where horse & carts meet cars

Today I awoke in Maramures, where centuries old customs jostle for position amongst the new ways of the western world. Pots sit drying on the tree outside ‑ back in the day the locals were so poor they had nowhere to dry their pots so they hung them on trees. Today it's a nod to the old legends that arose about red pots signifying a marrigeable woman in the house. Nobody seems to know whether or not that was really ever the case.

We're in the western part of the Carpathians where it gets so cold that even in the warm summer afternoons you can almost see the snow; everything here is preparing for the winter from the frantic roadworks to the piles upon piles of chopped wood.

The locals here are friendly, unlike a little further south where they are yet to make the connection between good service and increased tourism. Yesterday, near the famous old wooden church of Surdesti, we chatted to a worker who had been hired by the priest to cut his grass. The priest's son hung around, playing with the grass clippings, while the worker jovially explained to our guide Daniel that he was cutting the lucerne (growing freely) for stock feed. He let Dad have a go with his scythe and told us that a scythe can cut closer to the ground than a machine ever could. Other crops are not cut manually, it depends on how it grows.

For Australian farmers, it's been amazing to see the endless lush grass on the hills, the flowers scattered brightly everywhere, perched high in pots on the light poles and surviving just on rain. Shepherds and their flocks dot the hillsides. The shepherds are hired by people to take their sheep and goats into the mountains for feed during summer and they usually spend three or four months living in a small mountain hut, surrounded by the pretty jingling and jangling of the goats' bells. It's a lovely sound, like a giant set of wind chimes happily singing away.

Our day yesterday was spent mostly driving, with the trip made even longer by roadworks almost the whole way. There is a lot of building and restoration going on in the country, from ancient churches to new roads. We dropped into Baia Mare, the town square peppered with the brightly coloured buildings that we've come to expect here, and then made our way to th Surdesti wooden church. Built in the 1700s, the church has the highest steeple of any in Romania (and Romania has the highest wooden churches in the world). It was originally built as an Orthodox church, but when the catholics came to town, they made a deal with the notoriously stubborn locals; they could keep their traditions if they would at least recognise the Catholic Pope. So the church is now Catholic Orthodox, a rather unique combination.

It is spectacular, rising high above the grass with a steep roof and perfectly aligned shingles.Inside, the joins in its wooden beams were covered with cloth to allow the interior to be painted, and painted it is! The whole church is adorned with beautiful paintings by the locals, whose talents also extended to making the carpets on the floor and seating, the intricate embroidery on the cloths, and the incredibly impressive carvings in the wood. Not to mention of course, building the church itself.

In stark contrast to the centuries old church, we also visited a salt mine. Expecting a few exhibits in the mine, we were blown away when we popped out at the top of a huge shaft, winding salt patterns on the roof, stalactites holding on for dear life, and 40 metres below us a theme park! Bright lights shone down on table tennis, a lake with boats in it, badminton, a little cafe and even a Ferris wheel! The air in the mine is good for the lungs and people come here for holidays, spending 2‑3 hours a day entertaining themselves in the huge mine while breathing the salty air. There's even a wifi connection. (If anyone from Yandi is reading this, I suggest we start up a petition for better conditions in the field!) It was truly incredible, and for my geologist friends I took plenty of photos.

Yesterday was a long day, so today was more relaxing. We visited more wooden structures ‑ this time the world's tallest wooden structure which was built without the use of a single nail. We walked through the local markets, had a chat to a lady in an antiques shop and bought from here some of the goat bells we so loved the sound of. We visited the local prison in Sighet where many, many of Romania's elite perished during communist times. The photos of all the people who died were especially moving, not only for their sheer number but also because, unlike at Auzshwitz, the photos were taken when the people were in the prime of their life. Smiling, happy faces of people with gentle demeanours and kind eyes were juxtaposed with a photo of the same person only a year or two later; old, haggard, broken. No matter how many museums like this I have visited, each time the horrors of what people can do to their neighbours shocks me. In Romania, the adults were killed while their children were brainwashed and totured, before being forced to become the torturer of the next victim. Daniel tols us a story about a man who was beating another man in the street, and then looked up into the eyes of a passer by.In his expression of shameful pity, he said he saw for the first time what his father would have thought of him. Instantly, he shot the passer‑by for this reminder of the humanity he had set aside in himself.

Finally, we returned to the small village that our guest house is in, where we wandered for an hour or so around the traditional wooden houses. We saw the carved gates which have symbols of the sun, the cross and the rope (eternal life); each time one passes through these gates it is supposed to bring good luck. We saw a local distillery, traditional carpet washing using a water wheel, and met lady, widowed for seven years, who asked us to leave the man (dad) behind because there are not enough men here. I said I would sell him for three lei, and she said that we had to pay HER because she is worth more. I said "four lei" and she laughed and slapped me for being cheeky. She told us that we should not make her mistake and get fat ‑ she drinks, eats and sits and now her shoulders, her waist and her hips are all the same! She posed for a photo with us, lamenting her lack of lipstick, and laughed as she wished us goodbye.

Now, we are back at our guest house. Someone is practising violin and we are each taking some time to ourselves to drink beer, write blogs and relax before dinner.

There is so much more to say about Romania, and I will, but for now this is your snapshot of the little part of the nation sitting on the border of Ukraine, called Maramures.

one bin man, five prayer ladies, many dogs, a stern girl on a bridge and a bearded banjo player who misses his steak

I had several strange little encounters with odd characters in Romania, it was like stepping into an arthouse movie.

Cluj brought me the bubbble‑blowing bin man, making childish noises as he blew bubbles with his own saliva. I turned to him and he said something to which I responded in my broken Italian‑Romanian, then he kindly posed for a photo before blowing me a kiss and giggling along his way.

Transylvania's towns each circle the spires of a church, usually Orthodox. I witnessed the still strong traditions of these churches one snowy morning in Brasov. As I entered the church, the shadows danced around the candlelight and five hooded ladies knelt at the far end of the room, kissing the ground repeatedly in front of a picture of the Virgin Mary. There was no alter, instead one approached the front of the church by walking along a red carpet, stopping at small lecterns to bestow three kisses upon the pictures of various important people. The ladies watched me with wary eyes as I crossed myself three times, inadvertently going the wrong way (right and then left in this branch of the religion apparently). They each passed me, turning several times to cross themselves and kiss whatever was closest. And they wondered how the Plague started.

Stray dogs are common in most cities and towns. Bucharest is famous for them and there, many have rabies. They follow you around, generally not menacing but certainly a bit disconcerting. Good luck eating your lunch in the street without an audience. presumably it's a problem that will eventually be dealt with, but for now tourists will have to continue to skip around the skinny animals.

I hate to draw such an ugly comparison, but the gypsies aren't much different except that they are better fed. Walking though town we were accosted more than once by a tiny child, whining in a high pitched voice asking for money or chocolate. When you spot the kid's family waiting up ahead you can safely assume that the disconcerting noise will stop the minute you reach them. It happens in Vietnam as well but there is something quite menacing about these little kids dressed in black and taught so young to present a pitiable aspect.
One day while crossing the bridge, Sally Charles and I met a strange young girl who said something with great authority to Sally. There was no hint of menace or question in her tone, just a touch of 'telling off' in the way that she spoke. She carried on without looking back and we all looked at each other in bemusement.

Fittingly, my train ride from Romania back to Budapest brought me the most memorable character of all these: Tom the banjo‑playing Kiwi and his "I miss mah steak blues". He'd pushbiked from western europe to Istanbul over a period of a couple of months and he was the perfect traveller stereotype with his beard, in need of a cut hair and incessant smile. He regaled us with tales of his travels and then (on request) played us the "I miss mah steak blues" ‑ here's hoping he got his steak in Budapest.

These people represent one of the reasons I was so charmed by Romania; the interesting and unusual variety of people I encountered there, locals and adventurers alike.

acesta este meu journal in romania

// this is my journal in romania (romanian)

When I spoke to Doug about coming to Romania he said that in his mind, it's the epitome of mediaeval Europe. Spot on.

Two centuries collide to bring a surreal clash of time to Romania. The 19th Century meets the 21st, with the only evidence that the past 100 years touched this place being burnt out factories and industrial areas.

Flash new cars swish past rudimentary carts pulled by tired horses. Roads between villages have been bituminised only recently while villages still make do with streets of dirt and many are yet to gain running water. Stunning architecture presents its colours against the backdrop of ramshackle and rotting houses, while the wooden churches in tiny towns hold a place on UNESCO's world heritage list.

The university town of Cluj Napoca was my first stop. Architecturally it's one of the prettiest places I've visited; twin buildings reflect each other across the grand entrance of the "Mirror Street", the blue spires of an Orthodox Church splinter into the sky, a little Taj Mahal look‑alike winks at its yellow, art deco neighbour and everywhere there are colourful facades. In spite of this. without the students (who are on holidays) the town lacks
vibrancy and I moved on fairly quickly to Brasov.

In Brasov the eyes are equally as delighted. A Hollywood ‑style sign lights up the hill above the town each night, while a white tower on the opposite side of town squats over a stream. There is yet another Orthodox church set against a hill and surrounded by old gravestones, the streets are laid thick with inches of snow and ice (very hard to walk on) and the ominous air of Dracula is reflected in the shapes of the rooftops.

Refreshingly, Transylvania
doesn't cash in on the Dracula fame at all. Apart from a few kitschy items found outside Bran Castle, they don't take much notice of him. Even at Bran, where Vlad Tepes (the inspiration for Bram Stoker's Dracula) is said to have lived...well, stayed a night...or perhaps just popped in for tea; there is only one tacky pub and a few t‑shorts. It's quite fun to sit on the coffin seats and drink hot wine after the snowy walk up to the castle. I visited the castle with Jason ‑ a fellow traveller I'd met in Budapest who'd turned up in Brasov as well. It was pretty and interesting, but I imagine the tourist hordes expecting Dracula and not a medieval museum might leave somewhat disappointed.

After Brasov, I made my way to Sighisoara. The original plan was to head from there up to remote Maramures, but a combination of the people, some romance and a lot of laziness kept me in Sigh for a few extra days.

Sighisoara, or more affectionately, Sigh, is one of the many "UNESCO" towns in Romania. Her citadel rises high above the lower town, the house where Dracula (Vlad) was born nestles close to a famous clock tower, and muddy streets are lined with posh restaurants where a meal still costs only a few euros. A river cuts through the town and, once again, a blue‑tipped Orthodox church sits sedately below the citadel, surrounded by gypsies dressed better than the people from whom they beg money (i.e. me).

At Sigh, the hostel was a vortex of timelessness. With a few 'long termers' already ensconced, I was welcomed by the very entertaining Lumi, the delightfully British Charles, the talented artist and fellow Aussie Sally and the undeniably likeable Russ. The five of us spent a week being driven around local villages (thanks Russ), eating, sleeping far too much and drinking more alcohol than I could ever justify to my grandmother.

For a number of reasons ‑ including a certain British boy who is the only person I know who talks betterer than I do ‑ I was sad to leave, but eventually I had to bow to the realities of time and travel and move on to Budapest, followed closely by Vienna.

After only a few days, I had already decided that I will definitely visit again, but next time with a car in summer. The mountains and plains are beautiful and the interspersed man‑made ugliness only adds to the appeal. The future is quickly erasing the past and Romania will soon become just another EU country. Now is the time to go.