Traffic junction around Rostov-on-Don

In this gastiniza, which is actually a hotel, we get a terrible breakfast with terrible service. We would actually like to do without breakfast but it is included in the room price. The waiters are unmotivated and bored. They don’t even mind when they find out that we don’t eat meat. Nevertheless, we got the obligatory plate of sausages the day before yesterday and yesterday. Sausage and chicken are often not referred to as meat in Moldova, Ukraine and Russia. “We are vegetarians. No meat, no chicken and no sausage, please,” I explain patiently and kindly to the waitress, as I do every morning, whereupon she gives me a bored look. “Uh, did you understand? No meat, no chicken and no sausage please,” I repeat again to make sure. She nods and lists various dishes in rapid Russian. Although we barely understand the lady, Tanja orders cabbage and I order pancakes. She then rattles off her dishes once again. It’s enough to make you tear your hair out. There are people who simply don’t want to make an effort. As it is pointless to ask the unfriendly woman to speak more slowly, we nod. 20 minutes later she serves a plate with some cabbage and lots of sausage. “No sausage. Please, please no sausage. We are vegetarians. Do you understand? Vegetarians don’t eat sausage. Please take the plate back,” I say angrily, but still controlling myself. The result is astounding. The ill-tempered woman turns on her heel without comment and simply marches off. It only takes a fraction of a second. I jump up, grab the plate of sausages and carry it after her. “Please take this plate of sausages back,” I ask her. She stops, takes the plate from my hand and continues her storm into the kitchen. On this beautiful sunny morning, I sink back into the chair at the table. “We’re not going to let the food spoil our mood, are we?” says Tanja. “Oh no, I’m in a great mood. She won’t lure me out of my shell. Not her,” I boast to myself. “Hi, hi, hi, you should see your face.” “Hm, well, I was annoyed for a moment, but now I’m in a good mood again,” I reply with a smile. Then the hostile waitress comes towards us juggling two plates through the tables. “I’m really looking forward to that,” I say expectantly. Our eyes almost pop out. Three slices of greasy sausage and two slices of cheese nestle on the plates. “Take it easy,” whispers Tanja. “I’m easy,” I hiss back. “No sausage, please,” I say dryly, take the cheese off the plates and give her back the plate of sausage. This time, the sourpuss takes it straight away and storms off. But as she doesn’t serve a substitute for the sausage, we go to the nearest store to buy yogurt and cookies. Then we move back to the hotel’s pretty sun-drenched terrace, order two cups of coffee – which we have to pay extra for, of course – and continue our breakfast.

Because we first have to transport all our belongings down from the ninth floor in the elevator and our breakfast experience has taken up a lot of time, we don’t leave until 9:30 today. We leave the city of Azov in the direction of Rostov-on-Don, a city that was occupied twice by German troops during the Second World War, causing considerable damage, and is now connected to the oil fields of the Caucasus via a pipeline. We make good progress for the first few kilometers. The stormy wind has calmed down and is only bothering us a little at the moment. When we see the regional capital of the European part of Russia to our left, we are back on a kind of highway. The volume of traffic increases by the minute and is comparable to a German highway. Again and again we stop on the narrow, often interrupted hard shoulder to get our bearings. As of today, we no longer have a European road map and have to struggle with a thick Russian car atlas written in Cyrillic. “I have no idea which direction we should take. One highway leads north. Right into the traffic juggernaut of this megacity and the other to Krasnodar in the south,” I say. “Krasnodar? Isn’t that the direction we came from?” asks Tanja. “Exactly, and we definitely don’t want to go back there. We have to get to Volgodonsk and Volgodonsk is in the east. What are we going to do now?” I ask uncertainly as the traffic madness rolls past at high speed right next to us. I look somewhat desperately at the big blue road signs above us. “There’s an old man pushing his bike in our direction,” Tanja calls out to drown out the noise of the smelly cars. Wondering what an old man is doing on the hard shoulder of a highway, we wait until he reaches us. When I speak to the man, who is about 70 years old, he is startled at first. Of course he doesn’t expect the two alien-looking creatures with their monster bikes to be able to speak, and in broken Russian to boot. “Drive in the direction of Krasnodar. At some point you’ll come to a traffic circle. There you take the road to the east,” he explains after a brief moment of shock. As I try to understand his description, my gaze falls on his old bike, which is ready for the scrap heap and made from various parts. A few empty cans are lying around in a rusty basket, which he has attached to the equally rusty luggage rack with rusty wire. Apparently, he collects the drinks cans thrown away by motorists in order to get a few roubles for them somewhere. Many of the elderly in Russia try to supplement their pitiful pensions in a variety of ways and are therefore forced to work until they die. “Thank you very much,” I reply. “Have a good and safe journey,” he replies now, smiling peacefully. We then take the feeder road onto the highway in the direction of Krasnodar. In order to get along the single-track feeder road as quickly as possible, our overstrained legs make the cranks spin at an insane speed. Then we are back on the hard shoulder of the highway. As the vehicles speed past us here too, I start to feel uncomfortable in my own skin. The danger is undoubtedly much greater than on normal roads. Even on the hard shoulder of a German highway we would be a lot safer than here because every now and then the local emergency lane simply disappears into thin air. At such moments, we are forced to steer our snail-slow road trains onto the main road. Somehow this moment feels like Russian roulette to me. But we have no other chance. This is the only way around Rostov-on-Don. At least according to our disaster map. Even though we have often felt threatened by heavy traffic over the past 5,300 kilometers, I just can’t get used to it. The only thing that always helps us in such a situation is the idea of being in a golden egg. A fictitious space in which we are mentally and emotionally connected to everything that is and are protected from all evil, including cars. Strangely enough, this idea really seems to work. Even if one or the other will say that this is just faith. But as the saying goes: “Faith moves mountains.” And in this case I am sure that it protects our lives.

Ten kilometers later, the exit is still not in sight. A truck is overtaking us at a safe distance. I flinch in shock as at the same time he is hit by a speeding car that doesn’t want to brake under any circumstances. The speeding car drives up close and when he can’t get past, the tires squeal and smoke. Then the engine roars. Like a racing driver, he squeezes past the small truck, only to sit down in front of its hood and brake sharply again. Now the wheels of the braking van are smoking. It starts to lurch and just before it crashes into the mad car, it accelerates with its infernal machine and makes off. “That was close!” I shout, wishing for nothing more than to be able to leave the highway. To be on the safe side, we ask at a repair shop on the hard shoulder whether the old can collector has sent us on the right route. “You have to turn back,” we hear in horror. We remain persistent. Under no circumstances do they want to go back and end up in the metropolis. The mechanic bends over our map for minutes until he confirms the direction and recommends that we leave the highway in five kilometers. Pedaling, I curse to myself. It looks like we are on a 60 kilometer detour and on such a terrible highway. “Damn Russian cards!” I grumble. Tanja reassures me. “Detours are also part of the journey,” she says. Of course she’s right. Detours are also part of the route. But on an expressway? No thanks.

We actually find the turn-off. We ask a traffic policeman who sends us back onto a major arterial road. After more than 50 kilometers, we take our first break at a run-down, dusty truck stop. To be on the safe side, we ask the owner for directions again. “No, no, you’re not right on this road. You have to go back to Rostov-on-Don,” he scares us again. We ask his colleague, who in turn confirms the direction we have taken. We cycle on. “According to the GPS, the road is right,” I say reassuringly. Half an hour later, I’m sure of it. “One hundred percent right!” I shout happily to Tanja. “There you go. Very good. And what’s the moral of the story?” “What do you mean?” “Getting angry doesn’t help. It just wastes energy.” “Me and getting angry? It’s a foreign word to me. I wasn’t annoyed. Never annoy me!” I shout, laughing at myself.

At 17:00 we ask another traffic policeman who is on the hunt for prey with his radar gun. “A gastiniza? You drove past it. The next one isn’t for another 20 kilometers.” Tanja and I look at each other in shock. Our speedometers are already at 87 kilometers per day. “We can still do it,” I motivate us. As soon as we leave the policeman behind us, the nasty wind comes up and turns the day into a real challenge. An hour later, I raise my right hand to the sky. “100 kilometers!” I shout, delighted to read this magic number on the speedometer for the first time on this stage.

It is already dawn when we ask a cowherdess next to a village about the Gastiniza. She calls for help from a frail man limping across the street. Then they are joined by a few teenagers with their wrecked bicycles. They unanimously send us down the narrow village street. “Always straight ahead,” they say. “What does your gut think?” Tanja wants to know because it usually gives me good advice at times like this. “I think we should cycle to the village,” I reply confidently. As soon as we leave the open main road, we can duck into the lee of the small huts and houses. Sheep and cows are herded in the meadows and fields. Dogs bark when they see the two strange carriages approaching. A little mother shuffles across the narrow roadway leaning on her stick. We raise our hands in a friendly manner. She shyly returns our greeting. A few minutes ago, the sun went behind the horizon line and shed its last light on this side of the globe. Children play in the fading daylight by the ditch, point excitedly in our direction and hurry towards us. “Always straight ahead,” a shepherd shows us the way with an almost reverent look. “What are you from Germany? Isn’t that true?” wonders a gas station attendant. “Yes, yes,” we say and ask for directions again. “Over there on the left, then on the right,” he explains, still amazed. As soon as we turn off, a rickety Lada overtakes us. It’s the gas station attendant from just now. “Over there! There’s the Gastiniza up ahead!” he calls to us as we drive past. No doubt he took the opportunity to take another look at the strange strangers.

“Yes, we have a room!”, the elderly owner of the Gastiniza screeches kindly in my ear. Apart from four beds whose mattresses are more like hammocks, two broken wardrobes, defective lighting, very dirty walls and a large hole in the window pane, the room has nothing to offer. The toilet can be reached one floor below via a sloping concrete staircase. We drag our bikes up to the second floor and put them next to the beds. After almost 110 kilometers I feed the pictures into the laptop while Tanja goes to take a shower. Loud laughter emanates from the next room. The owner and her friends are sitting at a table drinking vodka. “And is the water hot?” I want to know as Tanja enters our home again through the creaking door with a red face. “The water is hot but please don’t take off your source sandals when you enter the shower cubicle.” “Why?” “I was just about to leave the shower room when a woman came in. Fully clothed. Do you understand?” “To be honest, no.” “So what’s a clothed woman doing in a shower room?” “No idea?” “Exactly, that’s what I thought. So I wanted to know what she was doing in there and waited a few moments. Then I heard her peeing in the shower.” “Oh what?” “It’s the women from next door. They’ve all got a slight prick in their crown.” “And you mean they use the shower as a toilet?” “Yes. Still, the water is hot and if you don’t get in barefoot, it feels really good.”

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