Tanja’s birthday

In the morning, I wake up with a very sore neck and slight movement restrictions in my head. “Thank God there’s no neck pain radiating into the back of my head,” I think, because that would be the first sign of a more or less severe whiplash injury. I slowly straighten up and carefully massage my neck. I don’t feel nauseous, have no ringing in my ears, dizziness or difficulty swallowing. “That’s a very good self-diagnosis,” I gasp in relief and hope that things don’t get worse in the coming hours and days. The only downer at the moment is my swollen and painful knee. Then my eyes fall on my dear Tanja. Her slow breathing reveals that she is still asleep. “Happy birthday to you. I wish you a long, happy and healthy life by my side. I wish you harmony, joy and confidence,” I say, trying to make my voice sound hopeful. “Thank you,” she replies wearily. I would have liked to wish her a better birthday. A day of honor under better conditions and in a different place than this mosquito hell.

We leave the sleeping area in bright sunshine and bump along the dirt track back to the asphalt road. A strong headwind blows in our faces. We only make about ten to eleven km/h despite our great efforts. Our mood has been hit. After just a few kilometers, my knee starts to hurt so much that I can’t even dream of reaching Ulan-Ude today. So a nice birthday dinner, a glass of wine, a nice place to stay, remain out of reach. Tanja drives ahead to track against the wind. But I can’t stay on it because of the pain. Then I drive up again. We start to discuss slipstreaming. It’s a shame, because we wanted to experience a day of harmony today. “I can’t take any more,” I complain as we drive past the Troitsko Selenginsk Monastery, which was built in 1690, after just ten kilometers. Poor renovation work is trying to help the then only base of the Orthodox Church between Baikal and the Pacific to get back on its feet. Not far from here is the grave of a Russian ambassador who was murdered by Mongols on his way to China in 1650. “Compared to him, I’m much better off. I’m still alive and have only been hit by the drawbar of my trailer,” it goes through my head.

We find a grocery store in the poor village. Children lurk around us and bombard us with questions. One of the bullies threatens to beat up the weaker ones. He takes to his heels and runs off. In the store, the range of products on offer reflects the poverty of the village. I buy the only bag of chocolate cookies. “Only three more kilometers, then there’s a café,” explains a friendly man. “I can still manage them,” I say. We pass a huge sign. “Looks like an advertisement for a sports hotel,” I say. “Here in this neighborhood? That’s strange.” “Judging by the sign, it’s only 2 ½ kilometers away.” “I wonder if they put the sign up before the hotel was built?” “Who knows. I can’t imagine what sense it would make to build a sports hotel in this rural area anyway,” I mused. A van driver coming out of the street where the hotel is supposed to be shakes his head. “There’s no sports hotel there,” he says. We drop the pleasant thought of the supposed accommodation and set off in search of the street café. A little later, we order soup and blinis (pancakes). We stay in the café for two hours and talk about our feelings and yesterday’s incident. “I think I was in shock too. It was a terrifying sight to see you suddenly lying on the street,” explains Tanja.

It is already 4 p.m. when we decide to look for a place to camp. “Why don’t you go to the sports hotel?” asks a store owner. “Sports hotel? Does it really exist?” Tanja wants to know. “But yes,” she says and explains how to get there. The asphalt road ends and leads into a dirt track. Does the dirt road really lead to a hotel? We drive on. It goes through large hollows and holes into a forest. “Is there a hotel there?” I ask a young woman who looks at me as if I were the Holy Spirit himself. She continues walking without giving us an answer. “Is there a gastiniza there?” I ask three rascals riding towards us on their bikes. “Hi, hi, hi,” they reply. “Gastiiiiniza?” I ask again. “Hi, hi, hiiiii”, they are amused by my obviously completely wrong pronunciation. “Filial?”, “Filiale?”) one of them suddenly asks, formulating a comprehensible word. “Da Filial, (“Yes Filial”) I reply, because I had often understood the word Sporthotel to mean Filial. The boy points in one direction and they troll off laughing as if they’ve heard the best joke ever. Tanja and I continue our seemingly hopeless search. We actually reach a promising-looking building. Certainly not a sports hotel in the European sense, but at least a one-storey building that has not fallen into disrepair. A woman is painting the stairs. “Do they have rooms?” I ask. “But yes. Come in,” we hear her kind, soothing words. We push our bikes into the garden. Then the woman leads me into the simple house. It smells of fresh paint and appears to be in the process of being renovated. “They can do sports here,” she explains, opening the door to a room where a few trades are lying around. “Massages are available there if required,” she says, pointing to a sign on another room door. Then she shows me an apartment on the first floor. The beds in the bedroom are freshly made up. There are two chairs, a small table and fridge in the anteroom and the toilet is equipped with a shower cubicle. “Very nice. How much does it cost?” I ask happily, because I wouldn’t have dreamed of finding such nice accommodation on the edge of a half-ruined village. “350 roubles (7.95 euros) per person.” “I’ll take the room and we’ll stay for a few days,” I reply and still think I’m dreaming, because I really can cure my injuries here. After we have parked our bikes in the house, the manager shows us the communal kitchen, which has everything we need.

I take advantage of the time Tanja spends shopping for wine in the village store for her little birthday party and carry our Ortlieb bags into the room and put them next to the bed and in the cupboards. Then I enjoy a hot shower and wrap a fresh bandage around my fat knee. When Tanja returns from shopping, we sit down on a bench in front of the house and enjoy a glass of wine in the warming evening sun. “Now your birthday has turned into something after all,” I say with satisfaction. “I never thought I’d find such a nice place today.” “Yes, and it looks like we have the whole house to ourselves. We’re the only guests. A sports hotel all to yourself for your birthday,” I laugh cheerfully.

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