The journey continues and we come to Busteni – the next village to Sinaia and to the foreign eye an identical twin. My hosts tell me this is their favoured spot for hiking but not this time of year; it’s mid-October and the rain is pouring down outside our car. We travel in a Dacia, like 75% of our fellow drivers. The Dacias are everywhere; they come in about four different colours and at least thirty-five different years. I marvel at the fact that some of them manage to fight their way painfully up the mountains, black smoke puffing ominously from the exhaust. Every now and then, we are overtaken by western cars – the small ones slightly disregarding the speed limit, whilst the big ones are clearly above this consideration altogether. I look around me and wonder who can afford to buy a Mercedes or a BMW in this society? It makes me inexorably suspect the drivers of mafia activity but I hope that I’m wrong – perhaps there are ways to make 30,000 Euro in Romania to spend on a car whilst the average monthly salary for a ‘good’ job is 100 Euro. My friend tells me things are getting better: last year she bought a 2-bedroom flat in the centre of Bucharest for 9,000 Euro. This year she thinks it’s worth nearly 15,000. I manage to think it wouldn’t buy me a small car in the west and wonder what the laws are for foreign property investment in Romania? Would the influx of western money harm the Romanian struggle for a better life or would it help the country regain some financial resources? It’s clear from our 4-hour conversation driving through the countryside that they would very much welcome foreign tourism. Although there are aspects of the country that they are ashamed of – all stemming from the Ceausescu years – they are also eager to show me everything they’re proud of and I am about to find out that there is lots.
We continue through the mountains, passing small villages as we advance into the deep forests of the mountains. Outside of Predeal we encounter some slight traffic problems but the horses and carts are soon cleared and we can continue. As we start descending into a large valley I spot the first signs of a city. We have come to Brasov and are very near our final destination. On our way I don’t see much of Brasov. I manage to catch a general feel of grey, industrial boredom – this is how I imagine the bowels of a factory although I’ve never seen the inside of one. I have seen a prison and this creates the same despair in me. But we quickly pass through it and breathtaking views open over the valley and the mountains as we come up to Poiana Brasov – my home for the next three days.
Poiana Brasov is a tourist village. It seems to cater for the few foreigners that find their way to the heart of Transylvania, but its main function, based on what I hear from my hosts, is as an idyllic retreat for well-heeled Romanians – an escape from the reality waiting at the foot of the mountain. It takes us a couple of drives back and forth on the mountain trail to find our hotel because there are so many and it’s like a kind of Goliath version of a housing estate: hotel after hotel hanging precariously off the cliffs in a most The Shining-like fashion.
We finally manage to find the hotel, and I am pleased to see
that my room is as large, comfortable, and well equiped as I’m accustomed to.
A short, pot-holed drive later, about twenty five of us literally hop and stumble to congregate outside what looks like a large wooden hut. The ground is muddy and uneven but we struggle up a small hill behind the hut to come together around an open fire. A band of four musicians dressed in national costumes play traditional Romanian music and we’re given small badly cracked mugs filled with tuicã – a lethally strong type of plum brandy. We eat grilled meat and peppers on skewers and oblong meatballs with mustard. It’s very cold, and large, black flakes of soot fly in the air around the big fire.
As we retire inside the hut, a world of animal skins, dried corn on the cob, garlic (worryingly) and wooden objects hang from the ceilings, whilst long tables have been laid out with tree trunks covered in cheeses, breads and meats. More meat comes in wrapped in cabbage. This is followed by grilled chickens and potatoes and we end with pancakes and jam – all washed down with plenty of good Romanian wine. At this stage I am rising like dough with a stomach inflated to the point of buttons flying around the room while we all dance together…
In bed sometime after midnight I ponder the fun of our evening. Either we were escaping from the reality around us or we travelled back in time to the days of the Romania that the natives remember and wish to return to rather than the country that tries to once again reflect their deeply rooted, strong traditions that were forcibly forgotten for a long period of time. Around 3am I wake up and notice that it is strangely bright outside. The light shines in through the curtains in a spooky fashion, creating a silhouette of a vampire flying in through the window – a rather uncomfortable effect less than half an hour’s drive from Count Dracula’s supposed castle. Still, as I approach the window and open the curtains the reason for the brightness is revealed: at least a foot of snow has fallen in the last couple of hours and it hangs heavily from the gigantic trees outside and the parking lot is completely buried.