Riding north into the delta we come to our first Lipoven community – Russians who came south hundreds of years ago to escape the reforms introduced by Peter the Great. It was quite a surprise to pass from one village to the other and see the writing change to Cyrillic and the language to Russian. Stopped for coffee and to check the map. The terrain was easy, with rolling hills, but the wind was a real challenge. This area of the world is now a great source of wind energy. The Spaniards in the form of Iberdrola arrived here a number of years ago to harvest the energy, which must be very good if they had enough patience to overcome the local bureaucracy.
We carry on along quite roads with little traffic and villages placed about every 10 kms. The roads are pleasant but when the wind comes directly from the front we cannot be making more than 3kms per hour. Walking the bikes is the solution, otherwise it is just a waste of energy. In the early afternoon we arrive at a well preserved fortification overlooking the Black Sea, which is said to have been a Genovese fort in the 14th century, when that state had these trade routes under its control. After the visit to the fort we stop for cold beer in a local bar. Rather than a bar it is a set of tables on a concrete patio and a refrigerator inside. The bar lady simply collects the money and opens the bottles. It costs 2 RON, so who cares how it looks? It is time to eat but in the only store in town we ask if it has cheese and get a response as if cheese were a delicacy. The answer is no, but the message behind the answer is ‘cheese? What kind of an idiot are you?’ We move on and find a larger town, buy food and create a monumental picnic in the small town square. The street dogs arrive to get their food. They are very sweet. One would think that dogs who spend their entire lives as strays fighting for food and survival would be very mean, but they are usually very afraid and very happy if one plays with them and pets them. As we are eating a man who is clearly in a bad state turns up to rest in the square. Homeless is a word we would use in the west. He is just in a bad state and probably never had a home or a decent life. Thinking about all the kindness that has been shown to me over this trip and thinking that it cannot simply be chance – that my task is to pass some of that on to others – we make him a big sandwich and then I go to buy him a cold beer. It is nothing, no special gesture or effort, but I do feel that I am sending back some of that wonderful positive energy and support that the universe has been sending me.
With full stomachs we set off for the late afternoon ride. With strong headwinds we ride not more than 15 kms later and arrive in a very poor town set at a crossroads – one direction heading directly to the city of Tulcea and the other heading due east into the Danube delta. Selling fruit at the intersection is a great big bear of a man of whom we ask directions. We start talking and soon Ion suggests that we set up tent in his garden. It is hard to arrive there, he says, and we should wait until his son comes to collect him and then follow him. We walk to the store to buy some biscuits, talk with Ion for a while and soon his son arrives in a horse cart and they load up the fruits and vegetables that were unsold for that day. We try to understand his age. He looks little older than I am but speaks of his grown children and grandchildren. It felt a big confusing and I was not sure of the situation at first. We follow him through the village, down some dirt roads, to a neighborhood of old wooden houses on the outskirts of the village. The garden is teaming with ducks, chickens, geese and loads of other animals. We meet the two children who still live at home, the wife and two grandchildren, then set up the tent in the garden and are invited to drink some homemade cherry schnapps and the family toasts our arrival. Later we walk through the garden and pick fresh vegetables and fruits for dinner and then all sit down at a plastic table in the garden for dinner. We get to know Ion and his wife and learn their story. Ion is 51 and already worked 25 years as an electrician in the coal mines in the south of the country before moving to the north five years prior to work as a farmer. The family earns money by selling vegetables, fruits and eggs in this village and surrounding villages.
After dinner, Ioanna, the wife brings a small bottle of whiskey and Ion and I enjoy a drink. A typical miner he is not. Even when we first met on the street it was evident that this is an intelligent and educated man and our discussion over whiskey reveals this even more. He is discussing literature and asks about our favourite poets and authors. Now, I am no intellectual and say something about Pablo Neruda, but in truth I don’t recall any of his poetry. Neruda’s life is interesting to me and I once visited his former house in Chile, but poetry in general, although I am sure it is very interesting, I have never really been able to get into. Ion tells us that he was raised in a very poor part of the country and was raised by a physically abusive. As a child he would escape and hide in the fields around his village and would bring books with him when he did so. His brother, he tells us, did not find an escape from the violence and became a violent person himself, got into trouble as a young man and passed away early. Ion learned to become an electrician while serving in the military and when he returned to his village he became an electrician in the coal mines. I think he must have continued to bring books with him when in mines. I can picture him in a dark and dirty mine shaft, reading Alexander Dumas by his coalminer’s head light. Under other circumstances he might have become a literature professor or an author, but in Ceaucescu’s Romania, coming from such a background with little formal schooling, he surely had little if any chance.
Normally I refrain from talking too much about my life and travels when with poorer people because my world is usually too strange and exotic for them to understand or perhaps even an affront to people for whom existence is a struggle. It was not so with Ion and family. They were thrilled to hear the stories and see the photographs. We left the next morning after a big breakfast of coffee, warm milk directly taken from their goats and quite a few shots of palinka. We exchanged contact information with the 21 year old daughter, Ionela, and have been in contact with her since to thank again for the wonderful time. I will stay in contact and if this blog does become a book, will send a copy to the family. By the way, the title of the last blog entry (12 August) is from Ion.
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