A Guide to Asking Yourself, "What the Hell Am I Doing Here?"
A month after arriving in Kyrgyzstan, I realized the greatest challenge wasn't the mountains, the rough roads, or the cultural differences—it was my own expectations. A reflection on travel, preconceived ideas, and our tendency to believe that happiness is always waiting at the next destination.
One month. We've been in Kyrgyzstan for a month now.
Had you ever heard of this country before? I honestly can't remember when I first came across its name. Maybe during one of those late-night conversations with a cycle traveler who stayed at our place in Montevideo. Could be. Before coming here, I had nothing in my mind about this place. Nothing good, nothing bad. Just nothing. And to be honest, I’m still not sure I understand it much better now.
Kyrgyzstan. A country at the heart of the Silk Road. A land of mountains that stretch to the horizon, endless steppes, yurts, horses, and that unmistakable Soviet legacy lingering in every gray apartment block. Kyrgyzstan—the country that turned me upside down and forced me to question not so much the place itself, but my own expectations. My prejudices. My limits. And my patience, which turned out not to be nearly as endless as I thought.
I have to admit that, right before coming here, my expectations were… sky-high.
My mistake.
I should have known better.
But there I was, after two years of forced stillness and a trip through Scandinavia that, let’s be honest, is beautiful—but a little too well-behaved. I wanted more. Mountains that challenged me. People completely different from me. A language I couldn’t understand even with hand gestures. New food. The kind of culture shock that forces you to rethink everything.
Well, I definitely got that.
If you browse travel blogs, you’ll find that Kyrgyzstan is the place: postcard landscapes, hospitality that melts you, a wild purity that almost feels invented.
And me?
Well, I found breathtaking scenery, yes—but also roads that felt more like minefields, drivers who treat lane markings as suggestions, and villages where finding a fresh tomato is harder than learning Kyrgyz in an afternoon.
And the people… the people are shy and reserved. In a month here, I’ve never felt more out of place.
For the first time in ten years of travel, I heard myself thinking:
What the hell am I doing here?
And not in a wow, this is amazing kind of way.
In a I want to leave kind of way.
I had heard other travelers say it before and always thought: Nah, that won’t happen to me.
Well… it did.
Don’t get me wrong—there’s been plenty of magic too.
A group of shepherds who helped us in the middle of a storm. A lonely yurt in the middle of nowhere. The endless “Hello!” from kids running toward us from every corner, smiling as if we’d always known each other.
And a single unexpected look that made me wonder if maybe I’m learning to see things differently.
Because in the end, it’s not Kyrgyzstan—it’s me.
When I was in Denmark, I already wanted to be in Norway. In Norway, people drove me crazy (sorry, Norwegians). Sweden, on the other hand, I actually liked. Nice people. But even there, I was already impatient to get here.
And now that I’m here, part of me still believes happiness is obviously waiting in the next country.
No.
I know—it sounds like something printed on a motivational mug—but it’s true.
It’s not the place. It’s me, and the way I inhabit it.
The good thing about realizing that is that maybe I can stop chasing the next destination as if it’s going to fix everything. And if not, at least I can laugh when dinner ends up being instant ramen again because we couldn’t find anything else.
So that’s where I am these days. Better than a month ago, but still with moments when I feel like throwing my bike under a truck and booking a ticket anywhere else.
And that’s okay.
I think happiness—or peace, or whatever it is we’re all looking for—isn’t a place you finally reach and settle down. It’s something you work on every day, whether you’re in Montevideo, sleeping in a yurt, or pedaling across the world.
mauge@deaculla.es
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