Fall with unexpected consequences

Events of 25.06.2006

“It’s time,” I hear my own, still sleepy voice as our wristwatches begin to beep unpleasantly at 4am. “I don’t know if I feel like sitting on the trestle every morning again,” whispers Tanja, throwing her body up as she often does to turn onto her side. “Come on. It’s good to finally be on tour again,” I say conciliatory. “But not at this time of night,” I hear it say softly. It’s not long before Tanja suddenly jumps out of bed and sprints to the bathroom to occupy it. Once again, she surprised me and won the morning race. Resigned, I lie there for a while and think about leaving soon.

An hour later we had dragged all our equipment to the bikes. We attach our Ortlieb saddlebags, the handlebar bag, click in the speedometer, the GPS, load the pannier over the rear saddlebags and couple our new and revised used trailers to the rear wheel axle of our delite black. It takes longer than expected to get our road trains ready to go. A hotel employee stands next to the bikes and watches us curiously. His incessant yawning is infectious, because I suddenly feel very tired and would love to snuggle back into the comfortable hotel bed. Some drunken young Romanians leave the nearby discotheque, bawling loudly. At this time of day, they have little interest in two cyclists trying to pack the huge mountain of equipment onto two bikes. It’s six o’clock when a few rays of sunlight flash curiously through the cracks of houses and breathe life into the young day. “Are you ready?” I ask. “Let’s go,” says Tanja, swinging onto the saddle. We wave to the hotel employee and leave the Orchideea behind us in a good mood. It’s hard to believe that the wheels are finally turning beneath us again. “Russia here we come!” I shout with a laugh. We follow the sidewalk for the first few meters. The streets are deserted. We glide slowly along the footpath. We haven’t gotten used to the weight yet. After about 300 meters, the end of the sidewalk forces us onto the road. I carefully juggle my Roadtrain off the kerb. It’s a balancing act that I can only manage with violent steering movements. I should get off, I think, as the drawbar of the trailer touches the rear tire of my bike due to an excessive steering movement. In a fraction of a second, the road train stops and tilts to one side. My right foot quickly catapults to the right to prevent the inevitable fall. He hits the asphalt with his knee joint extended. The force of the impact is so strong that I feel a sharp pain in my back. I stand hunched over the bike, breathing heavily. “What’s wrong?” asks Tanja anxiously, coming to a halt directly behind me. “I think I hurt myself.” “How? What?” “Well, when I was driving down that stupid kerb. What else?” I say irritably. “Where does it hurt?” “My back. I think something cracked in my back,” I reply through clenched teeth. “I’ll be fine. I just need a few moments,” I say confidently shortly afterwards as the pain subsides a little. Five minutes later, we continue our journey. A few kilometers further on, all I feel is a strange numbness in my back.

“Always stick to the water channel. It’s the easiest way out of Bucharest,” advised Mundar, the restaurant owner at our hotel. Following his advice, the water vein to our left accompanies us. The morning air is pleasant. We notice a few early joggers in a park. Dog owners use the golden hour for a walk. A newspaper shop owner rolls up the iron curtains of his store. We stop at a red light. There is only one cab next to us. When the driver notices us, his tired eyes seem to well up. The sight of us must be comparable to beings from outer space, because when the traffic light turns green, he forgets to drive off and takes off after us. We pass the palace of Chauchesko’s wife, illuminated by the gentle morning sun. We cross the center of Bucharest just as it is about to wake up. It is a dream to experience the contemplative awakening of a big city from the saddle of a bicycle. Our hearts pump blood through our veins. The muscles work like clockwork and the body is happy about the sensible and pleasant movement. The only downer; my back. I try to ignore the dull pain, just think about our journey and enjoy the moment. It will stop again, I think confidently.

Cycling on the highway?

The rows of houses are thinning out. The narrow arterial road is lined with garbage. The water channel still accompanies us. Anglers stand on its banks. They don’t seem to mind the stench. Do they think about the fact that their prey could be contaminated? “Another 2 kilometers or so. Then there’s a crossroads. You have to take it if you want to go towards Constanta,” we think we understand the man we have just asked for directions. After 5 kilometers we reach the described crossroads. We read Constanta on a highway sign. “We can’t ride our bikes on the highway,” says Tanja. “Don’t think so. Let’s ask the policemen up ahead,” I reply. We stop next to the officers regulating the morning traffic. “Are we allowed to ride our bikes on the highway?” I ask. The man in uniform takes a good look at our loaded bikes. “They can,” he says with conviction, while his colleague shakes his head vigorously. “What’s wrong with you? These are European-standard bikes,” he replies to his colleague’s negative gesture and waves us on in a friendly manner. “I still can’t imagine being allowed to drive on the highway,” I ponder. Nevertheless, we cycle up the highway ramp to look at a large sign nearby. Of course, the symbols for horse-drawn vehicles, pedestrians, track gates and bicycles are crossed out. Shaking our heads, we leave the driveway and cycle on. After a detour of 5 kilometers we meet the main road that also leads to the coast of the Black Sea.

At 8:30 am we already have 30 km behind us. The plan to avoid city traffic, which is dangerous for cyclists, has been a complete success. “Let’s have breakfast at the little grocer’s store,” I suggest as we cycle through a street village. We buy a coffee, fresh white bread, a few pickles, a can of fish, yogurt, two bananas and sit down on the plastic chairs in front of the store. “You wouldn’t believe how hungry a few kilometers can make you,” I say cheerfully. “How’s your back?” “Not too bad. I think it’ll be fine,” I reply confidently.

An angel in human form?

We reach the village of Fundilea around midday after about 45 km. Because we don’t want to overdo it on the first day and my back pain is now very unpleasant, we look for somewhere to stay overnight. “There’s no hotel or guesthouse here. You’ll have to go about 30 km further to Lehliu-Gara,” explains the friendly owner of a small grocery store. “Can you still make it?” asks Tanja. “I have to,” I reply, feeling a tiredness I’ve never experienced before. I study the road map in the shade of a tree. “Maybe we can pitch our tent somewhere here,” I muse. A large jeep pulls up next to us. The electric window facing us slowly rolls down. The driver leans out and asks in good English: “Where are you going?” “We are on our way to Burma,” I reply wearily. Apparently he wasn’t expecting this answer, because he seems to wince. “Where to?” “Via Moldova, Ukraine, Russia, Mongolia and China to Burma,” Tanja explains. “Ha, ha, ha. That can’t be true! I’ve never experienced anything like it. To Burma? You must be crazy. And with those crazy Romanians driving as if they were constantly on the run. It’s a miracle you’re still alive. I would never do something like that. Are you serious?” “Sure,” we reply. Can I help you in any way?” “We’re looking for a hotel. Is there somewhere around here where we can stay overnight?” I want to know. “There should be something similar to a hotel in Lehliu-Gara.” The man leaves his car and we notice two teenagers and a child behind the tinted windows. He extends his hand to us in a friendly manner and introduces himself. “My name is Huib. I’m Dutch and have been living in Romania for 10 years. If you like, I’d like to invite you to spend the night with me.” “That’s very nice of you,” I say, whereupon Tanja and I look at each other questioningly. “Where is your home?” I ask. “Not far at all, only about 10 kilometers from here.” When we hear that we have to turn back, we hesitate. “You can load your trailers into my jeep. I’ll be happy to do that. You can rest in my garden and have a cold beer,” the stranger’s voice entices us. Tanja and I look at each other questioningly again. I notice her hesitation, which I can understand. The laptop, satellite phone and other expensive technology are in the trailers. We can’t possibly give all our valuables to a complete stranger, she seems to think. My back feels strangely squishy. I don’t know what we should do. Somehow my thinking seems to be blocked. On the one hand, I would love to rest. On the other hand, I’m not sure whether we should load all our equipment into the strange car. What if he just runs off with it? Although, judging by his appearance, we can trust him. His eyes also seem honest to me. There’s also the bonus that he comes from Holland and is therefore a neighbor of ours. Even though Holland is a long way from our home town, the friendly man here in Romania really does seem like a friend. Huib notices our hesitation. “Please let us help you,” I hear his voice, which strangely and suddenly touches my emotions. “Listen to your feelings,” it says inside me. “The request to help you is no coincidence. Listen to me, your inner voice.” I wonder about the inner dialog. We don’t need any help. Or do we? Strange, I think. “Hm,” I say to Tanja after a few minutes and further study of the map. “I think we should go with you.” “But I’m not handing over my pendant,” she replies. “You can trust him with the pendant. I have a good feeling. We don’t need to worry,” I try to convince her. Meanwhile, Huib is talking to the children in his jeep. “So, how’s it looking? Can I invite you to my villa?” Huib asks again, coming back from his car. “I’m not feeling particularly well and I’m sure a rest will do us a lot of good,” I accept the invitation.

In no time at all, our trailers are unhitched, the wheels clicked off and stowed in the vehicle’s large load compartment. “In about one kilometer you will find a sign for Mariuta. Follow the road. If you get stuck, just ask for the Dutchman’s estate. They know me here,” he explains. We get back on the bikes and follow the jeep. We lose sight of him after just a few meters. We can only hope that we have not been taken in by a fraudster. Turn right at the signpost. “There he is!” I shout happily when I spot the jeep. Without a trailer, we literally fly over the road. The jeep drives slowly ahead, visibly trying to maintain its visual distance from us. Suddenly the asphalt stops. The ascent is so steep that we are forced to dismount even without a trailer. I’m panting like a walrus and am glad I don’t have to pull my trailer. The lonely, narrow road winds its way through the fields. It is midsummer heat. Looking forward to our first camp outside Bucharest, we cycle side by side. The road winds up a hill again. “It’s a good thing the Dutchman took our trailers with him,” I say, breathing heavily. Tanja, on the other hand, hardly seems to mind the hills. She is in top form at the moment.

After 13 kilometers we reach the village of Mariuta. At the end of the settlement, the two boys we met in the Dutchman’s car are already waiting. They wave to us cheerfully and accompany us down a narrow gravel road. “There you are,” says Huib happily. “You can put your bikes in the garage. I’ll drive my car out. It’s no problem at all. They’re safe in there in any case. I lock the door and I also have an alarm system. So you don’t need to worry,” he reassures us as if he has read our minds. Then he shows us a room where we can sleep. He switches on the television in his living room. “I’ll find you a German channel, then at least you’ll understand what they’re talking about. My laptop is over there. If you want to check or send emails, you can use it at any time, Denis. Oh yes, before I forget. Make yourselves at home. I have to go to Bucharest for a few hours. I have to visit a seriously ill woman. She’s my neighbor. A gypsy, you know? I help out the people here in the village a little. I send some children to school and pay the school fees. Maybe that’s one reason why no one has ever broken in here? By the way, the hospitals in Romania are a nightmare. Really horrible. I would never want to go in there. The other day they left a pair of scissors in the stomach of a woman from the village. If you have to go to a hospital like that, you’re in really bad shape,” he says. “Can’t stand hospitals anyway. Even the smell in there gets me down. Thank God none of us have to go in. But regardless of that. Thank you for everything. I’m going to sit on the terrace for a while and transfer the pictures from the camera to the computer,” I chat.

“Do you actually live here alone?” asks Tanja. “Yes. I have a security guard who watches the house in my absence. He’s also a gypsy, by the way. My business partners always warn me against hiring gypsies. But I tell you, they are very loyal and reliable. As I said, they’ve never broken into my house and I can rely on my people. When I’m away, don’t let the boys in the garden disturb you. They’re also from the neighborhood and are allowed to swim in my pool this afternoon,” he explains and says goodbye.

Suddenly we are alone in a strange house. “It’s hard to believe the trust Huib has in us. We could steal a few things and run away,” I say. “Hm, but we also had confidence in him when we simply loaded our trailers into his car,” Tanja replies. “Right”, it’s nice when you can trust each other in a strange world and no one cheats or lies to the other. If I knew there were angels, you’d think our host was one of them,’ I say with a smile.

Huib comes back in the evening. He has bought plenty of food. He fires up a large barbecue in the garden with some boys from the village. “I hope you like salmon and steak?” “Wow, of course we do,” I reply in hungry anticipation. As the sun is about to bid farewell to the day, we sit by the swimming pool in balmy temperatures. We drink beer and wine. We eat fresh salmon, steaks, as much salad as we want and much more. Huib spoils us like his best friends. The three boys from this afternoon are also there. They are also invited to dinner by Huib. “I treat them like my sons. In return, they help me around the house or with gardening etc. They are really nice children. It would be hard for me to have to leave Romania just because of them,” he tells us. So it comes as a complete surprise to us that we are sitting on a beautiful piece of land in the middle of Romania, eating and drinking delicious food and having a nice chat. Who would have thought it that morning after my unsuccessful start?