Putting you all to work...
Thanks amigo and we are now closing in on the home stretch. Since previous titles of ONE MORE DAY EVERYWHERE and EARTH RIDE have officially rejected by the publisher's marketing department we went back to square one with the following being suggested. They still want to rephrase the subtitle--so what say the brilliant here?
THE ROAD TO AFRICA BY WAY OF SIBERIA
Discovering that although Governments May Not Get Along, People Do
FIFTY TWO THOUSAND MILES TO AFRICA VIA SIBERIA
Discovering that although Governments May Not Get Along, People Do
We have a few more weeks to finish the editing process but for promotional purposes, we must select title and cover this week. Please rack those brains and fire away...
Thanks amigo and we are now closing in on the home stretch. Since previous titles of ONE MORE DAY EVERYWHERE and EARTH RIDE have officially rejected by the publisher's marketing department we went back to square one with the following being suggested. They still want to rephrase the subtitle--so what say the brilliant here?
THE ROAD TO AFRICA BY WAY OF SIBERIA
Discovering that although Governments May Not Get Along, People Do
FIFTY TWO THOUSAND MILES TO AFRICA VIA SIBERIA
Discovering that although Governments May Not Get Along, People Do
We have a few more weeks to finish the editing process but for promotional purposes, we must select title and cover this week. Please rack those brains and fire away...
One gets my vote, although they are both too long in my view. They certainly are descriptive of what your work demonstrates. I will look forward to your book.
I like the "fifty two thousand miles...", it bears a nice family resemblance with the number reference to "two wheels through terror", but agree it could be shorter overall. Hmmmm....
Compelling reading/viewing
Glenn, may I compliment you on such a wonderful piece of writing, and the committment to bring it to life for all of us to share. You confirm what I have always held to be true, you gotta get out from where you are and experience the world and the extraordinary residents to be found there. If you use CNN or politicians to shape your view of the world, you are poorer as the result.
I look forward to your book wih gusto
new title perhaps??....
Humanity Experienced
People , Our Greatest Treasure
thanks so much for the vicarious experience.
Tim
don't get your knickers ina twist, it doesn't feel good and makes you walk funny
I just went through this same process! So I am going to give my own personal view.
1. I think your name is alright although it does seem to stick out a lot. At first I thought maybe it was the title of the book until I scrolled down. Have you tried it on the bottom? My main complaint was that my name was to small! So I had to make it bigger.
2. I like the picture on the top although not so much the picture on the bottom right. I feel like I would enjoy it more if the photo was of someone looking at the person. Making them feel more in touch with your book, getting eye contact right on the front page.
3. Also the title is okay for me to. Not great but okay. Although I couldn't think of anything else and it feels like something I would write for a title to.
I like it, very colorful and I look forward to reading it!
As an avid motorcyclist I picked up a copy of Two Wheels Through Terror a couple years ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. Fast forward 2 years and my buddy turned me on to this forum and today I decided to browse through the journeys section and i find this thread. The photos seemed strangely familiar, and then it hit me. I pulled my copy of the book and lo and behold, its Glen Heggstad! Now i can keep up with even more of his adventures.
Hola mis amigos! Sorry that I have been away so long but I've been sidetracked with other projects--and also because of contractual obligations, unable to post further text. But I can load a few images taken during the remainder of that journey. And the good news is that the book has been printed and at this moment, is being distributed to stores and online companies like amazon and so forth.
Here are a few more shots of riding around Borneo. There were many twelve hour days of spinning through so much mud that by nightfall my odometer had barely spun fifty miles.
As an avid motorcyclist I picked up a copy of Two Wheels Through Terror a couple years ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. Fast forward 2 years and my buddy turned me on to this forum and today I decided to browse through the journeys section and i find this thread. The photos seemed strangely familiar, and then it hit me. I pulled my copy of the book and lo and behold, its Glen Heggstad! Now i can keep up with even more of his adventures.
Thanks amigo. Book two will further fill in the blanks.
Shortly after he turned sixty-three, my father died of a long anticipated, second heart attack. Even though I had left home as a teenager and we weren’t close, the anguishing aftermath of disbelief and denial lasted years. But since the age of sixteen, learning to cope with fending for myself without family ties fortified an independent spirit. While devastated at his funeral, I recall wondering, what is death of a loved one like for those with deeper roots? How painful is the passing of a child or spouse? <o:p></o:p>
In developing nations, extended families are so tight-nit they often live together in one house. Elders are respected and depend on those they raised to care for them in their twilight years--the reason for overproducing offspring in countries without government safety nets. Children are Social Security; the ones that live long enough to work will feed them when no longer able to so themselves. Maybe that’s why natives smile and laugh while complaining less than Western counterparts— they might like a new color TV but know they will survive without one as long as they have each other. There is also far more open love and warmth between relatives--with that open love comes positive attitudes regarding their fate. <o:p></o:p>
Throughout Asia, it’s unusual to find villagers not smiling. Is it the simple life minus anxiety over stock market prices or which conniving politician has stirred more animosity toward the other? There are no worries about evaluating portfolios and counting money--there isn’t any. As long as the basics of human survival exist, natives enjoy each other. Yes, they would prefer accessible health care, everyone wants to live better and longer but the hand they are dealt doesn’t include social remedies available in the West. Yet somehow, those of lesser means navigate life’s complications with little help from corrupt governments conspiring with greedy corporations. <o:p></o:p>
But how do the vulnerable in a developing nation contend with one of the worst natural disasters in human history? In a ruthless rush of nature’s fury, on a sunny 2004 December afternoon, enormous ocean waves previously unknown to humankind penetrated three miles inland to pummel and consume all in the unsuspecting path. In a single wicked hydraulic pulse, two hundred thousand innocent mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters were instantly crushed or swept out to sea. <o:p></o:p>
Riding over rutted trails among the remaining concrete foundations of a city that used to exist is an eerie drift among forsaken tombstones as a silencing hell flickers with smoldering images of eternal agony. Twisted steel rebar poking from jagged brick ruins reach out as skeletal fingers toward the sky, beckoning for remembrance. A gasping scene of heartbreak brings the despair into focus watching ragged young orphan boys with filthy faces, sniffing bags of glue. Gazing into the lingering carnage is a similar experience to visiting the S-21 Torture Museum in Cambodia with the same sense of breathless horror. <o:p></o:p>
Yet, again, the human spirit prevails. Among sun-bleached, frayed canvas tents flapping in the salty tropical breeze, splintering plywood shelters and makeshift noodle stands are being hammered into shape. Survivors too busy for pity are hauling wood, digging trenches or loading trucks with sacks of cement and homemade tools. And still, workers laboring in the sticky heat stop to smile and wave, pitching familiar questions. “Mistah wahs you name?” While reeling from the stomach-churning shock, what does one say to the humble brave who just lost what little they had and everyone they love? “Salamat siang, apa kabar?” Good afternoon, how are you? To relieve my discomfort, an elderly, crooked-tooth rickshaw driver paused roadside asks, “You have come to see Tsunami?” <o:p></o:p>
Knowing much can be spoken with just the eyes, I touch mine, then his, “No, I have come to see you.” In a moment’s locked gaze I try to convey that the world has not forgotten the tragedy he recalls every second. Traumatic events that jolt into the mind eventually spew out—I can’t help but wonder what could these tormented ones dream of at night. Happy faces and steady smiles can’t disguise what they relive when clenching their eyes. But with two hundred thousand still homeless and hungry, maybe a world preoccupied with newer disasters, is forgetting. <o:p></o:p>
<!--EndFragment-->
I just read through this whole thread while sitting at work. Amazing job.
Thanks. On this thread, as a teaser, I have included approximately 5% of the text from my book, but more and different photos. So if you like what you see here...
Onto the West Coast Wasteland
September 28, 2005
Lamno, Aceh Province, Sumatra
Accumulating travel information for roads and places that no longer exist is difficult in Banda Aceh. Since their limited world has ended, surviving inhabitants were unsure of what was left down the next stretch of beach. Trying to convey how I wanted to ride back along the devastated west coast of Aceh province was as difficult as explaining why. Since their answer to everything was “Soo naam mee,” it was best to proceed and update along the way. By all accounts, the single lane highway on Sumatra’s northwest coast was consumed by the Tsunami and the few remaining isolated villages were being supplied by airdrop.
Learning the road to Lamno had been cleared was encouraging. Lamno, as the site of the first major bridge collapse, is the last stop heading south along the Indian Ocean with relatively fresh food and supplies. A beat down flophouse hostel became a welcome refuge at the end of the day while gauging the terrain. An optimistic native’s suggestion that riding the waterline at low tide could connect to more intact roads on higher ground further down was the spark I needed to gamble.
There wasn’t much to go wrong except a time-consuming retreat to Banda Aceh if encountering solid jungle or open sea. UN relief workers insisted “It takes five hours on the good road just to reach Lamno, that’s only the first sixty miles. Then comes the hard part, finding a way around washed out bridges to reach the next organized city one hundred fifty miles south to Meulaboh.” But their five-hour ride was in convoy under military escort, mine, including photo stops was actually three and most of this was passable asphalt that ran from the seaside, twisting back through delicious, isolated coastal mountains. Without using his weapon, a BAM fighter along the way hand-signaled me aside offering tea and rice cakes. So much for rumors of Muslim guerrillas murdering civilians.
Investigating a variety of exaggerated tales alleviates apprehension. Two German backpackers killed for violating the curfew were actually accidentally shot by the military and much further south. Tourism has been non-existent since the fighting began and the hikers had been camping in a combat zone when a jungle army patrol stumbled upon them sleeping in their tent. Failing to communicate understandable commands to exit with their hands up, and unable to see who was inside, they were presumed rebels and wary soldiers promptly opened fire. The wounded woman survived but her husband did not. Still, hearsay panics the listeners.
There is plenty of fuel in Sumatra but unfounded claims of supplies diminishing, caused city-block-long lines at gas stations. But as a Westerner, accommodating attendants assumed I was an NGO worker and waved me to the front.
Wild tales of two young un-chaperoned couples whipped and caned by religious authorities were also unfounded. They were actually caught illegally drinking beer together and as a lesson to others disregarding Islamic Law, were unceremoniously paraded around the town square in the back of a pickup truck. Even though regulations regarding male-female contact are strict, Muslim women in groups are always anxious to talk, displaying sweet, open personalities that defy their conservative dress.
While on an after-dinner ride on the outskirts of Lamno, four young native women waved me over to warn of the 6:00PM curfew outside of villages.
After pantomiming gestures of firing invisible pistols and rifles, they were convincing enough that staying to chat with them was a better idea. As our conversation progressed to wanting to be photographed, one in particular displayed a noticeable liking for foreigners by standing closer than normal with a longing smile. In surprising contrast to local custom, in front of the others, she invited me to sleep at her house. For wandering motorcyclists, come-ons from local girls are common, but in the past, were always in private, away from prying eyes of gossiping town folk. Yet most of those opportunities were accompanied by optimistic agendas followed by sullen faces when learning I was back on the road at dawn. It has been proven wise to avoid them.
Still, specific intent gets lost in translations, especially when using sign language with limited vocabulary. But this bright-eyed, olive-skinned beauty skipping and laughing in the deep silvery moonlight was persuasive. Placing clasped palms together next to her tilting head, then touching two index fingers in parallel while next pointing to her and then me, was a significant gesture too obvious to ignore.
There may have been another meaning but recalling earlier when examining her recorded images on the camera playback screen, she had pressed a set of very firm breasts on my arm—combined with not wearing a headscarf, her gestures sure looked like a green light from here. But what may have been okay with her was likely to be reported by nosy neighbors resulting in a public caning or castration or both. In a region that just fought a bloody war to return to biblical values, no matter the lure, the very least of consequence was a machete-induced marriage in the morning.
Back in the mosquito infested hotel room beneath the monotonous hum of the lopsided rotating ceiling fan, the bulk of the night was consumed pondering undergarment colors and the garden scent of a young woman’s hair. In the morning, I resisted a hormone-influenced urge to return for reconsideration—but a lesson well learned is that if turning down a woman once, you will never be given a second chance. (No matter how hard you beg)
After a cool water-bucket shower and four greasy eggs, I repacked my gear and proceeded to the knoll where the first major bridge had been yanked out to sea. Proving once again mastery over man, aqua tinted ocean waves continued to brush against remaining fragmented pillars. Standing alone on the brim of a forbidding wasteland extending to the horizon, gazing across the gaping expanse was a sobering warning of what lay ahead.
Indonesia Coastal Drift <o:p></o:p> September 30, 2005 <o:p></o:p>
Meulaboh, Aceh Province, Sumatra
In the summer of 1978, curious about sensational media reports of feuding Protestants and Catholics blowing each other up in Belfast, I boarded a flight to Dublin to see for myself. Was the whole country at war and were Christians, and Irish in particular, somehow more violent and dangerous than the rest of us? Backpacking through rich green farmlands and contemporary cities by thumb seemed a good method to investigate. <o:p></o:p>
Spending a month hitchhiking cross-country doesn’t qualify anyone as an expert but while questioning the Irish kind enough to offer a lift and sleeping with families in Bed & Breakfasts, this was a decent way to catch a glimpse into the mind and soul of the people. Yet despite sensationalist US media reports, outside of certain sections of Belfast, I could only find working men and women quietly sharing their lives in white plastered cottages nestled in between sections of neat, stone fences dividing emerald green pastures. What about alcoholism and the proverbial Irish temper? <o:p></o:p>
It’s true they love their Guinness and are better than average boxers, but while recording impromptu private interviews using a pocketsize micro-cassette, I could not find anyone who condoned sectarian violence. Instead, like a chorus of typical country folk, they all repeated a slogan hard to forget--“Aye, it tis’, it tis’ that we are all God’s creatures.” Although the Northerner’s disagreements and sometimes violent confrontations involved more politics than church, the rest of the otherwise law abiding Catholics and Protestants were being instigated by extremists. With an occupying British government stuck in the middle, violence was begetting violence, but still, only in a few counties of Northern Ireland. <o:p></o:p>
Religious zealots killing each other is nothing new, but recently the art of mass murder in the Islamic world has been refined with car and suicide bombings. Now, instead of bloodthirsty Christians, images of fanatical terrorist Muslims dominate the media. A similar struggle within Islam between Sunni and Shiite factions rages in Iraq and on a much milder scale between moderates and fundamentalists here in Indonesia. It’s not a matter of crazies being either from Christianity or Islam; it’s ignorant people taking religious doctrine out of context to justify extremism. <o:p></o:p>
But if nine of the finest legal scholars in America cannot interpret the carefully worded US Constitution unanimously, how can simple villagers understand difficult to read Bibles and Korans thousands of years old? No matter how clearly ideas are written, either side can manipulate them to rationalize their position. In the Bill of Rights, US gun laws underscore the point. <o:p></o:p>
Despite the confusion, brokered settlements over regional conflicts by disinterested parties sometimes succeed. Just this month, in Indonesia’s Aceh province, optimistic Finns negotiated hard with intransigent political leaders to align government and rebel positions. And finally, thanks to the persistence of interested foreigners combined with recovery from an enormous disaster, there is a chance for peace and a return to Islamic law acceptable to all.
With most of the International aid workers stationed in Sumatran cities, I’ve only seen dedicated foreign AMM members out spinning their tires in the mud. An aggressive Aceh Monitoring Mission has dispersed a fleet of late model four-wheel-drives equipped with satellite communications and window stickers showing circled machine guns with lines drawn across. <o:p></o:p>
Their mission is to scour rural strongholds collecting weapons surrendered by rebels and then trade them to military officials in exchange for repositioning troops. The results are astounding, as everyone I encountered has insisted the program is ahead of schedule. If there is a silver-lining to merciless disaster, it is in pulling sworn enemies together for the good of humanity. <o:p></o:p>
Today is a new start and even the clear cobalt sky is empty, as a radiating mid-latitude sun holds monsoon rains at bay and soggy trails firm enough to ride. But while balancing motorcycle tires over flexing coconut tree bridges and dragging through the bog, it’s difficult to understand this need to witness devastation. As the roadway ends again in a swollen estuary requiring another backtrack, I wonder “What’s the logic of witnessing tragedy with those whom I’ll never see again?” <o:p></o:p>
Except for AMM personnel, I have not seen any other Westerners. Foreign relief workers in larger cities coordinate from a distance but it’s the silent, surviving mothers, fathers and siblings who provide the grinding labor to reconstruct their lives. Scattered down the coast, surviving villagers stoop in the heat replanting flooded rice paddies while others hand cut timber to build new fishing boats. None are idle or complaining in a struggle to walk together for the common good—crisis has brought peace to Indonesia, though it’s a long road back. <o:p></o:p>
Bottled water is everywhere but my stash of bananas and canned fish paste ran out yesterday. At a thatched roof noodle stand, an old woman flustered by having a customer, smiles while clearing a place to sit on sawed-off tree stump chairs. Five dollars buys a scoop of cold rice and three shriveled chicken necks refried everyday because there has been no one with money to buy them. If chewing long enough, fishy-smelling flesh cooked hard as plastic turns stringy bits soft enough to swallow. I can only imagine what mealtimes are like for locals.
<o:p></o:p>
Roads along fluffy, pale beaches were long swept away but as suggested by villagers, at low tide they connected to solid tarmac on higher ground.
A Ritcter scale nine point zero originally triggered the main Tsunami but sporadic aftershocks of fives and sixes have continued since. Reports of yesterday’s are unnerving. With one eye on the waters edge, I constantly measure the terrain for rapid escape routes through shady palm tree groves to higher ground. <o:p></o:p>
Once above sea level, controlled slides over mud and sand surrender their hold into a euphoric glide through a pulsating jungle reclaiming multi-mile-long strips of asphalt not used anymore.
Soaring beneath refreshing canopies of towering hardwoods stimulates troubling introspection as the splendor of solitude in paradise turns grimacing horror. Each time reaching another fallen bridge formally connecting villages across deltas, ghastly reality strikes hard while understanding the reason for this blissful isolation is that those who once lived here, recently perished. I shudder at the irony that it requires dreadful catastrophe to bring such peace and I wonder if this is a message. <o:p></o:p>
<!--EndFragment-->
Comments
moderator of: The Flea Market [ guidelines ]
Thanks amigo and we are now closing in on the home stretch. Since previous titles of ONE MORE DAY EVERYWHERE and EARTH RIDE have officially rejected by the publisher's marketing department we went back to square one with the following being suggested. They still want to rephrase the subtitle--so what say the brilliant here?
Discovering that although Governments May Not Get Along, People Do
FIFTY TWO THOUSAND MILES TO AFRICA VIA SIBERIA
Discovering that although Governments May Not Get Along, People Do
We have a few more weeks to finish the editing process but for promotional purposes, we must select title and cover this week. Please rack those brains and fire away...
One gets my vote, although they are both too long in my view. They certainly are descriptive of what your work demonstrates. I will look forward to your book.
http://danielplumer.com/
Facebook Fan Page
How's about "The Ride to Africa: Discovering People Along the Way" or
"Riding to Africa: Discovering People".
My Gallery
The Nature Of Human Being
NOT Governments
Discovering The People Of Earth
Discovering Humanity With A Bike And A Smile
Creating Love With A Bike And A Smile
http://danielplumer.com/
Facebook Fan Page
moderator of: The Flea Market [ guidelines ]
Glenn, may I compliment you on such a wonderful piece of writing, and the committment to bring it to life for all of us to share.
I look forward to your book wih gusto
new title perhaps??....
Humanity Experienced
People , Our Greatest Treasure
thanks so much for the vicarious experience.
Tim
What do you guys think?
2. Not crazy about the main title (it's OK)
3. Your name, in my opinion, ought to be less prominent
4. The image of you on the bike is too small
I'm a big fan of yours
http://danielplumer.com/
Facebook Fan Page
I just went through this same process! So I am going to give my own personal view.
1. I think your name is alright although it does seem to stick out a lot. At first I thought maybe it was the title of the book until I scrolled down. Have you tried it on the bottom? My main complaint was that my name was to small! So I had to make it bigger.
2. I like the picture on the top although not so much the picture on the bottom right. I feel like I would enjoy it more if the photo was of someone looking at the person. Making them feel more in touch with your book, getting eye contact right on the front page.
3. Also the title is okay for me to. Not great but okay. Although I couldn't think of anything else and it feels like something I would write for a title to.
I like it, very colorful and I look forward to reading it!
Kelsey
I Live at http://www.alaskamountainforum.com
Here are a few more shots of riding around Borneo. There were many twelve hour days of spinning through so much mud that by nightfall my odometer had barely spun fifty miles.
Thanks amigo. Book two will further fill in the blanks.
great post tho - keep up the good work
Pete
==================
www.plumchutney.net
==================
Waiting for the release.
A great trip, salute！
http://danielplumer.com/
Facebook Fan Page
Entering the Aceh province during the military withdrawal
Post tsunami Banda Aceh
200,000 swept out to sea, 200,000 left homeless after the Tsunami crashed through Banda Aceh, Sumatra, Indonesia
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September 27, 2005 <o:p></o:p>
Banda Aceh, Sumatra <o:p></o:p>
Shortly after he turned sixty-three, my father died of a long anticipated, second heart attack. Even though I had left home as a teenager and we weren’t close, the anguishing aftermath of disbelief and denial lasted years. But since the age of sixteen, learning to cope with fending for myself without family ties fortified an independent spirit. While devastated at his funeral, I recall wondering, what is death of a loved one like for those with deeper roots? How painful is the passing of a child or spouse? <o:p></o:p>
In developing nations, extended families are so tight-nit they often live together in one house. Elders are respected and depend on those they raised to care for them in their twilight years--the reason for overproducing offspring in countries without government safety nets. Children are Social Security; the ones that live long enough to work will feed them when no longer able to so themselves. Maybe that’s why natives smile and laugh while complaining less than Western counterparts— they might like a new color TV but know they will survive without one as long as they have each other. There is also far more open love and warmth between relatives--with that open love comes positive attitudes regarding their fate. <o:p></o:p>
Throughout Asia, it’s unusual to find villagers not smiling. Is it the simple life minus anxiety over stock market prices or which conniving politician has stirred more animosity toward the other? There are no worries about evaluating portfolios and counting money--there isn’t any. As long as the basics of human survival exist, natives enjoy each other. Yes, they would prefer accessible health care, everyone wants to live better and longer but the hand they are dealt doesn’t include social remedies available in the West. Yet somehow, those of lesser means navigate life’s complications with little help from corrupt governments conspiring with greedy corporations. <o:p></o:p>
But how do the vulnerable in a developing nation contend with one of the worst natural disasters in human history? In a ruthless rush of nature’s fury, on a sunny 2004 December afternoon, enormous ocean waves previously unknown to humankind penetrated three miles inland to pummel and consume all in the unsuspecting path. In a single wicked hydraulic pulse, two hundred thousand innocent mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters were instantly crushed or swept out to sea. <o:p></o:p>
Riding over rutted trails among the remaining concrete foundations of a city that used to exist is an eerie drift among forsaken tombstones as a silencing hell flickers with smoldering images of eternal agony. Twisted steel rebar poking from jagged brick ruins reach out as skeletal fingers toward the sky, beckoning for remembrance. A gasping scene of heartbreak brings the despair into focus watching ragged young orphan boys with filthy faces, sniffing bags of glue. Gazing into the lingering carnage is a similar experience to visiting the S-21 Torture Museum in Cambodia with the same sense of breathless horror. <o:p></o:p>
Yet, again, the human spirit prevails. Among sun-bleached, frayed canvas tents flapping in the salty tropical breeze, splintering plywood shelters and makeshift noodle stands are being hammered into shape. Survivors too busy for pity are hauling wood, digging trenches or loading trucks with sacks of cement and homemade tools. And still, workers laboring in the sticky heat stop to smile and wave, pitching familiar questions. “Mistah wahs you name?” While reeling from the stomach-churning shock, what does one say to the humble brave who just lost what little they had and everyone they love? “Salamat siang, apa kabar?” Good afternoon, how are you? To relieve my discomfort, an elderly, crooked-tooth rickshaw driver paused roadside asks, “You have come to see Tsunami?” <o:p></o:p>
Knowing much can be spoken with just the eyes, I touch mine, then his, “No, I have come to see you.” In a moment’s locked gaze I try to convey that the world has not forgotten the tragedy he recalls every second. Traumatic events that jolt into the mind eventually spew out—I can’t help but wonder what could these tormented ones dream of at night. Happy faces and steady smiles can’t disguise what they relive when clenching their eyes. But with two hundred thousand still homeless and hungry, maybe a world preoccupied with newer disasters, is forgetting. <o:p></o:p>
<!--EndFragment-->
Thanks. On this thread, as a teaser, I have included approximately 5% of the text from my book, but more and different photos. So if you like what you see here...
September 28, 2005
Lamno, Aceh Province, Sumatra
Accumulating travel information for roads and places that no longer exist is difficult in Banda Aceh. Since their limited world has ended, surviving inhabitants were unsure of what was left down the next stretch of beach. Trying to convey how I wanted to ride back along the devastated west coast of Aceh province was as difficult as explaining why. Since their answer to everything was “Soo naam mee,” it was best to proceed and update along the way. By all accounts, the single lane highway on Sumatra’s northwest coast was consumed by the Tsunami and the few remaining isolated villages were being supplied by airdrop.
Learning the road to Lamno had been cleared was encouraging. Lamno, as the site of the first major bridge collapse, is the last stop heading south along the Indian Ocean with relatively fresh food and supplies. A beat down flophouse hostel became a welcome refuge at the end of the day while gauging the terrain. An optimistic native’s suggestion that riding the waterline at low tide could connect to more intact roads on higher ground further down was the spark I needed to gamble.
There wasn’t much to go wrong except a time-consuming retreat to Banda Aceh if encountering solid jungle or open sea. UN relief workers insisted “It takes five hours on the good road just to reach Lamno, that’s only the first sixty miles. Then comes the hard part, finding a way around washed out bridges to reach the next organized city one hundred fifty miles south to Meulaboh.” But their five-hour ride was in convoy under military escort, mine, including photo stops was actually three and most of this was passable asphalt that ran from the seaside, twisting back through delicious, isolated coastal mountains. Without using his weapon, a BAM fighter along the way hand-signaled me aside offering tea and rice cakes. So much for rumors of Muslim guerrillas murdering civilians.
Investigating a variety of exaggerated tales alleviates apprehension. Two German backpackers killed for violating the curfew were actually accidentally shot by the military and much further south. Tourism has been non-existent since the fighting began and the hikers had been camping in a combat zone when a jungle army patrol stumbled upon them sleeping in their tent. Failing to communicate understandable commands to exit with their hands up, and unable to see who was inside, they were presumed rebels and wary soldiers promptly opened fire. The wounded woman survived but her husband did not. Still, hearsay panics the listeners.
There is plenty of fuel in Sumatra but unfounded claims of supplies diminishing, caused city-block-long lines at gas stations. But as a Westerner, accommodating attendants assumed I was an NGO worker and waved me to the front.
Wild tales of two young un-chaperoned couples whipped and caned by religious authorities were also unfounded. They were actually caught illegally drinking beer together and as a lesson to others disregarding Islamic Law, were unceremoniously paraded around the town square in the back of a pickup truck. Even though regulations regarding male-female contact are strict, Muslim women in groups are always anxious to talk, displaying sweet, open personalities that defy their conservative dress.
While on an after-dinner ride on the outskirts of Lamno, four young native women waved me over to warn of the 6:00PM curfew outside of villages.
After pantomiming gestures of firing invisible pistols and rifles, they were convincing enough that staying to chat with them was a better idea. As our conversation progressed to wanting to be photographed, one in particular displayed a noticeable liking for foreigners by standing closer than normal with a longing smile. In surprising contrast to local custom, in front of the others, she invited me to sleep at her house. For wandering motorcyclists, come-ons from local girls are common, but in the past, were always in private, away from prying eyes of gossiping town folk. Yet most of those opportunities were accompanied by optimistic agendas followed by sullen faces when learning I was back on the road at dawn. It has been proven wise to avoid them.
Still, specific intent gets lost in translations, especially when using sign language with limited vocabulary. But this bright-eyed, olive-skinned beauty skipping and laughing in the deep silvery moonlight was persuasive. Placing clasped palms together next to her tilting head, then touching two index fingers in parallel while next pointing to her and then me, was a significant gesture too obvious to ignore.
There may have been another meaning but recalling earlier when examining her recorded images on the camera playback screen, she had pressed a set of very firm breasts on my arm—combined with not wearing a headscarf, her gestures sure looked like a green light from here. But what may have been okay with her was likely to be reported by nosy neighbors resulting in a public caning or castration or both. In a region that just fought a bloody war to return to biblical values, no matter the lure, the very least of consequence was a machete-induced marriage in the morning.
Back in the mosquito infested hotel room beneath the monotonous hum of the lopsided rotating ceiling fan, the bulk of the night was consumed pondering undergarment colors and the garden scent of a young woman’s hair. In the morning, I resisted a hormone-influenced urge to return for reconsideration—but a lesson well learned is that if turning down a woman once, you will never be given a second chance. (No matter how hard you beg)
After a cool water-bucket shower and four greasy eggs, I repacked my gear and proceeded to the knoll where the first major bridge had been yanked out to sea. Proving once again mastery over man, aqua tinted ocean waves continued to brush against remaining fragmented pillars. Standing alone on the brim of a forbidding wasteland extending to the horizon, gazing across the gaping expanse was a sobering warning of what lay ahead.
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Been in the collected journey thread for a while.
Sorry Ian
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Coastal Drift
<o:p></o:p> September 30, 2005 <o:p></o:p>
Meulaboh, Aceh Province, Sumatra
In the summer of 1978, curious about sensational media reports of feuding Protestants and Catholics blowing each other up in Belfast, I boarded a flight to Dublin to see for myself. Was the whole country at war and were Christians, and Irish in particular, somehow more violent and dangerous than the rest of us? Backpacking through rich green farmlands and contemporary cities by thumb seemed a good method to investigate. <o:p></o:p>
Spending a month hitchhiking cross-country doesn’t qualify anyone as an expert but while questioning the Irish kind enough to offer a lift and sleeping with families in Bed & Breakfasts, this was a decent way to catch a glimpse into the mind and soul of the people. Yet despite sensationalist US media reports, outside of certain sections of Belfast, I could only find working men and women quietly sharing their lives in white plastered cottages nestled in between sections of neat, stone fences dividing emerald green pastures. What about alcoholism and the proverbial Irish temper? <o:p></o:p>
It’s true they love their Guinness and are better than average boxers, but while recording impromptu private interviews using a pocketsize micro-cassette, I could not find anyone who condoned sectarian violence. Instead, like a chorus of typical country folk, they all repeated a slogan hard to forget--“Aye, it tis’, it tis’ that we are all God’s creatures.” Although the Northerner’s disagreements and sometimes violent confrontations involved more politics than church, the rest of the otherwise law abiding Catholics and Protestants were being instigated by extremists. With an occupying British government stuck in the middle, violence was begetting violence, but still, only in a few counties of Northern Ireland. <o:p></o:p>
Religious zealots killing each other is nothing new, but recently the art of mass murder in the Islamic world has been refined with car and suicide bombings. Now, instead of bloodthirsty Christians, images of fanatical terrorist Muslims dominate the media. A similar struggle within Islam between Sunni and Shiite factions rages in Iraq and on a much milder scale between moderates and fundamentalists here in Indonesia. It’s not a matter of crazies being either from Christianity or Islam; it’s ignorant people taking religious doctrine out of context to justify extremism. <o:p></o:p>
But if nine of the finest legal scholars in America cannot interpret the carefully worded US Constitution unanimously, how can simple villagers understand difficult to read Bibles and Korans thousands of years old? No matter how clearly ideas are written, either side can manipulate them to rationalize their position. In the Bill of Rights, US gun laws underscore the point. <o:p></o:p>
Despite the confusion, brokered settlements over regional conflicts by disinterested parties sometimes succeed. Just this month, in Indonesia’s Aceh province, optimistic Finns negotiated hard with intransigent political leaders to align government and rebel positions. And finally, thanks to the persistence of interested foreigners combined with recovery from an enormous disaster, there is a chance for peace and a return to Islamic law acceptable to all.
With most of the International aid workers stationed in Sumatran cities, I’ve only seen dedicated foreign AMM members out spinning their tires in the mud. An aggressive Aceh Monitoring Mission has dispersed a fleet of late model four-wheel-drives equipped with satellite communications and window stickers showing circled machine guns with lines drawn across. <o:p></o:p>
Their mission is to scour rural strongholds collecting weapons surrendered by rebels and then trade them to military officials in exchange for repositioning troops. The results are astounding, as everyone I encountered has insisted the program is ahead of schedule. If there is a silver-lining to merciless disaster, it is in pulling sworn enemies together for the good of humanity. <o:p></o:p>
Today is a new start and even the clear cobalt sky is empty, as a radiating mid-latitude sun holds monsoon rains at bay and soggy trails firm enough to ride. But while balancing motorcycle tires over flexing coconut tree bridges and dragging through the bog, it’s difficult to understand this need to witness devastation. As the roadway ends again in a swollen estuary requiring another backtrack, I wonder “What’s the logic of witnessing tragedy with those whom I’ll never see again?” <o:p></o:p>
Except for AMM personnel, I have not seen any other Westerners. Foreign relief workers in larger cities coordinate from a distance but it’s the silent, surviving mothers, fathers and siblings who provide the grinding labor to reconstruct their lives. Scattered down the coast, surviving villagers stoop in the heat replanting flooded rice paddies while others hand cut timber to build new fishing boats. None are idle or complaining in a struggle to walk together for the common good—crisis has brought peace to Indonesia, though it’s a long road back. <o:p></o:p>
Bottled water is everywhere but my stash of bananas and canned fish paste ran out yesterday. At a thatched roof noodle stand, an old woman flustered by having a customer, smiles while clearing a place to sit on sawed-off tree stump chairs. Five dollars buys a scoop of cold rice and three shriveled chicken necks refried everyday because there has been no one with money to buy them. If chewing long enough, fishy-smelling flesh cooked hard as plastic turns stringy bits soft enough to swallow. I can only imagine what mealtimes are like for locals.
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Roads along fluffy, pale beaches were long swept away but as suggested by villagers, at low tide they connected to solid tarmac on higher ground.
A Ritcter scale nine point zero originally triggered the main Tsunami but sporadic aftershocks of fives and sixes have continued since. Reports of yesterday’s are unnerving. With one eye on the waters edge, I constantly measure the terrain for rapid escape routes through shady palm tree groves to higher ground. <o:p></o:p>
Once above sea level, controlled slides over mud and sand surrender their hold into a euphoric glide through a pulsating jungle reclaiming multi-mile-long strips of asphalt not used anymore.
Soaring beneath refreshing canopies of towering hardwoods stimulates troubling introspection as the splendor of solitude in paradise turns grimacing horror. Each time reaching another fallen bridge formally connecting villages across deltas, ghastly reality strikes hard while understanding the reason for this blissful isolation is that those who once lived here, recently perished. I shudder at the irony that it requires dreadful catastrophe to bring such peace and I wonder if this is a message. <o:p></o:p>
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