Written by and Photos by Jeffrey Polnaja. Posted in Rides
It was my son who planted the seed for doing something that would help overcome the horrors of 9/11. “You should ride your motorcycle around the world for peace, Dad!” he said.
From the mouth of a ten-year-old came the realization that change in the world had to begin with me. The weeks that followed were committed to turning his dream into reality. It would take intensive planning and training to get this solo feat underway. But whenever I shared this bold plan with others it was met with the same word, “Impossible.” No one from my homeland of Indonesia had ever attempted a ride like this.
Then, in an instant, the dream came to a screeching halt. A car slammed into my bike, crushing and trapping me beneath it—I was so bashed up they almost left me for dead. I awoke in the hospital to hear the doctor’s five devastating words that still ring in my ears today, “You will never walk again.”
Canyonlands, the land of adventure and beauty.
Physical and mental obstacles only fueled my fire. Nothing was going to steal my spirit for life. From deep within, I willed my body to heal. Slowly it began to respond, as bit by bit I struggled to overcome the crippling physical prison. And, within seven months, a miraculous healing took place, whereupon I had the joyous satisfaction of riding my dream bike, a BMW R1150GS Adventure (christened: “Maesa Adventure”), to the doctor’s office.
“Remember me?” I asked with a smile full of hope and determination. The doctor’s jaw hit the floor as he shook my hand in disbelief. And with his seal of approval on this extraordinary recovery, the Ride for Peace was a go.
It took many more months of preparation to line up the needed support, equipment, bike mods, sponsors, and visas. With this investment of time and a deep sense of purpose, those around me began to understand what this whole journey was about. And, judging by the number of people and the media who attended the grand send-off, it was clear they were behind the Ride for Peace, after all. Finally, on April 23, 2006, I set out on the long journey from Jakarta, Indonesia.
There were plenty of challenges along the long road of the first leg. I passed through countries in conflict, the scorching hot Sahara Desert, and even encountered unexpected “friends,” like the black bear I met while wild camping in the extreme cold of Nordkapp, Norway. But the worst was another accident, a hit-and-run in the middle of nowhere in Pakistan’s Kharan Desert. There, I was left with a fractured arm, a badly mangled bike, and a broken GPS.
The Riders in Petra, Jordan (Camel Rider, Donkey Riders and Adventure Rider).
Stranded and weak from heat, thirst, and pain, I was in big trouble. But, my son’s dream kept me going. Bodgering the hopelessly damaged bike together, I somehow got it running again. Nurturing a deformed arm, I limped on but without GPS the situation was desperate.
Eventually, I spotted power lines in the distance leading to a small village where I was able to obtain help. I’ll forever be grateful for the selfless generosity and kindness of the people who took me in, nursed me back to health, and made it possible to get back on the road again.
In Afghanistan my faith in humanity was tested once again when, within a bomb-torn town, I witnessed a man being shot to death. Shortly afterwards I was robbed but thankfully they couldn’t lift my bike to steal it, too. Yet no matter how relentless the obstacles, I never lost the sense of purpose behind the ride, knowing there’d be light in the end.
It was at this point in my journey I took time off for self-reflection. Returning home to Indonesia, I poured my journey of the soul into a book. It was so rewarding to discover that when Wind Rider was published it was immediately accepted not only by fellow travelers, but also the general public and local schools, as well. The life lessons that had taught me well on the road were now being passed along to the next generation.
A few months later in Amsterdam, I woke up one morning only to realize that Maesa Adventure, my partner and best friend, was gone. We’d been through so much together. After the initial pain of the loss, I resolved that they could steal my bike, but not my son’s dream. So, I went out and bought the same model, but a couple of years older. My new pal, Silver Line, launched us courageously onto the next leg of the journey.
Silver Line and his friend in Jordan.
We were a new team on an old mission. This segment took us from Paris across the great expanse of Russia and Siberia to Kazakhstan, then from Mongolia back through Russia to Japan before making our way to the U.S.
I’ve been in constant awe over the overwhelming friendliness, inner beauty and loving nature of most people I meet along the way. Everywhere, the humble message of peace seems to arrive ahead of me. And, more often than not, the media is waiting to capture words from its messenger. It was becoming a wave with its own momentum.
Through all the trials and tribulations I’ve come to realize that the more difficult experiences could easily have colored or distorted my point of view. Subsequently, there have been times when I’ve had to reach deep to find peace. One has to find comfort within uncomfortable zones, and by doing so it seems we can get through almost anything.
Spreading the spirit of adventure, brotherhood and peace. (Dhaka, Bangladesh)
In reality, though, the nastier aspects of life are rare and I’ve found far more beauty in people everywhere, time and time again. In Deadhorse, Alaska, I found myself in need of food. Those who have been there know it’s the end of the line at Prudhoe Bay within the Arctic Circle. A lonely and expansive place with nothing but mud and stark industrial buildings, even commercial signage is rare.
I asked a motorist where I could find the nearest store. He indicated I should follow him and, after pulling into a store’s parking lot, asked what I needed. A short time later he emerged with a large grocery bag filled with dinner items along with extra fruit and a few goodies. With a smile and a handshake, he refused payment.
In Red Square Moscow, background are Kremlin (left) and St. Basil (right).
The journey also had its fun, not to mention its share of humor. One moment that particularly stands out occurred while staying with the First Nation in a hamlet called Lil’wat on the west coast of Canada. Ned John, a Native American, took it upon himself to teach me how to ride a horse. Within five minutes of instruction I was joining the best of them, chasing wild ponies around the meadow, whooping Indian-style just like in the movies.
Puzzled by this, Ned told me it usually took a minimum of five months to learn how to ride. After leading him on for a bit longer, I revealed that I was actually a horseman my own country. It was a silly practical joke that had us laughing for hours and made us feel like brothers.
Out of the goodness of people’s hearts, everywhere, these acts of brotherhood and kindness are often paid forward. They affect me to the core in many ways I find difficult to describe. What I do know is how much I look forward to passing similar kindnesses along to others. When these acts multiply and momentum of kindness is gained, a movement of peace is formed. And, there will come a day when we can’t live without it.
Since the beginning of the Ride for Peace I’ve noticed that no matter the changes in skin and hair color, eye or face shape, religion or culture, our seeming differences and so-called boundaries are beginning to blur.
April 23rd, 2006 the day I started my journey from Jakarta, Indonesia. Almost 1,000 riders joined this “Bon Voyage Ride.”
And, no matter where I go, or who I meet along the way, I know I’ll eventually return home to share with my son how he started a huge wave of peace across the world.
Since leaving Indonesia, Jeffrey Polnaja has so far journeyed over 70,000 kilometers. He’s currently riding Central America from where he’ll continue on through South America and Australia. Jeffrey expects to return to home in Jakarta sometime in 2015. RideForPeace.net
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