Beyond the soul-search: unveiling the true global South from my trip to China
- Dominika Fleszar
- 2 hours ago
- 3 min read
Coming back to China after nearly ten years felt a bit like opening an old diary.
I first arrived in China in my early twenties, with a group of classmates, a poor grasp of Mandarin, and a wildly overstuffed suitcase — without the slightest idea of what to expect. I was there, ostensibly, to find myself. (That’s what everyone said I should be doing at the time.)
Back then, everything felt like a scene from a film — dramatic, fast-paced, occasionally confusing. I got lost constantly (no, really — I once got lost on the way to the grocery store). I tried to get my hair trimmed and walked out bleached.
I took everything seriously. Every lost metro ride was a metaphor. Every street food stall was a symbol. I was determined to have an authentic experience, which mostly meant avoiding anything that hinted at comfort, ease, or being part of a group. I took a 14-hour train trip in the cheapest possible compartment to meet "real people" (because clearly, for a 19-year-old me, people who could afford a slight amount of comfort weren't real). Spoiler: I didn't actually get to know anyone.
It was chaotic. Confusing. Occasionally magical. But mostly, it was me, overcompensating, trying to curate a character-building narrative in real time. And I honestly thought I was doing it right.
China diaries: wanderlust & wisdom
Fast forward nearly a decade, and there I was again — heading to Xi’an with a group of strangers, most of them much younger than me. The good news: my Mandarin had improved. The better news: I no longer felt the need to desperately fit in.
The first thing that struck me was how much had changed. Everyone pays with their phones now. QR codes are everywhere — from train tickets to temple donations. I felt a bit like a robot who’d skipped a crucial software update.
But underneath the sleek upgrades, there was still the familiar thrill of getting a cheap manicure, buying things I didn’t need on Taobao, and making small talk with overly chatty shop assistants.
I spent the trip doing all the things I might’ve once dismissed as “too touristy” — and loved every minute. I walked the ancient city walls, marvelled at the Terracotta Army, and took a thousand photos. I sat through delightful language classes where my brain occasionally short-circuited mid-sentence. My days were filled with cultural workshops — fan-making, tea ceremonies, clay sculpting — and chaotic group outings.
Then there were the smaller, sweeter surprises. I got a manicure, a haircut, and a full SPA treatment for less than the price of a Pret lunch in London. More importantly, I made friends with strangers.
Tourist or traveller? Redefining the meaning of globe-trotting
Ten years ago, I was oddly obsessed with being a traveller, not a tourist. No guidebooks. No group tours. Everything had to be authentic — whatever that meant at the time. But with age, that distinction seems increasingly silly. Now, I think the whole traveller vs. tourist thing is mostly a performance. You can have profound cultural experiences and still take a selfie with a panda statue. You can learn something meaningful while enjoying the air conditioning on a coach tour. Whether you’re in hiking boots or sandals with socks, it all counts. The point is to show up, stay curious, and be kind.
Somewhere along the way, we were sold on the idea that travel had to be transformative to be valid — that if you weren’t quitting your job, discovering ancient truths, or writing poetry in a mountain village, you were doing it wrong. But the live, laugh, love narrative — with its call to escape the mundane and unlock your higher self somewhere far away — isn’t just exhausting. It has baggage. The idea that the Global South exists as a spiritual playground for burned-out Westerners trying to “feel something” isn’t just cringe; it’s colonial. It turns real places into backdrops for personal reinvention.
But here’s the thing: it’s okay to lie on a beach because you’re tired. It’s okay to join a group tour because you want to learn things — and hear about castles and obscure battles and that one time the Emperor fell off a horse. You don’t need a revelation. You need a break. Curiosity should be enough. Pleasure should be enough.
Somewhere between Google lensing a menu and making small talk with a Roujiamo seller, it hit me: I’d grown up. Not like the main character in an Indie film. More like someone who finally realised that not every journey has to feel life-changing to be life-changing. Sometimes, you just enjoy the baozi and move on.