One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  After visiting all the famous mosques, sultans’ palaces, Roman ruins, Ottoman fortresses and European castles, I’ve given up trying to memorize which civilizations defeated which. Muslim invaders, Christian crusaders versus barbarian conquerors — you need a scorecard to keep track of the sacking and rebuilding. It’s amazing how long these structures last. Three-thousand-year-old columns built on top of thousand-year-old remains. Scattered triumphantly across the Middle East, architectural wonders of granite and marble have been stacked together by forgotten civilizations at the whims of kings, sultans and emperors. And now, curious tourists marvel at the dubious grandeur of excess created on the backs of slave labor and human suffering. Monuments of slaughter and exploitation were created in the name of religion and to control resources. Struggles for God and gold. And I wonder if the next 5,000 years will be the same as the last.

  Into the Cold

  November 26, 2004

  The Anatolian Plateau, Turkey

  This morning is a new day and an anxiously awaited email finally arrives from BMW; my motorcycle has recovered from surgery and is ready to ride. A constantly monitored CNN weather report predicts snow flurries and below zero temperatures on the 280-mile stretch to Ankara. The alternate route, south along the coast, will be covered in freezing rain for the next three days. Since it’s dryer, I opt for snow, hoping the asphalt holds heat long enough to keep the slippery ice at bay.

  Istanbul, a temporary home but one to escape from, sends me off with an elegant goodbye fitting Marco Polo. Sunday morning departure jubilation — a traffic-free ride along the Bosphorus channel separating Europe from Asia, gliding through miles of green lights. Saluting waves slap the shoreline rocks and send sprays of seawater upwards as a final farewell; within the blink of an eye, the gaping Autobahn E80 spills out to the horizon.

  An empty, jagged mountainside of the rising Anatolian plateau turns into an eerie moonscape of frozen forests and white, powdery plains. As the altimeter climbs, temperatures plummet until chilling pain turns to numbness from my fingertips to my shoulders. An electric vest maintains my core heat but has no effect on a runny nose freezing to the inside of my helmet liner. It’s going to be a long two days through a high-altitude glacial odyssey.

  Savage headwinds bite through thick nylon and five layers of thermals, gnawing their way from my legs to my lower torso. The Pillsbury Doughboy under siege. Icy elements relentlessly hammer and tear, chipping away barriers to hypothermia. If I can keep my organs warm, another hundred miles is possible, but with the sun behind the clouds, odds shift. At 45-minute intervals I must stop to stomp my feet and let the heated vest chase away shivers. Uncertainty reemerges like a long-lost nemesis. The volatility of nature reinforces the idea of fate, I think to myself, as the ferocity of adventure returns, like plunging into a raging sea. With a wry smile, once again I hum Willie’s tune “On the Road Again.”

  The Anatolian Plateau

  November 29, 2004

  Adana, Turkey

  At 4,000 feet, a deep inhale of prickly morning air is cold and dry enough to make a set of lungs flutter. After such a deep freeze last night, a pair of fresh apples left in my tank bag turned into baseballs of red rock, brittle enough to shatter if dropped. For relief, I’ll ride 300 miles of varying summits across the rugged Anatolian plateau to the mild temperatures of sea level. Far colder than yesterday, the sky is a pale steel blue, minus threats of shadowing clouds. But violent weather in this region can dominate as quickly as a scene in fast-forward video. To best use the heat of the sun, luck and departure timing are critical.

  Along with the planet’s major roads, my World Basemap CD also contains vital topographical details. My laptop becomes a command center for strategic planning. In Topo mode, when clicking on a specific road, a chart pops up, displaying elevations and distances, graphically correlating with a sliding ball on the route selected. This permits me to schedule high summits for the warmer parts of the day. I fear to guess the temperature at 7,000 feet, but, whatever it is, I’ll be tackling it at 2:00 p.m. If the road remains dry, the cold is manageable.

  Local long-riders in Istanbul, with furrowed brows, advised against a winter crossing; “If the snow doesn’t get you, the ice will.” But when asked about alternatives, they only shrugged their shoulders, “It’s much prettier in the spring.” Yet waiting out the winter in western Turkey means enduring humid heat and monsoon storms in the chaos of Asia. If I can reach India by Christmas, that means ideal conditions for the next year. A short section of road ice, at the very best, promises a guaranteed high-impact fall and a grinding slide. I must constantly strain to scan for slick sections ahead, guessing which are frozen water and which are just wet asphalt. Yet today all is clear.

  Turkish toll roads are equal to Europe’s, with autobahn-quality surfaces stretching out across the west. It’s as though they were created with a distant future in mind because for the last two days most roads have been deserted. Built wide enough to handle big city rush-hour traffic, the triple-lane highways are empty, and there are no cities. It’s hard to imagine what road-planners had in mind. To remind myself that better times are coming, I continue to zoom in and out on the GPS screen to glimpse the approaching Mediterranean Sea. Warmth ahead provides something positive to focus on.

  I’ve been riding between mountain peaks and dormant volcanoes, so the sun sets early, instantly forcing the temperature down another 10 degrees. Just in time, an abrupt, rapid descent lies ahead. The highway suddenly spirals downward in a steep, dizzying decline to the sea. Within 20 minutes, the winking lights of Adana, the last stopover before Syria, come into in view. Traveling in Westernized Turkey is comfortable and safe. Wanderers are treated well. Yet the religious enigmas of the Middle East continue to beckon me deeper into a world where Islam is law and the very roots of civilization have been buried and reborn a thousand times. In the morning, another chapter of the adventure begins, as I am drawn into the scented mysteries of an ancient world.

  Arabs

  December 4, 2004

  Palmyra, Syria

  Third World border crossings can be lengthy hassles, but my processing from Turkey to Syria today only takes two hours. The cost is 40 dollars for insurance and road tax and 10 more to bribe fake immigration inspectors before being released into a flowing demolition derby. Turks are timid drivers compared to Syrians — the 30-mile terror ride in the dark to Aleppo is only a peek at what else is in store. There are too many near-death experiences to consider recounting.

  Anxious to meet the Arabs, I’ve been practicing the language. Spoken Arabic isn’t hard to learn, but, with the flowing symbols written backward, it’s tough to read. So far, Arabs are extremely polite when greeting everyone, with an extensive predetermined dialogue to recite before real conversation begins. But questions about health and family are too much to remember, so foreigners are forgiven for their ignorance and applauded when they try. Translated into English, “Ahlan wa sahlan” literally means welcome, so, when addressing strangers, they reverse it into one of the few words everyone knows in English — “Welcome!”

  Hearing this a hundred times a day, I clasp my heart in return, saying, “Ahlan bik.”

  Arab hospitality includes gracious offers to guide me around Aleppo, invitations for tea or help to carry my baggage. In other countries, such gestures are given for tips or they lead into scams. But Syrians do it to be nice. You’d think since everyone is so pleasant, I could relax and trust them. Taught well by the smiles of thieving Gypsy kids in Prague, I keep my guard up and don’t leave anything of value on the bike or in the tank bags. Apparently, whatever is not bolted down is fair game.

  At a downtown restaurant, locals crowding around my table exchanging small talk was normal. And who would have suspected a diversion to block a line of sight to my bike, which was quietly being stripped of its vital driving lights? Because the danger factor increases tenfold after dark, I try not to ride at
night. When poor timing dictates the need, auxiliary lights brighten inky nights, making a significant safety difference. But as I said yesterday when someone stole my water bottles and this morning when the chain lube disappeared — what the heck, turn the page. Let’s only count the good times.

  Other than a famous castle and some extraordinarily well-preserved Roman ruins, there is little to experience in Syria except endless deserts and its ever-so-curious, friendly people. Being a desert lover, I take a day trip east toward the Iraqi border intent on returning off-road to the Mediterranean. While traveling the dual-lane highway, warnings of insurgents infiltrating through Syria make me uneasy about my California license plate — it’ll be safer leaving the pavement.

  My electric vest remains on high, and, riding due west, a glaring afternoon sun has no effect on the cold. The desert is powerfully empty yet alive with intrigue, a pleasant reminder of being lonesome in crowded cities and at home embracing desolation. Barren plains tug and nurse my restless spirit with long-lost recollections and journeys back in time — loneliness is at the center of my metamorphosis. Crossing a country buried in 3,000 years of history further expands the imagery.

  The pebble-crusted, flattened landscape is sprinkled with peculiar beehive-shaped houses built from clay blocks. Isolated Bedouin camps are interesting stops. A bearded man in long, pale robes waves me in with invitations for bread and tea. Allies without borders.

  Abdu Mahan, an Arab sheepherder, shares his pot of tea with a stranger as have his ancestors for the last 3,000 years. His closest neighbors are beyond the horizon; the world to him is infinite. A thick black woolen tent lined with rich, colorful carpets covering the hard-packed dirt floor subtly enhances a lifestyle as ancient as the desert itself. His wife and two daughters scurry, covering their faces, hiding at my approach. We’re close enough to the Iraqi border to hear American fighter jets ominously roaring overhead, muffling the bawling of his sheep. They have no electricity or TV, but a pained look in his eyes is evidence that he is aware of the war a hundred miles away. Abdu carries no weapons, only a walking stick for tending his flocks. A man of peace, it’s unlikely he hates anyone, and neither of us understands why men continue to butcher each other in the name of God and money. Nomads from different worlds, we sip in silence, knowing that we are of the same spirit and will depart this world as we entered it — alone.

  Departures

  December 8, 2004

  Amman, Jordan

  Damascus, the oldest continuously inhabited city on earth, with its elaborate restaurant goat feasts and cheap accommodation, was becoming an easy place to linger — but getting lazy means getting stuck. The main city mosque was one of the few in Syria that admitted non-Muslims, but after my morning visit, all that remained for me was to schedule a departure for Jordan. If your itinerary depends on politics, it’s possible to find yourself stuck in the Middle East all winter just trying to leave. The decision to move on is often determined by the moods of restrictive governments or by the fact that your pocketful of local currency has run out. Spend it while you can; money changers at border crossings always cheat travelers. Turkey had offered gas at six bucks a gallon, but Syria’s engine-pinging super was only two — so after saddling up, I spent the last of my wrinkled pounds on fuel.

  Exiting Syria took five minutes. The Jordanian side was reminiscent of Central American frontiers — you wait in long lines at numerous tiny one-way-mirrored windows only to discover that you are at the wrong one. Even Arabic speakers were confused and annoyed. I was lucky to buy a visa in Damascus for 11 dollars; they were 50 at the border.

  Riding south toward Amman on a modern highway with road signs written in English under the Arabic was relaxing. Thirty miles in, an empty desert abruptly sprouts sand-colored, square houses with rooftop satellite dishes, which silhouette as mushrooms on boxes against the pale evening glow. When robed Arabs see me stop to check directions, their first words are “Welcome, welcome.”

  “Yes my friend, I know that place. You must turn here, then turn there and then go that way and then go some more and you will find it!”

  “Yeah, okay, thanks, that should be easy from here. Sulcran, sulcran, Allah maak.”

  Jordan and Syria offer little in the way of tourism — combine that with terrorist fears in the region and a war going on next door and it’s understandable why there are so few foreigners. The tourist hotels are empty, but the business hotels are full. This ten-dollar-a-night cement-block building is heated by a hot water system that the manager refuses to turn on for only one guest. An appointment is needed for showers, but to remove frosty air from my sparse cubicle, a small portable gas heater was provided by a friendly doorman. “There is no ventilation Mr. Glen, so you must leave the window open when you use it.” Not bad considering it’s colder inside than out. There is, however, a television in the downstairs lobby.

  Tired of the Western media bias against them, enterprising Arabs have created their own version of CNN. Now, they have their own biased news coverage against the West. Al Jazeera televises graphic scenes of wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, carefully minimizing the violence that Arabs commit against each other. Even though various sects of Islam feud among themselves, they feel that their often violent struggles should not include outsiders. For situations like this they say, “The enemy of my enemy is my brother.” In hotels and restaurants, TVs are tuned to Al Jazeera, and even with the volume down, when blood and guts start flowing, crowded rooms fall silent. When I ask local people about their worldview, they all want to know why Christian armies are stationed in Muslim lands and not the other way around.

  As an American, I am the political white elephant wherever I travel, but unless I ask for opinions, Arabs are too polite to comment. Most of the world is angry about America’s Middle East policy; the Islamic world is furious. Americans are seen as meddlers pumping billions into an Israeli war machine that is operating against the Arab world. Conversations begin friendly and often end in bitter remarks. It’s interesting how people of God in the Middle East, often the same race — Christians, Muslims and Jews — hate one another. You love the wrong God, therefore you must die. I wrestle myself to sleep at night, troubled by the day’s disturbing dialogue.

  The Syrians had questions. “So Glen, what’s the difference between chopping men’s heads off and dropping bombs where civilians die?”

  “Tell me Glen, what’s the difference between a Palestinian suicide bomber and Israeli helicopter gunships attacking refugee camps and killing children?” Both sides seek blood revenge. An Arab man in a business suits states, “U.S. tax money kills my brothers, so America sponsors terrorism.” Even though I had many questions, most of the time I was sorry for asking.

  The Saudis are another story. In efforts to preserve strict Islamic values, they prefer to keep foreigners out. Unless you are a Muslim attending hajj or a businessman generating income for the kingdom, you’re not welcome. In any case, don’t bring your wife; she will not be permitted to drive or venture into public alone. There is no tourism in Saudi Arabia, not even a three-day transit visa for a determined Western motorcyclist out to meet the people of the world. Embassy staff this morning were curt. “Why don’t you just put your motorbike on a plane Mr. Heggstad?” Even with persistent efforts from a supporter in the U.S. haggling with Saudi officials in Washington, they will not budge or offer assistance.

  The options narrow. Ride southwest to the port of Aqaba and take the ferry across the Red Sea to Egypt and attempt airfreighting from Cairo or continue on the forbidden route to Israel and try it from Tel Aviv. Transport out of Egypt would involve several weeks of unknown bureaucratic nonsense, and since Pakistan will not allow Israeli citizens to even change planes in their country, they will not accept their cargo. After a short ride to the ruins at Petra tomorrow, Amman to Karachi is the new plan.

  Intimidated?

  December 11, 2004

  Petra, Jordan


  When continually asked which country was the most impressive, my reply is always Mongolia. But my opinion of which holds the most alluring sites constantly changes — the castles of Europe, the mosques of Islam or the splendors of Siberia? Today it’s Jordan, with its ancient city of Petra, built in the third century BC by industrious Nabataeans to control the trade route from Damascus to Arabia. Caravans of silk, spices and slaves enriched the inhabitants long enough for them to master metals, sculpture and hydraulic engineering. Carved into the sheer walls of rocky crevices, the city met its ultimate demise in a massive earthquake in 555 AD.

  And like so many man-made wonders of the world, all that remains to stoke the imagination are the hollow structures of a lost civilization. Other than advances in science, how much has really changed in the last thousand years? Olive-skin Bedouin men with flowing headdresses atop trotting camels send gaping tourists’ imaginations back into history through a land forever in turmoil. Is it possible to ever know peace in a region of religious hostilities? Or will fanatics from colliding cultures take the world down with them? The Middle East, still seething like a puffing volcano, is today the center of world conflict, preparing for the next eruption. No matter where you’re traveling in the land of devout, it’s hard to escape wondering whose God will prevail.

  Riding closer to the Red Sea, my uneasiness grows as I think about crossing the Holy Land. I’m so close to Egypt and Israel but deterred by illicit bureaucracy or fear of a poisoning passport stamp — it feels like I’m succumbing to political intimidation, surrendering because it’s too hard or cowering before government buffaloing. But if I don’t cross, it means extremists have their way. For the last several weeks, a bad taste has been developing; it appears each country will hassle me for visiting the others. Before embarking on this journey, most everyone I know declared this the wrong time to tour the world. “Glen, what about terrorists?”