Water supplies are not enough!

Because we don’t want to waste much time, we eat breakfast standing up, just dry cookies, which we wash down with a few sips of water. Shortly after 8:00 a.m. we set off again into the steady wind. Our morale is still good. We defy the airy natural element kilometer after kilometer. “Shouldn’t this be the village of Kostobe?” asks Tanja. “Yes, it has. It seems to have vanished into thin air,” I reply. Because we wanted to fill up our water supplies in Kostobe, we are a little worried. “Never mind, the next town is only 15 kilometers from here,” I hear Tanja say, who has written the distances to all the towns on a piece of paper to be on the safe side. After another kilometer, a dirt road from the south joins the main road. A large sign shows where the path leads. We cannot find this village on the map. We don’t give it another thought and pedal on. A shepherd watches us from the nearby road embankment. “I’ll ask him,” I say and give Tanja my bike to hold. “Kostobe? I don’t know him.” “Ask him about Kiik Mechet!” shouts Tanja. “Kiik Mechet? What is Kiik Mechet?” “A village. Not a town, but a small village about 15 kilometers from here to the east,” I explain to the shepherd. He looks at me with wide eyes. Then he points in a completely different direction and says that Kostobe is over there. I thank him and go back down to Tanja. “He has no idea. At least I think so. In any case, there’s something wrong. Either the map is old or the towns are called something else now.” “But if they are called something else, they should at least still be there,” Tanja ponders. “That’s right. But they’re not.” “What should we do now? Drive on and hope to find water there?” Tanja wants to know. “There’s no point in turning back. It’s just as far. I think we’ll come across a yurt, or a settler, or maybe a village. Let’s carry on,” I decide. As we drive on, we decide to stop the next best vehicle coming towards us to ask if there is a village ahead. Sure enough, a bus appears on the horizon a little later. We stop immediately. I get off my bike and signal the approaching bus to stop. The driver laughs, while the passenger shrugs his shoulders and ironically shows us an empty water bottle. “Iiiiuuummm!” it roars and the big menace has already whizzed past us. “Until recently, they were constantly stopping us to satisfy their curiosity and now, when we need one of them, he just rushes past,” I say indignantly, getting back on my bike to push it further against the constant wind.

Suddenly there is a detour sign on the road. In the distance, we spot a few people working on a bridge. “Where there are people, there is water,” I say happily. We stand there for a while looking at the construction workers as a car comes off the dirt road. I try my luck again and wave him to stop. Sure enough, he stops. “Where from? Where to?” are the first questions. Then we hear that there is a rest stop only 5 kilometers from here. “Is there water there too?” we want to know. “Yes, yes, water, tea and coffee,” is the promising answer. We steer our riese und müller into the bypass away from the asphalt. The finest dust immediately settles on our shoes, calves and equipment. Our bikes literally sink into it, so that we are unable to ride them under any circumstances. Pushing in the sun at 40 degrees is hard work. As we pass the bridge workers, the wind blows the whence and whither over to us. Then, thank goodness, we reach the black asphalt again and, after just two kilometers, a lonely hut made of corrugated iron at the side of the road. “That’s the rest stop!” I shout happily. We lean our trains against the bent fence. Two women and three men come out of the house to bombard us with questions. “Do you have anything to eat?” asks Tanja and follows the two ladies inside while I look after the bikes and answer the men’s questions. When Tanja returns, I find out that food is generally available but not now. “How not now?” I ask. “I pointed to the bortsch and they answered me later. I pointed to the noodles and they told me later. Fine, I said, later then. We wait. No, there’s nothing later either. We’d have to wait too long, they said. I think you’ll have to try again with them,” Tanja suggests. Tired, I shuffle off to find the two women in their kitchen. “Do you have bortsch?” I want to know. “Yes, we have.” Do you have pasta?” “Yes, we have.” “Can I have a look in that pot there?” I ask, pointing to a large silver-colored object on the stove that exudes a delicious aroma. I discover dumplings filled with meat. “Can I have some of that?” “Yes, you can.” “When? Half an hour?” “Okay.” “Well then, two soups, a plate of noodles, a portion of the dumplings, white bread and a pot of tea, please,” I order, whereupon the two cooks get to work, giggling loudly. “So, did you get it there? Is there anything for us to eat?” asks Tanja after I step outside again. “Sure, it’ll be served in half an hour,” I reply with a broad grin, visibly proud of myself for having organized something for us. “How did you manage that?” “I have no idea. I just asked. They said yes and then I ordered.” “Hm, it was probably because of my preparatory work,” Tanja muses. “Probably,” I agree, laughing out loud.

“How do your noodles taste?” I want to know as we satisfy our hunger a little later. “Terrible, they’re cooked in oil and totally soggy.” “Well, in that case, I’m glad I’m not a vegetarian,” I rejoice and take a big bite of the lamb-filled dumplings.

Tanja

Experiences and thoughts!

While Denis successfully negotiates lunch for us, I start to get the empty Bestard bottles off our bikes and put them together to fill with water. Always observed by interested people, of course. In this case, one of the men from the service area here. He wants one of the bottles. “Of course he likes them,” I think to myself as I politely explain to him that the path is long and water is scarce. Of course we need all our bottles to fill with water. He doesn’t let up and lets me know with clear ignorance that I still have four if I give him one of them. Somehow I manage to get him to see sense and not insist on our beautiful bottle. I don’t really want to hold his claim against him either. How is he supposed to know what it means to cycle over these slopes in the heat? Have I ever been out in his moccasins and know the first thing about his life? What is it like to spend your life in this rest stop? Day in, day out?

Denis comes out of the kitchen and we get our food at some point. An extreme endurance test for a person who does not want to eat meat. In this case, I’m talking about myself. Here everything, but almost everything, is prepared with meat. I fish the chunks out of the soup. What even Denis doesn’t want, I throw to the dog inconspicuously. I immediately have a new friend sitting enthusiastically at my feet and, as I can almost see, smiling at me. The noodles floating in oil can no longer be saved. Unfortunately, the oil is not cold-pressed olive oil, so I would write differently about my meal. I’m certainly not squeamish, we’ve eaten so much on our travels that it can’t be called food. Two thoughts jump out at me. How can I expect pasta al dente with cold-pressed olive oil here in the middle of the Kazakh steppe? Where have we come on earth to get such bad food, when the basic right of every human being should be organic food? Wanting to enjoy an organic meal makes me feel like a spoiled princess. You can either stay at home or remain humble and be grateful for what you have. I am too, and I’m looking forward to moving on and driving into this seemingly endless expanse.

The thought of having loaded so much water feels even better. It’s finally back, that feeling I like to call it: the wild freedom. Camping where it’s fun. Not having to go anywhere to fill up with water. Not quite so naive, of course. A certain distance has to be covered and water has to be saved. My mind wanders back to our last accommodation. I was briefly allowed to meet a young woman. She lived there in a room with her husband. He seemed to be working there, there was nothing for her to do. She spoke to me and we quickly realized that she didn’t understand Russian and I didn’t understand Kazakh. So our conversation was practically over, or rather limited to the point where she happily told me that she was expecting a baby. “How much nicer her life will be when she holds her little child in her arms and can escape this wasteland of a room,” I say, happy for her. She beams at me all over her face. Her lower teeth are completely rotten and I wonder if she isn’t in terrible pain. On the one hand, I’m amazed at all the things that go through my head when I’m cycling, but on the other hand, I’m not. Of course we are touched by the various encounters. Even if they are sometimes only brief, they can remain unforgettable memories for a lifetime. Sometimes a sentence can change a life or touch a view so deeply that we rethink fixed opinions.

Denis

When I pay, I am surprised at the hefty price of 1,900 tenge (approx. 10.5 euros). “May I have the computer,” I ask politely, because since we’ve been in Kazakhstan we’ve noticed that it’s better to ask for more than less. I carefully type every single price into her calculator and lo and behold the girl wanted to cheat us out of 350 tenge. She smiles at me as if nothing had happened and I smile back just as politely. As I sit in the shade of the terrace again, drinking the last cup of black tea, a passing truck driver speaks to us. “You have a very difficult stretch ahead of you. The road is completely unpaved for about 40 kilometers. Everything is covered in the finest dust. How are you going to get through there?” “We’ll see,” we reply, shocked by his words, because the strong wind, the heat, the many climbs and the few supply points are already more than enough for us.

Before we set off, we are allowed to fill up our water supplies at a waterhole near a river. It is edged with old truck tires and appears to be of good quality. At least it tastes delicious and the people here make a living from it. Now packed with 32 liters, we are able to cycle through the hot, endless steppe for three whole days without any supplies. Heavily laden, we leave the simple rest stop heading east. My bike and trailer should weigh about 130 kilograms with the water load. Tanja’s bike with trailer weighs just under 90 kilograms. Together we are now moving 220 kilograms of load in addition to our own body weight. It’s remarkable what a person can achieve when they want to.

In the late afternoon, we pass a road sign with a pale ox skull hanging from it. “I hope that’s a good omen,” I say jokingly. We take a few photos, eat a liquid chocolate bar from Rapunzel as an ancient car clatters past us. It is leaning heavily and the track is so warped that the rear tires are offset from the front tires. Suddenly the rusty sheet metal comes to a coughing halt on worn, bumpy wheels. Two doors open with a screech. Two men get out and open the hood with some difficulty. While one occupant makes his upper body disappear under the hood, the other is constantly waving at us. Because we don’t react immediately, he comes running towards us at the same angle as the car stumbled past us. “I live nearby. I’m inviting you. It won’t cost you anything,” we understand. “Where is your home?” I want to know. “There!” he slurs, heavily inebriated, and points to an undefined place in the middle of the desert. “How far is that?” “10 or 15 kilometers,” he stammers. “Uh, thank you very much, but we have to get going,” I decline in a friendly manner. Then the 50-year-old grabs my hand, pulls me over the handlebars and presses his face against my cheek. I try to return his warm embrace and thank him again for his kind invitation. It doesn’t take long for his colleague to get the scrap heap going again. The engine whinnies like a horse, the wheels move and just a few hundred meters further on the vehicle leaves the tar and hops over a dust track heading south. We look after the vehicle until it disappears behind a dune, then we ride on, glad to have declined the offer to spend the night there.

After 55 kilometers and 10 hours on tour, we are dog-tired, as we are almost every day. Only a camp soon and the anticipation of being able to bring our bodies into the horizontal gives us a little strength. Unfortunately, the protective rows of trees have already disappeared from the face of the earth for 10 kilometers. Small gravel factories, which produce the subsoil for road construction, appear in front of us. Trucks now roar past us incessantly. The rare sight of two people on bicycles in the steppe causes the drivers to honk constantly. Although this is certainly well-intentioned, it is a pain in the neck. They wave incessantly, whereupon we raise our hands incessantly in greeting. “Would you like to know how many calories a day we burn just by lifting our hands?” asks Tanja. “A lot,” I reply dryly. Unexpectedly, the road is closed again. The trucks, loaded with stones, gravel, crushed stone and other road construction materials, turn onto a very dusty gravel road at the detour. “If we have to get on there, we’ll look tarred and feathered after just a few minutes,” I say, because our bodies are soaking wet with sweat from the heat and exertion. We stand somewhat perplexed in front of the barrier as a truck driver leaves his convoy and stops next to us. “You can still use the tarred road. Save the terrible dirt road for as long as you can,” he advises. We thank him for the friendly tip, take a photo with him at his request, bypass the barrier and continue to follow the pitch-black, brand-new bitumen.

Just two kilometers further on, the beautiful surface seems to have finally come to an end. Large road construction machines and many people are working to build the steppe road further east. “So this is the end of the upgraded route,” I say. “Hm,” answers Tanja. We must look like aliens as we roll the remaining meters side by side towards the group of road workers. Those who can interrupt their work and come rushing towards us. “Where from? Where to? What? Why? I can’t believe it! Imagine that! I would never do that!” are some of the repeated statements. Everyone lines up for a group photo and rejoices with us. “Do you have drinking water?” I ask. “Sure, lots,” we hear. A worker leads me to an old tanker. “Can you really drink that?” I ask doubtfully. “But of course,” he replies, turns the lever, lets a jet shoot into his cup and drinks from it. The proof is good enough for me. I immediately fill our two Source drinking backpacks with the cold, delicious and valuable liquid. Then we say goodbye to the nice road construction workers and push our bikes around the tar machines. Now we continue along the gravel shoulder until, after a few minutes, we find a quiet, unobserved spot for our camp behind the hustle and bustle. Thousands of crows have chosen these trees as nesting sites and screech at us with a deafening noise. Falcons sit in their nests and watch us suspiciously until they find our presence too suspicious and take to the skies. After today’s very strenuous day, Tanja sacrifices one of our ready meals from Travellunch. She pours hot water over it from the thermos flask, which the girls from the rest stop sold us for 100 tenge. With an irrepressible hunger, we inhale the delicious, well-traveled meal and thank God for the eventful and, on the whole, very positive day.

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