Mountains, cloudburst, thieving Sinti

Shivering from the cold, we spoon up our muesli at 13° room temperature and swallow a few nutritional supplements from Sanatur to give our bodies the vitamins and minerals we don’t get here. Unsatisfied, I stretch my stiff, tired body before we carry everything down another floor and load the bikes. Tanja is not doing particularly well. She has a stiff neck, probably from her fall. Her knees, left hip and elbows glow blue-yellow. Thank goodness the tick bite looks a little better today. The swelling goes down slightly and the pressure pain subsides. “If all goes well, we’ll find a good writing place for me in the next town of Vanju Mare and we can rest our bodies for a few days,” I try to motivate us to set off. “Ah, very good. I can manage the few kilometers. But what if there’s no drop-off point there?” Tanja wants to know. “Well, then it doesn’t look so rosy. As far as I can tell from the map, we won’t find the next town for another 80 kilometers.” “Oh dear. Well then, let’s hope for Vanju Mare.”

We leave Drobeta Turnu Severin behind us with relatively little traffic and leave the highway heading south. From now on we are back on one of the little-used side roads that take us through many small villages. After 14 kilometers we stop at a completely run-down guesthouse. “I’ll at least take a look at the store,” I say confidently, entering the badly damaged house. A nice Romanian woman shows me the poor, windowless rooms. It’s hard for me to understand how you can charge money for this, but the standard in the country is simply on a different level. I thank the friendly woman and order another cappuccino, which we enjoy before continuing our journey. “It’s only a short day. We can take it slow,” I moan, rubbing my knee and sipping the hot liquid. Then it goes on. Just 500 meters later, the road leads us away from the Danube and our personal enemy stands like a memorial at the side of the road. We read 7% gradient and can’t believe we’re coming across mountains again. “Is it because of the cappuccinos? Whenever we drink one, there’s always a mountain,” jokes Tanja. “Shouldn’t drink any more,” I reply. “You said we’ve left the Carpathians behind us, right?” she then asks. “I thought so too. It might just be the foothills. However, according to the map, the road here leads away from the Danube and only meets the river again in about 90 kilometers.” “I hope I don’t have to pedal the whole way over a foothill of the Carpathians,” Tanja moans.

Cloudburst

As soon as we have started the strenuous ascent, it begins to rain. We stop and put on our rain jackets. As the rain gets worse, we stop again and slip into our rain pants. “Wuuummm!”, it suddenly crashes over us. “That can’t be true. Where does a thunderstorm come from at this time of year?” I shout. “Wuuummm!” it crashes again and again in the firmament and the water from the gates of heaven crashes down on us mercilessly. “The shoes! We have to put our overshoes on immediately or we’ll get totally cold!” I shout. We stop again to open the Ortlieb waterproof panniers and take out the overshoes. Instantly, water flows into my bag and onto my sleeping bag. Cursing under my breath, I close the pannier as quickly as possible. Fog comes up, which is why we attach our flashing lights to our Uvex helmets. Trucks overtake us from time to time. None of them greet us anymore. From the looks of it, you’d think we were absolutely crazy to be staggering up a pass road on bikes in the middle of an autumn thunderstorm in relatively thick fog. We must look like fire-breathing dragons when our breath leaves our mouths like plumes of condensing smoke. We huff and puff for all we’re worth. Small rushing rivers shoot towards us. Our narrow-looking tires tirelessly make their way through the wet. My lungs start to burn and our bodies have to do everything they can to keep going. But giving up is not an option in this weather. Only short stops make us freeze immediately. Our muscles work like machines, carrying us meter by meter towards the ridge. At the top, we let our bikes roll down again. “Don’t make a mess! Take it slow!” Tanja warns me. “Sure!” I reply, both hands on the brakes. Aquaplaning is just one of the dangers of this slippery asphalt. Even more dangerous are any holes in the road that are hidden under the floods. The wind and the wetness give us the feeling that we are already in Siberia. It is difficult to pull the brakes all the time with stiff fingers. Finally we are back at the bottom. It was the first descent on which we didn’t feel like shouting for joy.

“There is no guesthouse here, let alone a hotel,” we are told at our supposed destination of Vanju Mare. “How far is it to Calafat?” asks Tanja. “At least 70 kilometers.” “Is there somewhere for us to stay there?” “Calafat is a larger town on the border with Bulgaria. There’s guaranteed accommodation there,” I reply. “Then let’s tackle Calafat. We can do it,” she says confidently. “Another 70 kilometers? Do you really think so? Well, if we give it our all and no more mountains make life difficult for us, it’s doable,” I reply. Let’s eat something first. There’s bound to be something warm for us in that little street restaurant,” I add. We actually receive a very friendly welcome. Completely soaked and freezing, we settle down on the small wooden stools. “Do they also have soup?” I ask. “I highly recommend it,” I understand what I’m ordering it for. When Tanja gets her omelette, I spoon up my soup and immediately fish out some offal again. “Is it tasty?” asks the landlord. I nod. “And how is your omelette?” I ask. “Totally burnt,” Tanja replies and shows me the black cloth on the underside. “If you scrape off the top, you can eat it,” she says. Still terribly hungry after my soup, I dare to order an omelette for myself. “The cook just missed taking the pan off the stove in time,” I tell Tanja with a grin. “Maybe people here love black omelettes,” says Tanja with a laugh as mine is also badly burnt on the plate. “Five euros,” the landlord demands when we want to pay. “We agreed the price with your wife beforehand,” I reply and place the much lower, appropriate amount in lei on the counter. “Our country is very cheap,” he replies and puts the money in his pocket.

As I drive on, I wonder if I will ever find a place to write again. It’s too cold in the tent, and apart from that there are hardly any options for pitching it at the moment. In some cities it is too expensive or too dirty, too loud or too uncomfortable. The experiences are piling up and so is my work. “I urgently need a suitable place!” I exclaim out loud as we start pedaling again. “You will find a very good place. But it will be completely different from what you imagine,” I suddenly hear the very clear voice of Mother Earth. “What do you mean? How completely different?” I ask, but the voice remains silent. “So, maybe it’s a fantastic budget hotel? With lovely people? Classy and comfortable beds? A massage would do me good too. Oh and a hot bath would be fantastic. Something similar to the lovely guesthouse a few days ago? That would be fine with me. But there should be heating in the room. The eternal cold here gets to you in the long run. Yes, a nice hotel or guesthouse with a great view of a wonderful landscape. Is that it? However, I would also need a good chair to sit on and a table of a suitable height. If I’m going to be writing so much, the right sitting height and posture are important. Can I get that?” I ask and continue to babble on, indulging in the most beautiful ideas, but my voice remains silent.

Slowly the clouds break and the sun winks at us. Again there is a sign with a 7% gradient. We take off our overshoes, jackets and rain trousers and dry our sweaty and rain-soaked bodies in the wind. We reach a kind of plateau. Without wind, we pedal along at speeds of up to 26 kilometers per hour and cover an excellent distance hour after hour. Every now and then we stop. Sometimes in a small store to buy water. A Romanian wants my jacket. “I need it myself. See what the weather’s like. We still want to go to Burma,” I explain and list the countries that lie ahead of us. “Give me your jacket,” he tugs at my sleeve, ignoring my explanation.

We pass through many nice villages that always give us the feeling of being in the Middle Ages. People greet us with: “Bye! Bye!” We reply “Bye! Bye!” and return their wave. Another storm front approaches us from behind. We maltreat our pedals and manage to ride away from the clutches of the thunderstorm, still at high speed. We feel in top form and reel off kilometer after kilometer. Our speedometer shows 60, then 70, and 80 kilometers per day. Once again I have to push almost all the way up a ridge because of my aching tendon. Horse-drawn carts are in front and behind me. They also struggle up the incline. The horses have to do maximum work and are no faster. Dusk falls and enchants Romania into a fairytale land. The beauty is almost unreal and difficult to describe. At kilometer 90, we turn right towards Calafat. “Only 13 kilometers to the finish, Schnupsi!” Tanja cheers me up. The pain in the tendon has become unbearable. I grit my teeth and keep pedaling. Another 10 kilometers, I tell myself, and then my dream hotel, or what Mother Earth has called a very good place, will arrive. It is pitch dark as we roll through the black Calafat. There is hardly a street lamp to be seen. “Do they have a power cut here?” I say. We can dimly make out a man inviting us for a drink. He puts his thumb to his mouth, laughs and waves at us. Across the road, a drunk pees in the ditch. Young people shout obscene swear words in Italian. More and more houses appear in diffuse light. It seems eerie here, almost a little spooky. The knee pain is beyond words. Tanja is still reasonably fit. “Watch out for the holes!” I warn, avoiding a yawning maw in the road. A gust of wind whirls scraps of paper through the air. Young people shout again. Afraid they might follow us, we pedal harder. Finally we find ourselves in the dark, barely illuminated center, at least that’s how it seems to us. In a guesthouse I ask for a bed for the night. The woman also shows me dark, windowless, run-down rooms. The toilets and showers are located in the dingy corridor. “No thanks,” I say wearily, because everything we’ve seen so far has been decidedly better than this place. “Is there any other accommodation in the city?” I ask. “Yes, we have another hotel. Hotel Panoramic. Not far from here,” she recommends. “That must be it,” I whisper, looking forward to a hot bath.

Thieving Sinti

It’s pitch black in the hotel reception. “Hello! Hello!”, I call out in a desperate search for a human soul. “Yes…?” comes from a corridor. A dim light comes on and I recognize a darkly dressed woman behind the counter. Startled, I would like to take a step back. Two stars on a yellowed sign advertise the quality of the hotel. “Um, do you have a room?” I ask. “Yes,” replies the woman. She barely speaks a word of English and our communication is extremely slow. “Can I see the room?” I ask and get the key. As I stand in the elevator, I can’t believe my eyes. Technical Stone Age is still too good a description. I press the button on which I can just make out a two and the thing starts rattling loudly. Hopefully it won’t stop. Tanja will be worried about where I am, I think to myself. The room literally takes my breath away. It is damp, freezing cold and very run-down. It stinks of smoke and when I see the half-flooded bathroom with the tiles peeling off the walls, I turn on my heel. Then I am allowed to look at another room which at least doesn’t smell of smoke but is in a similar condition. “We’re staying,” I say to the sad figure at the lightless, dark reception desk and once again I could almost cry.

“There’s someone behind the bushes. He’s been coughing and watching me for a while,” says Tanja when I’m finally back with her. During the room inspection, she stood on the unlit forecourt of the hotel the whole time and looked after our bikes. “Where?” I ask. “Over there.” I look at the bushes and can only make out something shadowy. “It’s probably just the security guard. Why would a thief draw attention to himself by coughing?” I say, taking a relaxed view of the situation. “Let’s take the things to the reception room,” I say tiredly. “So, how’s the hotel?” “Better not ask. Nightmare is definitely not the right word.” “What then?” “Hotel Dracula,” I say and feel myself shudder. “Someone always has to stay outside when we carry the things in. I have a bad feeling,” Tanja warns me. “Okay,” I reply and move a few Ortlieb bags inside. When I step outside again, Tanja comes towards me carrying a heavy load. I quickly grab a few items of equipment and follow her into the foyer. “I told you someone had to stay outside!” she grumbles and sprints past me into the night. I follow her immediately. “He took the bag and dropped it again!” she exclaims in dismay. “What do you mean?” “Well, the bag is in a different place now. I’m quite sure I left it next to the bike and now it’s over there,” I hear her excited voice. “I told you we shouldn’t be inside at the same time. If we had stayed just one second longer, the bag or even a bike would have been gone,” she adds. “There! He’s hiding behind the bush! Look there! Do you see him?” she shouts. I immediately sprinted to the bush. Cautious and slightly nervous, I look for someone in the darkness. Suddenly something moves. I can clearly make out the outline of a figure. Now also excited, I run back to Tanja to help her get our bikes to safety as quickly as possible. As soon as I’m in the foyer, Tanja calls. “There he is!” “Pumped full of adrenaline, I rush outside. “Where?” “After you went in, he came running across the yard in a crouched position, stood at the fence, gave me a challenging look and then jumped over it. He must have been afraid you’d call for backup!” she explains, gesticulating with her hands clutching a pepper spray. As soon as she has given me the direction, I sprint off. “Don’t do anything stupid!” I hear her shout. “Don’t worry,” I pant as I reach the fence and see the figure about to escape into the thicket. “Come here, you dog!” I call after him and shake the fence to show him not to be afraid of him and to make him move even faster. Baffled, I have to watch as he stops, turns around and emerges from the tall grass about three meters in front of me. “Come over here, you thief! I’ll reduce you to rubble!” I shout in rage at his audacity. “You come over here,” I understand his gesture. “There’s another one!” Tanja’s call warns me. And then I hear them say loudly: “Police! Police! Police!” and jumps towards the hotel entrance to be heard better. Of course I don’t think about following the highly aggressive thief over the fence. Who knows how many are waiting for me there? I turn on my heel and follow Tanja. The two women from reception come out immediately. The thief or thieves are gone. They were Sinti. “You’re hungry,” says one of the ladies. “Come on in. They won’t cause you any more problems. They’re young people from the port,” they try to reassure us and ask if we’re missing anything. After taking stock, we are relieved. Everything is complete. We lock our bikes to the heater in the vestibule with two locks and shove everything into the terrifyingly rickety elevator. “That was close,” says Tanja. “That’s right. Good that you listened to your instincts.” “Yes, always make sure nothing gets away and if you’re not focused for just a few seconds, it can happen,” she bursts out with relief. “Man, what kind of Stone Age elevator is that? I’ve never seen anything like it. I hope it doesn’t stop,” she says, which makes me laugh heartily.

Once we are in the room, Tanja doesn’t want to go outside. “What if they ambush us?” “Don’t worry about that. They’re not planning an act of revenge just because they went out empty-handed. No, we’re not going to let them scare us. If we don’t go out now, fear will rule our lives in the future,” I explain. “You’re right. Let’s find a restaurant. After all, we still have our pepper gas. And I promise you. First I’ll hit them with my fist and then I’ll spray them down,” she says, thrusting her chest forward. “Sure, that’s exactly what we do.” Talking a lot, digesting our experience, we walk through the frighteningly dark Calafat and find a nice restaurant. We enjoy a very good meal and talk into the night about today, the search for accommodation, the lousy rooms, the exhausting passes, the thunderstorms, the black omelettes, the beautiful villages and the thieving Sinti.

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