As I crossed from Kenya into Ethiopia, the face of Africa evolved into another captivating collage of racial blends — not just with the soft Arabic eyes of the beige-skinned city dwellers, but in the spirit of country folk so ebony black they swallowed my camera flashes, even when set on high. There was no limit to the cultural extremes during a plunge through this astonishing variety of human species. But an echoing theme remained constant: the most impoverished took care of their own. With disaster as a steadfast companion, Africans have learned to suffer in harmony with humble smiles, teetering on the verge of the next catastrophe aided or hindered by outside influence.
Since biblical times, taking into account the whole region, present-day Ethiopia was the first to receive Christianity and only later the stricter teachings of Mohammad. Two-thousand-year-old churches carved from solid rock are famous attractions in the north, while the ancient cities of the east mark the flow of Islam from conquering Arabs. Docile Africans were never left alone. For the last millennium, Africans have also oppressed, exterminated or carted each other off as slaves. But no one has been as efficient and well armed as the early European invaders or the plundering Arabs. Even now, freed from the crippling yoke of its particular colonial masters, each African nation retains its paternal roots in the form of crumbling infrastructure and intermarriage. With Addis Ababa’s pleasant blend of Italian cuisine and Mediterranean architecture, visitors can almost forget Mussolini’s carnage, exploitation and genocide. Yet even after a hard-fought independence, the assault on Ethiopia continues.
Rich in natural resources yet plagued by starvation and disease, Africa is still ravaged by a treacherous, familiar monster: corruption. Finally ruling themselves, fragile nations with boundaries carved by foreigners buckle once again under the brutal suppression of ruthless dictators propped up by external forces. From 18th-century European power grabs to Cold War pawns, today, in Africa, it’s the War on Terror. Whoever aligns on the right side receives weapons and aid, with a blind eye turned when governments attack their own. And the West still winks at tyrants who do their bidding. But a land of plenty and good fortune awaits this privileged vagabond born within specified geographic borders that are blessed by the world’s strongest economy and its mightiest weapons. Few Americans will ever realize what the world is really like. Instead they prefer to accept media interpretations that unseen TV producers have decided are the images we need to see. Peering into my own immediate future, I shudder at the prospect of an approaching reality — the now alien opulence of California.
In 11 hours, a sterile aircraft will deliver this hesitant wanderer into Mexico City for a month-long attempt to reconcile the painfully enlightening events of the last 55,000 miles. My heart races and aches at the notion that I will never see Africa again. And what will become of the kindest of strangers who have befriended me? Crossing the land border by motorcycle at Tijuana will mean resurfacing from an awkward introspection that is likely to last for a while.
Incarcerated for Transit
February 22, 2006
Mexico City, Mexico
If you want to punish a free-spirited biker, take away his motorcycle; if you really want to antagonize him, stuff him in an aircraft designed to accommodate human bodies half his size. Crammed in between two men even bigger than me, the 30 monotonous hours of transit from Ethiopia, via Holland to Mexico, was a fate worse than prison. Once shackled to my seat, there was no escape from a confining aluminum cylinder restricting freedom and separating me from an adopted world I had now left behind. There weren’t any bars on the windows. No need — they were made too small to crawl through.
It seemed as though the pilots had conspired with control tower sentries to escalate my depression with a two-hour takeoff delay at the end of the airport runway. To alleviate the torturous thumb-twiddling moments, I convinced myself that this was unbalanced karma furthering justice. Even the guards were scary. Young, pretty stewardesses have gone the way of full meals on aircraft. Broad-torsoed middle-aged European women with shriveled frowns have taken the place of smiling female college graduates who used to fluff up pillows and make passengers comfortable. Patrolling these narrow aisles for renegades using laptops, a team of manly matrons hovered, hissing commands to shut down or else.
Once airborne, grim news for the starving was announced with sadistic nonchalance — since it’s a midnight flight, there is no need for food. For the next nine hours, exasperated passengers were expected to pinch their elbows together and sleep while ignoring growling pangs reminding of a need for nutrition. But after a few hours, numbing fatigue subsided into a shallow doze just in time to be awakened by barking loudspeaker orders to open tray tables for mid-flight snacks. My request for a second cup of water to wash down the contents of a plastic packet containing exactly 12 honey-coated peanuts was met with fierce glares and stern admonishments — “Okay, but don’t ask again.”
Arriving in Amsterdam before daybreak with an eight-hour layover was an opportunity to see the city at its best — when it’s asleep. After curt but polite immigration officials glanced at my U.S. passport, they waved me through without scanning or stamping — and suddenly the gentle familiarity of Africa was light-years away. Where were my tribal friends?
With stunning medieval architecture divided by silent stone-lined canals, storybook Amsterdam was as majestic as I remembered from 30 years ago while still evoking sensations of a Disney movie set. By nine o’clock on a frozen February Sunday morning, the cobblestone streets were still empty, with the only signs of inhabitants being 100,000 bicycles chained outside cookie-cutter brown brick apartment houses and the rows of neon-lit deserted shopping arcades.
Still dressed light for temperate Ethiopia, my brisk walk at a jogger’s pace was enough to keep me from freezing but little else. It was damn cold, and the demeanor of early-rising citizens echoed the harsh weather conditions. As cathedral bells gonged neighborhoods from slumber, the mid-morning icy air slowly filled with the scattered white puffs of deep-breathing humans in wool overcoats emerging from wrought-iron staircases. Responses to my requests for directions back to the train station were in shocking contrast to those in developing nations where, to guide someone, locals eagerly take strangers by the hand. Slamming doors and turned backs without comment were not how I remembered the cosmopolitan Dutch, and after a dozen failed attempts, I walked off on my own. Welcome back to the West.
But at last, after my layover and flight, the flying prison bus touched down in the Mexican central highlands, depositing exhausted globe-trotters into an overcrowded, polluted capital linked by a modern transportation system of subways and crisscrossing freeways. Ringed by choking smog, the faceless avenues speckled with yellow streetlights flowed nonetheless with Latin hospitality in a nation known for its warmth. Tucked in between locked-down storefronts, a few scattered side-street restaurants remained open — but with families staying home, there was no better time to land in Mexico City than Sunday night. A 30-minute taxi ride was all that separated me, the famished traveler, from plates of steaming enchiladas in red sauce and tacos laced with fiery salsas. Spiced by the jukebox backdrop of a crooning Marco Antonio, life never tasted so good.
But my internal clock kept insisting it was still morning in Africa, which meant settling in at midnight and staring at the 20-foot ceiling of my room in a converted colonial mansion until sunrise. Moping in jet lag is the purgatory of world travel. Soon, the roll-up metal doors of high-speed Internet cafés were hoisted, and it was time to search for a lost motorcycle. By now, news of airfreight delays are common, and it was no shock learning that German dangerous goods inspectors were demanding additional payment before they would release my cargo. Yet, this environment was so relieving and pleasant, negatives didn’t register. With no one to contact by phone or email, all that remained was for me to wait for instructions from bike-knappers on where to deliver the ransom.
On the Road in Mexico
Febr
uary 28, 2006
Tepic, Mexico
Since motorcycles arriving by air in Mexico City are unusual, airport officials didn’t know how to process my cargo. After four hours of phone calls and serious interoffice debate, solutions varied from a 600-dollar pay-off to customs brokers to forwarding the unopened crate on to California. One persistent Lufthansa employee finally had an answer — travel back across city lunch-hour traffic to army headquarters and request the same document issued at land border crossings. Worried that we were running out of time, airline employees insisted on the company prepaying the exorbitant taxi fare. To be sure there were no further delays, the station manager escorted me back through the airport security maze to personally instruct the driver, “You must get our friend there and back before end of business.” Eventually, after a series of wind-sprints up staircases to all the wrong offices, a combination of German efficiency and Mexican hospitality freed the bike five minutes before closing on a Friday night. A month-long battle of continent hopping was finally over, but this was also a case of hurry up in order to slow down. Now, onto the West Coast.
But with Mardi Gras celebrations sweeping my targeted city of Mazatlán, it was best to stall a few days in Mexico City and avoid legions of drunken gringos embarrassing themselves. Besides, departing after the weekend allowed time to witness a fascinating concentration of Mexican life in the nation’s capital. Sundays in any Mexican city are opportunities to people-watch as families gather on las Plazas for whatever stirs their passion. As 50,000 political marchers demanding a new president blocked surrounding streets of El Zocalo, hundreds of motorcyclists converged on Iglesia de Guadelupe for an event of their own. Avenues teemed with a vibrancy found nowhere else on the planet as, every few blocks, weekly food festivals blossomed in countless variations of regional dishes. While wading through throngs of eager hand-holding children, waiters demanded the Americano stop and sample platters of simmering seafood quesadillas set ablaze with lip-burning salsas. Machete-wielding servers stood ready to dice colorful fresh fruits and crispy vegetables while bands of roaming musicians kept everyone moving. Twelve-string guitars backed by chords from puffing accordions and bellowing tubas blended into old German rhythms now unique to Mexico.
Puzzled glances at my helmet led to shouts of “De donde viene?” (From where are you coming?) and they were met with my reply that also astounded me, “Soy de California pero estoy regresando de Africa.” (I am of California but returning from Africa.) Interrogation began while delighted cooks handed over dripping tacos of chilied goat meat and bubbling cheeses on chewy tortillas hot off the grill. “No” was unacceptable, and after an hour I had to leave because it was impossible to eat anymore. At the end of an exciting day, there was just enough time to organize my scattered gear and wait for Monday’s ride.
Dodging infamous Mexico City traffic required that I get rolling before dawn. And in Centro Historico, just as the first rays of sunlight bounced off the commanding granite bell towers of a Spanish cathedral, I was riding past fast-walking office workers bundled in overcoats with upturned collars. Accustomed to the mild temperatures of Africa, it took me a moment to realize that riding into biting mountain air required foul-weather clothes and heavy gloves. Passive old men on early morning strolls responded to my requests for directions with pats on my back accompanied by animations that rivaled Shakespearean players. Unable to merely indicate the next corner where to turn, with waving arms they felt compelled to describe the building and its historical significance. Together we formulated an escape route from an awakening megatropolis whose commuters were soon to choke the boulevards leading to the open road. Against a background of dilapidated shantytowns and honking taxi horns, the exclusive skyscrapers of the glimmering commercial district were the final farewell as I headed northwest toward the Pacific Ocean.
From an altitude of 6,000 feet, it was a rapid descent on the most expensive toll road on earth. Coughing up eight U.S. dollars guaranteed me a 10-mile bypass of a continuously gridlocked maze at any hour. Soon, a cement-slab spiraling superhighway unraveled through thick forests of poisoned pine trees coated in varying grays of brake dust and settled engine carbons. Since my last bike servicing was back in Tanzania, the Beast was in desperate need of filters and fresh fluids — yet locating any of three local shops was a navigational feat requiring more time than was available. But like an unexpected mirage, while descending at a pace too fast, from the corner of my eye appeared an elongated showroom of familiar motorcycles. Reflecting off the morning sun, a giant sign spelling “Lerma BMW” didn’t register until a half-mile later — but this is Mexico, and abrupt freeway U-turns against traffic are acceptable maneuvers.
As in other motorcycle shops, whenever long-riders appear, red-carpet treatment is followed by a slideshow of cultures and people from faraway lands that fuel the typical biker’s dreams. Servicing racks were cleared, and storeowner Ulrich Gut assigned two mecha-nics to disassemble and clean the Beast while replacing broken fittings and parts that had vibrated loose. Before I was able to stop them, the final remnants of Ethiopia flowed down a stainless-steel drain while I stared paralyzed in disbelief. “What have you done with my African dirt?”
CALIFORNIA DREAMING
Sixty fellow motorcycle riders led by Dennis Hof, arrived at the U.S. border in Tijuana, Mexico, to escort me back to California
As Much as Things Change . . .
May 26, 2006
Palm Desert, California
As traveling the world according to my plan-of-no-plan had been a success, so was the idea of returning to Mexico first in order to ease into the anticipated gasping jolt of the U.S. After a month renting an apartment in sunny seaside Mazatlán, a gradual deceleration toward home up the Mexican coast has proven to me that California is after all just that, home. Recalling previous failed attempts at readjusting after a tumultuous journey through South America, I feared being forever lost, trapped in a disoriented drifter’s limbo, never comfortable with hollow sensations of the present and plagued by the curse of discovering too much. Touring developing nations was as fascinating as it was morbidly enlightening. The monumental suffering of the human race is beyond description — just witnessing a fraction of the misery can make you throw up your arms in despair while smothering your soul in pitiful involuntary midnight recollections.
Other earth wanderers, once returning home, have written bitter essays on rejecting their own previous values while balancing difficulties reconciling the tragedies and injustices of a troubled planet against the abundance and relative peace of industrialized nations. We all return to recognize the same hideous ironies — as one half of the world endures malnutrition on two dollars a day, the other suffers obesity-related illnesses while spending billions on weight reduction gimmicks. What’s wrong with this picture?
Will the personal torment ever end as we examine why the West has so much while the developing word languishes in poverty and starvation, crippled by exploitation? And still, imprisoned within a capitalistic accumulation mode, most Westerners have trouble defining happiness. And simple questions reverberate. Why do those with the least share the most? Or even smile the most? No matter how many plasma TVs or image-enhancing vehicles we own, we still chase our tails in glittering shopping malls, lost in the feverish desire to own one more piece of junk to add to a collection of artifacts defining status. Via an unscrupulous media, consumerism strangles the unwary with debt while our collective heads slide further up our rectal canals.
But a search for utopia will always be fruitless — though varying in form, familiar nonsense echoes everywhere. Even the most primitive tribesmen have developed hierarchical societies with crude metal jewelry to announce their wealth or their number of wives. And to impress their men, women eagerly stuff clay plates in their lips or silicone bags in their breasts while painting their faces with unnatural colors. Returning home, I realize that, as much as everything has changed, life still remains
the same, and it’s apparent that paradise exists within our own heads.
While I’m a little bit more aware of the world, once I reached California, its famous weather and blue skies have never glowed so sweet and clear. Although current U.S. foreign policies taint America’s image abroad, even its staunchest critics agree with our foundations of democracy. After seeing my country from the outside in, I now understand why angry foreign crowds can burn American flags while wearing T-shirts printed in American slogans. American concepts of liberty and justice are still the shining light representing a glimmering hope for a developing world desperate for change. Once I crossed the border from Tijuana to San Diego, even in all its capitalistic folly, with California’s sprawling metropolises lapping at the foothills of her majestic Sierra Mountains, my homeland has never felt so good. In an effort to resolve troubling personal issues, I went searching the earth and discovered how people are connected.
The solution of peddling those earthly possessions in order to have nothing to look back at or worry over was also successful, except that no matter what we attempt to discard, we will always keep something, even if it’s just our clothes. Prior to departing on this incredible odyssey, to wean myself from materialistic grief, I disposed of almost everything, except for a few cardboard boxes containing symbols of memories I deemed essential to review in decades to come. In case I died while traveling, martial arts memorabilia, along with pictures and letters reflecting the intimacies of 30 years and countless heartbreaks, were tucked inside four brown cartons with the names of who gets which scribbled on the outside.
But, careful storage in a farming community warehouse was not secure enough to fend off desperate drug addicts ransacking valuables to barter for one more night of babbling paranoia. Frustrated that lengthy attempts to hot-wire the ignition of my old pickup truck failed, local speed-freaks frantically scooped up whatever could be hawked for another buzz. A few bags of methamphetamine were swapped for a set of ancient Samurai swords and a very special leather jacket embroidered with words only meaningful to me: “South American Motorcycle Adventure 2001.” In a disappointed fury, they had maliciously ripped apart the remaining treasure of 70 martial arts trophies. Yes, but so what?
One More Day Everywhere Page 42