Saturday we were on our way. This week I would be accompanied by Tatiana, my girlfriend who lives in Bucharest. She managed to borrow an old bicycle from her cousin and although it would be a real challenge to manage on that bike, she was keen for the adventure. Because the route from Bucharest to the Black Sea is nothing spectacular, we again boarded the train at the city’s main station for the 3 hour ride to Constanza. She is an expert in the local customs and rituals and within minutes arranged a wonderful deal with the conductor that had him close one of the wagon’s toilets so that we could stow our bikes in the gangway and us sitting in our own first class cabin, and all at a very favourable price.
Saturday night we visited the city centre and walked along the seaside promenade. Constanza is still quite run-down but it holds a great deal of history and we decided to see it again the next day in daylight. We arrived at the bus stop having just missed the last bus to where we were staying. Although taxis are inexpensive here, after the week of normal life in Bucharest the budget is especially tight for the coming weeks. One bus was standing there and preparing to return to the depot. Two other persons at the bus stop had also missed the last bus and using their in-bred Balkan creativity developed from life in the jungle, Tatiana and the other two offered the driver 4 RON to drive us home on his way to the depot. I imagined trying to bribe a Swiss bus driver………….….In any case it was a first for me, it was funny and it really worked out quite well.
Indeed there is a lot of history to ponder in this part of the world. Formerly known as Timos, Constanza was an important Greek and then Roman city of commerce and much of the city’s identity today seems to be based on that history. In the Piata Ovidiu we drank coffee and thought about his banishment here, to the periphery of the Roman Empire, what must have been about 1700 years ago and how it must have been then. I expect it was quite nice actually. In the 1400s this city and all the surrounding areas became part of the Ottoman Empire, and the Turkish community and its influence remain strong today. Within a stretch of 300 meters of one street in the old center there are a mosque with its regular calls to prayers various times per day, a Catholic church and a very large and important orthodox biserica. 
Later in the day with the bikes loaded and ready, we asked directions out of town from a middle-aged man on the street. He was not quite sure of the way and after looking up and down the street, thought the better of it and asked another man passing by what he thought. They began a rather long discussion, in Turkish, about the best route for us. It was clear that he placed a lot of importance on assisting us and we appreciated it, not just for the directions, but for the kindness. The discussion with the man on the street apparently did not provide the information he was looking for, so putting his hand up in a motion to us as to say “just relax, I will have the info in a moment”, he made a phone call. The person on the other end of the line apparently knew what he was talking about because in short order he explained to me, “go to the next stoplight and turn left, then continue straight on”. Between the man on the street and the phone call, it seemed like a lot of discussion for ‘go down and then turn left’. It felt like that scene in ‘Lost in Translation’ in which the Japanese director is giving Bill Murray lengthy and animated instruction in Japanese about what he wants and then the translator says to Murray ‘he wants more passion’. Bill Murray, in his classic style, says ‘that’s it? More passion? It seems like he said a lot more than that’
Heading up the coast we arrived in the beach resort of Mamaia. It begins with an area suited for budget tourists and we stopped there for a beer. Very big beers cost 3 RON everywhere, but the bars can be not too nice. We found one with tables and chairs on the sand and I chose it, but then noticed loads of rubbish on the sand strewn all around. The bar’s patrons did not seem to mind sitting among the trash, perhaps due to all the 3 RON beers they were consuming, but for me it was too much.
As we moved north the standard steadily improved to the point at which, at the most northern part of Mamaia we found beach clubs that rival the beach clubs that one finds in Italy or France. Beautiful white sand, rows of luxurious deck chairs under individual summer-tents and beautiful restaurants. We stop for a quick swim and then move on. We are adventurers and not high-class beach tourists.
In order to leave the city behind we have to circle around a large industrial area that is really heinous, but just 30 kilometres north of the city arrive in the village of Vadu, buy some vegetables from an old lady selling produce from her garden and ask about the route to the beach. For the last 10 kms we are really out in the sticks and this town is no different: one mini-market and a collection of houses. From there it is 3 kms along a sand road to the beach, which is completely virgin, no development, no houses, no water, nothing. Wonderful. There are two other tents set up and we place ours close by. Since we could not secure the tent into the sand, we used the bikes on either side of the tent as lashing points and secure the tent in that way. Besides the other two tents – one a family that spends weeks there each summer in an enormous house-like tent and two others who arrived like adventures on a Honda Africa Twin – there was nothing around. Then the standard evening programme of swimming, drinking red wine, cooking on the camp grill and eating at sundown.
As usual, I woke in the night, but rather than turn to my iPod to distract me and drown out my thoughts I listened to the breeze against the tent and the crashing of the waves. I always find it strange to think that waves have been breaking against the shores every few seconds for hours, days, years, millennia, millions of years, without any interruption. Is that not a strange concept when you think about it? It never stops. If you just think back to the times when Romans were on these beaches, it looked exactly the same as now, the waves were crashing onto the beach just as they do now. We tend to think today that the world is so different than it once was. In some ways it is, through cars, airplanes, cities, communication, the sheer number of people, etc, but how much does that really comprise of the world? Maybe 3%. We can say that 3% of the world has changed radically. On the other hand, the beaches are the same, the mountains are the same, the hills are the same, the plains are the same. Remove everything that man has created, which in the grand scheme of things is not all that much, and everything is the same as it was 10’000 years ago or 50’000 years ago. I am sure that one day humans will die out, the cities and everything that man has built will erode and disappear, the earth will carry on and nobody will notice or care about all the “wonderful” things we have created. I don’t mean to philosophize too much, but wake in the middle of the night in a tent on a virgin beach on the Black Sea and maybe such philosophy is a natural consequence.
I went outside for a stroll in the sand. The night was warm and the breeze off the sea fresh. The sky was overwhelming. There have been occasions on which I have seen more stars in the sky, but not many. A sky like that always has an impact on me that is almost physical, as if that many stars actually have an impact on me that stops me in my steps and forces me to feel the moment. No man can describe such a sky in words and I won’t try. To stand there in the night on the beach, hear the waves, feel the sea breeze and be part of that sky can only be described as a gift. Some might call it a gift from god, I call it a gift of the universe but regardless of who gave me that gift, I think you know what I mean. I left the door of the tent open and laid down so that my head was at the door and I could look up into the sky. The Milky Way appeared as a creamy white streak from horizon to horizon and there must have been a meteor shower because shooting stars sailed past every few seconds. I fell asleep to the sky and the waves and the sea breeze.
Within minutes of waking in the morning I was in the sea for a morning swim. Despite being a “gypsy”, I am still a lawyer and financier and thus still always have my Blackberry with me. When I woke I saw a message from a friend telling me of the sharp market crash of the prior day. Like anyone who is tuned-in to what is really happening in the world (meaning they don’t follow the mainstream media) I knew this was going to happen. Had I been “in the world” and had I had a job and speculative money, I would have long ago taken positions on the down side and would now be reaping the benefits. It would have been a chance to really clean-up, but it was not so, so I just enjoyed the waves and used the very fine Black Sea sand to scrub my face and body. Then coffee cooked over the camp stove and discussions of the plan for the day.
The countryside most of the day was unappealing, extremely dry, barren, mostly brown, yellow and even the trees and grass seemed more yellow and dried out than green. Along the way we met two cyclists from Holland sitting before an orthodox church. They were just breaking for lunch and sat with them, talked and ate together. They live not far from Texel, which is a wonderful island off the Dutch coast and we talked about it and some of the wonderful places we know in Holland. Being Dutch they are real cyclists and have many tours behind them. Next year they will be retired and are planning a three month USA coast-to-coast tour. Later we met two Belgians and then two Swiss. When you are out in these dried out, unwelcoming fields and fully loaded long-distance cyclists come toward you it is an unspoken rule that you stop, talk and exchange information.
By late afternoon the barren landscape had changed to richer fields and the flats to light hills. This was a much more welcoming environment and I started to feel better about this part of the journey. We stopped in Baia, located on the main north-south route, bought some food for dinner and then turned off to the secondary road toward the Danube delta. The idea was to find a protected place, ideally in someone’s garden, and set up the tent for the night. We ride through the village slowly but all the gardens are full down to the last square meter with vegetation, and so we press on and will probably have to ride to the next town. Just at the edge of Cearmuria de Jos I saw a house with a very beautiful, large and open garden and we circle back. By now I have become an expert in asking about accommodation and when I see an old man in the garden I stop just outside the gate. He comes out slowly, offers me his hand and I start off in my funny and limited Romanian. He seems a bit confused by what I am saying and so Tatiana steps in. He of course offers us a room in his house. A month ago this would have been surprising to me, now it is standard course. We say that we would like to sleep in the tent in the garden.
Fane is 70 years of age and a former school teacher of geography. He lost his wife seven years ago and has one son who is a university professor in Bucharest and another who lives nearby, in Tulcea. He is happy for the company. Until 1964 he lived in the far south of this country, then went to the capital city to attend university, talks wonderfully of his university time when the state provided for everything and he could study and live for free, and then was sent here to teach school for a three year obligatory period. Because the life here is far richer – in the sense of culture, topography, proximity to the sea, etc - than from where he originates, he stayed, married and raised a family here.
The garden is lovely and we set the tent in a corner under a tree. Fane picks tomatoes, fresh peppers, onions and garlic from the garden and gives them to us with great pleasure. There is a long wooden table in the garden and we set up a big dinner of a huge salad of fresh vegetables, pasta that we cooked in his kitchen, local red wine and fresh fruits I just picked from the trees in the garden.
After dinner we sit in his kitchen and I write this entry. The night is alive with the sounds of the three dogs in the garden, about 50 chickens and numerous roosters living just behind our tent and the passing horse-drawn carts. In this part of the world they seem to make up about 25 % of the means of transportation and I hear them passing frequently into the late evening.
The roosters wake me before 6 and I am up and about, make coffee in the kitchen and write more of this book. Later Fane wakes and makes more coffee, local style and then offers me the ubiquitous morning schnapps, which of course I accept. We start the day slowly, writing, talking, drinking, packing our gear and head out at about 9 o’clock.
Nice discriptions. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteHave a good trip.
Christine