One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Few people speak English in Prague, but it’s easy to get by with my broken Russian and sign language. Finding out where to buy an extra set of long johns though becomes an adventure in touring smut shops. After spending a half-hour pulling on the top of my underwear and then pointing to my socks, a shopkeeper drew a detailed map showing me where to go on the other side of the city. Miles of confusing navigation led to an adult sex shop specializing in lingerie. But their fishnet nylons looked ineffective against chilling winds of the awaiting Alps.

  The previous morning, when I was in a shoe store asking directions, I had left my bike only 30 feet away. Within seconds, four gypsy street-kids had snatched the GPS off the handlebars. It was designed for a one-button removal so there would never be an excuse to leave it unattended, but unsuspecting of 12-year-old boys, I had lowered my guard. A quick twist of a thumbscrew and it was in their pocket — the price for violating my own security. Yet the anger was not all mine. Residents from the neighborhood converged, outraged and embarrassed that this had happened to a traveler in their country. They ranted that gypsy children are taught by their parents how to steal. Maybe that’s what happens when migrant people are ostracized from society and need to find other means to survive. Amused and thankful for the support, we sent out word that it was worth a hundred bucks to me to have it back.

  Contact was established via a helpful shopkeeper, but the ner-vous youngsters balked during negotiations, fearing a thumping if they brought it back. Lucky for them that they never returned for the third round of talks. On a 50,000-mile world ride you know you’re going down, getting sick and being robbed or ripped off more than you planned. A prearranged substitute from California arrives via express mail Sunday.

  After five days in Prague, and a 12,000-mile service check at the BMW dealer, it was time to roll for Munich to meet Brad. Happy to return to the Fatherland, the Blue Beast glides over long stretches of flawless autobahn spilling out across the Bavarian Plain. Porsche drivers having far too much fun blow by at 140 miles per hour, disappearing before my eyes can determine the color of their cars. Like speeding down a greased rail, I drift into an artificial bubble of fearless exhilaration. High-performance luxury sedans soar through meticulously engineered banked turns, rocketing onto launch-pad straightaways of seamless slabs of concrete butting together without a ripple. It’s worth a trip here just for an unrestrained foray down a thousand-mile racetrack.

  Deutschland — the arrogant brain-trust for a confused planet. Cold intelligence shines with incredible brilliance. It was World War II German rocket scientists that put Russians and Americans into space. Subtle superiority pervades the land of reasonable perfection and passion for law. Culturally programmed to obey the rules in a mechanized tidiness, this is the occidental version of Japan. Unconcerned with what doesn’t make sense, Germans are friendly because it’s logical. Still recuperating from the maddening silliness of Russian bureaucracy, there is a healing confidence that accompanies traveling here, convinced that those in charge use a familiar common sense.

  Eastern Europe

  October 9, 2004

  Budapest, Hungary

  Since landing in Vladivostok last July, it’s been an interesting passage through varying types of forests broken up by one desert, and now a series of capital cities crowned with Gothic grandeur. Medieval Europe’s striking remnants of castles and cathedrals reflect stories of its warring past. Cruising the cobblestone roads dividing ancient architecture draws me into European history, and it’s a relief to be able to daydream without dodging potholes. Early morning breakfasts in city center cafés and evenings spent catching up on televised world news almost make me forget the hard life of Siberia.

  And time spent coming in out of the cold also makes a man lose his edge. After a day or two, I resent the comfort and long for the developing world’s unpredictability. It’s the only way left to feel like I am still in the ring.

  With the advancement of the EU, most of the continent is now economically unified, with the best roads in the world laid out across open borders. Brad picked up his rental bike in Munich, and after two days tracking down the new GPS, we rode for Hungary. The faster the better, we thought, as we raced over the autobahn through Austria directly into Budapest, stopping only once, for a Hungarian entry stamp. With my rear shock absorber in need of rebuilding, I’ve notified every Ohlins distributor in the region and am waiting for a response. Planning ahead for repair work is difficult, as the lead time for spare-part deliveries can vary. Would I spend Christmas in New Delhi or Cairo? The direction to take at the upcoming fork in Istanbul — Asia or Africa — would be decided by suspicious politicians displeased with my government.

  The Iranians were friendly enough at the consulate in Budapest, assuring me a tourist visa would be issued after they’d conferred with superiors in Tehran. Unfortunately, that would take two weeks. In the meantime, I submit two photos along with the application, while Brad and I drift around Eastern Europe in limbo. Either continent will be covered eventually, but for my follow-the-sun timing, it was best to ride Asia first. It’s been a week of early fall sunshine since Brad arrived, but I haven’t forgotten the freezing rains of Siberia and I’ve had my fill of daily submersion. To tour Pakistan and India during dry season, I’ll still need to cross the high-altitude mountain passes of northern Turkey into Iran before November. But after that, I’d be ahead of the rain for the next year through the Himalayas of Nepal and jungles of Southeast Asia. Africa was as enticing as India, but reversing my route meant a half-year of monsoon storms on muddy savanna roads. All I can do now is take everything one day at a time.

  I’ve surrendered the guidebook to Brad, telling him, “This is your five weeks so pick your adventure.” His only restriction is delivering the rental bike in Athens in time to catch a flight back to the role of Corporate Guy in California. Today, we’ll follow the banks of the Danube River south into Croatia, Bosnia and Serbia for an easy ride south along the Mediterranean coast. Somewhere on our itinerary is Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey, but since we can be anywhere within the region in two long days, we’ll choose our next destinations on whims and weather.

  Riding into Budapest over the Danube

  Roamin’ Ruins

  October 12, 2004

  Croatian Coast

  In an effort to outrun a massive storm moving down from the Baltic, we depart early from Hungary, before the rains engulfed all of southeastern Europe. God bless satellite weather forecasting. Rolling through the countryside, there is no escape from the forerunning squalls, but we’ll edge closer to warmer rain on the Mediterranean coast. Crossing from Croatia to Bosnia with signs and menus in Cyrillic marks the transition from West to East. After the dissolution of Yugoslavia, cultural differences have become more pronounced and old vendettas renewed. News stories of ethic cleansing and genocide stick in my head as we pass bombed-out villages and bullet-riddled farmhouses. It’s hard not to wonder what became of those huddled behind shattered brick walls and hidden deep inside dank cellars.

  Wandering the earth, history books and stone fortresses feed my imagination with tales of wars and conquest. But these fresh fingerprints of terror serve as reminders of what otherwise decent people can do to each other. It’s always about God and gold. As we follow behind in restless monotony, long olive-drab convoys of SKFOR peace-keeping forces chug through sharp mountain curves. Filthy trails of thick black smoke taint the rain-fresh air, making us gag as we weave between giant troop carriers and military police vehicles with flashing blue lights. Civilians lining the streets wave and flash peace signs; others turn their backs. Why do you have to put a gun to someone’s head to stop them from killing their neighbors? Who will be held to account? Separate perspectives mean different versions of history, with whoever wins the war writing the book.

  Italian tourists from across the sea spill from ferryboats moored in the yacht-filled harbor. With credit cards in hand, the
y eagerly fan out through stone corridors of Roman ruins now lined with glittering jewelry shops and expensive shoe stores. If not for the constant fleecing, this would be a nice place to visit. Our muddy motorcycles and stained riding suits clash with impeccably fashioned, chain-smoking tourists sipping cappuccinos in sidewalk cafés. Sunburned college students buzz the beachfront on bright yellow rented scooters as we mull over guidebooks, plotting a course to Albania. For now, we’re content to realize there is nowhere we have to be.

  Albanian Holiday

  October 17, 2004

  Macedonia

  The Mediterranean coast south from Croatia to Albania meant a return to torrential downpours through more quick border crossings than we can remember. The former Yugoslavia is still dividing into smaller nations. Narrow cliff side roads winding over tiny strips of oceanfront real estate made us lose track of which country we were passing through. Centuries-old ethnic communities and antiquated fortresses are redefining new countries faster than mapmakers can record. Because the names and alliances were changing every few months, two border police were laughing when they realized that we did not know the name of the new country we were about to enter.

  Finally, we cross into Albania, a land once ruled by one of the most repressive communist dictatorships. Now a democracy free from Soviet domination, it’s also one of the poorest but friendliest countries in the region. Although there’s been little positive news for their economy, we were surprised to discover that amidst such pronounced poverty, the hotels and restaurants are remarkably modern and clean. Albanians are kind. If we slow for a moment passing through small towns, we’re mobbed by locals baffled by invading alien bikers, and everyone has a question about our journey. When we ask for directions, a dozen men answer at once.

  There is only one highway connecting the countryside to the capital, Tirana, but there is nothing to do when we arrive in the middle of another storm. Traffic is a slow-moving mass of honking horns and worn-out suspensions banging over deep holes filled with water. The rain is so dense, taillights from other vehicles disappear in the gray.

  To complete our intended loop back to Hungary, we entered through Montenegro to exit through the mountains into Macedonia. On a sunny day, this route would be paradise, spiraling into the hillside forest. Instead, navigating precarious switchbacks through the freezing fog, we catch only glimpses of distant farmland patchwork. It’s taken six hours to cover 150 miles of twisted mountain roads, half on crumbling asphalt, the rest in mud. These are standard conditions on a world ride, but Brad is here for five weeks, and I wanted him to have a good experience.

  Soaked to our flesh at halftime, we arrive at the Macedonian border only to be informed that Canadian citizens need visas. Don’t worry, just backtrack to Tirana and apply? This was distressing news to hear, shivering at nightfall with a shrinking travel window.

  Brad is sick of the rain and opts to detour south into a reportedly sunny Greece, while I must continue riding back north to Budapest in hopes of receiving better news from Tehran. Being separated from Brad is a bad idea. Disappearing into the chilling mountain night air, our final uneasy words were to ride for another day and then connect through email to schedule another rendezvous again in Istanbul. This was not how I’d planned to show my brother the world, but perhaps he was about to discover that the adventure begins when things stop going as planned.

  Progress Report

  October 20, 2004

  Back in Budapest

  After three days, Brad finally sent me an email indicating he was enjoying a calm ride across Bulgaria. Frantic for the past two days, I was 30 minutes from alerting the Canadian embassy in Albania and beginning to backtrack his route.

  There is still no Iranian visa news, not surprising considering the rising levels of political tension. The shock would be if Tehran cooperated in the midst of the current saber rattling. On top of everything, it’s Ramadan and the next two days are holidays, so embassy staff tell me to return next week, when maybe there would be an answer. Maybe. Am I supposed to wait in Budapest for weeks to see if maybe they grant one?

  In the meantime, I’ve applied for the Pakistani visa, which as of January 1, 2004, because of security measures to inhibit the movements of international terrorists, they no longer issue outside of home countries. This means that Americans must apply in Washington, DC. “There has to be a way,” I plead over the phone. “Is it possible to speak directly with the ambassador?”

  “Well, you can try.”

  It was a pleasant surprise when the ambassador himself invited me into his office for tea to discuss my trip. After hearing my story, there are few in the world who would deny someone trying so hard to see it through. Time and again, when people hear what I am up to, they want to help in some way. It hasn’t failed yet — just pointing to the Blue Beast and explaining how, by riding through storms, deserts and lonely nights, I hope to meet the people of the planet on their home ground, look them in the eye and shake their hand. Hesitant officials become instant believers and eager allies. No matter their religion or political beliefs, the best in them usually surfaces.

  It took four trips to the embassy and a lengthy interview with a reluctant ambassador, but, in the end, he not only issued a transit visa but handed over gifts of maps and guidebooks. My first official contact with Pakistanis ended with a photo together next to my bike.

  Autumn in Romania

  October 23, 2004

  Romanian Countryside

  The closer we get to the Middle East, the more frustrating the delay on visa news becomes. After rescheduling a rendezvous point twice via email, Brad and I decide to meet in Bulgaria, at Varna, on the Black Sea. From there, it’s 300 miles to Istanbul, where he heads west and I head east.

  Another farewell to Budapest begins a leg going deeper into Eastern Europe, with only a passport stamp from jovial Romanian border officials standing guard with nothing to do. Answering all of their questions about my motorcycle’s performance would have taken an hour, so I politely cut them off to take advantage of the last of the afternoon sun. Within a mile, the countryside opens into yellowing agricultural fields littered with rusted farm machines and scattered piles of golden wheat stacked in perfect triangles. Boring stretches of flatlands are interrupted by drab villages of aging blockhouses and the occasional Soviet-era small city.

  Most cobblestone streets were jammed with too many vehicles contending with broken traffic lights, but that didn’t discourage determined old farmers following their daily routines. Rickety horse-drawn carts with warped wooden frames and wobbling, bald car tires are reminders that nothing goes to waste in poverty. It’s a maddening allocation of road space, between these primitive vehicles and the slow-moving semitrucks lumbering through mountains while impatient businessmen en route to Bucharest compete to pass through the curves.

  Tired old men bundled in frayed woolen overcoats sit hunched over the reins. Forlorn expressions are hidden beneath short-brimmed caps pulled low over bushy gray eyebrows, as they mope, unconcerned with the impending hustle. Worn-out ponies trudging methodical paces have long given up freedom and stare mindlessly into memory. Farmer’s wives, fighting the cold, hunker down, wrapped in thick horsehair blankets, riding in back, perched atop piles of corn and potatoes. With heads hung low, enormous noses poke from bulky plaid scarves concealing craggy, lined clay faces that speak of labor and struggle. Anxious Western executives in luxury cars back up for miles in traffic, waiting their turn to weave to the front. In the war of opportunity, these hungry soldiers race for the spoils of an ailing post communist world. Undisturbed by the scene around him, for a moment, the farmer has forced the world to follow his terms.

  In the mountains, like an enormous watercolor painting, sections of fresh green forests explode with splotches of auburn and mustard along the banks of still rivers. Their reflections on the mirror surface announce autumn in Romania. Mentally replaying my recent conversatio
ns with Jodie stands in stark contrast to my surroundings. My poor communication skills have made her furious, leaving me more reluctant to call. The gap between us widens daily, now filling with bitterness. She feels neglected as I continue with my selfish journey, and, finally, in a clumsy attempt to dodge the inevitable, I refuse to even send more emails. How can I properly explain that what’s happening here, in this moment, has become more important to me than what has been?

  A darkening overcast sky cools the landscape with mist as early evening fog creeps in mischievously to alter the odds for motorcycle riders. Against piercing headlight glare, streams of water droplets form sparkling cobwebs on my face shield, making me drowsy. Mesmerized by blinding smoky white, the second I forget caution, the looming back end of a big rig instantly zooms into view.

  Stomping the brake and squeezing the hand lever almost hard enough to snap, the ABS kicks on with a klickety-klickety abrasive motion. Bright red lights approaching too fast is a familiar panic scenario for unfortunate motorcyclists in the sphincter-puckering moment before we know we’re going down. Regrets flash as blazing neon — what was I doing out here at night? The rain-slicked road loses the battle of friction as the front wheel of the Blue Beast bites into the asphalt, barely tapping the steel fangs of the truck’s undercarriage bar. Spared without reason, I release a breath, fighting the shakes as the sinister square ghost chugs eerily back into the night. With a shakey smile, I acknowledge the mercy of the Travel Gods once more and search for somewhere to sleep.

  THE MIDDLE EAST

  The Infidels Arrive!

  October 25, 2004

  Turkey