One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Each of the first 10 checkpoints are five miles apart and require delays while soldiers radio behind and ahead, confirming I am continuing north. But the further from Luxor I get, the less authorities understand the situation. Finally, one soldier flatly insists I accept a military escort. It’s useless to argue as armed men clamber aboard sputtering old pickup trucks, eager to protect me from whatever happened a few years ago.

  A long-dreamed-about sunset on the Nile is reduced to a muddy glow through a translucent glaze of bug guts on my visor while I’m in a 30 mile-per-hour procession of wailing sirens and flashing blue lights. An hour later, I am delivered to a local hotel sealed off by soldiers and ordered not to leave. This time they are serious.

  “Can I at least go out for Internet?”

  An overcautious captain worries for my safety. “No, the manager has agreed to let you use his.”

  At sunrise, a new game ensues. At their pace, it will take days to reach Cairo, so when they assign new escorts at checkpoints, I quickly ditch them at traffic snarls. Freedom is brief but delicious. Annoyed by my antics but friendly to a fault, soldiers at the following roadblocks patiently plead that I wait for new escorts. Recognizing the overkill, still, no one wants to accept responsiblility for mishaps, so they all do as they are told. But even when they sometimes catch up with me, the sternest commanders break into toothy smiles when I pull off my helmet, laughing.

  Gawking crowds in small-town traffic jams wave and cheer, welcoming the alien vagabond. Fleeing the appointed entourage through side streets and alleys, I find a dingy roast chicken stand. Curious locals peer through smudgy windows at the traveler from Mars, with questions about his strange machine. I explain in sign language while demonstrating GPS functions, and soon I have them stroking their beards with satisfying nods.

  A stop for oranges in a crowded market draws an instant throng of giggling schoolchildren reaching to shake hands and pose for pictures. “We want you to stay with us!” they shout.

  “Is there a hotel here?”

  “No, no. You may stay with any of us.”

  An alarming surge of bodies intensifies as I am nearly shoved off my feet, being almost killed with kindness. Everyone wants to shake hands. Dozens turn into a hundred before plainclothes police arrive to disperse them and order me on my way. Turbaned men in bell-shaped gowns shout goodbye as children sprint beside me, and finally I return to the highway.

  Weaving through chaos, I compete for road space with camels beneath enormous loads of sugarcane and strings of housewives returning from the riverbanks with laundry loads balanced atop their heads. A 450-mile ride tediously stretches into fascinating days snaking along the Nile until delivering me into the pulsating streets of Cairo well after dark. My first thoughts when entering the confusion of cities are when to leave, yet with so much to see, decisions of where to spend Christmas and New Years are left to whatever unfolds.

  Christmas in Giza

  December 26, 2004

  Suez Canal, Egypt

  Everyone has a fantasy to-do list. Travel the world, date a movie star or visit the pyramids of Giza are a few dreams that come to mind. Life wouldn’t be complete without fulfilling the latter, and what better time than Christmas? Most people won’t lose sleep pondering when they’ll see the pyramids, but if the opportunity arises, they’ll know what’s been missing. After the grandeur of sultans’ palaces, the majesty of conquerors’ castles and ruins of Roman empires, these sacred tombs of the pharaohs exceed the other ancient marvels combined. And choosing a hotel with a panoramic sunset view of the imposing majesty beyond guaranteed a restless night.

  An early doze with hopes that I’d awaken early failed to happen. Images of mythical triangles at sunrise tugged me from slumber at halftime, and the more I insisted on sleep, the brighter they glowed. I was groggy and hungry, but there was no time to eat. After guzzling two liters of water, I was off into the brisk predawn air, ahead of eager crowds.

  Unfortunately, it seems many had the idea of photographing legendary antiquities before the tourist invasion. Daybreak revealed a glaring, polluted haze in a cacophony of snorting camels, honking taxis and black-smoking tour buses, all converging on ticket booths scheduled to open at eight. To maintain minimum historical dignity, the pyramids are fenced off for miles except for a busy paved entrance-and-exit for tourists — with the ever-watchful military outnumbering visitors. There has got to be a better way.

  Bedouin teenagers offer long, monotonous camel rides to circle in from the rear for unobstructed approaches through the open desert. Unfortunately, the sand is too soft for a loaded-down motorcycle with street tires. But who’s going to let common sense get in the way now? An hour later, sweating with desire and furiously paddling to remain upright, I am still searching for the Bedouin secret entry through the fence. I spent more time buried than riding while spinning over drifting dunes along the wire barrier. Recalling admonishments from my riding coach to relax my arms temporarily staved off fatigue — but, all the while, I knew I must return the same way.

  With an overheated engine, a final sand-flinging moment occurs at the summit of a dune that has more determination than I do. At first, I am too exhausted to comprehend stumbling into the majestic gaze of history — yet soon enough, a stately serenity of 5,000 years commands me into submission. Big enough to see from the moon, these holiest shrines of civilization shrink the horizon, solemnly shimmering in the desert landscape.

  The lure intensifies. What powers dwell within? Should I join the masses on an official tour? Four hours later, bent in half with my spine grazing the rough-chiseled ceiling, 150 of us panting gawkers scurry down through a narrow granite tunnel into the steamy depths of Cheops, the biggest and oldest pyramid. Once nearly 500 feet high and 13H acres at the base, it’s honeycombed with hidden passageways. Jammed together, stooped over shoulder-to-shoulder with other tourists, if you don’t start with claustrophobia, you develop it quickly. Declining wooden ramps with rungs to slow a steep descent are barely wide enough for one, yet the line stretches two abreast, coming and going. Though cameras are forbidden in the burial chamber, I find an empty corner for a moment of contemplation and to burn into memory that which I feel.

  Study the walls, sense the air and slow the mind. Zazen, the sitting or kneeling meditation posture in Japanese Buddhism, comfortably aligns the spine. Like sinking into a soft leather chair after a long, hard run, I plunge — deeper — seeking, listening, hearing. The energy of the pyramids gently reverberates, dangling images of geometric shapes and mathematical equations. Is this warm, humid softness of the dark a key to universal knowledge? Is it here where the ancients gathered science and wisdom? Is this altar a gateway to the stars? A unified shuffling of shoes on stone indicates it’s time to make room for the next tour group — I’ll have to ponder the pyramids another day.

  Sunrise on Mount Sinai

  December 28, 2004

  St. Catherine Village, Egypt

  Still undecided about visiting Israel, I head east from Giza, back toward the Sinai, where the first major city is a major contrast to the rest of Egypt. Miles of smoking oil refineries and storage tanks line the approach to Suez, as the canal itself is clogged with idle freighters and giant supertankers waiting to pass. There is little worth stopping for, but I decide to stay overnight to get an early start. From this stinky industrial center, it’s a full day’s ride south to St. Catherine village along a sparkling gulf that’s prettier in the light.

  Since my best female friend, Sharon, has ordered me to climb Mt. Sinai, there is no choice. So that I experience the most incredible sunrise on the planet, my fierce little Israeli pal has insisted that the 6,800-foot ascent must begin at two in the morning. For 25 years, since we were pen pals while she worked on a kibbutz, Sharon and I have spoken of doing this together. But trekking into the night up a mountain on foot when there is a perfectly good motorcycle to ride has little appeal for me. Now she
knows how much I love her.

  Picturing deserts usually conjures images of vast, empty wastelands of soft sand, but it can also be boulder-strewn, hard-packed, and perfect for motorcycling. Today, my ride off-road across short stretches of the Sinai desert leads to sheer, shiny mountains of barren, wrinkled granite. Sometimes you just have to go and find out for yourself. I could easily blow the day cruising to nowhere in search of more friendly Bedouins, but to reach my destination before dark requires that I return to asphalt and follow the route on my GPS.

  A lone police checkpoint marks the turnoff from the coast to St. Catherine with no indication of what lies ahead. Often, the desert lulls you into boredom, but other times it smacks you in the face with sensuous splendor. As an eagle, I soar into an early afternoon darkness between sharp, rising mountainsides and silent Arab villages. The Sinai comes alive. Gliding among dark canyon walls so high that they block the sun, the temperature plummets to zero. In minutes, I zip into an electric vest and double thermals.

  Here is where God spoke to Moses from the burning bush, leading him up Mt. Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. At dusk, dozens of packed tour buses roar into dusty hotel parking lots and spew out hordes of weary Christian pilgrims. Organized by nationality, they march obediently to designated quarters, where they stay until embarking on a predawn climb to the peak. Sunrise on Mt. Sinai is said to be a spiritual awakening, but events begin poorly.

  A crowd of angry Nigerians argue with their guide, “But this is not a four-star resort.”

  Later, at dinner, another group passes our table, asking what religion we are. Beneath elegantly framed scrolls of Arabic scripted Muslim prayers, Egyptian staff are tolerant when asked, “How about you, do you have Jesus in your life?”

  The hotel manager smiles, “Sorry sir, I don’t speak English.”

  Sharon has provided me with the names of Bedouin friends to visit. A long, sandy road into the desert leads to the cement-block homes of Ahmed and Saad. Ahmed speaks English. “Your are brother of Sharon, you are brother of mine.”

  Political discussions in the Middle East have previously left me sleepless, but temptations to know Ahmed’s thoughts overcome all.

  “Ahmed, how was life under Israeli occupation?”

  With a smile, he stares into the cackling fire, uttering, “Paradise.”

  He continues: “Israel man give work to Bedouin. When Bedouin sick, Israel man bring doctor. Bedouin work, Israel man pay money, Bedouin no work, Israel man no pay.”

  “What about your laws, what if a Bedouin kills?”

  “We put him in the sand with only head outside — family of dead man shoot with gun three times from a hundred meters. If no kill, he can be free. Allah must decide.”

  On matrimony, he explains that Bedouin can marry non-Muslims if they both live under Islamic law, adding that if there is no mosque nearby, Muslims may pray in churches.

  “What if Bedouin man wants to divorce his wife?”

  “He can divorce but must give her house and all his camels.”

  “Tell me of your camels.”

  “The camel is life of Bedouin. We start to train at six months and work them at three years. Camel good for Bedouin mind. When I angry or sad, I ride camel for long time in desert and come back happy. At 35, camel mean and bite — when 30, we eat.”

  As tea is served with chicken and rice, the sky darkens into a diamond-sprinkled canopy of coal dust, while the evening chill stings my eyes. Returning to the hotel, I consider how a short visit with the Bedouin means we are brothers for life.

  The Lonely Planet guidebook says it’s a three-hour trek to the freezing summit of Mt. Sinai, but I assume that’s for tourists and oversleep an hour, deciding I can do it in less time by eliminating rest stops. It’s 3 a.m. as I leave the motorcycle resting in the twilight shadows of St. Catherine Monastery, home to 22 Greek Orthodox monks. A fleet of double-decker tour buses lines the foothills with dozing drivers awaiting the return of exhausted passengers.

  Ten minutes of hiking renders me drenched in sweat, stuffing my thermals and jacket into a plastic bag. A moonlit trail reveals ghostly images of robed Bedouin guides floating beside lumbering camels. Two backpacking British girls stride past, snickering at a wheezing out-of-shape motorcyclist. To stave off humiliation, I kick it up to cardiac-arrest mode. Their pace is what I would jog a mile. Mountain climbing hags from hell tarnishing my pride. The final 750 stone steps are too steep, and I have to take breathers every 20. Barely out of breath, the witches wait at the top. “Need some help Glen?”

  Chilling gales howl across ice-patched peaks as hundreds of pilgrims huddle beneath wool blankets spread over massive slabs of granite. Cold from the stone penetrates our bones. As hundreds of videos whirl and cameras click, a tiny spark of distant light grows brighter, reaching out across the early morning sky. Soon a bursting ball of blazing orange ignites the mountainsides into radiant hues of glowing beige. In the grip of the universe, a befuddled planet hurtles in a furious spin toward the horizon. A narrowing rocky landscape eerily stretches wider, and suddenly I begin to feel the rotation of the earth.

  While the daylight grows, as if on cue, awestruck masses stand, waiting a turn to file back down the mountainside past legions of Bedouins hawking camel rides to the busses. A mile-long snake of shivering tourists pausing and stumbling is incentive to linger. Alone on the summit, I call out to the wind, but there is only the echo of my thoughts with the question arising like so often before — “How can it ever get any better than this?”

  Silver Linings

  December 31, 2004

  Egyptian-Israeli Border

  As frustrating as it was at the time, the best turn of events yet was being denied the Iranian visa. Had it been granted, I wouldn’t have detoured deeper into the Middle East and met the Arabs. A five-day transit visa meant sprinting across Iran to Pakistan with no time for much else. The trade-off was a rush across one country for a leisurely tour of four.

  While it’s important to heed danger warnings, traveling without preconceived notions allows one a broader perspective. Most people use their own judgment, balancing safety and freedom, yet travelers soon discover that, usually, dire warnings are overreactions based on rumor. But this was not so clear when dealing with the Middle East. Even automatically discounting the evening news, over the years, negative images of Arabs are hard to erase. They’ve always been the villains or fools in the cinema or on TV, acting as chanting crowds of religious fanatics applauding terrorist acts against the West. But is this true? As Fidel Castro manages to rally tens of thousands in a country where only a minority support him, a few fanatical Middle Eastern governments similarly misrepresent their populations. Meeting them face-to-face on their turf, I realized that Arabs were angry with the U.S. government, not Americans. And if U.S. polls are accurate, 50 percent of American citizens, and perhaps more, feel the same.

  It is true that in the Middle East religion dominates the lives and behavior of devout Muslims, Christians and Jews to a degree that is shocking to outsiders. But that doesn’t mean they are dangerous or dislike Westerners. Extremists in most religions have demonstrated a desire to kill in the name of their God; when it comes to Islam, that’s who the media focuses on. Yet from peasants to professionals, the Muslims I encountered were warm and generous people, anxious to learn about others. Peaceful people are the stories of buildings that didn’t burn.

  Jaded by high-pressure touts in the tourist sections of Istanbul, I found it hard at first to accept Arab hospitality as genuine — assuming it must be a lead into a hustle. After a while it was evident that they want to know your name and where you are from because they are curious. If you encounter them again, they remember what you told them when you first met. Who can resist their greetings? “Welcome, welcome. What is your name? Where do you come from? Would you like some tea?”

  Like Orthodox Jews and Christian fundamental
ists, Middle Eastern Muslims abide by religious law. For adult Westerners, such restrictions are unthinkable, but it’s normal if you are raised that way. Similar to strict Christians and Jews, Muslims are forbidden to consume alcohol, yet they don’t want to either. Radios are tuned to Islamic prayers as much as we turn to rock ’n’ roll in the West, and it’s common to wait for shopkeepers to finish praying before dealing with customers. You’ll hear “In sh’Allah” in Damascus, as much as “praise the lord” in Mississippi. They also practice what they preach.

  Men and women decline sex outside of marriage and think that, to keep hormones in check, women should dress conservatively in public. Muslim women I spoke to believe this as deeply as the men. You never realize how sexy hair is until it’s covered. But Bedouin women have shown how beauty can be revealed through the eyes, and they can tease as effectively with a veil as with a plunging neckline.

  Growing up in politically correct California, I found my first glimpses of veiled women appalling. Although only Iran and Saudi Arabia mandate by law that women wear headscarves in public, it’s a popular tradition throughout the Middle East. For some, it’s a fashion statement. Store-window mannequins display varieties of styles from laced to see-through. When asking a college student in Jordan why she was not wearing a headscarf, she replied, “Oh, I might tomorrow, it depends on how I feel like dressing.”

  Every society has its own code of which body parts can legally be exposed in public, with the roots of these decisions being based on religion. In the West, women can expose as much breast as they dare, but if they are in public, a nipple displayed could land them in jail. This type of conservatism can be shocking to South Pacific Islanders visiting Western nations. Men bare their breast but women can’t?

  Religion is everywhere. It’s stamped on U.S. currency, “In God We Trust.” Some people declare that America is a Christian nation or that America is based on Judeo-Christian values. If the Pledge of Allegiance was changed to “One nation under Buddha,” there would be a revolution. Yet liberalism appears in strange places. Turkey, Israel, Pakistan and India all had female prime ministers long before a woman ran and lost for vice president of the U.S. Trying to make sense of the world is a job for far greater thinkers than me.