Double detour!

When Tanja comes to the tent to wake me up shortly after 5:00 a.m., I’m just about to roll up my sleeping mat. “How did you sleep?” her question penetrates the fabric wall. “Very good,” I reply, full of energy and in a good mood.

Before we set off, I give the poor dog another piece of bread, then we let our bikes roll towards the virginal sun at a pleasant 16 degrees. The dog follows us. Apparently the mayonnaise bread has given him new energy. “Go home!” we shout, but he ignores our order and stays on our heels. “Poor guy, now he’s wasting what little strength he has,” says Tanja.

There is no traffic on the road at this time. We only meet people from the village who take their cows out to pasture. They look at us in surprise. When we wave, they lose their shyness and return our greeting. Because the master seems to have overslept today, there is no breeze and we make good progress. “What makes you so sure that this road is the right one?” Tanja suddenly asks. “The chestnut seller I asked about the Gastiniza yesterday told me. And the direction is right,” I reply with conviction. “Maybe the direction isn’t right after all?” I start to doubt and let my eyes glide over a ridge we drove along yesterday. An uneasy feeling prompts me to brake and switch on the GPS. Startled, I realize that we are on a side road that actually leads us in a different direction. “What a mess! I think we’re actually in the wrong place!” I curse. Tanja stops the first driver we meet today. “Yes, this road leads to Astana,” he relieves us. “But take a look at the map. That’s a detour. The main road turns south here,” I say, pointing to my road map. “That’s right. Well then they have to go back,” he says, which leaves us completely confused.

After the man has driven on, I study the map and the GPS for a while. “Let’s turn back,” I decide grudgingly. “Oh no, so our nice early start was for nothing,” Tanja moans, turning her road train around. “Well, at least this way we can bring our companion back,” I say, pointing at the dog who hasn’t given up the chase yet. After four kilometers we are back at the Gastiniza. We leave them on the left, drive down a hill to the village and find ourselves in the still deserted center. To be on the safe side, I ask at the first gas station. “Astana? That way,” says the woman, pointing to where we have just come from. “What? It’s not possible!” I shout, almost horrified. The woman gives me an unfriendly look. She probably thinks I’m weird or she didn’t put up well with her night shift. Her eyes certainly speak volumes. Nevertheless, I dare to intervene again and show her the main road on my map, which is clearly marked with a thick red line, while her direction appears only as a thin black line. She shrugs her shoulders and, like the driver earlier, points in the direction I want her to go. I am now in despair and don’t know what to decide. “It looks like there are two roads to Astana,” I explain to Tanja. Since we have had the pleasure of getting to know the Kazakh roads so far, we don’t want to travel 400 kilometers on unpaved side roads under any circumstances and continue towards the main road. Again we discover a gas station. The man is very friendly and confirms our assumption of two streets. “You should turn back. The route you’ve chosen now is all potholes, gravel and very little asphalt. The other road is usually very good,” he explains, which is why we turn around again. After 10 kilometers we leave the police station Gastiniza on our right. The hungry dog immediately takes up the chase again and seems to be enjoying the foreigners’ strange game.

The master wakes up at 9:00 am. He seems confused and pushes us forward with considerable force. The landscape slowly begins to change. Hills and ridges border our path on both sides. Again and again, the asphalt strip winds its way through woodland and small wheat fields. “Uuuuaahhh! I’m ravenous for chocolate bars!” I shout as we speed past a village. When I spot a petrol station, I ask the attendant as we roll up: “Kuschet jeest?” (Is there anything to eat?) “Njet”, he replies with a laugh and explains the way to a magazine. When we reach the blue-painted cottage, we park our bikes. “I’ll go and have a look,” I say, opening the garden gate and looking through the window. In fact, the residents have a tiny store in there. The chocolate bars are within easy reach right by the window. I stride joyfully around the hut to the entrance, but no one is home. “What a shame,” I say and take another longing look at the bars that are within reach. “We should have lunch here,” I suggest, which is why we use my trailer as a breakfast table in the shade of the dwelling and unpack what we’ve brought with us.

We leave the village behind us and notice black smoke on the horizon. The road meanders further and further towards it until it envelops the entire landscape. In the center of the clouds of smoke, one of the familiar detour signs appears. “No, not another road construction”, we think and consider ignoring it as usual. We stand there debating whether to follow the clay track or lift our bikes over the pile of rubble and then try our luck on the roadworks track. “We have to get away from the clouds of smoke,” urges Tanja. A truck driver approaches from the nearby bitumen factory, which is responsible for the dirt. “You can’t use the new road. It’s just rough gravel. You won’t get any further with your bikes. It’s better for you to use the clay road,” he advises. We say thank you and steer our riese und müller onto the loose ground. After just a few hundred meters, huge puddles appear in front of us. The deep channels of the trucks cut angular paths through the mud. We slowly let our sumo bikes roll into the dark mud and pedal them through the first obstacle in first gear. Suddenly, a truck loaded with fresh bitumen approaches from behind. “Drive in the middle! Don’t let him overtake!” I shout to Tanja so that we don’t get splashed with mud from the big tires. We hear the driver of the heavy vehicle throttle down his machine and shift into lower gears while our tires sink into the indefinable. The mudguards, chain, gears, simply everything gets clogged with clay and sand. Everything is dirty within a few minutes. The oppression of feeling a large truck behind us and not knowing how deep the road in front of us is under water makes our hair stand on end. “Just don’t stop, then we’ll be up to our ankles or calves in mud in our low shoes,” I think, maneuvering the heavy bike like an acrobat through the most difficult terrain. Suddenly a truck comes towards us. It has already dropped its load somewhere and is amazingly fast. We save ourselves just in time on a scree island as it thunders past us. “We were lucky. He would have sprayed us from top to toe with dirt,” says Tanja, panting heavily. Because we are now standing on the scree, the bitumen driver behind us takes his chance and also rumbles past us. The engine roars its hot breath in our faces. Keep your nerve, that’s the order of the day here. We stumble on, feeling as small and vulnerable as church mice. This detour is supposed to lead 30 kilometers through mud, dust and gravel. If that’s true, we’ll be lucky to get it over with today. As soon as our tires are dry, deep ruts appear in front of us and disappear into a murky mass of water. “Slowly, but not too slowly!” I shout, trying to get through the spot without getting stuck.

After 20 minutes, a path with rough stones leads away from the slope towards the construction site. Heavy machinery is busy laying asphalt. When I try to find the way there, we are sent back by a transporter. “You won’t get any further,” says the driver. I believe him, but when we take another side path just 500 meters later to leave the infernal road, we reach a brand new, unused tarred strip. “Whoo-hoo! Whoo-hoo! Yay!”, we cheer and let our superbikes glide over the fantastic black surface. Only 50 to 100 meters next to us, cars and lorries are struggling through the Lochermorast while we enjoy the privilege of being cyclists.

After 90 kilometers, we finally reach a town again. We are completely famished. We park our bikes in front of a magazine at 43 degrees in the sun. While Tanja guards her, I enter the store. There is a freezer cabinet with ice cream and a refrigerated shelf from which yogurt smiles at me. I wait patiently until the woman next to me finishes her bulk shopping. The woman buys kilos of cookies and the saleswoman weighs them piece by piece. Again and again my eyes fall on the ice cream and yogurt. I can hardly stand it any more. “Control yourself Denis,” I urge myself to be patient. 15 minutes pass before the lady has made her purchase. Now there is only one woman ahead of me. Desperate, I realize that she is also shopping for a party or even a wedding. After another 10 minutes, I reach for the ice cream, exasperated, to devour it in the meantime. The wedding shopper must have seen this and lets the half-starved cyclist go first. “Here you go,” says the saleswoman. I buy eight yogurts, two popsicles, two bananas, a block of cheese, two bottles of mineral water, a bottle of soft drink, six chocolate bars and carry everything outside. While Tanja stuffs herself with bananas, two yoghurts and a block of cheese, I suck on two ice creams, finish six yoghurt pots in a few minutes, drink the soft drink and half a bottle of water. “Oh, that was good. Now it’s almost tearing my stomach apart,” I say with a laugh.

We leave the settlement, which is sweltering in the heat, and reach the village of Volodarskoye at 6 p.m. after 107 kilometers. We find a nice gastiniza and decide to rest here for the day. After lugging our equipment up to the second floor, we head for a café in the center. It is still empty at 20:00. “I’m a vegetarian,” Tanja explains as usual and orders a salad and buckwheat semolina. Because they don’t have buckwheat semolina, the waitress recommends an alternative whose description we don’t understand. As the selection on the menu is sparse, we don’t want to be choosy and order what is recommended. Only minutes later, the young woman serves the alternative. It is a quarter of a chicken. Tanja and I look at each other. “Do you want to eat it?” she asks me. “Sure,” I say and pull the vegetarian chicken over to me. As it has been reheated in the microwave like everything else here, probably not even for the first time, it is dry and hard, as is so often the case. The potatoes in my soup are also unseasoned, watery, floury and tasteless. The tomato salad is nothing more than a single sliced tomato on which the fat cook has lovelessly squirted some mayonnaise. Predicate: “Oh horror” We realize that we should better avoid the cafes in the villages. In most cases, the chefs know nothing about their craft. Usually the only thing they can really do is turn on that fucking microwave. Much better, on the other hand, are the rest stop restaurants, where the microwave is also used, but at least the food is fresh and often tastes good.

Dangerous microwaves!

It is strange to us why the danger of food heated with microwaves is still not known in almost every country in the world. It is like a nightmare that the inexpensive microwave oven has conquered the entire world and is now also finding its way into poor countries.

Microwaves are nothing more than short, high-frequency radio waves that are used, for example, in radio and television, in radar technology, in meteorology, in the transmission of messages via satellites, in so-called directional radio, in material testing and for heating food.

Microwave ovens cause the water molecules in food to vibrate, which generates heat. According to our information, not only the molecules burst (destruction) when heated by microwaves, but also the vital enzymes contained in the food. For example, the enzymes pesin and trypsin play an important role in the digestion of meat. They catalyze many different reactions. Other enzymes in turn release energy that makes the heart beat and enables the other muscles to contract. Many enzymes convert sugar and other nutrients into the compounds that the body needs to build tissue, replace used blood cells and carry out numerous other activities.

If a person eats food that has been killed by microwaves over a long period of time, this can only have fatal consequences. The human body will suffer from deficiency symptoms as enzymes are essential for our system to survive.

Microwaves are dangerous for living creatures, especially if they are strong radiations. They can cause burns and damage to the nervous system, among other things. The possible dangers of long-term exposure to weak microwaves are not yet precisely known. Nevertheless, legislators in many countries set limits for exposure to microwaves. And honestly, who wants to know how much radiation coming out of the stove is dangerous for us or not?

Friends of ours who are professionally involved in nutrition don’t even enter an apartment where a microwave oven is plugged into the socket. Of course you can exaggerate everything, but we constantly have to watch how ignorant mothers heat up milk and other baby food for their little ones in the microwave. If they knew about the potential danger, they would certainly refrain from doing so. Or does convenience take precedence here? Impossible. A mother would never knowingly harm her child.

We look forward to your comments!