Truckers are bad, but bus drivers rule. They seem to have been recruited from asylums and selected and graded according to their lunacy. Everyone backs down from them, and they fear only each other. My reflexes develop quickly after cringing from earsplitting trumpet horns followed by the intimidating roar of an accelerating diesel coming straight from behind. Fishtailing buses spin through mud and rock side to side, making me think each time that, for certain, this time he’s going to roll. Since commercial cargo is more valuable than human life, truckers cower onto shoulders, letting the thundering busses pass. Terrified motorcyclists and the men cautiously managing overloaded camel carts hauling piles of sugarcane can only pray. When able to catch up to ornately decorated buses, I draft in behind them, safe inside a wake bored through masses of bullied motorists.
Reflected particles of road dust and black soot turn headlight beams into swirling opaque clouds of sinister gray. It’s like trying to see through wrinkled wax paper. Four hours later, my lungs clogged from the grime, my nerves are frazzled and my eyes burn so badly I can’t see. As I pass through a small, isolated village, someone calls out from the roadside, “Hello!” Warnings from all were to sleep only in major cities, but weary from the strain of riding, another electrifying drive through a city is unthinkable. Disregarding the potential consequences, I stop to acknowledge the familiar greeting.
The Western-dressed Pakistani youngsters are English students excited to meet a foreigner. Few pass this way. “Please wait, we will bring our teacher to speak with you.” On top of the national language of Ordu, three different dialects are spoken locally, while business is conducted in English. Anxious to offer hospitality, they pool their money, insisting on buying me dinner and setting up a room in the town’s only guesthouse for an evening of language lessons and tales from the road.
We laugh about our lives from other worlds until exhaustion takes over and I fall asleep mid-conversation. The last I recall is the teacher silently latching the door on his way out. In the morning, the students return to guide me to breakfast and provide valuable information about the road north.
Cop Shops
January 29, 2005
The Fork at Highway M-2, Pakistan
Two 500-mile days of strained riding is taking its toll, but relief is timed for sundown at the T-junction in the road where I’ll make a critical decision. For the past three hours, reassuring taxi drivers have been insisting better times are ahead. “In one hundred miles further you will encounter a luxury road.” There were frequent signs indicating the M-2 Freeway was near, but none told me how far, so when finally appeased, the relief was instant and welcome.
To this point, motorcycles have been exempt from road tolls and permitted to pass the toll booths without stopping. But these cement shacks are different, with signs on the sides listing rules. One of them is a motorcycle symbol with an X over it. For 12 nerve-racking hours, I had fixated on the ecstasy of a quality asphalt autobahn as a sweet relief from the punishing madness. There is no turning back now, and as authority figures so far have been passive, I don’t fear an aggressive reaction, and I break just this one little rule.
Ignoring shouts from soldiers waving their arms, I rocket past flashing blue lights, looking straight ahead. Aware that capture is inevitable, nothing matters except this joyous dash from the chaos. I unleash the ponies anyway and soar onto the seamless tarmac of heaven, followed by crying sirens and highway police in hot pursuit. Two miles later they catch up. Polite and proper, apologetic Pakistani troopers approach. “From which country do you travel?”
“Hello my name is Glen, how are you? I come from California.”
After accepting stupid-foreigner excuses for not seeing them, we engage in amiable debate why it’s unsafe for motorcycles on a superhighway. “We are responsible for your safety Mr. Glen and you must return to the small road.” Realizing the flaws in their argument, we reach a compromise. “We will please to honor you for tonight at our camp. You can sleep there. And as you wish, you may demand our service to you. We will prepare meals according to your satisfaction.”
Thirty minutes later, chicken and rice is served in a chilly but empty 20-bed dormitory, followed by photos and tea with the commander. In the morning, there is a timid knock at sunrise. The soft-eyed police sergeant from last night is holding a tray. “We have prepared for you these boiled eggs and hope they are to your accep-tance.” The recital continues. “It gives us pleasure that you restored your sleep and we have prepared to escort you to the small road.”
As for me, I am almost to the place to which I am going.
Complications
February 1, 2005
Peshawar, Northwest Frontier Province, Pakistan
As promised, I’ve been checking in with the American embassy RSOs in major cities while traveling Pakistan. The agent in Peshawar warned me that having an Afghan visa might not be enough to even get me to the border. “Be prepared to be turned back, because they could require a permit to cross the autonomous Northwest Frontier Province tribal region.”
“How hard is that to get?”
“You may want to reconsider then, because even if granted, it takes 15 days of bureaucratic runaround.”
The borders of western Pakistan have been in dispute for decades. Afghani brothers on one side visiting Pakistani cousins on the other don’t consider themselves under either nation’s rule. As stateless tribes, they cross back and forth, recognizing only tribal boundaries. With rugged terrain an ally, they do as they please, earning fierce reputations for effectively using sophisticated weapons to answer challenges to their independence. They are the law, and even the military doesn’t dispute this.
So far, Pakistanis I’ve encountered in other provinces have been polite and peaceful with a childlike innocence, even the patrolling soldiers. In other lands, I’ve learned some authority figures can be friendly to strangers while mistreating their own. Still, it’s difficult to imagine them at their worst. Whether in the city or the country, handshakes and smiles are always followed by their humble insistence that we have tea. Pakistanis are never too busy to talk and have always taken me in hand when I am lost.
Arriving at the border of Northwest Frontier Province confirmed the worst reports. Thugs in shabby green uniforms at the tribal outpost were neither accommodating nor amused by my presence. In a region of lawlessness, this heavily armed militia answers only to itself. I surmised a request for photos together would likely result in a confiscated camera and a beating. There is no pretending here; the friendliness is gone — foreigners are unwelcome in this no-man’s-land plagued by warlords, bandits and drug smugglers. Draped in local garb, Taliban and al-Qaeda warriors blend together well, in sharp contrast to a wandering biker in a space-age plastic riding suit on a shiny blue motorcycle. As frowning guards approach, I take a deep breath.
Next to a sign stating “No Foreigners Beyond This Point,” a sneering, bearded soldier in a tattered woolen sweater fiercely barks his only English: “Permit, permit!”
Holding up my passport, “No, but I have Afghan visa.”
His patience already gone, he seems more likely to use his gun than reason. “Permit, permit!” His tone makes it clear; violence is the next step, and he and his friends are ready to demonstrate. I begin to wonder how far it is to the nearest hospital.
From a decrepit wooden building, a better-dressed commander steps to the rescue. He’s firm but polite. “You must have a permit to proceed to the border. If you want to cross tribal areas, go back to Peshawar and apply.”
As he retreats into his shack, I follow. “Can you please tell me where to get this permit?”
After scribbling “Khyber House, Bara Road” on a slip of paper, I am dismissed as he points to the road. “Now go.”
It was just five miles to Khyber House, but still time for a lot of second-guessing. There were so many variables ahead . . . or was I just spooked? Was it a
weather forecast calling for snow in Afghani-stan or uncertainty over getting another Pakistani visa? And what about the overall security situation? Obstacles are what we see when we lose sight of our goals, but then again, what of omens?
Despite what I’d been told, the Tribal Passage Permit took only a few hours of office-hopping downtown, but it was accompanied by strong warnings. “Yes, the people are nice but anything can happen. Just remember, don’t stop. Keep going no matter what.” Whenever I’ve heard such things before, I’ve found things very different inside so-called danger zones. Still, a precedent is being set here. No one here can remember the last time a Westerner requested to drive into tribal lands or Afghanistan, and on a motorcycle was beyond their comprehension. The only way they’d permit the 45-kilometer crossing was if I trucked my bike, using armed local bodyguards to deliver me to the border. “After that, we unload and you will be on your own.”
But I am not alone in my interest. Most embassy workers to whom I spoke, despite all the warnings, admitted, if given the opportunity, they might attempt the trek also. “It’s not so crazy then, to want to see Afghanistan?”
“No, someday I will try also, but for now, my job, my family, my . . .”
As of this moment, I have 12 hours to think this over. A wiser man would turn and bolt for India. Who would blame me? But am I just whining over a few obstacles or really stepping into the lion’s den? Where was the fine line between adventurous and foolhardy? The only real threat was the first 27 miles, right? After that, it was smooth sailing all the way to Kabul and back. When making decisions like this, I always ask myself, how will I feel about this later? Will I kick myself someday in California for missing this opportunity or be grateful that I’d had more sense?
Deviations
February 3, 2005
GT Road, Eastbound Across Pakistan
As though escaping breathless from a bad dream, I awoke wide-eyed at dawn, jolting upright with piercing mental alarms jabbing my consciousness. This was rare. In the past, my intuitive warnings had usually been far more subtle — twitches in the stomach telling me to slow before the next curve, and moments later discovering a rock slide or an oil spill. Motorcyclists recognize such sensations; it’s what keeps us alive in a high-stakes game with unfavorable odds. Experienced riders realize that a simple roll-back on the throttles never hurts and, sometimes not knowing exactly why, do it subconsciously.
This morning, a signal flashes unmistakably — DON’T GO. It wasn’t merely the logistics of a fogged-in Khyber Pass or the frozen roads leading to Kabul. I still had an even shot at beating approaching winter snowstorms, while the threat of bandits has existed before, in other countries. Every developing nation on my itinerary is in some type of turmoil underscored by stern warnings that have thus far been overstated. What about the civil unrest in Nepal next month? Maybe I would just flee for the comforts of cozy California. It should be easy enough to store unfinished business in a wanderer’s cross-that-bridge-later file.
To justify my wounded pride and self-doubt, I needed facts to confirm my misgivings. My phone call to the RSO provided a troubling list. After numerous murders and kidnappings, Western workers in Pakistan were no longer permitted to bring their families. For political reasons, Americans were primary targets. If terrorists can establish our patterns, they kill us. “Glen, there was a slight possibility you could have made it yesterday unannounced,” the RSO tells me. “Today you have no chance. Never mind the bandits — Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters know an American is coming.”
To establish a baseline, I examine the man’s background and reasoning. He’s ex-military and an experienced adventure traveler who’s not just warning me, he’s pleading, one man to another, for me not to go. In fact, he tells me to avoid the designated rendezvous point altogether — don’t even bother canceling. Get on your bike and ride while you can.
Experience with a terrorist army alters a man’s perspective, as I learned from my encounter with the ELN rebels in Colombia. But it’s not all for the negative; it also inspires deeper understanding. Yet, in moments of fear, there is still the question, “Is this just ELN-induced paranoia?” It takes an effort not to let those events affect my future decisions, and, sometimes, risky moves are necessary to vanquish them. Terrorists thrive on instilling fear. Every time anyone crosses an international border or shakes hands with a foe, it’s a collective middle-finger-message to those who terrorize — we control our lives. But today, I am afraid. Perhaps I am fortunate that the fear meter went off early instead of after the fact. But the question for me will always be, who won here today?
It was an easy one-day ride on the Grand Trunk Road from Peshawar to Amritsar, just across the Indian border. But without a schedule and foul weather behind me, there was no reason to hustle. The mighty wings and steady beat of a faithful Blue Beast become a magic carpet ride into the promised marvels ahead.
Halfway Around the World
February 4, 2005
New Delhi, India
The hardest thing about crossing the Indian border was getting there. From Lahore, it was a 18-mile two-hour weave between rickety donkey carts, unwieldy camel caravans and suicidal bus drivers. Yawning Pakistani customs and immigration officials didn’t care about my expired visa, stamping me out in minutes. It would have been the same from the Indians if anyone was awake. Just minutes after stirring from his midday nap, a mildly annoyed border guard helps me fill in an entry questionnaire then points the way out. My guidebook tells me there is an elaborate drum-and-bugle corps border-closing ceremony scheduled at sundown, but it was too long of a wait.
After three weeks in Pakistan, the vibrancy of India blossoms in vivid reds and blues. More welcome than that is the appearance of females. Islamic culture provided few glimpses of women, let alone of their hair. Here, nose-ringed Indian girls in dazzling green saris buzz about on purring motor-scooters, while bearded men in bright orange turbans tend roadside food stalls.
Jangling music and pungent smells enhance the imagery, gripping the senses in an exotic dance of spiritual intrigue. From roadside restaurants, scent, of eye-watering spices and frying meats mix with the smell of diesel fumes and fresh-cut fields. It’s a long 12-hour ride to Delhi in new territory with much to see. Sikhism, a blend of Islam and Hinduism, is rooted in Punjab, with Amritsar home to its holiest shrine. The stately majesty of the Golden Temple alone is worth a trip to India. Non-Sikhs are discouraged from visiting, but if you remove your shoes and cover your head in cloth wraps, outsiders are tolerated. Entering the massive stone courtyard, you’re met with the captivating repetitious background music, as visitors are drawn into a trance intensified by burning incense and skin-prickling vibrations.
Like a floating island attached by a granite catwalk, the gold-leafed temple shimmers in the center of a marble pool, mirroring the surrounding walls. In reverence to the founders, strings of silent pilgrims sink to their knees, kissing the final steps. Sitars whine out tingling tunes while tabla drums tap out repeating beats, reverberating somewhere in the back of my mind. It’s an experience that transports listeners from one consciousness to another. My first dose of India blossoms like a wild orchid in a polluted swamp.
The roads are as terrifying as promised but not as death-defying as the ride from Karachi. Warned of the touts and thieves in Delhi’s motorcycle district, I’ve prepared for the worst. Bargaining down prices for new driving lights from 10 dollars to nine was easy, witnessing the installation was priceless. Preferring my own hands, no one other than Jimmy or white-smocked BMW techs should touch the Beast. But how bad could someone err bolting on lights and attaching two wires? Determined to impress the foreigner, 10 pairs of oily hands compete to tape connections and reroute electronics until neither the horn nor ignition function.
Finally, one light shines up and the other straight down — “That’s okay Mr. Glen, better to see the trees and watch the front tire.” It was useless trying to
explain why wiring should be tucked away neatly; they were far too proud to be corrected. Everything could be reassembled later when no one was looking. When finally ready to ride, this time it was locals who aimed cameras at me. It took an hour to escape the series of one-more-shots.
Next on the list was a visa for Nepal and an extension for India, finding a laptop repair station and a store to stock up on canned sardines. Local hotels were fully booked, but there was an empty little guesthouse on a side street with cable TV and a shower. Local fiery curries are delicious despite my knowing that within moments this could lead to all-night trots to the bathroom. Thursday morning is slated for Agra and a visit to the Taj Majal. After that, it’s up to the gods.
Visas
February 9, 2005
New Delhi, India
Indian immigration officials are as abrupt and unaccommodating as their American counterparts and behave in stark contrast to the friendly citizens. But without a visa extension, I must leave the country in 10 days. Accustomed to the welcoming locals, the scowling, I’m-too-busy-reading-the-paper government employees are a suprise. Time was their ally, not mine. India should be relieved such arrogant bureaucrats are not in charge of tourism. It wasn’t just that my 50-dollar-per-day road trip didn’t impress them, neither did the French businessman in his three-piece suit. Even after he’d finished informing all who would listen how long he had been waiting, the scowling officials were unmoved. “You will take a seat there.”
Completing the extension application process wasted two solid days, waiting in lobbies and running to find copy machines to print more documents to sign. And that was just to get the approval letter to apply at the office across town, which required a life-threatening navigation through the treacherous crush of Delhi rush-hour traffic. But the pacing Frenchman in the business suit kept us entertained with his comments about how, since he had more documents, we were sure to be denied. Officials made certain he was last in line.
One More Day Everywhere Page 18