Cemetery water to drink

Once again, the master is positive about us. Our bikes roll over the relatively good asphalt. In search of water, we follow a muddy track into a small village. “Looks like a well,” says Tanja, pointing to the hole in the ground surrounded by a truck tire. “Is that drinking water there?” I ask a pretty young woman coming towards us. “Yes,” she answers, opening the garden door to a little house. I look after her in amazement as she disappears into the garden with her baby carriage, dressed in high heels, skin-tight black jeans and a striped T-shirt, her hair done to perfection. If I didn’t know I was in a miserable Siberian village at that moment, I would think I had seen a mirage. Although some of the people are very poor, they attach great importance to their appearance. High heels, modern dresses, good haircuts for the women and white shirts and polished patent leather shoes for the male villagers are not uncommon in the East. Nevertheless, the appearance does not match the decay and poverty.

We lean our bikes against the wooden fence, fetch the spring water bladder and fill it with the cold, somewhat murky water coming out of the ground. “The water is not good,” a man suddenly warns me, coming out of the garden where the young mother has just disappeared. “Why?” I want to know. “Not good,” he says, pointing to his stomach with a circular gesture. “Can’t you drink it?” I now ask uncertainly. “Yes, but not as well,” he says. Then the young woman appears with a camera. “Can I take your photo?” she asks politely. “Of course,” we reply. “Can we take your photo?” Tanja wants to know in return. “Of course,” laughs the Siberian. To be on the safe side, I ask them again if the water is safe to drink. “We all drink it,” she confirms again. The neighbors, who have also noticed our presence and are watching us over their fence, also nod at the good quality of the water. Satisfied, we all fill our drinking bags and bottles.

“I was stationed in East Germany for three years in the Soviet army,” the man who had warned us about the water suddenly begins to explain. “Really?” I reply, concentrating on my work. “Yes, I was a musician. It was a great time there. Unfortunately, I cut all my fingers while working on the land during a vacation home. That was the end of my musical career. The wounds healed but I couldn’t play music any more. I was discharged from the army and now live on a small pension. Without my potatoes, tomatoes, chickens and our cow, we would have starved to death long ago on this measly pension,’ he explains, looking at me sadly. I feel his emotional pain. His eyes linger on my modern cycling gear. It is not envy that the 50-year-old man radiates, but only melancholy. Then another villager joins us. He is a Volga German and speaks to us in a barely understandable German dialect. “Where do you sleep at night?” he wants to know. “In the tent,” I reply. “Why don’t you come to me tonight? I invite you,” he says with a hopeful flicker in his eyes. “Thank you very much, but we want to cover at least another 50 kilometers today,” I reply, to which disappointment once again appears on his face.

After we have replenished our water supplies, Tanja’s gaze falls on the other side of the road. “Oh no. Have you seen the cemetery?” she asks. “I’m startled to see the burial ground hidden behind a fence just a few meters away from us. “Do you think the water is really drinkable?” Tanja wants to know. “How deep is the well?” I ask the Volga German. “20 meters,” his answer reassures me. “So, do you think we can really drink the water?” I hear Tanja ask again. The dead are buried no deeper than two meters underground. The water is definitely fine,” I reassure her

We say goodbye to the few people who have gathered around us in the meantime and leave the village. After 10 minutes, the physical exertion makes me thirsty. I immediately think of the cemetery and the bodies buried there. I briefly feel nauseous and ignore my dry throat. After 20 minutes the feeling of thirst becomes demanding. I pull on the drinking tube, put it in my mouth and take a big gulp. The water tastes the same as always. “Or?” I begin to doubt. “Does it have a taste? No. Tanja confuses me with her questions about whether the water is edible or not,” I think. The next sip makes me feel briefly nauseous, but the ever-present thirst of a cyclist makes me drink more of the fountain water. “It’s strange how bad your imagination can play tricks on you,” I try to calm myself down, but the image of the burial ground sticks in my mind.

At the first rest stop we reach today, I want to buy water and bread for our evening meal. The shopkeeper demands “60 roubles” (1.70 euros). “What?” I startle. “Very expensive, I know,” she replies apologetically. After being charged the outrageous price of 220 roubles (6.28 euros) for 5 liters of water, I leave the store empty-handed. “We have enough to eat. I’ll make us some delicious pasta with pine nuts and pesto siciliano from Rapunzel tonight,” Tanja comforts me. “Do we have any pine nuts left?” I ask, feeling my mouth water. “Yes, a packet,” she replies with an encouraging smile.

It is after 6 p.m. when we try in vain to find a suitable camp. Either the wheat fields are planted right up to the edge of the forest or the forests are too light to hide in. While Tanja holds the bikes, I set off on foot to find a place for the night. First I walk along a large birch forest. Pitching a tent inside is too gloomy and too damp. We also have great respect for the ticks that live there without end. I wander through waist-high grass until I spot a path leading into the forest. Following him, I think of bears that live in the Siberian forests. Although I know that this region is not inhabited by the largest land predators on earth, I have an eerie feeling. In the corner of my eye I see a bird of prey rising from a branch with powerful wing beats. I cringe. “What a shithead you are,” I chide myself. Then it suddenly gets lighter and I reach a beautiful clearing. Harvested grassy areas open up that seem ideal for our camp. I immediately rush back to fetch Tanja. “But you’ve been away for a long time,” she says. “Yes, it wasn’t easy to find a spot, but it was worth the effort. You’ll love it,” I promise, and we push our bikes through the tall grass and birch forest to my chosen campsite.

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