A long way to go

It’s the first cold night with only two degrees. As we pack the bikes we get stiff fingers. The early sun penetrates the morning veil of strange-looking clouds. The landlady has put her garbage in a tin drum. Acrid, poisonous smoke envelops us. Nobody thinks about the consequences of such waste incineration. How could you? Apart from that, in many places this is the only way to get to grips with the mountain of garbage. A light wind blows against us again and promises a very strenuous day even during the first few kilometers. According to my calculations, we have another 100 kilometers to the next overnight stop. In these conditions, that means gritting your teeth, self-motivation and perseverance. Yesterday is unfortunately a thing of the past. Although it is good that everything passes, I regret this fact in this case.

We’re not sure, but it looks like our destination is actually Samara, which is over 1,000 kilometers away from here. Through ongoing internet communication with the nuns of the Marta si Maria convent, we may have been offered a convent near Samara. The nun Dorothea’s cousin lives there. In the next mail we will receive more detailed information as to whether the Russian monastery will grant us hospitality. On the one hand, this solution would be fantastic. This would allow us to temporarily store some of our equipment until next spring, just before the inevitable Russian winter. That means we could come back after the winter and continue our journey there. On the other hand, the weather is becoming more unstable every day. It is getting colder and rain is expected to dominate this region in October. Covering over 1,000 kilometers by the beginning of November is a big challenge for us. Of course, if we didn’t publish our stories, we would be much faster. But we don’t want to leave you, dear reader, in the dark. But what am I worrying about now? Who knows where the river of life will take us? Who knows what the coming weeks have in store for us? Living in the moment, enjoying the moment and not destroying it with unnecessary worries is one of our most important learning tasks. So for the time being we are planning on Samara as our destination and are very excited to see what this route and the weather have in store for us.

It doesn’t take long for the glistening rays of sunshine to dominate the clear and cold fall day. In some places, the pitch below us reflects the light, which is why it takes on an almost whitish, glaring sheen. Fresh bitumen was poured into the cracks, crevices and holes in the road a few hours ago. In this way, the roadworks repair team is trying to alleviate even greater road damage that the coming frost will bring. Trucks rarely rumble past us. A raven has not managed to escape from the tin monster. He falls onto the fresh tar. An oversized tire presses the bird into its unconventional grave, immortalizing it for posterity. A decommissioned fighter jet has been erected at the entrance to the town. A memorial to the Second World War. Then we pass one of the many road checkpoints. Police officers, barbed wire and big floodlights still scare us. But so far we have been left completely undisturbed. On the contrary, we are often waved at. The obligatory questions of origin and destination are also shouted at us by the law enforcement officers. We answer as we drive past; “Coming from Germany and going to Burma!” General astonishment and head-shaking are repeated throughout the country. We cycle on, against a cool breeze. Not as strong as it was a few days ago, but no doubt exhausting.

After 40 kilometers, we make a short stop to stretch our legs a little. Drink a fruit juice, eat a bar of chocolate. Then continue. We still have a long way to go. An old, completely crushed Lada sits on a red steel pipe at the side of the road. It stretches its broken sheet metal accusingly into the blue sky as a reminder of the many traffic fatalities. But not only such memorials bear witness to life and death on Russian roads, as there are often graves and crosses on the roadside. Pictures carved in stone and photos remind us of the traffic victims. I still get a shiver down my spine when I look at the smiling faces of the often young people on the memorial plaques. Was it a coincidence? Destination? Drunk driving? Driving too fast? Who knows? I concentrate on my path again. Avoid all the broken glass, garbage and litter. A short break in the early afternoon. Feeding our hungry bellies with food. Then continue. It’s getting colder again. The sun loses power. The wrists start to hurt. We pedal along on the back of an earth runt and finally recognize the town sign. Hooray our goal for the day has been reached! But the lonely arterial road leads past the village. I stop. Wait for Tanja. “What should we do now? No Gastiniza for miles around.” “Let’s drive into town. I’m completely exhausted. We’re sure to find something there. We’ll just ask at the houses again,” she replies confidently. I can no longer think properly at this moment. Tiredness has eaten the energy out of my brain. We slowly let our bikes bump over a dilapidated bridge on the dusty track.

Lovely babushka and lovely dedushka

Two old trucks are parked on the side of the road. The drivers talk. “Is there a gastiniza in this village?” I ask. The two look at each other. “Yes, yes. Drive to the center of town. The Gastiniza is next to the magazine,” we hear happily. Surrounded by astonished children on their bikes, we cycle into the poor settlement. My gut feeling tells me that I won’t find anything here. Nevertheless, I don’t want to be discouraged. I ask a woman again. “No, we don’t have a gastiniza here,” she replies, causing our mood to sink again. “Is there any accommodation in this village?” I ask in the magazine. “No,” says the saleswoman. “Yes,” replies an old man who is out shopping. He smiles at me, escorts me out of the store and asks me to follow him. Tanja and I push our bikes behind him. Then we stop in front of a run-down prefabricated building. “Oh, it’s closed,” says the man who lovingly strokes his little grandson’s arm. “You know, we’re very tired. We have a tent and enough to eat. Can we pitch our tent in your garden?” Tanja suddenly asks him. He looks at us, thinks for a moment and answers; “At my house?” “Yes.” “Of course, of course. It’s only a kilometer away from here. My car is over there. Just follow me,” the friendly gentleman asks us. We don’t even know what’s happening to us. We pedal our equally tired road trains along the dusty clay track after the small car. Broken houses and electricity pylons line the way. Then there will be fewer buildings and huts. In one of the last modest but pretty little houses, we see the car disappear into a driveway. When we get there, an elderly woman looks at us in amazement. Not unfriendly, just surprised at what the two aliens were suddenly doing on their little farm. Her husband has not yet had the opportunity to enlighten her. Then he comes. “They are two cyclists from Germany. They’ve come all this way and are looking for a place to stay for the night,” he explains to his wife. “But of course. Come into the house,” she invites us in immediately. “Can we pitch our tent here?” I ask. “Tent? Like a tent? No, no, you come into the house,” she orders lovingly. Before we know it, Jurii, as the man introduced himself, has driven his car out of the garage to give our bikes a place to stay for the night. Then he and his wife Vala lend a hand and in no time at all our belongings are in the house. “Why don’t you sit down and rest? We’ll have food in a minute. We just have to look after our animals,” Jurii surprises us and disappears. So we suddenly find ourselves sitting in an absolutely clean, spacious living room trying to understand this miracle. “I can’t believe it. A moment ago we were on a dusty village road, exposed to the cold wind and the coming night, and now this,” I say quietly, stretching out all fours. “It’s just amazing how nice these people are here. They just took us in like that. Do you think they’ll let us sleep on the couch there?” “Who knows. It’s possible.” As soon as I close my mouth, Vala arrives and prepares our bed on the sofa. She covers the blankets and speaks to us in rapid Russian. We understand nothing and apologize for it. Never mind, she says and continues her pleasant flow of words. Then Jurii comes and leads me outside. At dusk, he shows me the vegetable garden, the geese, the two pigs, turkeys and the outhouse with the plush toilet seat. The small courtyard with its modest sheds is exemplary clean and well-kept. Without doubt a place to feel immediately at home.

“Shall I heat up the bathhouse for you?” he asks and leads me into the small banya, the Russian sauna. “Oh, how beautiful she is,” I say happily. Jurii proudly shows me the little stone hut, the little oil basin, the water basins and the anteroom where you can change your clothes. But because I don’t want to put Jurii to any trouble, I refuse to enjoy such a tempting sauna today. He smiles at me and we walk back to the house. In the meantime, Vala has set the table. A delicious bortsch steams out of large plates. Fresh salad, pickled cucumbers, turkey legs, fresh white bread, sausage, eggs and sour cream from their own cow are on the table. Our hungry cyclists’ eyes can hardly get enough of such an extensively laid table. “Sit down and eat”, Vala asks us with a loving smile. Jurii puts a small bottle of vodka on the table to celebrate. Although we do not like to drink such hard alcohol, we do not refuse it. “Nastrowje!” shouts Jurii and we clink our glasses. As soon as the first plate of absolutely fantastic tasting bortsch has slipped into our stomachs, Vala fills it again. “Oh thank you,” we say with bright red and satisfied faces. Next to the hot oven in the kitchen, we can satisfy our ravenous bodies with the best Russian home cooking after 111 kilometers of cycling. “Come, come, don’t be shy. Please take more of the sour cream. You absolutely have to put more sour cream in the soup,” Vala constantly urges us. “Just eat, eat. There’s more. Please eat. Have some more eggs. And there, don’t forget the white bread.” “Nastrowjie,” Jurii interrupts and raises his vodka glass. “Nastrowjie,” we reply, chewing. “Hmmm, tastes very good,” we praise, whereupon Vala adjusts the plates and points to each one. “Why don’t you have some of the cucumbers? Denis, you need to eat more meat. You need calories. Eat some of the turkey. Here’s some more bread Tanja? Another plate of bortsch? Yes? What, you’re already full? No, no, you absolutely have to eat more. Please have some, have some.”

When we can hardly move any more, confectionery and milk tea are brought to the table. “Come, come and eat. That can’t be all? You must be hungry more? You’re eating like sparrows. Eat some more of the confectionery. More tea? More milk? Eat, eat, eat. There’s more of everything”, the words of our heavenly hostess cheer us on incessantly and without pause. It’s 9:30 p.m. when Tanja and I crawl onto the divan in the living room like overeaten walruses. I can’t fall asleep because it’s far too warm in the living room. I think about it. Think about the providence and the path offered by Mother Earth that has led us directly to this cozy safe home. Even if it is often not unpleasant in the Gastinizas, under no circumstances can they be compared to the Russian hospitality of this lovely family. At the end of such a day, I am grateful for the hard-to-describe chain of events and happenings. A chain that can no longer be explained by logical thinking. Is it because we entrust our lives, our thoughts, our actions to the day, to the moment? Is it because we let things flow? That we do not resist the events that come and go like the wind. Do you accept? I hope we are able to continue surfing this wave of positive energy. To continue on the path of openness, gratitude and joy in life. To continue to meet such wonderful people as Jurii and Vala and to have the inner strength and fortitude not to be afraid of tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.

We look forward to your comments!