One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Thoughts on the Road

  March 22, 2005

  Katmandu, Nepal

  Although it’s only been nine months and 24,000 miles, the intensity of this experience continues to distort time. If it wasn’t for dating these journals, I might not know the year or even remember much of the past decade. If you’ve ever wondered how the world would appear to visiting aliens, take a ride around the planet — you’ll feel like one. Disconnected from daily routine, a stark reality jolts you into an awareness you don’t hear of in the Western media. Life remains a mystery, but you can discover much about your own life once you step outside the party and look back through a very different window. This is as close as I’ve come to walking in another man’s shoes.

  Wandering the dampened backstreets of Katmandu is a walk back into time. Ancient Buddhist temples and red brick stupas in the shadows of Hindu shrines represent ancient beliefs and a constant celebration of life. The roots of these religions reach back long before Jesus. The dedicated spirituality of the mountains that initially attracts travelers, whatever their faith, is as potent as ever. Even the corrosive influence of tourism seems to have no effect on the hearts of the natives. Despite the recent temptations of Western materialism, they remain as humble and tolerant as I recall them being 25 years ago.

  Travelers in Nepal are unique. From the thrill-seeking mountain-climbers to simple trekkers to those out taming wild rivers, few wander about without purpose. Environmentally conscious explorers concerned over Nepal’s future show a sincere respect for its natural beauty and conduct themselves as world citizens. The penny-pinching dope-smoking parasites prefer India.

  The rain that’s fallen every day since I arrived has given me a great excuse to do nothing but eat and relax. The stress of thousands of miles on difficult roads now unravels in the pure pleasure of hanging out with curious young men on street corners and weight-training in a primitive gym. Locals want to know how it was possible for me to just pack up and leave California. So far, that’s a hard question to answer because what happens after this journey will determine its success or failure.

  Reshuffling the deck with life half over has been as risky as it has been rewarding. But what happens at journey’s end? Is this the beginning of the end of an otherwise satisfying life? What lies ahead — the fruits of metamorphosis or the seeds of decay?

  Through the miracle of technology, thousands from around the world have logged onto the Internet and followed my journey in real time. Reading my biweekly journals, with a little imagination, readers can sense the uninsulated glory of a tumultuous world as discovered by a wandering biker. As word spreads and my readership grows, some folks check in just to see if I am still alive, while critics wait for disaster so they can say I-told-you-so. Although my goal is to live free of safety nets, that’s never entirely possible. Western passport holders are only 20-hour plane rides from the comforts of home, those living here are the ones really sinking or swimming . . .

  As long as ATMs spew currency, in most countries I can find clean sheets and a shower accompanied by tolerable food. The same can’t be said for the half of the world living on a dollar a day. It’s only by the grace of someone’s God go those more fortunate. Travelers eventually learn how to cope with witnessing the misery of grinding poverty, yet it’s still awkward when meeting desperate people concealing their misfortune behind a pleasant demeanor. One can feel rather foolish smiling back and asking, “How’s it going today?”

  Nepali girl on the route from Katmandu to Tibetan border

  Tibet, So Near and Yet . . .

  March 28, 2005

  Kodari, Nepal

  Western-style food, relative cleanliness and bargains at every street corner make the Thamel District of Katmandu a convenient place to be stranded. Twenty bucks a day buys three Western meals and a clean-by-Asian-standards hotel room with satellite TV that even receives American sitcoms — making it easy for me to remember what I don’t miss. Reports of trivial nonsense on the national news provides another eye-rolling cure for temporary homesickness.

  Dreading the next airfreight scenario, my dream of crossing overland to Thailand is barely a false hope. A ride through Tibet and down into China for access to Southeast Asia via Laos would be blazing a trail world riders have only fantasized about. But there’re reasons why such objectives are out of reach. Governments.

  China is growing more lax about tourism, but they’re still picky about who visits Tibet. All tours involving lands under their rule are processed through the government-owned China Travel Service (CTS). Most international journalists are forbidden to tour Tibet for fear they will expose what’s happening to the inhabitants. Unless travelers are willing to pay the exorbitant salaries of military escorts, entering with private vehicles is illegal. Even short stays cost thousands. Yet in a land and bureaucracy as vast as China’s, the left hand is often unaware of the right. Scattered reports from motorcycling websites mention lone motorcyclists appearing at borders and fast-talking their way in. Getting out can be another story.

  In any case, entering requires a visa, and to obtain one in Nepal, travelers must go through local agents. Even after a week of telephone haggling with officials in Tibet’s capital, Lhasa, the best-connected guides can only promise a five-day road trip packed in a minivan with a return flight back in 10.

  A river-rafting company advertising a tropical base-camp of canvas tents on the banks of the Bhote Kosi River near the Tibetan border was my next best option. A four-hour sprint from Katmandu, the Last Resort is only accessible from the road by crossing a massive boulder-sprinkled gorge on a swaying aluminum footbridge suspended over foaming river waters. Five hundred feet from one end to the other and the same distance looking down from the center makes me dizzy enough to wonder about walking across — let alone diving off it headfirst attached only by a reinforced elastic strap. Designed by Swiss engineers, this dual-purpose bridge has become the world’s second highest bungee jump. Posters showing the deluxe campsites nestled in seductive jungle surroundings closed the deal.

  As of today, Maoist rebels have still not killed a tourist, and they’ve officially agreed to halt further blockades until university students have finished exams. But a call to the American embassy RSO is unsettling. Because of continued U.S. support of the embattled king, as of last week, rural insurgents have ordered the arrest of any American. Several have been detained and required to make war-tax payments while being lectured on the ills of Uncle Sam’s foreign policy. So far, they have been scared but not harmed. With the midday sun finally burning away enough of the clouds to dry the muddy roads, I am off on a 60-mile ride along the Arniko Highway to the Tibetan border.

  When the asphalt ends, sporadic mountain squalls lasting just long enough to settle the dust make half-buried river rocks more slippery than desirable for worn street rubber. The Blue Beast’s spinning tires kick up enough golf ball–sized stones to make hardened riding boots essential. The long climb up a narrow, bumpy track requires steady standing on the pegs and rest stops every half hour. Set against gaping mountain ravines, this is one of the best dirt rides since Siberia.

  Stopping in small mountain towns for directions, I realize the only English phrase spoken is “20 kilometers.” Whatever destination I ask about, villagers claim it’s 20 kilometers away. Just before sunset, through a misty drizzle, the last Nepali army outpost before Chinese customs comes into view. My guidebook’s assertions that it was possible to proceed past the outpost to the bridge dividing countries proved incorrect. After a token photo, armed Chinese soldiers point to the road, insisting I immediately turn around. The path back down, sliding over wet rocks at sunset, proves to be tedious work. But the Blue Beast holds its ground, and just as pale, ghostly moonbeams reveal the skeletal silhouette of the suspension bridge, a teenage mountain porter appears to assist the lost Americano.

  Known as a rebel stronghold, the entire region is empty of
travelers, and the Last Resort has been without guests for weeks. That’s a disaster for hapless staff working for tips. Beneath surrounding mountains terraced in neat agricultural rows lies the finest river rafting and waterfall-rapelling in Asia. It’s eerie being alone in such a delicious paradise, but my sweet-natured hosts promise to make my stay worthwhile. Dozing while the river roars with baritone croaking bullfrogs and awaking to honking geese makes it hard to want to be anywhere else. Quiet nights at the Last Resort became the ultimate blend of modern and rustic as I tap out journals by lantern light. There are no phone lines or Internet, and power comes from solar panels. But after yesterday morning’s accidental gulp of untreated water, the most critical convenience is a sit-down commode.

  Oarin’ Around Asia

  March 30, 2005

  Bhote Kosi River, Nepal

  Since my one and only previous whitewater-rafting excursion was spent upside-down, it’s hard to claim I have experience. As luck would have it, just as I’m preparing to pack for a return to Katmandu, a tourist minibus rolls in, hauling a rambunctious crew of eager young Europeans heading for a tumble down the gushing Bhote Kosi. A glance down at the churning river, and my pleading look made my question obvious. And yes, they had room for one more. Budget constraints also mean a choice has to be made. It’s an easy decision — 30 bucks will either buy me a 45-second bungee jump or a whole day slicing through boiling rapids on one of the steepest rivers in Asia.

  Ten years ago, while riding across Idaho, out of curiosity, Brad and I wound up following signs pointing to Hell’s Canyon on the Snake River. Seeing a 20-person expedition loading supplies and equipment, we asked if we could tag along. “Sorry guys — not a chance, these people booked this trip months ago and there is no room.”

  Pointing to two empty inflatable kayaks tied behind the rubber rafts, Brad asked “What about those?”

  A skeptical boat-master replied, “Do you know anything about kayaking?”

  “Hell, I’m Canadian. Kayak is my middle name. I’ve been kayaking my whole life.”

  “Well if you’re sure you can handle them, we can have your bikes trucked downstream to be picked up at the final landing. But the river is at record level, and there have been five drownings this month. Tomorrow will be mostly class three and four rapids.”

  Despite Brad’s confidence, neither of us was sure which end of the kayak was which, and as we began rotating underwater at the first ripples in the swift-moving current, everyone was soon aware that we were cherry. Though the bulk of our time was spent submerged, our first rafting experience was still the best three days we’ve ever spent together.

  The Lonely Planet guidebook does have a small write-up about rafting in Nepal. Of all the rivers, this was rated among the best, and Ultimate Adventures was listed in the top-five rafting companies. Safety is critical, so we spend an hour before departure with cautious guides teaching us how to rescue each other and ourselves. Commands were next. “Right-side forward” meant those on the right of the raft dug in their paddles to change directions. “Right-side back” meant paddle backwards, and so forth. “Jump right” meant those on the left dove to the right to keep the raft from hanging up on submerged boulders. “Get down” was the order to drop to our knees in the center of the boat because capsizing was likely.

  Rapids are graded on a universal scale of one to six, where one indicates easy-moving water with few obstacles and six means life-threatening rapids and nearly impossible rafting. Fours require significant experience, and fives are white-knuckled leaps beyond reasonable risk. For the first hour, everyone confused right from left, and despite a patient boat-master shouting sharp commands, we spun backwards through most of the twos and threes. But shortly before lunch break, we’d developed a coordinated cadence that roughly corresponded with hollered directives. We were gaining our river legs.

  The class four rapids required boat landings and scouting ahead, climbing over giant boulders to look for routes through the exploding current. Shooting the rapids while feverishly digging deep with our paddles called for teamwork. Lulls in the action were filled with sporadic water fights and a strategic dunking.

  At the end of the day, grins sunburned on our faces, the Danes and the Canadians, along with our faithful, smirking Nepali guides, all bussed down to Katmandu while I hitched a ride back to the Last Resort for one last night of heaven. It’s sad to realize that time is dwindling in Nepal. Brad arrives in Bangkok in two weeks, and 11 days later, we will be saying goodbye at the Laotian border, as he’ll return to the U.S. while I drift deeper into Southeast Asia.

  It’s the People You Meet

  April 5, 2005

  Katmandu, Nepal

  My first encounter with real adventurers was beneath flickering neon on the dark, steamy backstreets of Hong Kong. In 1981, China had only been open to the West for a year, and the line of visitors to be first at anything was growing. Striding through swarming crowds of five-foot-tall Chinese were a dozen broad-shouldered mid-30s American athletes sporting bright yellow T-shirts with purple lettering on the back — Upper Yangtze River Expedition. With bulging biceps tearing at their sleeves and the disproportionately enlarged lat muscles of oarsmen, they were out to define what made them men.

  As a competitive martial artist, I was there to match skills with local kung-fu fighters, but while witnessing such audacious legends in the making, I could only stare and dream. Mere mortals were left to envy and fantasize about slicing through crashing rapids of uncharted mountain gorges. Images of those adventurers never vanished.

  Similar legends appear in Nepal. In the polished wooden lobby of the Katmandu Guesthouse, an American team of stouthearted mountaineers carefully stow climbing gear into idling minibuses for transportation to an airfield. Soon, a twin-engine Sea Otter will drop them halfway into the Himalayas for an ascent of Mount Everest. Vibrant spirits permeate cold morning air as they methodically test and repack equipment that their lives will depend on. Each man knows his job, and they silently mingle only with each other in somber understanding of the task ahead. It’s almost too late in the season for decent visibility without a cloudy mist, but they are taking the shot anyway; rearranging their lives for a future opportunity is unlikely. It’s mind-boggling to consider that, if they’re lucky, in a few weeks they’ll be fighting blizzards at the lung-searing summit of a 29,000-foot peak.

  And there is no forgetting the 20-year-old Dutch girl who had been backpacking solo across southern India when it struck her that two-wheels was more challenging. Nine riding lessons later, she was en route to Katmandu on her first motorcycle — alone. The last I saw of her, in a Thamel District backstreet hostel, she was double-checking her saddlebags, heading for Tibet.

  World motorcycle travel is nothing new. Swilling down Indian beers in a Chitwan Park café, an 82-year-old Scotsman recounted his adventure of 1956, riding from Sri Lanka to London on a German-built 49cc one-half horsepower scooter — cruising at a thumping 22 miles per hour. His mesmerizing tale prompted obvious questions: “Tell me sir, do you ever miss the two-wheeled thrill?”

  “Aye, that I do, I do. That’s why I’ve rode ‘ere now on me bicycle.”

  Wherever you travel in Nepal, when you’re not basking in local hospitality, you’re meeting people coming or going somewhere with purpose in their lives. Off to India, back from Africa or beginning a multiweek high-altitude trek into the Himalayas. Other Westerners here are aid workers — soldiers on missions of peace battling ignorance with olive branches of care and personal sacrifice. From UN personnel here to negotiate ceasefires to Red Cross workers caring for war victims, the world community loves Nepal.

  In the meantime, civil conflict flares in the countryside with strikes, blockades and blood revenge. The toll on civilians is brutal as the death rate soars with random shootings and planned bombings. The result is worse than economic deterioration; it’s about starvation and the demise of human dignity. As Mao
ist rebels continue to punish nonsupporters, their moral high-ground erodes. When the military can’t capture rebels, they shoot civilians and claim them as the enemy. Extremism grows, and children robbed of their innocence grow up amidst the mindless savagery of war.

  Soon I’ll be swallowed in Bangkok, leaving behind memories pleasant and troubling. The disturbing intensity of Nepal makes it hard to move on to other countries, as none can match the sincerity of the human experience here. Either stumbling through cities or wandering the countryside, the endearing Nepali people willingly give travelers their aching hearts and souls.

  Yesterday morning, in the chaotic cargo department at Katmandu airport, the Blue Beast was crated and X-rayed, and, as promised, had arrived safely in Bangkok last night. Crossing international borders is always a hassle, but after a few dozen, shuffling paperwork has become routine, and I’m resigned to the realities. Continuing on the plan-of-no-plan, my general direction will be north into Laos and back down through Cambodia into Southern Thailand. Monsoon season is approaching, so the main concern is to stay ahead of squalls on chewed-up dirt roads. It’s time to fly east.

  Memories flicker into flames aboard a modern aircraft as petite Thai stewardesses in shiny silk gowns clasp their palms together in traditional greetings of respect. Except for ordering meals in Thai restaurants, I haven’t spoken this language in 15 years. But after hearing familiar words, mispronounced phrases tumble out from buried files in the back of my mind. Trivial jabbering fills an otherwise boring flight as the ever-polite Thais respond to my kindergarten level speech with, “Poot Thai gheng!” (You speak good Thai!)

  The robotic voice of our former military pilot announces it’s a seething 95 degrees on the sultry boulevards of downtown Bangkok. Seriously congested, with the air polluted by clouds of noxious black fumes, face masks have become standard attire.