Visiting a Siberian family

At almost regular intervals of fifteen minutes, the tinny door of the outhouse, not far from our tent, rattles into the frame. The pub’s watchdog is soon doing his duty incessantly, barking his commentary on every crash of the door. Truck drivers come and go all night to dine in the trucker pub and then or before relieve themselves in the outhouse. Some of them keep the heavy engines of their trucks running. Either the units have to cool sensitive cargo or the drivers heat their cabins and don’t want to lose the heat. However, sleep is only possible to a limited extent.

In the morning, the sun burns out of our tent. I immediately start to remove the rear tire from my bike. My father once said that he couldn’t explain why he usually had a flat tire in the rear during his bike tours. Without a doubt, repairing a flat tire on the front tire is far less time-consuming, which is why I have to think of my dear father right now. Thank goodness we ride the Marathon Extreme from Schwalbe. That’s the reason why, after 12,000 kilometers, I have to repair the first flat on the rear tire. To get the bike out of the frame, I unscrew the chain tensioner, release the Magura brake and the cable box of the Rohloff gearbox. Only now can I remove the wheel. I carefully examine the inside of the sheath for any foreign objects. Lo and behold, a small metal splint has worked its way through the extremely hard-wearing protective fabric and punctured the tube. A new inner tube is quickly fitted and the tire reinstalled.

It is already 12:30 p.m. when our fully inflated tires start spinning again over the Siberian asphalt in a south-easterly direction. We are immediately greeted by a six-kilometre climb that takes us up to an altitude of 668 meters. The landscape has changed for some time now. Vast fields have replaced the taiga and border the road. Flowering summer meadows, fields and narrow strips of forest show how man is pushing back the wilderness here too. The traffic is still as heavy as ever and will probably remain so until we reach Lake Baikal or perhaps even the city of Ulan-Ude. Although we are reluctant to get used to the constant noise of engines and whirring car tires, we have to put up with it. “Look, he’s got a load of jogging mats on his roof rack. He must be a yoga instructor!” Tanja shouts, pointing at a passing Lada. As soon as she says this, it stops in front of us. A young, slim man with an upright posture comes up to us to greet us in a friendly manner. Privet, menja sawut Igor. Adkuda? Kuda?” (“Hello, my name is Igor. Where are you from and where are you going?”), he introduces himself in a friendly manner and, like everyone else, wants to know where we are from. In the course of the conversation, we find out that Igor is not a yoga teacher but is on his way to visit his meditation master, who lives on Lake Baikal. “I’m taking part in a course there. If you want, you can come too,” he invites us with an open laugh. As a parting gift, he gives us some tea he has picked himself. Tanja gives him organically grown tea from Sonnentor, which we take with us on all our cycle tours. A wonderful, spontaneous exchange of energy on the main road. “Maybe we’ll see each other in the next life. You are wonderful people,” says Igor, getting into his Lada and driving off.

At 3 p.m. we reach one of the roadside cafés in a valley. Exhausted, we sit down on a bench in the shade and look respectfully at the five-kilometer climb that leads back up out of the valley. As soon as we take a seat, we are approached by a smartly dressed Siberian woman with well coiffed red hair. “I’m the boss of this café,” she introduces herself. She chats a few words and asks us what everyone is asking when a Lada with deafeningly loud music pulls up in front of the café. “That’s my son. A good-for-nothing. He doesn’t work. Doesn’t help in the café and has nothing but nonsense in his head. A real bandit,” she says with a matter-of-factness that scares me a little. Then she disappears again. Because of the heat and yesterday’s exertions, we are still sitting on the bench 40 minutes later. Tonja, the café manager, comes back and sits down with us again. “Where are you going today?” she wants to know. “To the next Gastiniza,” I reply. “Oh, that’s a long way away.” “How far?” “Well, about 40 kilometers from here.” “Hm, we’ll just sleep in the tent then,” I reply somewhat apathetically. “If you want, you can also spend the night in my house,” she invites us unexpectedly. “In your house?” I ask, glancing at Tanja to see what she thinks. “How far is your house from here?” I want to know because of yesterday’s bad experience. “Not far. Only three kilometers.” “Hm,” I think about it and ask Tanja. “You decide,” is her once again indecisive answer. “Why not, actually,” I reply. “So we get to know some of the people here,” I add. “You’re probably right. We’re tired and last night I dreamt of a nice place to stay by a beautiful lake. A lake where we can refresh ourselves and swim. Maybe Tonja lives by this body of water,” Tanja wishes. “Who knows,” I reply and hope that her son, the bandit, doesn’t live there too and steal our equipment at night.

Tonja is picked up by her husband at 17:00. We follow the car and when we pass a beautifully situated small lake, I can hardly believe my eyes. “Will Tanja’s dream become reality here? It wouldn’t be the first time,” I ask myself, obviously pleased to have made the right decision. Driving past the cool water, we watch children and teenagers splashing around happily in the water. They scream and whoop with delight and I would love to jump in with them. “Well, we’ll do that later or tomorrow,” I think to myself.

After three kilometers, our tired thighs are still kicking our steeds over gentle hills. We are in the middle of the village of Zima. We pass broken fences, old wooden houses and the vegetable gardens typical of this region. Then, as so often on this route, we cross under a bridge over which a freight train of the Trans-Siberian Railway is rattling along. To our right, a large iron winding tower juts its bizarre frame into the summer sky. We learn that he has been extracting salt from the belly of Mother Earth for 30 years. The salt deposit is said to extend over a length of 20 to 30 kilometers and, at the current extraction rate, will be sufficient for another hundred years. Even if it doesn’t look pretty, the underground mine provides work for 150 people. With unemployment at around 70 percent, a mine like this is an absolute stroke of luck for anyone who gets a job. Behind the steel tower, we leave the asphalt road and bump along a rough clay track just a hundred meters from the Transsib tracks. meanders along. In most villages and towns there is only one paved road, if any at all. All paths and roads leading away from it are almost entirely made of clay, which literally sinks vehicles at the slightest rainfall.

Finally, the old white car stops in front of a poor hut. Sergej, Tonja’s serious-looking husband, opens the gate and invites us in. We roll our bikes into the narrow courtyard, which is bordered on the left and right by a wooden hut, and lean them against a wooden fence. A dog barks at us, wagging its tail. “Dick doesn’t bite,” says Tonja, whereupon we stroke him. Dick is so entranced by the obviously rare touch that he jumps up and down like a madman. “You can take your luggage into the winter house,” Tonja suggests and leads us into the dark hut. The smell of cat urine hits us.

As usual, we take off our shoes and enter a kind of lounge with a pull-out sofa, a few vegetating plants and a fireplace. Curtains decorated with flowers hang in front of the small windows, there is an old carpet on the floor and ornamental, square polystyrene panels are stuck to the sloping ceiling. “You can sleep on the sofa tonight. I’ll take it off for you,” says Tonja, pointing to the sofa, which may have looked better 20 years ago than it does today. “Oh, thank you very much. We have our own mattresses. We’ll put them on the floor,” I reply, trying to escape the old canapé. “But it’s much more comfortable on the sofa, isn’t it?” “We have special mattresses. They’re good for my back. I once had a disc operation and have to lie on these mattresses,” I say and am relieved that Tonja accepts. We are just about to set up camp for the night when the door opens again and a woman with graying hair enters the room. Tanja is about to introduce herself, but realizes at the last second that it is Tonja who rushes into the room. “Here are some slippers,” she says lovingly and hands us each a pair of old slippers. “That was Tonja, wasn’t it?” I ask in surprise after she has disappeared again. “Yes, she’s obviously taken off her wig,” explains Tanja.

While Tanja goes to the toilet, I take a look in the next room. It is undoubtedly the living room. A modern living room wall from the sixties contains books, glasses for special occasions, plastic flowers, photos of the children and a number of undefinable odds and ends. There are blue tiles on the main side of the living room, behind which is the wood-burning stove, which can be heated from the adjoining room. A round wall clock hangs with three pictures of flowers on a floral wallpaper. On superficial inspection and a few hours of cleaning, it’s not an uncomfortable room.

“You don’t believe that. So I don’t know how I’m supposed to manage it?” says Tanja, coming into the room a little upset. “What?” I want to know. “Wait, I have to think about how I can master this challenge first,” she replies, sitting down on the old divan and resting her head on her hands. “So tell me what I’m not supposed to believe?” I ask impatiently. “I urgently need to go out. But I can’t go to this toilet. Can you please take a look at it. Maybe I’m overtired and I’m looking at the situation completely out of proportion,” she replies. “We’ll find a solution,” I reassure Tanja and set off to find the toilet. In the middle of the vegetable garden, among all the cabbages, potato plants and other plants, there is an old wooden hut that looks like an overturned triangle. I’ve often seen these strange little houses in the Siberian gardens, but only now do I know what’s underneath them. It’s the toilet. Sure, there is no running water and the foul-smelling outhouses are built as far away from the house as possible. The stench of human excrement hits me just a few meters from the upturned roof. I bravely venture further and enter the toilet block. Now I know what Tanja means. An elongated hole was sawn into a ten-centimeter-high heel in the wooden messenger. Everything is completely normal. Only the horrible smell is perhaps a little stronger than usual. But when my gaze falls into the hole, I have to try hard not to feel nauseous. The hole is almost full to the brim. Only a few centimeters are missing and the sticky mass spills over the bank. If you have to relieve yourself there, you will inevitably be splashed with the excrement of your predecessors. Undoubtedly and without the slightest exaggeration. I can’t believe it. The smart-looking Tonja, her husband Sergej, daughter Sascha, five-year-old grandson Pasha and the twenty-year-old bandit son use this disgusting house for their business. My gaze remains transfixed in the full hole for a few seconds as I suddenly hear the smacking rustle. Oh God. The entire content moves at breakneck speed. There are millions of maggots living in there. I feel sick and jump outside.

“You weren’t exaggerating. I’m not going there either,” I say. “And what do we do now? We can’t leave again, can we?” asks Tanja. “Just take a walk to the railroad tracks. You’re sure to find a spot there. Or go to the end of the garden when the time is right and crawl under the bushes. It’s all better than this nasty bunker,” I suggest. “Oh, that’s a good idea. And Denis?” “Yes?” “Thank you for seeing it that way. I thought I was exaggerating and getting a bit too sensitive.” “Sensitive? My God, Tanja. I’ve experienced a lot, but something like this is the bottom of the barrel. No, you’re definitely not too sensitive.”

“Tanja! Denis! Come on, please. You can have a bath now!” Tonja calls out, interrupting our conversation. While Tonja shows Tanja where to swim here, I type our log data into the computer. Tanja then re-enters the dark, slightly musty-smelling room. “And how was your bath? Was it like in your dreams?” I ask, smiling a little ironically. “There’s a small inflatable paddling pool outside. The family can take a dip there. Sergei has put water in especially for us. It’s best if you go in there and wash yourself. That’s how I did it,” she explains. Armed with my wash bag, I walk past the stinky house and discover the small paddling pool. If the situation wasn’t so real, I would laugh out loud. I’ve had the most bizarre washing facilities in my life as a traveler. Tropical rivers, waters infested with piranhas, pools, swamp holes, puddles, water barrels, showers of every conceivable design and much, much more, but I have never been allowed to clean my body in a paddling pool. When I don’t think I see anyone, I take off my underpants and kneel down in the colorful plastic container. Grandchild Pasha’s squeaky ducks are swimming next to me. I pour the broth over myself and soap myself up. When I leave the Siberian bathing establishment, the water is so brown that you can’t even see the feet of the various squeaky ducks. Then I let the evening sun dry me off, put my underpants back on and head back to my accommodation.

Tonja has set off again to do some shopping in the village. I use the time to take a closer look at the garden and the houses. Everywhere I look I see garbage. Everything that can possibly be used is kept. Not in an orderly fashion, but in uncoordinated heaps. Vegetables grow everywhere. Tonja also has a few flowers in some places. Old socks and stockings hang over the fence next to a towel to dry. A power cable with a historic plug runs through the earth and is just waiting to deliver a fatal blow to an inattentive earth dweller. I am speechless at how people live here and at the same time I am aware that there are much worse things in Siberia. Tonya has a well-paid job paying 10,000 roubles (228 euros) a month. Her husband Sergej is the driver from the café and is responsible for errands and shopping. He earns 5,000 roubles (114 euros). Daughter Sasha also works in the café and earns 7,000 roubles (159 euros). Her husband Micha works in the mine and also earns 10,000 roubles (228 euros) a month. After Tonja told us about 70 percent unemployment in her village, this family is one of the blessed ones in Siberia. Many people have no income at all and have to survive on the things they grow or sell on the street. Some live at the absolute subsistence level, which can no longer be described in words. I think about how we are doing at home. What an unemployed person or welfare recipient gets and realize once again what a super-rich country I was born in.

“Denis! Dinner’s coming!” Tonja calls out, interrupting my thoughts. I make my way to the so-called summer house. The summer house is usually a room in which the kitchen is also located. I take off my shoes and enter the kitchen, which is brimming with dirt. Burnt pots gather on the once white-painted stove. On the lid of one is a tube of toothpaste, a bundle of wilted carrots, an old newspaper, a dirty blue sock. Someone has been busy cooking wild berries in the pot next door. There are dried wild strawberries everywhere. In between a cleaning sponge and soap. Many days’ worth of garbage piles up at the foot of the oven. It is obviously kept, at least in part, to heat the stove. Old, dirty pots are also lined up on the electric stove. The completely grayed kettle was placed on a hob. The white plastic sofa we sat down on was covered in dirt and hadn’t been wiped clean for years. The shelves are literally overflowing with boxes, cups, jugs, oil bottles and whatnot. Tonja’s bed is in the adjoining chamber, which is not partitioned off. A flickering television, a light bulb hanging from a cable, a few dusty blankets and clothes lying around show the restaurant manager’s realm. When I want to take a photo of Tonja, she puts on her wig first. This saves you having to go to the toilet in the morning and you also look good unwashed and undressed.

“Cuddle, cuddle”, (“eat, eat”) she kindly asks us to take from the abundant offerings. I’m not thinking about the outhouse or the lack of a sink to wash my hands afterwards. Above all, I don’t think about all the bacteria that must live here by the billions and have a fried egg. “They’re from our own chickens,” says Tonja, not without pride in her voice. Nobody here asks whether the eggs are contaminated with salmonella. Who is supposed to check something like that? Who cares? “Here, take some of this bread,” Tonja offers, grabs it with her hands and puts it on my plate. There is milk tea and a large bottle of beer to celebrate the day of entertaining foreign guests for once in my life. Tanja and I look at each other briefly with knowing glances. We eat without thinking about getting sick, because that is exactly what makes us sick. “Here, cucumbers from our own garden,” says Sergej, who is slowly losing his shyness towards us. He has washed them specially and puts them on my plate. I don’t know where he washed them. It doesn’t matter. The people here have grown relatively old even with the poor hygienic conditions. A brief excursion into their world won’t kill us.

It’s 11 p.m. when we crawl under our board-cut mosquito net. I lie there with my eyes open and review the day. Bright lightning flashes in the sky and illuminates our sleeping area for a few moments. The lamp above me takes on a grimacing shape. Right? Was I wrong? A picture on the wall winks at me. The rattling of the chain dog joins with the deep rumbling thunder approaching and announcing rain. “Oh please dear God, don’t let it rain tomorrow. Despite the stunning, loving hospitality, we don’t want to stay here. A cat meows. The Trans-Siberian rattles past and makes the old house shake a little. Out of consideration for his guests, Sergei sleeps in his wife’s bed. He doesn’t come into the winter house where his own bed is waiting for him. I lie there for a long time, listening to the strange noises and smelling the strange smells. Then I suddenly have to step out. I put on my headlamp and wobble outside. It’s drizzling. Slowly and careful not to step on anything, especially not on the deadly dangerous electric snake, I walk into the garden. I pass the stinky house, from which I think I hear smacking and rustling. At the far end of the garden, I pee on the fence. Something is burning my calves and shins. It feels like a stinging donkey. But as I don’t want to be found out, I leave my head torch switched off. “See what unpleasant gray grows here tomorrow,” I think and slip back under my sleeping bag, wet from the rain.

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