In
1978, six years after John’s Pan-American Highway trip, he undertook
another grand scootouring adventure, this time across Asia and Europe
via the Trans-Asian Highway.
It’s
important to put this trip into historical context. Looking back we can
see that John was fortunate to get through during a relatively narrow
window of political stability and, unknown to him while he was
traveling, probably the peak of the highway system’s development. By
this time there was enough work done on the United Nations-sponsored
Asian Highway system for there to be roads (and even pavement in some
places) from Singapore to Tehran. (There remained the notable
interruption of Myanmar/Burma.) However very soon after completing the
trip his route would become impassable for political reasons in two
additional countries. Oddly the timing of a number of historical events
makes it seem almost like turmoil followed in the wake of John’s
scooter.
Saigon
fell in April 1975, but Southeast Asian was still a mess in 1978. To
avoid the instability of the region (and since communist Russia and China where for practical purposes out of the question) his journey began at the southern
tip of the Malay Peninsula in Singapore. With this route John was able
to travel around the troubled countries of Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam.
(Later in 1978, Vietnam would invade Cambodia and China would invade
Vietnam.)
Another
advantage was that Singapore is a southeastern extreme of Asia. Even
though it is a good deal west of the east coasts of China and Vietnam,
the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula is still very far south. It
would almost be the same distance if, for example, he was somehow able
to have left from Hong Kong. This makes it a legitimate conceptual
starting point for traversing the continent. He also certainly took
enough detours along the way that no one can quibble about the distance
he traveled.
It’s
surprising to read John’s comment on the remarkable quality of the
paved roads in--of all places--Afghanistan. In the 1970s, in spite of
many profound difficulties, the country showed promising signs of
post-colonial development. All of this would be wiped away as
Afghanistan became a pawn in the Cold War machinations between the U.S.
and U.S.S.R. The Russians were already involved in Afghanistan and
full-scale invasion would begin in 1979. This was followed by the
CIA-backed Islamic-fundamentalist Mujaheddin insurgency. We all know how that ended up.
Moving
west, as he crossed the Iranian boarder, the revolution was underway.
In January 1979, not long after passing through, the Shah of Iran fled
the country. On November 4th the U.S. embassy hostage crisis began,
radicalizing the new Iranian government.
With
the developments in Afghanistan and Iran, the continued border closure
of Myanmar and the more-recent disruption in Iraq, the dream of a united
trans-Asian highway is farther away than ever.
Is
there a viable scooter route across Asia today? It might happen through
China or Russia but it is doubtful someone could do it alone and
unsupported. Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman did it on BMW
motorcycles, filmed in the documentary television series, The Long Way Round. However
they had back-up vans for much of the trip. Ironically they had
significant mechanical troubles where John, alone and unsupported, had
none. Here again is powerful testimony for why John placed such great
faith in his simple and reliable manually-geared Vespas.
Vespa Touring the Trans-Asian Highway
It
was a hot, humid, and overcast tropical day as I rolled out of
Singapore across the causeway into Malaysia. Once again I’m in the
saddle of a Vespa attempting to travel one of the great highway routes
of the world: the entire length of the Trans-Asian Highway from
Singapore to London. As I glanced back at the westernized oasis of
Singapore, I wondered if Asia and the Middle East would be the same
challenge as South America.
The
names alone are enough to set the spirit of adventure soaring. Names
like Kabul, Kathmandu, Kadakh and Lahore. Names imbued with the magic
and mystery of travel and adventure in strange and unknown lands that,
once heard, steal recurring into the mind, seducing one from the cold
conformity of 9-to-5 living in the West to a world that has not yet
turned plastic
My
machine this time was a 200cc Vespa Rally purchased used for $285.
Aside from installing a specially-designed unbreakable clutch cable
given to me by Gordon Myers, the genial scooter genius of the Viva Vespa
dealership of Redwood City, California, the machine received no special
attention. (Any Vespa enthusiast who has not yet encountered Gordon —
himself a life-long Vespa enthusiast — would be well advised to do so.
His specially-designed Vespa accessories are unmatched. Confirmed
motorcyclists should be wary — Gordon’s infectious enthusiasm is such
that you might find yourself riding home on a Vespa!)
My
first destination was Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia. Because of
an affinity for leisurely, low-paced travel, I took the coastal route
up the west coast of the Malay Peninsula. Palm, coconut, and mango trees
graced the shoreline, broken only by small thatch-hut fishing villages.
After several leisurely days of relaxing and sightseeing, I reached
Kuala Lumpur. A green and pleasant city surrounded by rubber estates,
coconut plantations, and tin and iron mines, Kuala Lumpur is
characterized by a chaotic mix of modern high-rise buildings set amid
its own dazzling and unique nineteenth century Victorian-Moorish
architecture.
Continuing
north toward Bangkok on the heavily-traveled central highway, I passed
through countryside consisting of rice paddies, jungles and plantations
of neatly laid out rubber trees. Travel was made more adventurous, if
not hazardous, by the large volume of truck traffic. Most drivers
wheeled their monstrous vehicles over the road like giant sports cars.
Seeing one of these massive rigs come barreling in front of me was
always a harrowing sight. Out of deference to my own hide, I had little
choice but to pull over to the side of the road.
As
I began to near the Thai border, I started to receive numerous warning
about guerrilla and bandit activity in the lawless border region of
southern Thailand. News reports of three buses stopped by highway
robbers within the past week did little to assuage my fears, and it was
with considerable apprehension and a full throttle that I crossed into
Thailand. No problems were encountered, however, though I was to find
out later that a major military operation was taking place at the time
only twenty miles from the road!
Journeying
up the slim waist of peninsular Southeast Asia, I passed through some
of the most handsome, rugged scenery in the region. Vertical outcrops of
white limestone jutting up from the plains and reaching heights of 700
feet gave me the impression of riding through a forest of giant
petrified stumps.
The
next several days were extremely good ones as the winding, narrow road
sliced its way through the jungle and over mountains. The skies were
clear, the road dry as I cruised along at 60 mph enjoying the feel of
the Vespa’s precision handling beneath me. I rounded bend after bend,
winding down and across fertile tropical valleys and then up again into
the jungle-covered mountains. Occasionally the road would hug the Indian
Ocean and I would catch glimpses of the sea.
A
pleasant diversion was provided by a stopover at the tiny island of
Phuket. Particularly enjoyable were the clean, golden sand beaches
fringed with tall coconut trees stretching for miles without a soul or
building in sight. To visit the town itself is to step back in time.
Life is simple and leisurely. Cars are rare. In the nightclub tunes of
the 1950s are still the current hits.
Gradually
the mountains gave way to the more populated plains of central
Thailand, and it is here that the allure of Asia becomes most apparent.
Passing through the countryside, one encounters monkeys scampering among
the trees, smiling and waving village children, saffron-robed Buddhist
monks, and an occasional elephant lugging teak logs. All of these belong
to the kaleidoscope of images that make up rural Thailand.
All
too soon I was in the brash and congested metropolis of Bangkok. The
harsh and naked reality of this chaotic city was impressed upon me
almost immediately as I struggled for six hours through the city’s
monumental traffic jams and twisting, unmarked streets to reach my
destination, the Hotel Malaysia, a mecca for western travelers in Asia.
Its overcrowding and congestion notwithstanding, Bangkok possesses some
of the finest temple and palace architecture in Asia, though the
mysterious and fantastical images these buildings conjure up is obscured
by the roar of traffic outside.
Preferring
the slower-paced and more oriental rural Thailand, I was soon heading
north toward the city of Chiang-Mai and the tribal regions of the
northwest. One after another the fascinating ancient cities of
Ayutthaya, Lop Buri and Sukhothai passed by, leaving unforgettable
memories of their centuries-old ruins, stunning architecture and rich
civilizations of the past.
Due
to a wrong turn on an unmarked road on the third day out of Bangkok, I
found myself hopelessly lost as the fast-setting tropical sun brought
darkness to the jungle. Upon reaching a small village, two youths on a
Yamaha directed me to the local Buddhist temple where I spent the night
under the flicker of candlelit Buddhas. Later the next morning, I
received a taste of Thai hospitality as a procession of villagers came
in bringing me food and chai. Soon it appeared that almost the whole
village had arrived. Despite the fact that no one knew more than a few
phrases of English, communication proved to be no problem as I talked
about my trip and myself in gestures and drawings over endless cups of
chai. It is situations like these that leave a memory of warmth and
friendliness that is likely to be unforgettable.
After
two days in the peaceful flower-and-temple-studded city of Chiang-Mai, I
headed into the mist-covered mountains near the Burmese border,
intending to visit the areas inhabited by the Mao, Karen and Lua tribes.
Desiring to see as much of this little-known region as possible within
the span of a few days, I chose a 200-mile circle route, most of which
turned out to be over roads of corrugated dirt. The hill tribes with
their distinct culture, traditions and dress constitute a world of their
own, one that seems to have changed little in thousands of years. Their
way of life is largely centered around slash and burn agriculture and
cultivation of the now-outlawed opium poppy.
Rain
caught up with me on the third day out, turning parts of the road into a
sea of mud. At one point the Vespa slipped off the road into a ditch.
To get it back on the road, I had to get it up a muddy slope without a
bit of tractive surface on it. Attempting to do so, I soon became
hopelessly mired. I tried to get out by walking alongside the Vespa and
guiding it under power. This tactic helped for a few feet until the
machine slithered in the ooze and went over. After much cursing,
grunting and sliding, I managed to get it upright and wondered what to
do next. The answer soon came in the form of several Mao youths who had
been watching me wallow in the mud, and between us we managed to get the
rig up to the road.
Since
Burma is closed to all land traffic for political reasons, my next leg
was to double back to Penang, Malaysia, to catch a ship to India. After
another week of touring Thailand’s northeastern provinces, I was once
again back in now-familiar southern Thailand. By now the rainy season
was well under way, and several miles outside of Khiri Khan I found
myself caught in a tropical deluge. I had covered about ten miles
through torrential rain when, coming upon a low-lying area of the road, I
found it completely under water for 300 feet. Getting off the Vespa to
reconnoiter the situation, I found the water to be about a foot and a
half deep, and decided that the only thing to do was to push the machine
through. During the course of the next 25 miles, I was forced to repeat
this procedure several times.
More
days of seemingly endless rain followed me until I finally reached the
delightful island of Penang, two miles off the Malay Peninsula.
Characterized by a medley of nationalities, one finds here Buddhist and
Hindu temples, mosques, Christian churches and Chinese clan houses
co-existing side by side. It was with a note of amusement that I noticed
on the wall of one of the small, open-front Chinese cafes I frequented a
sign cautioning customers in four languages not to spit on the floor.
An ominous feeling crept over me, however, as I read daily reports of
the death toll from a heat-wave then gripping India.
After
four days of uneventful ship travel, I’m in Madras, gateway to southern
India. Although the ship arrived at noon, it was nearly nightfall by
the time I finished clearing the Vespa through the countless
bureaucratic formalities required by customs. Later that evening I was
eating a piping-hot curry with rice served on a large banana leaf.
Having no silverware, I imitated the Indians and ate with my fingers.
Following
several days of exploring some of the fabulous temple architecture
around Madras, I left for my next destination, Calcutta, 1,500 miles
northeast.
My
apprehension about the heat wave proved well-founded as temperatures in
Madras daily exceeded 120 degrees. On my first day out, the wind became
so hot it was like invisible lava rushing across my face and chest as I
sped down a highway which melted into the distance. A respite of sorts
came late in the afternoon as I reached the city of Bangalore, located
on a 5,000-foot high plateau and favored by the Raj for its temperate
climate. The temperature in Bagalore that evening was 75, a drop of 45
degrees.
Swinging north, my next stop was Hyderabad, a city with a skyline of graceful spires and minarets.
From
here on the road through central India was pure agony. By now, down
again from the plateau, the temperature regularly soared between 120 and
130. I passed through the barren and dry countryside along a largely
one-lane, pot-holed road. To undergo heat of this intensity hour upon
hour was to experience a qualitatively different form of heat than I had
ever been accustomed to. To cope with it I was compelled to stop every
15 miles or so at village wells and irrigation ponds to soak my clothes
in water to keep my cool for a few miles — a procedure local villagers
invariably found amusing. Feeling continually dehydrated, my water
consumption often averaged six gallons a day or more. Seldom were cold
drinks of any kind available, and then only the nearly undrinkable
Indian substitute for the recently outlawed Coca-Cola. Nor was any
relief forthcoming at night as temperatures often hovered at 95. Often I
was forced to get up several times during the night to cool myself with
a cold shower. The virtues of the Vespa’s air-cooled engine became
apparent as I encountered a German BMW rider with a burned-out engine at
Nagpur.
North
of Jabalpur I entered the Ganges basin, the most heavily populated part
of India, and it seemed as if everyone was on the road at the same
time. Traffic alternated between a state of near paralysis and a
demolition derby. The narrow pavement was contested for by an endless
stream of trucks, buses, pedestrians, pony carts, bullock carts,
bicycles, trishaws, an occasional car and the ubiquitous wandering cows.
Worst of all were the dilapidated trucks and country buses customarily
driven at frightening speeds by drivers whose sole object appeared to
either intimidate or impress onlookers. At times these monstrous
vehicles, in order to pass a bullock cart or something else, would pull
out in front of me from the opposite direction, leaving me only seconds
to hit the dangerously rutted shoulder. At other times I would watch two
of these vehicles contest for the same space at the same time. When a
crash occurs, the driver, if he is still alive, usually flees the scene
before the police arrive. The fact that such accidents are a common
occurrence is given mute testimony by the numerous twisted wrecks that
grace India’s highways. To complicate matters further, roads and streets
are rarely marked, which often made passing through the larger towns
and cities similar to negotiating a giant maze. Under these conditions
any hope for a decent daily mileage was futile, and I had to be content
with the 200 miles or so I could roll up after ten hours in the saddle.
To
travel through rural India in this way is to experience India in its
many dimensions. The exotic and the unspeakable co-exist side by side
everywhere as one passes through a seemingly endless procession of
sun-baked mud villages and yellow and green fields. In every town and
village, crowds were always spilling into the streets, crowds through
which I would have to navigate my way, crowds that to the passing
westerner seem characterized by an apparent aimlessness and
uncoordinated chaos. At all times one feels a strange sense of
uneasiness. The spectre of hunger, of famine, of death is always present
and is combined with the deep-seated fatalism which pervades all of
India. Yet at the same time, there is a strong sense of life and
vitality. Women babbling with conversation huddle around pumps and wells
vigorously washing clothes. Stalls selling fruit and vegetables hug the
highways. Oxcarts and bicycles sway precariously under enormous loads
of grain. Families are up early in the morning cooking their breakfast
over cow-dung fires. And always there are the curious and friendly
crowds that gather whenever I stop. The little vignettes pile up one
upon another.
Arriving
in Calcutta, I was little prepared for what I found. Inured as one
becomes to poverty and squalor in India, I was still stunned by this
hell of degradation and misery. Everywhere there are beggars, the
crippled and grotesquely maimed, the limbless and lepers, and deformed
children — all these and more. The buildings are peeling and crumbling,
and the stench from the open drains is always present. Whole families in
tattered clothes dig in the rubbish for food. A legless old man pushes
himself along the road like a crab on a skateboard. The scenes defy
description.
Eager
to retreat from this setting, I lost little time in getting on the road
to the kingdom of Nepal, high in the Himalayas. My first stop was in
the Indian city of Darjeeling, located in the foothills of the Himalayas
and world famous for its teas. Darjeeling, with its steep zig-zagging
streets hugging precariously to the sides of the mountains, its healthy,
smiling people and fresh, clean mountain air, was a welcome relief from
Calcutta.
Several
days later I was making my way up the Thankot Pass in Nepal. Climbing
higher and higher, I rounded steep, well-banked curves in quick
succession as rugged peaks glistened in the background. It is moments
like these that create an absolutely rapturous feeling. By late
afternoon I was climbing down into the terraced Kathmandu Valley,
glowing gold and green in the evening sun. Smiling, friendly people
waved as I zipped along.
Kathmandu,
Patan, and Bhaktapur — all of which were once independent kingdoms —
are the three towns which make up the Kathmandu Valley. Kathmandu, the
capital, is the largest, but despite its recent growth is still largely a
market town abounding in farm scenes and sounds. Dominating everything
in Kathmandu are the pagoda-like temples and shrines, of which there are
said to be as many as people, In Durbar Square alone there are a dozen
of these structures, many towering over a hundred feet high, all rich
with elaborate wood carvings. The predominance of the structures make
Kathmandu a city unlike any other I have ever encountered.
The
streets surrounding Durbar Square are a panorama of Nepalese life.
Walking down the narrow lanes, one finds goats being led to the temple
for sacrifice, farmers in rough woolens, their sailor-like caps perched
jauntily on their heads, squatting and selling their foodstuffs, porters
hunched over with enormous loads on their backs, and barefoot children
darting in and out.
Nearby
is the famous “freak street,” which resembles a time-warp back to the
1960s. Since drugs are about as hard to get in Nepal as hamburgers at
McDonald’s, Kathmandu has become a haven for yesterday’s flower
children, some of them quite wilted.
A
more benign form of American influence is seen in the proliferation of
pie shops scattered throughout the city and which arose out of a taste
for American pie acquired from Peace Corps volunteers stationed in
Nepal. Shops with names such as New Style Pie shop, Upper Crust Pie
Shop, Hungry Eye, and Chi and Pie abound. The pies, which have a
distinct Nepalese taste in spite of their American origins, are among
the best I’ve tasted anywhere.
From
Kathmandu I continued along Nepal’s hair-raising mountain roads to
Pokhara, a Shangri-la valley of lakes and meadows dominated by the
spectacular peaks of Annapurna and Machapuchare. Although I was in Nepal
for only two short weeks, the days seemed timeless, passing like a
vivid dream, lost in the peace and serenity of the setting and in the
warmth and hospitality of the people. This alone was enough to
obliterate all the difficulties of the trip through India.
All
dreams come to an end, however, and soon I was once again engaged in a
constant daily battle with the heat and road conditions of India.
Continuing west on the Grand Trunk Road, India's Route 66, my next
destination was New Delhi, with a short stopover at Agra to visit the
fabled Taj Mahal. While in New Delhi, a new and unexpected problem
suddenly intruded itself. Several weeks earlier, Afghanistan had
experienced a bloody military coup. Upon arrival at the embassy of
Afghanistan to obtain a visa, I was informed that the borders were
closed due to the heavy fighting still going on inside the country.
Since my only other option was an alternative route through southern
Pakistan on a road that was little more than truck tracks over open
desert where 130-degree temperatures were common, I decided my best
course was to head for the border of Afghanistan and try my luck again
there.
But
first, still under the spell of the Himalayas, I decided to make a
detour through the Indian province of Kashmir and the mysterious and
little-known region of Ladakh. Two days later I was on a narrow,
twisting road heading back into the Himalayas. After crossing the
9,000-foot high Banihal Pass, I began to descend into the Kashmir
Valley, but first I had to pass through a mile-and-a-half long tunnel.
Totally dark with water dripping everywhere, this in itself was an
extremely harrowing experience.
After
several days of exploring Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, and the
surrounding valley, I continued on to Leh, the main city of Ladakh.
Forbidden to western travelers until only a few years ago, Ladakh is
considered more Tibetan than Tibet. As I proceeded onwards, the road
began to become as rugged as the mountains and bad beyond description.
This was not surprising, since it was only built fifteen years ago and
is closed nine months of the year because of heavy snow. At first, it
felt as if I had come upon a river bed, but this was only a prelude of
things to come. From this point on there was to be no casual riding.
Every mile required intense concentration. I was forced to shift from
gear to gear to keep moving over the jolting surface, weaving around
chuckholes and from one side of the road to the other to take advantage
of the best possible surface to ride on. The grinding over loose
stretches of rock turned the trip into an endurance contest.
Particularly harrowing were the many steeply banked and sharp-angled
curves, each heavily covered with loose rock to give the best traction. I
had to creep around each one, crawling through whatever rock-free
section I could find. Occasionally, I had to dodge caravans of
slow-moving dzos, animals half yak, half cow.
Crossing
the Rohtang Pass, I reached an altitude of 16,000 feet. Gradually the
rugged, spectacular beauty of the mountains gave way to a barren,
moon-like landscape reminiscent of the Bolivian and Peruvian altiplano
of my earlier travels.
After
three days of this punishment, I reached Leh, a city set in a narrow
valley at eleven thousand feet. Dominating everything was a gigantic
nine-story former royal palace built on a mountain side overlooking the
city. Although a small city, Leh holds considerable fascination due to
colorful and captivating Tibetan culture. Particularly intriguing were
the monasteries, centers of the mysterious and exotic Tibetan Buddhism.
Aside from the omnipresence of the Indian military, one is inclined to
feel he is in the fifteenth rather than the twentieth century.
The
trip back was as excruciating as the trip up, but within a few days I
was crossing the border into Pakistan. Finding little to deter me in
eastern Pakistan, I headed directly to Peshawar and the legendary
Northwest Frontier province.
Peshawar
turned out to be a true frontier city. Men strutted along brimming with
confidence, wearing bullet-studded bandoliers across their chests or
pistols at their sides. This is the land of the pathans, and Peshawar is
the great Pathan center, surrounded by a vast tribal society almost
entirely outside the control of the government. Peshawar is a pulsating
beehive of activity. Craftsmen's hammers mingle with the sound of
horses' hooves while human voices shout to make themselves heard above
the whine of the hundreds of elaborately decorated three-wheeled Vespa
taxis which tear about the city from street to street like clockwork
mice scurrying for their holes as if a giant cat were pursuing them.
A
touch of adventure was provided by a trip to the nearby village of Dara
Khel. In this lively, one-lane village exempt from gun control laws,
more than one hundred shops manufacture or sell firearms. All of the
guns are handmade and are exact copies of well-known foreign brands.
Since there is no electricity, all lathes, drills, etc., are hand driven
using cranks and pulleys. The factories, which are really large rooms
in houses, are poorly lit and crowded with men working individually with
a master gunsmith overseeing. Periodically shots ring out as weapons
are tested by prospective customers. The weapons available range from
machine guns on down. For James Bond fans there are lethal novelties
such as shotguns disguised as canes and 25-caliber ballpoint pens.
On
the north side of the village is a small building where a well-known
black hashish is produced. Great skins full of the plants were stacked
up in a corner. Two men were working a large plunger-type instrument to
compress the marijuana into a mold. In another room bricks of hashish,
the finished product, were drying in rows. I stayed only a short time in
the village as I felt rather uncomfortable among the fierce-looking
Pathans, every one of whom was sporting a rifle and bandolier.
Attempting
to get a visa for Afghanistan at the local consulate, I was again
turned down. Numerous other western travelers were also stranded here
with the same problem, and it was decided to try and tackle the problem
together. Consequently, each morning a large, angry crowd would gather
outside the consulate and send a delegation in to argue with the
officials. After several days of this pressure, the consulate relented
and began granting six-day transit visas. Within a few hours I was
threading my way up the legendary Khyber Pass.
Long
an avenue of conquest and battle ground, the Khyber Pass lives up to
its well-deserved reputation, and there is a feeling of adventure which
affects all who travel through it. Bandits still inhabit the hills and
the pass is closed after dark. The bare and bleak hills bristle with
reminders of violence. Forts are perched strategically atop nearly every
major mountain, and practically every home resembles a fortified
stronghold enclosed by ten-foot high walls tipped with broken glass.
The
crossing of the pass only took a few hours and soon I was in
Afghanistan, a land of mystery and deep contrasts, half medieval, half
Wild West. Finding the border offices closed for the long lunch break, I
went to sit in the shade of one of the marvelously decorated trucks
Afghanistan is so famous for. An Ancient hook-nosed gentleman whose
beard made Karl Marx's look like a five o-clock shadow joined me and
even went so far as to de-turbanize his head and offer the cloth to me
to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
Once
through customs, I was making my way west toward Kabul on Afghanistan's
well-paved highway system. After the roads of India, this was sheer
bliss. It felt as if I were flying as the Vespa purred effortlessly at
65-70 mph.
Shortly
before nightfall I reached Kabul, located at the intersection of two
valleys and surrounded by the Hindu Kush mountains. Unlike India, there
were few people in the streets, which was a welcome contrast. Damage
from the fighting during the coup was still visible in many parts of the
city.
Having
only a six-day transit visa, I could afford to spend only a day in
Kabul. A day later I was driving across a barren desert landscape in
which the only variation lay in the different shades of beige and brown.
The road wriggled ahead like a black snake, disappearing into a shimmer
of unreality where sky and land fuse together with shadowy uncertainty.
Suddenly a patch of greenness signifying an oasis would appear in the
harsh, barren landscape, and I would pass through small villages
consisting of mud-brick buildings clustered together. The only splash of
color to be seen came from the exquisitely patterned mosaic work on the
cupolas of small mosques.
Spending
the night in Kandahar, I encountered Marco Antonio Navas, a Colombian
on a Vespa odyssey of his own, headed in the opposite direction.
Starting his journey in South America, Marco had thus far covered 80,000
miles in North and South America, Europe, Africa and Asia, with much
more to go. By now it should be clear to most motorcyclists, we
Vespaists are not “sissies,” but very often are highly dedicated and
experienced touring enthusiasts. For many of us, the special qualities
so unique to a Vespa are the reason for a life-long attachment to these
machines.
Continuing
westward through the desert and mountainous countryside, I was easily
able to manage 450 miles a day. Only a blinding, choking dust storm
that lasted several hours slowed me down. Occasionally I would pass an
encampment of black tent nomads.
Several days and another twist of the Asian kaleidoscope later, and I’m in Iran.
Here
again, political problems intruded, as Iran was gripped with rioting
against the Shah’s monarchy. Out of fear of getting caught in it, I
decided to head through the country as quickly as possible. After
spending the night in the pilgrim center of Mashhad, a city held by some
Shiite Moslems to be holier than Mecca, I was heading through green
countryside alongside the subtropical Caspian Sea. At Amol I turned
south for the long climb through the Elburz mountains to Tehran.
The
heavy-handed nature of the Shah’s rule became apparent in mid-afternoon
when I was stopped at a police checkpoint and was informed that
motorcycles were not allowed on this particular road on Friday, the
Muslim holy day. When asked why, the officer replied, “The Shah doesn’t
like motorcycles.” Within a few hours nearly a dozen Iranian
motorcyclists had been detained. Perhaps fortified by numbers, the
Iranians began a fierce argument with the police which continued for
over an hour, at which point we were allowed back on the road. As a
consequence, it was nearly midnight when I navigated Tehran’s narrow
lanes searching for a hotel, a search that was to last several hours.
It
is in Tehran that one sees most vividly the great contrasts of wealth
and extreme poverty in oil-rich Iran. A constant stream of
Mercedes-Benzes and oxcarts contend for space in the city’s congested
streets. Occasionally one sees flocks of sheep being tended along the
sidewalks. Modern high-rises crowd out the ancient bazaar.
Leaving
the smog, fumes and noise of Tehran behind me, I was again driving
across a desert landscape. Several days later a glimpse of Mount Ararat,
signifying the Turkish border, was visible in the distance. Considered
the legendary landing site of Noah’s Ark, Mount Ararat is the outpost of
a mountainous landscape that continues for a thousand miles until
Istanbul.
Home
of cultures and civilization spanning eight thousand years and pathway
of repeated conquests, Turkey is a splendid but harsh land where travel
can be rough. Particularly annoying was the system of highway
maintenance where it is common practice to tear up the road for ten or
twenty-mile stretches, leaving a tire-slashing, back-breaking punishment
of jagged stones and choking dust.
Another difficulty was the frequent problem of obtaining even basic services. There is an expressive Turkish word, yok, meaning “there isn’t any” which one hears again and again. Yok hot water in your hotel room, yok two-stroke oil, yok whatever it is you may be wanting in a shop or restaurant.
After
four days on Turkey’s poor mountain roads, I was crossing the new
suspension bridge spanning the Bosporus from Asia to Europe into
Istanbul. The view of Istanbul from the bridge is unforgettable: With
its domed and minareted skyline, its great palaces and mosques, its
vague air of mystery and decadent splendor, it is not surprising that
Istanbul has served as a backdrop for so many spy stories and mystery
novels.
I
took a several-day pause in Istanbul, and then pushed on into Greece.
Returning to Europe with its familiar food, merchandise and lifestyle,
one loses the “expeditionary” feeling that characterizes a journey of
this type.
From
here on it was an easy trip over roads I had traveled on in the past.
As I wheeled into London a week later, a glance at the odometer showed
that I had covered over 20,000 miles, bringing to a close another of the
most fascinating and intense chapters of my life.
Throughout
the entire seven-month adventure, the Vespa survived jungles, intense
heat, monsoon rains and endless miles of punishing roads, all without
even the slightest mechanical problem, once again testifying to the
rugged qualities of these incredible wunder vehicles which, sadly enough, most motorcyclists and non-motorcyclists alike still regard as mere toys.
