Romance, happiness and snakes

“What a torture, I’m only going as far as China and no further,” says Tanja as she crouches in the tent and pulls on her damp cycling shorts. My mood is at an all-time low due to the heat of the night, and the expectant hordes of mosquitoes are buzzing in front of the thin tent wall. Without question, I can understand Tanja. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had expressed the wish to load the bikes onto the plane in the next town. Then we would finally be rid of these fucking bloodsuckers. We pack up our camp in consensual silence. The mosquitoes will attack any exposed area of skin that is not covered by clothing. We hurriedly push our bikes through the damp, high grass to the road. The wind blows against us there. “He doesn’t even keep to the times today,” I say crossly. After taking off our long pants and windstopper, we pedal towards the sunrise. After just 5 kilometers, my body is screaming for food and I shove a chocolate bar between my teeth. Suddenly the fog clears around my bad mood. On the rest of the journey, we crack a few more jokes and laugh about the terrible morning and the even more terrible bloodsuckers.

After 30 kilometers we stop again. We unpack our Rapunzel muesli and eat a large portion of it on the street. Then we continue our trip against the champions. At kilometer 42 we talk to a shepherd who is responsible for a considerable herd of horses. “They are really beautiful animals,” Tanja praises him. “Yes, yes, they are all made into sausage in winter,” he says with a laugh. “To sausage?” I ask. “Yes, of course. We like to eat sausage made from horse meat,” he explains as I offer him a cigarette. “ßpaßiba”, ( thank you ) he says thank you. “How far is it to the next café?” I want to know. “Just two kilometers from here on the right-hand side of the road,” he explains as I hand him a second cigarette. Then we say goodbye and are delighted when we reach the café. As in previous weeks, we are eating a Lachman and bread when three men enter the pub. Because we are hungry, we only try to answer their questions briefly. They are apparently sensitive and leave us in peace. When I order the bill, one of them wants to invite us. “But why? We can’t accept that,” I try to politely decline. “You are welcome to accept. It’s an honor to invite you. I think what you are doing is fantastic. I would never cross our country by bike. Just thinking about it makes my butt hurt. It’s really romantic,” he says, to which Tanja and I give each other a quick knowing look. “No doubt, like me, she also thinks of last night when she hears the word ‘romantic’,” it goes through my mind in those seconds. I look at her again and form the word “romantic” with my lips. She answers with a smile. “Well, I prefer to drive my Mercedes,” the nice Kazakh continues, pointing proudly to his expensive limousine. After the three of them have photographed us with their cell phones, we thank them again and say goodbye.

As soon as we leave the rest stop behind us, we snort with laughter. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Did you hear that? He said romantic!” laughs Tanja, barely able to step. “Yes, that’s right, it’s romantic too. The beautiful buzzing of the mosquitoes. The pleasant feeling when they bite you in the ass by the dozen in the lovely little place between the wet tall grass. It’s romantic! Ha! Ha! Ha!” “Hi! Hi! Hi!”, we laugh without taking offense at the man, because we’ve sometimes developed an idiosyncratic sense of humour. “Look at that! There! That strange bird on the sign in the middle of the prairie! You have to take a photo of it. It’s so romantic!” Tanja snorts. “Okay, I’ll do it,” also chuckling.

Tanja

ROMANTIKA or as far as China and no further!

It was a terribly hot night and I was completely exhausted. Not that this is the first night of stinging animals and oppressive heat on this trip or in my life. It seems that a lot depends on the form you are in on the day and your physical and mental strength at the time.

I wake up and say to Denis: “I’m not cycling any further than China!” Not angry, just determined, that’s the sentence of the day for me at this early hour of the morning and there’s nothing to shake or interpret about it. I silently pack everything up and let myself be stabbed again after stepping out of the tent. I wonder what these millions of mosquitoes actually live on when we’re not camping here?

We leave our campsite via a field overgrown with grass and flowers. This morning I find it hard to push and the first ray of hope is a Rumba bar from Rapunzel just before I set off on my bike so that I don’t sit on my bike on an empty stomach.

I don’t really want to think about anything and I manage to do that quite well. At some point, Denis points out the restaurant in front of us. “The friendly Kazakhs, always good for a surprise”, I think to myself as the gentleman says emphatically that he would like to pay our bill. Impossible to refuse! We are happy to pose for the men with our bikes for a photo. When our friendly breakfast ? sponsor smiles dreamily at us and uses the word “ROMANTIKA“, I almost burst out laughing.

When we are out of earshot, I sing loudly for Denis by Enrico Caruso: “O sole mio!” In my mind’s eye, I see a harp-playing troubadour with a rose between his teeth and can barely hold on to my beloved sumo bike for a good ten minutes, laughing. A little later, I wonder if you get such a sense of humor as a cyclist? I also wonder if the humor would be even stranger if I went further than China? In any case, it is absolutely clear to me: the declared word of the month is by far “ROMANTIKA” and the spell of heaviness that has weighed on me since the morning has been laughed and sung away.

Denis

After capturing the bird on the lonely sign, I head down the mountain. I let my bike roar and enjoy the airstream. On the other side of the valley, the muscles have to give their all to get the bike back up. “Kraaackck!”, I am suddenly startled by a nasty noise and my bike comes to a jerky halt. “What was that?” Tanja asks, also startled. “No idea,” I reply, examining my front tire. “Chrchrchr!” it scrapes against something as I try to push my sumo bike forward. “It’s probably just an Ortlieb bag unhooked,” suspects Tanja. “Oh my God! Look at that! The entire lowrider sits on the front tire. That’s a real stopper. What’s more, the tire has worn through the cables of my lights,” I say in horror, seeing myself setting up an emergency camp here. I immediately unclip the saddlebags and put the bike on the stand. Relieved, I immediately notice that only the fastening screw of the lowrider (saddlebag holder for the front tire) has come loose. I screw them back in and the damage is repaired except for the defective lighting. “Imagine it had come loose as you were hurtling down the mountain. You would have been knocked over,” says Tanja. “That’s right. It’s good that it happened here. But I still have to reproach myself. I kept checking all the bolts during the trip, except for the lowrider. I completely overlooked them. Given the poor road conditions of the last few months, I’m not surprised. One or other of the bolts must have come loose at some point. I shouldn’t have overlooked the attachment.” “You can’t see everything,” Tanja reassures me. “That’s right, but it still annoys me,” I reply and immediately check Tanja’s saddlebag holder.

Just 15 minutes later, we continue our journey. “I’ll fix the light in a camp where there are no stabbing monsters,” I say to Tanja, happily spinning the pedal crank again. In the village of Ruzayevka, I ask a chestnut seller for a gastinitsa. “We have. There on the right and always straight ahead. That’s also the road to Astana,” I’m pleased with his answer. After 10 hours we reach our accommodation, which promises us a mosquito-free night. But when I inspect the store more closely, I see little hope. The accommodation is a decommissioned road police station. Our room costs only 1.000,- Tenge ( 5,40- ? ) but is just big enough to fit our equipment next to the two worn beds. I sit down in my folding chair in the tiny room and write about the day when I start to itch in almost every part of my body. “I can’t take it any more!” I shout and feel like throwing my laptop in the garbage can. “Why don’t you take a shower first? Then you’ll feel better,” Tanja suggests. I drag myself to the little hut where the banya (sauna) is located. A half-starved dog lies panting in front of it and raises its head tiredly. “Well, you’re not feeling well,” I say to him, whereupon he lies down on his back and wants to be stroked. “Tanja? Do we have another piece of bread?” I ask. “In the trailer!” I hear. Only minutes later I put a piece of white bread spread with mayonnaise in front of the pitiable creature’s mouth. The dog doesn’t even seem to have the strength to stand up and eats the food lying down. I shake my head and can’t understand how a dog can starve to death in the courtyard of a gastiniza. Surely there must be leftover food there? Lost in thought, I open the door to the banya. It’s not heated up yet, so I pour the still cold water over my itchy head. I immediately feel relief and my mood cools down again. Then, after our experiences have been stored in the electronic brain of the laptop, we leave the little house where our room is located and climb the steps to the former police station. An air conditioning system cools the room to a usable temperature. Like everywhere else, there is food from the microwave. It has to be fast. It has to be hot. People don’t want to spend a lot of time eating here.

It is already dark when we leave the post, quite unsatisfied. “I’m really looking forward to when you can cook for us again. The constant microwave food is almost unbearable,’ I lament. When I open the door to our little room, we are met with a blistering heat. As the only window is nailed shut, you can’t open it. It is also not advisable to leave the door unlocked at night because of theft. Somewhat desperately suffering from lack of sleep and tormented by mosquitoes, I decide to pitch my tent behind the garbage heap of the Gastiniza. “Better the tent behind the pile of garbage than spending the night in a hot room without windows on broken mattresses,” I say to Tanja and leave. They are already waiting for me again on the meadow behind the garbage heap. Thousands, even tens of thousands of stinging little monsters. I’m just putting the tent poles into the fabric eyelets when Tanja arrives. “The waitress at the Gastiniza said you shouldn’t pitch your tent there under any circumstances.” “Why not?” “There are supposed to be lots of snakes here because of the garbage. They’re attracted by the mice and rats.” “Hm, I don’t mind. I’m in the tent. They can’t get in there,” I reply, continuing my work. “Of course they can’t get in there, but if you have to go to the toilet at night, first look who’s nested in your shoes,” says Tanja, amused, and flees from the mosquitoes back to the little room. It’s surprisingly cool in the tent. I inflate my sleeping mat, sigh a few times and immediately fall into a deep sleep.

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