One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Travelers venturing into developing nations soon discover that it’s those with the least who are the quickest to share, while the simplest of all teach the deepest lessons. Arab hospitality is contagious, but so is Mongolian and Siberian. It feels good being around nice people.

  Secularism expands with prosperity. Two color TVs and a new car makes us forget more important things like how to treat one another. Have we become lost along the way? Maybe Jesus had it right — it’s as easy for a rich man to enter heaven as for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.

  The Middle East is not the land of milk and honey, but it is the land of black gold. Engage locals on politics and you’ll hear more than you want. Just as North Americans would be upset if Islamic nations established a military presence here to stabilize lumber prices, so are Middle Easterners proprietorial about their resources. Muslim troops in the West propping up dictators would be greeted with bullets. Locals don’t speak freely, but most don’t like their sheiks, princes, or shahs and don’t appreciate foreign intervention supporting them.

  There is often public discussion about a collision of civilizations with Islam and the West, but so far all I’ve experienced is friendship. My original plan was to speed through the Middle East, thinking “Why bother with people and places where I’m not welcome?” — but all the Arabs have shown is that they want to be friends. Even when talking about their blood enemy, Israel, they said, “Israel government bad, Israel people good.” I’ll soon be relaying that message in Jerusalem.

  Following Israeli military vehicles along the Lebanese border

  Shalom

  January 3, 2005

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  The charred skeleton of the bombed-out Hilton Hotel in Taba, a resort town on the Egyptian side of Sinai, instantly focuses the reality of war and, in particular, terrorism. Last year, to be certain those of all ages could experience his terrorism, bin Laden’s thugs also blew up a nearby backpacker’s lodge catering to the young. Islamic extremists are equal-opportunity mass murderers. No doubt tight security lies ahead at the Israeli border.

  European students in Cairo who, like me, had visited Arab countries spoke bitterly of experiences in the Tel Aviv airport — hours of interrogation at immigration points and arrogant Israeli soldiers at checkpoints throughout the country. I wondered what else to expect from a second generation growing up in bloody conflict, never knowing where the next bomb would detonate — a crowded Tel Aviv nightclub or a Palestinian refugee camp? Whatever the excuse, women and children are crippled and slaughtered daily.

  In Israel, both sexes are drafted into the army. Every Israeli child knows they will have some experience with death before college — theirs, the enemy’s or that of someone they love. The same for Palestinians, who have as good a chance of being cut down by Israeli bullets as going to college. There is no maybe: during nearly 60 years of armed conflict with neighbors, two generations of Israelis and Palestinians have grown up in bitter bloodshed over issues a thousand years old.

  It is confusing at first because I don’t realize that the kids dressed in civilian clothes at the border are soldiers. A muscle-bound, clean-cut youngster wearing an earring and two teenage girls wielding automatic weapons request my passport. I fire back an aggressive defense, using the biggest smile I can muster with an outstretched hand — “Howdy, my name’s Glen Heggstad and I am out to meet the people of the world. What’s your name?”

  The first girl takes over, “Please tell me which countries you have been to before Israel.”

  “This trip or the last one?”

  “Let’s start from the beginning.”

  It’s hard not to laugh when being interrogated by a 19-year-old girl who is a solid 10, even with an automatic weapon. She eyes me as a suspect as I imagine her without clothes. But she is very serious.

  Assuming they’ll know my life history within seconds of a passport scan, I begin with the ride to South America three years ago and events in Colombia. I’ve learned that it’s best to not mention being a writer because people suddenly act differently. There is always a good response handing over a card from my judo school, but during a search they’ll likely find my mangled copy of Two Wheels Through Terror, a title sure to raise more questions. After citing visited countries, they stop me when mentioning Syria, an Islamic nation the Jewish state is still technically at war with.

  “Syria? Why were you in Syria?”

  “Well, I was in Istanbul and couldn’t get a visa for Iran.”

  Now ever more alert, she asks, “Why would you travel to Iran?”

  “In order to get to Pakistan.”

  Even more astounded she dares ask, “Why did you want to go to Pakistan?”

  “In order to get to Afghanistan . . .”

  As though this has gone beyond her comprehension and rank, she orders, “Please proceed to the white building and enter through the rear door.”

  Inside, the first adult of the day explains that because of a Syrian visit, further questioning is necessary. Fine with me, there is plenty of time until sundown and this could be interesting. They direct me to an office where another 18-year-old supermodel in uniform begins with a checklist.

  “What was the purpose of your trip to Syria? Who do you know in Syria? Where did you go in Syria and what were the exact dates of your visit there? Did anyone in Egypt give you a package to deliver in Israel?”

  I tell her that I wound up in Syria because of an involuntary diversion and the only person I met there was a very dangerous Bedouin camped in the desert, whom I forget the name of.

  Seeming satisfied with my answers, she continues, “Where do you intend to stay while in Israel?”

  “Actually, I was kind of hoping your house.”

  We laugh and banter until she says that because of my answers, she must deny me entry into Israel and send me back to Egypt. This is a problem, I tell her, because I have an already used single-entry visa. “I need to refer this to my supervisor,” she says.

  Suddenly, it’s apparent to me how suspicious my travels appear to paranoid border officials who expect a car bomb to blow them up any second. A thorough search will net further problems. A gift from an Iranian friend in California — the plastic case sealing my AAA international driver’s license stamped on the cover “Islamic Republic of Iran” in Farsi and English. If they find this, the fun is over. What if they examine my laptop?

  Moments later, the supermodel returns smiling and hands back my documents. “Enjoy your stay in Israel, Glen.” I pitch once more to lure her on the back of my bike. It could be just my imagination, but while riding past the final concrete barricades, it seemed like she paused and considered before shaking her head once more.

  Compared to the Sinai, there is not much to see in southern Israel, except empty desert and miles of barbed-wire fencing with signs posted: “Military Area, Do Not Stop, Do Not Photograph.” Gun towers and remote TV cameras underscore the seriousness. Sophisticated microwave antennae line distant hilltops, while enormous satellite dishes confirm this is major communications corridor. The weather report is sunny for the Negev desert but predicts storming north on the road to Tel Aviv.

  Breaking for dinner at a major bus stop, I find a roadside cafeteria that is crowded with young Israeli soldiers lugging bulky backpacks and M16 machine guns. The troops are sullen and stone-faced — most are talking in Russian on cell phones or listening to CD players. The room needs a Viking assault to break the ice. “Howdy, how ya’ doin’?” No reply.

  I repeat this to each of them, but from two feet away, sitting at the same table, I receive an identical response from a half-dozen soldiers. They turn their heads as if no one had spoken, a few sneer. There is no conversation among them, and all make it clear from bored gazes that they would rather be somewhere and someone else.

  As youngsters trapped in involuntary military service, it�
��s impossible for them not to wonder about the freedom of a roaming biker, but they are determined not to acknowledge me by showing interest. As a gathering storm appears overhead, outside in the parking lot, I make a show of adjusting equipment and zipping into foul-weather gear. While cycling through a GPS check, they abandon their indifference and crowd to the doorway. Rolling onto a rain-slicked highway, I turn to see young soldiers’ forlorn eyes and more faces fogging the windows — I wave goodbye, continuing north for Gaza to see what the Palestinians have to say.

  The wall across Jerusalem

  Palestine

  January 4, 2005

  Erez Checkpoint, Gaza Strip

  By all accounts no one should have got this far, but here I sit at the last Israeli checkpoint to enter the Gaza Strip — the infamous Erez checkpoint. It’s now a restricted military area on the edge of a war zone. Using homemade rockets, Palestinians have recently blown up a power line. Approaching, I meet the crew erecting a new wooden pole. The workmen are confident. “We don’t worry though, our men will kill them.”

  As I type this journal, attack helicopters flying overhead fire strings of missiles amid sporadic ground gunfire a few hundred feet away. A body count is being generated for the evening news as military office personnel and a few Jordanian diplomats silently complete entry applications. I had started eating some boiled eggs, but picturing humans at the receiving end of those explosions eliminates any appetite.

  The field major here has faxed to central command in Jerusalem, requesting special permission for me to enter the occupied city. At the moment, this is the only way in or out of Gaza, a 25-by-8-mile strip along the Mediterranean Sea, home to Palestinian families imprisoned in their own cities. Militants resisting the occupation are their only hope. Since the intifada began four years ago, it’s been sealed to civilians. Palestinians are not allowed in or out; the area is only open to UN representatives and approved members of the press.

  UN workers in the lobby of the checkpoint said they’ve been waiting here for the last three days, but because of steady fighting have not been allowed through. There is a no-man’s-land to cross, where Israeli Defense Forces drop those wanting to enter and Palestinian authorities take over, escorting them to the other side. From there, you’re on your own. It’s like the movie Escape from New York, except this is real.

  When the hotel clerk in Tel Aviv heard I wanted to see Gaza, he tried to direct me to somewhere more touristy. “Why don’t you go to the beach instead? We also have nice parks here.” It was sure to be a hassle, but Sharon has told me that if I wanted to understand the conflict, it’s essential to visit both Gaza and the Golan Heights.

  After four hours waiting for authorization to enter, officials say that in the event permission is granted, it’s impossible to drive a private vehicle. If I go in, it’s on foot and alone. Assuming food would be in short supply, I brought boiled eggs, fresh bread and canned sardines, along with my laptop. Internet access is unlikely, but it’s the first stop if I get in and out.

  Everyone waiting in the checkpoint lobby is curious about what I am up to, but they also guard their comments. Misspoken words keep you out or make trouble inside. An Israeli TV news support person tells me she is in favor of withdrawing from Gaza. “What’s five kilometers, if you can have peace in exchange?” I ask UN workers who live in Gaza if they ever feel threatened or in danger — a simultaneous whispered reply, “Yes, but not from the Palestinians.”

  Four hours later, an extremely polite young Israeli soldier announces my request has been denied by central command but will be reviewed. He provides a telephone number to call every day in case someone changes their mind. His superior also requests that the photos their security cameras caught me uploading to my laptop be deleted. Sometimes data automatically saves to a second separate file — I’ll check later.

  Jericho

  January 5, 2005

  The West Bank, Palestine

  Foul weather kept me pinned down for two days in Tel Aviv, but with only 10 more appropriated for Israel, I couldn’t wait. Israel is so small that if you were up high enough in the center, you could see all the borders. Departing early in the morning, I should have easily reached the Golan Heights by sundown, but steady storming forced me to overnight at the Sea of Galilee. Like everywhere else in the Middle East, low season and the threat of terrorism meant empty hotels and restaurants.

  If it weren’t for signs in Hebrew and Arabic, it’d be hard to believe this isn’t California. Same scenery, road system and architecture — you can even drink the tap water. Since crossing the border last week, my travel costs have doubled — a McDonald’s hamburger costs the equivalent of nine U.S. dollars. The ride to Golan is uneventful, with road signs in English and modern freeways. International boundaries are disputed throughout the region, and, for the last 10 minutes heading north, my GPS indicates that I am in southern Lebanon.

  But when I reach the disputed border, it is closed and unmanned, with triple, electrified barbed wire in front of a tractor-plowed corridor between another set of fences. Gun towers and communication outposts are the only signs of life among bombed-out commercial buildings. Heavily defended Israeli settlements are built within a hundred feet of the line.

  Equally unsure of the Syrian border when heading directly through the Golan Heights, I stop in a Druze village for directions. “Hello. Can you please tell me where I am?”

  One of two elderly men playing cards dressed in frayed sport coats in a sidewalk café replies, “That depends on who you’re asking. To some, it’s Israel; to others, it’s Syria.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “First you must come and have tea.” Once we’re sitting together in the bright mountain sunshine, he continues. “We are Syrians, but since 1967, residents of Israel.”

  “Okay, if you were to travel to England, what passport would you use?”

  “We are not provided passports because we’re Syrians living in Israel. Israel issues a travel card.”

  “What countries can you travel to with that card?”

  “Only Jordan, to visit our families from Syria.”

  “Why don’t you go from Jordan into Syria?”

  “Because our travel card says we are from Israel and no one from Israel is allowed into Syria. But our children go to college in Syria and are allowed to cross from here twice a year.”

  “How is life under the Israelis?”

  “Life is good with Israelis, very nice people. But we are still treated as Arabs, and we want to be with Syria again.”

  I noticed a sign nearby that said “Area of Heightened Surveillance.” Everyone is aware of Israel’s intelligence-gathering capabilities, so no one can be certain of who they are really talking to or who is listening.

  As I head back south toward Jerusalem, sundown appears sooner than expected. The Jericho exit off the highway leads only to rows of five-foot-high cement barricades placed across the off-ramp. Assuming this is due to a washed-out road, I return to the highway, seeking another entrance along several miles of barbed-wire fences leading to gun towers and massive steel gates. Israeli troops step into the road, waving machine guns, indicating that I should turn around and enter from somewhere else.

  Five miles later, I find there is a long line of cars waiting to enter the city and more cement barricades with armed soldiers checking paperwork. When I’m next for interrogation, they carefully inspect my passport. Curt soldiers enquire, “Why do you want to go into this area?”

  “I need to find a hotel.”

  “Why not continue to Jerusalem?”

  “Because I’m here now. Is it unsafe inside?”

  “There is no police force to protect you and there is an election coming Sunday. The Arabs may kill you because you are American.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate your concern but if it’s okay with you, I’ll take my chances.” Shr
ugging their shoulders, they wave goodbye and good luck as I roll forward into the dark, dusty streets of Jericho for my first encounter with Palestinians.

  Palestinians

  January 7, 2005

  Jericho, The West Bank

  A mile-long empty corridor of bullet-ridden cement-block buildings and broken streetlights leads deeper into central Jericho, until suddenly I am back in the developing world. Arab life is casual and laid-back, with hookah-smoking men playing cards in sidewalk cafés — women don’t venture out at night. After a loop around the city center, the first stop is for fresh baked bread and roast chicken at half the price of Tel Aviv. Unsure of the new stranger, they still greet me with warm smiles, “Welcome, welcome.”

  Three Italian civilians posted as election observers point out a decent hotel up the street, and they extend a smug question. “Isn’t traveling for Americans a problem these days?”

  Pushing the last of the chicken bones away signals to my neighbors at the café an opportunity for questions. “Hello, welcome. Where you come from?”

  Holding out a hand, “My name is Glen and I’m from California, traveling the world by motorcycle to meet the people.”

  “Ah, you are American? Why are you not afraid of us?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Don’t worry, you are safe here unless you are Palestinian.”

  As word of a visiting American spreads through the 15,000- member community, a small crowd forms outside the chicken restaurant. They are more curious than intimidating, with a few kids peeking out from between their fathers’ legs. To get their attention, I take a moment for a maintenance check and chain adjustment. Spreading tools on the sidewalk, I give one to each of the gathering children to hold until needing it. I suddenly have a team of anxious apprentice mechanics.