From the Library

[Biggles]

Had I not recently been smirking about the fact I'd seen no other cars or humans for the last 24 hours, a ruptured tire in the desert would have been more tolerable. 
 Yet, if that pattern continued, my trash sack containing drained water bottles and empty cans of food would become unwelcome reminders of the folly of travelling alone.  What was a retired judo instructor doing in Africa anyway? Suddenly, California never looked so good.
Four hours flipping through mental files of dead-end solutions produced nothing.  My carefully stored aluminium tire irons had been claimed by the mud holes of Borneo, yet two screwdrivers worked carefully with long-handled wrenches could substitute.  Still, inserting the backup tube into a tire ripped this bad would be futile.  Once re-inflated, the soft rubber would immediately bulge through the slit and burst.  Anywhere else in the world, a rusted old pickup truck filled with locals would surely ramble along to the rescue.  Here, in this isolated section of the Namib Desert, there weren't even birds or telephone poles.  Yet, sooner or later, a cavalry arrives.
Remembering their names would be more polite, but at least I took their photo, a handsome young Italian couple out sightseeing in a rented four-by-four rolled up just before sunset- the most welcome sight all day.  Discovering their tool kit contained a long handle tire iron was the inspiration I needed to contend with the approaching dusk.
There had been no traffic in the daylight, and there would certainly be none at night.  Since abandoning the bike is never an option the possibility of sitting roadside for days had been my most recent fear.
The Italian couple's car tire iron worked well easing the casing off, and packing in a new tube was like any other repair.  But how would I pinch and hold a gaping gash together enough to cover the 40 miles to the next campground and telephone?  Nylon straps used when cinching down the bike for air transport would serve a second purpose.  Trimmed to fit the circumference of the tire, I could tighten three of them enough to close the gap and keep the tube from popping out.  A 10-inch strip cut from the old tube with the ends folded over and under the nylon straps should keep them from fraying on jagged gravel stones. After adding air from a 12-volt pump, followed by grateful hugs farewell, I was off into the uncertainty of a blackening desert night.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp352-3

[Biggles]

Whatever the direction, once out of southern Africa, there is a 5,000 mile stretch to the Mediterranean in which spare parts do not exist for larger motorcycles.  Since tires are double the price of anywhere else, to stay on budget, Antonie sent me a 50-dollar used one with a quarter of the tread life remaining.  On my plan-of-no-plan, predicting wear patterns and estimating arrival dates makes coordinating international supply shipments a logistical challenge.  With 2,000 miles left to Livingstone, Zambia, where fresh tires are scheduled for delivery, timing is going to be tight.  Anyway, the newly paved double-lane Trans-Kalahari Highway beginning from the coast is easier on rubber than the previous long stretches of sharp gravel road.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p355

[Biggles]

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 slowly 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.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p366

[Biggles]

By five o'clock I had made my first Tanzanian friend, a tall, heavy, 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 travelling 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 deny 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.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p369

[Biggles]

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 freely.  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 manoeuvre, Hussein took me by arm, "Come, lets get out of their way so they can make everything new for our travelling brother. You need to see my empire."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p370

[Biggles]

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 labour 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 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 travelling brother."
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."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p370

[Biggles]

The mind-numbing jarring and bucking was so intense that more gas spilled through the tank breather-vents than was burned by the engine.  Even sloshing battery water slapped high enough to drip from an overflow tube.  And that was the good news.  Normally, when shock absorber fluid begins seeping past worn seals, lack of oil shouldn't cause a compression lockdown. Treated liquids and pressurized gases regulate rebound action, and without them, handling deteriorates into a tolerable, bouncing pogo-stick ride.  Although a blown shock should not remain compressed, mine did, resulting in zero vertical travel to relieve explosive jolting from a jagged road.  Even at 10 miles per hour, the vertical forces generated were difficult to endure with the rear section kicking up and slamming back down. Ridges on a deep-cut washboard surface turned into spine-snapping slaps equally destructive to metal frame-welds.  With nothing but thorn tree desert ahead, the only solution was a 10 mile retreat to the relieving shade of the last tribal outpost, with a hope that the natives were friendly.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p379

[Biggles]

Unlike blazing desert days, midnight air was crisp and clean. The push of a button made the motorcycle grumble to life.  But my confidence faded as yesterday's brutal jarring resumed even worse than I remembered. There would be no escape in a first-gear crawl, easing over every ridge and rock.  With zero travel in a frozen shock, violent kicking and bucking made simply hanging on to the handlebars a challenge.  At 10 miles per hour without rear suspension, I tried to calculate how many hours it would take to ride 300 miles.  Maybe throttling up to 15 miles per hour would shave an hour or two. Either way, between robbers and vicious terrain, one of Africa's worst roads was ready to bang and test the limits of both my internal organs and a thoroughly abused motorcycle frame. At least riding slow allowed me a chance to evaluate which bumps and gullies to dodge to minimize impacts. Standing on the foot pegs with bent knees was temporary relief but became too tiring, requiring rest stops every 30 minutes.  With fatigued arms and legs, a creeping desert dawn glowed into a bursting orange sunrise.  Soon, wandering Masai camel herders emerged from the thicket with familiar demands. "Pay money! You give me money!" No matter what they were doing, young and old, the moment any tribesmen spotted a wandering foreigner they turned and sprinted forward waving and shouting "Money, money, money!"
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p381

[Biggles]

In the afternoon, the moment I ventured outside Jey-Jey's, throngs of unkempt children crowded around me, yelling "Sweets, sweets, give me money, give me pens!"   
Although it's clear that the foreigner's role in Africa is strictly for giving, all that I offer is bumpy rides on a limping motorcycle.
Having trained their children to beg, scowling parents glared as giggling youngsters abandoned rehearsed scam-lines and jumped with delight, lining up to be next for a spin through town.  Sometimes you just have to let kids be kids.  With one eager child on the front and two on the back, it still took a whole afternoon to appease them all.  Following the Pied Piper back to Jey-Jey's, the trailing troops assured me they would stand guard as I swatted away the last of persistent horseflies and tried to forget the situation while spiralling into sleep.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p 383

[Biggles]

Riding toward the border, there was little to see beyond a deep-cut corrugated road evaporating into the horizon.  Endless ruts and jagged stones threatened to slice vulnerable rubber tires over thousands of flat square miles across evenly spread baseball-sized volcanic rocks.  The scene ahead looked like photos broadcast from robot cameras on Mars.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p384

[Biggles]

Tracking down and clearing three of four incoming supply packages through customs was like working a second job. There is still one to go, but that should be easy after spending three days convincing department heads that I don't live here and the new Ohlins shock absorber and Avon tires are not for resale.  There is a constant stream of complications when riding the world, yet the overall experience is so rewarding that after mild grumbling, travellers only remember the good times.  Still, while winding down this journey, a smoother landing would've been welcome.  With 5,000 miles to go, it's hard not to dream about California, and the more I ponder returning, the bigger common hassles here seem to grow. I've been homeless with limited possessions for the last two years, so considerations of what to do first when returning to Palm Springs pile on top of my already considerable frustrations connected with developing-nation bureaucracies.  And in the middle of Africa, for the first time in a while, concerns about the future over-ride living in the moment- a sure signal that it's time to return to a village.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp391-2

[Biggles]

On the pine tree ridge of a 9000 foot mountain summit over-looking the brackish waters of Lake Chamo, the curious inhabitants of Dorze village rushed forward to greet this invading alien.  At the end of a weekly market day, merchants and traders were busy with crystallized rock salt.  At sunset, according to tradition, women shared dried pumpkin gourds of homemade beer as men stayed home guzzling bottles of local whiskey.  But shy village children reacted the same as those in Kenya after the first was coaxed aboard my motorcycle for a ride among bulging banana-leafed huts.  Giggling pandemonium erupted as they scrambled atop my flexing aluminium saddlebags and even stood on a buckling front fender.  But the show was not to be stolen.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p393

[Biggles]

Yet, the smaller the society, the stricter the codes of behaviour, 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 top 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."
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p394

[Biggles]

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 sombre concern was soon interrupted by a parting crowd and shouts of delight.  Four-year-old Jalcono 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.
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere pp394-5

[Biggles]

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?"
Glen Heggstad  One More Day Everywhere p396