Control post

On this new day, we have another 100 kilometers to Engels. The roadway along the Volga is lined with trees and bushes that partly take away the power of the wind now coming from the north. The Volgograd Reservoir repeatedly presses up to the road on our left. In some places it is over ten kilometers wide. We recognize the mountains on the other bank and are now glad to have taken the 150-kilometre detour. We stop for a few minutes to enjoy the view of Russia’s main waterway. “I’ve read that the Volga transports an average of eight million liters of water per second,” I interrupt our silence. “It’s an unimaginable amount,” Tanja soon replies in awe. “That’s right. It’s a mega river that’s connected to several seas by various channels.” “Yes? Which ones?” “As far as I know, with the Baltic Sea, the Sea of Azov, the Black Sea, the White Sea and even Moscow,” I reply, remembering that with this river we are following another major European waterway after the Danube.

The sun, with its cold yellow, has little warmth left and bathes the autumnal landscape in an unconventional but pleasant light. Before we cool down, we get back on our saddles and follow a road that takes us through a fabulously beautiful landscape. Pretty villages with their simple houses appear. Paint the shutters and the garden gate with blue or green paint. Some of the old huts duck into the dull, weathered gray in between. Some of the fences are still pushed over by the last winter storms. But some are newly built. Some roofs are marked by age, bending like a crooked spine. Other roofs have given up and collapsed under the weight of weathering. People sit on a bench in front of their hut and look at us in amazement. Some raise their hand in greeting. Astonished expressions turn to laughter. Then a small tributary of the Volga flows between two hills. A rowing boat rocks on the pond. The old man inside casts his net in the hope of catching something for dinner. Reed grass bends in the wind and rustles. The scent of herb meadows wafts over. Is intensive. Swings out of the herb into the air and is carried away by the wind. The grass of the earth is marked by summer. Is light yellow, gray, matt. Only a little green left in it. We cycle through a hollow. One of the many valleys through which a small river meanders only to lose itself in the mighty Volga.

15% gradient is written on a rusty road sign. We do everything we can to work our way up from the hollow. At the top, we are again surprised by the ugly sight of a control post. A house made of concrete with barbed wire around the outside. A man in a green uniform, armed with a machine gun, patrols in front of it. A policeman stands on the side of the road with his legs apart and points at a driver with his stick. Just as well not to be part of the Russian police’s prey picture, I think to myself. But suddenly the policeman is struck by a visible flash of thought and the stick points unmistakably in my direction. When I don’t want to understand and am about to drive on, the movement becomes jerky and decisive. I point my finger at myself in disbelief, whereupon the man behind his stick nods grimly. “How do you do? How are you?” I greet the unfriendly-looking man. “Papers!” is his reply. Nothing good is in store for me. “Of course I have papers,” I reply kindly as Tanja rises from the hollow into the inspector’s field of vision. The stick points in her direction again. “The policeman takes our passports and asks me to come with him to the checkpoint. “No can do. We can’t park our bikes with all our luggage,” we reply, knowing we have to do everything we can to avoid entering the building. He marches away and hands the documents through a window. “Wait here. We have to check your passports on the computer,” he says, still serious. “We come from Germany. By bike. It’s a long way. We really like it here in Russia. You’re nice people,” Tanja chats and the man starts to smile a little. Suddenly he speaks a few words of German. “You speak our language, don’t you?” I ask. “Only very little. I learned that at university,” we understand.

Then there is a loud knock on the window of the control building. “Come with me now,” the face, now cold again, orders me. There is no doubt that the police want to boil us here. No doubt they want to use the opportunity to supplement their salary. Unpleasant memories of Transnistria climb my brain. Now that I no longer have any chance of refusing, I lean my buck against the house. The soldier with the machine gun stands provocatively next to me. Probably wants to intimidate me with his speed gun. Must admit that he is also successful with it. But don’t show him. I enter the unfriendly dark room with uneasy feelings. A cowardly policeman with a large unsightly scar across his face sits behind his desk. “Sit down!” he orders smugly. I refuse his order and stand still. Don’t want to be on an equal footing with him. Now he is forced to look up at me from his seated position. “Sit down!” the voice commands again. I simply ignore them and ask in a friendly manner what’s going on? “Your registration has expired,” says the scarred face, tapping on the entry document. “There’s a registration on it.” “It’s old.” “Hold on, I’ve got the other registrations in the trailer,” I reply and take them out of my laptop bag. Now I put a whole bundle of guest invoices on the table. “These are just invoices from Gastinizas. No registrations,” I hear the sharp voice and think I’m losing ground. The other policeman comes in. The soldier with the rapid-fire weapon is leaning against the door. “He hardly speaks any Russian,” the scarred face explains to his colleague. Exactly, I think to myself. And it stays that way. I’m not making it easy for you. “These are just invoices from Gastinizas,” he repeats, tapping the papers with his index finger. Can it really be that these invoices are worth nothing? Do we really have to register with the authorities in every town? This would make it impossible to cycle through Russia because of the time involved. At the last registration office they tried to rip us off because we were supposed to have the wrong visa. The official had also explained to Tanja that we only had to register with the authorities if we were staying in one place for more than three days. Otherwise the accommodation invoices should be valid. However. The scarred face wants money from me. Clearly. “You see. There’s not much space here on the entry document. That’s why there are extra slips of paper with stamps in your passport. Many hotels in Russia are also authorized to issue a registration stamp,” I say, using more sign language, interpretations and gestures than words. Feiste takes another look at the many receipts. Before he can say anything, I pull out one or two bills from the larger hotels in Volgograd, Volgodonsk and Azov. “Clear registrations,” I say firmly. The scar rummages through the pile of paper with its thick fingers. “Do you know? I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about Russian-German friendship,” I say, just to win his sympathy. No visible reaction.

“Which border did you cross? Where is the visa?” he suddenly changes the subject. “What have you got in your rucksack?” he wants to know. “Water. You get very thirsty when you’re cycling. A hydration pack like this is very practical,” I explain and smile. “You should put vodka in it.” “Vodka? Well, that would quickly deflate my thighs,” I joke. The answer is general laughter. “Vodka is good. There are no fines for vodka for cyclists in Russia either,” the scarred face laughs again and pats me vigorously on the shoulder. Then he hands me the passports. Suddenly there is no more talk of registration. The policemen and the soldier accompany me outside. “Everything went well,” I tell Tanja with a confident wink. “Have you got a gun with you? Surely you can use it? It’s not safe out there. Like the one I have. Look,” asks the scarred face, pointing to his belt, obviously trying to set a crude trap for me. “A pistol? Here in Russia? Well then I’d be sent straight to a prison camp in Siberia,” I reply. The answer is general and cheerful laughter. Then I shake the gunman’s hand. He looks at me in surprise. Obviously didn’t expect this gesture. I also shake hands with the other two. Moments later, as I load my trailer properly again, Tanja whispers to me. “Come on, make it quick. Let’s get out of here.” I immediately close the lid of the Zargesbox, swing my leg over the frame and start pedaling. “Why were you suddenly in such a hurry?” I ask as the checkpoint disappears around a bend. “The policemen talked about euros. Who knows what else they would have thought of?” “Hm, good that it went like that. Still, I’m a bit confused about the registrations. I hope we’re doing everything right. Not that we’ll get into trouble at customs when we want to leave the country,” I conclude and let my bike lurch further north.

Barely five minutes later, a large bus stops in front of us. We stop next to him. The driver gets out. “Wait a minute, please?” he says, opening one of the luggage compartments and handing us a watermelon the size of a medicine ball. Again we have to say no. “Bread? Would you like some fresh bread?” he asks again, obviously eager to give us something. “I’d love to,” Tanja replies kindly. The driver climbs into his bus and pulls out a plastic bag from behind his seat. “Look, it’s still very fresh,” he says, squeezing the body a little in his hand. Thank you very much. The passengers behind the windows give us a friendly wave. Then the man jumps back into the bus and speeds off. “What kind of country? First they want to take something from us and then a few moments later we are given something again,” says Tanja. “Yes, as if a higher power wanted to restore the balance immediately. Really strange. It’s just a good thing that the negative experiences so far have been few and far between. The Russians are undoubtedly some of the friendliest people we’ve met on our travels so far,” I say, delighted at the soon to be countless positive experiences in this seemingly endless country.

It is already dusk when we reach the outskirts of the town of Engels. “Over there is Saratov!” I shout to Tanya and point to the other side of the Volga. Then we let our road trains hurtle down a steep bridge ascent. At the last moment, I swerve out of the way of a large, deep hole in the road. So big that you could easily disappear in it with the front wheel. I don’t even have time to warn Tanja of the danger as she shoots past unscathed. Then darkness sets in. Without having to search for long, we find a little later in the center of the city of Engels a, how could it be otherwise, completely overheated and on the verge of collapse. The city that owes its name to the German entrepreneur Friedrich Engels (1820-1895). The revolutionary political economist Friedrich Engels founded scientific socialism (communism) with his friend Karl Marx. Who would have thought that the world would be divided into two camps as a result?

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