One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  My answer was: “Now more than ever is the time to travel.” Terrorists want to make us afraid to venture from our homes and lead normal lives. They provoke us into turning on one another and seeking safety by strangling our hard-earned freedoms through repressive new legislation. Citizens of the world should never be intimidated by terrorists or obstinate governments.

  There are nations that I harbor deep disagreement with and initially considered boycotting. But if I expect to be free of political branding, I must not do it myself. To prove my belief that although governments don’t get along people do requires changing my own thinking. In the beginning, when asked which countries were on my itinerary, the answer was easy: “Whichever issues a visa.” But now some of those countries want to punish those who visit their enemies. Sudan, a country necessary to later transit North Africa, is known to reject visa applications showing evidence of visits to Israel. In turn, I can expect trouble in Israel with a Syrian passport stamp.

  The southern Jordanian seaport of Aqaba is two hours from here, and with a short ferryboat ride to Egypt, it’s possible to reach Cairo in two days. A week of museums and pyramids would allow time for a crossing to Israel and Christmas in Jerusalem. It’s going to be tight, but the 14-day Pakistani visa is good until mid-January. This requires doubling back through Jordan and hoping they are quick on their export procedures. In the spirit of adventure travel, though, I’ll worry about crossing those bridges later.

  Bedouins

  December 13, 2004

  Wadi Rum, Jordan

  When it comes to adventure travel, you can’t take a wrong turn — a thought shared simultaneously by both parties when I meet a young backpacking British woman touring the ruins of Petra. She, weary of advances from optimistic teenage Arab boys, and I, lonesome for a woman’s touch, seem a good match. Neither of us requires convincing. Doubling-up on a motorcycle can be crowded, but Barbara’s warm, little body fits perfectly between the small of my back and her rucksack strapped to the motorcycle tail rack. Because the load is awkward, it is understood that when we encounter pockets of deep sand she will climb off and walk while I spin through, wrestling to the other side.

  Once off main roads, street signs, if they exist, are in Arabic only, and no one speaks English. Not only were Barbara and I unsure of how to find our way, we weren’t certain what we were looking for, except it had to be something not in guidebooks.

  Southern Jordan comprises thousands of square miles of sandy desert divided by steep ravines (wadis) with powdery dunes piled high against sheer rocky cliffs reaching toward the sky. Scenes from Lawrence of Arabia were filmed here. Bypassing signs that say Tourist Road, we continue another 10 miles until we find a suitable photo op for an empty panorama. We didn’t realize how close we were to people until noticing a half-dozen children running toward us yelling, “Welcome, welcome!” Sipping and waving with invisible cups, they continued shouting and beckoning, “Tea, tea.”

  Their excitement seemed sincere, and since the bike was now buried in blow sand, we had little choice other than to be led by the hand back to waiting Bedouin elders. In a strict Islamic culture, to sleep together without problems, Barbara and I decide to wear wedding rings and declare ourselves married. Once the Bedouin are satisfied that we are legitimate, negotiations begin for a spouse-trade. The men are allowed four wives, who can be bartered for the right price. But after seeing the toothless-wonder one old man had to offer, it was clear who’d be getting the best of the deal.

  Bedouin don’t recognize international borders, and those still living as nomads roam with little interference. Renowned for their hospitality, they insist we stay. At night, the village women bake large flat disks of bread tossed directly in the fire coals to be dusted off before eating with spicy tomato paste. The dirt-floor shack is too smoky to see across but warm enough to hold off a biting desert breeze. Cold dry air sucks moisture from our skin, leaving gritty lips of paper.

  Mysterious young women covered in beige veils wait silently in the shadows until it’s determined we’re safe to approach. Within moments of a mixture of our English and Arabic, the Bedouin girls bond with Barbara and coax her to dress in their traditional clothing. I am ordered to remain outside their home as the giggling entourage drapes her in fancy full-length black linens. And when I donned a Bedouin headdress, we became members of the clan. She later said that once behind closed doors, the cloaks and veils came off to reveal chatty teenaged girls in jeans and colorful blouses. They told Barbara that they love wearing the headscarf (hijab) and that beauty should be revealed through the eyes.

  It’s made an enormous difference traveling together — Barbara is no longer hassled and groped by Arab men, and we gain immediate acceptance with locals as a married couple. When dreaming of adventure, it’s times like these that travelers live for — camping beneath a blackened canopy of shooting stars amongst strangers who treat us like family. Journeying into simplicity with the Bedouin reminds us of how we all should live. A special room is prepared for us, with bedding of thick, soft carpets and piles of heavy wool blankets.

  In the morning, the women teach Barbara how to prepare breakfast; more fresh bread with dishes of olive oil and fresh herbs. They are deeply moved when seeing my copy of the Koran with English translations next to Arabic script and seem pleased to think there was hope for Westerners yet. It is hard to decline pleadings that we stay, as the women cry and give presents of bracelets to Barbara. After farewell photos, we are back in the desert wind for a short ride south to Aqaba. Tomorrow is our ferryboat crossing to Egypt. The Sinai awaits.

  Forks

  December 16, 2004

  Sharm el Sheik, Egypt

  Next to Russian, Egyptian customs procedures are the most complex. But as the ferry landed, a special tourist police officer boarded the ship, whose sole mission was to assist me and another rider through the mindless series of dozens of document stampings and dizzying numbers of vehicle inspections. Five hours of formalities later, we were legalized with Egyptian license plates to go with new Egyptian driver’s licenses. Odd men on the road.

  It’s always interesting to note the unique items travelers choose to bring. Folding lawn chairs, favorite hats and laptops have become the norm. Mark from England hopes to ride into Africa loaded down with 50 pounds of paragliding gear. Freed from the customs compound, we race a setting sun for the nearest coastal shelter.

  Because of scattered stretches of five-star resorts and restaurants, the Sinai is known as the Red Sea Riviera. For the best diving on earth, there’re hundreds of water-sport shops where you can rent everything from Jet Skis to scuba gear. Local Bedouins own half the land, with some becoming overnight millionaires on revenues from land leases and building booms. Cancun, Mexico, is to the U.S. what the Red Sea Riviera is to Europe: a year-round sunny playground with all the comforts of home.

  It’s also a target ripe for another al-Qaeda bombing attack like the one in Taba earlier this year. Military roadblocks are manned by nervous young soldiers fingering triggers on submachine guns, but after the first passport check, we’re waved through the rest. Traveling under such tight security is unnerving, especially knowing this is not the real Egypt.

  This artificial paradise of extravagance and opulence beckons, but it’s better to learn about real Egyptians, not sterile colonies of Western affluence surrounded by golf courses. Continuing past sprawling gated luxury resorts and alluring tourist traps, I am reminded of what to avoid. A disappointing lap around touristy Sharm el Sheik alleviated any further curiosity.

  As the time dwindled before Barbara had to return to London, we had less to say yet more to consider. She must finish her MBA and go back to travel writing as I sail solo again across the Gulf of Suez. After the ferry from Sharm el Sheik to Hurghada, I’ll ride on to Luxor and the Valley of the Kings. Due to violent rebel groups infesting the countryside, sections of the Central Nile Valley are closed to travelers. For the retu
rn leg, maybe I’ll catch a riverboat down the Nile to Cairo.

  Wandering with Barbara was a dream, yet I knew nothing about her. We spoke little of our lives. Of course, through my website, mine is an open book; all but the most intimate details are there for readers to judge — and later, even those will be revealed. I keep my life’s darkest moments of hurt and anger to myself, honoring a pledge to write only of the good and let the media report the rest.

  Although Barbara and I reached a fork in the road that would separate us, up until the final moment there were silent hopes that something might change. A flight delay? A lost ticket? Reflecting back to our last fireside dinner on sandy floors of a seaside café, I try to imagine the grandeur of pyramids or memorable photos by the Great Sphinx. Upriver scenery should be exciting, and the Egyptian experience overwhelming. Yet why such dreariness? Perhaps it was the empty roadside farewell as she waited for a bus to the airport and I rode south.

  The swelling sea is rough enough now for seatbelts as this speeding hydrofoil ferry bobs and tumbles among the waves, yet I am oblivious to the surrounding groans. My eyes are open to the future, yet they see only a fading past. Through a crack in my heart, a desert wind whistles a hollow tune while recollections of Barbara and the Bedouin evaporate into the bleakness of solitude.

  Deserted Deserts

  December 17, 2004

  The Eastern Arabian Desert, Egypt

  When we land in Hurghada, an Egyptian rider I met on the hydrofoil shows me to a cheap hotel, with an invitation to join him later for a night at the local disco. “I can pick you up at midnight.” If I didn’t normally fall asleep at 11 that might be a good idea. But he persists, “I have a safari company, you can join 30 of us tomorrow for a visit to an authentic Bedouin village for authentic Bedouin tea. I’ll make a special price for you my friend, only 30 dollars.”

  “Thanks, but it’s better I get an early start for Luxor in the morning.”

  Fifty miles down the coast of the eastern Arabian Desert was supposed to be an open road leading west toward the Nile River and Luxor. But the turnoff is blocked by heavily armed military forces under sandbag barricades. Islamic extremists are at work in the countryside so the road is closed to foreigners — the commander directs me to another possibility 40 miles south.

  That’s okay, the highway along the Red Sea is a stunning scene of aquamarine waters separated from a booming surf by hundreds of miles of coral reefs. Yet it’s the same story at the second checkpoint — foreigners are forbidden for safety reasons. I gesture a rifle with my hands, “You mean, boom, boom, boom?”

  “No, no. The road just has too many trucks on it today and there could be some rough spots.” The first commander told the truth, but this one doesn’t want to admit that they don’t control the countryside. They, too, send me further south, seeking another road that leads directly to Aswan. If this keeps up, I’ll be in Sudan by midnight.

  The entire coastal region is under construction, with so many new projects that companies have built cement factories every 10 miles. Yet it’s empty of people. Friday is the Islamic day of rest, so it wasn’t unusual for job sites to be vacant, but there were no tourists either. The roads are as bare as the hundreds of ghost town construction projects littering the coast. Half-built shopping malls, shells of half-finished condominiums and massive unpainted resort compounds were all deserted. It’s as though a year ago they all began at once and abruptly stopped together.

  Even at the few functioning five-star hotels, the only humans were guards at the gates. For a traveler, living in constant crud gets old. So once a month, I stretch the budget and splurge on a bug-free room with clean sheets, satellite TV and hot water. Anxious to see if the low-season crisis could be exploited, I stop to check prices. In the marble-coated reception area of a posh resort, an optimistic manager offers a special deal — an all-inclusive package for 100 U.S. dollars. “Sorry, my budget is 50 a day for hotel, food and gas.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll accept 40 and include a gourmet breakfast, lunch and dinner.” Because of recent car-bombings, parking in front of hotels is prohibited, but they provide a spacious suite overlooking the Red Sea on one side and a football field–sized lagoon-style swimming pool on the other. At dinner, in a resort for 600 there are 25 well-dressed Italians and one shabby Yankee motorcyclist wearing big, clunky riding boots. After a sumptuous scampi feast, one at a time they approach to shake my hand, “Bravo, bravo!” Later, we clink wine glasses poolside under a crescent moon serenaded with singsong Egyptian love tunes. Yes, I think to myself, the Viking be livin’ large.

  Unescorted

  December 19, 2004

  Luxor, Egypt

  Tired of debating issues with checkpoint police at the final westbound road to the Nile, I am determined to continue, with or without their permission. If I can’t reason with them, I’ll find a way to cross off-road, but there will be no backtracking up the coast to be told no all over again. We’re at a polite standoff, but a patient police major agrees to hear my case back at headquarters.

  It’s an encouraging moment as I enter the compound and am immediately surrounded by cops extending their hands, “Welcome, welcome!” In the major’s office, he offers tea and sympathy but still insists the road is closed to foreigners.

  “I appreciate the concerns of police, but if there is a chance, I would like to try.”

  He understands only the word “police” and asks, “You are American police?”

  Seeing an opening and recalling that there are cops in my judo school, I assure him, “Better than that, I am teacher of police.”

  He reconsiders. “You understand there are no fuel stations and there is much danger?”

  “That’s fine,” I state, pointing out the window, “that motorcycle can go 600 miles on one tank.”

  For the next 20 minutes, from his rattletrap, severely dented police truck, he transmits a series of queries over two separate sets of VHF radios with 10-foot whip antennas. The relayed messages are likely monitored. If the insurgents didn’t know a foreigner was coming before, they know now. With a final shrugging of shoulders and wave of his hand, the crazy American is permitted to pass, yet I suspect that, in view of the lull in violence, he also thinks that there is little risk.

  Egyptian Islamic extremists connected to al-Qaeda are linked to several terrorist attacks against tourists a year ago, which destroyed an already paranoid travel industry. Murdered tourists have cost the country millions, and the government takes no chances, sealing off the entire Nile River Valley and refusing civilian traffic unless escorted by the military. This is clearly an overreaction, still I heed his final warning, “Don’t stop for any reason.”

  Long stretches of the newly constructed highway are devoid of life, not even a tree. It is a ride across Mars — low-level, parched, rocky mountains with broad, sweeping curves, but even in the hot dry air, it was a motorcyclist’s delight. With the throttle wide open, 150 miles passes in two hours, until I am teased by balmy breezes off the Nile blowing through countless rows of towering date palm groves.

  Distant from the tourist strip of the Red Sea, Egyptian life emerges through the sweet smell of fresh fruit stands and camel dung. Donkey carts on the highway are smothered beneath bulging loads of sugarcane, followed by throngs of children shouting and waving. “Welcome, welcome!” Street-corner greasy food stalls made my stomach gurgle just looking, but after an hour, a traveler’s favorite meal appears — roast chicken. It’s the most consistent protein source on the road — five bucks a piece in every country on earth.

  Decisions — do I head to the laid-back city of Aswan, which is an hour south, or go two more to the north for the legendary time-capsule of Luxor? With sufficient daylight remaining, Luxor wins. But it’s a route with even more police checkpoints. Fortunately, the cops are lazy, sitting in trucks, cradling assault rifles. From seated positions they wave me to stop. But I look straight ah
ead, easing over speed bumps and pretending not to see. They will certainly demand that I wait until tomorrow’s military escort. I watch my mirrors, checking for soldiers leveling firearms, but no one gets excited enough to pursue.

  Cops ’n’ Dodgers

  December 22, 2004

  Cairo, Egypt

  It takes four hours to fill out the necessary paperwork in the crowded military office to satisfy apprehensive Egyptian tourist police that I want to travel to Cairo alone — with no police escort or in a slow-moving convoy among dozens of stinky tour buses. To relieve government liability, a reluctant commander demands a handwritten statement declaring the condition and ability of my equipment, along with an acknowledgement of unspecified dangers that everyone denies exist. To seal formalities, copies are faxed to provincial authorities further north.

  Finally, shortly before sundown, I am directed to the nearby highway and instructed to have each military checkpoint radio ahead to the next one; advising that I had arrived and would continue until reaching Cairo. Anticipating misunderstandings along the way, I request a written document authorizing solo travel. “Don’t worry Mr. Glen, everyone knows you’re coming.”

  At the first roadblock out of Luxor, a friendly federal police lieutenant checks my papers and scribbles in flowing Arabic on his clipboard that American motorcyclist Glen Heggstad, bearing Sinai plate number 52, is officially on his way. If a few Europeans got shot in New York and Boston, would the U.S. government use this as an excuse to declare martial law on the entire East Coast? Worse than that, I assume that if the bad guys are seeking targets, it’s likely they’d choose whoever is locked in a convoy.