One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Yet, the Dayak were friendly, shouting greetings from streets lined with step-through motor-scooters and partying teenagers. They dressed like natives anywhere else on Borneo, in Levis and T-shirts labeled with names of American football teams. This scene was like Bike Week in Borneo. In the wood-planked lobby of a musty, old two-story hotel, the young desk clerk wearing wire-frame glasses spoke perfect English. And during the usual questions and answers, a bond of trust was established. After helping haul my equipment upstairs, as though sharing the secret of life and death, he pulled on my arm, whispering, “Mistah, you want to get very hot tonight?”

  Optimistic about what he might mean, I reply, “Are you talking about women?”

  “No, no, we have drinks!”

  “Drinks?”

  “Yes, yes, here in Sahmpeet, we are not Moooslim, we are Christen and make our own drinks.”

  Indonesia may be liberal in some ways, but it is still an Islamic country that draws the line on certain moral issues. Whatever your religion, alcohol is still illegal, and getting arrested along with a tribal bootlegging ring was pushing adventure a step too far. Indonesian law is strictly enforced — right up to death penalties for selling marketable quantities of marijuana. There is no such thing as probation or halfway houses for substance abuse, only prison. Recalling recent headlines of a 20-year sentence imposed on an Australian woman who wasn’t conclusively proven to have possessed pot, slurping Borneo moonshine didn’t seem worth the risk for a man who only occasionally drinks beer.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I prefer a walk downtown to meet the people.”

  “No, you can only go out in the daytime, never at night.”

  “Why, is it dangerous?”

  “Yes,” he says, drawing his finger across his throat, “Dayaks.”

  “But you are Dayak.”

  “My mother is Dayak but my father is from Java, so I am only half-dangerous.”

  “Okay, can you tell me about the road to Sukamara?”

  Waving his hand up and down through the air, he replies, “That is 500 kilometers from here and the road is like this. Traveling there by motorbike will take three days.”

  Pointing outside, at the pavement, I ask, “Is the road like that,” then, indicating the dirt, “or like that?”

  Walking outside he selects a baseball-size rock and says, “No, it is mostly these.”

  Tense Moments

  August 20, 2005

  Bulik, Central Kalimantan, Borneo

  Since leaving California over a year ago, other than the encounter with aggressive tribal guards at the Afghan border, I’ve had few tense moments. The maddening traffic of India and daredevil drivers of Russia kept me on edge, but I was never afraid. Even though the authorities I’d met throughout the world have been mostly friendly, it is common knowledge that policemen and soldiers have a darker side. Tales of corruption and exploitation are too numerous to ignore. Just because I had yet to run into a shakedown didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

  Bulik is a medium-sized multicultural township administered by officials from Java, one of the few villages large enough to have food sold in markets and my first chance in a while to buy a meal. Over greasy fried eggs in an open-air roadside noodle-stand, a well-dressed middle-aged man initiates what has become standard conversation, “From where do you come mistah?” Dialogue from there is predictable. Naming the countries, the price of the bike and telling him yes, I am traveling alone. But this inquisitive stranger persists.

  “I think maybe you are from Greenpeace?”

  Not knowing where he is leading, I laugh, “No I’m just wandering the planet writing about people.”

  His tone intensifies, “I know you are journalist from Greenpeace.”

  Changing the subject, I ask, “Is there a place here to buy a map? I lost mine yesterday.”

  “What are you writing about Kalimantan?”

  “Just how nice and friendly the people are. Is there a store near here?”

  “Are you sure you are not Greenpeace?”

  “No. I am just a wandering motorcyclist, and I must go now to find a map.”

  Nodding to two other men dressed in similar shirts standing behind me, he says, “Better you follow them first to go and talk with police.”

  A stern-faced commander is waiting outside at the cement-block government station with cell phone in hand, and I can’t help noticing that he is dressed well for such a low-paid government worker. After curt introductions, he guides me to his office for questioning. From behind a desk stacked high with documents, he forces a smile: “May I have your documents please?”

  Knowing it will only lead to more questions, I never offer more information than requested and return a forced smile. “Yes, you mean my passport?”

  “And the papers for your motorbike.”

  “The carnet de passage?”

  “Yes, that and your letter to be here.”

  I have heard about this routine and suspect what comes next. “You don’t have a letter? Oh that’s a shame, but to keep you out of jail, we can write one for you for a fee.” Trying to conceal a hard swallow, I decide to play this out. “A letter isn’t necessary, just a visa for me and a carnet de passage for my bike.”

  “But you are working for Greenpeace?”

  Pointing outside the window, I state, “No, I am only riding that motorcycle around the world.”

  Suddenly, remembering the business card with a scribbled introduction from the Indonesian consulate liaison officer, I hand over the dog-eared scrap of paper sealed with a government stamp. “My friend Mr. Ali said a letter was not necessary with this card.”

  “Ah, very good. What do you carry in those boxes?”

  My medical kit packed with prescription drugs long pounded into powder would at least arouse suspicion — maybe arrest. Because a relapse of my migrating kidney stones was likely, doctors in Munich had given me supplies of powerful pain pills and anti-spasm medications. Labels describing the contents with my name had rubbed off months ago. If this situation was not resolved quickly, five plastic bottles packed with now ground-up opiate-based white powder could mean I’d be explaining myself from an Indonesian prison.

  This situation needed a happy resolution quickly. Was it better to keep smiling and slip him a handful of local currency? Would 20 or 30 bucks guarantee a ride out of town? If they believed an environmentalist has infiltrated their midst, would he be let free at any price — or maybe even disappear? But as he scans my documents, it is clear that this country cop has never seen a U.S. passport and does not know what to do. As he continues to flip through pages with colored visa stickers — Afghanistan, Pakistan, Egypt and Syria — his interest grows. Indonesia is busy dealing with a rising militant Islamic movement. Recent bombings in Bali had been orchestrated from within by underground al-Qaeda cells. Terrorism was on everyone’s mind.

  Finally, after enough grunting and throat-clearing, the commander telephones to superiors for directions on how to proceed. Should he detain the foreigner for further interrogation or ignore the coincidences? After I sat staring at a slow-moving wall clock resisting the urge to perspire, the brief reply comes an hour later — “Photocopy the suspect’s documents and set him free.”

  Got My Ass Kicked Today

  August 21, 2005

  Western Kalimantan, Borneo

  Experienced motorcyclists know better than to ride exhausted from lack of sleep, especially at night, when distance vision is reduced by two-thirds. But long, taxing days strung together trying to outrace overdue rain while covering so little distance has been discouraging. Checking my odometer was useless; after 12 hours bouncing over irregular Borneo terrain, the in line digital numbers did not change much.

  There is little to see in the wilds of western Borneo. Villages are 10 miles apart so only a few appear during the course of a dawn-to-dusk ride. No
one speaks English, and sometimes the Dayak do not speak Indonesian either. There are no stores to buy food, so I rely on village hospitality to eat. But you can’t just roll into town, pass out cigarettes or shiny trinkets and expect a meal. I must first park my bike, stand near the first hut and smile while the boldest of the curious sniff me out. Sudden moves or reaching into my saddlebags can send them retreating until they’re calmed again by more standing and smiling.

  The whole procedure, from start to a late evening meal of pasted roots and boiled vegetables, can take several hours. At breakfast and lunch that’s too much time. This means one meal at the end of an exhausting day, with a woven grass mat to sleep on under a thatched roof. But gaining acceptance in a village teaches patience and makes a guest feel more connected to his experience. There is something very alluring about primitive simplicity unspoiled by Western influence. As civilization moves closer to their dwindling tribal paradise, vulnerable Dayak are still fortunate to be without the complications and gadgets that become necessities when connected to the electrical grid. Without artificial light, they sleep when the earth sleeps and live harmoniously within the natural cycles and rhythms of the human body.

  Shy and simple, Dayak are one with their environment and respect the individual spirits they believe dwell inside all plants, rocks and animals. When questioned about their beliefs, tribal elders explain their religion is based on common sense and that the people conduct themselves as though surrounded by ghosts who can affect their lives. Tattooed body art is their method of communicating gracious recognition or respectful fear. Under the spell of this mystical rain forest, during memorable evenings of understanding and sharing, it’s easy to fall in love with a people so soft and free.

  With no established timetable for riding Borneo, looping the island seemed like a worthwhile challenge with nothing certain except that there would be no turning back, even if unable to proceed further by land. Plan B is simple. I rely on the idea that if reaching a point where radical terrain prohibits moving forward, I could at least find a river and wait for a fishing canoe in order to hitch a ride to the coast. From there, I could wait for a larger vessel to hail for a sail to the next major port. After all, by now I am already experienced in negotiating with boat captains.

  But it’s been five weeks since I left Kuching, and with unknown mileage to cover until the finish line, my growing frustration makes me ride faster than conditions allow and makes me continue when it is time to rest. We follow our own rules in life because experience teaches the consequences of breaking them. Sometimes lessons need to be repeated.

  Going down on dirt is generally less damaging than colliding with asphalt, still the bike and body always suffer some harm. When I’m off the beaten path, more than mechanical failures, I fear a broken limb from a crash. Even minor tears in the flesh offer conve-nient pathways for toxic microbes and tropical diseases. In the event of serious injury, there is no way out of here. If I was found overturned in some bottomless ravine or shivering with fever, who would know what to do?

  Even on a lighter bike with knobby tires, motorcyclists are never in complete control riding in mud. Mud is the great equalizer. Using dual-purpose street tires while slinging 600 pounds of motorcycle adds negative factors to the equation. The numbers are simple, after 2,000 miles of mostly rugged dirt track complicated by mud, it is not a matter of if but when and how many times a rider does an over-the-handlebars face-plant. Until today, I had been lucky with only a few slow-moving spills where the main problem was developing enough traction for my boots while I tried to get the bike upright.

  But today was payday for breaking the rules. Headlight filaments expire quicker under vibration and heat, but seldom do both go at once. My high beam had burned out last week, the low beam yesterday. Just before sunset, the best I could determine from quizzing a team of boar hunters, the next village was three hours away via the feeble glow of my remaining front-end parking lamp. Do I stop and camp or roll the dice?

  If evening storm clouds release their water it will mean an instant halt to further progress — the clay is too slick to ride and would require a day to dry. And how many days could be spent sitting in a tent waiting for sunshine in a rain forest? What if monsoon season starts early? The recent lack of rain has caused havoc for firefighters battling forest fires in neighboring Sumatra but have been a miracle of good fortune for a man trying to stay ahead of the mud on Borneo. It is best to keep moving.

  After the sun dropped below treeline, seeing where damp clay turned slick was difficult, but my front wheel washing out sideways delivered the news. Over the handlebars and somehow landing on my knees, I ended up lying in the road assessing the damage. My chest had taken out the windshield and mirrors, while ramming into solid earth had torn loose the left side aluminum pannier. The impact snapped stainless-steel fasteners while bending the support frames — again. Except for a swelling left knee, my padded riding clothes absorbed enough of the impact to minimize the damage to me.

  But help is never far away. While I use a hardwood tree branch to straighten the frame, a lone Dayak teenager on a motor-scooter putters over the hill, stopping to aid the alien. His surging headlight illuminated the scene enough for me to strap luggage pieces together to get moving again. Rami tells me it is another 25 miles to his village, but he will ride slowly to guide me. Attempting this journey in darkness stretches a three-hour ride into six. Peeking from behind silky veils of fluorescent clouds, a silvery full moon brightens the road barely enough to see shadows. Soon, I trail Rami into the night, trying to avoid dangers stuck in my mind but impossible to see.

  Storms have eroded this road for years, resulting in long stretches of ruts and crevices ending in pools of stagnant water. Dodging what I can only imagine is a situation requiring total focus and breathing through teeth. The long, zigzagging gouges are only a foot or two deep, but lodging motorcycle tires between them means being locked into wherever they lead — deeper mud or maybe a tree. Balancing on the ridges means if starting to tip, there is nowhere to plant a foot to stabilize.

  In daylight, this would be difficult, without lights at night, it’s a panicky plunge into the unknown. All I can do is follow the weaving silhouette ahead and not look down. The darkness plays tricks. Did Rami swerve to avoid a mud puddle or finally disappear? I wasn’t sure until I’m abruptly buried to the bike’s axles, two feet underwater, sinking and spinning my tires while the engine furiously pumps gas bubbles from a submerged exhaust.

  How could only two men free 600 pounds of rubber and steel from oozing mud? Wading to our hips in muck, Rami pushes from behind as I pull from the side, delicately feathering the clutch against the desperate gurgle of the laboring motor. Forty-five minutes of inching free of the bog underlined the grim realization that there would be five more hours of creeping through twilight shadows until we’d find shelter and sleep.

  The Home Stretch

  August 22, 2005

  Kuching, East Malaysia

  After Dayak teenagers used buckets of river water to rinse away two and a half weeks of clay and slime, it was time to assess the damage. Broken mirror stems with the glass intact could be rethreaded and bolted back, but the windshield, duct-taped together since Mongolia, was finally finished. Bent frames and panniers are easy enough to restore if worked carefully in a Chinese body shop. My replacement for a new 30-dollar street tire, spun bald, is on the way. Steering-head bearings are beaten square by the constant pounding from muscling the front end through turns, but they are a simple fix. My crunched left knee still functions, yet, when I’m back in California, it will likely finance another orthopedic surgeon’s ski vacation.

  Because detailed maps did not exist, after interviewing locals, I wrote down the names of villages further ahead in sequence. Later, at forks in the road when I’m unsure which way to choose, I would point to the next village in the sequence and turn my palms upward. Asking how to reach major cities a hundred mile
s away was like asking a teenager in Los Angeles how to get to Brooklyn. They merely shrugged their shoulders about places they have only heard about.

  This morning, the decimated dirt track abruptly turned into creamy black tarmac beneath the cooling canopy of jungle foliage. But that type of brief relief had happened before. Elsewhere in Kalimantan, unexplained short stretches of new asphalt had miraculously appeared only to evaporate into mud a few miles later. While I refused to raise my hopes, a last hundred miles of welcome asphalt continued until quietly ending without warning at a sleepy Malaysian border post. Even though fresh seafood meals and solid rest was only a few hours away in Kuching, I felt a familiar melancholy recalling the faces of new friends left behind. With an emotional last glance back, the laughing villagers who’d befriended a stranger suddenly outweighed the taxing brutality of Kalimantan’s terrain. Once again, the journey moves too fast to digest the lessons.

  Rolling up wobbly wooden planks onto rocking riverboats and across shallow streams has taught me much about circus riding. Considering the excessive wear on a motorcycle I expect to perform over another 20,000 miles through Indonesia and Africa, I have to wonder, was it worth it? Which overly fatigued metal parts would snap without warning while traversing the Serengeti Plain? After my Trans-Siberian crossing and wandering the Gobi, an overtaxed suspension had already been rebuilt after 17,000 miles, and that was 20,000 miles ago.

  Months of wiped away road dust and sand have left the GPS screen too scratched to read. But by cupping hands in the shade of an overhead mahogany tree, I am able to distinguish a tiny black triangle pointing toward a faded blue background, indicating water, reconfirming my direct course toward the South China Sea. Still, the most valuable data is coded within the GPS memory chip — the first recorded logging-road route circling the island of Borneo; a challenging path I would surely never attempt again. Continuing further from flickering memories of Kalimantan, I begin to focus on what lies ahead. Without immigration problems, if riding hard, I could reach the streets of Kuching before sunset — another foreign town to temporarily call home.