Inhuman heat

To get our horses out of their chamber, we first have to go through a spartanly furnished room. It is the living room of the man who makes sure that no uninvited guest enters the hotel just like that. “Dobraje utra”, (Good morning written in Russian with German pronunciation) I greet him as he is sprinkling the floor with water so that it doesn’t get so dusty. His sleeping place is an ancient, worn-out bed or mattress. A hand broom woven from brushwood huddles in the corner. There is water for drinking and washing in a bucket on a simple table. Another old chair is the only seating option. A single tattered pin-up picture adorns the wall. The man smiles sheepishly at us and helps us to get the bikes out of the room in front of the hotel. Then he watches us as we load them “Da ßwidanja”, (goodbye) we say goodbye in Russian because almost all the people speak this language.

Then we push our carts out of the valley basin onto the higher plateau in the glistening sunlight. This means that our bodies don’t have a chance to warm up, but have to perform at their best from the very first meter. To avoid driving in the wrong direction again, I ask at the first fork in the road. We understand “Prjama!” (straight ahead) and let our bikes hurtle down into the valley at 50 kilometers per hour. At 8:30 a.m., the thermometer already shows 34 degrees in the shade. “It’s going to be a hot day,” I say to Tanja. After about twelve kilometers, our Source hydration packs are almost empty. In the village of Burlaceni we find an inconspicuous street bar. “Let’s go and buy some water,” I suggest, which is why we lean our bikes against the wall of the bar. “Where do you come from?” a man asks me in good German. “From Germany.” “With the wheels?” he asks, absolutely flabbergasted. “Yes, and we want to go to Burma.” He looks at me in disbelief and immediately begins to translate the news to his colleagues in the bar. People are amazed, start talking in confusion and suddenly they are all asking questions. “How can you speak German so well?” I ask. “I’ve been working in Berlin for ten years. On building sites and so on.” “And how does that work with the visa?” “No problem at all. I work illegally. But now I have a second passport. A Bulgarian one. Now that Bulgaria is in the EU, it’s easier for me to come to Germany.” “And what about working illegally? Have you never been caught?” “No, no. I know it’s more dangerous now than it used to be, but a lot of people work illegally in construction. My boss doesn’t want me to work there officially. He thinks it’s better that way,” he tells me. As I’ve heard stories like this a few times in the last few days, I’m no longer surprised. We say goodbye. “Have a good trip,” he wishes us and we tackle the next hill in the shade at around 37 degrees. Tanja’s knee is causing slight difficulties. No wonder with these constant inclines. To motivate her a little, I keep calling out to her which aisle I’m in. As a result, we cycle even more as a unit. Above all, that we reach a common speed and Tanja doesn’t lose the connection. Sometimes it suddenly lags far behind. That is of course demotivating. To a certain extent, everyone has to ride at their own pace in order to maintain their performance over the long term. Both sides should make compromises in order to make positive progress together. So I often cycle more slowly or wait on the ridge. Not that I’m much faster, but the balance of power between a trained man and a trained woman is often different. This is also the case with us. One of the main aims is to experience things together, to arrive at the same place at the same time with shared joy or sometimes sorrow. “Now I’m switching to the third! And straight into fourth! With the same cadence and the same effort, just a little faster! All right, and into seventh gear! Ninth! Tenth!”, I shout incessantly. So we manage the mountains together and I am able to pull Tanja a little.

Because you can only buy carbonated water here, our hydration packs get bloated. As soon as we put the drinking tube in our mouth to suck on it, the liquid shoots down our throat. Carbonated water is extremely unsuitable for such efforts, but carbonated water is better than no water. Teenagers pedal alongside us on their rickety bikes. One of them holds a cell phone up and desperately wants to take a photo. We are stopping. “Fun iba,” he thanked me and took his picture. A Moldovan stops his car next to Tanja a little later. He speaks some German and is absolutely delighted to meet us here. He immediately rushes back to his car and gives Tanja two peaches. We are now only about seven meters above sea level. The heat increases by the hour. Tanja says she sweats like a polecat. We are dripping with sweat. “Would you like to take a break?” I ask after we’ve been on the road for five hours. “Good idea,” I hear behind me. We push our road trains into the ditch and cool our exhausted bodies in the shade of a walnut tree. “It’ll soon be Australian conditions,” I say. “Absolutely,” Tanja replies wearily. The landscape around us is completely parched by the sun. Many fields are coal black. Burned down by people after the harvest. Every now and then a car or truck speeds past. It’s hard to believe that we are on Moldova’s most important traffic artery here. It is the only west-east connection from Romania to the capital Chissinau. If you compare the strip of holes, which is more like a Swiss cheese, with a German highway, you know how poor this country really is. Even on a village road in Germany there is ten times more traffic than here. A dream for us as cyclists. If it weren’t for the sweltering heat, the many holes and the eternal damn hills.

“Tenth gear! Eleventh! Twelfth and fourteenth!”, I shout and we race down the back of an earth runzel. Suddenly a siren sounds behind us. A police car drives right next to our bicycles. We are stopping. The officers eye us and ask something in Russian. In such cases, we were advised not to understand Russian. However, we don’t need the advice at the moment as our Russian is still very poor at the moment. Nevertheless, it is enough to realize that they want to know where we are coming from, where we are going and where we are staying. Suddenly they get out, put on their caps and become formal in the first moment. We laugh. We tell them our story with lots of gestures and I show them the speedometer. “3730 kilometers. Phew, that’s exhausting,” I babble chattily. The tall, beefy man with the protruding ears suddenly shakes my hand and the slim man with his piercing eyes laughs. The ice is broken. They wish us a safe journey and speed off.

Meanwhile, we ride our steeds through the Moldavian prairie at over 58 degrees in the sun. The heat soon becomes inhuman. “I need a break or I’m going to throw up. I’m serious Denis!” Tanja shouts behind me. “I can see something like a rest stop up ahead. We’ll stop there,” I reply and steer my vehicle towards the lonely shed. A few men sit under a torn army camouflage net in front of a dilapidated hut and drink beer in this monkey heat. I get Tanja a stool, park her on it and enter the pub. Wafting heat comes towards me. The floor is lined with rusted sheet metal. A refrigerator works in vain to keep its contents at normal temperatures. His door is constantly being opened and a beer, coke or something else taken out of it. At the end of the room, a small woman stands behind the counter. She guards the various vodka, whisky and gin bottles. She looks at me in astonishment but kindly. Sure, who comes here in colorful, tight-fitting cycling clothes? I pay. A 1 ½ liter bottle of water, carbonated of course, costs five lei. 0.32 Euro. Tanja and I then sit under the broken army camouflage net, drink warm water and try to quench our irrepressible thirst. A man next to me pokes me incessantly with his finger on my upper arm. “Where are you coming from? Where are you going? How long have you been traveling? What kind of visa do you have for Moldova? What, a German doesn’t need a visa for Moldova?” he babbles on and on. I patiently try to find the few Russian words I need to quench his thirst for knowledge in my overheated brain. He immediately tells us that he comes from Ukraine and rummages in his pockets to show us Ukrainian money. Then, beaming, he takes out a hundred dollar bill. “I’m flying from Odessa to Istanbul next week. It’s a good place to work,” we understand.

Half an hour later, we cycle on in the shade at 42 degrees. Unfortunately, there is no shade on the road. It should still be 50 kilometers to Comrat. A gigantic distance in this heat, with the baggage and the frowning earth. We had originally reckoned on 20 kilometers less, as the distances on our map are often wrong. In general, this map is a disaster. Many towns are not registered and the course of the road has little to do with reality. A map that you can really bend. But our second card from another provider is not accurate either. One reason why we have to be careful not to accidentally drive in the wrong direction or misjudge our power reserves.

Tanja has already reached the limit of her strength. I don’t want to work my wife up here, but we have no other chance than to continue. It’s too open here for a camp site in the sticks. The land is covered with fields as far as the eye can see. There is nowhere to hide. If we have to pitch our tent, someone will be watching us. We don’t want to risk that. Not from what we have heard about Moldova so far. The people are extremely friendly, but you never know what it will be like at night. When people consume too much alcohol they can become very unpleasant. This is a problem, especially near cities. So we cycle on. “Are you still going to make it?” I want to know. “I guess I have to,” Tanja replies. An unpleasant skin lichen has spread on her calves. A result of heat, sweat, sunscreen and dust. Her knee also whimpers incessantly. A headache from overheating under the helmet adds to this. “It’s crazy what we’re doing Denis. I’m sure it’s harmful to your health.” “I think our bodies can do it. We’re well trained. You’ve managed everything so far. There are good days and bad days. Short and long distances. We can’t plan the stages precisely on a trip like this,” I say in a comforting tone. “Yes, yes, I know. It’s just that I constantly feel like I’m going to throw up.” “We just take a break every few kilometers. We’re making good time. It’s now 2 p.m. and if we cycle steadily, we’ll arrive in Comrat before sunset.” “Okay.”

A few kilometers further on we stop again. A babushka (grandmother) sells fresh peaches with her granddaughters. One kilogram 1.5 euros. The laughter is huge as I unpack the movie camera. Babushka has a huge speech attack and says things I can’t understand into the camera. Then she gives us two extra pieces of fruit and everyone wishes us a safe journey.

We stop again at a bar in the village of Congas. Men sit at the tables and drink. I lean my bike against the fence and stagger into the pub from overheating. “Come drink with me! Just Schto grams!” (100 grams of vodka) shouts a visibly drunk guest. The situation is so bizarre that I can’t help but laugh out loud. “Just one sip and I’ll drop dead!” I reply in my own language. Strangely enough, he seems to have understood me. His drinking buddies jostle his arm and he falls silent. Tanja hands a Russian woman our letter, which explains where we come from, what we are doing and where we are going. She is blown away. I’ve just come out of the pub with two large bottles of mineral water when there’s a really kitschy pottery ashtray on our table. “What’s that?” “Svela, the nice Russian woman gave it to us,” Tanja answers while Svela shouts; “Souvenir! Souvenir!” she shouts. “I’m sorry Denis. I couldn’t refuse,” Tanja apologizes, grinning at me. “No problem. I’ll just put it in the trailer,” I say. A lot has accumulated in the meantime. For example, almost a kilo of peaches, an extra bottle of sparkling mineral water, a cap and T-shirt from the Antenne 1 TV station in Romania and now a pottery ashtray.

As we say goodbye, the toothless landlady offers me her hand for a kiss. Everyone present looks at what the foreigner is doing now. I laugh amiably, politely take her hand and gallantly indicate a kiss. “Ha, ha, ha, hiiiee, hiiieee, hi!” laughs the drunken landlady and the whole place. We continue our odyssey with good travel wishes. “Let me know before you empty yourself over my trailer,” I jokingly shout to Tanja. “It would only be fruit and water anyway!” “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want fruit and water thrown up on my trailer either,” I laugh. Just five kilometers further on, we take another break to cool our bodies and give Tanja a breather. It’s 5:30 pm and still 50 degrees in the sun. We get cold kefir and mineral water. “Are you still all right?” I ask a little worriedly when I see Tanja sitting there with a bright red head. “Must be,” she replies. In the meantime, we now consume eight liters of liquid per person. Even during our walk through the Australian outback, we rarely needed so much to keep our systems running.

About ten kilometers before Comrat, a man on the road waves wildly at us. He holds a melon in the air and obviously wants to give it to us. As my trailer is full and I don’t feel like eating melons at the moment, I want to drive on first, but then I stop. The man comes running up and hands us the fruit. “I’m in the army and look after the fields here. Enjoy it,” we understand and tackle the last few kilometers, now with a large melon in the trailer. We stop every two kilometers so that Tanja can catch her breath. I’m starting to get nervous. The sun is already very low. The drivers become more aggressive and are obviously drunk. There are no alcohol checks here. Men bawl and shout from their open windows. Some drive right past us. Far too dense for my taste. “We have to get off the road,” I say. “Yes, I know, but even if someone were to attack me now, I’d have to let them attack me. I just can’t do it anymore,” says Tanja. “That’s okay, we’ll just keep driving.” Again I call out the gears loudly. “Third gear! Now fourth, fifth, sixth and fifth again!” until we reach the outskirts of Comrat just before sunset. A cab driver explains the way to a hotel. His friend leads us there. We ask for a room. For 30 euros we get a clean place to stay for the night. We take a shower. Oh how good it feels after such a day. Today we pedaled our bikes 90 kilometers over many hills in temperatures of around 58 degrees. It was exhausting. Far too exhausting, I think, but I’m glad that Tanja held out and we arrived safely.

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