With the nuns

As usual, we got up at six o’clock, went through our routine program, loaded the bikes and cycled to the ferry landing stage in good spirits. The ferry also came, but unfortunately the wrong one. “I’m sorry. This is a speedboat. We don’t have any storage space for your bikes,” said an officer dressed in white. “When is the big ferry coming back?” we wanted to know. “In two days,” the man said, shaking his head sympathetically. As Tanja had asked at least four different people whether the big ferry would really dock in Crisan that day, she received four confirmations. Well, it seems that all four of them were mistaken or the serious language problems had caused us this mishap. That was the reason why we stayed longer than planned in the Delta.

Today we catch the right boat at 8:00 am. We put everything on the rusty pot and make ourselves comfortable again on the foredeck. Because there aren’t as many people on the boat here as in the big city of Tulcea and because Soltan, a tourist from Hungary, helps us, the loading process goes completely smoothly. When we arrive in Tulcea, we make a quick stop at a restaurant. While Tanja checks the internet and picks up a long-awaited package, which hopefully has arrived at the Hotel Delta, I get the bikes ready to go. It doesn’t take long and Tanja is already waving from afar. She happily holds up a small parcel. “It’s actually there,” she says, a little out of breath. We hastily tear open the packaging and behold, our savior is grinning at us in green. It is a mosquito net from Brettschneider. We hadn’t taken it with us, thinking we didn’t need a mosquito net. What a mistake. Fatal. Of course you need a mosquito net here. The fucking animals suck you alive. Especially in budget accommodation, there are real breeding grounds in the rooms. Now we have put an end to the food source for mosquitoes and can hopefully sleep better. It’s around 1 p.m. when we leave Tulcea behind us in the sweltering heat. As soon as we reach the outskirts of the city, we head upwards, how could it be otherwise? How I disregard mountains. (Only as a cyclist, of course) In first gear, we immediately pedal onto the guy’s back and then let ourselves roll back down. Of course, how could it be otherwise, to pedal straight back up again. As I try out my Suunto heart rate monitor for the first time today, I can see my heart racing. Tanja is lagging behind. I wait at the top and cool my dripping body in the wind. “How’s your knee?” I ask worriedly as she stops next to me. “My knee is fine, but if you see a dead fish puking on the street, that was my lunch. “Are you feeling sick?” “Yes, I think I’ve had enough of fish for a while.” “I thought it was pretty rancid too,” I confirm, swinging back into the saddle to tackle the next hill. As I have to ride up the mountain at my own pace to make it at all, I can’t wait for Tanja during the climb. At the top, I stop, breathing heavily. Young people walk past. Some point their thumbs up with a laugh. An old drunken man comes up to me and tries to speak to me in his native language. I always understand Munz, which means mountain. The word has even burned itself into my brain in Romanian. Then he says something about Barca, by which he probably means a ship. I decide that we should take the ferry to the border town of Galati because there are a bunch of mountains ahead of us. The old man tries to convince the youngsters to translate his warning into English for me. Laughter is the answer. I thank the drunk and when Tanja reaches the top of the hill, breathing heavily, we rush down the few meters together. “We should buy water!” she calls after me as we whizz past a magazine. “Oh come on, there are always little stores here,” I say, refusing to go on. One kilometer later we stop. Shepherds shear their sheep by the roadside. In Romania, the shearers still work with large hand shears. Very hard, very strenuous work. We had often observed shearers at work in Australia. There, the men hang with their upper bodies in an elastic strap mounted on the ceiling. This relieves the strain on the back. The sheep are also shorn with an oversized electric shaver. The sheep is then naked within a few minutes. It looks different here. It takes an eternity for a sheep to complete the procedure. We take photos and film. Suddenly the boss comes rumbling up in his rickety Dacia. “All my sheep here! Film me! Film me!” he shouts loudly, spreads his arms and laughs. Then he unpacks a two-liter bottle of beer, opens it and offers us a sip. “We still have to cycle,” we decline with thanks. The cut-off plastic bottle neck serves as the cup. The shepherds doing their hard work in the sun are happy to have a sip of beer. The mood is cheerful. We would prefer to rest here for a while, but we want to reach our destination for the day, Saon Monastery.

A terrible sign appears at the side of the road. It reads 10 percent gradient. When my heart rate rises to 166 and my thighs can no longer muster the strength to push my Roadtrain any higher, I get off the bike to push. Looking behind me, I only now notice that Tanja has also been pushing her bike up for some time. We both have to stop at least every hundred meters to give our lungs a chance to supply our panting bodies with enough air. It is hardly feasible. 10 percent is more than we can manage. If we are faced with gradients of 11 percent, we can’t even push. Our water supplies are running low. Much faster than I had expected. I grumble quietly at myself. “If only I had listened to Tanja. What if this continues? We urgently need water.” Concentrated and with great willpower, we climb higher bit by bit until we reach a ridiculous 164 meters in altitude. No doubt a demoralizing fact, these mountains. Then, as usual, we burn off the hard-won meters of altitude. A sign points to the Saon monastery. We stop and see the dome of the monastery church protruding from a hollow about three to four kilometers away. “It’s another 15 kilometers to the next town. Maybe we’ll go straight on. If we go to the monastery, it’s downhill and tomorrow we have to go up again. What do you want to do?” I ask Tanja. “You decide,” she says. I think about it for a while and feel the urge to pay Saon a visit. “We’ll go,” I decide and we let ourselves slide down again. The asphalt disappears and a gradient of at least 11 to 12 percent stretches out before us. We put one bike in the ditch and two of us push mine and then Tanja’s uphill. The technique works for small surveys. It is late afternoon when we cycle into the monastery grounds. Some nuns are talking to a visitor. We lean the bikes against the fence and I ask if they have a place for us to pitch our tent. “Gladly, it’s no problem down by the river,” we hear the nun’s pleasant voice. “But you can also have a room. If you want?” she offers. We decline with thanks and look forward to finally spending the night within our own four walls again. An English-speaking nun called Gabriela offers to show us around the monastery. Although we are both absolutely all of us, we gladly accept the offer. Gabriela shows us the old church, built in 1884, and explains that the newer one was built in 1904. We are allowed to film and photograph. “It’s a nice quiet place here that I really like,” she says. “How long have you been a nun in this convent?” Tanja wants to know. “Ten years. It’s a nice life with us. We are 40 nuns and everyone has their tasks. I, for example, look after the guests. We pray every morning from six to eight o’clock and in the evening from 7pm to 10pm. But we don’t have to pray. It’s voluntary. If we have other things to do, we do it,” she explains. “Come on, I’ll show you our ostriches.” “You have ostriches?” I ask in amazement. “Yes, for some time. Moments later we are watching ostriches in a Romanian nunnery. “You have to be a little careful. The macho is very aggressive,” she warns us. The giant bird actually stretches its snake neck over the fence and wildly twists its googly eyes. Startled, we take a step back. Gabriela and we have to laugh hard. After admiring the ostrich cubs, the dining hall and other buildings, she shows us the camp site right next to a branch of the Danube overgrown with water lilies. “You have to watch out for the Sinti. A boy recently stole from a German couple who were exploring the Danube here,” she warns. “But still, they’re safe here,” she reassures us immediately afterwards. While Tanja and Gabriela fetch water from the fountain, I sink into my folding chair, completely exhausted. No doubt I’m completely exhausted after such an eventful day. Then, after a few minutes to catch my breath, I start typing short notes about the day into my laptop. Tanja returns with five liters of fresh well water, fresh eggs, a few apples and homemade cheese. “The nuns gave us this as a gift. They are really very kind to us. I also asked Gabriela if we could make a donation to the convent. She said no. Keep your money. We are doing very well here and you still have a long journey ahead of you. Save your money, she said and smiled at me.” “It’s a good place to camp,” I reply and set up our fabric dwelling with Tanja. Afterwards, Tanja goes to wash the dust of the hot day off her body in the Danube. “Was it good?” I ask when she comes back. “A dream,” she replies, visibly refreshed. As I stand by the lake, I wonder where Tanja went into the water. The mud is a maximum of 30 centimeters deep everywhere and as soon as I wade in, I sink up to my knees in the mire. I search the shore for a suitable spot for a while, but can’t find anything. Then I decide to crawl into the mud hole, walking on my hands like a tadpole. A flock of ducks next to me has no problem with the depth of the water. They swim around happily and beak for food in the bubble-throwing broth. I then manage to wet my body with moisture. Not exactly refreshing. Unsatisfied, I walk back to the camp smelling a bit like swamp. Tanja snorts with laughter as I tell her about my bathing experience. I manage to react with composure.

Then there’s a delicious meal from Travellunch. We have this tasty freeze-dried ready-to-eat food with us for those tough days. Tanja cuts in the feta cheese and a few eggs and the jelly is ready. At 10 p.m. we are attacked by a relentless army of mosquitoes. Tanja is already in her sleeping bag when I lock the bikes and then rush into the tent. It is pleasant to spend the night within your own walls. Outside, the frogs are croaking. Like in a choir, they raise their voices sometimes more and sometimes less. No mosquito can enter our kingdom. There is a nasty buzzing in front of the tent wall while we fall into a deep sleep in here.

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