Place of the dragon

Once again, no drum roll, by which I mean the rain pattering on the tent, woke us from our sleep. Nevertheless, it was a noisy night because of all the cars whizzing past. “And I was afraid of brown bears? That’s downright ridiculous. No normal bear would dare come closer than 10 kilometers to this horribly loud traffic artery,” I boast, rolling up my sleeping bag.

Hungry, we eat a Rapunzel muesli. A really rare specialty so far away from Germany. Then I rebuild the entire front end of my bike. I had planned to mount the video camera on the handlebars this time. I bought a gorilla board for it in Germany. This is a small tripod with three movable octopus arms, at least that’s what they look like. According to the manufacturer, these arms can be wrapped around thin pipes, poles and anything else that is standing around, the camera can be clicked onto them and thus film or photograph from almost any position. My idea was to attach the Gorillapord to the handlebars. This enables me to film while driving without having to perform acrobatics as in previous years. However, the first tests were negative. Because of the speedometer and the bell, the gripper arms have no real place. Now I move my GPS, the bell and the speedometer from right to left and mount the Gorillapord again. While I was working, Tanja retreated into the tent to read. I’m being eaten by armies of mosquitoes out here. It is the purest test of patience. I spray myself from head to toe with mosquito repellent to get rid of the annoying bugs. But they still prick my fingers and the back of my neck. “It’s working,” I say happily 30 minutes later. We pack up our tent, click the saddlebags onto the bikes and leave the place that the mosquitoes have declared their stronghold.

As soon as we have pushed our bikes onto the road, we are approached by a road worker. “Are you from Germany? That’s wonderful. I’m German too. Part of my family lives in Germany but I stayed here. I live in a small village there. Can I offer you something to eat?” he says and asks in a friendly manner. As we have just had breakfast, we decline with thanks, shake his hand goodbye and drive off. We pedal our horses up a ridge. We have to descend after just one kilometer. My speedometer shows a 15% gradient. Although the display usually spits out inaccurate figures, much to my annoyance, I buy the 15% this time. We stoically push our road trains up the mountain with the utmost effort. Step by step, further and further, with the confidence of reaching the top at some point. Under no circumstances should we think that we might not make it and especially not think about the 1000 km of mountains ahead of us. Then cold water falls from the sky. We slip into our heavy rain gear and even slip our waterproof gore covers over our shoes.

After eight kilometers, another rest stop appears. Several women sit on simple wooden benches in front of it. When they see us, they wave in a friendly manner. “Are you from Germany?” asks one. “Can you tell by looking at us?” Tanja ponders. “Good afternoon,” she greets us kindly in German. “Do you speak German?” we want to know. “Njet”, (No) she snorts with laughter. Her colleagues also laugh heartily, but then jump up sheepishly and run to their stalls. The pleasant atmosphere here has already prompted us to take a tea break. We put the bikes on the benches where the women were sitting and enter the rest house. Inside, there are several small stalls next to each other over a length of perhaps 50 meters. Each of the women has a store where they offer everything imaginable in food and drink. There are benches and tables in front of the small stores. We settle down on one of the benches and take off our rain gear. Then we order tea and, because I’m particularly fond of cake, a slice of that too. “And how do you like the cake?” asks Tanja. “Unfortunately, it has taken on the taste of the roast chicken it was standing next to. But when I think about it, it’s really delicious,” I smile. It starts to rain again outside. The temperature drops to around 9 degrees C. We stay to wait for its end. “Where are you going?” asks a young Siberian in broken English. We explain our route, to which he and his friend shake their heads as usual. “Malazee!”, (Fantastic) they say. “I was at Lake Baikal just a few days ago. It was very cold there. The wind in particular was really icy,” he explains.

As the rain eases off, we get back on our bikes and continue our journey through the beautiful green hills of Siberia. The rain alternates with sunshine, just like in April in Germany. We leave our rain gear on so as not to be caught out by one of the cold showers. This means a rollercoaster of temperatures for us. After another 20 kilometers we look for another rest stop. This time I eat fresh pierogi. (Eggs fried in yeast dough and onion peppers) Tastes really delicious. However, they are usually fried in inferior sunflower oil and sit like a stone in the stomach. Later I envied Tanja because she didn’t eat any of them. She wisely preferred a banana.

Suddenly a heavy motorcycle buzzes past us. “It looked like a German license plate!” exclaims Tanja. Only moments later, the driver brakes his machine, turns and comes towards us. “I’ve never seen anything like it on my entire trip! I can’t believe it! Simply unbelievable! And you’re from Germany, too!” says the corpulent man, who introduces himself as Norbert. We quickly get talking and exchange a few experiences. “I want to go to Lake Baikal. It’s a childhood dream of mine that I’m finally fulfilling. I’ve been saving for it for 10 years. It’s not easy as a divorced man to get the money together for a trip like this. But now I’m on my way. Unfortunately, I can’t go back from there,” he tells us. “Why is that? Is time running out?” I ask. “No, no. I have six weeks. That’s quite enough. But a truck driver pressed me against the crash barrier in the Ukraine. I skidded along there with my machine for 50 meters. Fortunately, nothing happened to me. However, the cylinder head has suffered some damage. Now it oils. The Ukrainians have restored my BMW so far. They welded everything, repaired the dented case and didn’t even want a cent for it. Nevertheless, I don’t trust it because oil is leaking out. I don’t want it to tear up my engine somewhere out in the sticks. That would be really bad. I will have to load the plane onto the Trans-Siberian Railway at Lake Baikal. But first I want to dip my toes in the water of the lake. That’s part of my dream,” chats the friendly man. “Do you think it was intentional?” asks Tanja. “What? You mean the truck driver deliberately pushed me off the road?” “Yes. Could it be?” “I’m quite sure of that. That was no accident. He wanted to blow me up. Either he was drunk or he had other motives,” Norbert explains. We then say goodbye to Norbert again, wish each other good luck and continue our journey individually.

It doesn’t take long before something starts grinding loudly on my bike. I stop and try to find the cause. We drive on without any results, but the grinding gets worse. We stop again at a crash barrier and lean our bikes against it. Heavy traffic rushes past right next to us. I now unload the bike completely to take a closer look at it. “It’s the rear brake. It must have become misaligned due to all the mud,” I say, get my tools, sit on an Ortlieb saddlebag and readjust the brake system. It fits perfectly after just a few minutes. “I didn’t think I’d be able to adjust the Magura so quickly,” I say with satisfaction, loading the bike again.

Then the sun comes out. We cross a picture-book landscape. To the left and right of the arterial road are lush green meadows bordered by birch and coniferous forests. Beautiful flowers bloom in unlimited numbers on the seemingly endless green spaces. Small groups of trees float like islands in a sea of different shades of green. From time to time, lush fields line our path. Thunderclouds dab a light blue firmament. Sometimes we are gifted with the odd flat section and are only allowed to glide along with little effort. Mushroom sellers stand at the end of a village. They offer buckets of porcini mushrooms, chestnuts and other mushrooms. “Don’t you want to buy one? It’s not expensive!” they shout. “Thanks, but we don’t have room to load them,” we reply. “But you’ve got a big fridge that you’re dragging around. Surely there’s still a spot for our delicious mushrooms?” says a woman pointing at my Zargesbox. “No, no, the box is full of technology and other equipment,” I reply with a laugh. We linger with the vendors for a few moments, filming and photographing them. Drivers stop and haggle over the price. “So if you take the second bucket, you get one bucket for 60 roubles (1.36 euros). That means both for 120 roubles (2.72 euros),” says a young man to a fashionably dressed shopper. The woman doesn’t miss out on the offer and strikes. The mushroom hunter happily takes the money, puts it in his pocket, grabs his empty buckets and immediately heads back into the forest to look for another filling. We wave goodbye to the mushroom sellers and continue our interesting journey through Siberia, never knowing what awaits us around the next bend.

At 18:00, a sign shows us the way to the village of Uyar. We have to leave the main road and pedal four kilometers south. We have just turned off and there is hardly any traffic. “What a relief,” I exclaim with relief. “This is exactly how I imagined my cycle tour through Siberia,” says Tanja. “I think that will come. Maybe it will get quieter after the town of Kansk,” I reply as another climb takes us by surprise. On the other side, we let our luggage roll down the hill into a valley on wheels. Below, we see a freight train of the Trans-Siberian Railway winding its way past a hill. Since Krasnoyarsk, we have repeatedly come into contact with the world-famous railroad line which, like us, makes its way to Irkuts and then continues on to Vladivostok. So we will remain loyal to each other until we reach Baikal. However, another route also leads through the whole of Mongolia to Beijing. I think we’ll be crossing this railroad line many times before the end of this stage. During our big trip, Tanja and I have already traveled the route from Hong Kong to Beijing and from Beijing through the whole of Mongolia to Ulan Bator on this train. Back then, we traveled for many days in the iron steed and then crossed the Mongolian highlands for 1,600 kilometers on horseback. Whenever I see the trains of the Trans-Siberian Railway now, I think back to that exciting expedition.

“There’s a billboard for a gastiniza!” says Tanja. “Fantastic! It even has seven stars”, I reply, knowing that I can’t take the rating seriously. We slowly bump along the terribly bad road into the village. People marvel at us. Some try desperately to look away and as we pass them, they stare after us, literally spellbound. There is no doubt that you have never seen such loaded bikes with trailers here, or if you have, then extremely rarely. We ask for directions to the accommodation. “Prjama, priama, padom naljewa i padom priama, padom ßwitafora naprawa,” explains a woman. (Straight, straight, then left and then straight ahead, then right at the traffic lights) While I try out the new camera mount and concentrate on filming, Tanja has to keep asking me which way to go. She looks for people who look trustworthy. Here in the countryside we encounter many drunks who have difficulty walking in a straight line in broad daylight. No wonder, because in such a remote village in Siberia there are hardly any prospects for the population. The leisure facilities are extremely limited, if available at all. We discover a hand-painted board advertising a movie. It is doubtful whether there is even a movie theater in the town. There are hardly any stores and the unemployment rate is very high. In Russia too, at least that’s what we’ve been told, many people have lost their jobs because of the economic crisis. This is a real catastrophe for those affected because they are not covered by social security as they are here in Germany, for example. “If someone loses their job, they have to live off their savings. We don’t have unemployment benefit. People who have to pay off a condominium lose it or are supported by their family. Of course, only if the family can support them and is not affected themselves. Meanwhile, many Russians have to work for low wages. Some employers are taking advantage of the bad economic times. I work as a translator in a mine in the northernmost part of Russia and get 150 roubles (3.40 euros) an hour. That’s not a bad income for Russia,” said Katja. Jenya also studied and works as a blacksmith. According to him, he earns 15,000 roubles (340 euros) a month. These are salaries you earn in a city. It’s different here in the villages.

“Where do you come from?” a man asks me, blowing his beer flag in my face. Two boys on a moped watch us with interest. “Can you please tell us where the Gastiniza is?” asks Tanja politely. “But of course. If you want, we can drive ahead of you,” they offer. We follow the boys over the many bumps, the torn up asphalt, through the countless hollows and deep cracks in the road, which has been battered by the extreme winter. We stop in front of a building made of red bricks. “That’s it,” say the young men and accompany me inside. A woman sits sullenly behind an old Dresen that perhaps experienced better times 30 years ago. “No, we don’t have a room,” her voice hisses across the table, making my hair stand on end. “But we’re dog-tired. We need somewhere to stay for the night,” I ask politely. “I told you, we have nothing!” she nags at me again with a bitterly angry face. I’m sure if she had a sword, my head would have rolled off my shoulders as soon as I entered this dosshouse. The two moped riders are touchingly committed to me. They are clearly embarrassed that the reception dragon is treating me like this. Then I think I understand that I can get a room for one night. “I only want to stay one night,” I try again. “You can have a room for one night,” her voice cuts through the dark reception room. But then the lady recommends that the boys send me to another gastiniza, whereupon they set off to scout it out for us. Visibly shaken by so much unfriendliness, I leave the Gastiniza and tell Tanja about my experience. A 50-year-old Russian woman comes up to us and speaks to us directly. “You want to spend the night in this gastiniza? “But yes,” we reply. “That’s no problem,” she replies and accompanies me back into the lion’s den. It only takes seconds for the two ladies to have a loud, obviously aggressive exchange of words. The winner is apparently the Siberian woman who has just brought me back to the accommodation. “Is she an angel too? Maybe she has also been touched by an energy being to help us at this moment? Why is she coming up to us out of nowhere at this very moment and asking if we want to stay here? Is she the owner of the store here?” I wonder, not knowing at the time that she has absolutely nothing to do with the Gastiniza, because we meet her at her little fruit stall on the main street as we leave the town. However. Our Siberian friend Katja told me in Krasnoyarsk that nothing bad would happen to us because I was born on January twenty-fifth. “This is the day of the angels,” she said, smiling benevolently. Maybe there is some truth in this story, because when things got tight on our travels and expeditions, someone always came to help us out.

“Can I see the room first?” I take the liberty of asking the unpleasant person. The receptionist grumpily accompanies me to the second floor and shows me the deluxe room. I am surprised to see relatively well-restored accommodation with a shower, small living room and bedroom in the old building. “Does the hot water work?” I’m interested, as there was no hot water in Jenya’s apartment because the hot water pipes in Krasnoyarsk were overhauled for two weeks, like every summer. “Sure,” I get a dry answer. “The deluxe room costs 1140 roubles per person. (25.90 euros),” she says, taking a little of the annoyed tone out of her voice. At first I was shocked by the high price. But because we’ve had a very strenuous few days and my right knee is starting to hurt, we decide to stay here anyway. We need to rest a little before continuing our journey. Now the dragon allows us to put our bikes and luggage in the reception area. While Tanja is busy filling out the paperwork, I lock our bikes together with a lock. I use another lock to chain the rear tires to the nearby heater. “You don’t need to do that. I’m here all night,” says the restaurant employee. “It can’t hurt,” I reply with a smile and cover the noble steeds with a tarpaulin. So not everyone can see what exotic bikes are parked here in the vestibule.

“I can’t give them a suitable one. You have to go to the magazine (store) opposite. You can have your bill changed there,” the unfriendly woman says. “I’ll do that, but first we’d like to carry our equipment into the room,” Tanja replies very kindly. “Njet! (No) First they’ll change the money and then they can go into the room,” I hear the dragon hiss. “Fine, if that’s what you want,” Tanja replies patiently and sets off. Although I am aware that this woman’s rudeness is due to her own insecurity, fear and weakness, I am slowly getting too much. After the bikes are well stowed away, I go to the Dresen and say: “The key please.” “Njet, (no) change money first.” “Now give me that damn key right now,” I hiss back for the first time. Without batting an eyelid, the dragon hands me the desired key. “Funiba”, (thank you) I say and start lugging our Ortlieb bags upstairs. Only minutes later Tanja is back from changing and helps me carry the pendants into the room. “Oh God, look at that”; it crosses my lips as my gaze falls on the quick-release axle of her trailer. “What’s going on now?” wonders Tanja. “Your tire has come off and the ball bearings have come out with it,” I reply, parking the trailer in the room. Although I’m dog-tired after a long day, I have no choice but to investigate the damage straight away. Did we have a guardian angel again? Shortly before the little town, we drove down a hill. Under no circumstances should a wheel of the trailer have become independent. If we had driven just a few hundred meters further, the tire would have jumped off the axle. Cursing quietly, I realize that the ball bearings have come completely loose from the axle sleeve and won’t go back there despite all my efforts. I sit there pondering and wondering how I can get the bearings back into the axle without destroying them. After about 20 minutes I solved the problem and the hanger is fit again. Why the camps loosened up so much remains a mystery to me. We can only hope that it will not happen again and are forced to constantly check both trailers from now on.

After a long day’s work, we sit in our mosquito-free Siberian deluxe accommodation, drink a beer, eat a salad prepared by Tanja and are as happy as little children to have made it this far. We enjoy our first hot shower after two weeks. In a country where the water comes out of the tap just before freezing point, even in summer, this is a dream come true. Even the dragon suddenly mutates into an angel and later asks with a genuine smile on his lips whether everything is going to our satisfaction. What more could you want?

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