Trees are living beings!

Today, too, we are woken up by glistening rays of sunshine. Only a few stubborn mosquitoes can stand the bright rays and buzz around our bodies. After stowing our camp in the Ortlieb bags again, we push our bikes and then the heavy trailers up the embankment to the road in a strenuous effort. It’s 11:00 a.m. when our cranks start turning again.

The weather is beautiful and the landscape is just what you read about in the books. Dense birch forests, spruces, pines, larches and firs, some of which can be up to 800 years old, increasingly border the asphalt strip. In contrast to the tropical rainforests, the taiga is characterized by a low species diversity and consists largely of the aforementioned coniferous tree species. I still haven’t really realized the dimensions of this largest contiguous coniferous forest area in the world, which stretches from Scandinavia to Siberia and North America. Breathing in the rich, rustic, clear scent of the forest, I straighten up in the saddle of my pedal steed. We often glide directly past swamp areas that have developed between the Ural Mountains and the Yenisei. Millions of mosquitoes breed in the shallow waters, which is why we avoid stopping in such areas as much as possible. Dead trees reach their bare, moss-covered trunks into the blue sky. It’s fascinating to think that the taiga is still completely undeveloped in parts. The taiga forest type grows in the temperate and northern latitudes and thus belongs to the non-tropical forests of our planet, which together cover around 14 million square kilometers of land. The extratropical forests mainly thrive in Russia, North America and Europe, but larger areas are also found in Australia, New Zealand, Chile, Argentina, North Africa and the coastal regions of South Africa.

Fascinated by the sheer massive presence of these probably oldest, largest and highest creatures on earth, I let my eyes wander over the green creatures without ceasing. For me, these creatures are undoubtedly powerful and enduring symbols of life. If each and every one of us were really aware that the forest is a huge source of energy for our ecosystem, we would certainly treat it more carefully. Trees need sunlight, carbon dioxide and water to survive. If we humans realized in the depths of our consciousness that trees produce important food for humans and animals and the highly important oxygen, we would certainly treat the sustainer of our lives differently. Who would voluntarily strangle themselves and then suffocate? What a terrible death. And yet we continue to cut down virgin forests for our wonderful wooden decking, chopping boards, fine steering wheels and dashboards in our cars. At the very least, we allow deforestation and then consciously or unconsciously buy death or that of our children or are partly responsible for the fact that future generations will no longer have enough air to breathe. “What madness,” it suddenly goes through my head. “How can we stop such a sick development? How can we humans be made to understand that trees filter carbon dioxide from the air and thus renew the composition of our earth’s atmosphere? How can we explain to people that trees provide us with the fresh air that we all, rich or poor, need every second to survive? What can we do to realize in time that trees are probably the oldest, largest and tallest living beings on our planet?”

Green vein

In this context, I am thinking of our Green Vein project which we launched a few years ago. As many of you dear readers already know, we want to give life to at least 25,000 trees during our Trans-East expedition. One tree for every kilometer covered. A tree costs only 5 euros. The trees are used to regenerate degraded and non-viable forests in Germany. We need healthy primary forests. This means that there are hardly any surviving primeval forests left in Germany. Forests are being cleared all over the world. We want to do something about this with our joint efforts. Giving something back to Mother Earth that we take away every day. We believe that the children of future generations should also have a chance of survival. Please help us to create something. So that people in the future will still be able to hear birds chirping and stand in the shade of a tree.

You can find information about the Green Vein on our website.
www.denis-katzer.com

The donations do not benefit us financially in the slightest. Everything you give goes to Mother Earth!!! We guarantee this with our life project and our name.

Donations are very welcome at:
Bergwaldprojekt e.V.
Keyword:Green vein
GLS Community Bank
SORT CODE 43060967
Account number 8022916200

Mother Earth is alive!

Pricked

After just eight kilometers we reach a roadside café. As we are inhaling this country to the full, we don’t want to rush through under any circumstances and take a break. We lean our riese und müller against the wall of the house under a small window which is being cleaned by an employee of the simple restaurant. “ßdrastwuitsche” (hello) is how we greet them. “Dobre djen” (Good afternoon), she replies. “Bliny jeßt?” (Are there pancakes?) I ask as I enter the store. “Njet,” replies a woman behind her counter in a friendly manner. “She has fresh piroshkis”, (eggs fried in yeast dough and onion peppers) says Tanja. “Okay, then I’ll just eat piroshkis”, I reply, although I’d rather have sweet pancakes. We sit down under the window where the woman is scrubbing with a worn-out sponge. She is so absorbed in her work that she barely gives us a glance. After the third cup of tea and two hot, fresh piroshkis, the window cleaner is not much further on with her work than when we arrive. “Da ßwidanja”, (See you again) we say goodbye, whereupon she briefly raises her hand in greeting.

After 52 kilometers we reach the outskirts of Kansk. Dilapidated military installations and rapidly rotating radar screens line the road. Fighter jets peak out from behind mounds of earth. “I’ll give Anja a call. She has friends here who want to give us a place to stay,” Tanja reminds me, which is why we park our horses at a petrol station and sit down in the sun. “Andrej will pick you up. He has a white Lada,” explains Anja on her cell phone. We use the waiting time to watch some wedding couples dancing in front of the sign that says Kansk in capital letters. Why they use such an unsightly place to gather is a mystery to us. They shout boisterously, drink champagne and some of them dance in front of the video cameras. Every now and then, one of the champagne bottles flies at the eight-meter-high town sign. “Is it probably supposed to bring good luck when the bottle shatters?”, I guess, because when it clinks, the revelers cheer joyfully. The passing truck drivers repeatedly sound their horns to congratulate the newlyweds. After drinking champagne and dancing with rice, one of the wedding party gets into their cars and speeds off, honking their horns incessantly. No sooner have they disappeared down the mountain to Kansk than a new wedding party appears with similar behavior.

Suddenly, a white Lada appears. Since many Russians own white Ladas, it is not easy to identify Andrei. It’s only when the slim, middle-aged man gets out and walks purposefully towards us that we know we’re dealing with the right person. “Hello, my name is Andrej,” he greets us in a friendly manner and shakes our hands. “Do you want to follow me?” he asks politely without beating around the bush. “Gladly,” we reply and follow in the tracks of the Lada. Anja told us that Andrej belongs to a group of athletes who work with young people. “They have a house for athletes where they can accommodate you,” she explained. In view of the fact that we’ve already got another nice place to stay and are surrounded by nice people, we’re looking forward to it.

From an altitude of around 400 meters, we let our bikes lurch down to the lower-lying Kansk. Suddenly I see a large insect flying towards me. Too late I try to turn my head to the side as the humming beast smacks me under the chin strap of my helmet and stabs me cruelly in the temple. “Auaaa!” I yell as the vile flying creature immediately stings me a second time. “What’s going on?” asks Tanja as she drives in front of me, startled. “I’ve been stung really badly by one of those bastards!” I shout, rubbing my temple. “Is it bad? Should we stop?” “I think it’s fine,” I say, hoping that the pain won’t get any worse. As I continue, my cheek starts to go numb, but the pain eases a little. “Was it a wasp?” I ponder. However, from what I felt on my temple, it was a larger insect.

After about two kilometers, the Lada turns into a settlement of houses built of planks, typical for Siberia. He stops in front of a dilapidated metal gate. Andrej opens the gate and invites us in. We carefully push our heavy bikes past a loudly barking chain dog, whose short chain doesn’t allow it to bite us. Andrej immediately goes to the dog. “Calm down boss. They’re guests,” he says, stroking the angry guardian of the cottage. “You can lean your bikes against the fence,” the friendly man suggests after we stand there a little awkwardly at first, not knowing why we are now standing in front of a small wooden house and not a youth hostel. As our Russian isn’t good enough to ask any more detailed questions, we lean our bikes against the leaning, two-meter-high wooden fence as offered. Then Luba, Andrej’s wife, and his 12-year-old son, Vova, come out of the house to greet us cautiously. So we stand in front of each other a little unsettled in the first few minutes. Nobody really knows how to deal with the situation and what the next steps are. We were actually prepared to reach a youth hostel, store our bikes, put our luggage in a room, rest for half an hour from the day’s exertions, routinely transfer the pictures of the Leicas to the laptop and write down my log data and the day’s experiences. However, fate has brought us here to a small settlement with a family we have never seen before. Nothing unusual for us, really. Nevertheless, we were in a different frame of mind and needed a few minutes to adjust.

“Come in,” Andrej invites us to enter the house. We leave everything outside and go inside. “Please sit down,” says Luba, pointing to two chairs in the small kitchen. She is standing at the stove frying potato pancakes for us. It looks as if Luba got behind the stove immediately after Anja’s call to cook for us, because as soon as we have sat down on the chairs, she hands us each a plate full of hot potato pancakes and opens a jar of blueberries from the taiga. As a side dish, she prepared a salad with tomatoes, cucumbers and fresh herbs from her own garden. “It tastes really delicious”, we praise and satisfy our hunger for bikes in this unexpected way. The right side of my face almost fell asleep under it. “Does it still hurt?” Tanja wants to know worriedly because I keep rubbing my temples. “Not very much anymore. It’s just gone a bit numb,” I reply and am glad I didn’t swallow the thing during the ride.

After the first half hour, the ice melts a little and our host adjusts to our meagre knowledge of Russian. “Here, for you,” says Luba and gives us each a T-shirt. “It’s Andrej’s promotional shirt,” she explains. We learn that Andrej was a Russian orienteering champion and has been training young people for years. From what we understand, he is employed by a government organization. We are still waiting for Andrej to take us to the youth center where we can spend the night. “You’re welcome to sleep here,” we immediately hear, as if he could read our minds. “Uh, where can we sleep?” I ask. “There are two options. One is outside in the old kitchen by the sauna or here in the living room. It’s up to you,” explains Andrej. “Can we see the old kitchen?” we ask. “Gladly,” says Luba and leads us through the garden, which is planted with potatoes, cucumbers, cabbage, tomatoes, strawberries and much more. Luba opens the door to a barrack. In the sparse light of the only small window, we see an old carpet and a stove that was used for cooking many years ago. Behind it is a small chamber that still serves as a banya (sauna) today. As we wanted to stay here for a few days to write up my notes and organize all the pictures from the last three weeks, I’m currently wondering if I’m capable of sitting for 10 hours in this dark hut. Luba tells us to clean the floor of the old wooden house. “Okay,” we reply and let things happen as they come when you’re a traveler.

A little later, Luba has cleaned the hut and laid a clean tablecloth on the rickety wooden table. “You can move in,” we understand. But before we move into our new accommodation, we are allowed to take a shower. There is hot water from the boiler in the small, restored bathroom in the main hut. Wonderful after the last two days of cycling. After showering, we don’t really know what to do. Communication is still sparse. Embarrassed, I check all the bolts on our bikes for tightness. Andrei and Vova have suddenly disappeared. Sure, how could he explain where he was going? But it doesn’t take long before Andrej is back home. We sit down in the living room where two cats also live. Andrej quickly moves his desk to the sofa, switches on his laptop and shows us videos related to his work for about an hour. We see how a Russian jeep works its way through rivers and fords. How the taiga sinks into the rain. How birdhouses are built. How the jeep gets stuck in the mud and is pulled out again with a winch. For the next 20 minutes, Andrej presents film clips of orienteering races and how athletes have to find their way through a maze made of metal fences.

Then we have dinner. Luba has prepared potato soup with chicken and salad. A friend called Tanja comes to welcome the exotic guests. She is very interested and asks us lots of questions, which we answer as best we can. “I have to go to Krasnoyarsk tomorrow for seven days to help supervise two competitions there as a referee,” Andrei explains. “Oh, no problem. We’ll go to a gastinia tomorrow. Tanja needs the internet and I have to retire for a few days to write,” we reply. “But you don’t need to go to a gastiniza. It’s far too expensive. You’re welcome to stay here,” offers Andrej. Tanja and I look at each other and don’t know how to refuse his kind offer without trampling on his generous hospitality. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” we say wearily. “Where do you want to sleep now? Here or in the old kitchen over in the hut?” Andrej wants to know at midnight. As Tanja feels more comfortable in the living room and we don’t have to put up a mosquito net or inflate sleeping mats, we decide on the living room. The sofa is immediately pulled out and covered with fresh sheets. Wowa, who is just about to get his little divan ready for the night, is sent by his father into the room behind the living room. “Please sleep in the TV room tonight,” he says. We are just slipping under the comforter on the sofa, absolutely exhausted from the long day, when Luba leaves the room to go outside. “Where are you going?” I ask curiously. “We’re sleeping in the old kitchen tonight,” she replies. “What, in the old kitchen? But then we’ve taken your bed,” says Tanja in surprise. “It doesn’t matter,” says Luba, leaving the living room. “I can’t believe it. People even give us their own bed,” whispers Tanja. “The hospitality in this country is really hard to describe,” I murmur tiredly and hear a number of mosquitoes buzzing and looking forward to biting us tonight.

We look forward to your comments!