One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  From rocky ridgetops to forested valleys, I wove up and down among chilly mountain shadows until camping at sunset in a gargantuan crack in the earth. Created by colliding tectonic plates, the Great Rift Valley stretches from the Middle East to lower eastern Africa. Straddling the outer edges while gliding through fresh-paved curves provided incredible sunrise views of docile fishing villages and dug-out canoes loaded with flopping catches. But challenging decisions lay ahead.

  Prospects for crossing Central Africa grow worse daily as violence erupts across the Congo and panicked refugees flee to safety. But there is none as militias march in to rape and murder whoever can’t run. Bring your own machete and hope for the best. As options dwindle, my final alternative is to sprint past the bandits of northern Kenya into Ethiopia and plea for a Sudanese visa. Crossing the Sahara Desert into Egypt is more difficult than the Moroccan route, but there is no other viable way to reach the Mediterranean by land. Supplies are scarce and hauling sufficient food and water will only make maneuvering the bike more difficult. Even though my journey is winding down to the last 5,000 miles, it appears that the final stretch home will be a significant gamble, with politics as the wild card.

  Holidays on the Road

  December 23, 2005

  Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

  In off-road conditions, a set of sprockets and chains has been lasting 10,000 miles, but somehow my current ones made it to 15,000. Now, after crossing into Tanzania, worn to the limits, even riding slow the chain is failing so quickly I had to stop every 100 miles to tighten the slack as overstretched sections slapped and cut into the metal frame. Short tugs under acceleration followed by increasing clacking suggested that some time during the next 500 miles to Dar es Salaam, lopping steel links could jump track, jamming into the engine cases. But, rolling across arid southern highlands, there was much more to think about.

  With its sharp rise in socioeconomic status from Malawi, the eastern Tanzanian countryside became a worthy distraction, bursting alive in vivid natural colors and wild animal life. From a half-mile away, women were easily visible, reflecting sunlight off soft cotton fabrics of brilliant ruby reds and dandelion yellows coming into focus from distant blurs across the canvas of African savanna earth tones. Nearing the eastern coast, traditional Islamic garb replaced Western pants and button-down shirts for all but Africa’s most noble tribesmen. Evidence of past invading cultures contrasts with traditional Masai erect in royal postures, clutching trademark long-handled herding sticks. Tall and thin with beanpole legs sprouting from baggy Roman-style tunics, these princely jungle warriors now contend with tourism and 21st century technology while battling to survive government relocation plans. Between pressing cellular telephones against gaping pierced earlobes and controlling vast herds of cattle, they keep an eye open to exploit any circumstance.

  Parking roadside to witness an open-field butchering of a hapless African buffalo turns into a sorry scene of opportunistic frenzy. Abandoning their fabled composure, 10 Masai tribesmen leap at me at once, rushing forward, shouting while rubbing thumbs and index fingers together, “Money, money, money!”

  Disappointed, I stuffed my camera back inside my jacket and moved on in search of indigenous animals unique to the continent. With dozens of major game parks throughout Africa, all prohibit motorcycles except Mikumi, the only one with a highway passing through. But animals accustomed to the rolling thunder of speeding diesel rigs panic at the sight of any slowing vehicle. Even when cutting the engine to coast in silence, herds of grazing gazelles with swept-back corkscrew horns immediately bolted in methodic sprints for the security of faraway treelines.

  Yet, enormous jungle birds were bolder. As I approached, waiting until the final moment, lounging flocks covering the roadway suddenly took flight, engulfing me in upward swirling clouds of snow-white flapping wings. Surrounded from all directions, through cawing and yakking, ascending yellow-brown beaks and dangling feet missed my helmet and windshield by inches.

  In a scene out of Star Wars, silhouetted against the soft blue glow of an early sunrise sky, towering long-necked giraffes paused to consider the intruder. Once violating their safety zone, a half-dozen magnificent spotted beasts casually stepped across the meadow in graceful slow-motion strides, vanishing into forests of camel thorn trees.

  With hairless pink butts thrust high in the air, roving families of arrogant baboons sauntered fearlessly back and forth across the road. Roguish creatures known for their unpredictable behavior, they are a force to be reckoned with. Sinister dog-like faces bearing sharp, curved fangs confirmed the warnings that close encounters could go either way.

  Curious, black-and-white striped zebras grazed in nearby fields but always at safe distances, warily eyeing the two-legged trespasser on a shiny rumbling machine. After being spooked into short dusty gallops, they stopped to return my gawking amazement. All my suspicions are confirmed — Africa, rather than just another continent, is a separate universe. Every hundred yards, more wildlife scenes commanded a halt, yielding either to trumpeting bull elephants trampling highway shoulder grasslands or wondering about the groan and growling from within quivering underbrush. With a day left before Christmas, my mesmerizing plunge into Africa continues in an evolving saga a million years old.

  Ali Hussein

  December 24, 2005

  Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

  After visiting a few mostly white enclaves and small African towns, Dar es Salaam was my first predominantly black major city heading north. Aside from decaying, old European-era buildings, because there is not much to see, the drab capital of Tanzania serves mainly as a commercial center and transit point for tourists visiting the offshore island of Zanzibar. A small contingent of foreign aid workers and businessmen are hardly noticed alongside African-born Indians busy managing hotels and stores. From dusty, congested street markets to grimy corner cafés, Dar es Salaam has become purely African, with little Western influence and no Western franchises. In matters of race, it’s a reversal of roles now, being a minority judged by a suspicious majority.

  But passive Tanzanians lead simple lives and don’t require overbearing authority to keep order. Except for scattered unarmed men in worn-out blue polyester uniforms directing traffic, it’s hard to find a cop. With rougher edges than villagers, city folk are always harder to approach, but even when idle young men stand staring from street corners, most are happy to talk if approached properly. Swahili was easier to learn than I first thought, and like everywhere, greeting people in the native language buys instant acceptance and conversation. “Jambo! Haguri gani? Jina langu ni Glen. Nimekuja kutoka amerce kuku tembelea.” (Hello, how are you? My name is Glen and I’ve come from America to visit you.)

  By five o’clock I had made my first Tanzanian friend, a tall, heavyset motorcyclist who, though a third-generation Indian, considers himself African. Preparing to meet his family for dinner, the unshaven Ali Hussein was closing his motorcycle workshop when hit with an unexpected vagabond’s wish-list for repairs. Shiite Muslims are strict family men, and staying late to work on some distressed foreigner’s faltering bike was the last thing on his mind. But once he’d heard my plea, he offered, “Since you are traveling such a long way, me and my men will work tonight.” But wrenching in the dark leads to errors and lost parts, so we agreed to wait until sunrise.

  In the morning, uncomfortable with his non-English-speaking crew, when an overly concerned Ali Hussein suggested disassembling the entire drive section for inspection and cleaning, I argued that the rest of the motorcycle is fine and all that was necessary was to unbolt the rear swing arm to replace a worn chain and sprockets — a one-hour job with the correct tools. Fluent in Swahili, Hussein turned, yelling words to his men that made them laugh aloud.

  Curious as to the joke, I asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “I told them you are afraid of their skin.”

  Embarrassed because he was right, I tried to de
ny it, “No that’s not it, I just prefer not to take things apart unless absolutely necessary. You never know what can break or get misplaced in the process.” Still, the truth was, I foolishly questioned their competency because they weren’t Germans in white smocks.

  “You worry that they won’t remember how to put it all back together?” More comments and more laughter.

  But Hussein is forceful, and, to my dismay, wins our debate, directing two shoeless young black men with severely callused feet to disassemble the suspension mechanical arms for further inspection. An hour later they hand me two sets of rusted bearings — the same ones we had just replaced in Borneo. After riding the washed-away coast near Banda Aceh, saltwater from low-tide beach runs had leaked past protective rubber seals, corroding hardened steel balls and needles designed to spin free. Had this damage gone unnoticed, they would have disintegrated and left me stranded on the most rugged section ahead in Africa.

  Hussein said, “See, you don’t have to worry about my workers, they know their job.” Thirty minutes later, a winded errand boy returned with new bearings and fresh oil, while another prepared a homemade arc welder to remove a stripped-out drain plug. Annoyed at my constantly questioning each maneuver, Hussein took me by the arm, “Come, let’s get out of their way so they can make everything new for our traveling brother. You need to see my empire.”

  Importing a dozen shipping containers a month, outside of South Africa, Ali is the largest motorcycle parts distributor on the continent. This will be good news for Internet-linked international riders who, until now, have been unaware of his presence. In a developing country with limited industrial base, I am amazed to see a warehouse stocked with hundreds of tires and engine rebuild kits. Yet skilled labor remained a question.

  A one-hour chain-and-sprocket swap had turned into eight with a lengthy list of replaced parts, but by the end of the day, a minor job turned major repair was complete. Preparing for the worst, my meek request for the bill was met by Hussein’s stern gaze. “There is no bill for you. My shop is absorbing the entire cost for our traveling brother.”

  And he wasn’t listening to my objections — even when insisting that I at least pay for parts only made him angry. “I have made up my mind, this is between Allah and me.”

  Convinced of his determination, I made one final demand. “Okay, but I’m taking you to dinner.”

  Every big city has good restaurants, but for travelers to find them unassisted requires extensive exploring with more misses than hits. Hussein knows of the best, where only black Africans go to eat. In north Dar es Salaam, an empty block normally jammed with daytime traffic becomes a nighttime bazaar of street-barbecue kitchens and temporary dining rooms of uneven wooden tables and flimsy plastic chairs. Hussein is well-known among crowds of jabbering patrons — even cooks and waiters shouted back and forth as we approached.

  At first, ordering food was awkward, as Ali issued commands to the cook without asking me what I wanted. With fierce expressions and aggressive verbal exchanges, both men dickered as though in serious confrontation about to turn violent. Suddenly, each was laughing and clasping hands while shirtless waiters in baggy shorts set down huge platters of sizzling lamb and chicken. Hussein translated: “I told them that this is my motorcycling brother who knows judo, and if the food is not good, he will kick your ass.” When the bill arrived for far more than two men could eat and drink, the scribbled numbers on a piece of torn paper only amounted to a fraction of a tourist-area price.

  Two days accompanying Hussein on his daily rounds of slapping countertops while shouting negotiations ending in laughter was a fascinating side-journey into the business culture of Dar es Salaam. Even the briefest glimpses into the lives of those in distant lands are the ultimate prize of adventure travel.

  But the sourest moment of this unforeseen detour neared, and after reminding Hussein of the sacred coin he promised, the time had come to say goodbye. As he closed his eyes reciting an ancient Shiite prayer, a hundred-shilling Tanzanian coin carefully folded in a printed handkerchief became a prayer from the both of us that continued safety lay ahead.

  “When you reach Ethiopia, you must stop and give this coin to a poor man and Allah will guide you the rest of the way.”

  As he shuffled his feet while looking down, I noted that Hussein also disliked goodbyes. With two sets of watery eyes, we touched cheeks Muslim-style with an enormous American bear hug. Tomorrow is Christmas and a long ride toward the northern plains of Serengeti.

  Serengeti (Genuine African Adventure)

  December 29, 2005

  Arusha, Tanzania

  Once Africans discovered that shooting their exotic animals with cameras is far more lucrative than with high-powered rifles, a proliferation of national game parks sprouted across the continent. Because environmental restoration is connected to economic success, for the last three decades, under the guidance of international preservation groups, governments have been appropriating vast savanna tracks and untamed jungles for national parks. Now, black rhinos, bull elephants, elusive cheetahs and other endangered animals can proliferate without interference from poachers and big, brave game hunters. But how to feed them becomes the sour note of Africa’s symphony of survival. Ironically, today, once-threatened wild herbivores are nearing overpopulation and compete with domestic cattle for limited rangeland.

  Under government relocation programs, the Masai tribes are being forced off traditional lands once taken for granted. After believing for 500 years that they were the sole owners of the earth and all its cattle, they are in dispute with well-meaning preservationists as well as park administrators. Over the centuries, grazing land was so plentiful that ecological practices like those of the Mongolian nomads were never developed, and lately, stubborn Masai are required to learn pasture rotation. But as game reserves were established to protect million-strong herds of migrating wildebeest and Thompson gazelles, Masai herders are being nudged further from their homes.

  And planeloads of foreigners arrive daily to witness the spectacle. In starched beige shirts and creased khaki pants, they are armed with telescopic lenses while cruising in four-wheel drive safari vehicles for up-close glimpses at water hole predatory dining. Scenes of lurking crocodiles eyeing baby zebras and lions disemboweling gazelles send anxious shutterbugs into camera feeding-frenzies, with the latest high-tech recording devices thrust out simultaneously from half-rolled-down windows. In Tanzania, long caravans of dull-colored Land Rovers rumble across the barren Serengeti Plain kicking up billowing clouds of suffocating orange dust as conditioned warthogs and roaming giraffes stare back with equal interest.

  African safaris have evolved in the last 30 years. Nowadays, tourists are snatched from airports in air-conditioned buses and whisked to fancy city hotels for transfer to luxury accommodations in commercialized bush-camps. Genuine African ultra-expensive adventure — complete with all the amenities of hot showers and gourmet meals served while bored natives perform evening tribal dances. Morning visits to slightly staged African villages with convenient souvenir stands are sucker stops for the unsuspecting.

  In a bartering society where livestock are symbols of wealth, by African standards, Masai lead comfortable lives. Drinking mixtures of cow’s milk and blood provides nutrition to keep them healthy and able to walk long distances from villages to grazing lands. As well as resisting Islam and Christianity, they still have no need for material goods or Western clothes. Many can afford conventional houses but prefer familiar mud huts close to the pastures, where they can watch over their prized cattle. Yet recognizing the opportunity to earn a buck, once-dignified warrior herdsmen now pose for dazzled foreign tourists, demanding cash payments for “capturing their souls.” Mindful of enormous profits generated by ridiculously overpriced tour companies, costumed Masai now loiter roadside ready to sprint to safari wagons, demanding money from anyone holding a camera.

  Since this journey is more abo
ut people and cultures than sightseeing, I struck a reluctant balance, deciding to visit at least one game park. But between the staggering, touristy safari prices and parks prohibiting motorcycles, a venture into Serengeti seemed more distant every day. Or was it?

  Another stroke of luck was Ali Hussein introducing me to a group of foreign bikers who all work in Tanzania. Billy Hollington, the project manager for a cellular tower company, just happened to be departing the next day to conduct transmission-repeater station inspections across the Serengeti Plain — would I like to ride along? Even better, his route was over a remote section unused by tour companies, and the passenger seat was empty in his four-wheeler pickup. Bouncing across unmaintained roads, we would at least avoid scenes of 50 other vehicles circling to photograph a lion gorging on giraffe organs.

  Billy sees the Serengeti often, and as he yawned at thundering elephants trampling acacia trees, I shouted with excitement to halt for photos. Although a gross violation of park regulations, I yielded to the temptation of exiting a vehicle for up-close photographs of bull elephants and dozing crocodiles. And even though we traveled on company expense, on day three, after eating lunch in a tourist company safari lodge, I asked to pay the bill. Often numbers get misquoted by confused locals uncertain of currency equivalents, so when the waiter requested $106 I was sure he meant 16.