Drifting along the Romanian countryside Written and photographed by Elise Clark
It was deepening along the borders of dusk as our tour guide
tapped the microphone against his lips making the rustle of sound
jump from seat to seat. I had been reading until the light went
out knowing that after our extended journey by bus from Budapest
to Romania the other passengers would want to sleep. As my book
went down towards my lap I glanced across the hills which seemed
clasped together tightly only to roll forward like a hips curve.
The snow had been falling for several hours and as a studied control
freak I had avoided watching the road, afraid our bus would meander
into a snow drift and be lost.
But now the Romanian countryside opened my eyes into a calm I've
rarely felt before. The ice smoothed its way over putty snow,
topped with miniature fur trees. At every cottage which was dropped
among nature, a tiny lantern hung on a pole or a set of vivacious
red twinkle lights, surprising in such a rural quilt.
“Those are gypsy villages to your left. I know some of
you want nothing more than to sleep, but I'll be brief. Tonight
we will be making our way to my hometown of Siggiswalla and while
you entertain yourself I'm going to visit my parents who I haven't
seen in a long time. So everybody wish me luck.” His tenor
chuckle made me smile and those who were still awake clapped for
his luck. As I continued watching the graph plot of trees and
houses I understood the suppressed tenderness in the guide’s
voice and his barely concealed excitement at going home.
The next morning my introspective mood lightened as we descended
back into the bowels of the bus of which I had grown achingly
familiar. Rather than feeling the tragic trapped feeling only
to resign myself to flipping through my Frommers, I felt driven
to watch the countryside whirl past the window in a vague blur
of heart beating pastels. The architecture jutted out into the
sky in various creams dotted with gold and silver roofs made of
tin. The daytime passed through the snow just as magical and twinkly
as the night before when I couldn't get the dark contrasts from
the novel Dracula configured with these happy-go-lucky houses.
As we traveled to the citadel we were visiting for the day we
passed street fairs with red colored stalls. Everything was draped
in hand knit colors, colors, more colors, I couldn't make peace
with the amount
of color that shone through these people’s lives. A life
where tourists came to feast on, a lonely little tale of Gothic
romance when Bram Stoker invaded their town. There were plenty
of Dracula souvenirs on those stands, packed in tightly because
it was the off-season for tourists. As we got off the bus to visit
a museum dedicated to the town and its history in an old abandoned
church, I longed for wares to buy that didn't reek of death and
destruction.
Going over their history and climbing up several precarious narrow
stairways into the belfry of the church gave me a glance of the
town, most refuse to see. Women and men chattering, happily, despite
their poverty. Dogs yipping along the streets and playing with
anything in sight. Hills upon hills charged with the electricity
of life inside of the houses that lined like straight rows of
candy buttons. Romania was just as alive as I was, perhaps even
more so. I partook of my view until a sharp whistle called me
downwards from my perch, our tour guide back from his home.
Trotting back down the stairs to greet him he winked at me as
I turned the corner into the street. Ancient cobblestones bent
to meet the soles of my shoes and the bell tolled within the chamber
I had just been sitting. Its echo caressed my sense of hope for
the rest of my little group, that they had seen what I had during
our tour in Romania. The culture rich with acceptance of things
they cannot change, moving like water towards an uncertain future.
This place was no longer cloaked in darkness, the pastels and
puppies wiggled inside me. Romania is a country driven into darkness,
but its people still see the light and venture forth to bring
it within themselves and to the tourists everyday.
Elise Clark has
been freelance writing for several years. She currently lives
in MD with her fiancée and a menagerie of animals.
You can email her at c.elise91@yahoo.com.
