I Heart Trains

I’ve come to the conclusion that I love riding in trains. Although you can’t blare the music and sing at the top of your lungs as you can on a road trip, it’s almost worth the trade of not having to worry about navigating yourself and thus being able to completely lose yourself in the passing scenery. That is of course until the anxiety of trying to figure out when to get off kicks in. It really is ridiculous that there is no way to know when it is your stop. That really is an adventure in itself. Then of course you always have the Bunica or drunk man (who will always offer you a swig from his bottle) who continuously attempts to converse with you even though you clearly are not understanding half of what they are saying. For some reason, trying to decipher Romanian coming from a limited tooth speaker is so much more difficult. On my last train ride I was awoken up by a car full of elderly and possibly toothless Romanians yelling, “Domnisoara, Domnisoara!” They were concerned I was going to miss my stop, which conveniently was not for another 3 hours. A very kind gesture indeed but the spray of the Bunica’s “s” pronunciation next to me is one example of why one feels so dirty after riding the train.

Nevertheless, transportation via train gives you the opportunity to fully experience the travel adventure at hand. I love to travel because there is so much to observe; the scenery, the history, the culture, the people. You finally get to observe it firsthand but still as an outsider. When traveling, there are generally very few occasions when you get the opportunity to experience the unknown firsthand. Thus, there is absolutely nothing more amazing and moving as strangers inviting you into their home and proudly sharing their culture with you; sharing their lives, their experiences, all from their perspective. You are still very much an observer but no longer as an outsider. I don’t think you can truly appreciate another culture unless you are genuinely invited into the real experience by the natives (not a mock experience that we are all too familiar with as tourists).

This weekend I went to Ocna Mures, an old mining town of 10-15,000 people. There are a few PCV’s who developed a Roma Affairs Committee and I attended the first meeting with 8 other volunteers. We first volunteered at a day program for children, many being Roma orphans. It’s amazing how quick they are to love. Hugging you upon hello and not wanting to ever let go. It wrenches my heart to think what their lives are like and having no one to love them. We had a great time playing with the children, so much energy and laughter from both the kids and volunteers. Afterwards we were invited to the home of a Roma family, who shared the culture of their music. The father played the guitar, the mother sang, and after each song the son was able to explain the meaning and how music is really the only thing they had to hold onto when under slavery for approximately 142 years in Romania. Thus, music is very much part of their culture. They even showed us how to dance but I clearly did not have the hip action required. Additionally, they served us a delicious traditional Romanian dish, Sarmale. The entire family was genuinely excited to meet and learn all about us. Being able to sit in their home amongst the family graciously sharing their culture is not something that can be recreated. There really are no words to explain the feeling. But if I had to, I would say something along the lines of a peaceful happiness. For me, it almost feels like coming home. Although I couldn’t be further away from home, it just feels right.

After dinner we stopped at a local watering hole, which truly was in a little village outside of Ocna Mures. After a round of beers, the locals had us traditional dancing and teaching us the infamous Manele chop.

And now I’m back on the beloved train, on my way home. It’s funny how I’ve grown accustomed to the length of time it takes to travel. For example, I traveled almost 8 hours one way to go somewhere for 2 days, not even. Even if I were to go by car, it would not be much better, if any. Possibly this is partially why the pace of life is so much slower than I’m use to. The concept of time here…nearly nonexistent.

Walk Like A Shepard

Strangely, summer is over and I realized that I did not get to swim once. Growing up in Minnesota you really do take for granted the endless bodies of water that you can submerge yourself into on a hot summer day. Nevertheless, I deeply miss being on and near the water, there just seems to be an automatic calming effect. However, I do not feel this way about the ocean. That beast just scares me, which might be due to that one traumatic day at Big Beach in Hawaii. Age 12, I went frolicking into the depths of these big waves with my father and older sister. When I had enough I started back towards the beach but the current kept pulling me under and I flailed my arms in panic. Mom, who was ashore with the camera, thought I was having the time of my life and proceeded to take pictures and wave. It wasn’t until I washed up like an exhausted manatee, topless and blonde (from all the sand) that she realized she had been shooting her daughter’s first and only modeling shoot, The Great Ship Titanic. From that day on, for some reason the only connection I’ve felt to the ocean is salt water taffy, that…I like.

So on what I figure will probably be the last day of warm weather, which is weird because it is in the 80’s, warmer than it’s been all summer, I ventured up another one of the many surrounding foothills/mountains. There’s nothing quite like being able to look out your window and say, “I’d like to climb that today.” Then there being no real path, so you do a little bushwhacking of your own, relying on your own instincts to find the way to your appointed peak. All while steering clear of the sounds of cowbells and attempting to not climb farm fences that have terrifying Carpathian Sheep Dogs awaiting to bite your freshly tanned hide. Being able to find your way and reaching the top without being attacked by animals gives you that immediate feeling of achievement and a true sense of pride.

If I ever felt impelled or even qualified to give you any hiking advice, it would be to find a stellar walking stick. Not only does it provide body support and assist in bushwhacking but it also allows you to successfully perform the “Shepard Walk.” As explained by a Romanian, when going near these ferocious sheep dogs you simply drag your stick on the ground, hunch over like a Shepard and if you feel so inclined, yell, “Go to the sheep!” Another Romanian told me that was absolutely false information but in all seriousness, I have performed the walk and will not hesitate to walk like a Shepard again. Okay, I too am noticing my fear of animals to be a little excessive, maybe I’ll consider looking into some help. Unless, mother? Is there something you’re not telling me about my childhood? I already know that grandma dropped me on my head onto a concrete floor so what could be worse than that?

On the way back down, sweaty and tuckered out, I passed the Moldova River. It immediately enticed me to put my feet in, so I found my way down the rocky embankment, hoisted my tush on another pile of rocks, untied my thistle covered shoes and immersed my newly blistered feet into the freezing water. As I washed the blood and dirt off my legs, which clearly did a bit of bushwhacking themselves, I considered wading in a bit further. At that moment a piece of trash floated by brushing my toes. Looking closer into the water I feasted my eyes on an old red bucket, some form of turquoise clothing and an old 2x4 (or 6x12 or whatever that translates to in the metric system). Ironically, I was discouraged from going any further so here I sit, on my now numb ass, writing my thoughts from the day.

Across the way, there is a mother wading in the river while her four-ish year old son, complete with Speedo, scavenged dirty treasures from under the flowing water. At some point I must have clearly missed the memo that stated, “All women and men, regardless of age or size, should wear bikinis and Speedos, respectively.” Dear lord, whoever wrote that memo should be severely punished. Anyone interested in visiting can definitely wear their suit here or lack there of with great comfort and ease.

That was one week ago, it’s now 40 degrees colder and I’m doing some obscene dance calisthenics around the house to Europa FM to stay warm. I’m thinking today just might be the day that I fac foc in soba mea, yes, that’s right, get the fire started. Last week I bought all my wood and got it chopped for the winter. What more could a girl ask for?

You know the scene in 101 Dalmatians when one dog starts barking to alert another about Cruella or whatever other shenanigans are going down and instantly every other dog in town is also barking? Well, I feel as if that scene is permanently stuck in instant replay mode as I go through each day in Romania. Truthfully, I now can’t sleep without the sound of dogs or any other animal but frankly the neighbor’s cow who has been giving birth for the past three nights needs to go. This little revelation made me realize that despite how much of an outsider I still feel, I am adjusting to daily life in Campulung. I don’t cringe quite as much when I sit on my plastic cushy toilet seat. Who invented those things? They gross me out! And they remind me of my great grandma, Nana Be, who was one of the most amazing women I have ever known, you know, a good stubborn Norwegian lady, but Nana Be would kill bats with a tennis racket and flush them down her toilet. Trust me, I witnessed it with my own eyes so obviously I’m going equate sitting on a puffy toilet seat with the traumatic vision of a bat flying back out and attacking my ass. Now that I think about it, there is a higher chance of encountering vampire bats here. So…perhaps I haven’t quite adjusted to the toilet seat that feels like you’re sitting on a mushroom. Again, what’s with the mushrooms?

On the other hand, I have grown accustomed to experiencing the gentle shock of cultural experiences. In fact, they never cease to amaze me. Just the other day I was walking to meet my Romanian tutor at 3pm and I spot a body laying on the side of the road. Obviously my first thought was, sweet baby jesus there’s a dead man but then I remembered…of course, it’s well into the afternoon, why wouldn’t there be a man passed out on the side of the street where people literally are stepping over him to get by. To be fair, I’m not insinuating that all Romanians are drunk at 3pm. However, public intoxication and as long as were at it, public urination, is not an unlikely sighting, especially amongst older impoverished men. Anyhow, as I passed him, I attempted to see if he was breathing (of course from a good arm’s length away) but had no luck. Much to my relief, I then saw a policeman walking towards us. After we crossed paths I stopped to see what would happen. The police officer shook the man’s shoulder. Nothing. He then used his foot to pick up the man’s head and then just dropped it. The man possibly briefly flinched but instantly was back to his “nap.” The policeman, well he simply continued on his way. I just stood there amazed, thinking “are you fricking kidding me?”

As long as were on the topic of walking, I have also grown accustomed to seeing funeral processions walking down the street with an open casket. One day I had a little extra time and of course a bit of intrigue built, so I walked a couple blocks with them. In front of the open casket, it was quite interesting to see them carrying a wide array of food, flowers and religious banners. Apparently the more important you are the more priests you have attending, so it has not been unlikely to see 2 or 3 priests walking amongst the procession.

I recently read that only 50% of the Romanian population has running water, while still almost 30% live below the poverty line. On the first of the year (2009) the minimum wage, which I’m guessing is what the poverty line is based upon, will be increased to 600 Lei per month, approximately 240 American Dollars. Fortunately I have been placed in a location with running water, however, for years the water in Campulung Moldovenesc is turned off between 10pm and 5am. Strangely I have not been able to find out exactly why but some of the locals like to joke that they were just ahead of the conservation train, which most likely could not be further from the truth. Since it’s not unusual to find the water off during the day either, I quickly learned the tricks of having large water jugs on reserve.

Additionally, I have continued my domestic training. I figure now is the time to do things I never really had (or took) the time to do before. Cooking clearly being my foremost and biggest challenge. Last week I was overjoyed to find soy sauce and thought making fried rice would be a good place to start. Experiencing somewhat of a success and limited frustrations, I thought I would give Salata de Vinete, a Romanian dish, a whirl. The most difficult task of this concoction is roasting the eggplants over the open flame on my stove. You can only imagine the possibilities. A few minor burns and one house reeking of smoked eggplant later, it turned out to be fairly tasty for my first attempt. Then again, I might not be the greatest judge of taste at this point because I’ve been at the mercy of my own hands.