Back and forth

After a restful night, we leave the town with fresh energy. “Did we talk yesterday with the window open?” I ask. “How am I supposed to understand that?” Tanja wants to know. “Well, obviously the master has discovered us again. We must have been careless when we talked about our route,” I reply, as the wind is blowing into our sides at up to six gusts (42 kilometers per hour) and we can barely hold our bows. “Well, he obviously didn’t understand us properly,” says Tanja after a few minutes of thinking. “I don’t understand.” “Well, if he had listened properly when he was studying the map last night, he would have come from the front and not from the side.” “Hm, could be,” I agree with her.

As the main road to Astana is relatively busy, we have to be very careful not to be pushed onto the road by the sometimes extreme gusts. With high concentration, we meander along the hard shoulder. As yesterday, the route takes us across wide open spaces, interrupted now and again by forest islands. The government’s mighty road construction project never ceases to surprise us. We cycle past endless roadworks along the entire route. We constantly alternate between pedaling on the left and right lane.

Shortly before the village of Alekseyevka, I spot some pretty and dense woodland clumps at the side of the road behind which we could hide for the night. “Would be a good place to camp!” I shout. “Didn’t we want to go to a gastiniza today?” asks Tanja. “We wanted to, but look how beautiful it is here.” “That’s right. We have enough water. We’ll just have to make sure we have enough tomorrow morning.” “Yes, and why are you hesitating?” “I don’t know, I’ve prepared myself for a night without mosquitoes.” “No mosquitoes and a cold blonde are tempting, of course”; I mused aloud, ignoring the beautiful campsites.

A little later, after nine hours of driving and 98 kilometers covered, we reach a petrol station on the outskirts of Alekseyevka. “Is there a gastiniza in the village?” I ask three young men who are sitting in the evening sun and look at me in amazement. “Yes,” they reply. “How much further is it?” “Down the main road for another four kilometers or so, then turn right,” we hear, say thank you and pedal our aluminium frames in the direction indicated, quite hopefully. In fact, a few promising-looking houses appear at the side of the road. With the last of our strength, we let our riese und müller roll over a road construction site. I stop in front of a worker and ask: “Where is the gastiniza here?” “Gastiniza?” “Yes, Gastiniza,” I just about manage to get out because my mouth is stuck together with dryness. “No gastiniza. You have to go back there. About two kilometers and then left into town.” “That can’t be right. That’s where we’ve just come from,” I reply. “But it is,” he says, turns around and leaves. “I don’t believe a word he says. He certainly doesn’t know his way around here. Why don’t you ask at the little kiosk there,” says Tanja, also dog-tired. “To the gastiniza? Well, there aren’t any in these buildings here. They’re just cafés. You’ll have to go back there,” we hear. “Get back!” I shout, somewhat stunned, because I don’t think I can drive another centimeter. “Yes. It’s not far,” says the woman, somewhat sympathetically. “When I think about having to go up the mountain again, I could almost throw up,” I say to Tanja. “I feel the same way. Let’s go and ask next door. Looks like a place to stay.” But when we lean our bikes against the stone wall of the café, we find out that everyone else hasn’t been cheating. “Sit on my terrace for a while, eat something tasty and get some rest. Then head back to the hotel in Alekseyevka with your strength restored,” the innkeeper suggests. “I think that’s a sensible suggestion,” says Tanja. “I think so too,” I say, shuffling up the stairs to the terrace.

We devour a garlic-infested Lachman. “They poured them in by the tuber. Would you like a couple for me?” I ask Tanja. “It’s too much for me,” she replies, fishing the meat out of her noodles and tipping it into my bowl. After ¾ of an hour, we leave the street café contaminated with garlic. Tired and constantly burping, we pedal back up the hill until we actually find the turn-off. It is located behind a building site and is barely visible from the road. The sun casts its last light over the village as we reach the hotel. With the energy of confidence of a mosquito-free room, a decent mattress and, above all, a nice shower, I enter the sober little reception. “Room?” “Yes, of course, a room for my wife and me please.” “We don’t have a room. Everything is fully booked.” “What? Can’t be.” “Yes, it can be.” “But you must have a room available?” “Nope,” I hear the unpleasant word. In my sweaty clothes, I stand there frozen. “Four kilometers further on in the village, on the other side of the bridge, there’s another gastiniza. You can try again there.” “Four kilometers?” “Yes.” “Thank you,” I say goodbye and leave the room.

Tanja and I decide not to stray any further from our route today under any circumstances, just so that we might not get a place to stay. We are simply too late now, just before 9 pm. “I saw a camp site on the way here. It’s not particularly good, but I don’t think I’ll be seen from the road there,” I say. Before we leave the settlement, we buy some water and two cold cans of beer in a nearby supermarket. Then we lift our exhausted bodies back onto the saddle and pedal the bikes in the last light of day in the direction we have just come from. “It’s amazing how much energy a garlic salmon gives you,” I say, because now, after 107 kilometers with extreme crosswinds, my muscles are working again.

At the main road we find a dirt road that leads behind a group of trees. We wait until there are no cars to be seen and disappear unseen behind the protective greenery. As soon as we pull our reliable Magura brake for the last time for the day, we are attacked by whole swarms of biting midges. “Aaahhhhh!” I shout like a madman, flapping my hands. “Aaahhhhh!” Tanja replies with the same movement. Each of us immediately pulls the board-cutting mosquito repellent out of the handlebar bag to declare war on the miserable stingers. After spraying ourselves from top to bottom with the stuff, we use the time to unload the saddlebags at breakneck speed, open them and put on long trousers, a windstopper jacket and a hat. Although it is still warm, we are dressed like beekeepers. Only our faces are exposed to the mosquitoes. We set up our tent quickly and routinely, throw in the saddlebags and inflate the sleeping mats. By the time we have hidden our bikes under a camouflage-colored tarpaulin and disappeared behind the protective tent wall, it is already pitch dark. “They’ve completely destroyed my butt,” Tanja complains, scratching herself. “Mine too,” I say, also scratching violently. Then we settle down on our sleeping mats, groaning, and catch our breath for a while. “Would you like some delicious pistachios from Rapunzel and a beer?” I ask. “A fantastic idea,” replies Tanja. As the beer cans open with a hiss, we lie comfortably on our sides, snacking on the fine pistachios and listening to the aggressive buzzing of the mosquitoes as they try in vain to suck even more of our precious blood. “It’s really nice in our home. No one can prick us, no one has nailed the window shut, the mattress isn’t saggy, the bedding is clean, the temperature is pleasant and it doesn’t cost anything,” I enthuse. “Only the toilet outside is contaminated,” Tanja replies in a tired voice. “What, you mean the mosquitoes? Well, we’re just not going out tonight. Our bodies are so thirsty from the exertion that they certainly have no desire to go into this hell,” I ponder, only to fall into a sleep of exhaustion shortly afterwards.

We look forward to your comments!