Although it had only been a few days since we’d parted company, it was a great relief to find Brad waiting in Varna. Taking advantage of the delicious sunshine, we enjoyed a two-day rest along city beaches before heading south to Istanbul. On our early morning departure, a thick fog burned off quickly as we soared among rising foothills past dried-out vineyards to the west and a sparkling Black Sea to the east. Wide-banked turns leading back through the Bulgarian mountains provided a welcome contrast to crowded cities and freezing rain. A warm afternoon sun ignited passion for adventure and a feeling that it’s never going to be cold again. After three months bundled in foul-weather gear, it’s a relief to shed layers of thermals and sweaters and switch from bulky cold-weather gloves to thinner, lighter versions. In this newfound freedom of movement, it’s easier to feel the road.
Down to his last eight days, Brad has only three left with me before he rides alone to Athens and I zigzag Turkey toward Iran. Running into winter storms over the Anatolian plateau is still a possibility, so I closely monitor current weather conditions and study topography maps in hopes of finding an overlooked alternate route. There is none. My main concern is the 8,000-foot summits icing over, making two-wheeled travel impossible. Yet none of this seems real during an unseasonably warm day nearing the Mediterranean. Soon enough, one way or another, I’ll be looking at a winter crossing in Turkey.
After paying 45 bucks for a border visa and another 10 for the bikes, we cross an invisible threshold into the Middle East. Istanbul is where Europe meets Asia in a subtle departure from Christianity into the world of Islam. Had we kept riding, we could have reached the famed city by nine o’clock, but with daylight fading and us still wanting to enjoy the countryside, we opted for a small hotel in the first village across the border. Weaving our way among single-story stone houses, it was as though the martians had landed, with giggling black-haired Turkish children dancing out to greet us. Toothy grins from unshaven faces of town elders looking out from open doorways assure us that we’re welcome. For Muslims, this is the equivalent of Christmas season.
During Ramadan, a month of daily fasting is followed by elaborate evening feasts, where entire families gather at single elongated tables. The locals are delighted to celebrate with hungry foreigners. After piling our table with fresh garden salads, fluffy flatbreads and plates of barbecued meats, an anxious restaurateur steps back with folded arms, waiting for our approval. There was far more food than we could eat, but we felt as though we should, just to be polite. Unaccustomed to the bizarre exchange rate, we are shaken then relieved to discover that our 20-million-lira meal really only amounts to 15 dollars. It’s a constant mathematical riddle, learning to compute currency values when crossing new borders, but today we make a cultural leap as well. Entering Turkey marks our first major shift in civilization-hopping.
The religious transition is immediate. In European cities, to solicit the faithful, gonging church bells reverberate in waves from imposing granite towers. Here, stately stone-domed mosques are centers for broadcasting inspiring calls to prayer. Ancient Arabic verses, the same throughout the Muslim world, are sung over loudspeakers by unseen imams in wobbling off-key tunes. The echoing moan reaches deep into the mind. Whatever their meaning, it’s an eerie yet intriguing song, impossible to forget. In one spine-tingling moment, I am drawn into the embrace of Islam.
Constantinople
October 29, 2004
Istanbul, Turkey
As the one-month mark passed for Brad, he was already mentally back in the office, anxious to reach Athens. But after a few days in the U.S., he will be certain to miss the call of the road and start planning our February rendezvous in Southeast Asia. At least that’s the plan. In the meantime, we make the most of our last days touring museums and exploring mysterious back alleys.
With 15 million people crammed into 50 square miles, Istanbul is the most congested city I’ve seen yet. Confusing highways bottlenecking in downtown traffic make it more logical to walk than drive. With Europe on one side and Asia on the other, the Bosphorus channel feeds from the Black Sea into the Aegean. Bridges and ferryboats keep Istanbul connected to the surrounding mainland and are the quickest way to get anywhere.
It’s been tricky coordinating the shock absorber rebuilding process. A repair kit had to be mailed from Sweden to the local Ohlins distributor, now a bike shop with tools was needed to remove the shock. After that it had to go out to another shop for rebuilding and yet another for spring compression. But because of days off for Ramadan, a half-day job stretched into two days. Strangers wrenching on my bike to access the shock was nerve-racking to watch, especially when the mechanic who reassembled it was different than the one who initially disassembled it. Finally, after bolting the Beast back together with pliers and vice-grips, the wires were reconnected and sealed with masking tape. Life is laid-back here, and nothing stops Turks from chain-smoking, not even gasoline pouring out onto the floor from severed fuel lines.
No one else speaks English, but we all become quick friends after the Turkish motocross champion who owns the bike shop offers dinner and a place to sleep. The bike handles better than ever now, and I can’t wait to get back on the road. Sunday morning, early, I’ll head south to Izmir and cruise the beaches until the Iranian embassy personnel approve my visit.
After reapplying for another visa, this time in Istanbul, and paying 65 dollars, they told me to return in two weeks for their answer, a common procedure that almost always extends into a month. The first snows in eastern Turkey are falling at this moment, and two more weeks might exceed the acceptable danger zone. KEEP SMILING is the mantra for successful travelers. When this fails, you head for home. As I no longer have a home, I continue to chant.
Ephesus
November 2, 2004
Selcuk, Turkey
To be a happy traveler in Istanbul you need a sense of humor. Visitors are under constant siege by friendly but persistent businessmen trying to sell something or coax you into stores where they receive commissions. Because of terrorism, tourism is down more than usual in the winter low season. Teams of hungry touts outnumber customers ten to one. From the back of dingy, smoke-filled cafés to second-story balconies, the world’s most proficient high-pressure salesmen are lurking, constantly at work. Shake one off and another attacks, and, like schools of circling piranha, all of them are somehow related. And the system is rigged. No matter if you’re buying a soda, dinner or a hand-woven carpet, you’re going to get beat out of 20 percent, either on a price change or last-minute product swap.
“I thought you said dinner was eight dollars?”
“Ah yes, but you used the ketchup and that costs another two.”
With SUCKER stamped on my forehead, I wander alleyways of souvenir shops only to be attacked by aggressive hordes of conmen competing to shake my hand. “Hello my fren, where you cone fron? Please come in and try a coffee or look at my beauteeful rugs. I has somesing special just for you.” (Never trust anyone who calls you “my fren.”) There is no escape — every tourist attraction worth seeing including the legendary Blue Mosque of Istanbul, is ringed by legions of fast-talking street vendors.
Having meditated in remote Tibetan monasteries and peered through more towering stone cathedrals than I can clearly recall, nothing rivals the aura of the Muslim mosque. Maybe it’s the architectural simplicity of the semi-sphere or the laidback atmosphere, but in the dozens of simultaneous murmuring conversations, a powerful silence conveys spirituality and communion with self. Soft silk carpet floors under enormous dome ceilings of hand-painted tiles evoke a stillness devoid of human images. There are no statues. Just as Buddha requested on his deathbed, the prophet Mohammad commanded that his likeness never be recreated. These great spirituals figures wanted their words immortalized, not themselves. The Blue Mosque is a place to savor so much that you don’t want to leave. Hungry for another moment of internal calm after the sensory experience, a peaceful euphoria accompanies you
back into the throng of annoying hustlers and daily realities.
The Iranians continue to tell me to “Come back tomorrow,” but another night in the smoggy chaos of Istanbul is more than I can bear. Three flights down from my tiny hotel room, the Blue Beast waits patiently for the order to ride. The destination is not important. Today, I’ll settle for anywhere, as long as I am traveling on two wheels.
At last, a warm autumn wind and rushing asphalt transmit the soothing relief of the open road as I roll beyond the Istanbul city limits, heading south. After crossing the channel to Bandirma, reaching the ancient Roman city of Ephesus is a four-hour sprint over the opposite mainland and into a thousand years of history. It’s hot enough to ride without a jacket, but I recall my pledge, enjoying the sweltering heat. I imagine I’m absorbing the sun’s energy like a recharging battery, storing it for the upcoming mountains. After a short search, I find a cozy hostel in Selcuk, a tree-shaded village nearly two miles beyond the best-preserved classical Roman city on the eastern Mediterranean. It’s here where the apostle Paul is said to have written his profound epistle to the Ephesians.
Under the constant threat of terrorism, the few tourists still in Turkey are avoiding famous historical sites. The once lively capital of Asia, second only to Athens, is now deserted on a bright November afternoon. And there is nothing to do but doze in the pleasing sunshine and drift through time. Over the ages sacked by conquerors and rebuilt by rulers, Ephesus still presents the magnificence of ancient Roman architecture with captivating images of early life. Ornate stone carvings and polished marble columns evoke foggy images in my head, until suddenly a velvet-cloaked Byzantine emperor is addressing a roaring crowd in the 25,000-seat granite amphitheater. Chronologically disoriented, I sit alone, daydreaming through history until suddenly the hollow grating of wooden-wheeled carts and dancing minstrels fades into the chill of an approaching sunset. I awaken to discover I have been resting on this rock for the last three hours.
Parts and Visas
November 7, 2004
Istanbul, Turkey
Maybe the mechanic’s assistant in Prague thought he was being helpful when he adjusted my rear drive chain far more than was necessary. Since he’d been supervised by an experienced technician, I didn’t double-check his work when it would have been wise to do so. When a drive chain is stretched too tight, it stresses the transmission shaft bearing. After 3,000 miles, a faint grating noise sporadically surfaces but, of course, never when anyone else is listening.
Odd noises can be deceiving when traveling through metal. Even when you use a stethoscope to pinpoint them, diagnosis is difficult. We couldn’t hear the lower-end-whine at the repair center, but the BMW service manager in Istanbul decided it could be the water pump and installed a new one to be safe. Then, when the sound persisted, a new generator, hydraulic cam chain tensioner and starter were replaced. More shots in the dark. Because the grating was inconsistent and barely audible, mechanics had to regularly test ride the bike, attempting to identify the noise. After a final checkup at the shop, we determined the problem to be the small bearing in the transmission that wears prematurely when the chain is too tight.
Only the bearing needed replacing, but the entire engine had to be disassembled — a three-day process. The good news was that since the bike had a record of maintenance by authorized dealers across Europe, BMW assumed responsibility and covered the cost under warranty.
In the meantime, I return to daily check-ins for my visa at the Iranian embassy. Peering out through an inch of bullet proof glass, a bearded young man wearing wire-frame glasses states in a British accent, “I’m sorry Mr. Heggstad, but at this time you must consider your application to have been denied.” But I am certain if we can speak face to face, we can reason together, we just need the opportunity. It was time to push.
“So we will let the media’s image of Iranians prevail?”
With a cocked eyebrow, he turns to ask, “So you do not think bad of us?”
“Why do you suppose I am struggling so hard to enter your country? I want to see for myself.”
“Give me your passport and wait here.”
Five minutes later he returns to the window and says, “Please take a seat and I’ll be out to talk with you.”
After an intense 20 minutes, tiptoeing around precarious political territory, he requests a number to reach me, but there is no phone at the hostel. We agree that I’ll return Monday and bring a copy of my travel diary pasted together as a gift. After a long handshake, he assures me that he will do all he can with the officials in Tehran. If these efforts fail, my only option is the unthinkable sin of airfreighting over Iran into Pakistan. Overland border crossings with a motorcycle into developing nations can be all-day affairs, but clearing customs through airports can take weeks. And an Internet search for the Karachi procedures proves fruitless, leaving only apprehension about the unknown complications ahead.
The Cup Is Filling
November 9, 2004
Sultan Ahmet
Although the Iranians have denied the visa again, here in the Middle East, persistence counts and it’s acceptable to tell them I’ll be back next week. A phone call to the consulate in Budapest was also fruitless. “I’m sorry Mr. Heggstad, nothing has been approved yet; maybe tomorrow.” These men are making it hard for me to like them. In the meantime, the Iranian national legislature continues to chant “Death to America” while the U.S. State Department issues ominous warnings about nuclear issues and an “Axis of Evil.” I still believe that while governments may differ, people don’t, and all I ask is an opportunity to prove that.
Even though crossing Iran might still be possible, the time has come for plans B and C. There is a shot at visas for Syria and Jordan, but Saudi Arabia is the wild card needed for catching a ship out of Oman for Karachi. The absolute last resort is the unthinkable airfreighting to India, with its dreaded importation procedures. But even worse, failure to convince the Iranians means that extremists from all sides will win again. And at the moment, nothing else is working out for me.
Relations with Jodie have come to a standoff, with neither of us budging. To save the relationship, she demands that I return immediately to California, but I say the same, she must meet me here at once, in Turkey. Maybe this is the best way to end matters, taking positions that we both know are impossible. Realizing that our romance has deteriorated beyond the point of no return, in a final, sad conversation, we agree to disagree.
Languishing in Limbo
November 14, 2004
Istanbul, Turkey
Three weeks trapped in any capital city will drive a traveler mad. It’s worse for motorcyclists, as we constantly crave the soothing winds of the open road, with an alternating landscape to ignite our passions. Waiting with nothing to do only strangles our spirits. My motorcycle parts, ordered through Turkish distributors, are somewhere between the BMW warehouse in Munich and a complicated local customs procedure that is rife with delays. Even if they arrive next week, it will take three days to rebuild the machine, which means I’ll be lucky to escape Istanbul by December. Fellow overlanders come and go, exchanging information and confirming or denying rumors. Ensnared within the tentacles of Third World regulations, I covet their freedom. At least the religious holidays are over.
Ramadan has finally ended, but not before the one last impediment of a three-day shutdown for the entire Muslim world. Embassies for Middle Eastern countries, which would likely convey bad news anyway, are closed until Wednesday. According to official reports, Syria and Jordan will still grant visas to Americans — my most likely plan B. UAE and Oman might do so as well but will not confirm this over the phone, so to find out would require a maddening shuffle across Istanbul. A three-day transit visa is rumored to be available from the Saudis, but no one knows the procedure or even at which consulate it is best to apply. Some say the frontier at Jordan, but that would mean riding across two countries to r
eceive a yes or no at the embassy in Amman. No officials respond to my emails or answer their telephones.
Without Saudi cooperation, my options are shipping from the southern Jordanian seaport of Aqaba or crossing into Egypt by ferry. Evidence of travelers’ visits to Israel provokes automatic visa denials in Arab countries down the road. And the Israelis will be equally wary of people who have passed through Arab lands. The wrong entry stamp brands a traveler and poisons a passport. Suspicion runs deep in the Middle East.
Exiting Egypt again by air or sea is reportedly a nightmare of confusion and bribes equal to what’s ahead in Karachi. At this point, I’ll settle for any direction other than backward. Autumn storms and city traffic have me pinned down to a comfortable hostel room with a TV that receives CNN World News. Now I can keep track of international weather and the Middle East body count while cringing at the ignorant obstinacy of world leaders. Maybe it’s time to get healthy.
During the first three months of this journey, plastic stents in my organs prevented me from exercising. Even walking was difficult. But since Brad appeared last month, strutting around shirtless, flashing his washboard stomach, I’ve been plotting a comeback. Lately, I spend afternoons sprinting up and down narrow cement stairwells and practicing martial art drills. Stress-relieving yoga sessions followed by meditation balance the madness of waiting. Without an event to train for, it’s hard to generate fire into workouts, but at least the evidence of too many chocolate bars is diminishing. Istanbul is safe and clean, and although there are no beggars, armies of slick vendors continue to lurk outside any areas worth visiting.
Built upon the rubble of Middle East history, the modern buildings of the Sultan Ahmet district cast shadows over the skeletons of antiquity. Crumbling Roman archways, Greek pillars and sealed stone caverns are tucked behind backstreets full of hustling merchants and sidewalk cafés. Languishing in limbo, there is nowhere left for me to go.
One More Day Everywhere Page 11