One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Japanese politeness is accented with an air of understandable superiority. In this nearly crime-free country, there is no need to watch your back or guard your belongings. I’ve seen only one cop since arriving. Everyone is civil and tolerant whether they like you or not, while they adhere to similar philosophy without betraying emotion. They are famously honest, with a penchant for curiosity, and I have the constant feeling that in this society so well planned, nothing can go wrong. Could the world learn from Japanese culture?

  Yesterday, my biker friends took me to a Japanese bathhouse where stone pools of naturally heated spring water relieve aching bodies with inner-earth mystic powers. The polished wooden building was divided into two tiled rooms, male and female, as bathing is done without clothes. But a nagging question reverberated: “Why am I dipping into steaming pools of water with naked men when right next door there are steaming pools of naked women?”

  Last Days in Japan

  July 15, 2004

  Kanazawa, Japan

  While en route to the ferryboat seaport, an overnight visit in Kanazawa becomes a step through history, into feudal Japan, when martial arts were developed as tools of war. Wandering ancient temples rekindles a familiar spirit similar to modern traditional dojos, where training is a dedicated religious affair. The serenity of orchestrated hand-to-hand combat pervades the cool morning air like an imposing mist, commanding respect. Pausing in the silence of meticulously manicured gardens, you feel the presence of masters other warriors wrote books about. Did Musashi engage opponents on this hallowed ground? Were these mystical courtyards early classrooms of Kano or Funakashi? But even lost in my imagination, all thoughts eventually drift to Russia.

  In 24 hours, an aging converted passenger ship destined for Siberia will steam from the port city of Fushiki to deliver me towards my elusive vision.

  A One-Way Ticket to Siberia

  July 16, 2004

  M/V RUS on the Sea of Japan

  If a journey of a thousand miles begins with a first step, what’s considered the first step? Since life is a continuous journey, maybe it began at 16 when I read Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road. Afterwards, so overwhelmed with images of purposeful wandering, I immediately stuck out my thumb, hitchhiking from California to New Orleans. Or was it at the age of 10 when an aging uncle took me out of school a semester early for a trip to Norway to discover my roots? Forty years and 50 countries later, arriving in the east Siberian seaport of Vladivostok, I stand on the threshold of another major step.

  The ship was my first encounter with Russians on their turf. It’s different meeting them in their own environment rather than through televised images or otherwise distorted reports. After approaching a team of workers near the M/V RUS, for a moment we just stopped and gaped at each other’s similar features. As children, my generation grew up fearing the “Red Menace.” We were taught in school how to crouch beneath desks for when the USSR launched its inevitable nuclear attack to conquer the USA. Then there were scenes of Premier Nikita Khrushchev at a United Nations meeting pounding his shoe on the table: “We will bury you!” Sputnik — the Soviets had beaten us into space — more reason to fear them. The Cuban missile crisis — when the world was breathless and on the brink of destruction, one nervous finger away from launching humanity into oblivion.

  The Cold War. American citizens once blacklisted and ostracized if even suspected of sympathizing with dreaded communists had careers ruined and lives destroyed on rumor and innuendo. Then came the pawns, people’s armies versus freedom fighters. Murderous battles for hearts and minds waged throughout the Third World. Clad in rags, surrogate warriors were manipulated by military dictators supported by opposing superpowers. But growing up in a Norwegian household included a different version of world history than that taught in California schools. My father explained that Russians were not really monsters and also had their own story.

  Briefly accustomed to towering over the little, black-haired Japanese, it’s startling to discover how much these Russians and I resemble each other. It doesn’t require a DNA test to prove my roaming ancestors made it this far. Muscular, blond, blue-eyed youngsters wearing shorts and sandals casually slinging cargo onto the ship’s decks could easily be descendants of Olav or Erik the Red. In a moment of clarity I realize these inquisitive men from the “Evil Empire” are likely my relatives.

  Once aboard ship I am directed to the captain’s quarters to pay for passage. “You havk Ahmerdikan dohlars?”

  “Da.”

  “Chew musta pay two hahdred tventy for da pahssenger un von hahdred for da motorcyclick.”

  The port city of Vladivostok, once so secret it was off limits even to Russians, is now the gateway to forbidden lands infamous for mass starvation and Stalin’s gulags. During long, dark winters, the Russian Far East has one of the harshest environments on earth. Yet here I stand, peeling off fresh, crisp Ben Franklins for a former enemy, giddy with the notion that I just purchased a one-way ticket to Siberia.

  Since being released from Colombian rebels, it’s been my goal to not only finish riding to the tip of South America but also to complete a world tour, with phase two beginning in Vladivostok. I wasn’t sure when because of the time I needed to recuperate. Two years later, I am peeking out a porthole, straining to spot what I’ve seen only in my dreams. From the edge of the Sea of Japan, our rusting old groaning vessel pitches and rolls over bubbly swells in a monotonous motion not meant for land-based mammals. It’s good that meager portions of the mediocre food are only served three times a day. Who could eat anyway? Beleaguered cooks and bored waiters offer only boiled cabbage soups, foul-smelling hot dogs and eggs packed with onions. I hate onions. But my guidebooks warn that most meals in Russia are served with onions. Canvas gas-tank panniers stuffed with 20 pounds of chocolate-flavored protein bars are likely my last familiar meals.

  In spite of the pervading seasickness, it’s time to practice communicating and swap gifts with my shipmates. I have only the protein bars, but Russians are polite enough to eat them, thinking they must be American candy. Being notorious drinkers, an offer comes quick. “You vil drik Rahshin wahdkah vees hus?” As a teenager, my first time drunk and violently ill was on a full pint of vodka, and it’s been nauseating to smell that foul fragrance ever since. Moaning under my breath as the ship pitches and rolls, memories of the sickening spins return, and my rich Viking blood turns as green as the churning sea.

  Second Thoughts?

  July 18, 2004

  Vladivostok, Siberia

  It’s the people you encounter along the way that enhance the experience of adventure travel. When trapped on planes, boats or trains, there are always like-minded voyagers from foreign lands available for swapping inspirational tales of life on the road from other perspectives. Those whom you meet while wandering make the discomfort of travel worthwhile, especially those who’ve also ventured down unbeaten paths. All the crew and most of the passengers aboard ship are Russian except for half a dozen Japanese. But there is enough limited common language between us at mealtimes on plastic benches to discover an interesting variety of missions.

  The Russians have bought used cars in Japan and are taking them home to sell for profit. Depending on the scam, each family member is permitted three to ten cars, so they bring relatives to increase their quotas. If the cars are missing certain major parts there is only a few hundred dollars duty owed; otherwise it’s several thousand. The whole process is lucrative enough that they’ve drained the ship’s decaying swimming pool to accommodate additional vehicles. Even rust-scaled decks are packed with secondhand speedboats and shiny cars missing wheels and engines, to be reassembled later in Moscow. Lenin must turn pinwheels in his grave as capitalism thrives in the land of the Bolsheviks. While former Soviets shed the remnants of restricted economies, the “Red Menace” grows green with the currency of choice, U.S. dollars. And as our ship docked in Vladivostok, the rush to process imp
ortation documents erupted into a frenzy of pushing and shoving at customs offices.

  Yet the few foreigner passengers without such issues were guided through without incident, and I was temporarily delayed with the Russians to ponder the dreaded complications of processing a temporary vehicle permit. According to local reports, approval requires several days of waiting in long lines to comply with regulations that few understand. This is also a moment to revisit lingering health issues and a last chance to reconsider.

  That incomplete kidney-stone surgical procedure now haunts me. What if something goes wrong? The curled ends of eight-inch-long soft plastic stents the diameter of a coat hanger continue to cause internal bleeding. Postponing that time-consuming treatment in California might cause me a regrettable difficulty in Russia. Although my urologist admitted that it was possible to travel by car with the stents, riding a motorcycle radically increased any risk and would be extremely uncomfortable. Rejecting further delays in California, Plan B became waiting for medical care in the nearest Western country — Germany. But the advantage there is being treated at the Munich hospital where the ultrasound procedure (lithotripsy) was invented.

  Previously not caring how bad further kidney problems would be, I now sit guessing if it’s too late. When I walk a few blocks, the internal grating makes me pee blood. The further I go, the more blood there is. I have a constant urge to urinate whether I need to or not, and when I do it’s a grimacing, hold-on-to-the-wall experience. Pain is manageable, but when the doctor advised that there is a chance the stents could slip into another organ, I forced myself to believe that this just couldn’t happen. With the current discomfort, I am more conscious of what could go wrong. In Japan, I brooded over my decision every second. Bite the bullet by taking a jet ride back to Los Angeles, get treated and return to the road in a few weeks, or roll the dice on reaching the German doctors?

  If something does go wrong, there is no competent medical care before Munich, 8,000 miles and seven times zones away. Barring further incident, that’s three months from today. In the meantime Western-style emergency services don’t exist. Once I enter Russia, strict importation laws make exiting without the motorcycle illegal. The next country is Mongolia, without hospitals outside the capital. If it was all asphalt to Germany this would be easy, but there are 3,000 miles of off-road riding between here and the first autobahns of Bavaria.

  The Vikings Have Landed

  July 19, 2004

  Vladivostok, Primorye (Pree more e ah)

  Tales from fellow overlanders praising Russian hospitality were understated. Since arriving in Vladivostok, there has constantly been one of the local riders either whisking me about the city sightseeing, patiently haggling in long lines at customs or bringing me to an apartment for traditional Russian meals. “Eef you lak vee gan went my house for zee food.” Since it’s unusual for travelers to import motorcycles, the locals want to entertain me and government officials don’t know what to do with me. Previous riders posted Internet warnings on horizonsunlimited.com, describing the exhausting process of bouncing around the city obtaining new documents and stamping old ones. I hoped this was an exaggeration, but so far it’s been sillier and worse than I’d imagined.

  In addition to hotel receipts, fictitious business letters of invitation and detailed currency exchange forms, sworn statements by a local resident are needed to assure the bike will leave Russia when I do. If not, my cosigne will have to pay an exorbitant import tax or go to jail. After all that, those handwritten statements must be authenticated and stamped by another agency to be forwarded to yet another. Triple copies are required to study and store so the government can be sure foreigners don’t spend thousands of dollars hauling a bike here to sell for a few hundred dollars profit. One bureaucracy oversees another that exists to keep public employees seemingly busy. Most don’t want to work, all find excuses to get in your way and none are as important as they think they are. It’s like dealing with city hall when applying for a building permit in California.

  Tomorrow morning we’ll receive our 37 pages of documents re-stamped by the same bored officials and then find a customs inspector to bribe for a drive across town to verify the bike’s engine serial numbers. There are dozens of different strings of numbers handwritten on all the documents; if one was copied incorrectly we must start over. For the last two days, my Russian hosts have hauled me across Vladivostok from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., trying to sort out a procedure that confuses even them. But at least it’s a whirlwind city tour and a taste of the notorious bureaucracy Russians must endure. Without the connections of “Biker King” Sinus and tireless help from his friends Vitali and Elena, this task would have taken weeks.

  Notwithstanding the difficulties, it feels good to finally plant my feet on Russian soil. During early evenings, I wander about the city, booming one of 10 memorized Russian words, “Pryviat!” (Hello!) Surprised locals only stare back at the grinning lunatic until my California accent registers that I am American. Russians love Americans, and, once you’re past your protective shell of paranoia, they let it be known with welcoming smiles and hearty handshakes. There is no time to accept all the dinner invitations and places to stay; besides, it’s too risky sleeping in large apartment complexes without adequate bike security.

  In the morning, if we’ve filed our papers correctly, by sundown officials should release my bike. Yet then, a new dilemma arises — where to park it. The safest place at the moment is where it has been stored, padlocked behind the giant wooden doors of the customs warehouse. Since Russian mafia and local thugs control the streets, whatever is unsecured in their domain is a reasonable target. Natives warn that unguarded motorcycles in particular don’t last more than minutes. Last night, two Czech travelers staying at the clubhouse of local motorcyclists were robbed at gunpoint. Masked bandits stole everything — cameras, cash and motorcycles — a bold move even by Russian standards.

  On the ferry ride over from Japan, two burly young Siberian men sporting homemade tattoos were asking about my journey. Feeling lucky to meet real Russians, I gave them my business card with website information. Before realizing it, I had answered questions about my equipment and told them I would be staying in Vladivostok with local riders. Red flags didn’t flash until they commented that my laptop and cameras looked expensive and that, to support my journey, I must carry a lot of cash. This didn’t seem significant until I heard today’s news report. Yet, for now, a basic 20-dollar-per-night tourist hotel is home, with two no-neck security men dressed in expensive business suits who don’t respond to my greetings lurking in the lobby. The hotel owner probably pays for protection, but there’s no knowing if that covers bikes parked on the street. I’m anxious to pay security bribes when necessary, but clearly it’s best to hire the toughest guys.

  Situated directly on the Pacific Ocean, Vladivostok’s climate is warm and humid, leaving my clothes constantly damp. There is a short break in the mornings for cooling squalls that dry up quickly but not much to do afternoons except wait in customs lines counting the seconds until I roll. A young Japanese rider, who I met on the ship, and I have joined forces to tackle the importation process together. A short but stocky young factory worker from Saitama, Yasutomo appears undeterred by any of the ridiculous paperwork hassles, and, after noting his stout-hearted determination, I nicknamed him Little Samurai.

  Vladivostok

  July 21, 2004

  Vladivostok, Russia

  Because Japanese demand the latest technology, they don’t buy secondhand goods. This means that there is no market for used cars in Japan, and since Japanese cars are right-hand drive they are useless in neighboring countries unless offered at a substantial discount. This is a dream come true for nearby Russians, with their voracious appetites for affordable transportation with which to cover the wide expanses of Siberia. It makes little difference to them if cars have steering wheels on the right or left, so most vehicles here are used Japanes
e versions. A perfect match — Japan unloads what’s junk to them and hardworking everyday Ruskies menace the roadways in affordable, luxurious SUVs.

  Russian motorists are widely known for aggressive driving maneuvers. As our hosts blast Little Samurai and me around the city in terror rides from hell, it’s scary to think about soon being in the crosshairs of these copycat racecar drivers out on the open road. While crisscrossing the city to various government offices, I sit nervously in what would normally be the driver’s side of a 20-year-old Japanese car, while, to my right, Vitali plays Indianapolis 500. I can’t help automatically reaching for a steering wheel or fumbling for a brake. The truth is, I am terrified. With one near miss after another, it requires steady nerves just being a passenger in a vehicle operating in such substandard safety conditions. Vitali’s bald tires don’t screech when he stomps on the brakes, they hiss while sliding across crumbling asphalt, forcing him to stop every 20 minutes to reinflate them after the air has seeped past exposed cord. There are no rules of the road. The craziest driver is king, and the vying contestants are fearless.

  Pedestrians crossing the road know their safety doesn’t matter, and getting from one side to the other intact requires the courage and grace of a matador avoiding angry bulls. It’s like pedestrians are invisible. I want to ask Vitali if he saw that woman we may have just clipped, but I am afraid of the answer. Although there wasn’t a thunk, it seemed like we at least grazed her. Not wanting to know, none of us looked back. More effort is put into dodging potholes than avoiding humans.