highwaymen

After a very pleasant and peaceful night, we continue our journey. The asphalt is still in our favor, there is still no sign of the bad road. Without much effort, you cross a kind of plateau. Hardly any hills and little headwind slow down our ride. After about 15 kilometers we reach a roadside café. The first since Nizhneudinsk. We take advantage of the positive opportunity and have breakfast. As is so often the case, the café is joined by a repair workshop that offers help to battered vehicles. We sit in the shade of the covered veranda and watch as two men from the workshop change a flat tire on a road train. It’s busy here. Every few minutes, more kings of the road puff into the unpaved parking lot. The wind carries massive fountains of dust, whirled up by the tires, over to us. A car also stops. The passengers get out, staggering. No doubt they are drunk. Two women go into the café to buy three bottles of beer and cigarettes. They look really finished. While the driver remains behind the wheel, the passenger stands in front of the car smoking a cigarette with his feet in women’s shoes. It swings back and forth considerably. His condition is pathetic. “Just as well he’s not driving,” I realize.

One of the truck drivers sits down at the table opposite. He tells us that the gravel will soon start again and that there is another cafe in 20 km. We are just back on the road and the bitumen is saying goodbye. We bump along as usual. However, because there are hardly any hills to conquer and there are no pebbles on large sections, but normal gravel or hard-packed ground, the effort is kept within reasonable limits. Despite everything, we are making good progress. After the aforementioned 20 kilometers, we reach the café we were told about. Once again, we take the opportunity to rest from the last three hours of off-road driving. “Look, there’s also a gastiniza,” says Tanja. “Should we stay?” I ask. “If you like.” “I don’t know, I actually still feel fit. I’ll ask the truck driver how far it is to Tulun,” I reply. “To Tulun? Not far now. About 20 kilometers,” he says. “But on my map it’s still 35 kilometers,” I reply in surprise. “Forget the map. It’s only 20 kilometers to go,” he replies kindly, pouring ßto gram (the term for 100 grams of vodka) down his throat. “Why do you still want to go to Tulun today? There’s a wonderful banya (sauna) here and the food tastes good,” he says. “We’re still thinking about staying,” I reply and think I sense that he would like a sauna partner. “And what do you think? Should we stay or go?” I ask Tanja again. “We could still make it to Tulun today?” she asks. “I’m quite sure of that. Unless the coarse gravel starts again. The asphalt supposedly only starts again five kilometers before Tulun. So we still have 15 kilometers of strenuous surface ahead of us,” I point out. In the end, however, we decide to make it to Tulun today. As we have been talking about this little town for a long time, Tulun is a kind of stop-off point for us. We are also gifted with good roads afterwards. At least that’s what we were told.

We cross a village. Nice-looking wooden houses make me stop every now and then to take photos. Two boys are standing in front of their hut. You are taking a break from scything. They drink from a cup of water and watch us with a friendly look. I ask if I can take a photo and they pose laughing. “Adkuda? Kuda?” (“Where from? Where to?”) I hear the question repeated over and over again. I reply, to which they say I’d better get a protective mask for the route to Tulun. “It’s quite dusty, isn’t it?” I ask. “Ha, ha, ha, yes, very dusty,” they reply with amusement. Then I say goodbye and we ride on over what is indeed a very dusty track. We pull our headscarves over our faces to protect ourselves from the dust. In this way, the dirt arrives filtered in our lungs.

On the other side of a wooden bridge, a gray wound gapes open in the forest. It’s an unpaved straight ascent, the sight of which alone makes us break out in a sweat. Thank goodness there is an alternative road that goes around the outside in a few serpentines, making things easier for us and all drivers. We take a short breather before tackling the steep section. Village children come running and surround Tanja. She gives them a few signal strips to wrap around their arms or legs. As we haven’t needed them on the entire Trans-East expedition so far, we can give them away with a clear heart. “Da ßwidanja” (“See you again”) we shout to the children as we continue pedaling our Intercontinental. “Da ßwidanja, Chasliwa Buti!”, (“See you again, have a good trip”) they also shout in reply.

We are in an exuberant mood and when the bypass becomes too steep for us, we descend and push our bikes to the top. Although we are soon moving incessantly in a dense cloud of dust, we start to joke around. Suddenly the dust and dirt no longer bother us. No longer an obstacle for us. We have accepted the road as it is. Have become one with her. Yes, I even think we have become a piece of dust ourselves. So everything can change. It’s always a question of perspective and attitude.

We are just pushing around a steep bend when I spot two young men running towards us. Nothing out of the ordinary at first, but my instincts quietly kick in. Watching the men, I push my companion further up. Then the first of them reaches me and gives me a strange grin. I feel like I’m in a weird movie. A bizarre atmosphere is the order of the day. The young man, about 20 years old, is now walking next to me, still grinning and asking me something I don’t understand. I push on. Tanja is on my left, slightly behind me. The man now drops back a little and is behind us while his colleague, smoking a cigarette, strolls casually but directly towards me. When he is also on a confrontation course with my bike, all my alarm bells start ringing. This is no coincidence. This is not a game. My mind starts to rattle. “An ambush? A trap? We are in an extremely vulnerable situation. We’re both pushing up a very steep hill. Can’t defend ourselves. One of the guys is behind us. That speaks volumes. Then the time has come. The other one reaches me. He grins cheekily and confidently. As if he were the absolute master of the situation, he lifts his cigarette, is about to put it out on my handlebar bag, simultaneously puts his foot in front of my front wheel and brings me to a halt. I look at him through my sunglasses. I try to smile. I’m aware that he can’t see my eyes or my facial expressions. That’s a small advantage. “We have to keep going,” I say calmly, while Tanja talks about how we’re on a long journey. That the Siberians are good people and we are very tired. In response, we get an even cheekier grin from a face that takes on the resemblance of a grimace. He raises his hand and touches the bike computer. “Schto eta?” (“What is that?”) he wants to know. “A speedo,” I say kindly and make another attempt to push my bike past his foot. Again he casually puts his foot against it and again my attempt to leave the moment has failed. “Schto eta?” (“What’s that?”) he soon asks, pointing teasingly and smugly at my other speedometer. I can feel a volcano building up inside me, ready to erupt. Everything in my body is gearing up for a fight. A fight, I am quite sure, that will have a fatal outcome for our attackers in an emergency. I breathe calmly, feeling my body start to vibrate, producing adrenaline to strike at what I hope is the right time. Like a snake, with the strength of a grizzly bear and the obstinacy of a hyena. It happens so quickly that my counterpart doesn’t even realize where the avalanche that has just overrun him came from. It is a confident feeling. I don’t feel any fear inside me, just adrenaline. As a former lone fighter in the Bundeswehr, I was trained for moments like this many years ago. In addition, there are a multitude of dangerous situations on trips and expeditions that have sharpened all his senses over the years. They know that my body is capable of defending itself with force even in an emergency. This is not just about me, but also about protecting my dear wife. Without a doubt, I would die for her. That alone gives me tremendous strength. A force that a potential opponent, at least so far, has not been able to cope with. But on the other hand, I am a convinced practicing pacifist. I wholeheartedly reject all fighting and violence. Tanja and I can usually end such situations peacefully. That is what matters. Either end peacefully or uproot. Avoid conflict at all costs. But what if you can’t escape, as is the case at the moment? If you don’t know how the situation will develop? Will they strike? Will they hurt my Tanja? So far they haven’t asked anything specific and Tanja and I are fully aware that they want everything or nothing. At least that’s what her idiosyncratic behavior shows.

Still smiling, I make another attempt to push my bike past his foot. It succeeds. He wasn’t paying attention for a second and now our tires are rolling through the holes, dust and over the gravel again. Tanja now speaks incessantly in German. A good tactic. I notice her praying out loud. An even better tactic. I take a deep breath, feel my body tremble and push on slowly and stoically. One of the boys follows us at a distance of about five meters. The more aggressive of the two is now running next to me. He’s still grinning and asks what’s in the Ortlieb bag. I no longer answer. “Can’t he feel my charisma? It must be palpable? It’s extremely dangerous,” it goes through my head. I can’t recognize a knife or any other weapon. What are these guys thinking robbing two obviously defenceless cyclists? Trucks and cars drive past again and again. That’s when the two highwaymen pretend they’re just accompanying us. Fatal. A fatal situation. It must have been similar in the Himalayas, when the trade caravans on the Silk Road traveled from China over the passes to India. There, it was highwaymen and clan chiefs who attacked caravans from ambush. It was their profession and they lived as street robbers for generations from the stolen goods. It was at just such a nasty spot that the two of them intercepted us here. They must have seen us in the village when we chose the bypass and ran up the mountain. This is no coincidence. Impossible.

What should we do to get out of this without violence? Now the aggressive one gets bolder and reaches over my bike frame. With a firm grip, he grabs the tripod head that I have attached to the handlebars. For a fraction of a second, just long enough to avoid stumbling as I push, I pull my right arm up to ward off his arm. A quick punch and our forearms crash into each other. He obviously didn’t expect that. The grin has disappeared. The cards are clearly on the table. Have I given myself away now? Should I have continued to play the easily vulnerable cyclist? Can I still be the first to strike? The boy seems to be thinking about when he can turn my wheel. The other is still following. “I’ve got my eye on the one behind us,” says Tanja suddenly. She knows exactly what’s going on inside me. She knows me like no other person on this earth. She also knows that I’m trying to resolve the matter peacefully. But I am also aware that she would die for me in an emergency. Of course, this is not the case here. That is clear to us. But this thought also gives her strength. I can hear from her voice that she is composed. That she thinks clearly and is not afraid. On the contrary, I can almost physically hear their willingness to fight. I sense that she too is just waiting for the wink that decides to be the first to strike. It may sound brutal, but that’s what makes the difference between winning and losing. Naivety has no place here.

The cheeky highwayman suddenly runs alongside my trailer. What is he up to? Still nothing has happened. He doesn’t seem to be able to cope with the fact that we just keep walking. With great effort, I take the opportunity to get the pepper gas out of the handlebar bag. Suddenly he comes forward again. Did he notice anything? I withdrew my hand. Keep pushing. The man falls back again and now runs alongside Tanja. He pulls her handbrake to stop her bike. “Are you crazy!” she hisses at him. This is the opportunity. I manage to reach the throttle and hold it in my left hand, pressed directly against the wheel grip. He can’t see it that way.

The end of the mountain is in sight. I realize that it will happen up there at the latest. When we stop to get on our bikes is the best moment for them to attack us. They still seem unsure. Our pursuer falls further behind. Does he want to give up? No, it doesn’t look like that. Is he lifting a stone from the ground? Is that the weapon? Puhhh such a shitty situation. Everything has gone well so far. All the Russians and Siberians were friendly to us and now this. “Should I just stand in the middle of the road with my bike? A truck would then have to stop. We could alert him to the muggers,” it goes through my head. Perhaps a better solution than hitting him in the nose. The bandit says something to me again. No more playing, no more grinning. He is ready. It has to happen right now. He turns to his friend. They exchange glances. “As soon as we reach the dome, get on your bike and ride off,” I order Tanja. “What about you?” “I’ll be right behind you. It’s our only chance.” “Okay,” she replies. Now, just a few more seconds and Tanja will swing her leg over the frame. This is the most sensitive moment. The gangsters’ psyche and ours are visibly rubbing up against each other. I am so tense that even the touch of a fly can make me explode. My plan is set. As soon as stones start flying or the man grabs my bike at a critical moment, I’ll drop it on him with full force. He can’t expect it to weigh 70 kilograms when loaded. Impossible. That will surprise him. At the same time, I hit him with pepper gas with my left hand and punch him directly in the nose with my right. All in all, this will take one to two seconds. I will use the moment of surprise to pounce on the other person. A good plan. Yes, that’s him. It’s all a question of the right timing.

Now everything works as if in a trance. Tanja swings her leg over the frame as planned. The young shrub thief follows them with his eyes. After Tanja is seated and out of the first danger zone, I get on. This is the moment. If he pushes me at that moment, my plan is invalid. Then I fall and he has the upper hand. Then it would have been decidedly better to knock him off his feet without warning and then drive off. But I opted for the soft route. For the tour that shaped my life, the nice people and experiences. I actually manage the first few meters without falling over, without being held up, without being knocked over. I exhale and am startled when the first stone hits close to my trailer. “There’s still enough time to stop, jump off the bike and run at them before another stone could seriously injure me,” I think to myself. A second stone now lands to the right of my trailer. I decide to take flight and step on the gas. My helmet will protect me in an emergency. My Source hydration pack also covers my back wheel and protects it. No other stone has a chance of hitting us. We are out. We have made it. Without violence. Just a play of forces of the psyche. A great challenge, because in the past I would undoubtedly have sought out a fight. I feel peace rising within me. No anger. Only silence. My heart is still pumping but the calm prevails. A feeling of peace. Not of anger. We managed it without breaking a single nasal bone. We made it without losing a tooth or, perhaps even worse, having to accept a setback in our spiritual development. “Hurrrrraaa!” I exclaim with relief, whereupon Tanja laughs heartily and also with relief.

For the next few kilometers, we are still carried by our adrenaline over the bad, broken road. Their condition is now completely unimportant, completely uninteresting. What is a bad road against highwaymen and highway robbers? A joke. A ridiculousness. That’s the way it always is. A matter of perspective. The glass is half full or half empty. Two different statements and yet the same condition. So is the road. We bump along in the best of moods. There’s no doubt that the residual adrenaline will carry us all the way to Tulun today. Once again we find ourselves in the Siberia we have come to love so much. Drivers laugh and honk at the sight of us. You wish us a safe journey. Shouting “Malazee!” (“Fantastic!”) as if the near-mugging had never happened. All a fiction? A figment of your imagination? No, the battle of the psyche was too strong for that. We were lucky. We had protection. We were allowed to dig into the treasure trove of experiences and pick out a gem. What does the world cost? She is wonderful. We live life to the full. How beautiful it can be. How quickly it can change. How important it is to live in the moment and not let yourself be boxed in by someone every day. Don’t be afraid of the future and enjoy life in the now. That should be everyone’s watchword. That’s what the situation shows us. Under no circumstances should it intimidate us and cause us to break off our journey. No, as I said, it was a learning task. And who knows? Perhaps something like this will never happen again.

Tanja

Lionfish

The experience with the Passpiraten showed me an incredible amount and reflected how closely our thoughts are connected. And that we sometimes feel things without knowing what they actually are.

I wanted to set up camp that afternoon after just 36 km. I wasn’t tired at this point. I had even surprised myself by suggesting that Denis stay. I’m not tired, what is it then I asked myself? My answer was that I shied away from further efforts and I was proved right.

I’m not angry with the two men, to put it lightly, nothing happened in the end. Maybe that from now on I’m so shocked that I get scared every time someone in a striped shirt and someone with a cigarette in their hand comes towards us.

When I see the small villages, I can understand that there are people for whom the way out is swimming in the vodka bottle. Sometimes very bleak and without prospects. This can give one or two people the wrong idea. I don’t know how the Passpirat grew up, whether his parents beat him or whether he even has any? What do we even know about ourselves? How are we supposed to know what is happening in our counterpart? A lot goes on in your head in situations like this. In addition to prayers, many other things have flitted through my mind. I was also annoyed, did he think that because we were friendly, he could just take what he wanted? I have to think of the lionfish, which is extremely dangerous and as a diver you can swim very close to it and even touch it.

Perhaps it was a mixture of both vibrations that brought us out of the situation so well, the deep wish and prayer for a peaceful solution and the charisma of the firefish that knows how to hold on when things get too tight. However, I am sure that the experience pumped so much adrenaline into my body that I didn’t feel any exertion for the remaining kilometers.

I am happy about this good outcome for both sides: the Peaceful Warrior and the Pass Pirates and thank God and his helpers!

Denis

Suddenly my Rohloff clicks. “Oh dear, it’s not going to give up the ghost now, is it?”. It goes through my head. “Tanja! My gears are clicking incessantly. In every gear!” I shout. “But that doesn’t sound good,” she replies. “Not at all. I hope that the freewheel doesn’t go bye-bye right now. The last 300 kilometers were an ordeal for all the material. But the Rohloff has never let us down. I don’t understand it,” I say, shifting nervously back and forth to find the cause of the loud clicking. We stop at a rest stop. A couple ask us if they can take photos. They are missionaries who emigrated to America many years ago and are now exploring their old homeland by jeep. We tell them about our incident. Surprisingly, they take little notice of the experience we have just had and want another group picture. We patiently line up with our bikes in front of their jeep and have our photo taken. “So if you have any problems, you can call us at any time. Here are our business cards,” says the friendly woman, while her husband pulls a large nail out of the tire. “It happens all the time here with the bad roads,” he says and carries the flat tire to the garage next to the café. “Things will probably look better next year. Then the entire route between Krasnoyarsk and Irkutsk will be asphalted,” I say after the missionary returns. “The authorities have been talking about this for ten years. The road has never been asphalted throughout and perhaps never will be. There are construction errors. The entire surface would have to be concreted over. Otherwise, the road will sink up to ten meters because of the permafrost,” he explains. “How am I supposed to understand that?” I ask. “Well. You save on road construction and don’t build a proper surface. The ground thaws in summer. In some places more than others. As a result, where it thaws more, the road sinks and the entire asphalt surface sinks. For this very reason, I don’t believe that the road builders will ever manage to build a continuous, sensible connection all the way to Vladivostok.”

After some more small talk, we say goodbye to each other. As it’s still 10 kilometers to Tulun, we have to make every effort to reach the town today. I use the short break to take a closer look at my Rohloff. But because this circuit lives in a closed housing, I can’t detect anything suspicious. Then I move the pedals backwards with my hand and notice the clicking sound. I examine the sprockets of the chain tensioner and lo and behold, there is a small pebble in one of the sprockets, which is completely dirty and smeared with old oil. I flick it out with my finger. The episode is fantastic. Nothing clicks anymore and the gearshift works as well as ever. “I can rely on the good old Rohloff after all,” I think as we approach the town of Tulun.

Just before the town, bitumen puts an end to the eternal shaking. We let our bikes glide down a long slope with relish. Three heavy motorcycles roar past us. Their Polish license plates reveal where they come from. They are waiting for us at the entrance to Tulun. One of them speaks perfect German. We tell the interested listeners about our trip. They also film and photograph us. “Where are you going today?” I ask. “We’re trying to find a place to stay here in Tulun,” replies the only woman among them. After 20 minutes, we part ways again with the usual congratulations.

“I hope they don’t snatch away our only accommodation,” says Tanja. “Right, that would be really bitter. But things happen the way they do,” I say, not letting myself get rattled. The memory of the highwaymen is too fresh and the joy of having got away so well is too great.

“That’s where the Gastiniza is,” a city dweller points us in the right direction. A one-way sign warns us that we are cycling in the wrong direction. Nevertheless, we join some cars that also ignore the sign. There is a police patrol behind a bend. I pull the brakes and pretend to ask a passer-by for directions. “Tam prjama”, (“Straight ahead there”) he shouts. The policemen laugh and shout “Guten Tag!” in German. We return their greeting and simply drive on. It doesn’t bother anyone. We reach Gastiniza after this long day. “Can you see the motorcycles?” asks Tanja. “No, maybe they didn’t have enough rooms and the Poles have moved on?” I suspect and hope that at least one of the rooms is still free for us. “Komnatu jest” (we have a room), the nice woman at the small reception dispels my concerns. For 2,000 roubles (45.55 euros) we get a recently renovated room. Not cheap but beautiful. After we have carried most of our belongings into the accommodation, we find out that there is no storage space for our bikes. We are now at the end of our tether. The day has used them up and the adrenaline has also fizzled out. We are given the opportunity to park our bikes in the parking lot of the neighboring supermarket. Although there is a video camera watching, not a good idea. We are then told to leave our bikes in a nearby guarded parking lot. But he turns out to be an ordinary car dealer. In the end, we still have to solve a challenge that almost drives us to despair. “Just don’t jump to conclusions now,” I think to myself. Tanja speaks to the receptionist at the Gastiniza and explains to her how important it is for us to store the bikes safely, so she sets off to speak to the car dealer. “He said you can leave your bikes with him. He will lock them in his office, which is under construction,” is her positive message.

It doesn’t take long and we can go to our room with peace of mind. Rarely in our lives has so much dirt come off our bodies in the shower. We enjoy washing ourselves thoroughly, not only to get rid of the dirt, but also the one or other negative emotion that the highwaymen have attached to us.

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