this intriguing matchmaking tradition.