Trapped in the mountains

At 4:30 a.m. we get out of our sweaty mattresses and at 5:30 a.m. we are already spinning our cranks. The first hills are already buying us the edge, we have to push our bikes more than pedal them. We roll through the sleepy little village of Milhalnyka. A red-rusted, completely dented freight train is struggling with its heavy load, rattling loudly a hundred meters away from us, through heat-stricken Moldova. The asphalt-spattered road leaves the village and climbs up a nightmarish slope. At the edge of this deserted artery, two elderly women are cutting the fur off a loudly bleating goat with a pair of hand shears. They smile sheepishly at me as I film them. Then we swing back into the saddle and puff up the crease in the earth. A jolly hiker with a bucket in his hand strides happily alongside me. He even has to reduce his speed a little so as not to simply run away from me. “Where are you from? What from Germany? Good country. I was stationed there. I’m Russian, you know,” he babbles without a dot or a comma. My breath rattles as I push the 105 kilos of weight up the mountain. My companion doesn’t mind at all. He fires off one question after another and even gets a little annoyed when I don’t understand his Russian. With the army! Army! Do you understand?” my ears are pounding. To make sure I’ve understood, he picks up an imaginary submachine gun. “Ta, ta, ta, ta,” rattles out of his mouth, and of course I know what he means. “The separatists live in the north-east of Moldova.” “I see,” I reply, because I don’t know what he’s trying to say. Then he changes the subject. “What, the Russians are no longer in Germany? I don’t think so,” he continues his conversation. I look back and notice that Tanja has fallen a long way off and is pushing her vehicle. This gives me the opportunity to get rid of my tormentor. “I have to wait for my wife,” I stammer, gasping. He laughs loudly, wishes me a good journey and walks off at a brisk pace.

Through the mountain ranges, which now rise up in front of us at intervals of two to three kilometers, we only make just under seven kilometers per hour. Tanja’s head is bright red. Sweat is pouring down both of our bodies. Once again, the mercury column on the thermometer climbs to over 30 degrees in the shade by eight o’clock. The effort almost overwhelms us. As soon as we roll down one of these damned slopes, we are punished with a similar or even worse gradient. Because we urgently need water, we ask for a magazine in the village of Troitcoe, which is situated on a ridge. “Down the road there,” we hear. “Should we really go down there?” asks Tanja. “If we want water, we’ll have to,” I reply, thinking about having to come back up here to continue on our way. We stop in front of a small woodshed. We lean the bikes against a tree. “I’ll see what’s available,” I say and enter the simple hut. A corpulent, resolute woman opens her astonished eyes. It takes a few seconds before she begins to realize what a strangely dressed person has entered her store. I can literally see it rattling around in her brain. “Is there water?” I ask in Russian. “Sure, in the fountain,” she replies and points to the back of the garden. She immediately accompanies me, drops a bucket down into the hole and brings it up again. “Is that drinking water?” I try to ask. “Yes,” I understand, and to dispel any doubts she takes a big swig from the bucket. Then we fill our hydration packs and head back to the store.

“How far is it to the next town?” asks Tanja. “At least 40 kilometers.” “We’ll never make it.” “You’re right. It’s impossible. We’ll have to ask somewhere later if we can pitch our tent in a garden,” I reply. While we are discussing what to do, the corpulent woman comes out of her store and hands each of us a wrapped popsicle. “Otschen haraschor”, (very good) she says. As neither of us feel the slightest desire for ice cream at this point, we decline. “Otschen haraschor,” she says again, not tolerating any contradiction. Out of necessity, we say thank you, open the packaging and suck the ice cream. “My name is Luda,” the magazine owner introduces herself. In the meantime, a policeman pulls up next to us in his car. When he sees us, he laughs and tries to talk to us. “My name is Pavel,” he introduces himself and shakes our hands. We show him the speedometer, how far we have come so far and try to explain with our hands and feet what we are doing and where we want to go. He looks at us in disbelief. More people from the village come and marvel at the bikes. Then they quickly buy something from Luda before joining the small circle of questioners. “How are you?” I ask Tanja from time to time. “Fucking mountains,” she replies dryly. I think about whether it makes sense to ask Luda to set up camp here. “We should split the route into two stages,” Tanja interrupts my thoughts. “Do you think I should ask if we can stay here?” “Why not?” “It’s only 8:30.” “We can ask in the next village if you want. How far is it until then?” Tanja wants to know. “Maybe ten kilometers,” I answer and at the same time decide to ask Luda. “But of course. You’re welcome to stay here. In the tent? No problem at all,” she chats happily and shows me the completely dry garden.

Like a ballerina in disguiseSo we set up our tent early in the morning on a dusty field next to a small, inconspicuous pile of garbage not far from the outhouse. At nine o’clock we sit on old plastic chairs at a simple plastic table. It’s already 35 degrees. A half-thirsty cherry tree, shedding its withered fruit out of sheer desperation, provides us with shade. We eat cabbage wraps stuffed with rice and pork, meatballs, chicken, hard sausage sweating in the sun, absolutely tortured white bread and tomatoes. Daughter Katja, who has just got up, sits down at the table with bleary eyes, obviously suffering like a dog because of the heat. Katja is 20 years old, friendly, spindly and seems a bit disturbed from the first moment we meet her. She is studying in some city and has come home for the summer vacation. She keeps rolling her eyes because of the heat and moaning; “Sharka” (“hot” in Russian). When it is running. she crosses both arms in front of her chest. as if she wanted to strangle herself or holds one hand away from her body like a ballerina in disguise, strutting along at a perfect snail’s pace. She speaks incessant Russian in a terribly shrill voice. although we desperately try to make it clear to her that we don’t understand anything. Her mother, on the other hand, is intelligent, very friendly and warm-hearted. Her father died of cancer four years ago, leaving Luda to fend for herself and her daughters. We wonder how she manages this, because the small store can’t possibly make that much.

“Do you like red wine?” Luda interrupts her daughter’s torrent of words. As we have decided not to struggle over any more hills today, we say yes. It’s now 38 degrees Celsius, and the palatable red wine goes to our heads. “It’s from my nephew. He grows his own wine,” we understand. “Nastrowje!” says Luda, raises her glass and clinks glasses with us. It doesn’t take long and Tanja gets a terrible stomach ache. “It’s a good thing we didn’t drive any further,” she says. “Why do you suddenly have a stomach ache?” I wonder, but notice how my stomach starts to rumble too. “Do you want to see how my older daughter Nadja got married?” Luda asks abruptly. Before we answer, she leads us into her house, slips a video cassette into the TV and off we go. The store is closed to celebrate the day. It’s not every day that you get guests from Germany who also cycle here. The TV is full of laughter, screaming, loud music, lots of talking, dancing and eating. My eyes are glazing over, I can barely hold myself upright on the sofa. “Do you want to sleep?” Luda suddenly asks. I nod my head sheepishly. “No problem. Come and lie in my bed,” she offers and leads me into the bedroom. Embarrassed again, I look at the bed and point to my clothes. “Just lie down and rest,” she orders, whereupon I let myself sink into her bed in full gear and fall into an unconscious-like sleep for hours. I wake up in the late afternoon drenched in sweat. It’s 31 degrees in the hut. I sit down on the edge of the bed with a grumbling head and take a look around the bedroom. In the small, cozy room, there is a single closed wardrobe next to the bed. The wallpaper behind me shows two oversized tiger cubs lying on a lush green meadow and dreaming away. Feathery clouds float in a deep blue sky and a few stars flash brightly. I look at the peaceful picture with a smile. A large brown and beige patterned rug hangs on the wall at the front of the bed. The floor is covered with a red-green-brown-grey-checkered carpet of flowers. The window is obviously darkened with a blue, gray and white checkered curtain because of the heat, and an Orthodox saint smiles graciously at me from the last remaining wall. With heavy bones, I get up from the warm bed and walk through the living room. Only now am I registering the installation. All the walls are covered with wallpaper that is also mottled brown. Orthodox saints hang around here too. The rug is flowery, with a colorful pattern. Almost like an oriental carpet. The two sofas facing each other have similar bright patterns and colors. The TV sits enthroned on a cabinet in the corner. On the shelves of the living room cupboard I discover books, candles, Orthodox saints again, stuffed animals and much more. Driven outside by the colorful variety and the heat, I take a deep breath. It’s 5 pm. The thermometer shows 37 degrees in the shade. We sit down again under the cherry tree. A gentle breeze loosens the strangling hand of the sweltering heat. Tanja is now in a bad way. Your stomach churns. I don’t know whether it was the ice, the tortured bread or some other bacteria that thrive by the billions in this climate. Katja, who is still complaining incessantly about the heat, keeps offering her chocolate, sweets and a cola brew that tastes strangely of coffee and chocolate and is also warm. Smiling bravely, Tanja stubbornly refuses. Katja, who simply doesn’t want to understand that someone is capable of refusing all the delicacies, goes to great lengths to keep holding the sweet stuff in front of Tanja’s nose.

For dinner, Luda serves exactly the same as this morning. The red wine tastes delicious. Of the meat, I only eat the reheated meatballs and some of the twice-tortured white bread. The gifts have been badly affected by the glowing breath of the sun. Luda doesn’t mind and eats the remaining two thin chicken legs and a few slices of the super-fat and already bulging hard sausage. Tanja, on the other hand, forgoes the treats. As a vegetarian, she has nothing to do with meat anyway. For her, there is often only the tomato salad, the white bread and the rice that she fished out of the pork cabbage wraps this morning. At 9.30 p.m. we retire to our tent at a still astonishing 32 degrees. “How are you?” I ask. “Can you hear my tummy rumbling?” “Yes, you can’t miss it.” “Well, that’s how I feel.” “Can’t go on tomorrow, can we?” “Don’t think so.”

We look forward to your comments!