Everything under water

It has rained a lot in the last few days. Temperatures have continued to fall. While we still had 38 degrees in the sun when we entered Siberia, the thermometer didn’t rise above 15 degrees for just a few days afterwards. There is hardly anything left of the warming star. Only very rarely do a few rays peak through the thick rain clouds. Is this bad weather at the beginning of September normal for Siberia? We do not know. The statements vary, so we can hardly rely on them. “It will snow in two weeks,” one Siberian suspected. Well, I hope he’s not right.

We leave the old Kurhaus at the bend in the Ob River. The morning is particularly cool at just 10 degrees. Dark clouds creep over the land. We buy fresh water in a small store and pour away the rest of the cemetery water still in our drinking systems. Fortunately, the master has our back again today. We make good progress and fly at 20 to 25 km/h over the damp asphalt. Traffic is still heavy. Sure, everything seems to be heading for Novosibirsk. After 70 kilometers it starts to rain. “That would be a good place for our lunch break,” says Tanja, pointing to a petrol station. We roll under the roof of the petrol pumps, lean our road trains against the building and are thus protected from the rain and wind. Standing up, we enjoy a fruit salad with kefir prepared by Tanja, a chocolate bar and two cups of hot tea from the thermos flask.

Then it’s off into the rain again. It’s pouring with rain. Just 10 kilometers later, we put on another fleece pullover, rain overshoes and waterproof gloves. The road, especially the shoulder, resembles a small river. It is smooth and greasy. Suddenly a foot buckle on the pedal comes loose. We are stopping. “I have to get to the trailer. That’s where the tools are!” I shout. When I open the lid of the Zargesbox, the water flows into our equipment. Then I screw the foot buckle back on. Just five minutes later, it has come loose from the holder again. Repairs in such bad weather are annoying. My hands are clammy. “The locking screw is too short. I have to repair it in Novosibirsk,” I explain to Tanja.

We reach the outskirts of the metropolis of 1.5 million. For reasons we don’t understand, there are countless trucks parked to the left and right of the road. They are standing in deep mud. We have to be careful not to accidentally step off the verge into the soggy, sticky ground. Traffic has increased dramatically. It honks and stinks. Pure hustle and bustle with very poor visibility and a slippery road surface. Then a police station. The policeman waves cars to the hard shoulder. They are checked there. Although the police are generally well-disposed towards us, we are always happy to pass such road posts, which exist outside every town, without any problems.

The officers don’t notice us at first, because they are fully occupied. We step past. Suddenly, a penetrating loudspeaker voice pierces the traffic madness. “Are we meant? Never mind, just keep going,” I think and we are past the crawling wet snake.

Then cars roar past us and give us a full load of puddle water. We spit, our glasses are smeared. The breath steams. The city welcomes us with elbowing behavior and ruthlessness. As the smallest link in urban traffic, we are no longer worth anything. We reach a large traffic island. I let my sumo bike roll into the mud and study the map. I raise my hand as a small truck groans past us. He remains standing. “Can I help you?” asks the driver. “Yes,” I answer gratefully. “Where is the road towards Tomsk?” I shout loudly to drown out the noise around us. The man takes out his cell phone and calls someone. With positive information, he climbs out of his driver’s cab into the mud and draws me a plan. “A thousand thanks,” I say shaking his hand. “At least we now have a rough direction,” I explain to Tanja.

We push our bikes across the four-lane road. Cars from all directions. Thank goodness one of the drivers takes pity on us, stops the flow of traffic and lets us across. Then we carry on. Stop and go. We are tired and exhausted. The rain, the cold, almost 10 hours on the road and now rush hour, with hundreds of heaps of metal buzzing around us like the suction cups of a slippery, dangerous giant stretcher. Some of the roads are flooded. The sewage system is completely overloaded. We roll vigilantly through the murky, cold liquid. Don’t drive too far to the right! Who knows if one of the manhole covers is missing!” I shout a warning to Tanja, who follows me and gets soaked by the splashing water from my tires. We squeeze between overhanging freight trains, drive past buses whose electricity consumers hang in a tangle of cables above our heads. Black soot and exhaust fumes from leaded gasoline are coughed and vomited on us. What a nightmare for our lungs. But what else can we do? There is only one road to Tomsk and it leads right through this metropolis.

We seek shelter at a petrol station to recover for a short time from the abscess of a human settlement that has broken open. I feel sick. Tanja looks pale. I ask a man who has just refueled his vehicle where there is a Gastiniza. He thinks about it, tries to explain the way and when it gets too complicated he offers to drive ahead. I secretly prayed for it and lo and behold, it actually worked. We now follow the Siberian through the watery traffic chaos. When I think I’ve lost him, I notice him at a bus stop in front of us. “You have to cross the road. You see over there? Then drive to the end. There’s a Gastiniza,” he explains. We thank him and follow his explanation. “No, there’s no Gastiniza here,” says a passer-by standing in water up to his ankles. “What, Gastiniza? It’s far!” says a young 12-year-old boy. We are exasperated. Drive back. A young man in his car waits in front of a house. “You have to go back and turn right on the main road,” he says. We follow his advice when Tanja is asked by the occupants of a minibus where she is coming from and where she is going. “Gastiniza? Well, you’ll have to go back there. Ask for the sauna,” explains the passenger. We reach the young waiting driver again. An expansive lake has formed in front of a house. I put my bike on the stand and wade through the lake to the house. The door is locked. They tell me to knock in the neighboring house. Someone actually opens the door. “Is this a gastiniza?” I soon ask at the end of my tether. “Yes,” I hear the wonderful word. “Do you have a room for my wife and me?” “Yes,” I hear again. “Is there a room for our bikes?” I add somewhat meekly, hoping not to hear a no now. “Yes, just bring your bikes in,” I can hardly believe my ears.

I go outside and show Tanja the okay sign. She laughs with relief. While Tanja carries our completely filthy equipment through the spotlessly clean house to the second floor, into a very large room, I stand in the lake and try to clean as much of the coarsest dirt as possible. The ladies of the house take the dirt in their stride. As soon as we move in, the floor is mopped again and shines just like before. Having escaped the dreadful weather and its even more dreadful traffic, I let myself sink onto the big bed.

Only later do we realize that we are staying in an hour hotel. The ladies showed us the different saunas that you can rent. Then we noticed the clearly ambiguous pictures on the walls. The possibility of renting a room for hours and the telltale noises from one room or another provide enough information. We don’t care. We are treated very courteously. People wondered how we found this house. The ladies in the kitchen whisper about the German cyclists and laugh amiably. Later, we enjoy a nice hot shower, eat our evening meal in the room and talk happily about the day’s experiences and our success in reaching Novosibirsk.

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