From the Library

[Biggles]

"Thanks for the offer, but I prefer a walk downtown to meet the people."
"No. you can only go out in the daytime, never at night."
"Why, is it dangerous?"
"Yes" he says, drawing his finger across his throat, "Dayaks."
"But you are Dayak."
"My mother is Dayak but my father is from Java, so I am only half-dangerous."
"Okay, can you tell me about the road to Sukamara?"
Waving his hand up and down through the air, he replies, "That is 500 kilometres from here and the road is like this. Travelling there by motorbike will take three days."
Pointing outside, at the pavement, I ask, "Is the road like that," then, indicating the dirt, "or like that?" Walking outside he selects a baseball -size rock and says, "No, it is mostly these."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p288

[Biggles]

But it's been five weeks since I left Kuching, and with unknown mileage to cover until the finish line, my growing frustration makes me ride faster than conditions allow and makes me continue when it is time to rest.  We follow our own rules in life because experience teaches the consequences of breaking them.  Sometimes lessons need to be repeated. 
Going down on dirt is generally less damaging than colliding with asphalt, still the bike and body always suffer some harm.  When I'm off the beaten path, more than mechanical failures, I fear a broken limb from a crash.  Even minor tears in the flesh offer convenient pathways for toxic microbes and tropical diseases.  In the event of serious injury, there is no way out of here.  If I was found over-turned in some bottomless ravine or shivering with fever, who would know what to do?
Even on a lighter bike with knobby tires, motorcyclists are never in complete control riding in mud. Mud is the great equalizer.  Using dual-purpose street tires while slinging 600 pounds of motorcycle adds negative factors to the equation.  The numbers are simple, after 2,000 miles of mostly rugged dirt track complicated by mud, it is not a matter of if but when and how many times a rider does an over-handlebars face-plant.  Until today, I had been lucky with only a few slow-moving spills where the main problem was developing enough traction for my boots while I tried to get the bike upright.
But today was payday for breaking the rules.  Headlight filaments expire quicker under vibration and heat, but seldom do both go at once.  My high beam had burned out last week, the low beam yesterday.  Just before sunset, the best I could determine from quizzing a team of boar hunters, the next village was three hours away via the feeble glow of my remaining front-end parking lamp.  Do I stop and camp or roll the dice?
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p293

[Biggles]

After the sun dropped below treeline, seeing where damp clay turned slick was difficult, but my front wheel washing out sideways delivered the news.  Over the handlebars and somehow landing on my knees, I ended up lying in the road assessing the damage.  My chest had taken out the windshield and mirrors, while ramming into solid earth had torn loose the left side aluminium pannier.  The impact snapped stainless-steel fasteners while bending the support frames - again.  Except for a swelling left knee, my padded riding clothes absorbed enough of the impact to minimize the damage to me. But help is never Far And Away. While I use a hardwood tree branch to straighten the frame, a lone Dayak teenager on a motor-scooter putters over the hill, stopping to aid the alien.  His surging headlight illuminated the scene enough for me to strap luggage pieces together to get moving again.  Rami tells me it is another 25 miles to his village, but he will ride slowly to guide me.  Attempting this journey in darkness stretches a three-hour ride into six.  Peeking from behind silky veils of fluorescent clouds, a silvery full moon brightens the road barely enough to see shadows.  Soon, I trail Rami into the night, trying to avoid dangers stuck in my mind but impossible to see.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p294

[Biggles]

In daylight, this would be difficult, without lights at night, it's a panicky plunge into the unknown.  All I can do is follow the weaving silhouette ahead and not look down.  The darkness plays tricks.  Did Rami swerve to avoid a mud puddle or finally disappear?  I wasn't sure until I'm abruptly buried to the bike's axles, two feet under water, sinking and spinning my tires while the engine furiously pumps gas bubbles from a submerged exhaust.  How could only two men free 600 pounds of rubber and steel from oozing mud?  Wading to our hips in muck, Rami pushes from behind as I pull from the side, delicately feathering the clutch against the desperate gurgle of the laboring motor.  Forty-five minutes of inching free of the bog underlined the grim realization that there would be five more hours of creeping through twilight shadows until we'd find shelter and sleep.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp294-5

[Biggles]

In the Chinese language, negatives don't seem to exist as we understand them in the West.  Whenever describing exactly what I have needed to the Chinese, their invariable one-word response is, "Can." Today was typical:
"Mr. Hoi, are you able to install these bearings?"
"Can."
"Are you sure Mr. Hoi, it requires careful removal of-"
Without bothering to look he interrupts, "Can."
"But what about the-"
"Can."
"And are you able to rebuild the-"
"Can."
Since the first major motorcycle center in Malaysia had just opened, its inexperienced shop manager in Kuala Lumpur could only order steering-head bearings exclusively from Germany.  But Mr. Hoi, a few miles away, had those same hard-to-find bearings upstairs in his race-bike shop, and after soldering a few broken wires, he installed them for 20 dollars.  From there, his assistant led me through the backstreets across Kuala Lumpur to have his cousin replace the foam cushion in my now hard-as-a-rock motorcycle seat.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p303

[Biggles]

A super-organized, high-tech city state famous for laws so strict they prohibited chewing gum, the red tape required for entering with a motorcycle had made Singapore not worth the trouble of visiting.  Even with a carnet de passage, the Federal Transportation Department still requires an endorsement by their Auto Club plus 36 dollars a day for insurance along with prepayment of expensive road tolls. But once we reached the official entry point, a quick passport stamping at immigration ended in two lines for customs inspection.  Counting on being able to play Stupid Foreigner if caught, after acknowledging a nod from Murphy, I took a chance and followed the lane with a sign reading "Nothing to Declare."  When I finished quickly flipping the lids on my panniers, a serious teenaged machine gun-wielding soldier waved us both through without asking for further paperwork.  In bypassing the mandatory carnet de passage inspection, I became an illegal alien in a Utopian police state where electronic surveillance of its citizens is standard procedure.  From remote-controlled traffic signals managed by distant observers to restricting certain vehicles from driving downtown, even the hallways of my budget hotel are monitored by closed-circuit TV.  If border inspectors later asked for vehicle documents at the same checkpoint, getting out of Singapore was going to be interesting.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p304

[Biggles]

As with America's Bible Belt, Third World life centers on God and family, with strong convictions concerning morality.  Although no one ever mentions my religion, during typical roadside cafe chats, natives in every country constantly ask, "Where is your wife?" With eyes half-closed while waving my hands in holy gestures, solemnly I declare, "As a high priest in the Sacred Order of Confirmed Bachelors, I am forbidden to marry." Those listening nod with a knowing respect as I continue, patting the shiny blue tank of my faithful machine, and pronounce with utmost sincerity, "This is the only wife I am ever allowed to take."
Gasping as though a spiritual revelation has just occurred, the surrounding barefoot crowd dressed in shorts and T-shirts murmur among themselves, "Ah, the only wife to take, the only wife to take..."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp326-7

[Biggles]

Next to slapped-together palm leaf-covered noodle stands, the most common roadside business in Asia is tire repair.  Highway shoulders used for dodging oncoming vehicles are minefields of debris popped off lumbering trucks and fragments of past collisions.  Though bikers know to be vigilant inspecting their tires, we seldom find rusted steel shards until a faint hissing sound stops us to pry them out from between wounded treads.  India and Indonesia have been the worst for punctures.
If not stopping to inspect an unmistakable rear-end wobble, I wouldn't have noticed sprays of engine oil dripping across the tank.  Sidetracked by natives during a morning fluid check, I'd forgotten to secure the oil cap.  For the previous hour, darkened oil splattering in the wind had also been coating the front of my jacket and pants.  Sweating and cursing under shady banana trees on a stretch of road between towns, I did not have to wait long for assistance. At times, the locals can be annoying, firing the same questions I'd fielded from the last group only an hour before, but they also appear when most needed. Flat tires are always a hassle, but being stranded miles from a town compounds the problem.  Temporary glue-on sticky rubber squares are unreliable patches and usually leak after tires warm up. A new tube is cheap enough, but if they're unavailable, the heat vulcanizing patches are best.  And how to find a tire shop in unfamiliar territory?
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp327-8

[Biggles]

Within minutes after parking and removing the rear wheel, two teams of eager volunteers on little flashy scooters surround the disabled alien.  Passing motorists notice the swelling crowd competing to assist me and stop to investigate.  They all volunteer to take my punctured tube to the nearest repair stand.  For the job of courier, I chose the one man wearing a watch, and an hour later he returns in triumph with a 10-bike escort.  After charging just one dollar for the patching, my angels of motorcycle mercy refuse to take tips for their efforts.  Now if only there were decent restaurants.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p328

[Biggles]

What guidebooks warned was a serious four-hour hike up to the summit became 20 minutes by motorcycle, twisting up jungle hair-pins to 9,000 feet. But by late afternoon, mild drizzle turning into a full-force storm meant becoming stranded at the top. The highest point in the region, Penanjakan Peak is also a base for remote radio towers and relay stations.  While I stood drenched and staring though greying walls of falling water, the final light of the day faded into a solid fog. 
In better times, the half-dozen boarded-up shacks near the lookout patio served as souvenir stands for winded trekkers, but after prying apart broken wooden slats, a hollow musty shell became this shivering solo traveller's twilight refuge.  While waiting for rains to ease enough to retrieve camping gear from my bike, a middle-aged bearded man appeared from the darkening shadows.  Draped in dripping green plastic trash bags and without speaking, he motioned with his hands to follow.
Unsure if I'd been busted for burglary or rescued from the elements, Agil Kurniawan's cramped five-by-eight-foot brick cubicle provided instant relief from biting winds.  As exterior temperatures nose-dived, the orange glow of his electric cooking plate was warming enough to begin to dry my waterlogged riding clothes.   
Cluttered with a nine-inch flickering TV, a few handheld transmitters and a rack of eating utensils on top of boxed clothing, there was barely room in here for one.   
Folding away his makeshift rainsuit, Agil repeated familiar greetings, "Dart manna mistuh?"  (You come from where sir?) 
"Nama saya Glen.  Saya orang Amereeka."  (My name is Glen and I am original of America.)  Using a dented metal cup to scoop a bowl of rice from his cooker, he asked, "Apa kabar?  Mau makan?"  (How are you? Do you want to eat?)
I nodded, and he sprinkled a plate with steaming white grains and chunks of smoked fish heads that were spicy enough to melt plastic.  Sitting cross-legged, eating in silence, it was obvious this wandering alien was now trapped by the intensifying evening storm.  Pointing to the raised plywood platform filling half the tiny room, said "Tidur desanah."  (You sleep.)  Waving away my objections, he rolled out a greasy horse blanket onto the cold concrete floor and insisted that I use his bed.  Debate was useless, so we spent the next two hours studying my computer images of faces and scenes from distant cultures.  While tracing my route around the globe, Agil smiled and stared as if he was hearing about life on Mars.  Even explaining the other islands of Indonesia was difficult- he understood only Java.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp332-3

[Biggles]

In the morning, crisp dawn air was locked in thick fog while I manhandled the Beast up the final steps to what should have been a perfect volcano photo shoot.   
Bromo's elusive panorama was still obscured, but after coming this far I waited, hoping the sky would clear by noon.  It did not, and I realized that if not leaving soon, another storm would surely cause me further delay.  I was worried about complications airfreighting out of Bali next week as the regulations were rumoured to have changed.  A quick island hop south was imperative.
After a long farewell handshake, I held forth a few rupiah, but like those befriending me before, he shook his head in annoyance, indicating by pointing that hospitality comes from the heart.  Hooking leathered brown fingers together, he stumbled through what he had written down using my dictionary, "Mistuh Glan, we brother forever."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p333

[Biggles]

While I was standing in line transferring planes in Malaysia, an Indian Sikh sitting in cross-legged meditation suddenly opened his eyes to wave me closer.  With his bulging head layered in a white linen turban, he radiated a sage's wisdom.  From behind a scraggly beard framing a tan, wrinkled face, he stared directly into my eyes, uttering these simple words: "Many great things lie ahead of you."  As abruptly as he surfaced, he cast down his gaze and retreated to where he had been journeying, and I, with no further apprehension, took a confident step toward the immensity of Africa.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p346

[Biggles]

Arcing concrete slopes of elevated overpasses guide whizzing automobiles outwards into upscale suburbs of fenced-in security.  If people were not driving on the opposite side of the road, this could be a European-tinted California churning with Southern hospitality.  In restaurants or gas stations, everyone wants to chat with musical accents from 11 distinct languages blossoming into English.  And even the roaming squads of beat cops seem reasonable.
The aggressive manoeuvres I'd learned navigating Asia prompted the traffic police to stop me a dozen times.  Cowboy road tactics acceptable on chaotic Java are serious offences in the orderly West.  Wrong direction rides on one-way streets or in between pillars on sidewalks are as shocking as parking in hotel lobbies- a common practice in developing countries.
Cyber-linked readers still follow my movements vicariously from computers around the world.  Because of my online journal, Cape Town motorcyclists have emailed invitations to stay in their homes.  South African generosity is overwhelming.  But abiding by the traveller's three-nights-only rule, I swap Steve and Sharon's home-cooked meals and satellite TV for a return to the seclusion of a run-down backstreet hostel.  Abandoning the ruggedness of the open road has made returning to civilization awkward, and there are blunt realities ahead to prepare for.  Idling in the comfort of Western countries, seasoned travellers 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.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p347

[Biggles]

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. 
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.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p347

[Biggles]

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.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp348-9