On the first mile into Malaysia, the strong summer squalls that had held off when they would have done the most harm instantly crack down, rinsing off my mud-caked boots and riding suit. Flipping open my helmet visor invites sweet tastes of stinging raindrops in to flush away stale body oils and crusted sweat. A full gas tank was too heavy for wrangling through the mud of Kalimantan, so to keep the weight down, it had never been more than half full. But with the gas gauge malfunctioning again, I could only guess how much remained. In the end, my triumphant return to Malaysia was undone by a single broken wire, as my anticlimactic last hour limping back to Kuching alone ended when I sputtered out of fuel short of the city limits. No matter, I’d had a lot of good fortune.
Was it simply due to luck that I had had extraordinarily good weather while overwhelmed in the forest? How had I determined the correct paths at a hundred unmarked forks? Was it Allah, Shiva or Jesus? Or was it Buddha and Thor conspiring with the Travel Gods that kept me safe? Without divine intervention, would this pathetic solo wanderer have been destined to fatal disaster? Standing roadside in the pouring rain, staring at my resting Blue Beast empty of fuel, I wondered, “For all this complicated effort, what have I gained?
Borneo is still Borneo, although the natives have been affected by an inquisitive foreigner appreciative of the lessons they taught and the kindness they showed. And what are their memories of this peculiar vagabond alien and his farewell promises to never forget them? Much to my chagrin, I soon discover that even with temporary way stations, there still is no going home. In the past five weeks, most of the hotel staff who had sent me off with parting smiles had found other work. There are no parades or friendly faces to shout, “Welcome back!” But when I log on to the Internet, there is a flood of emails streaming in from curious readers eager for an account of my tumultuous adventure. And although I’m slightly worse for the wear, my war chest is packed with wealth beyond that of silver or gold. Even in the jungle, at the end of each day, like a marauding pirate returning with riches, I set up my equipment to transfer digital treasures from camera to laptop — cherished mementos of a journey within a journey I hope will never end.
Sarawak
August 29, 2005
Kuching, East Malaysia
Was it a longing for the concept of a home that has ceased to exist or was it just the primal charm of Borneo beckoning to linger? Since I’d left California, Sarawak province has been the closest place yet to paradise and somewhere I’d return. A warm, soothing climate with a manageable helping of equatorial storms to nourish a vibrant landscape, this passive land of East Malaysia is the perfect balance between what the earth has to offer and a satisfying spectrum of humankind flourishing in the heart of a rain forest. A few hours beyond glitzy Western-style shopping arcades and five-star resorts, primitive jungle life still exists to awe the most experienced adventurers. You can even drink the tap water in any of the cities.
Unlike other developing-world tropical playgrounds mired in poverty, the modern infrastructure and an educated populace puts Malaysia directly in the 21st century, even when its orderly one-way streets end at the jungle’s edge. How does such a diverse sample of humans manage this perfect order without police on street corners? Unless you are breaking one of their laws, you can travel all day without seeing a cop. A typical Muslim country, Malaysia functions by using an unforgiving legal system. Drug peddlers granted probation in the West are hanged here, while small-time offenders can look forward to public canings. True censorship laws silence government critics, but even the most liberal democracies have ways of muzzling dissidents. Though the stakes are frightfully high, there is no denying the relative safety of an Islamic nation. If you mind your own business, the zero tolerance for violent crime becomes a relief when you’re concerned about where to park a valuable motorcycle or stow your expensive camera equipment.
Yet, since leaving California, I have never been alone. As Kuching bike club members coordinated the delicate reshaping of angled aluminum panniers, a brother karate sensei takes me out to the best seafood restaurant in town. They wanted to know motorcycle specs and the numbers behind my world touring, while I was curious about social issues in Borneo. Over fried prawns and Tiger Beer we conversed about every subject except politics and religion.
When you ask Malaysians what makes them the most proud, they invariably say: “Our desire to live in harmony. In Sarawak, Chinese, Malay and Dayak sit at the same table sharing food with tolerance for all religions.” Yet it’s hard to fathom how they juggle this bouquet of conflicting cultures given the potential for disaster. Scanning cable TV stations, one channel has women in headscarves preaching the Koran, while on another, shapely Chinese girls dance in bikinis. Consuming pork is a major offense in a predominantly Muslim country yet local Dayak are allowed to promote wild boar barbecues at roadside noodle stands. All religions are accepted, but national law prevents Muslims from converting and forbids intermarriage.
But as education spreads, youngsters long for fuller lives, migrating from longhouses to cities, where they usually end up doing menial jobs. Except in tribal regions, most inhabitants are bilingual, and of the three major languages, English has become the medium for communication and commerce. Everyone loves Malaysia, but T-shirts with slogans in English outsell traditional dress. As young students marvel at American opportunities, I remind them that wealth won’t cure all and that nothing outshines daily life in Sarawak.
Politics and Terrorism
August 30, 2005
Bummed in Malaysia
In two decades of sporadically wandering the world, I have never met an Australian I didn’t like. A jovial “G’day mate” has always been accompanied by a hearty handshake and the knowledge that I had just met a friend. Whatever their political stripe, they are among the few traveling Westerners who didn’t harbor bitterness toward the U.S. government. Maybe it’s their kindly ruggedness and similar frontier past, blending into a familiar multicultural society, that makes me identify with their national character. When I think of a visit to Australia, seeing kangaroos and koala bears is less important than meeting kindred spirits who speak the same language. Whatever the reason, bonding with Australians has always been easy, and I was looking forward to making new friends.
After island-hopping over lower Indonesia next month, the plan was to take a ferryboat from the bottom of the elongated archipelago at East Timor into Darwin, Australia. From there, reaching the southern coastal cities would require a week of riding several thousand miles of empty outback desert in the middle of summer heat. That and a visa.
For Westerners, acquiring Australian visas is quick and conve-nient. Electronic Travel Authorities (ETAs) can be approved on the government’s Internet website by simply supplying personal information, including nationality, passport number, and birth and travel dates. Add credit card information, press Enter and a number-code should pop up to write on your immigration forms at your first port of entry. Occasionally, certain applicants receive a message stating that they are among the random few who require embassy “personal interviews.” Such was the case when I’d applied online a few months ago, last June in Thailand. The text stated that as matter of routine, my online visa application had been selected for face-to-face interview at the nearest Australian embassy.
A trip to the Australian embassy was not a major hassle, but it was still a day’s ride up and back through heavy traffic from pleasant seaside Pattaya to smoggy, stinky Bangkok. After considering the reasons my application might be subject to further review, I decided that just submitting a request from Thailand instead of the U.S. might have been enough to trigger additional scrutiny.
In the Bangkok office of the Australian visa department, after waiting in line for an hour, local staff are polite when they tell me I needed to go to the main headquarters a few miles away. No problem, it was on the way out of town. But once there, I was directed to “window two.” And hanging from the wa
ll at window two was a pink paper bulletin stating citizens of Iraq, Iran, Sudan, Algeria, Syria, Libya and Pakistan must fill out the form they had just handed me, a first for this American.
For embassy personnel to make a decision on whether to grant my visa, they requested five pages of detailed information regarding previous jobs and residences for the last 30 years, for me and for members of my immediate family. Filling out the form took two hours, but, finally, a nervous middle-aged Australian woman accepted my rough recollection of family history along with 2,100 Thai baht (50 U.S. dollars) and a promise to follow up by email or cell phone within 10 days. That was two months ago.
In case the matter just disappeared in their system, I’d also requested her business card with email address to keep in contact. After waiting a month, I began sending her polite inquiries about the status of my application. As of today, I’d received no reply.
In these days of worldwide terrorism, it’s understood when nations have tightened security. In the aftermath of recent bombings in Western cities, news reports linking suspects to Middle Eastern countries and recent visits to Syria, Pakistan and Afghanistan were obvious red flags for wary intelligence agencies in any country. What was surprising was how they knew of my visits to those countries the second I hit the laptop’s Enter key. Was there a multi-national computerized watch list? As high-tech espionage grows, undercover spotters cannot only spy on adversary’s embassies but also look into their personal lives. What books do we read, what is our religion? Was this all about some of the countries that I had visited or the fact I had reported online that Arabs and Muslims had treated me well? How far had this “public security” gone?
Tell a friend you want to ride a motorcycle through El Salvador, Nicaragua and Honduras on your way to South America, and you’ll see them gasp and fear for your safety. Mention crossing the Andes and they’ll collapse. So far, nearly every country on my itinerary has carried a dire U.S. State Department travel warning. Had the one for Colombia been any different? And should I have been more concerned about the political ramifications of visiting the Middle East? Maybe I should have stayed home and allowed the media to provide their version of the truth? Osama bin Laden would love that.
Given the circumstances, there were understandable reasons for further evaluation, and the Aussies might yet grant my visa. But most disturbing was thinking about what Muslims must experience when trying to travel anywhere. As I’d discovered today, it’s an ugly feeling to be suspected, singled out and mistrusted by those around us.
Utopian Police State
September 1, 2005
Singapore
When I’m on the road, I gather information differently than I would at home. In foreign countries, I depend on local information on current road conditions and where to eat and sleep but, most importantly, to locate supplies and equipment repairs. Telephone calls are useless for communicating what I need to buy or repair. A personal appearance to draw diagrams and point to a problem on the bike is the only sure way to track down whatever item is needed. But even with an appropriate map, finding the appropriate place of business can take all day — providing I don’t get lost.
Because the GPS displays only major cities and primary roads, it’s minimal help in smaller cities. But once I do find a specific location, pressing a waypoint button will mark that precise position with a symbol, making it easier to return later. An internal memory also automatically records the last a hundred miles traveled as a line of tiny dots called Breadcrumbs. If I forget to pocket a hotel business card before I leave to run errands, it can be difficult finding the way back. But with the GPS Breadcrumbs trail and labeled waypoints, returning after picking up laundry, visas or supplies is much easier.
No matter the country in Asia, when I need special services, I’ve learned to find the Chinese. Time and again, a volunteer from a crowd of curious Chinese examining my bike has led to introductions to private networks of mechanics, supply houses, even restaurants that forgo the tradition of double-pricing for foreigners. In the Chinese language, negatives don’t seem to exist as we understand them in the West. Whenever describing exactly what I have needed to the Chinese, their invariable one-word response is, “Can.” Today was typical:
“Mr. Hoi, are you able to install these bearings?”
“Can.”
“Are you sure Mr. Hoi, it requires careful removal of —”
Without bothering to look he interrupts, “Can.”
“But what about the —”
“Can.”
“And are you able to rebuild the —”
“Can.”
Since the first major motorcycle center in Malaysia had just opened, its inexperienced shop manager in Kuala Lumpur could only order steering-head bearings exclusively from Germany. But Mr. Hoi, a few miles away, had those same hard-to-find bearings upstairs in his race-bike shop, and after soldering a few broken wires, he installed them for 20 dollars. From there, his assistant led me through the backstreets across Kuala Lumpur to have his cousin replace the foam cushion in my now hard-as-a-rock motorcycle seat. But searching for water-pump seals had been a dead end until this morning, when an unexpected email message arrived.
I didn’t know exactly how many readers from around the world were following my journey via my Internet website, but after evaluating hit-counters and page-view reports, the number had to exceed 10,000. And that’s how I met two Chinese motorcyclists, Eris and Murphy, serving as sailors in the Singapore navy. They had been reading my online journals, and when they saw that I needed a mechanic, they sent an email offering help. Eris could provide labor to remove the mono-shock for rebuilding, and the owner of the shop where he works offered an old stock windshield to replace the one I shattered in Borneo. After confirming warranty parts were available at the local BMW shop, Eris and Murphy directed me 200 miles south from Kuala Lumpur toward the tip of the Malaysian peninsula and the city state of Singapore. By the time I arrived at the causeway connecting the city to the mainland, Murphy was waiting.
A super-organized, high-tech city state famous for laws so strict they prohibited chewing gum, the red tape required for entering with a motorcycle had made Singapore not worth the trouble of visiting. Even with a carnet de passage, the Federal Transportation Department still requires an endorsement by their Auto Club plus 36 dollars a day for insurance along with prepayment of expensive road tolls. But once we reached the official entry point, a quick passport stamping at immigration ended in two lines for customs inspection. Counting on being able to play Stupid Foreigner if caught, after acknowledging a nod from Murphy, I took a chance and followed the lane with a sign reading “Nothing to Declare.” When I finished quickly flipping the lids on my panniers, a serious teenaged machine gun–wielding soldier waved us both through without asking for further paperwork. In bypassing the mandatory carnet de passage inspection, I became an illegal alien in a utopian police state where electronic surveillance of its citizens is standard procedure. From remote-controlled traffic signals managed by distant observers to restricting certain vehicles from driving downtown, even the hallways of my budget hotel are monitored by closed-circuit TV. If border inspectors later asked for vehicle documents at the same checkpoint, getting out of Singapore was going to be interesting.
An island country connected by concrete bridges to the tip of Malaysia, Singapore’s international boundaries are the city limits. As they have run out of solid real estate to expand their nation, builders now reclaim land from the sea. Other than that, there is nowhere to go but up, in multi-storied ultramodern structures with geometric rooflines high enough to vanish in the monsoon clouds. Against an Indian Ocean sunset, Singapore’s skyline of contemporary architecture resembles a futuristic silhouette of Saturn. Because I relish jungle terrain and small-town friendliness, cities have been places I tend to avoid. Yet, with English as the national language and the quiet frankness of its residents, Singapore is a fasc
inating multicultural blend of Chinese, Indian and Malay, who have joined efforts to pass laws controlling every aspect of social behavior.
An orderly metropolis similar to Tokyo, good manners practiced by tradition in Japan are mandated by strict regulation in Singapore, with severe penalties for even minor infractions. Singapore is the safest city in the world as long as you obey the rules. Depending on the cop, even bumbling tourists jaywalking in traffic can be ticketed or jailed. Foreign drivers photographed by hidden cameras breaking traffic laws are not exempt. To make sure no one escapes without paying fines, license plate numbers are instantly computer-checked at the border, where violators must fork over the appropriate amount of Singapore dollars to cover their crimes before exiting back to Malaysia.
Exploring Singapore proved better by night, as downtown restaurants and evening markets ignite with a vibrancy as intense as the blowtorches blasting beneath the giant woks in back-alley kitchens. To reduce city-center gridlock, the government has initiated expensive tolls to discourage traffic during peak hours. But a midnight cruise down the deserted, echoing boulevards of the towering financial district makes for an artificial alternative to the rocky canyons of the Egyptian Sinai. Among imposing granite-coated skyscrapers, polished walls reverberated the throaty rumblings of motorcycle exhausts and shouting bikers. But besides shopping in the swanky 20-story commercial plazas and staying at out-of-reach exclusive hotels, there is little else to do in Singapore except dine at the dozens of ethnic food courts.
In the morning, I will ride 300 miles north, back the length of Malaysia, along the Straights of Malacca to the island of Penang for sea passage to Sumatra. But even that is becoming complicated. There is a rumor spreading among travelers that Indonesia had recently reduced its tourist visas from 60 to 30 days. Considering it took me five weeks just to loop Borneo, covering the next five islands before my new visa expires will be a challenge.
One More Day Everywhere Page 31