Lonely accommodation

Back at our nice little hotel in Feodosiia, we put our equipment on our bikes to cycle on towards Russia. The cook serves us one last, very oily breakfast and then we set off. Unfortunately, the wind has changed direction again to our disadvantage and is blowing at us from the side and in front. But as we are allowed to cycle the first ten kilometers of the day directly along the Black Sea, we are rewarded by the impressive view. The gentle ridges of the earth arch in front of us in the otherwise absolutely flat landscape. The view is only limited by the horizon. Fields to our left have been harvested and burnt down. Sometimes we stop to catch our breath. A shepherd drives a herd of cattle over the distant hills and reminds us of the vastness of Mongolia. The traffic on this route means well for us. There is nothing left of the former madness around Odessa. The sun warms the day to around 23 degrees. Ideal for every cyclist. The heat of summer has definitely broken and we can feel fall approaching. “Shall we stop at the little street stalls up ahead? Maybe we can buy bread for our snack?” Tanja suggests. One of the women sells a Brinsa cheese. “Can I have half of it?” I ask. “No, I can only sell the cheese whole. If I cut it in half, no one will want the other half,” she explains, which is why I buy the whole cheese from her. “Do you want some milk?” she asks, offering me the only liter in a bottle on the floor in front of her little table. The sales clerks here seem to be very poor. Everything they offer is only available once and from their own production. A few onions, a few potatoes, some garlic. An old man is sitting next to the two babushkas. A dead goose lies in his little handcart. “Do you want them?” he asks. Unfortunately we do not have the possibility to prepare a goose. Then he gives me three slices of white bread. To refuse would be an insult. Tanja hands the two grandmas and grandpa a few cookies. The atmosphere is suddenly very relaxed and cordial. I take photographs. Please don’t, says the one shyly and hides behind her hands. “Oh please. Why not? You look very good,” I reply. “Hi, hi, hi. No, I don’t look well.” “Yes, yes, very good,” I assure her. “No, no, I don’t think so. Hi, hi, hi,” she laughs heartily and continues to hide behind her hands. The two others also laugh out loud. “Would you like a coffee? I’d love to invite you,” the old man offers. “No thanks, we still have a few kilometers to drive today”, we say no.

We interrupt our journey at a lonely roadside pub. “Will we get something to eat there?” wonders Tanja. “Let’s ask,” I reply. “Sure, there’s something to eat,” the friendly waitress offers us a seat. We sit down under the trees in the garden and enjoy a delicious soup and salad. “Actually, we could stay here too,” I suggest. “You mean we should pitch our tent here?” “Sure, why not. It is about 100 kilometers from Feodosiia to the border. We have planned two days for this and if we drive the remaining 60 kilometers tomorrow, we will still reach the border town of Kerch on time.

The landlady Alie and her nice husband Ibragim are delighted to receive our request to spend the night here. “You are safe with us. We have two dogs to watch over you. Ibragim also stays here in the house overnight. If anything should happen, you are under his protection,” says Alie.

Satisfied that we have found a good and safe place for the night, we begin to set up camp as dusk approaches. We push the tables and chairs of the garden restaurant to one side and set up our tent. A few guests watch us curiously. The remaining daylight reveals bizarre storm clouds. It doesn’t take long for the last customers to leave the pub. When Ibragim and Alie drive off into the night in their old Lada, we suddenly find ourselves alone. “I thought Ibragim was staying the night?” says Tanja. “I thought so too. He’s probably just driving his wife home and coming back,” I reply, silently hoping that I’m right. Suddenly there’s something eerie about this lonely, run-down house. I make the rounds and look for the dogs. Nothing can be seen or heard of them. As if they are hiding out of fear of loneliness. Did Ibragim take them with him? A small flock of sheep bleats in the nearby kraal. “Ibragim has to come back for the sheep alone. He can’t possibly leave them alone in a country where so much is stolen,” I whisper. “The dogs have gone,” I say to Tanja when I get back to the stone terrace. “Hm, I hear. It’s already cold and wet at 8:30 pm. We lock the bikes, tuck them under the tarpaulin and crawl into the tent. I lie there with my eyes open and stare up at the tent sky. Trucks and cars roar past only about 10 meters away from us, sometimes making the ground tremble. I am still wondering about the whereabouts of the dogs. Nothing can be heard from them. Dogs usually bark at everything. Especially at night, it goes through my head. Even though I suppress the unpleasant feeling that is trying to rise up inside me, I suddenly no longer feel comfortable here. Every Ukrainian locks everything he owns behind thick locks. Many keep a dog and many warned us not to camp without protection. And now we’re spending the night next to a lonely roadside pub on a main road. Ibragim will definitely come back, I reassure myself. And if not, it’s not as if someone is trying to break in here tonight. I toss and turn restlessly on the insulation mat. As it is not very wide, either a hand or a foot slips off the mattress onto the cold stone floor. A cone of light touches the tent. Did Ibragim come back? The dogs suddenly start barking. It must be Ibragim. I’m sure the dogs will greet him, I think, and fall into a light sleep.

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