Trip Report – Romania 2007
Monday morning in the gazebo. I have not removed myself once from this table without being totally overfed and satiated – this morning it was homemade veal schnitzel, deep fried pork fat, sliced tomatoes, cheese, bread, creamy butter, homemade jam, a pot of coffee and a jug of warm milk – our hostess is preparing us for a good day on the road.
Last night I realized I could smell again – I was trying to place an odour which I recognized as the untouched glass of palinca on my night stand.
There are no street lights in Botiza; it is a comforting to wake to the clip-clop sound of Monday morning traffic.
Apparently 2007 is the first year in which more than half of the world’s population will live in cities: for better or for worse? If you lived in Botiza, you could live with self-sufficiency (more or less) in a beautiful setting; if you lived in Agnita on the dusty Transylvanian plateau … I hope the Maramures can maintain its lifestyle and traditions while developing an agro tourism economy – there is excellent value for the money and prices are extremely competitive. The region must change, as all regions must, but there are ways of life that can be kept.
The glide down from Botiza was possibly the loveliest stretch of road we have seen so far in Romania – the hills, the fields, the husbands with their pitchforks and scythes, the wives with their rakes, both going out to tend their patch of pasture. Den’s family gave us a cheery honk as they drove past, Den hanging out the window and waving wildly. From Bogdan Voda the road took on a utilitarian aspect with heavier traffic – the shoulder was a jagged edge again.
Stacks of rough cut wood are stacked in people’s yards – flitch cuts, good thick square cuts for posts, slabs all properly stacked with spacers and covered from the elements. Most new homes are built of concrete cinder blocks and covered with stucco; the preferred design is to have Romanesque arches on the second floor balconies (three arches-by-two). Some wooden homes are still being built but the craftsmanship of dovetail joints may slowly disappear.
Where did Italian drivers learn to drive and why is every third licence plate Italian?
Husqvarna and Stihl are in stiff competition here for the chainsaw market – based on roadside billboards I give Husqvarna the edge.
Borsa
Evening on the terrace of a restaurant of which I don’t even know the name. We are definitely the oldest patrons of this establishment.
We checked into the best room in Borsa in “the bright new hotel Mihali” – at least it’s better than Agnita. “New” must be a relative term – the hotel may be new but the building has its own vintage. The toilet flushes as long as you lift the lid off the flush box; the hot water coughs up air pockets no matter how long it is run.
While unpacking after the ride Mary realized that she has left her medication behind – small panic; check and recheck the bags. We try phoning Botiza (no answer). Think: what are the alternatives? Mary calls the pharmacist in
The pizza we ordered for supper is very good (cooked in a wood oven); Mary holds back on the salami on account of her pills. Romanian pizza is never baked with tomato sauce: if you order tomato sauce (basically ketchup), it is served on the side.
We checked out a pharmacy after supper – the pharmacist does not recognize any of the prescriptions and none are stock. We will have to go to the spital (hospital) in the morning and hope we can communicate – ah well, it will be a story.
The setting of our hotel has tremendous potential with a stunning view (from the back) of one of the Rodna mountains (no snow cover though) – if only they cleaned up the garbage and litter along the river bank below. I went down to check on the bikes (which were locked to the stairwell) and saw that the front door of the hotel was locked with a keyed deadbolt; if there was a fire we could not get out. I decided not to tell Mary.
In the middle of the night the mountain outside our window disappeared in a thick cloud and rain started.
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Hotel Mihali bar waiting for morning coffee – 7 or 8 locals are here for their morning chat; there is cold pizza from last night for a bite to eat, the standard piped-in music is Romanian traditional-pop.
We have seen real beggars in Borsa for the first time, sitting on the sidewalk and exposing their deformities – we haven’t seen this since
After breakfast Mary negotiated the spital; the walk through the corridors was even more depressing than Agnita – the aimless patients reminded her of an asylum. It turns out the hospital Dispensary issues oxygen tanks and the like, not prescriptions. She managed to find a doctor who spoke halting English; the doctor looked at Mary’s prescriptions with some alarm: “You have TB?” The blood pressure medication Mary takes is what they use here for tuberculosis. She came away with a prescription which can be taken if things get out of control.
We are at the summit of the second-highest pass on our route with a pack of hard core hikers involved in a 5-day competition, a couple of families with kids, and a bored barman; clothes are draped everywhere to be dried out by the wood stove. From here there are wide vistas looking back to the Maramures and ahead to
I turn down the volume of the amplifier at the bar – one of the hikers gives me a thumbs-up; the barman comes in from the back and puts it back to full volume – he wins.
Do we stay or do we go? For the last 5 km of the climb cars could barely see us in the cloud cover. Right now we can hardly see the lights of cars at the end of a very small parking lot. At least we have our freeze dried meals – they don’t serve food here. The thumbs-up hiker has drawn some “spiritual” pictures for us and offered his red LED light for the ride down.
Carlibaba
Supper – we made it down but it wasn’t easy. With every light in our arsenal facing backwards (including our headlamps) we started the descent; the fog changed to rain and the wind sharpened; within a couple of kilometres we were below the cloud cover and all seemed clear with beautiful vistas down mountain valleys – “just like Canada,” as Jeroen would say.
We did not realize was how much Mary had been chilled on the climb to Prislop; her fingertips started going numb just when the road turned rough with an inch of pebbles coating the asphalt surface like marbles. We were coming down no faster than we had climbed (11 km/hr). Mary’s fingertips turned purple, her rings started to slip off her fingers, she couldn’t change her gears, we were stopping every 6 or 7 km for her to warm her hands; at the roadside she almost fell asleep when warming her hands on my cheeks – that’s one of the signs of hypothermia … Fortunately Carlibaba (“and the 40 thieves”) has a new hotel on the outskirts (Hotel Maryo and Ema) – a hot shower and a good meal have helped set things right.
Coming down from Prislop there were massive piles of logs that had been skidded down through the woods and stacked by the side of the road; every settlement had the roughneck air of a frontier town.
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Watching sports television, waiting for the weather forecast and the restaurant to open (it was supposed to open an hour ago).
We are reading the script of Dacia 1300: My Generation at night; it is a sobering and often depressing view of life under communism and the transition to capitalism – in many ways it gives a perspective to what we have been seeing. I’m glad we waited until now to read it.
Breakfast … we’re just getting our third coffee to take to the room; there was no weather forecast but the sun is shining – we may finally get a full day of sun. Last night was the first meal at which we did not leave a tip – our waitress managed to ignore us for so long that I had to get up and ask for the nota da plata. This morning’s service, on the other hand, has been brisk.
As we were preparing our bikes outside to leave, an Englishwoman called a greeting from a balcony. She was there on a horse riding tour. The Austrian cavalry used to breed horses in this area, and somewhere in these hills there are 300 stallions, mares and foals from that stable.
From Carlibaba the road continued to descend to the intersection with the main highway at Iacobeni. A trout festival was underway in Ciocanesti but we didn’t stop – we had too much distance to make. On the outskirts of Iacobeni we bought some ham and bread at a small alimentare for lunch. The owner punched the prices into a hand calculator and showed us the bill: 34 lei! It was an immense rip-off but we didn’t have much choice – there were no restaurants and we needed to eat. Mary handed over the 34 lei and the owner laughed – the price was really 3.4 lei; we had found an honest citizen! She gave 6 chicklets for the 0.6 lei of change – this is the standard method of handling amounts less than one leu.
The lady hacked off a chunk of ham on the counter top with a dull knife; we sat at a table with our bread, water and ham and munched on slivers which I trimmed off with my much-sharper knife.
Iacobeni is the start of the climb up Pasul Mestecanis; all the way to the top I had heartburn, something I absolutely never suffer from.
The descent from the pass was stop and start all the way; only single lanes of traffic were open because of construction. It was the first road construction we saw in which the actual foundation was being properly excavated (as opposed to a simple resurfacing). The traffic was controlled with lights at either end of the single-lane passages; sometimes drivers obeyed these, and other times it was obvious the two lights weren’t synchronized properly.
At a LukOil service station in Campulung Moldovenesc we got a delicious pre-made sandwich to share. The LukOil and Petrom service stations have been superb everywhere. They are modern, clean, and friendly. They are not as good as Canadian service stations, they are better. There is some irony here: LukOil is (I believe) Russian, part of the oil monopoly controlled by businesses with close links to the Kremlin.
The climb between Campulung Moldovenesc and Vatra Moldevitei is not listed as a pass on our map (“Curmatura Boului”), but at 1040 meters it is only 50 meters lower than the first pass of the day. I’m not sure what criteria geographers and cartographers use to define a “pass”, but it looked like a pass, it felt like a pass; anyone who rides it gets credit in my books. This stretch of road is the best we have seen so far in
Vatra Moldovitie
Sitting at the picnic table of our pension (Vila Crizantema) – what a difference a day of sunshine makes: we made 77 tough kilometres today including two passes. Romanians sure know how to make soup – we have not yet been served a poor soup, and tonight’s homemade is superb: a light broth, a small touch of tomato, and a slight hint of tarragon.
Our objective in choosing this route was to see the painted monasteries of
The interiors of Orthodox basilicas are (based on our limited observations) covered with paintings of icons; what makes the painted monasteries unique is that they were also completely painted on the exteriors. These paintings were a combination of biblical scenes and frame-by-frame “cartoons” of the lives of particular saints – they were intended (I believe) as comic-book-type renditions of scripture for the illiterate masses.
Before supper we walked down the road to the monastery of Moldovita – it was an inspiring sight. The best paintings are about three quarters up the wall; those at head level have been suffered from weather and vandalism – graffiti (often from the 1800’s) has been scratched into their surfaces. The paintings on the north face have been entirely obliterated by weather, but the south-facing wall is intact – it features the great preoccupation of the age, the siege of
There was one more candle to light today – Aunt Trix has died; the news from home was more than a week old.
We will return tomorrow morning at
An Italian couple staying here explain that the Italian (and Spanish) licence plates we see belong to expatriate Romanians working abroad and returning home for vacation; they claim Italian drivers are very good.
A text message on the cell phone tonight simply reads “You OK?” It is from Radu, our “guardian angel” – it is a comfort to know he is watching out for us.
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Sitting in the breakfast room with a delicious European breakfast including a full pot of coffee and a delightful homemade jam of the tiniest raspberries …
Mary is ill. She had the first indications at breakfast and returned from the monastery to our room; when I came back I found her tucked in bed …
We bought two painted eggs from our pension for 4 lei each; the woman who paints them says it takes her about a day to complete an egg.
Sucevita
Today’s ride should have been a breeze – 40 km with one pass. Instead it took forever – Mary rode on an empty stomach with a growing fever under a blazing sun. Part way up the pass she lay down in the shade by the side of the road for 20 minutes – it is the first place we have stopped on the trip without litter.
The pass (Pasul Ciumarna) was one of those “false promise” passes – you reach a spot with a switchback where the road starts to descend and you think you’ve reached the top; two turns later you realize you have another couple of hundred meters to climb.
At washed out sections the road was reduced to a single lane; trucks pre-empted the lane and forced Mary to walk. Two slathering dogs, vicious enough to shred a wolf, strained at their chains to get at her – I’m glad the chains held.
I had my closest call yet today: a transport truck beside me was being overtaken by a passing car – it was a matter of a hand’s breadth …
Sucevita is in danger of being a victim of its own success; the office of Popasul Turistic Bucovina was not open to tell us they did not have a room; Plai de Dor was grossly overpriced; Casa Lina took 15 minutes to decide whether they had a room for us (they didn’t); etc. We have finally settled into a village family’s pension (in the “green apple” room); there is no en-suite but everything is spotless as always.
I just walked down to get a quick view of Sucevita monastery while Mary sleeps – it’s not a nap, it’s a sleep, and she is running a fever.
Visiting these monasteries is a bit disconcerting. They are functioning monasteries, and as a tourist one is plainly intruding. At Vatra Moldovitie there was no smile from any of the nuns, and possibly some hostility. Yet these monasteries are advertised as tourist attractions and the nuns cater to the trade: they paint eggs and icons which they sell at their gift shop, they conduct tours for tour groups, etc.
Then there is the question of form: is it profane to enter without crossing oneself, or, as a non-orthodox would crossing oneself be sacrilege; should the crossing action be in the Roman or Orthodox fashion? It would be too much to genuflect (one or three times, touching the ground with the hand or the head?) All these details make a monastery visit an “opportunity” … in the end I have decided to simply be what I am, a tourist, and to be as inoffensive as possible.
Casa Lina for supper ... Mary has ordered plain, grilled chicken breast and mashed potatoes – it is really the potatoes she wants. I order stuffed mushrooms for an appetizer; a runner is sent from the kitchen to go buy ingredients. The potatoes come highly over-salted and remain untouched; the chicken will be wrapped for tomorrow’s ride.
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Casa Lina, waiting to place our breakfast order – they can manage only sequential processing here.
Mary appears to have slept off her fever – she woke from her delirium in the middle of the night, just when the dog outside our window stopped barking. We’ll see how breakfast goes down.
The paintings in the Sucevita monastery are being restored in painstaking detail. A young woman working under a bright light kneels in front of the harlequin-patterned wainscoting of the altar area; the surface has been cleaned from centuries’ accumulation of candle soot; she works with watercolours, the same as the paint that was originally used, and which can be rubbed off in case of a mistake; on a small palette she mixes her colour and then very carefully fills in the plaster where paint is missing – she does not cover the original paint. The work is slow and laborious. Higher on a wooden scaffolding a young man is restoring paintings of icons; the restoration will take years to complete. Romanian tourists ignore the “no photos” sign and flash away to their hearts’ content, some climbing the scaffolding.
Again, on the exterior, graffiti from the 1800’s has been carefully scratched into the surface; eyes are often gouged on paintings within reach. It is hard to tell whether some faces have been intentionally removed: even those at the height of the roof have often faded beyond recognition – perhaps it was the paint or technique used by the original artists.
The monasteries seem to be painted in a common sequence: the exteriors have a Tree of Jesse (a depiction of Jesus’ ancestors) and on the porch a fiery Last Judgement. The Last Judgement scenes are particularly graphic – there is no purgatory in the Orthodox religion. Within, the first room is covered with scenes of martyrs (lots of beheadings), the second is filled with those beyond reproach, and finally in the nave (?) the holy family is depicted in their various scenes. When turning to leave the nave, the patron of the monastery is depicted to the left of the door presenting the monastery to the glory of the Lord.
The bill for coffee is more than half the cost of breakfast – it would be cheaper to drink beer.
Humor
Casa Buburuzan, evening, waiting for dinner, sipping cold beer and cold white wine (finally, a cold bottle of wine!). Mary is over whatever hit her (thankfully, we hope) and we had a good day for riding – our only issue was a shortage of cash.
When we left Borsa we got distracted with the visit to the spital and forget to visit a money machine. So far in
In 1989 the revolution literally changed
The day’s ride was through rolling hills that make for poor pictures and perfect riding – there were long glides past green and golden fields, steep climbs out of villages; it was a gentle day on gentle roads. We kept crossing paths today with a couple of young Polish guys; they have ridden from southern
Just before lunch, when climbing a hill outside Marginea (10% grade), my chain slipped off my granny gear. This has happened intermittently on the trip, but this time it jammed solidly between the chain ring and the bike frame; I couldn’t free it. A couple of kids came along with a wrench and helped me pry it loose (I gave the older guy my last 5 lei note).
I now had a mechanical “opportunity”: one of my links was badly twisted, causing my skewed chain to “jump off the rails”.
This was an excuse to have a picnic in the shade of a tree, to unpack the tool kit at the bottom of my pannier, to use the two adjustable spanners I had packed (I meant to take only one). The metal was hot enough that I could twist the link back in line - so far so good.
In the
A plan … when planning this trip, we had a number of objectives to see and after the painted monasteries we will have seen them all. What to do from here? If there has been one disappointment with
In my prior research I had come across Miklosvar, a village some 30 km north and east of
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Breakfast to the sound of a road crew … When we arrived yesterday we had to wait a half hour for hot water to take a shower. This morning we realize why: the hot water tank is heated by a small wood stove welded to its base and the fire has to be kindled for each “batch” of hot water – now there’s a good idea for the cottage!
The water quality in
Our room is on the main floor behind double doors with frosted glass; the double bed has a large bed head lined with books. A German encyclopaedia that is over a hundred years’ old is printed in gothic font and illustrated with incredibly detailed colour plates.
Maintaining the “traditional” way of life is a of the bastion of French agricultural policy. In
Evening, waiting for supper to arrive at
The day was spent at Voronet, the last of the painted monasteries on our route. By now we are “monasteried” out – possibly we saved the best for last.
Riding to the monastery we were overtaken in the midst of construction by a middle-aged Romanian cyclist who had pedalled hard to catch up. There were the usual questions (where from, did we bring our bikes, etc.). What did we think of
The monastery of Voronet was built by Stefan cel Mare (Stephen the Great), cousin of Vlad Tepes. Once again we are back to that great period of Romanian history, when men had names like Mircea the Old, Mircea the Bad, Vlad the Impaler, Radu the Handsome, Stephen the Great, and (my favourite) Bogdan the One-Eyed.
Stephen does not have the notoriety of his gruesome cousin, but to my mind he was more effective as a leader. His main concern was the same as that of all
Stephen managed to push Mohammed back across the
If I had only one painted monastery to see I would choose Voronet, in large part due to the guide book written by one of the resident nuns, Elena Simionovici. It provides more that just an explanation of the icons; it explains how they are interpreted: “The contrast between the inner calm of the martyr and the hurt pride of the man in power … is overwhelming for those who stop in front of this icon and look at it.” She also alludes to the modern day dichotomy of the monasteries, referring to “the tourists, as well as the devotees, two distinct categories …”.
The blue pigment used at Voronet was made with lapis lazuli; as the sky grew heavy we had the opportunity to see “Voronet blue” at its most intense.
Voronet also has the greatest number of craft vendors outside. They will tell you that they have done all the embroidery themselves, but at Moldovita we saw a car delivering a pile of goods from its trunk.
Riding home (with no panniers – what joy!) Mary took the lead in the damp, chill air, riding to beat the rain. There are lots of pensiunea being constructed here; many of them have placards advertising EU loans of 200,000 euros.
Still waiting for supper … across the street, inside the Humor monastery, we can hear a nun beating a tattoo on a long stick while she circles the monastery. I have no idea what the symbolism is of this gesture – we have seen it a number of times.
We just mapped out a route to Miklosvar, day by day. It would be five days’ hard riding, but we think we’re up for it …
I called to make a reservation – “no room at the inn”, so to speak. Disappointment. We have decided we will still go for the long distance ride to
The Rough Guide lists Casa Buburuzan as one of the highlights of
Besides, it’s
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