One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  After selecting the perfect knoll and focusing my camera, nighttime winds kicked up. It became a fight just to pitch the tent. Like controlling a kite in a storm, I struggled with one hand to keep it from being yanked away, while using the other to feed collapsible aluminum poles through loops to form the dome. Even with all my gear inside weighing it down, I didn’t step away lest it blow off across the plain.

  The temperature drops with the sun, and soon I am wrapped in a mummy bag managing dinner. Containers of fruit juice beaten apart by the day’s pounding still supply enough syrupy liquid to fill my cup. A can with a picture of a cow on it is the surprise of the night — a smooth-textured paste that spreads well over fresh baked bread. After dried fruit for dessert, I tumble into a deepening slumber.

  During the day the road had been empty, but evening traffic increases to one truck an hour. I can see the blurs of light for miles before they grind by, inching across the sterile landscape. Here, there is a different silence. A choir of whistling and chirping surrounds me, but the singers are invisible. The desert is alive at night.

  At dawn, a protein bar and what was left of the peach juice is enough to quell my morning hunger. There is no reason to rise, so I savor the horizon twisting into orange swirls of sunrise through nylon flaps of an open tent. If I continue this loop, it is possible to spend another week meandering back to Ulaanbaatar.

  Fed up with jarring and bouncing, I head off-road across the desert. After entering predetermined coordinates, the GPS draws a straight line to the next destination — so with one eye on the 2-by-2 inch screen, I blast out over the plain, dodging small boulders and sharp cliff washes. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. The beating is merciless; never mind my body, I wonder how much the bike can take. Already a sub-frame bolt has sheared, the broken section lodged, threaded, in the frame. A drill will be needed to clear it before the bike bends in half. The Gobi can be an unforgiving lover.

  Camping in the Gobi

  Involuntary Wandering (Lost)

  August 15, 2004

  The Gobi Desert

  The two major manufactures of GPS units each sell a CD with downloadable data revealing the main roads of the world. Assuming they used the same sources, it seemed logical that mine would display the same information as Brand X. It didn’t. Primary roads in Mongolia are little more than frequently used tire tracks over dirt that became roads. There are thousands of these throughout the country, with countless forks dividing them in multiple directions. Brand X marks a few of these routes, mine does not. Mine is an easier unit to operate, but, except for the black triangle indicating my position near the border with China, it was useless in the Gobi for identifying roads.

  Asking for directions doesn’t help. When nomads even understand my questions, they just point to a series of tracks and say, “That one.” It makes no difference which track I select, a mile down the road it forks into several others making gradual enough changes that by the time the compass registers I am moving in the wrong direction, it’s hard to remember the way back to the original fork.

  Fortunately, a friend had provided me with specific GPS coordinates for important landmarks in the Gobi. Since the terrain is flat with no fences, theoretically it should be possible to ride in a straight line to the intended destination. That’s if there are no washes, sand dunes or low mountain ranges. And getting lost in the desert is common. Even with one eye on the GPS and the other on the horizon, it’s easy to become disoriented enough to wonder if the GPS is malfunctioning.

  On a lightweight bike with knobby tires, sand dunes are fun — but with street tires on a 400-pound motorcycle lugging 200 pounds of extra gear, it’s a tiring battle. Three hours of spinning through soft sand leads me back to where I started — except now there are no nomads to consult, only herds of foul-smelling camels that hopefully belong to somebody. Maybe following their tracks would lead to humans who can point to the right direction. Anything would be better than this.

  Two hours later, the animal tracks scatter near a wash at the base of a small mountain range emptying into an alluvial plain. Loose gravel of the widening, dry riverbed is firmer to ride than rolling dunes, but according to the GPS the wash is leading in the opposite direction of my destination. It is hard to recall how long it has been since the low-fuel light blinked on, indicating 2 gallons left. That 2 gallons should last 120 miles, but there is no way to know if there is somewhere to buy fuel, even if I find a main road. Supplies are adequate — a dozen protein bars, canned sardines and three 2-liter plastic water bottles wrapped in socks. Still, the jarring has broken two of the bottles, leaving one full container and an aluminum saddlebag holding the other two. At least they are still drinkable.

  Between a hand-drawn map provided by one of the nomads and the GPS, it appears that I’ll eventually hit a main road I’m supposed to recognize by its tilting old telephone poles without wires. Even so, there is still another 20 miles of spinning across the desert. At this point I’m second-guessing myself, and, with sunset two hours away, I decide it’s best to set up camp and tackle the situation in the morning with a clearer head. Wrangling myself into sleep with concerns over punctured tires and low fuel, the Gobi is unchanged in the morning. Unzipping the tent reveals a half-dozen camels sniffing around, looking to dine on my gear. But before they can find my protein bars, I shoo them away.

  It’s time for a new plan. The best solution seems to be to program the waypoint into the GPS from my current position and then add an estimated coordinate where the main road ought to be, based on the nomad’s map. It should be easy to follow the thick black line drawn on the screen. Seven arduous hours later, slightly north of my programmed waypoint, tiny vertical lines appear where a blue sky meets a pink desert. This is not the home stretch though, merely where the contest begins. The orange low-fuel light is a steady reminder that the road has plenty of twists ahead.

  Realizing that it can be several hours without seeing another vehicle, it’s better to wait for someone to flag down and confirm that this is the right road. Halfway through a can of sardines and stale bread, I am suddenly aware of a presence at my side. Looking down, I am startled to see a four-year-old girl staring up, holding an aluminum pail and porcelain bowl. A scan of the surrounding terrain reveals no sign of nomads or their Gers, and it’s impossible to determine from where she came.

  “Sain ban noo,” I say. (Hello.) Her smudged face is frozen in an emotionless gaze upward at the Martian someone in her family sent her to assist. Because of their deep Buddhist belief in karma, it’s in the nature of the nomads to feed and care for strangers. This is a training mission.

  Accepting the pail and bowl, I pour myself a drink of hot, sweetened goat’s milk. Finally, something I’ve been offered offer tastes good. “Bai ar laa.” (Thank you.) Still no response, just little brown eyes of apprehension. Nothing moves her. Funny faces and wiggling fingers in my ear changes nothing; she never flinches. After a second cup of milk, I hand back the containers, flip the bike ignition and beep the horn. Suddenly, she breaks into bright childish laughter. I see her in the mirror as she scurries back across the desert to where she came from, and when I turn to see her one last time she has disappeared. The sweet taste of goat’s milk on my lips and a digital photo are my only confirmation that she ever existed.

  Return to Siberia

  August 20, 2004

  The Russian Frontier

  The rest of the ride back to Ulaanbaatar was more of the same, and I was glad to have taken this detour into Mongolia, especially the Gobi Desert. Replacement stainless-steel fasteners arrived from Al Jesse, and after a chassis lubing and steam cleaning, all critical motorcycle bolts were ready to go. After four days of restaurant hopping restoring man and machine, I suddenly had an urge to backtrack to the Russian border and finish crossing Siberia. At last the Blue Beast was ready for more. Mongolia had been such a wonder, I was sorry it wasn’t closer to California. At
its current state of development, Mongolia may remain unknown for a few more years. Tourism is so new the locals haven’t learned to steal or gouge. Nomads still treat travelers like guests, and travelers still respect their hosts. This will change someday, but for now Mongolia remains an unspoiled adventure destination.

  Rolling north along the countryside past costumed horsemen herding livestock and adjusting their Gers, I recall many meaningful moments spent with strangers communicating in silence. Nomads from different cultures, we are linked by our spirit to roam and share our lives. They pretended to enjoy my protein bars as much as I did fermented mare’s milk, and they were as fascinated with my tent and motorcycle as I was with their camels and Gers. Hopefully they will remember me as I do them. It’s the indomitable pragmatic spirit of Mongolians that awes travelers. The nomads understand that to survive in a brutal environment, they must work together. Long, freezing winters at 20 below zero on the wind-pummeled plains leave no room for conflict. They share or they perish. Mongolians were among the first ecologists, understanding that to preserve their lands, rotating pastures and managing livestock would become their way of life. The land feeds the animals, and the animals feed them.

  In 1990, after the Russians stopped subsidizing Mongolia as a buffer against China, the country was near economic collapse. Yet the nomads, having lived the same way for a thousand years, had adequate food while the city dwellers did not. It was the nomads who rescued countrymen by bringing milk and meat into cities to prevent the people from starving. Now a wobbling new democracy, Mongolia has swung on the political pendulum from left to right and back, managing peaceful transitions of power. Wedged between the economic might of China and Russia, Mongolia is defenseless. While Moscow has relinquished its claim, Beijing has not. Mongolians are a whim away from sharing the fate of Tibet.

  Although Mongolian towns were crammed with identical Soviet-era decaying prefabricated apartment complexes, the genuine warmth of the people compensated. But after the last stretch of open pastures, another numbing dose of Russian bureaucracy awaited me at the Siberian frontier. After a personal escort through Mongolian exit formalities, jaded Russian immigration officials greeted me with lengthy entry forms and the same foolish questions they knew didn’t matter. Still, it was refreshing to cross another border, switching gears and looking forward to new surroundings. The road ahead sliced through rich Siberian pine forests punctuated with scattered storybook towns. A growling stomach reminded me again I need to eat. Store-bought robust Russian rye bread and creamy cheeses crowned with canned sardines became dinner and lunchtime gourmet treats.

  Hungry Jack

  August 24, 2004

  Lake Baikal, Russia

  As one of the scenic wonders of Russia, Lake Baikal is the largest lake in the world, holding a fifth of the planet’s freshwater supply. But so far I have seen little of it through blinding summer storms. A black cloud of freezing rain requires total focus on the hazards ahead. No opportunities for sightseeing, just dodging potholes and speeding trucks. The logic of developing nations remains a mystery. No one’s in a hurry until they’re behind the wheel, then suddenly it’s a death race.

  Taking the short route, I’ve got 6,000 miles left to Munich and three weeks to get there to deal with my kidney stones. Three possible exit points from Russia lay ahead: Ukraine, Belarus and Latvia — the country that issues the visa quickest will determine the route. I scratched a side trip from Moscow to St. Petersburg — there can be no more side trips until I am healthy again.

  Still, it’s better to take advantage of the Russian countryside and interact with villagers — easy on a motorcycle as a crowd gathers whenever I stop. The splendor of Siberia dazzles even the weariest traveler, and the interactions with locals, whether positive or negative, are always interesting. For now, thick forests before me are empty, perfect for camping, except you can’t pitch a tent in the rain and expect to wake up with dry gear. Cheap rustic road hostels with squeaky wood floors are the answer — tiny rooms with bomb-site toilets at the end of echoing hallways — but, most important, they have 220 volts to recharge my camera and laptop batteries. If I can find one, it’s a bargain at 10 bucks a night.

  Towards the end of a long day, two boys bundled in overcoats on a motorcycle wave me over to talk. I ask them, “Gde gastinitza?” (Where is a hotel?)

  “Baikalsk.” They reply, pointing down the highway.

  “Skolkha kilometers?”

  The driver holds up three fingers, “Tridtsat.” (Thirty.)

  “Spaceba.” (Thank you.) I am on my way.

  Further west, the towns become larger and the poverty less obvious. When stopping to buy fresh fruit at a Sunday market, a thick-muscled lumberjack from across the parking lot fixes his gaze on the lone Americanski and approaches with giant strides. He resembles the image on Hungry Jack pancake boxes right down to the broad shoulders, plaid shirt and wavy blond hair. He’s shouting before I’m able to hear him, so I’m worried he’s another drunk wanting to arm wrestle. Just in case, I stash the peaches and ready my motorcycle key.

  Like an overgrown anxious child, he bounds up blabbering, grasping my hand with an enormous leathered paw the size of a baseball mitt. Nearly squeezing blood from my fingertips, he slaps my back with his other hand. Even as I repeat “Nyet Ruskie,” he continues with sign language and grunts, indicating that I should follow him somewhere to eat. Sure, why not?

  A quarter-mile sprint later, me following on my bike, we reach an aging cement-block apartment complex where he pulls me by the arm upstairs, rambling out questions and answers in Russian. Hungry Jack points to himself and declares, “Sasha!” Once inside his 10-by-10-foot kitchen, he flings open the antique refrigerator door with one hand and pitches jars of sweetened fruit with the other. Soon a steaming pot of tea and Russian ravioli arrive, with crackers and homemade raspberry jam. He points to everything in sight, asking if I want some. After force-feeding me whatever he can, we’re off to the living room for home videos and invitations to accompany him and his wife to their dacha for a Russian banya. It’s already nine o’clock, and, fearing an all-nighter, I decline and instead politely request a hotel.

  Back on my bike with Sasha leaping ahead like an eager puppy, we reach the only hotel in the village. While I unlock the aluminum panniers, he grabs the nylon tote bags, stuffing whatever he can under his arms. After hauling my gear inside, he surveys the room as if searching for something written on the faded wallpaper. I assure him everything’s fine and that I now just want to sleep. His farewell is a Russian bear hug, picking up my 210 pounds and shaking me like a rag doll. Disappointed that we couldn’t hang out more, he lopes back down the road, turning every few steps to wave. I am going to miss Russian hospitality.

  Tornadas

  August 26, 2004

  Central Siberia, Russia

  Siberian summer storms have intensified into what Russians call tornadas. Temperatures have dropped into the 30s, and it’s impossible to stay dry. Roads are flooded a foot deep, but this doesn’t discourage the racecar drivers heading for Moscow. They continue at high speeds, creating 6-foot brown rooster tails for me to ride through. Unlike the squalls, their wake submerges hapless motorcyclists in root beer waves of freezing water. Where once it took several hours to become drenched, now it’s 15 minutes. The outside air is 20 degrees colder and nose-diving. I asked local biker Stanislav how long this weather will last. “Maybe weeks,” he replies.

  My timing is off. The plan was to ride the world following the sun, capturing seasons in their primes, but so far I’ve only followed the rain. You can ride through most summertime squalls and eventually dry out from the wind, but I hadn’t anticipated this kind of weather. Reaching the Latvian border 3,500 miles away in three weeks at 30 miles an hour looks unlikely. Occasional stops to dry out and relieve the shivering provide only temporary relief. Heated grips and electric vests are ineffective in this cold, merely delaying the inevit
able. Roadside cafés are warm, but it costs hours of precious daylight riding time to dry my gear over dangling lightbulbs and old, rusted radiators.

  Siberian towns are not built for international travelers. The few tolerable hotels in big cities are a hundred bucks a night, with no motorcycle parking. Russian rider Stanislav lives alone and offers the couch in his one-room apartment as long as I’m not afraid of his pet rat. Sure, why not? How could a little creature disturb me when I’m this tired? After checking my email on Stanislav’s computer and barely closing my eyes, I spiral into a deep slumber. Suddenly, something warm and furry slides down my leg and up around my back. Has my other half answered my midnight dreams with a surprise visit? Then a scratchy sensation like little feet marching across my face jerks me awake. Something is definitely crawling down my leg now, and it’s not who I hoped it would be.

  “Stanislav, your rat is in my bed!” I yell.

  Flicking on the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling he assures me, “Don’t worry, he is friendly.”

  “Friendly? Please get this plague-dispensing rodent out of my bed immediately!”

  Reluctantly, Stanislav cages the foot-long beast, only to release him in the morning in time to eat my earplugs. By now, the storm has intensified, pounding the dual-panel windows like a bass drum. Stanislav says if the humidity drops it will snow. At least that would be dry for a while.

  An hour later, another biker, Pavel, arrives to guide me through the complicated side streets of Irkutsk to the main highway west. There are no signs; without his help, it would have taken hours to ride out alone. At his turnaround, he points down the road shouting “Pree ama.” (Straight ahead.) Whenever someone in Russia says “Pree ama,” it usually means multiple forks further on. Even after the escort, I spent another hour riding figure eights around the city. Pavel forgot to mention there was a major detour that confused even the Russians. The rain is so intense, before reaching the main road I stop at a small roadside café to dry off over a cup of tea. It will take an entire night to dry out everything completely, but this will warm me enough to ride another 60 miles.