“Very clever, Glen.”
Raising their arms with tears in their eyes, Palestinians asked, “What can we do?”
I had no answer. To an outsider, the solutions may seem simple, but they are not. A good start is to focus on what people have in common. What unites us is more important than what makes us different. Like Muslim women, many married Jewish women must cover their real hair, and instead of hijabs they wear wigs. Men of both religions feel that the hair of their women should only be seen by their husbands. Both places of worship have separate entrances for men and women and segregated prayer sections. Jews explained the logic — it’s too hard to concentrate on God with the opposite sex nearby. Shaking hands between unmarried men and women when greeting was also forbidden — “It feels too good.”
Devout Muslims and Jews both spend long hours in daily prayer and participate in arranged marriages for the primary purpose of reproduction rather than for love. Sex outside marriage is forbidden. According to their respective holy books, for countless centuries, both Jews and Muslims expected a savior to appear. Life is for worshipping God. They pray on street corners, in businesses or while walking. But when I point out the myriad of similarities among them, conversations abruptly terminate. For me, it became a struggle to keep silent. The more they spoke of their differences, the more frustrating it became.
Without visiting the Middle East, it’s impossible for Westerners to comprehend the depth and control of religion here. Everyone is convinced that they are right, and those on the fringe are wielding disproportionate influence on moderates. Liberals are silent.
So today I ride from Jerusalem across the desert toward Jordan more unsettled than when I arrived. Thousands of miles of electrified barbed wire and imposing cement walls separating humans scar the landscape. Even if the complacent don’t care who dies, the economics are sobering. Everyone is broke. As I reflect on Middle Eastern cities with empty restaurants and hotels manned by forlorn owners, I wonder if they’ve finally had enough.
The Viking and the rabbi, Wailing Wall, Jerusalem
WESTERN ASIA
In Transit
January 15, 2005
Karachi, Pakistan
On a world ride, a motorcyclist will eventually reach a dead end at the edge of a large enough body of water that in order to cross, he will need either an oceangoing vessel or an airplane. In my first such case, it was international politics based on religion that compelled air transport. Despite five weeks of face-to-face haggling, Iranian and Saudi embassy officials refused to budge on granting me visas. It’s more than just a hassle or unnecessary expense; for moto-adventurers, it’s a sin to fly when you should be able to ride. It’s also an uncomfortable experience, like being a fish out of water and trying to breathe.
Airports are cold-water plunges back into a world that long-riders try to avoid — long, polished marble corridors of glittering arcades with a pace that jolts us back into the fast lane of civilization. Worst of all, we become separated from our machines, only to plunder a month’s travel budget on a few miserable hours crammed aboard an aircraft. Draining my financial resources this soon certainly limits other activities down the road — potentially cutting short my entire journey.
When considering time factors, port charges and shipping mishaps, hemisphere-hopping is still more economical by air than by sea. The quickest and most reliable process that reconnects us to our machines is to pack them inside wooden crates for loading into the giant holds of cargo planes. But since civilian passengers are not allowed on these types of flights, coordinating simultaneous arrival times is tricky. Because much can go wrong with last-minute mix-ups, it’s best to make sure that the bike is airborne first. If it’s still waiting to move from an airport freight terminal while you reach your new destination and there are complications with legal documents, remedying the issue from another country is nearly impossible. One signature missing, a forgotten fee or a technical violation of company policy can leave you stranded with only one solution — return to straighten it out personally. Backward bureaucracies buried in senseless regulations don’t allow for creative solutions like, “Go ahead and just sign my damn name, and I’ll wire you the seven-dollar fee.”
While traveling through the Middle East, I had been communicating daily with Seven Seas Shipping in Jordan for a month. When I finally met them last week, we were like long-lost friends, and in keeping with Arab tradition, they immediately took me to dinner. Everyone wanted to put me at ease by assuring me that they knew their job — except that according to my Internet research, this is a first for any shipper in Jordan or Karachi.
Although the base of a wooden crate that a local carpenter built was strong enough to carry the weight of solid machinery, it felt far too flimsy for tying down a balance-sensitive motorcycle. It was a delicate, ego-saving challenge for me to convince workers that motorcycle suspensions need to be compressed by tightly strapping them down for stabilizing. No one understood why we couldn’t cinch their thin nylon cord over plastic turn signals to the flexing wooden base. “Don’t worry Glen, we are professionals.” But at that particular moment, time was a significant factor.
My Pakistan visa was valid for only two weeks, and no one reading the handwritten date-of-use knew if that meant I had to arrive by January 19th or be out of Pakistan by January 19th. Hoping to be able to play the stupid foreigner, I figured I’d get to Karachi first and then beg from there. The new snag was that every airline in the Middle East was booked solid for the annual Muslim pilgrimage of hajj in Saudi Arabia, and there were no seats available, connecting or otherwise, for two weeks. But while spending the afternoon working with travel agents, a last-minute cancellation popped up on Qatar Air, with one budget-busting business-class seat available that with two transfers would still stretch an otherwise three-hour flight into 12. Since I’d also reentered Jordan on a three-day transit visa, choices were limited.
Even counting my medical bills in Germany, for the last six months I’ve stayed just within a 50-dollar-a-day budget. But transport costs of 700 bucks for me and another 1,000 for the Blue Beast mean a return to fleabag two-dollar hotels for the next three months. That’s all tolerable if Mr. Murphy stays out of the way. But since the next available shipping date for the bike was two days after my scheduled flight out of Jordan, I now sit in downtown Karachi trying to shake a miserable case of the flu while my enquiry emails to the shipper are being returned as undeliverable. And so we wait.
Sadar
January 20, 2005
Karachi, Pakistan
Overland travelers heading to or from India usually sprint across politically unstable Pakistan, spending little time investigating the country. Bloody regional conflicts, ethnic strife and, in certain places, nonexistent law enforcement suggest it’s wise to cross quickly. Western embassies long ago evacuated nonessential personnel and live under stringent security. But I also wonder, is the world getting more dangerous? Or are we merely more aware of what always existed? According to Uncle Sam, we should all stay home and prepare for the next terrorist attack. Nothing would make Osama bin Laden happier.
Yet half the countries in the world carry U.S. State Department Travel Warnings — even Israel made the list. Foreigners may have bull’s-eyes on their backs, but it’s hard to hit moving targets. My plan was to land in Karachi, clear the Beast through customs and be gone in two days. Then, hopefully a few weeks riding south to north, with maybe a quick detour into Afghanistan to satisfy a wanderer’s curiosity. Considering the high number of recent bombings in Karachi, Kabul is likely safer than it is here in Sadar District. Besides, much like Iran, Afghan hospitality is legendary. And since the allied invasion, Taliban and al-Qaeda thugs have reportedly fled to Iraq and Pakistan. But total safety anywhere in this region is impossible; even among themselves, government intelligence agencies don’t know who’s who, so it’s hard to define what is safe.
The worst
city in Pakistan to be stranded in is Karachi. With 12 million people jammed into a stinking, sweltering seaport on the shores of the Indian Ocean, it’s a hotbed of conflicting cultures. The pollution is so bad, I seal my hotel windows to keep out lung-searing gray. The sour fragrance of human misery and rotting garbage leaves a film on my clothes that will not wash off. Here in Sadar, there’re no police, not even military patrols. Although driving should be on the left, vehicles travel in any lane with an opening, no matter the proper direction.
Crumbling boulevards carry bumper-car traffic jams flowing in grimy rivers of choking congestion then swirling into intersections of coughing chaos. Somehow, severely battered vehicles manage to scrape and nudge their way to the next stoplight that most will ignore anyway. Passive disorder is the law of the land. Three-wheeled motorcycle taxis fare best, piercing downtown gridlock with pointed front ends and drivers determined to win. Crossing streets on foot means sprinting slightly ahead through the sliding sludge. Eventually, I master the daredevil leaps between broken-down, elaborately decorated buses farting vile black smoke. Pedestrians must also watch for deep holes in the sidewalk lest they step into raw sewage.
Tomorrow is the final day of Ramadan — like the Christian Christmas, Eid is a major Muslim holiday marked by family gatherings and the butchering of livestock to feed the poor. “Glen, have you ever seen a camel slaughtered? Come with us tomorrow and bring your camera.” An ancient civilization prepares. Painted cattle tied to car bumpers twitch and shake their heads while stomping the pavement. It’s unclear if this is mad cow disease or pre-execution jitters. By noon, I am sure to become a vegetarian.
There is still no email response from the shippers in Amman, but a garbled cell phone message indicated the bike would be on a flight Thursday that Royal Jordanian Air says doesn’t exist. Since Eid is a serious religious holiday, the Islamic world is about to shut down for three days. Even if the bike arrives as promised, a backlogged customs department won’t reopen until Monday. But it’s not all bad news.
What Karachi lacks in hygiene, it makes up for in friendliness. Where the least of the least struggle to survive, there is a disarming calm instilled by Islam. Even with the warnings about attacks on foreigners, Pakistanis, smothering under widespread poverty, still offer smiles and hospitality. Hotel staff, wherever I stay, constantly ask me if everything is okay. “Mr. Glen, your television is good?” Actually, it probably broke in 1970, right about the time they quit cleaning and painting. If they want to repair something, they should start with the hot-water system.
Anticipating a complicated importation process, I contacted a recommended Freight Forwarding company. They should know who to bribe. But after spending a half-day finding them, Mr. Mohammad tells me their services are not necessary and that it’s better to deal with Customs directly. “They will treat a white man better.” He even orders his personal driver to take me to the airport and familiarizes me with the process. Later, he is offended when I offer to pay him for his help. “Please, Mr. Glen, it’s our pleasure.”
I am back to learning a new language. Communication with the locals is hit and miss. Sentences begin in English and end in Ordu. Students approach me on street corners, “From where do you come Mister?”
I could easily cover up in my Kaffiyeh, Arab style, and claim Jordan, but pride gets in the way. “I’m traveling the world on a motorbike from California . . .”
So far, anywhere in the world, when locals hear me say I am from California, their invariable, enthusiastic response is a shouted, “Arnold!” Pakistanis, like those others I’ve met, love the California governor but express only rage for President Bush.
As evening temperatures plummet, by local standards, to 70 degrees, street merchants dressed in long cotton gowns shiver and ask, “Is it this cold in America?”
For personal security reasons, in case lone militants are looking to make a political statement with a bullet or a bomb, I change hotels every other day. There are premiums on the rooms in the back. It’s common knowledge that detonating car bombs do more damage up front. Currently, the price for a city view might be absorbing the blast. Despite combing seething Sadar district, I find no other westerners. Just to be safe, I finally called the U.S. Embassy for advice. “You’re in Sadar? That’s definitely the wrong place for Americans,” they say. “Let me see what we can to do to get you out of there. Today’s a holiday but we’ll phone you next week.” My only remaining concern is food.
In an effort to pinpoint what’s making me sick, I’m continually switching restaurants. It does no good. Food everywhere is cooked in vats of smelly grease. Eating the local tortilla-like flatbread with oil dripping down my hands may be messy, but it’s too delicious to stop. At makeshift street stalls, I feast on chili-pasted meats of questionable origin — at least it’s easy to see what they are cooking.
Home is still just ahead of my front tire, and I couldn’t be further away from the sterile world from which I’ve ventured. At this instant, those whom I love are resting comfortably with maybe the nagging worry if I am doing okay. At times, I also wonder how bad I need to see this; but there is no rest until I do. Amidst the jabbering beggars and sputtering taxis, I pause to absorb the intensity of the moment. For all my trouble, I am still happy to be here.
Preparing for the final day of Ramadan by butchering livestock to feed the poor in Karachi, Pakistan
Highway to Hell
January 28, 2005
North from Karachi
After two weeks, once the Blue Beast finally arrived and cleared customs, it was like meeting an old friend — almost like a first ride. It was a thrill to be on the road again, and I quickly forgot all the recent hassles. Last night, feeling weak, I dozed off early while reorganizing my gear, only to awake with a rising fever. It’s been a double whammy the last two weeks — respiratory flu accompanied by stomach disorder. Total exhaustion had finally set in. After popping the last of the Immodiums and first of the Ciprols, I closed my eyes for a minute and opened them 12 hours later — more time wasted on a dwindling 14-day visa. With two days left before it expires and no possibility of renewal, I needed to make a hard choice.
It’s a 30-hour ride to the border of either India or Afghanistan. If I choose the latter and I reach their embassy in Islamabad, what do I do if they deny a visa? And once in Kabul, would Pakistan issue me another in order to cross back to India? There’re 800 miles until a fork in the road where that decision must be made — a right-hand turn to sunny India or a hard left upwards into the winter mountains of Afghanistan.
While visiting the U.S. embassy in Karachi to obtain additional passport pages, a skeleton staff invited me to the American Club, the compound’s only restaurant, pool hall and media room. Karachi is so dodgy, none venture outside the embassy walls without armed guards and chase vehicles. Embassy personnel advised against traveling anywhere in Pakistan. Actually, the regional security officer (RSO) suggested a return to California, as this was not the right political climate for international travel: “If you get by the robbing cops, the villagers will kill you. This country is way more treacherous than you understand.” But was this rational advice coming from those who’d lived barricaded under guard for the last year? I understood the tension in cities, but the countryside in every country was always different.
Finally back on the road, Pakistan highway police stop me seven times in one day for riding in the wrong lane. Pronounced well, their English is spoken in unfamiliar phrases. “I am sorry to recommend to you that you must to drive in the next position.” Each time, I prepared for intimations for bribes, but conversations ended with “We are service to you. You are guest in our country, how can we be of assistance to your journey?” And of course, “Would you please to accompany us to a restaurant for to take tea?” Declining such offers is an offense that’s only overlooked after my request that we take pictures together instead.
At the first g
as stop entering Punjab province from Sindh, I met a motorcycle character straight from a Cheech and Chong movie. So stoned his bloodshot eyes could barely open, he claimed, in perfect California slang, that as one biker to another it was his duty to show me a good time. “Dude, you wanna’ smoke some killer hash?” Not wanting to experience the marvels of Pakistani prison for consorting with druggies, I thanked him but continued north solo.
His final reminder was to “watch out in Southern Punjab man, people sometimes don’t dig foreigners. But if you’re cool, they’re cool.” As another note of caution, he adds, “Yeah and the road gets real fucked-up ahead.” What else is new?
Successful travelers learn early not to stare down at a man when it’s better to look him in the eye. Often, I walk away having looked up to the simplest of people. Wary crowds are best handled by first selecting a child to talk to. Coax a curious youngster to smile and move on to a better-dressed elder, then greet him in his language while offering a hand. Win him over, and the rest are easy.
With seven Islamic countries to cover, the most effective tool in my arsenal is my translated copy of the Koran. One way to better understand this region of the planet is to study Islam. The response from Muslims when we discussed the Five Pillars or the early life of Mohammad was encouraging. They are pleasantly surprised when a Westerner is interested in their culture. But nothing can save me from the perils of traffic.
Although India is supposed to be worse, there’s no way to describe how bad driving is in southern Pakistan. At dusk, the road transforms from semi-organized double-lane pavement to a death-wish bumper-car ride to hell on a single strip of dirt and mud traveled in both directions simultaneously — with no one using their brakes. It’s hard to believe what’s happening. Riding on the outskirts of Karachi had put me on edge, but now I can only gasp in apprehension. The last four hours have turned into a suicide ride by collision-seeking demons determined to meet Allah.
One More Day Everywhere Page 17