One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Brutally African, self-appointed adult bodyguards clubbed them with long bamboo poles until I shouted in anger to leave them alone. But the shocking cruelty continued as fistfights and attacks against those smaller broke out over who was to ride next. To quell the calamity, I promised them a laptop slideshow after sundown.

  But that was only a temporary reprieve as the random swatting continued until children countered with rock throwing and fleeing into the brush. Startled by the spontaneous and unnecessary violence, I still questioned the propriety of me, an outsider, judging jungle methods of maintaining order — especially when I come from a society that continues to legally execute other humans and develop nuclear weapons.

  Yet, the smaller the society, the stricter the codes of behavior, and no one likes a thief. Even in Nairobi, if captured by fed-up crowds, a street-criminal is sure to be beaten without mercy. Assault here appears common among them, but they do not attack visitors, and theft of any kind is rare. To show trust when visiting villages, without worry, I intentionally leave (but monitor) my camera and GPS left lying on the motorcycle seat. That’s why the surprise this morning when I noticed, while repacking my laptop, a set of dangling ignition keys had disappeared. Like news of a death, waves of shame spread through the crowd in breathless murmuring as young and old approached with heads hung low, offering tearful apologies. A teenaged translator explained, “This is not our way and we are so sorry.”

  Although there were spare keys stashed under the motorcycle seat, the missing ones had no value and if an opportunity arose, were certain to be returned. After announcing that I must have dropped them earlier, villagers immediately appeared with candles and torches, combing surrounding grasses on hands and knees. But as the search turned fruitless, suspicion fell on the young translator who had earlier pleaded to work as my guide — if only I would stay. For all to save face, I needed an alternate explanation so that they might resurface. “After I dropped the keys, the children must have found them to play with. Please announce that I will give five dollars to whoever finds the keys.”

  At sunrise, I awoke to dozens of chattering villagers taking turns peering in through my tent’s skylight screen. It was an African zoo in reverse. Unzipping my nylon flaps, I discovered a bag of bananas next to a scribbled apology note. Amidst worried frowns and hand-wringing, the morning mood of somber concern was soon interrupted by a parting crowd and shouts of delight. Four-year-old Jakono Makurmno rushed forward waving a set of familiar shiny keys. Celebratory cheers led to shaking hands with hundreds of villagers and a triumphant one-motorcycle-parade for the newfound tiny hero. But it was still time to move on, and, as always, in the wake of a reluctant departure, another family of waving friends vanished into memory through the smudged glass of a vibrating rearview mirror.

  The Road to Jinka

  January 28, 2006

  South Omo Valley, Ethiopia

  Since first reaching Central Africa, sometimes in cities and always in the country, every child and nearly every adult I have encountered has asked for money. When first spotting my freckled white skin, whether walking roadside or working in fields, as a conditioned response, natives instantly abandon their current tasks to charge forward with right palms outstretched. “You pay money!” “Shillings, shillings!” and in Ethiopia, it’s “You give me one Birr!” They are seldom persistent, and after a while the practice seems normal, but still, what is the effect on dignity? It’s hard not to notice that this never happened anywhere else on this journey, even in tsunami-ravaged Banda Aceh.

  Seldom far from famine and always in conflict, many Africans have grown accustomed to foreigners causing or relieving their plight. In Kenya, conversations with men dressed better than me invariably ended with, “Can you give me a few dollars?” But the reaction is different when a traveler’s in need, and that’s when the true nature of Africans shines.

  Long, thick thorns embedded in motorcycle tires and sharp volcanic rocks eventually took their toll, and yesterday I lost count after a dozen flats since dawn. Even in the countryside, whenever I stopped, crowds materialized from nowhere to assist. A stranger unpacking tools to remove a rear wheel ignites more interest than a lunar landing. Beginning at a polite distance but edging closer for better views, there was often a volunteer in Western clothes who spoke some English. “Father, may we be of assistance to you?” “Father where is the place of your country?”

  “I come from California.”

  Nearly as geographically challenged as U.S. college graduates, they reply, “Oh Father, you are English?”

  And finally, as they crowd close enough to block the sun, I rise, impatiently demanding that they all move back. But within minutes, kicked-up clouds of fine dust indicate they again feel the need to inspect up close the progress of patching a tube. No one wants to miss anything, and soon my wrenches and screwdrivers are buried beneath leathered feet and dirt rearranged by those pushing and shoving. Most just wanted to help but were killing me with kindness, and I considered hiring the biggest man to drive them away.

  Like overzealous surgical nurses passing instruments, my anxious assistants tried to guess which tools I needed next — but before they’re passed to me, they have to be circulated among the audience for inspection. I can now remove tires with two screwdrivers and patch ruptured tubes in 30 minutes — or an hour if I have help. But afterwards we have fun describing the problems with motorcycles, and it’s a pleasure to offer money when it is not expected.

  Small bills of local currency stretch a long way in Africa, and gesture is as important as amount. After tightening axle bolts, the most determined assistants glowed with delight when receiving wrinkled bills of four Birr — 50 cents in U.S. currency — but enough for a tasty café meal in Ethiopia.

  People are always asking for something in Africa, and without knowing the common words, it’s hard to be certain what those I meet roadside actually need. While I rested in the shade of scraggly acacia trees, spear-toting natives regularly approached, pointing to water bottles strapped to my gas tanks. Since they carried their own supply in dried pumpkin gourds, why they wanted mine was a mystery. When offering drinks, they only stared. It took some grunting in sign language to understand that they didn’t want the water, they wanted the plastic containers.

  The last hundred miles to Jinka turned prehistoric and should have taken only four hours, but, with stops to interact with natives, it expanded into eight. Accustomed to supply trucks and four-by-four minibuses, a roaring blue spaceship with a yellow-helmeted pilot sent primitive tribesmen fleeing for the safety of the thick wooded savanna. Like chumming timid animals, I set out bags of peanuts and water bottles a few feet away while kneeling on the ground with outstretched palms. Sometimes it took half an hour of peering from behind pine trees, but eventually curiosity prevailed, and, one at a time, the men approached first. Fast movements or standing too quickly started the process all over again as none were certain of my intent.

  Accustomed to simple diets of fried meat and ground barley, reaction to my sweetened peanuts varied from nibbling to spitting them out. But weapons interest everyone, and soon young warriors allowed me to inspect their crude blades and spears if I first handed them my multipurpose knife. Teenage boys took turns aboard the Beast and burned with enthusiasm when I showed them how to press the starter button and horn.

  Sneaking photographs by tilting my viewfinder allowed for more candid shots capturing natural poses, yet the women appreciated the camera-screen playbacks most. Shoeless and naked from the waist up, young native girls decorated in blue beaded neck bands strutted in circles while examining the bike. When offered a ride, they shook their heads with folded arms while still primping and twirling their hair. But eye-games speak volumes, and universal signals meant the situation might have changed if no one was around to tell.

  Mursi tribal beauty queen who took a liking to motorcycles in Omo Valley, Ethiopia

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bsp; Turmi Market

  January 29, 2006

  South Omo Valley, Ethiopia

  Sometimes I wonder, “What is it about nature that attracts us?” Even when I lived in Southern California backcountry, every morning, when spotting the same trio of white-tailed deer, I stopped to gape until they disappeared, bounding like four-legged pogo sticks through the trees. It’s the same for humans and exotic cultures; we’re fascinated by ancient civilizations or museums lined with antiques and statues — the simpler, the better. We may be trapped on dollar-chasing treadmills, but returning to basics subtly entices us with a subliminal lure. Often on this journey, as I drifted from beaten paths without seeing others of my kind, there was little indication in what century I lived. Yet, when mixing with primordial tribesmen of the remote Omo Valley, there was a distinctive marker — this is prehistoric time. As though in a scene from Jurassic Park, any minute, I expected the sharp, booming roar of a tyrannosaurus rex.

  Attired in loincloths of untreated furry hides, the tribesmen’s musky scent announced their presence before they arrived. As beige-soled calloused feet plopped against compacted dirt floors of thatched, roof huts, silent black natives entered single file. It was Monday, market-day in Turmi village, and the Hamer people had lugged heavy loads of tobacco and millet to trade for rock salt and metal tips used in crude wooden tools. Beginning before dawn, their work schedule was a six-hour trek bent under heavy goatskin rucksacks — but their day wouldn’t end until returning home laden under treasure.

  With trimmed ringlets, the women’s hair was stained orange from the natural resins they used to hold it in place, while the men, if they recently prevailed in battle, wore short woven ponytails hardened in clay. Copper tubing arm rings and intricate beaded bands all held meaning, from the number of wives a man possessed to a wearer’s wealth. Pierced body decorations and patterned scars told stories of powerful spirits or of combat with ferocious animals or other humans. Once removing my jacket, as in previous tribal encounters, the dark blue India inks long ago etched into my arms were the subject of curious attention.

  Twenty years back, tattoos were brands of drunken soldiers or outlaw bikers, but today such permanent markings are fashionable Western adornments, as likely to appear on movie stars as ex-cons. Unsure of the significance of these marks on the wandering alien, natives have so far regarded them as emblems of a fellow warrior, and they have treated me with wary respect. As always, people crowded around me to pull up my sleeves, touching and scratching at the universal patterns depicting my rebellious past. Satisfied that these fading but permanent images wouldn’t rub off, they murmured amongst themselves with nods of approval for a member of another tribe.

  Yet it was their women who fascinated me most. From creamy licorice skin to deep brown shades of bittersweet chocolate, they moved in deliberate steps on muscled legs. Even through thick layers of waist-covering animal skins, the outlines of bulbous rear ends followed the curves of rock-hard cheeks. With pronounced lower back arches and upturned buttocks, their accentuated postures stirred primal urges to mount from the rear.

  While resting on a makeshift wooden bench, a mid-20s female with long protruding breasts pointed for a place to sit. To see what she’d do, I patted my knee. Laughing out loud with her friends, she lowered her rucksack and stooped to sit on my lap. Before discovering what came next, a loud crack from a man snapping a whip instructed her to find another seat. Beatings can underscore masochistic desire in their culture — to Hamer women, enduring skin-ripping lashings is proof of unwavering love for a prospective husband. During festival matchmaking ceremonies, they smile while accepting bloody floggings by men they are anxious to marry. Along with broad metal necklaces, crisscrossing scars across their backs are the grisly romantic symbols of taken women.

  And the world never gives up trying to subdue simple folk. Rejecting ruthless domination by colonial masters, diminishing numbers of the remaining Hamer tribesmen cling to their customs. Though determined to maintain traditional values a thousand years old, few clans have managed to resist missionaries shaming them into covering their breasts and the intimidations of invading Muslims that they must veil their hair. However, animistic in their beliefs and proud of their ancestral ways, Hamer lifestyle has changed very little.

  Whether besieged in jungles or on the open savanna, it’s their refusal to submit that maintains their solid spiritual connections to nature. In the same breath that Western technology destroys our environment, science produces cures for devastating disease while seeking more efficient ways to annihilate humankind. As I wandered amongst such basic creatures, burdened myself with the latest electronic gadgets, the question kept arising: who is really ahead? And by the end of the stay, I was uncertain who were the heathens.

  Having acquired few souvenirs since starting this journey, mementos from Omo Valley would be the most meaningful to me. But what is a worthy enough souvenir to remember a connection with the core of humanity? Bartering the last of the LED key tags and felt-tip pens yielded an armload of foul-smelling beaded goatskin loin cloths embroidered with seashells — tribal sexy-underwear for a few lucky folks back home.

  Finally, at the day’s end, a weathered old man approached offering drinks from a gourd they all shared — a favorite source of protein among herders of Africa — honey and milk mixed with raw cow’s blood. The taste wasn’t bad, and if I had been unaware of the ingredients I would likely have asked for more. For a more customary meal, instructing native girls to fry eggs in animal fat was easy, but that and a sack of bananas had to last the rest of my trip. A week camping without bathing was enough, but if there had been an adequate supply of water and familiar food I might have stayed.

  The Red-eye out of Africa

  February 19, 2006

  Amsterdam, Holland

  In the midst of the last three weeks of double-talk and aggravation, forgetting the adage that kept this journey alive was too easy — the adventure begins when things stop going as planned. Escaping Africa with a motorcycle was proving to be far more difficult than arriving was. I spent jaw-clenching days uncovering lies from shippers, which ended in sleepless nights, but I almost overlooked the friendship forged with an Ethiopian man who rose to my aid.

  After a slideshow presentation to a few of his friends, Hailu, the King’s Hotel’s manager, took interest in my complicated airfreight quagmire and soon spent half of his days working for solutions. Phone calls to freight-forwarders were never returned, and each enquiry required that we make a personal appearance for the follow-up; we’d wait long hours just to hear negative results. To Hailu, sorting out the mess was another challenge and an opportunity to do what is so common in poorer countries — help a stranger. And this hospitality is what diluted my growing bitterness over having dealt with a few dishonest businessmen who were trying to dig into the shallow pockets of a frustrated traveler.

  But with Hailu’s aggressive persistence, we were finally able to fire the correct sequence of volleys necessary to forward my bike from Ethiopia to Frankfurt, with hopes that the Germans would figure out how to reroute to Mexico City. Having booked the last passenger seat out for a week, there was nothing left to do but wander Addis Ababa’s neighborhoods for a final taste of the enduring pace of a continent adrift with so much potential.

  With my bike crated at the airport, I was back on foot again. After packing and repacking my remaining gear, I joined the marching masses threading through town among black-soot-belching buses and livestock herders grazing their animals on grassy roadway med-ians. There is no need for city landscape maintenance as long as hungry cows and goats handle the trimming, with enough space left for pedestrians. Ethiopians are still confused by the beeping horns of trucks and cars urging them to move aside on what they consider to be a giant asphalt sidewalk. As with everywhere in developing nations, a general tolerance and understanding of life overcomes people’s impatience over traffic jams, some of which are caused by
30 longhorn steer strolling through intersections. Yet, no matter how absurd the chaos, Western-style road rage is unknown in a land with little concept of space or time.

  From Cape Town to Omo Valley, Africa has been a roller-coaster ride of gut-wrenching intrigue through every extreme of life. Beyond even India, Africa defines suffering and hopelessness as much as it inspires the human race to examine itself. As it is certain for romantics to reel in the ecstasy of love and to suffer its piercing pains, travelers are sure to learn the rapture of Africa as well as its pitiful agony. And nowhere is this more pronounced than in the passive enchantment of Ethiopia.

  While Europeans vacationing in South Africa dodge violent crime, the bolder tourists venture to Kenya’s game parks. But even there, extraordinary thrills wear thin. Observing roaming giraffes and lions leaves a lasting impression, but after a while, travelers grow accustomed to horizons of zebras and wildebeest thundering up clouds of dust while hippos and crocodiles bask in murky swamps. Masai tribesmen were worthy encounters, but they were so astute at hustling tourists that they left those seeking deeper experiences disappointed. Until reaching Omo Valley, an empty feeling had lingered inside me, as though the best was yet to come. Everywhere I have traveled, pine trees are pine trees just as sand is sand. But startling cultural differences exposing humanity’s similarities is what has made me feel alive. World journeys are really about the people, about a chance to merge with the landscape of humanity.