Hospitality that can hardly be explained in words

Today, too, we are greeted by strong side and front winds. It’s getting harder every day to keep up our morale and stay calm in the face of the wind. We stoically drive our horses into the continuous blower. We simply swallow any anger that arises. What can the wind do that we are heading for Siberia at this time of year?

It’s a cold, hazy morning at 13 degrees. People are already dressed warmly. One of the large blue signs shows 110 kilometers to Volgodonsk. This is supposed to be our destination for the day, but with this headwind? “Denis!” “Yes?” “Pull over for a minute. I need to rest for a minute!” “It looks like a trucker’s pub up ahead. We’ll have shelter from the wind there!” “Okay!” When we reach what we think is a restaurant, it turns out to be a market stall. As soon as we stop our bikes, a market woman runs up to us. It doesn’t take long and we are literally surrounded by women and men. There is a lot of confusion, talk and laughter. Everyone wants to have a few words with the foreigners. The usual questions are asked and we use our breather to answer them. “Here you go,” says a woman and hands Tanja a red-cheeked apple. As soon as Tanja has thanked me and put the apple in my handlebar bag, I am given a nice apple too. “Oh, thank you very much,” I say happily and let it disappear into the handlebar bag. Friendly laughter is the answer. “Here you go, please. Tastes very good with tea or coffee,” says a man and offers Tanja a honeycomb. We are just about to say goodbye when a sales clerk storms off to bring a bag of grapes and pears. So much that everything spills out at the top. “Oh, that’s very generous. Thank you so much,” I say, opening my pendant and placing the gifts inside. The friendly laughter becomes even more cheerful. When the fruit and vegetable vendors see that I still have room in my trailer, the hustle and bustle increases. “Here, this is for seasoning. Very tasty,” says another woman and hands me a bag of fresh herbs and parsley. “Thank you, thank you,” I say and put the herbs in the hanger. “You’ll need potatoes for that,” says another and puts a bag full of them in the trailer. “Oh, oh, oh, thanks, but that’s enough. I’m starting to have trouble fitting everything in,” I say, and the thought of having to pull the increasingly heavy trailer against the nasty wind makes me break out in a cold sweat. “You need tomatoes for a salad. You need tomatoes!” shouts a saleswoman. The laughter is all-encompassing and before I know it there are three kilos of tomatoes in the trailer. “Eggplants are a must. Here you have eggplants.” “Oh, oh, oh, thank you so much, but that’s really enough now. I’ve run out of space,” I beg a little for mercy to stop the flow of gifts now. “Oh no! There’s still room. Cucumbers are part of a good salad”, I hear and see in the corner of my eye how two kilograms of them sneak past me and end up where it’s now really tight. “Cabbage must not be missing under any circumstances. This is very tasty,” says a friendly and caring female voice, whereupon two hands place a complete head of white cabbage next to the trailer. “Uh, thank you, thank you, thank you, but no more, please. It’s enough for many days,” I soon say, a little desperately. “Come on, there’s another little hole and another slit there,” say the voices and a few hands help to fit the gifts into my Zargesbox with centimeter precision. As even the cabbage is squeezed in, another smiling face appears in front of me. “Here’s another flatbread. That makes your dinner perfect,” says the elderly lady. “Right, thanks but please, that’s enough now. I can barely close the box,” I reply with a laugh. “We are Turks. Tell the world that we Turks are good people,” says another woman, pointing at herself and all the bystanders. “Yes, we’ll be happy to do that,” we reply, literally overwhelmed by such amazing hospitality.

We drive on. Immediately there is a hill from which the wind blows down. My muscles are stretched to the limit. Pulling the now mega-heavy box, I soon spit my lungs onto the asphalt. Nevertheless, I have to smile at the irony. The lovely people have been so kind to us that I almost collapse at this moment. In the lee of a grass-covered hollow in the ground, we unpack some of the delicious food and fortify our famished bodies. We tuck slices of tomato and cheese into the delicious Turkish flatbread, eat grapes, drink yogurt, juice and water until our bellies are so full that our muscles have enough energy to propel our aluminum horses further into the wind. Further and further into the wind, further east, into the infinity of the largest country on our Mother Earth, further into the heart of Mother Russia.

After our break, it is still 70 kilometers to Volgodonsk. There is no Gastiniza beforehand. At 16:00 we have only 50 kilometers behind us. Tanja is gobsmacked. She doesn’t want any more. “Let’s ask this village if we can pitch our tent,” she suggests. We leave the main road and roll into the poor village. We are immediately discovered by children. They happily follow us on their bicycles. We find the village store. While Tanja gets water, I watch over our bikes. Children surround me and are amazed. Adults join them. Many of them are dressed in torn clothes. Some of the men only have a few teeth. Gold flashes out of other mouths. If dentures are used, they are always made of gold. The way the men here look and greet each other, I know I’ve arrived in a village where only Muslims live. “How much does your bike cost?” one of the adults wants to know. “Fantastic machine,” says another. There are more and more people. Something vague makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My feelings send warning signals to my mind. Tanja comes back. “Not a place to stay,” I say curtly. “No, you’re right. Let’s drive on quickly.” As I try to push my bike off, it is stopped by a rough-looking hand. I look up into a scarred face. I smile at it. I am answered with a smile. Although alcohol is not allowed in the Muslim world, a plume of alcohol wafts towards me. “Where to?” asks the deep voice. “To Volgodonsk,” I reply as casually as possible. “Ballpoint pen?” asks the man. “No, I don’t have one,” I fib. “Go and get me a pen from the car,” the man orders, whereupon two teenagers jump into his run-down Lada and bring the desired object. “Note?” he asks me now. “I’m sorry. I don’t have one either. But I know the way to Volgodonsk,” I reply, whereupon he raises his eyebrows at me scrutinizingly, decides to laugh and releases my handlebars again. “Spasiba i Doswidanje!” I say thank you and say goodbye. Then we set off. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster. When we find ourselves back on the main road, we breathe a sigh of relief. “It was a strange place,” I say. “Yes, maybe we should drive as far as Volgodonsk after all. I definitely have some energy now,” Tanja replies.

One village further on we make another attempt. We ask a young man on his moped if we can pitch our tent in his settlement somewhere next to a house in the shelter of a family. “I don’t know,” he replies and rattles off without further comment. “Let’s check out a few houses anyway,” Tanja suggests. “Okay,” I reply tiredly. It is already 18:00. We’ve been on the road for over eight hours. Battered and exhausted by the eternal wind, our giants and millers bump past the miserable huts. We are on the lookout for a fragment option. About to take the slightest opportunity to ask for overnight accommodation. Some people hurry away when they see us arrive. Others sit in the second row of houses. Asking them is too time-consuming with our dwindling reserves of energy. We had to take a gravel road into the village. So we stay close to the main road and let our eyes wander into every house and garden. Strangely enough, we don’t meet any potential people we can ask. Suddenly, two young, well-dressed men run towards us. The moped rider also joins them. “You’re looking for a place for the night?” asks the man dressed in a black jacket and trousers. “Yes. We’re tired,” we reply. Then come the repetitive questions. Sweaty, we stand in the last light of day and talk. What should we do? Is this conversation a waste of time? Or does it take us to a safe place? Who knows? Stay calm is the order of the day. No stress. Don’t panic. Why should you? Nothing happened. We’re just tired and it will soon be dark. Perhaps we really do have the strength left in us to drive the remaining 60 kilometers to Volgodonsk? But I don’t think so. Should be an emergency. Then you can do something like this. 110 kilometers against extreme wind with the luggage is hardly manageable. In the meantime, the teenager rides his rickety moped to a house to ask for us. Nobody opens the door. “Just a moment,” smiles the man in his black clothes, looking at us in disbelief. “Where are you from? From Germany? Can’t be. And with bicycles?” he repeats, patting his buddy on the back. “One, two, three, four, five,” he now counts in German to show us his language skills. “Hello, open up!” shouts the moped rider, banging against the broken door of the broken house. Suddenly there is a creak in the frame and something resembling a door leaf hangs crookedly on its hinges. An approximately 70-year-old woman staggers drunkenly out of the dark. “Oh no, not a good place to spend the night.” “No, not a good place,” I confirm Tanja’s words. “Just a moment,” says the man in black. The moped driver and the drunk old woman run to another house. There, too, people shake their heads. The last attempt also fails. We would like to thank you. “Don’t ask under any circumstances in the next village. Bandits live there,” we hear in horror. “Like bandit?” “Well criminals,” explains the man in black and the moped rider draws a non-existent knife blade across his throat. “Oh dear. Where have we ended up?” says Tanja in alarm. We push our bikes onto the road. “Remember that! The next village is five kilometers away. Don’t stop there!” the moped driver calls after us with a serious face.

After five kilometers we actually reach a village. A large playground is located on its outskirts. Children play soccer. They laugh and cheer. Adults sit on the benches in front of their houses. Cowherds drive their animals to the stables in the fading evening light. Nothing here looks like a criminal. On the contrary, the village seems peaceful and idyllic to us. It also has a more pleasant atmosphere than the last settlement where we were not given a place to stay. “I think it’s like when we marched along the Indus with our camels in Pakistan. There, the village we were in always warned us about the next settlement. Some were Sunnis and others Shiites. They had a problem with each other. But it had nothing to do with us. Who knows? Maybe it’s similar here,” I say. “Could be,” Tanja replies. Another five kilometers against the nasty wind, following the road eastwards, we discover a hermitage not far from the main road. “I’ll ask there,” I decide. When we arrive at the pretty little house, we are delighted with the lovingly landscaped garden. Autumn flowers glow in the very last rays of sunshine. “Hello, is anyone there?” I call out. The guard dog tugs at his chain and barks. Then an older woman appears. She smiles at us a little shyly. We ask if we can pitch our tent in their pretty garden for one night. Explaining where we come from, where we are going and that we are very, very tired. “Njet”, her refusal baffles us. “Ask on the other side of the street,” she recommends. Disappointed to fail here too, we say goodbye and cycle to the other side of the road. There is also a house there with a few track gates in front of it. Dogs bark loudly as we circle the dilapidated hut. Mountains of garbage pile up. Old iron, all kinds of scrap metal, leftover food and lots of plastic stand in stark contrast to the old woman’s pretty little house. A man with red eyes steps out of the dwelling and approaches us with a serious look. “So, uh, I just wanted to know if there’s a gastiniza around here?” I ask, just to say something, because we don’t want to spend the night here under any circumstances. “Njet”, he replies in a voice that reflects his habitat. “Very well. Thank you very much and see you again,” we say goodbye.

The sun has already set when we reach a road construction camp, our hearts pounding with exertion. Tanja points to a few dilapidated huts by the roadside. I refuse to ask there again. We are stopping. Our mood is in the cellar. One of the construction workers said it was still 45 kilometers to the city. It’s unbelievable that this Volgodonsk just won’t come any closer. We actually wanted to avoid traveling on a main road in Russia after sunset. Too dangerous. The warnings were clear. And now? What are we supposed to do? Don’t despair, I think to myself. But my mood has adapted to my physical condition. “Let’s stop and talk,” I suggest. Standing at the side of the road, we start thinking. Tanja unpacks two bananas. “Would you like one?” “Yes, please,” I say. “And what do you think?” Tanja wants to know. “I think we should make a decision. Either we tackle the town or we’ll hide in the bushes somewhere. If it’s dark enough, no one will see us. Bandits don’t walk around at night. They’re in the village or in the town where there’s something to get. But not out here.” “Hm, you’re probably right.” “Of course I’m right.” “Come on, one more try. I can see smoke coming out of a small chimney over there in the huts at the edge of the field. Why don’t you ask again?” asks Tanja. “Okay.” We bump across the meadow to an irrigation canal. It doesn’t go any further because it forms the border to the cardboard dwellings. At that moment, an old Lada comes roaring down the dirt road towards us. A man with Mongolian features gets out. While Tanja holds my bike, I run up to him and greet him. “Can we pitch our tent with them tonight?” I ask and wait for the “no”. He looks at me kindly and says: “Gladly.” “How?” “You’re welcome to set up your tent with us,” he says and my heart leaps. “Oh, thank you,” I say happily and tell Tanja the very good news. The Mongol shows us a way around the moat and when we roll up to the huts minutes later, everyone present has already been informed. “We are Uzbeks. We are guest workers here in Russia. We live here from January to October,” explains Sasha, the leader of the group. “You live here in the huts for ten months of the year?” I ask without showing my astonishment. “Yes,” he answers as if it were the most normal thing in the world to live in a cardboard hut for almost the whole year. “Where can we pitch our tent?” I want to know. “There under the shelter,” he points to a few men squatting underneath and busy sorting out peppers. We are greeted cautiously and politely by the workers. When we unpack and set up our Fjällräven tent, they are surprised that such a large dwelling lives in such a small bag. We can hardly understand our happiness. Just a few minutes ago we were at the mercy of a night on Russian roads and now we are under the protection of Uzbek field workers. The men who sort their peppers until the last light of day barely have time to bombard us with questions. In absolute silence, Tanja unpacks the stove and conjures up a wonderful soup from all the gifts of the Turkish women and men from the market, while I still find the time to write my short notes. Then Sascha brings a thermos flask full of tea and puts it in our camp. “Do you want tea tomorrow too?” he asks. As the green tea tastes fantastic after such a hard day, we nod. “Gladly.” “Then get some rest now. I’ll bring another pot tomorrow. Have a good night,” he says and leaves.

While we enjoy our delicious meal under the star-spangled sky, the men sit in their cardboard house and eat too. Harsh coughs and laughter filter outside. “Do they have a doctor when they get sick?” I wonder. “Who knows? It’s hard to believe the circumstances under which some people have to live and work. They have no running water, no electricity and the only way to shower is with a ladle. I should give them some of our grapes. What do you think?” “That’s a good idea.” It doesn’t take long for Tanja to leave the modest workers’ hut again. “So, did they accept the grapes?” “Yes, they were very happy. I don’t think the men get much fruit here,” says Tanja and sits back down with me in the camp.

“What a day. It’s hard to believe what we were able to experience today. Somehow this trip feels like a series of little miracles.” “What do you mean?” asks Tanja quietly, sipping her cup of tea. “To think how the people gave us presents at the market today. And now you have prepared such a delicious meal for us. As if they knew that we could use all the fruit and vegetables so well today. As if they knew that we would be rejected everywhere just to end up here? Isn’t that strange?” “Yes. I would say it’s because of an order that you could call divine. Everything eventually falls into place in a way that suits us.” “Hm, indeed. You could call that a divine order. Perhaps this divine order can be seen as an energy field. Waves of energy that move harmoniously and we are part of it. I find that a beautiful thought, by the way. A thought that makes this so-called divine order comprehensible to me.” “Yes, maybe,” Tanja answers quietly. Then we just sit there, remain silent in agreement and enjoy the clear starry sky for a while until the approaching cold and tiredness drive us into our hut.

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