Destination?

It is still dark when we crawl out of our tent at 4:15 am. Tanja has survived the salmonella poisoning so far and feels fit. We say goodbye to Luda. We hug and hug each other and ride our bikes out of the village shortly after five o’clock. The chain of hills has us in its grip as ever. However, we make very good progress in the still pleasant morning temperatures. We fill up our water supplies in a magazine. The woman’s name is Maria and, like Luda, she is very warm. We could stay here too if we wanted to, but today we still have enough strength and energy to reach our goal of reaching the town of Causen. Before we move on, I take a photo of Maria shaking Tanja’s hand and proclaiming the friendship between Moldova and Germany. Then she gives us a loaf of half-eaten white bread and we say goodbye. After the village of Salcuta, we leave the runic landscape for the time being and plunge joyfully from 210 meters into a lowland plain. We cross the railroad tracks and follow the valley towards the town of Causen. At 10:30 a.m., after approx. 43 kilometers, we reach our destination for the day. We are very pleased to have left the many elevations behind us. In high spirits, we ask for a hotel. A man leads us to a beautiful park. There is a pretty house in the middle. “What a place to write down my notes,” I laugh. As we stand in front of the hotel in question, our jaws literally drop. We stand there open-mouthed in amazement and watch the workers as they work their way around the house with jackhammers and all kinds of other tools. “This is supposed to be a hotel?” I ask the man who brought us here. “There, that’s the hotel,” he says and disappears. Tanja and I are now standing in front of the building, with construction dust floating out of the open windows. The workmen stand on the balcony and laugh down at us. We also suddenly find the situation downright funny. We snort loudly and burst out laughing. “Nobody said that the only hotel in the city was habitable,” I say. We push our bikes along the sidewalk, somewhat at a loss. Another man comes over and leads us to a nearby private accommodation. We are relieved to hear that a room is available for rent. While Tanja stays with the bikes, I take a look at the accommodation, as usual. The landlady leads me along a short corridor, at the end of which a door leads into a small, windowless room of about seven square meters. In the middle of the stuffy, dark room there is a bed on which it is very difficult for two people not to just plop down at night. “Don’t you have a room with a window?” I ask kindly. “No, fully booked,” replies the lady. Back on the street, I talk to Tanja. “I don’t feel like driving any further,” I say, feeling tired now. “What alternatives do we have?” “No idea,” I reply and consult the map. “Well, the border with Ukraine is still about 80 kilometers from here. But there are no villages on the road. We would have to turn off somewhere, cycle a few kilometers and ask if we can pitch our tent. But that means we have to cycle at least another 15 kilometers. After that, I don’t see another place for another 20 kilometers.” “Are there any mountains?” “I can’t tell from this map,” I reply and think about other options. In the meantime, a few people have gathered around us, talking to us in Russian or Romanian. Suddenly I discover another alternative. “We could go to Bender. It’s a big town. There’s definitely somewhere for us to stay there, and the way I see it, it’s not even a detour. We just have to leave Moldova at a different border than originally planned.” “How far is it to Bender?” “Only 23 kilometers. We can easily manage that. It’s still early in the day,” I say confidently again. I look at Bender in my map and can’t help myself. A vague uneasy feeling makes me hesitate to jump on the bikes and cycle off. “Bender haraschor?” (“Is Bender good”?), I ask in Russian. “Njet”, says the visibly annoyed landlady behind me, while others nod their heads. Now, just as cleverly as before, I look at the spot on the map and can’t figure out what I’m feeling. “What’s going on? Why are you hesitating?” Tanja wants to know. “Hm, I heard something recently about separatists in the north-east. No idea if that’s in Bender.” “Oh, that’s the reason for your hesitation.” “Yes. We’re going anyway. If there was unrest there, we would have heard about it,” I decide.

Before we leave Causen, we ask for a hotel to be on the safe side. “Three kilometers from here is a yellow house on the right-hand side of the road. That’s a hotel,” we hear. “I’m sure we can shower and rest there and I can write my notes,” I say happily. Motivated, we ride on and pedal our horses through the dirty, run-down and ugly town. After about two kilometers, a road policeman points us in the right direction. “Three more kilometers,” he calls. We pass completely dilapidated factory buildings, which we have seen many times on our journey to the east so far. Here, however, the dimension of ugliness seems to go beyond any attempt at description. Nothing works anymore. Even single-track rails that we cross are completely bent, split, rusted and maltreated in the worst possible way. Moldova is undoubtedly a maltreated country. A country that urgently needs help. It’s unbelievable that something like this even exists in Europe. We rumble along over cobbled asphalt. Dadang, dadang, dadang, my trailer rattles over the plagued ground. Suddenly the yellow house appears on the right-hand side. It is as thin as a strip of cardboard. There is probably only one row of rooms next to each other. I stand there dumbfounded and look at the yellow-colored house creature. Surrounded by trucks and demolished railroad cars, the building sweats in the sun at a temperature of around 60 degrees. Dust blows across the site in fountains. “Aren’t you going to ask if they have a room?” I hear Tanja say behind me. “I don’t need to ask. This place is absolutely disgusting. I don’t want to spend an hour here.” We leave the Yellow Hotel at the so-called terminal behind us and leave Causen. One of the very rare signs still shows 23 kilometers to Bender. About six or seven kilometers ago, another sign indicated the same distance. The route information in this country is rarely to be taken seriously. As soon as the ugliness of the city is behind us, one of the long, drawn-out earthy frowns rises up. We pant up, take a break and continue panting.

TransnistriaThen we see the city lying in a basin. Motivated again, we let our bikes hurtle downhill. At almost 60 km/h, the wind brings tears to our eyes. If we didn’t know that we’d have to go up again in a few kilometers, we’d be cheering at the top of our voices. Suddenly I spot a barrier in front of us. A barrier? What’s that all about? In the middle of the country? The border with Ukraine is at least 35 kilometers away from here. We brake our road trains and come to a halt. Uniformed people come out of a little house to look at the rarity. One of them speaks perfect English. “Uh, why is there a barrier here?” I ask, still puzzled. “Haven’t you heard about the political problems in this region?” “No. What political problems?” I ask and my initial uneasy feeling is fully awakened again, “Well, down there, where you see the other barrier, is the Republic of Transnistria.” “Transnistria? What is that?” “There was an uprising here in 1992.” “An uprising? Can we get any further here? Or do we have to turn back?” I ask a little anxiously, because behind us lies the mountain we’ve just descended and, as we know, no suitable accommodation for us. Apart from that, we are slowly getting under time pressure because of our live interview. “If you don’t let them through on the other side, they’re welcome back here,” says the young, friendly man. I look nervously down the road towards the so-called Transnistria, which I have never heard of in my life. What you don’t experience on a trip like this. Even in Europe there is the Wild West or, more accurately, the Wild East. At this moment, I’m not sure whether I want to go any further into the Wild East. Many people have warned us. Some people couldn’t believe that we had been spared by the police so far. We were also informed about the merciless and constant thefts. Countries where the population is constantly stealing from each other in order to enrich themselves. Even a plastic bag can’t be left standing for five minutes, no matter where. It is guaranteed to be gone. And now we are facing a country that is completely unknown to us. We learn that, since 1991, Tranistria has called itself a republic independent of Moldova and is striving for rapprochement with Russia.

Today’s border with Moldova is drawn to the west by the river Dniester. The narrow strip of land borders Ukraine to the east. The majority of the population in this region are Russians and Ukrainians. The population is said to be under one million. In 1992, bloody fighting broke out between the separatists and Moldovan troops, in the course of which Russian troops intervened and are still stationed in Transnistria. Since 1999, a peacekeeping force has been monitoring a security zone along the internationally unrecognized border with Moldova. The final status of the region is still unclear. In November 1999, Russia undertook to withdraw its approximately 2,500 soldiers stationed in Transnistria in an agreement signed with the OSCE. After the withdrawal of the first units in December 2001, the further withdrawal of troops was delayed.

Arbitrariness and corruptionWe thank the Moldovan customs officer for the information and let our bikes roll on down the road. We pass two heavily armed soldiers, whom I assign to the peacekeeping force between the two parties. A barely legible sign prohibits all photography and filming. Iron bars and nail boards that shred every car tire make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. We stop at the barrier, the self-proclaimed republic that is not recognized by any state on earth except Russia. At least six or eight uniformed men swoop down on us like vultures. It is highly likely that few or no western long-distance cyclists will pass by here. “Where are they coming from? Where are they going? What are they doing? Why are they cycling?” the gentlemen ask us, one of whom also speaks reasonable English. Tanja and I cover up our nervousness with absolute friendliness and feigned naivety. “Look how far we’ve already driven,” I say and show the officers my speedometer. A man in a green uniform is unperturbed by all this. He looks at our bikes with visibly greedy eyes. He doesn’t seem to be listening to us at all. His charisma makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up even more. In the inhuman heat, sweat and cold sweat combine to form a uniform broth that runs down my body. “Come with me,” says the man in green imperiously. “Where to?” I ask. In response, he just waves that I should take my bike to the sidewalk and park it. “I can’t park my bike. It’s too heavy,” I try to explain in vain, because this guy only speaks Russian. Then I lean my bike against one of the ugly control huts against his will. “You’re coming too,” he orders Tanja. “I can’t park my bike,” she replies with a laugh and ignores his order. “Open up,” says the vulture’s voice, whereupon I open my handlebar bag. He immediately discovers the pepper gas that we carry with us as a dog defense. Since I didn’t know about this border, I haven’t had a chance to hide it yet. “Ah, what have we here?” he says smugly. “Is it gas, I suppose?” “Yes, against dogs.” “Do you have a gas like that?” he wants to know from Tanja. “What am I supposed to do with that? No, I haven’t,” she fibs successfully, whereupon the soldier turns back to me. “And what’s that?” he asks, pointing at my Leatherman. Now I realize how much anger is spreading inside me. Pressure builds up, then it crawls up my throat and wants to get some air. “This is a Leatherman. You can use it to tighten screws. See?” I say, opening it and letting the pliers snap open and shut at face height. “Whatever. There’s no way you’re getting that thing,” I put in afterwards and continue; “And that’s a thermometer, a cereal bar, a heart rate monitor, creams for my bum. Man! What do you want from a cyclist anyway!” I ask loudly, with anger in my voice. The vulture suddenly takes his hands off my things. Has caught the wave of resentment and orders me to follow him into his shithouse. I have a bad feeling. He has his found food in his hand. The pepper gas. While I stand next to him like an idiot, he leafs through a thick folder with relish. “What’s going on Denis? Let my husband out of there!” Tanja shouts loudly outside to alert others to the impending mess. Nobody takes any notice. Apparently, this limit is a pure rip-off limit. “Here!” says the green tormentor, pointing to a Cyrillic script. “I can’t read,” I say in German. He answers something in Russian. Then I get too much and just run out of his tin hut. He calls after me. “Why don’t you keep the stupid gas? I don’t want to travel in a country like that anyway,” I say, knowing that he doesn’t understand me. He rushes after me while I find the nice English-speaking officer. “I need your help,” I say, whereupon he follows me. Back in the dark, hot hut, I tell him: “We still have over 20,000 kilometers to go to Burma. There are dogs everywhere in the factories. Often there is no fence. You know that. Dogs love to chase moving things. They especially like to bite cyclists on the calf. If the gentleman here takes the gas away from me, we have a serious problem. The two of them have a brief discussion. Then my helper storms off. It’s obvious he wants nothing to do with this and from the looks of it, the soldier here has more to say. “What do you want? Money? Of course you want money. How much?” I ask with a smile and a conciliatory tone. The Assgeier also smiles. Now we have felt the nerve on the tooth. He writes a number on a piece of paper. “50 lei?” I ask, relieved at the small sum. “50 euros,” he replies smugly. (Double the monthly salary of a teacher) “50 euros? I don’t have that. I don’t have any euros at all. We’ve been traveling for months and don’t need euros. We pay by card,” I blurt out. “50 euros or I’ll do a raport for the gas,” I understand. Then why don’t you do your Raport, I think to myself. Since the man is only after money, it would be worth a try to turn my idea into reality. However, I have had some very bad experiences in Madagascar. Back then, the game with the authorities almost went down the drain. You never know what will happen in such a case in such a self-proclaimed banana republic. I have no desire to go to prison and any pride at this point is false pride. Instead, I put 100 lei (6.25 euros) on the table. Bored, he taps on the number 50 euros. “I don’t have any euros,” I repeat in a buttery voice. He knocks on the table again. “Euro or Rabort,” spits the ugly figure, also smiling. Once again, I put 100 lei on the table to double my offer. He remains stubborn. “I don’t want to go to Transnistria anymore. We’re going back to Moldova,” I say now. “They don’t like gas on the Moldovan side either,” I think I understand, which defeats my gambit. “What about my husband? What are you doing in there with him?” Tanja shouts outside. To reassure Tanja and show her that I’m not being tortured, I go to the door and say, “Everything’s fine. I’ll be right there.” An officer becomes aware and enters the room with a smile. That saves the day, I think, and am delighted that the situation is about to turn around. “Let me do it,” he says to his subordinate, pushes him off the chair and sits down on it. He looks at me kindly while I wait to see what he has to tell me. “50 euros,” he breathes super friendly. Sure, they’re all in cahoots. “I don’t have 50 euros,” I say steadfastly, hoping not to be frisked by the two of them. “Then give us 400 lei. We are four soldiers. 100 lei each. That’s no money for you.” 400 lei is two nights in a hotel. So for us as long-term travelers, it’s worth a lot. But now that I’ve had my second major negotiating success and have been able to reduce the price from 50 euros to 25 euros and may be able to keep my gas, I’m not giving up. At least I don’t want to make it easy for the boys to pull their corrupt stunt. Again I put 100 lei on the table and say that this is the end of the line. The officer retains his hypocritical friendliness. “400 lei. Come on man. That’s beer for us. Please give us some beer?” 100 lei means 12 bottles of beer. So he wants me to give him a quadruple buzz. I think for a moment and realize the futility of trying to negotiate further. Once again I put a 100,- Lei bill on the table. “Thank you. Thank you very much,” he says and rises from his chair. “Germany and Transnistria are friends, aren’t they? You’re not holding a grudge, are you?” he adds, shaking my hand and finally giving me back our passports. “They’re friends,” I reply, trying to suppress my anger at the theft.

When I’m outside again, I briefly tell Tanja about the latest events. Then we are sent to the other side of the road. We have to register there. Nobody speaks a word of English and our Russian is too bad to understand the official stuff. A female officer finds a colleague who then explains to us in fragmentary English that we can only get a transit visa here. We have to leave the country tomorrow at the latest. As I really need a place to write and we want to rest, one day is not enough. Apart from that, as a cyclist you never know if you will have a breakdown on the road. “What if we need more days?” I want to know. Then they have to go to the passport office and apply for a visa,” says the official. I feel the unpleasant sensation in my stomach again, much stronger than a few hours ago. “Let’s sit down outside and think about what to do,” Tanja suggests. We leave the office and sit down on the curb in front of it. “What do you suggest? What does your gut tell you?” Tanja wants to know. “I don’t know. My feelings are all mixed up. I wish I had someone to say go on or get a three-day visa or, or, or. But my head is buzzing and my emotions are all mixed up with anger. I don’t want to travel in a country like that. I know that for sure,” I explain. “Do you want to go back up the mountain to Causen?” “I have no idea. What do you suggest?” I want to know. “I dread the mountain. We have no water. We’re just outside a hotel and our entrance fee has been paid. We’re already in Transnistria. But I don’t want to talk you into making the wrong decision out of convenience.” “If I had made the right decision a few hours ago, we wouldn’t be in this tricky situation now. Have you got any more water?” “Not another sip.” “Hm, we need water.” “Yes.” “Tell me again how you feel?” “The thought of going to this republic makes me want to puke. It really hurts and my stomach cramps up. Who knows what the police are like here? Is there such a thing as justice? In a state that is not recognized by any country in the world except the Russians? I don’t know. I don’t want to travel to a country like that. But if you think we should go in, let’s keep going,” I think. “I’ll listen to your gut feeling.” “Good, then we’ll turn around and drive back to Moldova. The Moldovan customs officers will certainly know where we can buy water. In an emergency, we can get water from the well in a village. We’ll manage the mountain. It’s just a matter of attitude. We just spend the night in the hole. Probably a paradise compared to what awaits us in this banana republic,” I chat. No sooner said than done. We say goodbye to the uniformed officers, who look at us with some surprise, and pedal up to the Moldovan customs officers in temperatures of almost sixty degrees without a drop of water. We are greeted with laughter. “What happened?” they ask. We tell them that we have been charged 400 lei and that we would rather cross the border to Ukraine in Moldova. “Who knows what the Tranistri people would have thought of if we had left their country,” I say. The official nods understandingly and explains that just before the barrier of Tranistria, a small road leads to a village where we find a magazine. We cycle down the hill again, and again we pass the OSCE soldiers, who wave to us for the third time. We are greeted at the store by a drunk. As soon as we have leaned our bikes against the rusty steel railing, he harasses us. Then he grabs Tanja’s arm and asks to see the watch. She pushes his hand away. Now he grabs my handlebars and turns the gears. “Please don’t do that,” I say. “My God. What kind of day is this?” I moan out loud. “Nothing happened,” Tanja reassures me. “That’s right,” I agree with her. “What are we going to do with him? Can I leave you alone for a moment or do you want to buy the water,” I ask. “You go ahead. I’ll hold the fort. I quickly rush into the magazine, buy five bottles of water and rush back outside. The drunk is even more annoying than before and talks to us more and more insistently. Before he gets angry, we quickly pour the water into our sourcetrink backpacks and cycle back. The peacekeepers laugh as they see us cycle past for the fourth time. Then we wave to the Moldovan customs officers and set off on the ascent of almost 200 meters. A strong tailwind comes up and makes our progress easier. I feel better with every meter we climb. It was the right decision not to go to Transnistria. “Denis! It’s 2:30 pm. You have to set up your satellite phone for the interview!” Tanja calls behind me. “Not yet!” I reply, driven by an undefined energy. When we reach the ridge of the mountain range, the wind blows us at 25 km/h across the potholed asphalt strip. Suddenly I discover a cross to which Jesus has been nailed. I instinctively feel drawn to it. “We’ll hold the interview there!”, I decide and park my road train in the shade of a nearby walnut tree.

As soon as we come to rest, a big Mercedes jeep pulls up on the road. A well-dressed man gets out and as he walks towards us, my knees buckle. Surely it won’t be another man from customs? “Are you from Germany?” he asks in perfect German, which immediately relieves my tension. “Yes.” “That can’t be true. What are you doing here?” he wants to know. We tell our story and learn that Holger is part of an international border surveillance team. “You made a good decision not to drive through Transnistria. The law in the republic is on shaky ground. If there is such a thing as a law at all. The alternative of traveling to Ukraine via Moldova is much safer.” We are relieved to have met this man at the right time. His statement gives us strength and confidence again. Then he says goodbye to us again and drives off with his colleagues. I set up the satellite phone just in time. The connection is perfect. Despite the strong wind blowing around our ears and me crouching on my stomach behind my trailer, the interview goes very well. “Let’s eat something first,” Tanja suggests. “Good idea,” I say and notice how my heart rate continues to move towards normality. We eat Maria’s white bread with great appetite. Tanja unpacks the last jar of Rapunzel tomatoes in olive oil and we enjoy the feast. “It’s strange how quickly people can be satisfied with the simplest food. All you have to do is cycle for eleven hours in the sun at almost 60 degrees through a completely impoverished country, get ripped off by corrupt customs officers and end up not knowing where you’ll end up at night,” I say with an ironic smile. Then my gaze falls on a monastery church under construction. “Should we ask there if we can get a place to stay overnight?” I ask Tanja. “I don’t know. The church is still under construction. Who knows if there’s anyone there at all?” “Maybe they’re building a new church. There must be a monastery there.” “What about tomorrow. If we set up camp now, it’ll be 20 kilometers further to the border tomorrow.” “Right, but we should split the journey into two days and sleep in a village. We know that we are usually welcome guests.” “Under the circumstances, let’s ask at the monastery,” Tanja concludes.

Treated like queen and kingAs we roll into the courtyard of the monastery, we see a friendly priest with a long, mottled gray beard and a pigtail. We lean the bikes against a tree and I go to the man with the nice face. “You are welcome to pitch your tent in our park. But if you want, you can also have a room,” I understand and at first I can’t believe my ears. Father Andrew, as the priest is called, immediately leads me into a beautiful park, where a small lake glistens in the afternoon sunlight. “Choose a place where you feel most comfortable,” he says in his warm, friendly voice. “Thank you very much. This is a beautiful place with a lot of positive energy,” I reply. “Yes, we do something about it too. We pray a lot and raise the energy level,” he replies, looking at me with his warm eyes. Just a moment ago in the clutches of the greedy soldier at Transnistrian customs and now in the heart of an Orthodox monastery. As life goes. I simply can’t believe it, it goes through my head. “Come on, I’ll show you our little chapel and the spring with the holy water,” I hear Father Andrew’s voice and follow his flowing priestly robes. “Oh, it’s like a Japanese garden. You’ve laid it out beautifully. And the little chapel. Very tasteful,” I praise and enjoy the peaceful grounds. “Do you want something to eat?” “We’ve just eaten something. But as a cyclist, you’re always hungry.” “Then come on,” he says and we walk through the lush green park again despite this fatal drought. “A great place. We’ll feel at home here. It was a very good decision to turn back and ask here,” I say to Tanja, who is visibly pleased to finally be able to rest. “Can we just leave our bikes unattended like this?” I want to know. “There is no zapzerap” (Russian word for stealing) here in the monastery, replies Father Andrew. We follow Father Andrew, who incidentally is the founder and head priest of this monastery, into the large dining room. “This is where our nuns, guests and workers eat,” he explains. “Nuns?” I ask. “Yes, the Marta si Maria convent is a nunnery. There are 52 nuns and three priests here. The convent has only existed for 10 years. There were no convents in this region. That is the reason why we founded it. We teach children, give people comfort. We give them back the faith that the communists tried to take away. We want to raise the energy in the country and much more. It’s still a lot of work and an eternal struggle for funding. God will help us to realize our plans,” he explains, while a couple of friendly-looking nuns set a table for us until we bend over. They serve us cool tea, vegetable soup with potatoes, rice and carrots, home-baked bread, tomatoes, fresh sheep’s cheese and boiled white beans in a tasty broth. Then Father Andrew has a whole carafe of red wine put on the table and another carafe of cherry juice. All organically grown and, above all, from our own production. We sit there and don’t know what to say. We have never had such a feast on our entire trip so far. You don’t get anything like this in a restaurant and especially not this fantastic taste. Simply divine and without any exaggeration. We feast like crazy and when our bellies are full to bursting, Father Andrew smiles benevolently. “I’ll show you where your rooms are now,” he says and stands up. “How much does a night cost?” I want to know. Father Andrew’s friendly, smiling eyes look at me. “Nothing. Our guests don’t have to pay. We are delighted that you have come to us. It’s an honor for our monastery,” he says, astonished. Almost ashamed, I say that we only need one room. “In our monastery, the women have to sleep separately from the men. During the day, you can of course sleep together in your room. But you can also sleep together in the tent. However you like. It’s completely up to you,” he explains. Tanja’s room is on the ground floor and mine is on the second floor. They are beautiful, clean, simple but lovingly furnished rooms. The brown patterned carpet, which is typical for Moldova, adorns one of the walls. There is a round table at the foot of the two beds. The bedside cabinet is located at the head of the bed. A large picture of Mother Mary with the baby Jesus in her arms and two other orthodox images have a potest in the left corner next to the window, and in the right corner there is a glass cabinet with various holy pictures on the shelves. The floor is also covered with a brown patterned carpet. Otherwise, the walls are spotlessly white. On the ceiling hangs a pretty lamp that matches the room, with light refracted through the glass panels. Although the rooms are very pleasant, the midsummer temperatures have heated up to over 30 degrees. That’s the reason why we prefer the tent for the night.

After we have pitched our tent on the shore of the lake next to a bench and a table, father Andrew’s brother helps us to lock the bikes in a shed. Then we are free and I use the time to stroll around the grounds a little. Behind the rooms are the stables for the various animals. There are rabbits, pigs, cattle, two deer, birds, ducks, chickens, etc. A mother sow lies moaning on the hot ground and is giving birth to her piglets at this very moment. I stand there spellbound and watch. Two nuns supervise the birth. They smile at me in a shy but warm and friendly way. “Mother Earth, where have you taken us?” I whisper almost reverently. Tears well up in my eyes. What have we done to deserve so much luck? Surely it can’t be a coincidence to be stranded in such a loving place after such a day, after all the hills and the merciless heat in one of the poorest countries in Europe? I stroll on. Watch the children who spend their vacation here helping in the monastery as they do somersaults in the hay. Pure idyll, in perfection. That such a thing even exists? Or is it our overstimulated senses that are only pretending this paradise? However. I enjoy these moments that couldn’t be more beautiful.

It is already dark when a nun comes to our campsite to invite us to eat again. “Father Andrew wants you to dine upstairs,” she says. Tanja and I are dog-tired and still full from our first meal. “Please tell Father Andrew that we are still full,” I tell her, whereupon she bows slightly and floats away. It doesn’t take long for Father Andrew to show up at the camp accompanied by his brother and three nuns. Without being able to raise an objection, a carafe of the finest red wine, cherry juice, roasted peppers, tomatoes and feta cheese are served. “Would you like some beer?” he asks. Even my brief hesitation is enough for Father Andrew to speak into his radio and give an instruction. Several bottles of beer are immediately brought and placed in the nearby lake to cool. As the moonless night provides hardly any light for the evening meal, a small chandelier with candles is placed on the wooden table. We can’t believe our luck. Where can something like this happen, that a complete stranger is treated like a king and queen? Moldova is the answer. We joke around and have a lively chat. A nun who works as a teacher in the convent speaks perfect English. She translates our stories and those of the other nuns and Father Andrews. We are surprised that father Andrew speaks a little German. He was stationed in Germany as a soldier for many years until he realized that the life of a soldier was not fulfilling. He broke off his career as a liaison officer, gave up everything and moved back to Moldova to study theology. “It is really a great pleasure and honor for us that you are visiting our monastery,” he translates. “It is a great pleasure for us and an almost unbelievable coincidence to have landed here and to have been so warmly welcomed by you,” I reply, bowing slightly. Tanja and I decide that very night to stay a few days longer. Of course, only if we are granted hospitality. After almost 200,000 kilometers of travel and trips since 1983, I have already experienced a lot. Tanja and I have been traveling together since 1991 and together we have published our experiences. We rode horses, donkeys, mules, camels and elephants. We were guests of an Indian maharaja, guests of the Sejeds, whose family tree can be traced directly back to the Prophet Mohamed. We lived with the Mujahideen of the North West Frontier Province in Pakistan and enjoyed their protection. Visited ashrams and spiritual places. Experienced the actions and work of holy men. We have been guests of indigenous peoples and shared campfires with them, but we have never been guests of an orthodox priest who treats us like princes. It would be pure stupidity to drive on tomorrow, because here is the center of peace and a source of knowledge, a source from which Tanja and I can learn a lot.

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