Exhaust fumes, traffic madness and high concentration

Shortly after sunrise, we put on our mosquito-proof clothes, set up camp and leave the mosquitoes buzzing after us behind. A little later we reach the café where we overdosed on garlic yesterday. We decide to have a hearty breakfast before tackling the last 100 kilometers to the modern capital of Kazakhstan. “I’m really looking forward to a portion of blini (pancakes),” says Tanja confidently. “Nope, blinis aren’t available at this time of day,” the waitress disappoints us. Because we are so early, the kitchen staff are still half asleep. Apart from white bread, fried eggs, buckwheat semolina and tea, the kitchen offers nothing. We take our time when eating our food. The master seems to be favorable, which is why we are sure that we will reach the city today without too much stress. When we want to use the washbasin in front of the toilet to wash up a little and brush our teeth, a large Russian coach stops and disgorges its passengers in front of the café. Before we know it, the sink and toilet are blocked for the next half hour. What else can we do but accept this fact calmly and answer all the guests’ questions. Then, after the bus has disappeared in a big cloud of dust, we have the washbasin all to ourselves. If it wasn’t so small, I would love to plunge in and take a full bath. However, we have to make do with a wash on the quick program.

As expected, we make good progress thanks to the favorable conditions. Our bodies have coped well with the exertion of the last two days, in which we put 227 kilometers on the asphalt. In the best of moods, we glide over the half-finished, super-expensive highway, incessantly past the huge construction sites. Since large sections are poured from pure concrete and the still unfinished, steep final edge of the concrete does not allow us to leave the roadway, we do not reach a rest area at the roadside. We make do with a quick Rapunzel bar and continue our journey.

Cell phones, a blessing and a curse at the same time?

We can already see the first high-rise buildings in Astana from a distance of 35 kilometers. Our legs pedal with even more motivation. Then suddenly the cell phone rings, which I have probably switched on. I stop on the shoulder of the mega highway and have Dastan, Alinberg’s friend, on the line. According to Alinberg, Dastan is supposed to find us accommodation where we can stay for a few days at a reasonable price to see the city and write. “When will you reach the city?” he wants to know. I explain our estimated arrival time to him as best I can. We are barely back in the saddle when the cell phone rings again. This time a stranger answers. “We were told you were looking for an apartment in Astana?” “Yes, that’s right”. I answer the English-speaking voice, somewhat puzzled. “When will they reach the city?” Like Dastan, I explain my estimate. “I’ll get back to you,” says the man and hangs up. “Who was that?” “No idea. He doesn’t know Alinberg and Dastan. Wants to find us an apartment. As far as I remember, Alinberg talked about asking an acquaintance to look for something for us as well as Dastan,” I think. “Maybe she hired an estate agent?” “Maybe.”

“We’ll probably get an apartment on the twentieth floor with a fantastic view over the capital,” I joke. “Don’t you think so?” “Yes, right in the center. And it’s probably 200 square meters in size and furnished by a top designer,” Tanja adds to my wishful thinking. “I think it has a huge roof terrace with comfortable deckchairs and maybe even a small swimming pool.” “Definitely. The president might even visit us personally to honor us for our extraordinary achievements.” “Yes, definitely. As a reward, the fine gentlemen of the city will invite us to the most expensive restaurants and we can fill our bellies with the best of the best.” “Ha, ha, ha, that’s right. I could even imagine being massaged by our personally provided masseurs and being pampered with an Ayurveda program for regeneration.” “Quite modest!” I exclaim cheerfully and let my imagination run wild.

We board our road trains again. We are just getting up to speed when the cell phone stops us again. “It’s just like at home in the office,” jokes Tanja. This time it is Alinberg who tells us in German that Dastan will pick us up on the outskirts of the city. “All right. Thank you for your help,” I shout into the phone over the increasing traffic noise. “Would it be better to wait here for a few minutes?” I ponder, swinging my leg over the frame again. “You mean someone’s about to call us again?” “Could be,” I laugh, setting my wheeled luggage in motion again. Just a few hundred meters further on, I have to brake again. “I’ve found an apartment for her. It costs 10,000 tenge a day (54 euros).” “That’s expensive.” “You wanted a washing machine, didn’t you?” “No, we didn’t want one.” “Without a washing machine, an apartment costs 8,000 tenge. (44 euros) Is that expensive?” “It’s a lot of money. Isn’t there anything cheaper?” “I’ll have a look. Call her right back,” says the man and hangs up. “Sounds like a real estate agent,” I confirm Tanja’s assumption. Over the next 10 kilometers, the estate agent, Dastan and Alinberg take it in turns to call. We will now probably get the same apartment with a washing machine for 7,000 tenge (38 euros) per day. Dastan keeps wanting to know where we are and doesn’t understand my explanation and Alinberg advises us not to drive into the center of Astana alone. “Stay where you are. Dastan will pick you up.” But because there are hardly any explainable landmarks in this area that I can pass on as a guide to a meeting point, we cycle on anyway. “Actually, he has to find us here. There’s only one road from Kokchetav to Astana. You can’t miss us there,” I assume. Shortly before the capital, the paved road ends and leads into an asphalt field. We are surprised, because the city is supposed to be the country’s flagship. “Do you understand that?” I ask Tanja. “Which foreigners come by car? Most of them will fly into the city. The access roads are perhaps not so important,” she suspects.

We bump over and through holes in very heavy traffic on a narrow, broken road. As it becomes increasingly dangerous for us, we leave the poor bitumen strip and continue on the unpaved hard shoulder. We pass countless ugly overhead power lines. Large chimneys spew their filthy smoke over the city and the cars are literally gassing us. In the meantime, the phone is getting on my nerves. “Where are you? When are you coming? Please let me know about the apartment when you get to the center.” I explain that I can’t give exact times with bicycles and that the access road to the city took an unexpected left turn just before the metropolis. “The route is much further than we thought. Our speedometers are already showing over 100 kilometers per day and the rush hour traffic is slowly becoming a nightmare. We don’t know when we’ll be there. Maybe at 6 or 7 p.m.,” I shout into my cell phone over the traffic noise as the estate agent calls us for the sixth time.

We finally reach the outermost ring road of the Kazakh city and agree to wait at a petrol station opposite a six-storey gastiniza. “This is where Dastan must find us?” I am convinced. But after 20 minutes there is still no sign of him, so I call Alinberg. Unfortunately, he can no longer be reached. Dastan’s phone also only answers with a Kazakh computer voice. We wait another 20 minutes when someone finally answers my phone. The voice speaks some English. I immediately run to the gas station attendant and hand him my cell phone. This allows him to explain to the voice where we are. After 15 minutes, a small, broken-looking minivan coughs into the gas station. Three young men named Dastan, Timur and Daniar get out of the car laughing happily and greet us enthusiastically. “What do you want to eat?” asks Dastan. “Actually, we want to go to the apartment now, freshen up a bit and then we’ll think about dinner,” I answer him with the help of the translator Daniar. “Which apartment?” he asks. Only now do we realize that the flow of information between Alinberg and Dastan is not seamless and declare that we have been called by an estate agent who is eagerly waiting for us. I give Dastan my phone to call the estate agent. So he knows where we have to go now.

Exhaust fumes, traffic madness and high concentration

“Okay, follow us. How fast should we drive ahead? 20 or 30 kilometers per hour?” Daniar wants to know. “We don’t have any mopeds. Maybe 15 or 20 KMH if it goes well,” I reply. Then we follow the minibus. At first the traffic is bearable, but soon it develops into an unpredictable, spitting and lunging monster. The roads are terribly bad and we breathe lead-contaminated air. “Where from, where to?”, drivers ask us during the journey. As we have to concentrate on the hectic pace, the many holes, the constant lane changes, the traffic lights, the honking horns and wildly waving police officers, it is not easy for us to find the answers. None of the car drivers seem to understand what it means for a heavily loaded cyclist with a trailer to maneuver his vehicle through the fast, aggressive heaps of metal with pure muscle power. After the long steppe drive, the loneliness and the large, little-traveled tarred strips, we suddenly feel like hunted game. Or better still, like food thrown down for a ravenous predator.

In the meantime, 115 kilometers have been added to our speedometers. We just function like machines. Our sensory organs constantly transmit information to our brain, which is then processed in the control center in a fraction of a second. Extreme concentration is required to apply the brakes at the right moment, shift from tenth to third gear, swerve in time, assess the behavior of drivers or hold your breath when a bus or junk truck envelops us in its exhaust fumes.

“Watch out! Car from the left!”, I shout to Tanja, who cycles in front of me for the entire city ride and sets a crazy pace. “Where does she get her strength from after such a day?” I ask myself. I have trouble following her, I feel like her back armor, like the blockade and protection from the stinking machines rolling up behind us. Machines that are controlled by beings that we only recognize dimly behind their tinted windows. “Where from, where to?” calls a voice from a passenger compartment whose window has been lowered by an electric switch.

It is already 21:00. We’ve been on the road for 14 hours. It’s still 30 degrees. The air is sizzling and we follow this little minibus over a large bridge. Super modern buildings, their facades gleaming in the sun, rise up into the steel-blue sky. There is nothing left of the bad road. Everything is high-tech. Parks, high-rise buildings and a transportation network planned on the drawing board. We suddenly find ourselves in one of the most advanced capital cities in the world. Although we hardly notice anything because of the great effort, the many hours in the saddle, it is enough to leave us speechless. A sign shows us that we are now heading towards the old town center.

In one street, a few run-down houses appear as we know them well enough. To our disappointment, the minibus turns off into a small side street. Now there is nothing left of a modern high-tech city and architecture. Crumbling facades, children playing in a dark, unkempt courtyard, neglected entrance doors and broken glass dominate the picture. My euphoria is downright on my knees. I lean my bike against a rusty fence. A young man strides towards me. He reaches out his hand to me without looking me in the eye. He is actually a real estate agent. While Tanja looks after the bikes, I go with him and our friendly companions into the broken stairwell. My tired bones take me through an unpleasant ambience to the third floor. A grumpy woman leans against the doorframe. She has apparently been waiting for us for some time. The apartment is clean but dark and old. Just like the run-down and run-down super deluxe apartments of the Eastern Bloc. Although it’s now 9.30 p.m. and I hardly feel any energy left, I don’t want to stay here. 7,000 tenge seems too much for this apartment in the old residential area. When the landlady notices my hesitation, she wants to get rid of us as quickly as possible and pushes us out the door. A little humiliated, I sneak back down the stairs. “We’ll find you an apartment,” says the very friendly Timur and pulls out his cell phone. “You don’t want the accommodation?” asks the estate agent who is standing next to us with a friend. “Is there nothing else?” “There is, but it costs at least 10,000 tenge a day. But now it’s too late to get anything. My office is closed. Maybe they’ll move into these quarters for one night and I’ll find them something better tomorrow,” he suggests. We refuse. It’s too much work to lug everything up to the third floor to try again the next day. “We’ll lose a day,” I say, whereupon the estate agent says goodbye and we get back on our bikes.

A guest of civil engineer Gafur

We cycle back the way we came and enjoy a tour of the city. “My uncle Gafur lives with my cousin Machmut in a large three-storey house. His wife is not there at the moment because she is caring for her sick mother. So he has plenty of space and will offer you hospitality,” Timur explains, which is why our expectations of finding a place to stay tonight are rising again.

At 10:15 pm, after 15 hours and 122 kilometers for the day, we push our bikes along a dirt road into the courtyard of a large house that is still under construction. We are allowed to park them in a garage that is locked at night. The 50 year old friendly looking Gafur and his 30 year old nephew Machmut welcome us and invite us into their house. Timur, the translator Daniar, Dastan, Gafur and Machmut carry all our belongings inside in no time at all. Inside, it takes our breath away. A large flat screen TV is located in the spacious, modern living room. In the dining room, a long table invites you to eat. The kitchen is equipped with everything you need to cook well. There is a modern washing machine in the bathroom. The upper floor offers an office with computer and printer, a 30 square meter guest room with many windows, a spacious toilet with sauna and a bedroom. In other words, the house of a wealthy Kazakh. So far, we’ve never been here in person. This is probably because access to the upper echelons of society is more difficult than to the poor people of the country. We are allowed to choose a room. Although Gafur also offers us the living room and even his bedroom, we naturally opt for the guest room.

As soon as we have stowed our belongings, we take Timur’s minibus to the nearby supermarket to do some shopping. While Timur drives the shopping cart, Dastan and Daniar help us find the products we want. Then, fully loaded, we drive back to Gafur’s house, our accommodation, not far from the new center of the capital. As Timur, Dastan and Daniar say goodbye to us for the day, Daniar explains: “You’re invited here. Please don’t ask how much it costs. Gafur would be offended.” As so often on this trip, Tanja and I soon look at each other in bewilderment. Still completely exhausted on the trestle and without accommodation, we landed here a little later. Out of gratitude, Tanja stands in the kitchen after the long day and prepares a wonderful meal for Gafur, Machmut and me, while I lock up our bikes, inflate the sleeping mats and set up camp in the guest room.

We look forward to your comments!