One More Day Everywhere Read online

  ONE MORE DAY

  EVERYWHERE

  Crossing 50 Borders on the Road to Global Understanding

  GLEN HEGGSTAD

  ECW Press

  Dedicated to those who will change the world

  Zoë and Scout

  Introduction

  In November 2001, while on a motorcycle ride from California to the tip of South America, capture by a Colombian terrorist army was not what I had in mind. Yet on one quiet, sunny afternoon, on a remote Andean highway, there wasn’t a choice. Marched at gunpoint into the mountains outside of Medellín, after that moment I knew that life would never be the same. During five grueling weeks as an involuntary guest of the National Liberation Army, they eventually broke my spirit with head games and torture. When I was finally freed in a Christmas prisoner exchange with the Colombian government, as an ultimate act of defiance against my captors, I continued to pursue my original goal of riding to the tip of South America and back. But once returning to California, after one too many restless nights, I realized that recovery from that incident would be more difficult than anticipated, and although I was back in Palm Springs, it was still a long road home. After late evenings and early mornings of teeth-grinding turmoil, I eventually concluded the only way to restore my psychological health and dignity was to continue what I had been doing — riding motorcycles to exotic lands. My silent mantra illuminating the path to positive thought became “Living well is the best revenge.” But since I had already tackled South America, the new goal would become traversing the entire globe, alone on a motorcycle. At first, friends and family still shaken by my Colombian ordeal couldn’t accept what I needed to do, reminding me of the current headlines highlighting increasing international terrorism and an impatient world furious with American foreign policy.

  But for me, still reeling from a firsthand experience of human madness, there was no other way to contend with such a festering wound of personal doubt and deepening emptiness. I needed to find out what was really out there and hopefully confirm a suspicion that humanity was not inherently evil.

  Yet in a post-9/11 climate of fear, Western societies were growing increasingly alarmed with news of more terrorist plots. Jerked from a slumbering state of denial, on September 11, 2001, the United States of America had been savagely attacked with its own technology and more was promised. From bombings to kidnappings, evidence of constant threats in a volatile world was blasting across our TV screens. Terrorists wanted citizens to feel helpless and cringe in fear. When we hide at home, they win. In a frightening overreaction, would America ultimately strangle under its own self-imposed security? Unable to defeat the U.S. militarily, could Osama bin Laden and others like him win the most strategic battle, unwittingly aided by our own political masters?

  As a nervous U.S. Congress inched toward smothering the Constitution, would an Orwellian prophecy become a reality? With a proliferation of street corner surveillance cameras and an abuse of wiretapping regulations, lawmakers, worried about appearing unpatriotic, were looking the other way. And Americans were beginning to accept the concept of Big Brother protecting us. After all, who would vote against bills cleverly labeled “The Patriot Act” and “Homeland Security”? Yet while struggling from paycheck to paycheck, Americans were either confronted with tales of terror or droned into complacency with celebrity gossip and reality TV. The lack of truthful, relevant information was numbing.

  For me the decision was simple and final: I had to clear my head with a journey into the real world, the developing world, and examine that world through the eyes of those who lived there. For Westerners abroad during the most uncertain political climate in recent history, traveling the earth alone was more than an adventurous challenge; it was a direct message to terrorists wherever they lurked: We are not afraid. But more important, we refuse to hate.

  On a 52,000-mile odyssey exclusively through developing nations across five continents, I stumbled upon a startling realization. We, the American people, have been deceived. Nearly every preconceived notion about the world fed to us by our national media was proved false. Meeting the people of planet earth face to face as a lone traveler becomes an opportunity to discover firsthand that we are all the same — and sometimes even related. Eventually, a truth surfaces: while governments may not get along, people do.

  From lopsided Middle East horror stories to rumors of ruthless Russians, one by one, foolish myths were dispelled as poverty-stricken strangers invited this wandering motorcyclist into their wooden shacks, offering their last crumbs of bread. But riding the earth alone wasn’t easy and plenty went wrong, contending with daily challenges of harsh weather, difficult terrain and explosive geopolitical events. Despite a year of planning, at times, given the steady changes in circumstance and necessity to take chances, I was nearly sucked over the edge. Enduring hypothermia while riding mud roads through Siberian tornadoes led to the blissful solitude of the Mongolian Plains, with an electrifying jolt into adventure and humanity. In a Munich hospital, my congested kidneys nearing failure, I wondered if there wasn’t a safer way for a man to restore himself? Later, a reckless mid-winter crossing of eastern Turkey’s frozen Anatolian Plateau nearly stalled the journey until spring.

  Sitting cross-legged in a Syrian Bedouin’s tent silently sipping tea while American fighter jets patrolled the skies over nearby Iraq, I pondered — Who would have thought my odyssey would lead to this? While traveling Egypt, eluding mandatory military escorts, my journey through the ancient Nile Valley was peaceful, with throngs of young Arabs gathering to shake my hand. A sunrise climb of Mount Sinai took my breath away, the same as it must have for Moses when he accepted the Ten Commandments. And later that night, with distant gazes into the dancing campfire, a nomadic Bedouin chieftain described life while previously under Israeli occupation as “Paradise.”

  After being granted a special-entry permit from the commander of Israeli Defense Forces, on election day in Gaza, I was cornered by Palestinian thugs from Hamas and the question arose — were my feet too close to the flames? Stranded in the Sadar District of Karachi while terrorists blew up mosques and hunted Westerners, fate was tempted once more when I flipped a coin to decide my next destination — India or Afghanistan?

  On the Nepali border, coughing up black soot in a dollar-a-night flophouse, I was anxious to ride into the sporadic violence of civil disorder to escape the madness of Indian roadways. Brought to my knees while visiting the Killing Fields of Cambodia, it took the innocent smiles of bashful natives to eventually revive a wobbling faith in humanity. Weary from a year of tumultuous travel, the steamy massage parlors of Bangkok provided sensuous mid-journey relief before heading south to Indonesia, where the wilds of Borneo set my imagination ablaze while I established a world’s record as the first person to circle the island on two wheels. But once in Sumatra I found that nothing could prepare me for the horrors of tsunami-ravaged Banda Aceh. Saving the best for last, it was the soft humility and alien ferocity of Africa that finally fulfilled a dream that began during my turbulent youth.

  Prologue

  Adventuring must be in my Norwegian blood. As a foolishly bold kid anxious to accept dares, life was always more interesting when challenging the norms. But eating worms, jumping off roofs or being the first to test out new rope swings was unsettling behavior for my hand-wringing parents. After spending more time in detention than studying and wearing down wood on the principal’s bench, counselors were summoned. Standard warnings and punishments had no effect. To my mother’s horror, at age 12, my father suggested constructing a homebuilt, mini-scooter using an old lawn mower engine. The freedom and power of a motorized bike was like a match to gasoline for a troubl
ed young rebel growing up in the ’60s. A lifetime lust for adventure had been ignited. Fiercely independent and anti-authority, I was constantly rejecting the status quo, and that made me feel more alive. In high school, while others were elected most likely to succeed, my teachers often remarked that I would surely spend life behind bars, and I did — handlebars.

  Infected with motorcycle fever, sprawling California back roads merely made me crave more. After watching Easy Rider and reading Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, barriers were shattered on a tumultuous highway that never ends. In that 1960s drug-crazed era, outlaw motorcyclists became unlikely counterculture heroes and represented the ultimate symbol of resisting authority. Huge and hairy, these modern barbarians on gleaming choppers turned obsession into reality with an insolent assault on societal norms. At the age of 20, my predicted destiny was fulfilled when I became the youngest member of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club and later the sergeant-at-arms of the San Bernardino chapter.

  During a short stint in jail, a long, painful view down the road convinced me the next time I arrived here it would be for an extended stay. A chance conversation with an unlikely source, a local kung fu master, made me believe that following specific, strict disciplines of the martial arts was the only way to disrupt my patterns of senseless aggression and harness my wild spirit. With goals of competing in the ring, I became a full-time student, training six hours a day, six days a week for six years. While I worried about surrendering my role as a sworn outlaw, in 1979 I cautiously retired from the club. Redirecting my scattered energies into karate, judo and Brazilian jujitsu became the pressure-relief valve for a life more conducive to freedom. In between winning national championships and backpacking through Asia, I squeezed in short motorcycle journeys. But they were never long enough, and, like most motorcyclists, I had tantalizing visions of some day canceling tomorrow to simply keep riding. But with life’s complications, someday was in danger of becoming never. With a growing awareness that life does eventually end, I finally decided that as of October 1, 2001, my fate would be officially tossed to the wind. And those winds immediately turned into a hurricane.

  A few weeks past the 9/11 attacks, my dream ride to the tip of South America was interrupted by capture in Colombia by violent rebels fighting the government. When I was finally freed, supporters from home sent new equipment, giving me a second chance to complete my ride to Argentina and back. Gringo-hating Marxist terrorists had used torture and starvation to break my spirit, but, in the end, setting a new goal was the only solution. Resisting all forms of negative emotion was my most potent weapon; publicly vowing to finish riding the world became a silent middle finger to former tormentors. It’s true — what doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. Instead of collapsing under the weight of my Colombian ordeal, I used it as a springboard to the next level, with a journey into the evolving landscape of humanity. Yet even though I was now a more experienced rider, this was far easier said than done.

  From California, there were no airfreight links into Siberia, so after flying to Tokyo, I crossed Japan to the western coast for a three-day sail to the once forbidden reaches of the former Soviet Union. On July 16, 2004, the lifelong goal of riding the world quietly began near the North Korean border in Vladivostok, Russia.

  The Russians, security minded as ever, made it complicated to enter the Motherland with a motorcycle and wander. Officials were concerned about spies, misfits or journalists who might report what the government preferred to keep secret. Organized tours are welcome, but overland travelers are forced to fill out lengthy visa applications supplemented by fictitious business proposals before being considered. The process was a hassle, expensive and risky because anyone in the chain of command could change their minds on a whim. My itinerary was purposely vague. Destinations were to be determined by weather or at fateful forks in the road. Let’s call this a ride from California to Africa by way of Siberia, with photographs and stories of what happened in between.

  It took a lifetime of hope and a solid year to plan for this adventure. Mr. Murphy constantly intervened with problems of logistics and legalities. Every issue required follow-up letters and phone calls just to be told no. A glowing laptop screen became the staging ground for research and preparation. Friends and relatives finally quit mumbling, “Gee Glen, are you sure of what you’re doing?” They’ve resigned to the fact that they are now part of the lunacy and are warily watching the show. The plan was to have nothing to worry about or look back at, so to strengthen my resolve and properly cast my fate to the wind, I sold all of my earthly possessions, including a coveted mountain ranch. Whatever remained was given away. It was the ultimate state to be in — homeless on the road. What was important for survival, I crammed into a set of Jesse aluminum saddlebags bolted on the sides of a 650cc BMW motorcycle on loan from local dealers. Still, on the verge of plunging into the merry chaos of the developing world, I never felt more secure.

  Although born in California, I grew up a traditional Norwegian — long lost relatives still live above the Arctic Circle, near Tromso in northern Norway. Viking blood pumping through my veins has constantly propelled me toward foreign lands and bizarre circumstances, but the physical conditioning and awareness honed from 25 years of martial arts often provides an edge. Still, the most effective weapon when traveling has been a big, stupid smile and an obvious gratitude merely to be there.

  Sometimes serious problems arrive from nowhere, but we just have to roll with the punches, literally. There were U.S. State Department travel warnings about every country on my list, including some considered allies. Wandering strange lands alone is seldom comfortable but it’s always rewarding, as every experience carries a lesson, even when it’s a painful one. True adventurers admit we feel more alive when straddling the edge. But the measure of our passion is growth, and a motorcyclist’s addiction intensifies while leaning through the next curve of a spiraling mountain road.

  That’s why it’s called adventure travel — shit happens. Experiences on the road range from toe-curling ecstasy to sphincter-puckering fear while sampling the perils and pleasures on the two-wheeled path to nirvana. Yet that’s the purpose of such journeys; if the challenge was easy, it wouldn’t be worth the effort. In martial arts, we establish our goals and twist the perseverance dial according to what gets in the way, so I just applied the same principles to my beckoning odyssey. Adventuring is a great spiritual exercise. One thing for certain, you never give up.

  At my going away party in a Palm Springs biker bar, an old friend, David Christian, handed me a three-by-three-inch, yellowed photograph of a smiling young child. He told me with misty eyes, “Here is my little brother and since he never got to go anywhere, please take him with you.” This was confusing until David left and I read the writing on the back, “Phillip Dean Christian 1948–1951.” With that thought in mind, my adventure was dedicated to Phillip, and his photo was tucked in my jacket, where he could be protected from the sandstorms of faraway deserts, the wilds of Siberia and the driving rains of the tropics but still enjoy the show.

  THE ROUTE

  Leaving Home

  July 4, 2004

  Los Angeles, California

  Up until now, it’s been just planning and setbacks. But in 12 hours, the reality of roaming a planet full of dreams begins by disconnecting from the relative ease and familiarity of California and taking an anxious step into the unknown. To maximize the experience it’s necessary to depart from the comfort zone for as long as tolerable, and who knows how long this experience will last or what will happen at home in my absence. But even if I wanted to, there’s no turning back now.

  There are so many questions and issues to ponder, both personal and global. Given the rate science advances, where will technology be when I return? In a multiyear absence from loved ones, interpersonal relationships are sure to change. Traveling alone on a motorcycle involves a certain vulnerability — from physical health to personal safety.
In the event of a medical crisis, would I be subject to the developing world’s blood supply? And what about the war on terror, or the one in Iraq? Will I encounter chanting mobs of churning masses angry with my government?

  In this intensifying political climate, people constantly warn me that it’s foolish to ride the earth alone, but passion conquers common sense — wanderers wander because they have to. Yet omens abound. There were many good excuses to postpone — the need to promote my new book with media interviews and book signings. The second of two surgical procedures had failed, leaving one last stone the diameter of a dime in my kidney and two thin plastic tubes shoved into my body to allow ailing organs to function until another procedure could be scheduled. At least my urologist, using ultrasonic waves, had pulverized the other four. But these foreign objects left in my bladder rubbed against urinary nerves, making it feel like I constantly had to pee.

  I spent the final three weeks in California, visiting doctor’s offices, hospital rooms and CAT-scan labs. Marching in smiling with chest out, I left with drooping shoulders. A line had to be drawn somewhere — no more needles, pills or tests.

  Hardest of all: parting kisses with Jodie. With her seductive balance of beauty and brilliance, she was the woman of my dreams. But because of my self-centered determination, her contagious happiness and delicate laughter have turned to mangled sorrow. For the last year, in the throes of committed love, we both buried the inevitable parting as something too far away to imagine. Just halfway through her medical degree and restricted by an overprotective, conservative and religious family, Jodie was torn between her loyalty for me and inescapable cultural constraints. Realizing this could be the last time we’d ever be together was a thought we tried to deny with unrealistic pledges to meet next year in India. Her last words socked me into twisted guilt, “Please, Glen, tell me one more time why you’re throwing all this away. Moments later, a final farewell embrace in an airport hotel parking lot permanently ripped two hearts in half. While staring deeply one last time into her trusting chestnut eyes, I could see only a flaming bridge behind me as I selfishly sabotaged what could have been lifelong happiness. Will she remember our life together with pleasant recollections or regret our losing love affair? At times wanderlust is a curse.