Sudden change

I’m not exactly feeling in a high mood. It probably depends on the weather. The beautiful late summer days have suddenly disappeared without a trace. The market square in Hainburg is damp, cold and dreary between the houses. “At least the rain has stopped,” I grumble, grabbing my trailer, which we had dragged into the room when we arrived.

The simple and loveless breakfast with the soggy bread rolls, the sour coffee and the undercooked eggs doesn’t help to make me smile either. “At least the room is cheap,” says Tanja. “Yes, and at least the Pole who runs the whole place is nice,” I say to say something positive. “It’s hard to believe he’s a chef, barman, cashier and receptionist at the same time.” “That’s true, but he’d better stop cooking. When I think about the fish fillet, I still feel sick,” I reply, rubbing my stomach. “How far do we actually have to go today?” Tanja changes the subject. “I have no idea what the situation is with overnight accommodation in Slovakia. There are hardly any campsites on the map. We’ll see,” I reply. While Tanja fetches the remaining saddlebags from our room, I get the bikes ready and order the bill. “What? Why 100 euros? You were talking about 25 euros for the double room?” I ask, shocked, looking at the startling figure on the white piece of paper. “I’m sorry. I should have told them 25 euros per person,” replies the all-round man. Gritting my teeth, I put the 100 euros on the counter. The two days here in Hainburg were much more expensive than our budget would allow. Of course, as soon as we are accommodated in a room, we can no longer cook and have to go out to eat. Since the days of the euro, this has often been a costly affair. We can only hope that the upcoming countries will not tear further holes in our expedition budget.

We leave Hainburg behind us and pedal into a completely unknown country for the first time on this trip. Even from a distance, we can see the capital of Slovakia nestling close to the Danube. Until the founding of the Czechoslovak Republic, the city was called Bratislava. In 1919 it was renamed after the Slavic ruler Breslav and has been called Bratislava ever since.

A military vehicle is parked in front of the border buildings. Soldiers observe the other bank of the Danube with binoculars. As always at border crossings, such images convey an unpleasant mood. Without stopping, however, we roll past the Austrian border. The Slovakian customs officials only take a quick look at our passports and before we know it we are on our way to the impressive-looking city. We reach the metropolis via a 431-meter-long suspension bridge. Today is the coldest day since we set off about 9 weeks ago. “I have to put on long trousers,” says Tanja, leaning her bike against a concrete wall. The people here are already dressed for winter. Everyone wears jackets, coats, anoraks and long pants. Disoriented, we push our bikes through a dense sea of houses. “I have no idea where the old town is,” I say, a little unsettled. A red tourist streetcar bumps along the rough cobblestones towards us, with a handful of English-speaking tourists sitting in it and being told something about the city. “We’ll just follow in their footsteps. These things only drive around where there’s something to see,” I say happily. After a short time we find an ATM. Since today is Sunday, I’ll try my luck to ask him for some money. I put my credit card in the slot and it doesn’t take long for it to spit it out again. “Just watch out. After the third time, he’ll eat it,” Tanja warns me. Concentrating, I enter my PIN again and this time press the right button. As I don’t know how the Slovak koruna stands to the euro, I only change a small amount. Then we cycle on. A passer-by speaks to us in good German and points us in the direction of the old town. “Where are you from?” a gentleman asks us, also in perfect German. We tell our story and he introduces himself as a restorer who has lived in Berlin for 40 years. “I’ve bought a 300 square meter apartment here. If it was furnished, you could spend the night there,” he offers. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to accompany you for a while,” he then suggests and tells us about his city: “This is the famous Michaelertor. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart once played music in this building as a young man. The Slovakian National Council meets up there in the castle and I did my doctorate here at the university. Do you know why the horns are curved like that? It comes from the Turks. It’s nothing other than the Turkish crescent,” he explains without interruption. We are impressed by his knowledge and say goodbye to him an hour and a half later. On the way to the Danube, we stop at a small café for a cappuccino before continuing our journey. “Please lock your bikes,” the young owner warns us. As soon as we take a seat on one of the chairs, our guide comes in. “May I sit down?” he asks politely. “Of course,” I reply and learn even more about Bratislava and its eventful past.

We then make very good progress on the perfectly constructed dam. To our left, the Danube continues to widen into a mighty reservoir that was completed despite fierce protests. The Stalin-era barrage project means the destruction of the floodplain landscape and the sensitive ecosystem between Dunakiliti in Hungary and Polkovicovo in Slovakia. “It’s unbelievable what people can create and destroy at the same time,” I shout to Tanja, who is cycling behind me. Amazed by the mega-project consisting of three dams, we push on with our bikes. Many Bratislava residents use the path to walk their dogs, ride their bikes or, above all, skate on the skateboards this Sunday. Every few kilometers there are shady spots for the hot days. Some of the stalls are already closed, but many of them still serve drinks and a few dishes. About 15 kilometers outside the city, the leisure activities suddenly stop. We cross one of the three barrages and look out over the artificial sea. A strong wind blows across the large expanse of water towards us. Lonely, we fight our way forward kilometer by kilometer. A road runs below the dam. “Let’s go down there. It’s more sheltered from the wind there!” I shout, fighting against the wind.

We are exhausted after an eventful and long day. Nevertheless, we have to keep going. The first overnight accommodation is in Gabcikovo. For the first time, we are forced to switch on the lights on our vehicles. Again and again, cars and trucks roar past us. The drivers are surprisingly considerate and keep enough distance. Tanja suffers from shoulder pain. In the morning, both her hands fell asleep so much that she hardly felt any sensation in them. “I don’t have the strength to hold the spoon anymore,” she had said, startling me as we sat in the coffee. Now her knees start to rebel. My hands have been constantly falling asleep since the start of our trip and my right wrist seems to be inflamed. Every few kilometers I try to loosen my wrists and shake my hands back and forth. When the blood flows through again, thank God the numbness disappears. My back is getting worse and worse. I don’t know if it’s because of all the luggage or the unusual position on the bike. Despite our cautious approach to cycling, more and more difficulties arise that we had not anticipated in this form. For example, although the saddles are very good and we haven’t ridden a wolf so far, the end of my coccyx feels like it’s been beaten blue. Sometimes I can hardly sit on it. Now, as we cycle along an eternally straight road at around 20 kilometers per hour, an endless number of thoughts cross my mind. There is not the slightest guarantee that we will achieve our ambitious goal. It could be over any hour. The most important thing is our health and we can only hope that our physical challenges, which are now becoming more and more apparent, do not get worse.

With our last reserves of strength, we pedal our bikes up the steep ascent of the dam. Although I got used to the biting pain in my thighs a long time ago and it has undoubtedly gotten better, I still have to grit my teeth on such climbs. It begins to dawn. A cold wind blows through our bones at the top of the dam. Children stand in small groups at the steel railing and look into the water. A few soldiers stroll along the sidewalk. Cars rattle past us. Many of them belong to the Skoda brand. Although Slovakia belongs to the European Union, we feel the past of the Eastern Bloc here. Panting and with burning lungs, we pedal our steel horses over the gigantic power station. The waves of the lake throw themselves against the 18-meter-high barrage. The sluices are opened twice a day to generate peak energy. The Danube, which has been dammed for 17 kilometers, then flows into the eight turbines of the storage power plant. In order to implement this enormous project, 150 million cubic meters of earth and 4,600 hectares of alluvial forest and meadows had to be cleared.

We greet the serious-looking security guards and speed back down the road on the other side of the power station. The last rays of sunshine are just peeking through a few thick clouds. The trailer bumps over the grooves in the road. Partially dilapidated industrial plants yawn at us. On a sign we discover “Room available” in three languages. “No, I don’t have a room,” says the friendly young woman and sends us to another guesthouse. The houses we drive past are almost all new. The area does not look poor. The acrid smell of coal suddenly impregnates the cold evening air. Some of the people are obviously already heating at this time of year. I park my bike in front of the guesthouse. The unfriendly woman shows me to a room. “Euro 11, no breakfast included,” she says somewhat grumpily in broken German. Shocked by the price-performance ratio, we push our bikes to the other side of the road. A hotel invites you to stay overnight. In the nearby restaurant, you try to reach the owner by cell phone. “Have a coffee. Wait inside,” says the very friendly waiter. 10 minutes later, we push our luggage back across the street on wheels and move into the small room on the second floor. With great effort, we drag the trailer, which weighs almost 60 kilograms, up the mountain. The Irtronix and the satellite phone and the other equipment inside are too valuable to be left in an unlocked yard. “Wheels in the garage later,” the woman now says in a slightly friendlier tone. As soon as our things are in the room, we leave it and head to the restaurant across the street. The food tastes delicious. With every bite, the efforts of the day are forgotten. We talk about our first impressions of this new country, about the atmosphere and the people, some of whom speak Hungarian or Slavic. We walk back to our accommodation with full bellies. The bikes are now in the garage as promised. Since there are elections today, I connect the small TV, pull the antenna cable across the room and plug it into the antenna socket. Although we hardly ever watch television as a rule, we are now sitting in front of it with excitement. We are shocked by the disoriented result. “The people have more or less elected all the parties. Now it depends on whether the politicians are really capable of wanting to do something for us or whether their lust for power is confirmed and they are only thinking of themselves. I hope they find a solution that makes sense for the people,” I say and switch off the box.

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