The police officer Marat

The nights in this gastiniza were also unbearably hot and the window in front of the bed was nailed shut. We are glad to leave the building behind us. Either the master really does have an understanding with us or he has gone completely mad. It presses into our backs with great force and makes cycling a real pleasure. We fly past a wonderful landscape and have already covered 60 kilometers by 11:00 am. When we recognize an Australian license plate on an off-road machine speeding past us, we shout out loud. It only takes minutes and the motorcyclist comes roaring up from behind again, overtakes us and stops at the side of the road. The motorcyclist Mike actually comes from Perth and wants to cross the entire East to Europe on his bike. He is on his way to Norway and will work there as a ski instructor in winter. “Where did you do your ski instructor?” I ask. “In Canada,” he laughs. We talk for 1 ½ hours until we say goodbye again.

After 93 kilometers we reach the town of Kokchetav. We look forward to a sensible gastiniza in which we are not cooked. Unfortunately it costs just under 60,- ? per night and is fully booked. As we want to take a break for at least two nights, I leave the luxury store a little depressed and see Tanja talking to a Kazakh. “How can I help you?” he asks, whereupon we tell him to look for accommodation for the night. “Hm, hm,” he mumbles, pulls out his cell phone and talks to his wife. “Okay, you’re welcome to come and stay with us if you like. We have a bed available for you,” he invites us, obviously full of expectation. As we are hesitant and actually need our peace and quiet, he takes out his papers and says: “You don’t need to be afraid. I’m a police officer. Only recently retired. Here you can see. This is my ID card,” he laughs amiably. A senior police officer is actually looking at me in the picture. “Why have you retired already?” I ask. “In Kazakhstan, we are sent into retirement at the age of 42. But I’m still working as an engineer in a truck factory,” he explains. “My apartment is only a few bus stops from here. You don’t have to go far. Tanja and I talk for a moment. We realize that we should also make this trip to see what the Kazakhs’ home is like. Although we are too tired for in-depth and often exhausting communication, we agree. Marat seems to be delighted. “I was just on my way to get some fresh drinking water when I saw you standing here. Would you help me?” he asks me. “Gladly,” I reply and while Tanja looks after the wheels, I get into his Audi. Marat speaks quite reasonable English, so we can communicate better than if the conversation was only in Russian. We stop at an iron pipe spewing water, which protrudes about two meters out of the loamy earth. A group of people surround the water dispenser. Every single one of them fills the precious water into plastic bottles. Marat has 15 ten-liter bottles and three 25-liter barrels with him. We carry everything down the steps to the pipe. He is the only one who has his own hose, which he sticks into the opening and immediately sucks on it. Water immediately gushes into a barrel. After we’ve finished, we lug the 225 liters up the stairs and load them into the trunk of his car. After almost 100 kilometers and the efforts of the last few days, I stagger more than I walk. In my mind’s eye, I wish we had accepted his invitation and see myself sitting in a comfortable guestiniza in the shade of a tree. “Don’t the townspeople have water in their houses?” I ask as we drive back to Tanja’s. “Yes, yes, but the quality is not good.” “Does everyone in Kokchetav get their drinking water this way?” “No, that’s not possible for many. Only those who own a car can afford this luxury. The others have to drink the bad water,” he explains.

“I’ll ride ahead of them,” says Marat when we get back to the bikes. We slowly follow him through the traffic. After a bus stop, he has to turn left. “Now you can get lost and just turn right,” I think to myself as Marat’s car is no longer visible. I resist the temptation to simply run away. God knows that wouldn’t be fair. The poor man would never know what he had done wrong. And he didn’t do anything wrong. He is very nice and friendly. Invited us to his home. How was I supposed to explain to him that I was just dog-tired and had no energy for any kind of communication? We see him in front of us again as we ponder our thoughts. He waves and laughs. We follow obediently and my thoughts of simply running away disappear. Then finally, after about five kilometers, we reach one of the usual run-down apartment blocks. A dirt road leads to the rear of the nine-storey building. “This is my home,” says Marat, not without pride.

I help him carry the water to the first floor. There is a lot of garbage at the entrance. Nobody seems to care. If there are house rules, they are apparently only followed sporadically here. At least that’s the only explanation for me as to why people throw garbage away in their own stairwells and leave it there. The entrance to the block of houses is locked with a code-secured door. Most of the letterboxes have been torn out or destroyed. Only one has a lock. We later learn that this is the one that belongs to Marat. The stairwell is completely run-down. The windows are partially broken. At the top, Marat unlocks a steel door and lo and behold we enter a habitable home. Marat’s wife Gauhar welcomes me in a very friendly manner. “Germany is very good,” says the 43-year-old tuberculosis doctor. A little later, when we have carried all our equipment, including the bikes and trailers, into the apartment, Marat gives us some English letters. “From my friends in England. I also met them when they were out cycling. Please read them until I get back. I have to get back to work,” he says and leaves.

In the meantime, we settle into the room of our nine-year-old son Didar, who is currently at school camp. Our equipment leaves us hardly any room for movement. The bikes are in the living room and in the hallway. Everything is full of our stuff. Sweating, we sit down on Didar’s bed and catch our breath for a while. How does life play out? A moment ago we were on the street of a large city and suddenly we find ourselves in a Kazakh apartment. We read the letters from the English cyclists, which speak of hospitality and gratitude. While I transfer the pictures to the laptop and write my short notes, Gauhar prepares something to eat. “Please come”, she then asks us in Russian to enter the kitchen. There is tea, cookies, very sweet compote and a potato broth with cabbage. Gauhar has her 18-month-old daughter Dinar on her lap. “She is seriously ill. Suffers from a severe form of epilepsy. She can’t speak, can’t walk and reacts to absolutely nothing,” she says in a sad tone of voice. We learn that there are no medicines or doctors for this disease in Kazakhstan. “Could you get us some medicine from Germany?” she asks us. How should we explain that medicines are prescription-only? How are we supposed to give a German doctor a remote diagnosis of a disease that we don’t know? Gauhar seems to understand and cradles her child. She keeps saying the same words to her, puts the little one in the baby carriage and starts singing an incessant refrain. In between, we try to have a little chat in Russian. The mood is suddenly very sad. She has not been happy since Gauhar had her sick child. “I haven’t gone to work since Dinar was born. I have to look after her 24 hours a day,” she explains. “Do you have children?” she asks. As usual, she can’t understand when we say no.

Marat returns from work at 19:00. He always seems to be a good-humored and good-natured man. “I’ve bought a bottle of red wine for dinner. I hope you like wine?” he asks. “I’d love to,” we reply. Again, we sit on narrow stools in the small kitchen. The doorbell rings. Alinberg, Marat’s nephew, comes in. Alinberg is 28 years old, a lawyer and speaks good German. From now on, entertainment is easier. Gauhar shows us a few photo albums from excursions and the family. They rave about the nearby Bolugoi recreation area. “You absolutely have to see it. The landscape is simply unique. It’s the most beautiful place in Kazakhstan,” they say with wistful smiles. Marat lets us know that we can stay a few more days if we like. “We’d like to stay a little longer. Denis has to write and I need some rest because of the efforts of the last few days,” says Tanja and asks me to complete her explanation with a glance. “But I need a hotel room with absolute peace and quiet. Otherwise I won’t be able to concentrate on my work. If we don’t find anything tomorrow, we’ll move on,” I explain. “I’ll find something for you. Maybe an apartment? It’s cheaper than a hotel room and usually better,” suggests Alinberg. When he says goodbye at 11:30 pm, he promises to find us a place to stay. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow morning at 9 a.m.,” he says and leaves.

As soon as Alinberg has left the apartment, Marat proudly shows us the toy cars and guns he has made out of wire. “I need a whole week for a crane truck like this. My art has already been in the newspaper. Maybe I’ll make it into the Guinness Book of Records one day. I just don’t know how to apply for it. Ha, ha, ha,” he laughs repeatedly and I notice a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Tanja is so tired she can hardly hold herself up and goes into the room. Since Marat pulled out the bed for us and therefore had to drag the fridge halfway to the door, the door doesn’t close. In the meantime, Marat tells me about his work as a policeman. “I had to work seven days a week. I never had any free time. Only now as an engineer do I have my weekends free. I studied engineering, but then I didn’t get a job and became a policeman. Today I get a pension of 250 euros and as an engineer I earn another 450 euros a month. We manage quite well with that. Ha, ha, ha,” he says and laughs. My eyes close after a long day and I want to lie down. I’m just about to get up when Marat asks me if I’d like to have a look at his coin collection. “Gladly,” I say politely, whereupon I spend the next half hour puzzling over where this or that coin came from. Then we look at photo albums. Many pictures of the family, pictures of excursions and of the English cyclists who were once guests here. Then I make the jump and go into the room. Minutes later, Marat stands at the open door of the room and asks me if I know the famous German naval officer who commanded some fleet in the Second World War. “I don’t know,” I say shortly before collapsing. “What, you don’t know him? That famous German? Wait, I think I have a photo of him. I’ll have a look,” he says and disappears back into the living room. I immediately take the opportunity to lie in bed with Tanja. Marat doesn’t come back and lets me sleep, but after just a few minutes I notice how mosquitoes are biting our bodies.

With the room temperature at around 32 degrees, I get up and sneak quietly into the living room to fetch the Brettschneider mosquito net from the trailer box. Because Marat is sleeping on the couch in the living room, he hears me and laughingly asks me what I’m looking for. “Oh, nothing special,” I reply and disappear back into our room. Then I hang up our net on the washing line, which fortunately runs right through it. Sighing, I settle down on the mattress and am glad to no longer be tapped by the bloodsuckers. Just as I’m about to fall into the land of dreams despite the heat, little Dina lets out a loud roar. Gauhar calms her down and sings her incessant, repetitive rhyme. “Dinushka, dinushka, dinushka, mom, mom, mom, dinushka, dinushka, dinushka.”

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