One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  If Hindu Bali is the cultural capital of Indonesia, then the mountain enclave of trendy Ubud is the epicenter. A once sleepy artist colony now battles to preserve its indigenous charm by fending off promoters of fast-food chains and throbbing discos. As passive locals grew fat on tourist dollars, they also became seduced by Western values. Today, Balinese merchants struggle to keep up with the Jones’s by buying cars, motorcycles and material goods on credit. Formerly an economical destination by international standards, the invasion of bargain-hunting tourists and migrating expatriates has caused painful inflation and annoying overpopulation.

  Today, Ubuds’s meandering streets are barely wide enough for streams of motor-scooter riders weaving through stagnant lines of idling minibuses and taxis waiting hours for a customer. Yet every evening in dozens of incense-clouded temples, clanging gongs and wooden xylophones coax glittering costumed dancers through flowing movements with contorted postures and focused wide eyes. Religion, with its deep beliefs in karma and Hindu Gods, has survived the commercial assault. Any excuse to celebrate is welcomed with elaborate festivals for births, deaths and cursing or cajoling otherworld spirits. But unless there is a ceremony in progress, the traditional Balinese sarongs and headbands have been abandoned for T-shirts and Levis, while the more ambitious learn English to peddle trinkets or work as guides.

  Packed between street-corner brick temples and shrines draped in garlands, scattered tourist shoppers pick through hundreds of thousands of hand-carved woven handicrafts of batik and bamboo. Owned by expats but staffed by locals, expensive health spas advertising coconut-oil massages and mango-cucumber facials are stacked between European-style art galleries and foreign-owned hotels. Yet, with so much to sell and no one to buy, the economy flounders.

  From the city center out, in all directions, miles of overstocked furniture factories and souvenir stalls block views of the rich jungle terrain and the incredible rice terraces of Bali. But Indonesia still lures foreigners in search of easy living on fixed incomes, and more of those arrive daily, complicating the carefree island lifestyle. At first infatuated with local ways, newcomers soon busy themselves with familiar enterprises that cater to their kind. Polluting village life to accommodate the fanciful whims of those who can afford them, gleaming all-night supermarkets supply costly American wines and aromatic French cheeses. The closest relief is Pondok Saraswatsi, a traditional retreat three miles beyond the city limits and a universe away.

  Although most foreigners establish businesses to support themselves, Pondok Saraswatsi is run by a native family aided by a few Australian men more interested in giving than taking. Careful to describe their nonprofit project a retreat not a hotel, serenity and appreciation of traditional Balinese life is the rule. Set in manicured gardens of statues and shrines, each of five stilted bungalows is hidden behind giant rubber trees and enormous blooming wildflowers. Beneath upstairs sleeping quarters, a stone-tiled shower and open-air bathroom blend with natural surroundings and scents of exotic plants and vines. Without television or Internet, this is the ultimate environment to tune out problems of airfreighting motorcycles and savor quiet evenings.

  In the stillness of midnight, a glowing silver moon reflects from the surface of flooded rice paddies, and you can smell the sprouting first blades of grass. Cool forest breezes whisper through bamboo windows across polished teak floors and walls of woven reed. I drift into slumber under billowing chiffon mosquito nets serenaded by groaning bullfrogs and buzzing cicadas. Morning is announced by toiling field workers nudging water buffalo to plow the earth for next season’s harvest.

  Invisible hands deliver breakfast quietly so as to avoid disturbing my early morning meditation. Moments later, I surface from the void to Chinese tea with four fried eggs on a plate hand-painted with fresh purple orchids. Three days evaporate in silent hours of doing nothing but reminiscing. Proceeding according to the plan-of-no-plan means living in each individual moment. But the enormity of Africa lurks in the distance. It will be another week of waiting or a mind-numbing backtrack to Malaysia. Either way, the perils and pleasures of an enticing Dark Continent dance just beyond my imagination.

  Working It Out in the Developing World

  November 9, 2005

  Sanur Beach, Bali

  A guaranteed way to spoil a good time in the developing world is to get caught in a hurry. Suddenly, the easygoing ways of passive natives turn into irritating nonsense as Western expectations for efficiency end in shocking disbelief. It takes a while to remember that this confused young man seeking information by tapping keys on a computer terminal was likely born in a village without plumbing or electricity. He grew up focused on evening temple prayer chants and dances. His is a spirit world where the future is about preparing for the next event in a series of Hindu celebrations and music festivals, not an eight-to-five job he is expected to appear at on time every day.

  For Balinese, training as office workers or skilled laborers involves memorizing basic procedures and reading and adhering to short, oversimplified rule books with no allowance for what impatient Westerners consider common sense. As in Russia, more than death, natives fear making decisions. They’d rather risk losing customers than make a mistake. If the request is not simple and easy, any solution is too complicated. And airfreighting a motorcycle to Africa is as confusing as it comes. Conferring with front counter personnel is fruitless, but business is more organized at the top — if you can get there.

  Cargo departments of airlines don’t deal directly with the public; a middleman is required for document filing and customs clearances. After the company that gave me a reasonable quote two months ago withdrew their offer, my first 10 days in Bali have been wasted in endless Internet enquiries to other freight forwarders throughout Indonesia and elsewhere. Of the half that responded, half of those declared the task impossible, while those who agreed sent follow-up emails asking for ridiculous shipping fees. And no one understands why this is so unreasonable. Don’t Westerners all possess magic plastic cards that make strange machines spit out multicolored bills of Indonesian currency? What’s the problem?

  No matter the time spent showing maps, photographs or diagrams, riding a motorcycle around the world makes no sense to the puzzled natives. Airfreighting from one continent to another seems even more bizarre. In Bali, no matter the size of the stone in the road, any complication leads to a brick wall. Putting in a personal appearance has not helped either.

  More than in other developing countries, this lack of initiative is more pronounced in Bali. I’m trapped in the Twilight Zone. Even those who speak English offer only blank stares and empty smiles.

  “Hello, I need to airfreight my motorcycle from Bali to South Africa. Can your company do this?”

  Ten seconds of blank stare ends with a robotic smile followed by slowly repeating, “Motorcycle . . . Bali . . . Africa.” After another 30 seconds without even tilting his head — “I am sorry that is impossible.”

  Knowing that the Harley-Davidson dealer in Jakarta receives his motorcycles by air, I ask how he accomplishes this.

  “Those are new motorcycles without fuel and disconnected batteries.”

  “Okay, I’ll disconnect my battery, drain the fuel and flush the tank.”

  “Yes, but there are still dangerous magnets in your motorcycle.”

  “There are magnets in the Harley-Davidsons also.”

  “Yes, but those are different magnets.”

  It is obvious we have too far to go, and I venture across town seeking the next freight-forwarder on a lengthy address list. The alternative is unthinkable — a 3,000-mile destruction-derby retreat to Malaysia at a time when Muslims return home en masse for the final week of Ramadan.

  But after another three hectic days, the Travel Gods take pity and the owner of Ritra Shipping agrees to call MAS Cargo and actually allow me to ask the question directly. Felicia, a Chinese freight manager with perfect English, int
errupts a carefully worded request with, “If you fax over a statement that you disconnected the battery and drained the fuel, we can ship at regular rates. When would you like to go?”

  Dumbfounded and stammering, “Uh, ah, oh, right away. Uh, ah, oh, is tomorrow okay?”

  “I’m sorry, this is the end of Ramadan and all offices are closed until Monday, but I have in friend in Kuala Lumpur who may get you confirmed. The problem is that receiving an answer will take a few days. In the event you can’t reach me, here is the telephone number of the man I will assign to follow up.” Where was this saint 10 days ago?

  Although buried in shipping business meant missing an anticipated ride around Bali, coordinating my departure has turned out fine in the end. If nothing else, an adventure in frustration has become a lesson in patience. But the news improves when I discover flights to Johannesburg actually continue much further south to where I’d initially wanted to begin riding the Africa leg. Flying direct to Cape Town saves me two days on a boring road that would have required backtracking. Meanwhile, removing bulky weights on the handlebar tips allowed trimming the motorcycle crate, further reducing shipping costs. But the hassle is far from over.

  Exiting Indonesia is only the second major hurdle. After telling shippers that I wouldn’t leave Bali until the bike left first, they promised to call the moment the plane was airborne. That message finally arrived tonight, stating that the crate was too big for the afternoon plane, but the Blue Beast was now finally bound for Malaysia in the hold of a 747. Still, this required a transfer to another aircraft in Kuala Lumpur for a flight to Cape Town tomorrow. Experience had taught me to beware of the mischievous hands of fate, so I won’t be resting easy until my motorcycle rumbles to life on African soil.

  AFRICA

  Stumbling Through the Clouds

  November 11, 2005

  Airborne over Madagascar

  From five miles up, I drift into a sensation of whirling displacement staring out the dual-Plexiglas window of a roaring jet missile. While I’m suspended among idle puffy clouds, a muted fiery sun rises against the curve of the earth. Trapped in the disorienting daze of the continental hop on a precarious slide into the role of uneasy alien, I wrestle to contain mental images of primal cultures I’ll soon encounter.

  In 1988, when first returning to California from living in Asia, culture shock did not strike me until I was among familiar surroundings. Even promptly falling back into old routines with lifelong friends, the social adjustment took a year. No one but other long-term travelers can understand the disorientation that comes with returning home. Those feelings intensified in 2002, after completing my South American ride, resulting in an about-face from Palm Springs for a four-month retreat to Central America. Still restless, I embarked on yet another extended visit to Mexico, only to return to California long enough to organize my present journey. So where does all this wandering lead?

  There is a psychological line long-term international travelers cross that marks a point of no return — when we surrender to the lure and take the expatriate plunge by deciding to live in a foreign country. I grapple with these quandaries daily, often hourly — what do I do once back in the U.S.? And where should I finally settle and grow old? This morning, when boarding a plane crowded with package-tour Europeans leaving Bali, culture shock exploded like a series of glaring lightbulbs. One would assume that with time spent in sociable Indonesia, these tired tourists would have learned something and at least lost the unpleasant frowns.

  Since most hotels in Bali were empty, it was annoying to encounter partitioned rows of emotionless Caucasians with sunburned faces and worn expressions. How is it I can be so uncomfortable with my own kind? Have I become the dog who has played with the ducks so long he thinks he is a duck? In 30 years of wandering 70 countries, from Mongolian nomads to Amazon Indians, I have interacted with almost every major race and culture except black African. And now, to the dismay of those at home, that exploration awaits when this 747 lands in Cape Town.

  My first attempt to explain to friends and relatives my wild idea of continuing my global ride after the unfortunate events in Colombia were met with long faces and forced smiles. They may share the splendor of this adventure reading my journals, but they also suffer unfairly worrying about what might happen to me. Even though my South American adventure turned out for the best, the hell my loved ones endured for five weeks, not knowing if I was dead or alive, took its toll, perhaps more on them than on me. Announcing I was subjecting them to a second round of grating anxiety had a price.

  Although everyone feigned excitement, no one but my closest brothers really understood. Cracks in rock-solid relationships widened in the deepening gloom of an approaching departure date. None of us could stand the strain of another emotional train wreck. India, first of the two biggest risks on this route, has passed with only a stomach-ache and frazzled nerves. Now, a glowing African sky pulsates with forbidding images of genocide, famine and disease. But somehow, I know it is going to be different, and the Dark Continent will welcome this curious gringo.

  When first committing to embark on this odyssey, I told Brad that I would only be gone a year and had no intention of leaving the pavement. I aimed to confine the ride to developing nations but also to sidestep even the mildest hazards. And today, with recent pledges to be home by January, my course has veered again. So far, I’ve been a traveler without an established itinerary, just a general direction around the earth subject to change by political concerns or weather patterns. Originally, Africa was not an option, but a lengthy conversation with a fellow traveler stimulated further consideration. “Glen, you have to do Africa, life won’t be complete without visiting the Masai of Kenya.”

  That very same afternoon an experience I’d had while talking to a cashier in a Seattle convenience store cemented my decision. While paying for a tank of gasoline, the shiny black-skinned girl’s unfamiliar accent sparked my curiosity. “Okay, you’re not British or Jamaican, where are you from?”

  In a laughing voice behind sincere brown eyes, she answered in a series of soft jingling tones, “I an fron Eet tee oh pee ah.” A homely girl with a happy face, she flowed lithe as a hand-carved ebony figurine, and during 20 minutes of conversation, between attending to customers and answering her cell phone, she spoke to me of a distant homeland. “I con to Ahmeerica to be weet my famalee but I mees my contree so much. I an goin back to there soon.” Her comments caught me off guard. Living in the security and affluence of America, how could anyone miss the suffering of Ethiopia?

  As of that moment, my answer was simple: I had to go and find out for myself. Now when meeting Africans traveling, I startle them by boldly announcing “I’ll be in your country next year.” But I am not proceeding blind — this time I am protected by omens.

  While I was standing in line transferring planes in Malaysia, an Indian Sikh sitting in cross-legged meditation suddenly opened his eyes to wave me closer. With his bulging head layered in a white linen turban, he radiated a sage’s wisdom. From behind a scraggly beard framing a tan, wrinkled face, he stared direct into my eyes, uttering these simple words: “Many great things lie ahead for you.” As abruptly as he surfaced, he cast down his gaze and retreated to where he had been journeying, and I, with no further apprehension, took a confident step toward the immensity of Africa.

  Pacing for the Main Event

  November 20, 2005

  Cape Town, South Africa

  Cape Town fulfilled its promise as the planet’s most charming destination. From the heart of a prosperous downtown business district to the fabled backpackers’ enclave of colonial Long Street, the evenly sectioned city is surrounded on three sides by glistening blue oceans, where the icy waters of the Atlantic meet the warm currents of the Indian Ocean. At the urban edge, like a towering plateau plucked from the American Southwest, the sheer granite walls of Table Mountain jut 3,500 feet straight up into a turbulent sky. Eavesdropp
ing in fashionable boulevard cafés, it’s amusing to hear locals complain of their version of traffic issues — after the wilds of New Delhi, the worst afternoon gridlock here is like a cruise in the country.

  Arcing concrete slopes of elevated overpasses guide whizzing automobiles outwards into upscale suburbs of fenced-in security. If people were not driving on the opposite side of the road, this could be a European-tinted California churning with Southern hospitality. In restaurants or gas stations, everyone wants to chat with musical accents from 11 distinct languages blossoming into English. And even the roaming squads of beat cops seem reasonable.

  The aggressive maneuvers I’d learned navigating Asia prompted the traffic police to stop me a dozen times. Cowboy road tactics acceptable on chaotic Java are serious offenses in the orderly West. Wrong direction rides on one-way streets or in between pillars on sidewalks are as shocking as parking in hotel lobbies — a common practice in developing countries.

  Cyber-linked readers still follow my movements vicariously from computers around the world. Because of my online journal, Cape Town motorcyclists have emailed invitations to stay in their homes. South African generosity is overwhelming. But abiding by the traveler’s three-nights-only rule, I swap Steve and Sharon’s home-cooked meals and satellite TV for a return to the seclusion of a run-down backstreet hostel. Abandoning the ruggedness of the open road has made returning to civilization awkward, and there are blunt realities ahead to prepare for.