A day like a week

To send our experiences into the satellite sky so that they appear on our website just seconds later, I search for the right window from our guestiniza. I only have reception when the antenna is facing southwest. The door is open in the room opposite. The cleaning lady is cleaning it. As she’s not there at the moment, I take the opportunity to slip into the room and check the direction of the compass. Perfect. I put the phone on the windowsill and connect my Itronix laptop. The transfer works. “Very good,” I say happily, looking down into the courtyard below me. A beggar rummages for food in the garbage cans. A hotel employee also finds some bags of fresh bread. There is a large bakery right next door. Bread that appears to be burnt is neatly packed in plastic bags and thrown in the bin. It is obviously not for sale, but one of the workers there distributes it among the needy in this way.

On our way through the town of Usolje-Sibirskoje, we encounter many drunks. “This city is the purest cesspool of sin. You have to be very careful there. It’s teeming with drug addicts. Many inject heroin and the crime rate is high,” Nikolai warned us. Indeed, this city has an unpleasant aura. Are we biased by Nikolai’s warning? Who knows? In any case, we are glad to leave this ugly settlement behind us.

The volume of traffic has increased further. The cars and trucks honk their horns for all they’re worth. Sometimes we no longer know whether they are greeting us or warning us. There is no hard shoulder to avoid. As if this were a German highway, the vehicles chase past us at crazy speeds. Probably caused by the relatively good asphalt surface. Suddenly the route becomes four-lane. The free pass for unlimited speed. Drops of sweat run down my face and body. Not because of the effort, but because of the fear that arises. Even though we’ve been on busy main roads and even highways from time to time over the last 12,000 kilometers, I just can’t get used to the speeding madness. Without a doubt, these are the negative moments of a long-distance cyclist. Only prayer, hope and fear can help. Above all, we must not lose confidence. The emerging panic makes the situation much worse. Yes, I would even say that panic and the negative thoughts that arise from it create potential dangers and accidents in the first place. If you stay calm, your bike will purr along in a straight line. If you start to hyperventilate, this is transferred to the handlebars. The wheel begins to wobble. When many a car shoots past us so closely, swaying and uncertainty is not a good idea.

There is a shashlik stand at a nice rest stop. The smoke of freshly grilled food drifts across the busy street. “Let’s take a short break,” I call out. We lean our sumo bikes against a wall. “Come on, come on. The kebab tastes delicious!” shouts the man behind the grill. I buy a Spies and sit down with Tanja at one of the tables with ketchup bottles standing in the sun. There are pieces of bread in a large bag, from which you can take as many as your hunger requires. Guests can also help themselves to a plate of onions. We enjoy the pleasant atmosphere until a tall man in uniform approaches us. I can sense his negative aura from afar and deliberately look in a different direction. “You’re from Germany?” he asks. “Yes,” we answer. “Do you have a ring like this?” he wants to know and presses the piece of jewelry into my hands. I realize that it is an SS ring and look at him uncomprehendingly. The man is carrying a knife and pepper gas on his belt. There is a massive pistol in the shoulder holster. “No,” I say and try to smile despite the frightening impression the Russian gives me. “Hm,” he says seriously, takes the ring from my hands again, turns his back on us and sits down next to his friend at one of the tables. “That man really scares me. Let’s keep driving,” urges Tanja. We get on our bikes. As we cycle past the gunman, he stretches out his arm in a Hitler salute and laughs. “It’s strange that there are also neo-Nazis in Russia,” says Tanja. “Yes, apparently people find it difficult to learn from the past. Many have forgotten or never understood the tragedy of the Third Reich,” I say thoughtfully and am glad to leave this weird bird behind us.

On the way, we pass through pretty-looking villages that take our minds off things again. Small stalls are often set up in front of the houses selling potatoes, cauliflowers, various types of turnips, milk, eggs, flowers, home-made brooms and crocheted rugs. “Come with me. I’ll show you my garden,” an old Siberian woman asks me after I have photographed her with her stall. “There you see. Isn’t that nice?” she asks. “Otschin Krasiwie”, (“Very beautiful”) I praise her wonderful vegetable and flower garden. “Da ßwidanja” (“See you again”) is how I say goodbye to the nice woman. As we don’t have a long route ahead of us today, we let ourselves drift. We visit a venerable Orthodox church, take photos and film life in the villages.

Shortly before the town of Angarsk, we stop again at a roadside restaurant. The owner is an Armenian who serves us friendly service and a delicious meal. “The tea is on us,” says the Armenian’s daughter, placing two steaming cups on the table after the meal. During the following conversation, she offers to show us the city after work. But as we have an appointment with Father Andrej today, we decline with thanks. The Armenian’s daughter, Christina, serves tea again and gives Tanja a little stuffed mouse as a souvenir. Suddenly the cell phone rings. “Tanja? Denis? It’s me. Andrei. Where are you right now?” asks the priest we met a few days ago in Kutulik. “We’re sitting in a café at the entrance to Angarsk,” explains Tanja. “Stay where you are. I’ll come and get you,” he says and hangs up. Just ten minutes later, a white car stops in front of us. A bearded young man with a braided pigtail gets out and comes towards us laughing. Because we were expecting Father Andrej in his black regalia, we hardly recognize the man, who is dressed in a blue denim shirt and dark trousers. “Nice to see you,” he greets us and marvels at our heavily laden bikes for a few moments. “So I’ll drive ahead. You follow me. I’ll take you to a hotel. Then I’ll show you the town and our church,” he says. Before we can answer, he is already back in his car waiting for us to mount our bucks. Only moments later, we follow the priest. The main road forks in front of us. Andrej turns off, leaving the town on his left. We are not surprised and continue pedaling. It starts to drizzle. We are tired despite the short distance. “I wonder where this hotel is?” I ask myself. “Why doesn’t he let us stay at his house?” I continue to think. After 18 kilometers, we follow the road back towards Angarsk. “What are you doing? Now we’re going back into town from the back?” I ask myself again and start to get a little annoyed about the supposed detour. We are relieved when father Andrej stops in front of a large, newly built hotel. “This is your place to stay for the night,” he says and goes into the house. “Looks expensive,” I say and follow the priest. “How much is the night?” I ask the woman at reception. “Nothing. I’m inviting you,” I’m taken aback by Andrei’s reply. “What, nothing? That’s not possible under any circumstances. We can’t let you invite us to such an expensive hotel,” I reply in a friendly but firm manner. The priest looks at me with good-natured eyes and says: “Denis, the owner is a friend of mine. He gave me a night for you. So no problem,” he explains. “Unbelievable, these people in Russia,” it goes through my head again. The Father helps us to stow the bikes in the underground garage and carries our equipment with us to a beautiful, spacious and modernly furnished room. “The room of a king,” he says, striding across the parquet floor. “Indeed,” I reply, visibly pleased, as we haven’t had the pleasure of staying in such luxurious accommodation before.

I don’t have too much time. How long will it take you to shower?” he asks. “We’ll be ready in 20 minutes,” I reply. “Take your time. I was only joking. I’ll wait for you in the café,” he replies with a smile and leaves the room. Tanja and I enjoy the hot shower. Then, 20 minutes later, we are back with Father Andrej. “Ah, punctual like the Germans,” he laughs and invites us to get into his car. A little later, we park in front of the typical run-down and ugly residential bunkers that all look similar in the former communist Soviet Union. “I’ll quickly pick up my family and then I’ll show you Angarsk,” he suggests and leaves the car. Minutes later, we greet his wife, who is holding their nine-month-old daughter in her arms and leading their four-year-old son by the hand. “Nice to meet you,” Svetlana greets us in good English. As soon as we are all in the car, Andrei drives us into the city center. “The main street was built on the model of St. Petersburg,” Andrei explains as we turn into a spacious street with a green strip. Blocks of houses are lined up to the left and right of the boulevard, some of their façades looking sublime. “Angarsk is the second largest city in the Irkutsk administrative region with a population of around 270,000 and was only founded in 1949 as a station on the Trans-Siberian Railway. This makes it one of the youngest cities in Siberia,” explains the priest as we stroll through a park. “Is there any industry here? Surely the people here have to make a living from something?” I ask. “Of course we have industry. The most important sector is the oil industry.” “Oil industry?” I wonder. “Yes. The oil from the West Siberian oil fields is transported directly to the refineries in Angarsk via pipelines. We also have a chemical industry and the production of plastics here,” explains the educated clergyman.

Hopeless situation

“But our country has a big problem,” he continues. “Alcohol and other drugs are causing society to deteriorate. Few people really want to work these days and live on the breadline. It’s a bottomless pit. Even our children are starting to get drunk. So, is that a miracle? No. Look around the park here. Over there. Do you see the young mothers? Where the baby carriages are?” he asks, shaking his head and pointing to two fashionably dressed women smoking and drinking their beer. “The mothers are showing their children how to do it. That’s a disaster. It’s clear that their children will also drink alcohol and smoke later on if their parents show them how to do it every day. For me as a priest, fighting against the collapse of our society is an almost hopeless situation. But it is even worse in the villages. Most of the people there have no alternative and almost all of them are alcoholics. In Kutulik, the village where I am trying to rebuild the church, things are really bad. You can’t imagine the extent of it. Even the village teacher is addicted to vodka. He even drinks during lessons. The children see their teacher drinking and imitate him. Simply hopeless. Only five to ten people attend the church service at the moment. Although God can give people hope, confidence, prospects and a way out of their situation, not more residents want to attend the service. With donations that I collected from the rich, we have now been able to build a church school. Now the villagers say I am a rich man. Many are envious. What madness. They don’t realize that I also earn little money and do everything just for them. They refuse my help and prefer to remain in their hopeless situation. Oh, let me tell you. It’s not easy and I wonder if I have the strength to keep going.” “Hm, you’ve chosen a difficult task for your life,” I reply thoughtfully and verbalize my thoughts further; “But I know that it makes sense to persevere. It’s all a question of time. Maybe in ten years’ time your newly built church will be full of people? Who knows. Regardless of that, it doesn’t really matter how many people attend your service. Through your work, you are probably helping more people than you realize. The story of Jesus is a wonderful example. As a single person, he helped to change the world. So it’s not always the masses. In the end, it is sometimes enough to help just one person. Who knows what they will achieve,” I say. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Would you like a coffee?” he changes the subject abruptly. “Gladly”, we reply. A friend of mine owns a kitchen studio. They serve real coffee there,” he says. Shortly afterwards, we unexpectedly find ourselves in a classy store selling fitted kitchens. In stark contrast to the average Siberian income of 5,000 to 7,000 roubles (113 to 159 euros), the luxurious kitchens are absolutely out of reach for the average citizen. I stroll through the studio for a while. Startled, my gaze lingers on a price board. I read “404,000 roubles” (9,181 euros) out loud and can hardly comprehend the figure. “This is a store for rich Russians,” Andrej explains and invites us to take a seat at a table in one of the display kitchens. Tatjana, the nice sales clerk at the delicatessen, actually serves us real coffee and puts a plate of fruit and a plate of sausage and cheese on the table. I haven’t even finished half my cup when Andrej asks us to leave the store again. “I’d like to show you our cathedral,” he suggests.

“And you say the church was only built three years ago?” I ask, climbing the stairs to the large Orthodox church, which has peeling plaster and paint everywhere. “Yes, this is Russia. Today, buildings are no longer built to last forever. Everything has to be done quickly. There are hardly any good tradespeople and you cut corners,” he explains. In the church, Svetlana and Father Andrej stand in front of one of the holy icons and begin to sing. Their beautiful singing is echoed from the high walls of the cathedral. Gentleness, humility, devotion, love and warmth of heart resonate in it, so that Tanja and I listen in awe. As soon as the melodious song has stopped, we move on to the next item on the evening’s program and are allowed to climb the bell tower. “I can’t believe what Andrej has come up with for us,” says Tanja, exhausted by the many experiences of the long day.

After Svetlana and Andrei have gone shopping for dinner in a supermarket, we think the day is coming to an end for us. But far from it. “We have been looking for a cat for our home for a long time. A friend of ours breeds cats. We now have the opportunity to look at one. Would you like to come with us?” asks father Andrej. “We’d love to,” we reply despite our tiredness, because we’re excited to see where we’re about to land. Andrej parks his car in front of a large house. “Bistro, bistro” (“Quick, quick”), he asks us to enter a large villa. As Andrej is always in a bit of a hurry, we are no longer surprised by his instructions and enter the house. We are immediately hit by the strong smell of cat urine. The 35-year-old young and pretty cat breeder, also called Svetlana, invites us in. She is accompanied only by an elegant robe in a Dalmatian pattern. The 50 square meter living room leaves us speechless. “So this is what it’s like for rich Russians at home,” I think, and while Andrei’s wife, their little son Nikolai and Tanja caress the kittens, I explore the room with my eyes.

In the house of the Siberian upper class

To the left and right of the large flat screen are three double loudspeakers that guarantee a pure cinematic experience. A double air mattress lies in front of the screen so that you can really enjoy the movies in comfort. An approx. 1 ½ meter tall stuffed dog is lounging next to it and is being entertained by the commercials. There are Gameboys and other technical gadgets on the floor. There is a bundle of thousand-dollar bills on the living room table. Photos of the family hang above a precious chest of drawers. All in golden frames. In one of the pictures I recognize a good-looking, expensively dressed woman with a proud expression on her face. She hugs Svetlana. The resemblance between the two women suggests that the older woman is Svetlana’s mother. A man sits in an aristocratic posture in a chair and smokes a pipe while being warmed by the open fire. Obviously the father. Other pictures show Svetlana. She has a filigree crown studded with gemstones on her hair and smiles at the camera. In the glass display case right next to it, a large number of gold and silver trophies are lined up, testifying to how successful her cat breeding is. The fine furniture in British colonial style emphasizes the wealth of the family living here. A Madonna figure is carved into the wall above the open fireplace. A Santa Claus hangs from the fireplace grate. “Take a good look at him. He’s too fat and can’t get up the chimney,” jokes father Andrej. “He probably likes the luxury here and can stay until next Christmas,” I reply with a laugh. “Can I take a photo?” I ask the breeder’s husband. “There, there”, (“Yes, yes”) he says, barely noticing me. He sits at a table and works on lists on his laptop. According to Andrej, the family runs the city’s cinema, a restaurant, owns a hotel on the Baikal in the expensive tourist resort of Listvyanka and much more. “Oh, she’s beautiful. Yes, I’d like to have one like that,” I hear Svetlana, Andrei’s wife, enthuse. My attention is now drawn to the blue-eyed little kittens. Self-confident and with a friendly smile, the breeder now presents the cat daddy to us. She carried him down to us from the second floor. “What do you poor wretch want in our house?” his eyes seem to say as his haughty look touches me. “How long have you been breeding cats?” I ask, ignoring the cat dad. “It’s only been two years,” she answers modestly. “Dwa Goda?” (“Two years?”) “There.” (“Yes.”) she replies. I am amazed at their obvious quick success. Here, too, you can see how people who already have a lot of money and run successful businesses obviously have no difficulty in developing further business ideas, while people in the nearby villages have no prospects. “How much does a kitten cost?” I ask. “20,000 roubles (454 euros). “20,000 roubles!” I repeat to reassure myself of the astronomical price. “Yes,” she replies and laughs heartily. “Are you selling all your offspring?” “But yes. Most of them are already pre-ordered,” I hear in amazement. As we say goodbye to Svetlana and her husband, father Andrei briefly tells us about our trip. Only now does the husband take an interest in us and starts a conversation. “You ride a bike and have the best cars in the world? Which car do you have at home? A BMW? Mercedes? Or an Audi? Oh, Swetlana wants an Audi Coupe. Apparently I have to buy it for her. But there’s still time,” he chats and gives me a knowing wink. “Don’t you want to stay here a little longer? You’re welcome to use our banya. It’s wonderful,” Svetlana invites us now. “Oh, thank you so much for the offer. We’d like to stay a little longer but we’ve already been invited to dinner by Father Andrej and his wife,” we say and leave the house of the city’s upper class.

Tell them you’re friends of mine and they won’t shoot you!”So if we come to our place now, please don’t be frightened. We only have a modest home,” apologizes Andrej. “But you have great wealth in your heart. That’s often worth more than anything else,” Tanja replies. “How are you going to afford a cat like that?” I ask Andrej. “Ha, ha, ha. You’re good. We could never afford one. I told you we’d get it as a present from Svetlana.”

The priest’s small apartment is spotlessly clean. We sit on the sofa and wait for Svetlana to prepare the food in the kitchen. Nikolai’s son is jumping around and taking photos of us with his toy camera. There is a tiny dining table in the kitchen, which is perhaps five square meters in size. My son Nikolai, Tanja and I are allowed to sit on the three available chairs, while Andrei and Svetlana stand next to us. There is egg-baked toast with jam, a plate of chocolate and tea with milk. If we gave free rein to our hunger for bicycles, the plate of toast would be eaten in a matter of minutes. Little Nikolai is also obviously ravenous, and he sneaks food and one piece of chocolate after another into his little mouth with incredible speed. When he notices that the toasts are dwindling, he quickly grabs the last two and places them next to his plate.

“He eats far too much sweets. We have to hide everything from him,” explains mother Svetlana, who worked as an English teacher for 6,000 roubles (136 euros) a month before her children were born. Andrej reports that there is hardly any middle class in Russia. “Rich or poor”, there is a vacuum in between. “We can barely make ends meet with our money. It’s impossible for me to send my children to a proper school. The teachers no longer earn anything and are therefore often no good. There are few prospects for us in this country either.” Before we leave, we give Svetlana and Andrei a box of organic tea from Sonnentor and a DVD of our last multivision show. We can’t give much as we only have limited space on the bikes. Nevertheless, we are always surprised at how happy people can be about such little things.

“I’ll take you back to the hotel now,” says Andrej out of the blue, as usual. “Gladly,” we reply and say goodbye to Svetlana. But before we drive to our accommodation, Andrej wants to take us for a walk in the city center. “Do you know why the streets are so empty at this hour?” he asks. “I have no idea. People don’t have the money to go out?” I guess. “No, it’s not necessarily that. It’s so empty here because it’s dangerous to walk around now.” “Dangerous?” “But yes. People don’t want to be killed.” “What do you mean?” “There’s a lot of riff-raff around at this time of day. Many are drinking. Many are armed. They shot an acquaintance of mine just like that. Without asking, just shot. Angarsk is a bad city. A dangerous city. It’s better in Irkutsk. But it’s risky to go for a walk here in the evening,” he says, parking his car in a backyard and asking us to get out. With strange feelings we now stroll along a side street through the urban canyons and ask ourselves why Andrej is bringing us here at around 10 p.m., a dangerous time? “You know, if you want to understand a city, you have to walk through the side streets. Only then can you feel the soul of a city. Only then can you understand its character. Look, it’s clean here. There’s no garbage lying around. That’s because many old people live in this neighborhood. People who still know how important cleanliness is,” he explains. After the strange excursion into the twilight side streets of Angarsk, we are back in the priest’s car. “Oh, I forgot my papers. Sorry about that. I’ll have to drive back home quickly to get them. Otherwise the police will stop me. They would say; Father Andrej, what are you doing here without papers?” Andrej parks his car in front of his house again. “Please wait here for me. If anyone comes by and wants to shoot you, tell them you’re friends of mine!” he shouts and is gone. Tanja and I look at each other, puzzled. “Is he going to finish us off or what?” asks Tanja. “I have no idea. It’s strange. But I think he meant the last statement more as a joke.” “Strange joke. Can you close the windows?” “I can’t. He took the ignition key with him and the windows can only be closed electrically. But I don’t think we need to be afraid. Just look. There are teenagers running around here. Over there, for example. The young girls. They’re not afraid either. If it was as bad as Andrei said, nobody would be walking around here anymore,” I reassure us.

Ten minutes later, we are driving towards our hotel. “Before you continue your journey tomorrow, you have to see the river. Come on, I’ll take you to the beach,” he suddenly suggests. “At this time of night? Does that make sense?” I ask. “Of course it does. It’s beautiful there,” he says and drives his car into the forest on a dirt road. The many horror stories of murder and death in this area make us feel queasy again. “What if there are shady characters partying on the shore right now? What if they’re having a drinking party and we happen to be there? Man, that priest has a lot of nerve,” runs through my mind as we park, as we often do on this eternally long evening. This time under the canopy of dark trees to see another sight. In the last light of day, we walk along a slippery wet path to the banks of the wide river. “Isn’t it beautiful here?” says the father, spreading his arms out as if in one of his sermons. “You can take a dip if you like,” he offers. “No, thank you. It’s a bit too late for that. Besides, the place is crawling with mosquitoes,” we decline, flailing around. “The water is wonderful. You can drink it,” he says, scooping up a handful of water from the dark, gurgling ribbon shining in the rising moon. “I’m not thirsty, Andrei,” I gratefully decline this offer too. “Let’s go back,” he suggests after we’ve run out of things to talk about. We walk back to the car again. But Andrei doesn’t get in. Friends of mine live back there. Shall we visit them?” “Why not,” we answer, which is why we walk past the car and knock on a wooden door a few hundred meters behind it to gain entry. “Oh, it’s you Andrej! Good to see you. Come in. Who have you brought with you?” asks the woman, who introduces herself as Larissa. “A new name at last,” I whisper to Tanja. Larissa introduces us to her husband. And how could it be otherwise? His name is Alexander. “I think half the male population in Russia is called Alexei, Alexander or Sergei,” whispers Tanja. Larissa immediately serves up honey cake, cheese, bread and tea. We learn that Alexander and Larissa are excellent laboratory doctors and work at the local hospital. Larissa lights a mosquito spiral because of the biting mosquitoes. “If you visit Simone on Olkhon Island, please give her our best wishes. She’s a good friend of ours. We’ve been going there for at least two weeks every year for a long time. We live right next door to Simone,” explain the two hospitable people.

It is 23:00 when we say goodbye to these people too. This time hoping that Andrej doesn’t want to introduce us to other friends. Thank goodness he actually takes us to the hotel. While Tanja, half unconscious with fatigue, retires to the beautiful room, I transfer the photos we took in Kutulik and today to Andrej’s laptop.

“You should drive to Baikal from here. You don’t need to go to Irkutsk. You simply load your bikes onto a bus. It will take you to Olkhon Island. I’ll ask for you tomorrow. Apart from that, it is advisable to load your bikes onto the train in Irkutsk and take them to the Mongolian border. That’s much better for you. Our mountains are guaranteed to kill you. That’s only for very young people who don’t have any luggage on their bikes,” he tries to convince me at this late hour. “That’s not possible,” I try to defend myself. “Why not?” “Because we’re on a cycling trip. We want to go by bike and not by train. Do you understand?” I ask, noticing the incomprehension in the father’s eyes.

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