Preface              

If I had been born into a society that endorsed cannibalism, would I question my  society’s behaviors and values or would I simply be a “Happy Cannibal”? I would travel thousands of miles and to the farthest reaches of the planet before my experiences enabled me to answer that question – an answer revealed to me only after locating the source of wisdom and guidance that supersedes culture.

Prior to my journeys, I was satisfied, much like a “Happy Cannibal,” and living a comfortable life as afforded by the Western lifestyle; all my needs were easily met with the mere swipe of a credit card. However, I became dissatisfied with superficial contentment and needed to find a deeper meaning for my existence. I began noticing that societal pressures were dragging me into a lifestyle valuing materialism and pleasure over meaningful experiences and spiritual understanding. With these realizations, I turned away from worldly pressures, and instead followed a guidance that emanated from within my being. At the age of 29, I began my spiritual safari to “Escape from the Happy Cannibal.”

I decided to throw myself into the world and experience all that it had to offer. The moment I stepped away from the comfortable confines of my sheltered environment, I was confronted with my own naïveté. Not only did I not know the answers to the mysteries of life, I didn’t even know all of the questions. However, I carried with me at all times a desire for truth and a willingness to look objectively at the world and myself.

Travel was enthralling, and I discovered that roaming about the face of the planet offered many benefits beyond sightseeing. Although I initially traveled just to look upon spectacular landscapes, I quickly realized that the unique cultures and the fascinating people left the greatest impression and made travel truly rewarding. International travel afforded me the opportunity to learn about my world and, most important of all, to learn about myself.

My enthusiasm upon entering each country was akin to that of a child rushing toward his unopened presents on Christmas morning. With each stunning landscape, historical monument, and unique culture, it was as though a gift had been placed under the tree specifically for me and, quite similar to a Christmas present, each country was a bit of a mystery with many surprises once the wrappings were removed.

Visiting countries during times of change and even during revolution, I experienced lifestyles and mindsets that may never again be seen within those borders. Travel also exposed me to a variety of economies ranging from oppressive communist regimes to burgeoning free markets that together provided insight as to which systems correspond to human nature and which systems are most beneficial to mankind. The global variety of lifestyles, economies, and governments make the mere act of travel more akin to instant history.

Relatives living in a distant and unfamiliar land enlightened me regarding an essential part of my heritage. I was astounded by the manner in which these complete strangers received me. I lived intimately with relatives who had completely different mindsets and, often times, beliefs contrary to mine. Nevertheless, it was their incredible hospitality that revealed to me the essence of humanity and the aspects of life that should be cherished.

Charitable people throughout the world continually uplifted me with their generosity and selflessness. However, I also encountered the very darkest side of human nature when I crossed paths with thieves and brutal murderers whose actions showed little regard for the value of human life. Although I narrowly escaped being murdered myself, sadly, some of those around me were not so fortunate.

Travel also exposed me to a multitude of temptations – temptations that I had sheltered myself from in my home environment. But once the barriers to these temptations were removed, my weaknesses were revealed, and my struggle with temptation caused me to search for my ultimate source of moral guidance. It was only in the face of temptation that I could develop character.

Global travel taught me the significant influence of culture upon individuals and, collectively, upon societies; by experiencing these different environments, I also noticed the sway that my own culture had upon me – a revelation that disturbed me as though I should be guided by a source that was independent of the culture into which I just happened to be born. I slowly realized that my goal was to rise above my own cultural conditioning and to be remolded by a superior guidance. Only by confronting the truths about myself could I uncover the more important truths waiting to be discovered.

I never thought that my first trip to Europe would eventually lead to three long journeys and more than three years of travel but, once bitten by the travel bug, I couldn’t get enough adventure. Even in my wildest imaginings, I could never have envisioned the fantastic locations that I would experience. So, for those of you who cannot afford to take a year-long walkabout, allow me to share with you my experiences of wandering across the planet, as well as some insight into what I have learned.

The Culture of Samarhon

Ukraine & Eastern Europe

(August & September 1991)

I receive an enlightening introduction to Ukraine on the 22-hour train journey down from Leningrad. Several Ukrainians invite me into their compartment to discuss my travels within the Soviet Union and to answer the usual questions about the United States. Initially, I am hesitant to enter a closed compartment with several members of the “evil empire,” fearing that I might be knocked on the head or drugged but, as usual, my concerns are unwarranted. We adhere to Ukrainian tradition, which means that our first obligation is to drink several rounds of vodka. Perhaps I was correct about the drugging part after all; in my sheltered life, this is actually my first taste of hard liquor. (This is a tradition with which I will become all too familiar in Ukraine.)

As the Ukrainians continue to gulp the vodka, they become more animated with each toast. One WWII veteran keeps thanking me for the role of the United States during that devastating conflict. Yet another man just wants to shake my hand, and he can’t seem to shake it often enough. He has too much “fuel” in his system. Still, it is a very memorable experience and an encouraging welcome to Ukraine.

After arriving in Rovno, I can’t find anyone at the train station who speaks English so I venture onto the street to search for my hotel. I finally receive directions and I jump into a creaky old bus but, unknowingly, I travel beyond the hotel’s location. A helpful young lady recognizes my predicament and goes out of her way to walk this dazed and confused foreigner all the way to the hotel’s front door.

Rovno, a compact city of about 300,000 residents in northwest Ukraine, is surrounded by small villages and rolling farmland. The town center has a leafy park and a central square decorated with lovely flowerbeds, as well as the requisite statue of Lenin. I can’t avoid thinking that Rovno might be a pleasant place to live until I come to my senses and realize that I am still within the Soviet Union.

I have come to Rovno hoping to find some relatives who I believe are living in the area. My grandparents emigrated from Ukraine in 1928 and both were born in a nearby village. I will be the first in my family to visit this village since my grandfather’s return visit in 1963. At that time, he was dying from cancer, and he made the difficult journey alone across the Atlantic for a final meeting with his surviving brothers and sisters. He was in such bad health that he had to stop in Denmark for an emergency operation just to prolong his life.

I was not told that my grandparents were Ukrainian emigrants until I was a teenager. During the Cold War, such information was more likely to be concealed than celebrated. I remember an aunt warning me that I should never tell anyone that my grandparents were born in Ukraine. I suppose that it was a sensible precaution given the circumstances, but having to hide my ancestry was unsettling, and it left me feeling somewhat incomplete. Although we have no input into the formation of our ancestry, our ancestry is often instrumental in the formation of our character.

During lunch in the hotel restaurant, I am fortunate to meet three young men who are attempting to start a computer business. One of the men, Boris, speaks English and he offers to assist me in finding my relatives. Boris is in his early 30s and of Russian descent, and his demeanor is rather business-like. I can’t help but question the coincidence of meeting an English-speaking Russian in my hotel restaurant who is offering his time just to help me. I am suspicious, thinking that he is a local spy for the secret police, but as I spend more time with Boris, it becomes clear that his motives are sincere.

Boris escorts me to his apartment where I meet his lovely wife, Julie, and their young son, Anton. Julie is rather urbane for a young lady living behind the Iron Curtain. Although she sometimes has a sad countenance, she has a quick and delightful sense of humor. As they show me their two-room apartment, they can’t help but joke about the tiny, crowded apartments typical of Ukraine. They tell me they had grown accustomed to a much larger apartment and higher standard of living when they lived for four years in the Middle East country of Jordan!

Julie relishes the opportunity to practice her English, and my presence seems to awaken memories of better times back when they lived in Jordan. Boris and Julie both seem to have a pent-up angst that can only be shared with someone familiar with the world beyond the Iron Curtain. It is as though we share a common secret. Living outside of the Soviet Union has altered their mindset and given them a worldly perspective that is slightly detached from other Ukrainians.

Later in the evening, they insist upon taking me to a Ukrainian nightclub featuring a live band, which is really nothing more than a place to get inebriated while receiving temporary hearing loss. I think they would be compelled to bring me here even if they knew of my disdain for such environments. It is what they feel they are supposed to do for a guest in Ukraine.

I set off early in the morning with Boris and our driver, Alexi, to search for a relative in the village of Tesiv. The only information that I have is a photograph (and what I hope is his address). I am about to arrive completely unannounced on the doorstep of a distant family member, and I have no idea how I will be received. After all, our two countries have been on opposite sides of the Cold War for years, and my relatives are likely to have been subjected to vilifying anti-American propaganda. I fear an awkward encounter in which I will be treated indifferently or, even worse, shunned.

If a man dwells on the past, then he robs the present; but if a man ignores the past, he may rob the future. The seeds of our destiny are nurtured by the roots of our past.

~ Master Po , from the TV series Kung Fu

The attractive, serene countryside outside Rovno has widely-spaced villages and rolling farmland that extends beyond the horizon. The landscape is primarily treeless with the exception of scattered pockets of woodland and small groves of trees within the villages that provide shelter from winter winds. Similar to the Russian countryside, there seem to be more horses here than machines. It seems that I have traveled even further back in time.

We drive down a dirt street in the tidy village of Tesiv, stopping in front of a house where Boris proclaims, “theess eez zee HOWiss.” Sure enough, standing in the front yard is my relative, Peter, almost as if he is expecting us. Peter is a stocky 62-year-old man with a round face and a stern gaze that hides his gentle eyes. Boris speaks to Peter in Ukrainian and tells him who I am, but Peter seems suspicious, as if we are all part of a KGB plot. Historically, such concerns were not unwarranted, as simply having contact with a foreigner living outside the country was reason enough to sentence a person to a Siberian gulag or worse. However, the apprehension disappears from Peter’s face after I show him the photograph of himself that he had sent to my aunt in Canada.

Nevertheless, the awkward moment that I had feared is now upon us as we all stand facing one another with empty expressions.

Hitchhiker's Heaven

Japan

(June 1992)

Arriving in Japan, I know that I will once again have to spend money to travel. Japan is known to extract a heavy toll on the traveler’s budget and that is exactly why there aren’t many travelers here. My first task is to purchase a train ticket from the airport to Tokyo, which presents me with a new travel challenge – machines! It is not possible for me to decipher the instructions on the ticket dispensers because the Japanese writing uses the complex pictographs borrowed from China. As I stand befuddled in front of the machine, I can feel the subtle pressure of the hurried passengers rapidly piling up behind me. However, I am overreacting to the frenetic pace of those around me because the Japanese are foremost patient and understanding. The Japanese man standing behind me offers his assistance the instant he notices that I am foolishly trying to force money into the wrong slot. His courteous act is typical of Japanese behavior (and the selflessness of Japanese society will absolutely astound me).

The Japanese are also very hygienic and they keep spotless homes. A good example of the standard of cleanliness is the common bath in the Tokyo hostel that is maintained in a pristine condition. I quickly grow to love the Japanese bath and become addicted to the soothing tubs of hot water. I am not as impressed, however, with the method of cleaning myself before entering the hot tub. After all, there is only so much that you can do with a bucket of water while seated on a footstool.

Japan is an exceptionally orderly country but it often comes with a price in the form of rigid and inflexible rules. The periodic announcements over my hostel’s intercom cause me to wonder if I have stumbled into the realm of the “Stepford travelers.” The harsh tone of the announcements in Japanese and English make it clear that there are no exceptions. The announcements include “eight thirty p.m., dining room is closed; ten thirty p.m., lights out, go to your bed”; and “six forty a.m., time to wake up”!

Rule number one in the hostel is to remove shoes at the entrance and borrow a pair of shared slippers. For me, this creates problem number one because all of the slippers are far too small. I can only stuff my foot halfway into the largest slipper such that I walk around like I am wearing a child’s shoe. I will never succeed in finding a slipper that fits my foot during my entire stay in Japan.

I meet up with Takayuki, whom I first met in Istanbul, Turkey. We recall our first encounter when Tak was dazed and staggering from the drugs given to him by his Turkish “friends.” He returned home after the incident and began working in construction. We visit the observatory on the 45th floor of Tokyo ’s tallest building. Throughout the city, old and new buildings are intermixed, revealing an unexpectedly chaotic layout for such a structured society.

Tak and I meet up with Toru and Miki, other Japanese friends that I had met while traveling. Collectively, they are eager to be spoiling hosts and decide that I should experience authentic Japanese food. We visit a traditional pub where the entrées include rice, seaweed, raw seafood, and other unknown items that have washed ashore. They eagerly anticipate my reaction with each new dish and sit motionless with open mouths until I taste the food. I don’t find anything nearly as unpalatable as the bill. Nearly a $100 for mere samples, and most of it isn’t even cooked! My hosts insist on paying the bill in typical Japanese tradition, which saves them the embarrassment of watching me feign a heart attack.

(I was given the opportunity to return the hospitality a few years later when Miki visited my family in Tennessee. Surprisingly, Miki enjoyed southern cooking and became particularly fond of cornbread. In fact, I think she could eat her weight in that southern dish. At the time of her visit, she was attending college in Missouri and she had been separated from her culture for nearly a year. When I asked her what food she missed most from her native Japan, she confided rather embarrassingly that it was seaweed! I reckon you just can’t find good seaweed in Kirksville, Missouri.)

I set off alone to explore the main island of Honshu by hitchhiking toward Kyoto. Successful hitching in Japan requires a little insight into the Japanese mindset. The recommended method is to write your destination on a small sign along with the word “direction.” For instance, my sign is written in Japanese characters saying “ Kyoto direction.” Otherwise, it is said that only those who are going to my exact destination will consider stopping since the drivers will feel obligated to take me all the way to the location on my sign!

When I arrive at the freeway entrance ramp, there is already an Israeli traveler waiting to catch a ride. It is a bizarre scene, as the Japanese man who gave him a lift from the airport is determined not to leave until the Israeli catches his next ride. The man is continually talking to his wife on his cell phone and is torn between his need to get home and his “obligation” to help the traveler. In his desperation, he actually begins waving his arms wildly at approaching motorists and pointing to us hitchhikers – on an interstate highway! I fear that he might get really desperate and lie down in the road to stop a vehicle headed our way.

We decide to hitch together, and after two rides with truck drivers, a Japanese woman driving a car pulls to the side of the road. I am startled that a young Japanese female would take the risk of picking up two foreign men. In her broken English she responds to my inquiry by admitting that she felt “obligated” to pick us up since she had once been helped when she visited the States. Most of the Japanese drivers giving us a lift seem compelled to remain with us until we catch our next ride – that is until we insist that they leave. The mindset displayed by many of the Japanese drivers is extraordinarily selfless.

Escape from the Happy Cannibal

New Zealand

(June & July 1992)

The two islands of New Zealand together comprise an area only about the size of California yet the variety of natural beauty here rivals that of any country. New Zealand , which sits more than a thousand miles off the southeast coast of Australia , was the last of the world’s large landmasses to be colonized by the human race. Historians believe that it was not until 1,000 A.D. that Polynesian voyagers, most likely in outrigger canoes, found their way to New Zealand . The Polynesian settlers are the ancestors of New Zealand ’s indigenous Maori population.

Europeans began to venture into the region several hundred years later when they came searching for a mass of land in the Southern Hemisphere that was assumed necessary to “counterbalance the northern continents.” The first European to discover New Zealand was the Dutch explorer Abel Tasman in 1642. He never landed on the islands because his party received a hostile reception from the native Maori. A Maori war canoe intercepted one of his rowboats and killed four sailors. One of the dead sailors was taken back to shore by the Maori – possibly for dinner! Tasman feared the islanders and he left without ever stepping foot on either island. Captain James Cook “rediscovered” New Zealand in 1769 and received a much warmer reception from the Maori.

New Zealand is now friendly to all travelers, offering an organized network of hostels and budget tours that are unmatched in the world. I wrestle with the decision as to whether I should travel on my own or with an organized tour. Although New Zealand is renowned as a wonderful country for traveling by the thumb, during the winter season it is wet in the north, and cold and snowy in the south. Therefore, I sign up with the Kiwi Experience, a bus service catering to backpackers that tours both islands. However, I soon realize that I would rather be out there hitching even in the wet and cold. On the bus, we are isolated within our own cocoon, which minimizes the opportunity to mix with the locals and experience New Zealand ’s hospitable culture.