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In the morning we also have to go to the double outhouse. There is one for women and one for men. Fortunately, none of the guests feel the need to relieve themselves at this time and I only have to share the stinking hole with the many flies. It’s good to have your own toilet paper with you, because the management of the Gastiniza only provides its guests with old, torn newspaper, which lies on the damp floor right next to the hole. Those who like it particularly hard can also clean their butts with coloring pages from an old magazine that is also scattered in shreds on the floor. For people who are particularly clean, there is still a worn coke bottle filled with water in the corner. The water is of course intended for the bottom and not for the hands.

Before we continue our journey today, into what is for us an unknown and interesting country, we enjoy a muesli from Rapunzel. Since we only have a little of it with us for weight reasons, we are aware of the luxury of delicious organically grown food. As we do every morning when we spend the night in a Gastiniza, we take our trusty bikes out of their respective sheds and carry them to the door. I routinely check them for damage before loading. “My rear tire has deflated again. So it’s a flat tire that we should fix at the next opportunity,” I say. After the tire is inflated again, we leave Kujtun

Despite a few small sections of gravel and unpaved road, we make good progress. We only stop twice on our ride through the taiga to satisfy our cycling hunger at a roadside café. “I’ve also been to Germany a few times. I worked for an asphalt company. Look, this is Linz,” says the owner of a simple trucker pub that is still under construction and shows us lots of pictures of the Austrian city. We are actually too tired to admire bad pictures on a small cell phone during our rest, but politeness simply demands it. “You still have to see this. Here, do you know where this is?” he asks. “No,” we reply, shaking our heads. “Well, that’s Cologne. Oh, what a wonderful city. This is the fountain. This is my brother. We ate there, in the restaurant. Very good. Oh what a beautiful city. Cologne Cathedral, I tell you. Beautiful. And the Rhine,” he continues to enthuse. As there are no windows in his café through which we can see our bikes, we sit down on a narrow bench in front of the ugly building shell and use my trailer as a table. “But come on in. I’ll look after your bikes. That goes without saying,” he offers. We know from experience that a stranger will never guard our property like we do ourselves and want to stay outside. “But no, you can’t sit here in the parking lot,” he asks us again to go into the dark, windowless interior. “The weather is so nice, we’d like to stay out here,” we finally manage to convince him. After a terrible meal and 20 minutes later, we want to set off again. “Please wait a moment,” says the former employee of an asphalt company and walks away. Then he comes back with his cell phone. He wants us to pose in front of his street restaurant so that he can take our picture. Unfortunately, the cell phone does not work. “Maybe there are too many pictures of Linz and Cologne,” I think to myself and want to say goodbye. “Please wait a moment,” we are stopped again. Now the corpulent cook comes out of the kitchen. It is his daughter, who is about 20 years old. She has her cell phone with her and tries again. “Wonderful,” he now says with satisfaction. Then her daughter holds the screen of her cell phone up to me to show me the beautiful picture of us. “But there’s only black to see,” I say. Unfortunately, the daughter storms back into the house and the man shakes our hands in a friendly farewell.

We drive on. As in previous weeks, almost every second car honks at us. The Siberians are delighted to see our bikes and never give up congratulating us on this tour. Although we feel honored by this, it is sometimes particularly loud. Especially when a big truck honks its horn just as the exhaust-smelling colossus passes us. Not expecting to be startled by a gigantic horn, which rather belongs to an ocean liner, we sometimes think we are going to fall off the saddle.

Shortly before our destination for today, the town of Zima, two heavy motorcycles come towards us. When they recognize us, they brake, turn around and stop next to us. “Where did you come from?” they ask with a laugh, getting rid of their heavy outfits because of the heat. “Where do you come from?” we want to know in return. “We are Italian and have lived in Australia for ten years. We only started in Vladivostok a week ago and want to travel through Russia, Ukraine, Hungary and Croatia to Italy within a month,” they explain. “Well, you’ve got a long way to go in a short time,” I say. “No problem, we’ll manage. The only big challenge at the moment is the pretty women and all the parties. We get sent from one motorcycle club to another and are constantly being invited. I don’t think we’ve slept more than six hours in the last seven days,” says Stefano, while Gandy films our meeting. Since Vladivostok is located directly on the Sea of Japan, I ask how they got their machines there. “We had to have them transported from Australia by ship. We actually wanted to go via China, but the Chinese would have charged us US$ 15,000. Embarking to Vladivostok, on the other hand, only cost around US$ 5,000 with customs and all the trimmings,” reports Luca, who runs an Italian café in Perth. “Where do you spend the night with your bikes? Do you always find one of the funny guestinizas?” asks Gandy. “If we don’t find any, we’ll look for a camp in the forest,” I reply. “In the forest? Hm, we were advised against that. In Australia, Russian friends of ours said that our trip was very dangerous. They said we were crazy to travel here. But we have to admit that the Russians are very friendly to us. Nevertheless, we won’t sleep in the forest under any circumstances,” says Stefano. “With your machines, it’s not that difficult to reach a gastiniza. For us, on the other hand, it is sometimes a challenge. Apart from that, if you hide behind trees away from the roads, it’s not dangerous. At least that’s our experience so far,” I explain.

The conversation with the Australian Italians is entertaining and interesting. Nevertheless, we have to keep going. After an hour, we say goodbye and continue our journey in the opposite direction. On the outskirts of Zima we ask for a gastiniza. “They do exist. You have to go into town. It’s only five kilometers, explains the security guard at a petrol station. “Should we take the detour?” I ask Tanja. “I don’t know,” is her hesitant reply. “So what now? Should we go to the town or not?” I reply tiredly. “You decide,” she says again. “Why me? You decide,” I reply. “Well, let’s drive in then. You need a good place to mend your flat tire. A gastiniza is better than a camp infested with mosquitoes,” Tanja logically concludes. Although neither of us feels really comfortable with this decision, we pedal our steeds into the desolate and run-down village at around 50 degrees in the sun. We pass deep holes and torn up asphalt. Gravel, stones and dust. The usual. Cars speed past us. Dust us off. “Adkuda? Kuda?” (“Where from? Where to?”), some drivers ask us, steering their vehicles very close to our bikes as they ask. Concentrating on the broken surface, I answer as best I can. A quick glance into the window of the Lada next to me tells me that I’m dealing with a police officer. “Ha, ha, ha,” he laughs and steps on the gas. There is a group of drunks on the side of the road. They roar at us. Startled, we let the cranks spin faster than normal.

“Over the bridge there. There’s the Gastiniza,” explains a woman at another petrol station. “Is there still a long way to go?” I want to know. “No, just over the bridge. Then it’s not far,” we hear. Tanja and I have to pull ourselves together. Now, after almost eight hours in the saddle and the evening heat, every additional meter is exhausting. On the other side of the long, high bridge that spans the Trans-Siberian Railway line, we let our road trains hurtle down into the valley. “Gastiniza? Hm, yes, yes, there is one,” slurs a drunken attendant at another petrol station who is just about to stagger home. “Is it far?” I ask, a little exasperated. “Far? Hi, hi, hi. Njet, (no) only 15 minutes by bike”, I can’t believe my ears. “Well, how far is 15 minutes?” I reply. “No idea,” says the man uncertainly. We continue in the direction indicated. I ask again in a grocery store. “Gastiniza? Yes, there is one. They have to go back over the big railroad bridge and then into town,” I can’t believe my ears again. Desperate and exhausted, we now stand in front of the store and consider our next steps. “I think there are two Gastinizas. One on the other side of the bridge and one on this side of the bridge. The only question is how far away they are and which one is closer?” I ponder and decide to drive back over the bridge.

“We should have listened to our instincts. Neither of us actually wanted to go to this dump to visit such a run-down Gastiniza. Our gut warned us from the start and now we have the result,” I snort wildly, beating my Intercontinental back up the bridge. At the top, we stop briefly to watch a freight train passing below us. “There’s a train station back there somewhere and that’s where the accommodation is,” I think. “Looks wide,” says Tanja. “Yes, let’s scrap the idea of a hotel and go to a camp outside this town,” I decide. “Hm, I don’t know. Some of the riff-raff we meet here make me afraid to sleep outside,” says Tanja. “We’re not going to let them scare us now. The Italians were just as intimidated as we were at the beginning. We’ll find a good place to stay,” I try to dispel their sudden concerns. “But the Poles we met a few days ago didn’t want to camp either,” Tanja tries to make another small attempt to possibly visit the Gastiniza after all. “That’s right, they were intimidated too. We’ve been traveling through the countries of the East for almost 12,000 kilometers now and we’ve always found a good place to spend the night. That will be the case again today,” I assure them. “That’s right, you’re right. This stupid fear can sometimes be quite unsettling,” Tanja is convinced, and we leave Zima behind us again with confidence.

After driving ten kilometers back and forth for nothing and our speedometer showing 70 kilometers for the day, we reach the petrol station again where I had asked the security guard about the place to stay an hour ago. “I’ll show you the way. You can’t miss the accommodation,” the guard offers. “Thank you very much. We’ll keep driving.” “But there’s nothing for the next 60 kilometers. Where do you want to stay tonight?” he wants to know. “In the tent,” I reply, to which I only receive a shake of the head. For safety reasons, we buy another five liters of water, which I stuff into my trailer. Then it goes on. As soon as we have left the village behind us, we find ourselves in an impressive valley basin. Suddenly the road is bordered on both sides by large swamplands. “Well, we can’t put up a tent here,” I grumble. My bike is getting heavier and heavier. I only make progress with the last of my strength. “Why did I only buy that stupid water? The five kilos are really something!” I shout as I head back upstairs. Tanja is surprised at me. “Five kilos more or less can’t make that much of a difference, can it?” she says. “But they do. My bike is as heavy as if it were loaded with lead!”

At 8 p.m., nine and a half hours after we set off this morning, our speedometers show 82 kilometers for the day. One of the trucker pubs suddenly appears on the right below the road. Instinctively, I stop and look down at her. “Should we ask if we can stay there overnight?” I think to myself. “Denis, we should ask there. Maybe we can stay!” Tanja calls out almost at the same time. “Good idea,” I reply. “Do you want to ask?” says Tanja. “No, you ask. I just can’t do it anymore. I’m completely exhausted today,” I wonder to myself. Ten minutes later, we roll our bikes into the parking lot of the street café. A worker unlocks the gate to the courtyard and lets us in. “There’s a video camera here that monitors everything. You don’t need to worry about your equipment. Besides, this is the local police chief’s café. You’re safe here,” the man reassures us as if he can read our minds for the day. We confidently lean our trestles against the house and find ourselves in a courtyard with building materials, gravel, stones and boards lying around everywhere. It takes me a while to find a suitable place for our tent. The worker immediately rushes over with a rake and joins me in cleaning the coarse ground of garbage and the largest pebbles. Then we pitch our tent just five meters away from the public outhouse, which seems to be chasing us all of a sudden. In the tent I inflate our Trangoworld sleeping mats. I am glad that they level out most of the stones and thus guarantee us a good surface to sleep on. As I lock our bikes and cover them for the night, my eyes fall on the rear tire. He is suddenly completely flat. “Now I know why my bike was so heavy. The tire had hardly any air left. Of course, that’s particularly stressful with a heavy load. It’s a good thing we asked here. We would only have got a few hundred meters with the tire. The ride would have been over by then at the latest and I would have had to repair the flat tire on the side of the road today,” I say.

Then, after getting everything ready for the night, we enter the café and order a delicious dinner. Although I’m tired to the bone, I log today’s data into the computer and save the pictures.

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