One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Idling in the comfort of Western countries, seasoned travelers lose their edge. A sterile environment of relative safety dulls senses vital for a quick reaction. Survival reflexes and the smell of danger become clouded back in the cushy West, where little can go wrong.

  In rush-hour traffic, with belligerent commuters competing to get ahead, I should have been on high alert. Halfway into a multi-lane intersection, a speeding woman lost in her cell phone ignored the red light. A car-length ahead, the driver on her left snagged her front bumper with his, sending them both spinning sideways. But the sturdy hands of Thor slowed his rotation enough to abruptly come to a rest with the tip of his fog light tapping my front wheel. Another few feet and I would be dictating this from a body cast.

  But this is high season in the southern hemisphere, and, without the threat of terrorism, throngs of European tourists invade and drive up prices. Anticipating bargain rates for provisions, I delayed purchases I could have made in Malaysia. Already-expensive anti-malaria pills were double what they cost in California. Accustomed to being the only guest in empty hotels, the tables have turned. A budget single room took a full day to find, while the owner advised me rates were subject to weekend hikes. But it’s wise to enjoy abundance while possible; there will be few comforts if later crossing war-scorched Central Africa. With lean times ahead, I have been fattening up on pizzas and cheeseburgers interspersed with the best fish & chips in the world. Yet, all is not well in paradise.

  Only a few generations from lives as bushmen herding cattle, awakening black South Africans peer out from cardboard shacks at streams of gleaming wealth. Beneath the pale yellow glow of highway streetlamps, expanding shantytowns and rural ghettos seethe under staggering poverty and pathetic despair. Inner-city misery exists in every country, but the sprawling futility of South Africa’s infamous townships would move even the most callous.

  With growing apprehension, wary whites cling to a prosperity generated under the intimidating impact of exceptionally violent crime. Forbidding invisible boundaries are established out of well-earned fear — security is tightly managed. Suburban housing developments appear as armed camps behind concertina wire and barred windows. Those desperate for a share of the wealth are tired of waiting and grab what they can with startling ferocity. Even the most liberal have personal stories. Simple thievery has turned into savage attacks, with thefts of cell phones and pocket change escalating into rape and murder. Numerous times a day, I hear gasping warnings, by every color, to be on guard and not get caught alone.

  After the fall of apartheid, outnumbered eight to one, a new generation of whites is paying for the sins of their fathers. Under the covetous eyes of an all-black government, landowners and businessmen are wary about plans to balance the scales. Already, land disputes centuries old are being resolved with official offers they can’t refuse — sell your farm at this price, or we will seize it.

  National news is dominated by horrifying reports, yet no one has done anything outrageous to me except smile and wave. Meanwhile, deep, foaming seas are always an awesome way to change the pace. Day rides over twisting ribbons of coastal highway led to encounters with roving baboons guarding the Cape of Good Hope. South African cliff-side glides next to exploding breakers are the most spectacular on earth. Along strands of vanilla beaches, suntanned blonde bunnies with crystal blue eyes are as friendly as the local boys, asking the same questions as Indonesians. Without my quest to traverse this continent, this wayward spirit could easily be convinced to pause and linger.

  Into Africa

  November 26, 2005

  Fish River Canyon, Namibia

  Since camping was far too risky from endemic robbery, the next best answer to South Africa’s budget-busting comfort were bunk beds in crowded backpacker dormitories — complete with throbbing American rap music played so loud you needed to shout to be heard. If you’re interested in late-night beach parties and beer-drinking contests, refuges like the Wildside Backpackers Hostel are the ultimate tourist thrill. And for three nights while riding the seaside past Cape Town, they were.

  Bundled in foul-weather gear to dull the chilly coastal drizzle, my run to the border was a typically melancholy look back at newfound friends. A half-dozen fellow motorcyclists and their families had guided me on rides and shared their lives, but Steve and Sharon’s home-cooked meals were hard to beat. When you know you will never again see people you have grown to like, a simple goodbye is never enough.

  Once on the outskirts of Cape Town, the straight, empty lanes of Highway N-7 cut across rich agricultural plains of combed wheat fields carpeting rolling low-lying golden hills. Almost without notice, the far fringes of the Kalahari Desert turned soaring rocky cliffs into jagged pink mesas of blazing crumbling shale. Within minutes, temperatures jumped from high 60s to 110 degrees.

  South African customs and immigration procedures were so fast that, before I knew it, a sign appeared: “Welcome to Namibia.” Twenty-two miles later, a hard left turn onto the graded gravel dirt track led to Fish River Canyon, a mini-version of Arizona’s finest landmark. The least populated country in Africa, most of Namibia is uninhabited desert, with 50-mile stretches between fuel stops and campsites on the asphalt road running clear to Zambia. But a better route is this scenic parallel side road zigzagging the length of Namibia from the hot, arid inlands to the foggy breezes of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Preparing for the next thousand miles of dusty dirt track meant loading up with 10 gallons of fuel and two of water, plus a three-day supply of canned goods. Vienna sausages, sardines and baked beans would substitute for Cape Town’s fresh-cooked pizzas and barbecued chicken. Signs forbidding camping outside, just two official sites in Fish River Preserve assured a rule-bending motorcyclist would enjoy the bliss of the Namib Desert alone.

  Proceeding undetected, I spent a half-hour spinning straight across soft shifting sand to the tallest rock formation on the horizon. Providing a heat block three stories high, the western side was the coolest spot to sleep. Setting up camp directly in late afternoon sun meant I’d have morning shade from an anticipated fiery dawn. Unruly desert winds eventually calmed into delightful silent stillness interrupted only by trumpeting caws and clicks from unseen animals. Signs of life were everywhere. Dark crevices between massive orange boulders lead to darkened burrows of unknown desert dwellers. Fresh tracks and still-damp animal dung confirmed this as home to unknown species, hopefully friendly to two-legged versions. In a region roamed by jackals, hyenas and leopards, would there be midnight visits from hungry beasts? Guidebooks insist there is nothing here big enough to eat men — or so they say.

  Reeling in the seclusion of a nylon domain creates a feel of familiar security. Alert to my communion with nature, I awoke with a full dose of the powerful midnight sky. With no trace of pollution, a brilliant galaxy of stars shone bright enough to throw shadows as the lowering overhead dome seemed close enough to reach up and touch. Faint scents of acacia bushes and camel thorn trees became a soothing tranquilizer to doze back to sleep.

  Canned peaches and stewed beans made for a delicious sunrise breakfast as the cold evening air lingers long enough to don a sweater. But as the heat of the day boiled into the hundreds, the trail toward Fish River Lookout became alive with game. First appearing like odd-shaped bushy cactus, tall, stilted ostriches stood frozen in their mindless gawking. Cousins to the antelope, fleeing springbok leapt across the road in vertical pogo-stick bounds higher than my helmet. The only sign of their passing were evenly spaced puffs of dust disappearing into a pencil-line horizon. Having drunk their morning fill from the edges of muddy watering holes, small families of short-legged, stocky zebra strolled by, observing the two-wheeled invader from a distance.

  Late November is the beginning of a scorching southern hemisphere summer, so the long, dusty ribbon of decomposed granite was as vacant as the clear indigo sky. The Namib Desert is an environment cruel to the living, yet it’s also an
enticing return to the kingdom of solitude. Except for sagging cable strands connecting distant tilting telephone poles, there is little evidence of man. After 24 enchanting hours without seeing another human and at last intoxicated by the euphoric aromas of desolation, inhaling a full dose of Namibia feels like I have finally arrived in Africa.

  The Piss of Solitude

  November 29, 2005

  Namib-Rand Nature Reserve, Namibia

  The power of positive thinking has remarkable effects. Believing that the cup is always half full does not guarantee everything goes right, but when it’s combined with perseverance, it increases the ability to cope with whatever difficulties arise. Hand wringing serves little purpose, but in the back of a long-rider’s mind lurk worries about breakdowns or mishaps in isolated locations. We are all aware of the consequences of electrical failures in snowstorms, broken bones in distant jungles or breakdowns in remote deserts.

  Although inconvenient, small punctures in tires are easily repaired in an hour by patching the tube and reinstalling the wheel. Not so with total blowouts, where radically ruptured casings instantly deplete tires of the vital air that keeps them round and bouncy. And since blowouts seldom occur, the loud snap followed by a wobbling rear tire was a mystery. Staring down at a six-inch gash, I could see that yesterday’s off-road shortcut over knife-edge shale had had its price.

  Had I not recently been smirking about the fact I’d seen no other cars or humans for the last 24 hours, a ruptured tire in the desert would have been more tolerable. Yet, if that pattern continued, my trash sack containing drained water bottles and empty cans of food would become unwelcome reminders of the folly of traveling alone. What was a retired judo instructor doing in Africa anyway? Suddenly, California never looked so good.

  Four hours flipping through mental files of dead-end solutions produced nothing. My carefully stored aluminum tire irons had been claimed by the mud holes of Borneo, yet two screwdrivers worked carefully with long-handled wrenches could substitute. Still, inserting the backup tube into a tire ripped this bad would be futile. Once reinflated, the soft rubber would immediately bulge through the slit and burst. Anywhere else in the world, a rusted old pickup truck filled with locals would surely ramble along to the rescue. Here, in this isolated section of the Namib Desert, there weren’t even birds or telephone poles. Yet, sooner or later, a cavalry arrives.

  Remembering their names would be more polite, but at least I took their photo. A handsome young Italian couple out sightseeing in a rented four-by-four rolled up just before sunset — the most welcome sight all day. Discovering their tool kit contained a long-handle tire iron was the inspiration I needed to contend with the approaching dusk.

  There had been no traffic in the daylight, and there would certainly be none at night. Since abandoning the bike is never an option — the possibility of sitting roadside for days had been my most recent fear.

  The Italian couple’s car tire iron worked well easing the casing off, and packing in a new tube was like any other repair. But how would I pinch and hold a gaping gash together enough to cover the 40 miles to the next campground and telephone? Nylon straps used when cinching down the bike for air transport would serve a second purpose. Trimmed to fit the circumference of the tire, I could tighten three of them enough to close the gap and keep the tube from popping out. A 10-inch strip cut from the old tube with the ends folded over and under the nylon straps should keep them from fraying on jagged gravel stones.

  After adding air from a 12-volt pump, followed by grateful hugs farewell, I was off into the uncertainty of a blackening desert night. Ten miles further, rows of lights on a barren rocky hillside led me to Sossusvlei Mountain Resort. This was the first and possibly last opportunity to stop and evaluate my repair. The improvised patch was holding, but the tire needed more air and I needed sleep. Camping in the posh eco-reserve was an option until Bob, the resident astronomer, quoted resort hotel rates at $1,000 a night. Abruptly, the potential pitfalls of a midnight ride dodging wild animals seemed more attractive.

  On a road without a severe washboard, the makeshift patch would have survived for more than a few miles, maybe even all the way to a phone at Sesriem campground. But bouncing and spinning over roughened stone ridges soon shifted the straps, allowing the gash to open and, for the second time, blow out a tube.

  Tenting between the bike and the shoulder of a long, broad straightaway made certain no vehicles passed unnoticed while I was sleeping. With laptop and LED light batteries expired, the dim glow from a useless cell phone screen became my flashlight as I rolled out a sleeping bag next to empty water bottles.

  Awakening to the buzz of aggressive horseflies in the inferno of a fierce morning sun was a nasty reminder of yesterday’s events. Yet, just as a menacing midday heat was sucking away my remaining body moisture, that rusted old pickup rambled up and out jumped astronomer Bob with a crew of African workmen. Even better, the generous management of Sossusvlei Mountain Resort insisted I stay as a guest in their pilot’s quarters while sorting out my tire issues. Sooner or later, the cavalry always arrives.

  Posting online journals has also helped again. Recalling an email from a reader offering assistance if I was ever in his area, we were soon connected through a hotel satellite phone and arranged a replacement tire. Another stroke of luck was that Antonie van der Smit happened to live in the capital city of Namibia, home of the last BMW dealer on the African continent. Within minutes, he assured me that a nearly-impossible-to-find 17-incher would be on tomorrow afternoon’s chartered flight delivering the next group of ecotourists to the luxury resort.

  So while relaxing in the cool, air-conditioned staff quarters of Sossusvlei Mountain Resort, appreciating the difference between fortune and plight, I offer another humble thumbs-up to the Travel Gods. What could possibly beat munching on imported kiwi fruit and fresh grilled salmon steaks as I wait for the delivery of a new tire?

  Eastbound on the Kalahari Highway

  December 3, 2005

  Kavango, Namibia

  After the near-extermination of the indigenous tribes, southern Africa developed from European stock in a similar timeframe, though on a smaller scale, than the U.S. Roads, terrain and architecture here even look much the same, except the cities are further apart and there’s less development in between. In Namibia, when I am not camping in the desert, scattered remote farmhouses established by 18th-century German immigrants provide soft, spongy beds in hundred-year-old but polished-clean wooden bunkhouses. Over-nights with old-time homesteaders are refreshing upgrades, with outdoor stone bathrooms and communal kitchens in which to cook freshly butchered lamb chops the farmers sell. But the repeating scenery grew old as roads toward the coast remained washboard gravel with endless miles of beige-colored sand.

  Approaching the celebrated Red Dunes of Sossusvlei, diesel truckloads of young European overland voyagers rumbled in for their dose of tourist-gouging. Prices are shockingly high. With southern Africa lacking a competitive industrial base, most goods are imported and heavily taxed, but the greedy merchants take extra advantage by exploiting budgeting travelers who have no choice where to shop. Compared to Asia, this region is unreasonably expensive, so trucking overlanders spend most of their trips camping with occasional evenings in backpacker hostels for hot showers and Internet connections. Before the rampage of civil war in Sudan made it too risky to traverse, the common route for these hearty adventurers was through eastern Africa, beginning from Cairo and ending in Cape Town. But recently, combined with the open banditry of northern Kenya, the new route has become Nairobi to Cape Town. (Now the genocide in Darfur can continue with fewer witnesses.)

  Interviewing truck drivers is still depressing. As civil wars flicker and flare in central Africa, there still is no way to cross the mud roads west beyond Kenya or Uganda. Whatever the direction, once out of southern Africa, there is a 5,000-mile stretch to the Mediterranean Sea in which spare parts do not
exist for larger motorcycles. Since tires are double the price of anywhere else, to stay on budget, Antonie sent me a 50-dollar used one with a quarter of the tread life remaining. On my plan-of-no-plan, predicting wear patterns and estimating arrival dates makes coordinating international supply shipments a logistical challenge. With 2,000-miles left to Livingstone, Zambia, where fresh tires are scheduled for delivery, timing is going to be tight. Anyway, the newly paved double-lane Trans-Kalahari Highway beginning from the coast is easier on rubber than the previous long stretches of sharp gravel road. Riding east out of the hot desert sands leads to a cool, pleasant plunge through a heavily wooded landscape.

  White African cities were interesting, but this was a welcome change as the last one, Swopkupmund, disappeared behind me into foggy ocean breezes. Back in the countryside, among the occasional leaping gazelle and black-masked oryx, herds of 300-pound demonic-faced warthogs stood their ground staring while grazing roadside. Rippling with thick shoulder muscles and coarse-haired swaybacks, double rows of upturned tusks make them the ugliest beasts of the jungle. With every mile, Africa shows me more of its wilder side.

  As concerns about robbery and murder in the cities faded, it was time to see how simple jungle villagers live. Swirling orange-purple flares during a primal Namibian sunset signaled that the moment had arrived to seek black Africans in their tribal environment. Riding the first suitable footpath through a tree-studded thicket led to a sprawling enclave of random mud huts reinforced with wooden poles. With a worn-out sign painted in English, one building stood out from the rest: Mbeyo Baptist Church.