Dust – holes – headwind!

Thousands of crows are literally cawing. They sit in their nests or in the trees around us and shout insults at each other. At least that’s how it seems to me. Even before it gets really dark, the calls of the nocturnal owl mingle in between. As the hotter cawing becomes increasingly silent, the bright calls of the night hunters gain strength. I listen and listen, unable to close my eyes because of the considerable activity in the narrow section of forest. Cars hardly drive at night. Why should you? The distances from village to village are too great. There are no pubs to go to and no towns. People seem to be sitting in their villages. My thoughts revolve around our journey, the loneliness of the steppe, the different worlds we humans can live in if we want to. Even though this cycle tour has been incredibly strenuous so far, we are being rewarded for it. Although we haven’t been on this stage for very long, it feels like a year has passed. The experiences and impressions really come thick and fast. And you would think that there is nothing to experience in a monotonous steppe landscape. What a fallacy. I would never have thought that this trip would suddenly take on the character of an expedition. Although we are traveling on a road built by people and are therefore in contact with people and their machines, we feel completely isolated. Isolated in a different, unique, mysterious and beautiful world. A nature with hard but fair laws that we have to obey. Even the wind, which is so hard on us, imposes its dominance on us, which we must acknowledge. There is no negotiating, no bargaining, no hiding and no excuses. It is there whether we like it or not. A natural element that belongs to the steppe like the sun and the moon. Over land, the air is warmer in summer and colder in winter than over the neighboring sea. In summer, low-pressure areas therefore develop over the continents and the wind blows from the colder oceans towards the continent. In winter, areas of high pressure develop over the continents and the winds blow towards the warmer oceans.

If we rebel against this natural element, we have lost, we can stay at home, squatting behind supposedly safe walls and not even feel whether there is wind, what it means, how important it is for our lives, how important it is for humanity and its survival. I’m just thinking of the trade wind, the prevailing wind in the lower latitudes. In the northern hemisphere, the air flowing from the north towards the equator is deflected by the Coriolis force caused by the Earth’s rotation, so that the wind blows from the north-east, known as the north-east trade wind. In the southern hemisphere, the air flowing from south to north undergoes a corresponding deflection and becomes a south-easterly trade wind. Of course, none of this happens purely by chance, but is part of the cycle, part of the system of our planet Mother Earth. Winds bring rain, such as the monsoons in the Indian Ocean and the China Sea, they bring droughts, drive sailing ships, wind turbines, etc. I lie on my sleeping mat, listen to the calls of the owls, see the stars in the sky through the mosquito net and think about how important the wind is. Of course, it’s not pleasant in our particular situation. But who knows? Does he perhaps also have a sense for our little creatures Tanja and Denis? Is he letting us progress more slowly than planned because we are simply not supposed to travel any faster? Because we should remember how important the number one foodstuff, namely water, is for us humans? How important is it to keep our planet clean, so that we and our children can still drink a good sip of clear, clean and cool spring water tomorrow? Is that the reason why we are forced to take a tactical approach every day here in the Kazakh steppe in order to survive this trip without damage? Why do we have to plan our route precisely and not make any mistakes with our supplies? Who knows for sure? Even if it isn’t, the wind makes Tanja and me conscious again, makes us think and reconsider the supposed civilization of abundance. In fact, we should thank this element of nature, because it prompts us to think and opens the doors to other, perhaps dormant, corners of our brains. I think and think and come to the conclusion that it would be best to accept all natural elements, be it rain, sun, wind, cold, whatever. Don’t rebel against them, but live with them in harmony and understanding. To see them as a part of myself and to be happy to be able to feel them. Because sensing means living and living means learning and developing. “Yes, that’s it,” it flashes through my brain and as an owl calls its bright cry into the night sky at this moment, I have to smile.

Tanja

Headwind

The headwind has its justification in the divine order and is a great master teacher. It’s not about getting from A to B or even to your destination as quickly as possible. But also about what he does with us. I am learning anew to be serene and to travel in the rhythm of Mother Earth. We stop and camp in places we wouldn’t otherwise choose. Accepting situations that I can’t change and still keeping the fun, joy and curiosity opens up a wonderful new perspective for me. To see the gifts of the universe with open eyes and, despite effort and headwinds, to be in flow with the big picture and the world soul and thus to be right in the place where I am right now.

Denis

The end of the paved road

After setting off, we have to push the bikes out of our hiding place through the tall grass. To get over the freshly dug heaps of earth at the side of the road, we have to uncouple the trailers and heave each wheel up together. Once at the top, we reconnect the trailers to the Intercontinental. Then it goes on. This time, however, not on the road sprayed with liquid tar, but on its gravelled edge. We only make a few hundred meters when road workers stop us in a friendly manner. Overnight, word has obviously spread about where we come from and where we are going. Nevertheless, we have to repeat everything. “Come and have a cup of tea,” says a man with Chinese features. “Thank you, we’ve already had breakfast and want to continue”, we also laughingly decline. “Then take the cookies and sweets,” he says, reaching into his trouser pocket to put the gifts in my handlebar bag. “Take a look at this wonderful machine. It comes from Germany. Makes fantastic roads. Look, there’s Vögele,” he says, pointing to a tinny monster. We say goodbye again, only to stop again a few meters later for a group photo of more workers. Then we are forced to use the runway for the large trucks and construction machinery. The tarred road comes to an abrupt end here. Huge fountains of dust are whirled up by the large tires of the vans. But as the wind is blowing from the south-east at the moment and we are heading east, we don’t have to swallow the road dirt. We were lucky. “Hey! Hey! Heeeee!” shouts an excited voice behind us. We are stopping. A young man sprints down the slope in the sun at 41 degrees. When he reaches us, he is so out of breath that he is unable to utter a single word. He clings to my handlebars with a bright red head and sways precariously. “Take your time. We’re not driving away,” I reassure the man, who is gasping for breath. “Where are you coming from? Where are you going? Thank you for stopping. Thank you very much. I speak English. I really wanted to exchange a few words with you. I hardly ever get the chance to use my English. I’m forgetting it again,” he chats away as his pulse returns to normal. We learn that we still have at least 35 kilometers of unpaved ground ahead of us. Then he leaves us with a joyful laugh and waves after us.

Unexpectedly, some thunderclouds (cumulonibus clouds) roll in and open their gates above us. “Yes, yes, yes! Yay!” I whoop with joy at the pleasant cooling. We don’t even think about taking off our rain jackets because this is our first shower in seven days. “Water! Wasseeeer!”, we shout and pedal energetically over the bumpy ground. Thanks to the unexpected shower, there is no more dust when the heavily loaded trucks push past us. The headwind has also suddenly stopped. Of course, the difference between the cold and warm air layer is interrupted for a short time, so there are no longer any pressure differences. “It’s a great way to cycle,” says Tanja happily. Ten minutes later, the sun peeks out from behind the storm clouds and it only takes minutes for the wind to pick up again. “Let’s stop for a moment and take a photo of the terrible road!” suggests Tanja. We are barely standing next to our trestles, sipping a liquid Rapunzel chocolate, when a truck stops. The driver says he was stationed in Germany during the Soviet Union. Then he climbs out of his rusty cab, reaches through the tarpaulin onto the loading area and pulls out a plump watermelon. “Here you go, for you,” he smiles. I accept the delicacy. “A thousand thanks. It’s just in time. We’ll eat it straight away,’ I say. “Well then, bon appétit,” he wishes us, starts the diesel engine and the heavy tires work their way through the gigantic potholes. “It’s unbelievable how a melon can taste,” I cheer. “Hmmmm, really tasty. Reminds me of our Taklamakan expedition. We had such fantastic melons there too,” enthuses Tanja. “That’s right, it must be the sun. They’re really sweet,” I reply, sipping and smacking my lips in delight. We manage to shovel half the fruit into us until we almost burst, then we pack the rest and squeeze it into my box for dinner.

Now it’s 40 degrees in the sun again and we steer our steeds around the yawningly deep potholes. Truck drivers and many car drivers have trouble steering their vehicles safely through and over the perforated strip. It creaks, squeaks and cracks unpleasantly when the sheet metal, steel, axles and load twist. Another 30 minutes later, the oven is perfect again. Fountains of dust swirl across the crisp, dry ground. We steer our aluminum steeds into another detour. We have to push them again like oxen through deep, fine dust and suddenly one of the rare steppe rest stops appears in front of us, which is not shown on any map and seems like a gift from God. Tractors stand in front of large gasoline or oil tanks to draw in hundreds of liters of fuel. Some of the diesel seeps into the steppe soil when refueling. Rusty corrugated iron huts are scattered around. Construction wagons that serve as living quarters for road workers. Ramps on which trucks can be repaired. Old broken tires. Electricity pylons and cables disfigure the otherwise untouched nature. “Is there a magazine here?” I ask two women who marvel at my appearance as if I were a saint who has just come out of the desert. “Yes, back there. The adobe building. That’s a magazine. You can also eat something there,” they explain, giggling incessantly. As the house lies behind a dust track at least 100 meters wide, Tanja says I should first find out for myself whether there really is anything to eat there. So I push my bike through the fine dust until it sinks into it. Despite my best efforts, I can’t move another millimeter. Tanja puts her buck on the stand and hurries to help me. Together we now push the little road train to the aforementioned hut. “Do you have anything to eat?” I ask the unfriendly-looking woman. Her little daughter leads me around the mud house. A door is unlocked. A worker and I enter the room. There is leftover food on the two tables. It smells unpleasant. “Can I see what’s on the menu?” I ask, whereupon the unfriendly woman holds a bowl full of indefinable meat slices in front of my nose. Even the sight of it makes you nauseous. “And there’s nothing else?” I wonder. I hear “Njet” (no). Then I buy two chocolate bars, a loaf of white bread and four bottles of water. We pour the loot into our source bags, eat the bars and push my bike through the dust again. We quickly leave the unconventional, unsightly place behind us to continue working our way against the wind through the large holes and hollows in the slope.

After 10 hours of hard work, we catch sight of a snow-white ascent gleaming in the sun. “Doesn’t look good,” Tanja says, panting. “Looks bad,” I confirm. A heavy Hummer (American super jeep) shoots towards us. The young man with dark sunglasses doesn’t give us a glance and chases his several hundred horsepower and around 250,000 ? expensive luxury jeep passes us. He is followed only fractions later by a 500 Mercedes. As the noble car shoots through ¼ meter deep potholes, the floor panel cracks, the spoiler scrapes and the exhaust bangs. “Definitely mafia,” I decide. We continue to work our way over the surface, which now looks like flour. The heat almost takes our breath away. The wind is unfavorable and the cars make us swallow the flour dust until we cough. A motorcyclist dressed in sunglasses, jeans and cowboy boots rattles towards us. He stops. After his usual question, I politely list the countries we have passed through so far. He interrupts me rudely, pointing to the Bestard bottles on the bike. “Wada”, (water) I explain. As water sounds similar to vodka in Russian, he wants the bottle. “I’m sorry. We’re only using muscle power. We need every sip of water we have,” I explain. The man, who is about 35 years old, is drunk and looks at me in amazement. His smile disappears instantly. He is apparently used to getting what he wants. “Let him drink Denis. You know how quickly the mood can change,” Tanja suggests. “Good,” I say reluctantly but with a smile on my face, pull a bottle out of its holder, open it and hand it to the motorcyclist. He takes a big gulp and as his taste buds analyze the water, he disgustedly spits it out in a big fountain into the hot, fine flour dust. “He really thought it was vodka,” I whisper. “Give me your bike and I’ll give you the motorcycle,” the man interrupts again. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather go cycling,” I say, laughing and refusing as kindly as possible. “How much does your bike cost?” “No idea. Belongs to the company.” “Ah, company.” “Yes. Apart from that, we have to keep going. It’s very hot and it’s a long way,” I now interrupt his further thoughts to nip the increasingly unpleasant situation in the bud. I quickly stretch my hand forward, squeeze his and say: “Da ßwidanja.” (See you again) He obviously didn’t expect this quick change of situation. “Da ßwidanja,” he replies and before any more questions can pass his lips, we pedal off and are gone. He stops for a while, looks after us, seems to be thinking and fortunately decides that there is no point in following us.

The wind is now so strong that we can only make progress in first or second gear at around six kilometers per hour. We are also going slightly uphill again. The heat makes the ground shimmer. My right knee hurts more and more. “I should adjust the saddle,” I think to myself. But I’m too tired to get the tools out, leave the bike in the dust in the sweltering heat and tweak the saddle. I pedal on. Stoically, like an ox going round in circles, turning the millstone. Onwards, onwards, further and further against the wind, which is supposed to be my friend. The wind, the great teacher, the door opener to other streams of thought. My thighs are tired, inflated like bridge piers. They work reliably, like machines made of titanium. “It’s unbelievable what a person can achieve when they want to,” I think. “Do I even want to?” Does that make sense?” Self-doubt, dust, sun, dryness and the climb ahead are wearing me down.

The summit of the white mountain

Suddenly we are at the foot of the white slope. Two tracks lead straight up. The one on the right is steeper but shorter. “We should take the shorter one. I think the one on the left has this terrible, deep and fine dust in which we sink mercilessly,” says Tanja. “I don’t know,” I reply and look intently at the two paths. I try to question my feelings, but after the exertions of the last 11 hours, all I feel is numbness, hunger, thirst and tiredness. “Which one should we take?” Tanja interrupts my lame thoughts. “The left one,” I decide spontaneously, as I don’t think I can push the heavy bike up the steeper path with my own muscle power. We let our bikes roll to the left until we have to dismount. Then we push. Each of us in our own world of thought. My pores are working at full speed to cool my body down to operating temperature in this monkey heat. I stop, drink the still relatively cool water from my sourcerack, then I push on. Tanja stays behind. I can’t wait, I have to go at my own pace. “If I make it to the top, I’ll go and help her.” My arms go limp, my shoulders start to ache, my neck sends frightening signals to my brain, then there’s a crack in the control center, the pain stops, everything is numb. Energies are released. Anger comes up and turns into strength. I push like a berserker, look back and see Tanja getting smaller and smaller. A small truck drives past us in first gear. Everything is lost in the fine, white dust. I see faces glued to the windshield, take in their impassive expressions. “Even the occupants of a box like that obviously have to suffer on the slopes.” Then I press on. The dust gets finer, my bike threatens to come to a standstill. “Aahhh!”, I roar and push it through with all my strength, pushing the 130 kilograms meter by meter upwards towards the supposed destination. Tanja is getting smaller, my shoes and calves are covered in flour dust. Arms, clothes, simply everything is powdered. I look down, see my tracks, the imprints of the trailer and the bike. Then I lift my head and look up. It’s still a long way, I don’t want to face the fact and stare at the front tire again. My breath rattles, my heart beats reliably. “It’s fantastic to be able to live in a healthy body.” I stop and take out the Leica to capture the scene. I point it at Tanja, zoom in on her and press the shutter. Dust settles on the expensive device. I pan the camera to an excavator that is hurling dirt and dust into the atmosphere a hundred meters above me. Then I get brave and walk towards Tanja. “How’s it going?” I ask. “I can do it!” she moans, apparently overcome by the same willpower that got me. I press the shutter release a few more times. The Leica is still working. Then I hurry up to my bike and stow the camera in the Ortlieb bag. Now I push on towards the summit. A summit that is more like a hill, but for me it is the summit of the White Mountain. After maybe 20 minutes, I’ve made it, I’ve conquered the white mountain. I stand there for a moment and look out over the vast plain, gazing in the direction we came from. An endless steppe opens up, a land that seems infinite and impressive. I don’t enjoy the fantastic, hard-won view for long, then I hurry down to help Tanja. “I’ll be fine,” she refuses at first. I unpack the film camera hanging in an Ortlieb bag on her saddle and film a few cuts, then we push the remaining meters together up her equally heavy bike.

When we both reach the top with our road trains, we enjoy the view into the distance once again. We lean the bikes against a large sign indicating the provincial border between Atöbe and Uralsk. Then we look at each other and have to laugh. We laugh about our success. We laugh at having conquered this white mountain. We laugh about having overcome over 60 kilometers of gravel, deep potholes, heat, wind and rain in 12 hours. From here, at an altitude of just 175 meters, a wonderful tarred strip continues eastwards. We are just about to get on our bikes when an expensive jeep pulls up next to us. The men are well dressed and amazed that we have made it this far through the steppe. One of them laughs, gets out and hands us eight half-liter bottles. “The best water,” he says. We say thank you and have our tanks full again.

“Just look! Can you see the trees? That’s our camp for the night,” I say, pointing to a small group of trees just 100 meters away. In a good mood, we push our bikes through the green, tall grass to seek shelter behind the grass verge, as we do every day. Birds welcome us as usual with loud singing. As we have enough water, each of us gets half a liter to roughly remove dust, sweat and dirt from the body with a washcloth.

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