"Going Eastwards: Chisinau, 2001" Moldova Travelogue by Romanian_Bat

It all started with ambition, like most human actions. I had already visited most bordering countries, and there were only left Moldova and Ukraine. Well, then, after coming from Istanbul, the idea emerged. After all, the Moldovans are considered to be half Romanian, even if the former Russian communist rule deported many of them in Siberia after World War 2. But as always, I don't like to gather much information about a place before going there. The fear that some Romanians used to show when talking about Moldova was not - by far - frightening, but rather more and more tempting. What could be that worse? They used to tell me stories about thieves and prostitutes. Well, show me a country that lacks in both...
So I just woke up one sunny day and got in the underground train earlier. I made my mind there, sitting down and listening to some Moldovan band that had become very famous in Romania too. As it was Friday morning, I decided that, if they still had tickets for the train to Chisinau, then I should go. If not, then I shouldn't - despite the fact that I could have arranged to break the trip, with train changes at the border, if I hadn't been able to take that direct train. Sometimes it is a good idea to let the hazard decide for you. Maybe it sounds to be a too easy decision, maybe not, but it is for sure a way out of troubles. Anyway, they announced bad weather for that weekend in Bucharest and leaving it seemed to be a good idea. So, I felt well when the lady told me there still were tickets left. The train only had sleeping wagons, which was not that great. It was the first time I used such a wagon, and I wasn't that happy about it, as "sleeping" means comfortable, and comfortable means expensive.
I made sure at least to be enough tired that evening, so that I could use the "comfort" at its best, by sleeping all the way. When going alongside the platform and looking at the so different Moldovan (actually Russian) green wagons, I had a fine feeling, thinking that I was to go to some place that was different from the places I had visited before. However it wasn't to be exactly like that. I got into a wagon that looked at least as different from the "regular" wagons on the inside as it was on the outside. The narrow culoir had square windows with two kinds of curtains each. The curtains were so nice, with those embroideries and all, especially that there was written on them "Moldova". Between the windows there were plastic flowers that, despite their artificial and unreal look, completed a cute image. Everywhere there were carpets with all kinds of models and symbols.

Stephen the Great. And Holy.

After a few minutes of contemplation and after noticing that I was smiling like a madman at the empty culoir, I entered the compartment where I had the bed reservation and saw my place: it was somewhere up, as there were 4 beds in a compartment. Well, there was nothing bad about that, except for the fact that it was bloody hot in the whole train and the windows could hardly be opened. I was too early there.
Little by little, the train got filled with people, especially young people. There was this girl that came into my compartment. It was so funny...while waiting for the ticket to be issued earlier, the lady in the railways' agency insisted to write on my ticket and in her computer "male". And now, they gave some other ticket in the same compartment to a woman... isn't life funny?! Or maybe that was part of the deal... She was from Ploiesti, a Romanian city, and she was studying in Chisinau. She told me alot of stories about the place, about their parties, about the nice music and cheap CDs, about the places where I could find God knows what or where I could visit some nice museum. Yet that could hardly stir my attention, as the way the train looked made me be rude and not listen fully to what she was saying. Eventually the wagon conductor - a very nice typical Moldovan woman with a really cute typical accent - came to me and asked:
"How many people have tickets here?"
"Only the two of us", I answered, not knowing the right explanation for her curiosity; yet I was to find it out soon.
A few minutes later she brought in a couple of youngsters that obviously had no ticket.
"How much did you pay? Is it still 10 $?" the "Ploiesti girl" asked them.
"Yes, 10 $", the boy answered.
"Well, some things never change" the brief conclusion promptly came. Well, what can I say? It was obvious that teh train was international: even the bribe was in dollars!
The train got full, and the time to depart Bucharest arrived. The air was warmer and warmer, and, after trying and trying for several times to open the window which was obviously stuck, I gave up; well, if I had died, at least I would have died in a train and that was interesting enough.
The lady soon brought us the sheets and let us arrange the beds. After all, it was nice to stay there, up, it was like in those beds they have in mountain huts. After listening to some more stories from the "Ploiesti girl", I went upwards and immediately fell asleep. The only thing I remember was that I slept better than at home, with that constant train shaking and with the sound made by both wheels on the tracks and by some radio in another compartment in my ears. I was awaken by the Romanian customs officer; it was very very cold now. He took the passport and made some funny remarks about us all; it is always the same in Eastern Romania, they are funny and cheering people, and sometimes I miss that down in big Bucharest. I again fell asleep, just to open my eyes in Ungheni, the Moldovan customs station, where they lifted all wagons, one by one, to change their wheels, as in all ex-USSR republics they use a wider gauge for the railways. The whole thing took them about an hour and a half. Meanwhile, a man, dressed like in the old Russian war movies, with a long green mantle and a weird broad peaked cap, came in: there he was, the Moldovan customs officer. In the same accent with his Romanian "mate", he asked for the passports, checked them and laughed at us for being that sleepy:
"Wake up, you're young, peeps!"

Cathedral of the Birth of God, Chisinau

Well, such people are so lovely that one can hardly misunderstand them for being rude.
We got another engine, which was slower, and smoky - as they had no equipment for electricity-powered trains in Moldova. Then the train started and we got some morning sleep again. I woke up with the sun rays flashing over my face; it was a beautiful day. The train was slowly moving, shaking on the tracks as it was passing among some green meadows. The scenery wasn't outstanding, but still...there was that "something", making it look fascinating. And the reason for this was simple: there were no big and ugly factories, no railways crossings, no highways, no expensive cars or luxurious villas. There were only these meadows covered up with such incredibly green pastures where one could see alot of sheep and cattle spread all over the place. At a certain moment I noticed a shepherd that was looking at the train. He wasn't gazing us as they do in some remote areas, and he wasn't looking at us with envy or simpathy on his face either; he was just looking as if nothing happened, as if we were a bird or a horse running to the emerging sun. It was like saying "good morning, people, how are you, have a nice trip". No big fuss, no need to wave his hand or to say something. Such small things make a trip worth. I don't believe in richness or in poverty. A country where people don't care to talk or - by all means - to communicate with any traveller, is poor to me. I don't care what the Gross Domestic Product looks like and I don't care about their average monthly wage. Besides, one doesn't have to open his mouth to say "hello". This can be done in many other ways.
Moldova was the place where things seemed to look very simple. There was no big scandal about something, people used to go on with their lives as if nothing happened and that was great. People sometimes try to reach goals that are too high and - anyway - useless for them. We like to have that feeling that we don't live in vain, and, therefore, we try to "reach the moon", as the peasants in Romania have a saying. We want to become economists, lawyers, teachers, doctors, travel agents, we want to have a big house, an expensive car, to wear expensive good-looking clothes and to date or marry a beautiful girl everyone will envy us for. And above all we want "respect", "prestige", "esteem". This is the human nature. But while doing these, or rather while trying to get them, we sometimes miss the essence of life. We miss the sense of normality and genuinity I saw on that shepherd's face. We forget to greet each other in a less formal way, we forget to smile, to care and to share things, be them good or bad.
After having a fast breakfast made up of some so salted cheese and tomatoes, I tried to warm myself a bit. It was so strange... The only time I had to use a sleeping wagon, they turned off the heating system, maybe that was a kind of sign: "never do this again!". Cheering up a little, I went outside on the culoir; someone had managed to open a window (and hopefully hadn't jumped out afterwards, trying to escape this weird hot / freezing train) and the lukewarm morning breeze came inside; it felt good to stand there and watch the travellers waking up and getting out of their compartments for a short chat before breakfast. My "room mates" eventually got out too, and we were - as they said - pretty close to Chisinau. The scenery soon changed and I could soon notice a very wide spread city, with many buildings bursting from a forested-like area.
"This is Chisinau, it is also called the Green City", the "Ploiesti girl" told me.

Former Organ Hall, nowadays the theatre, Chisinau

A wide platform, a beautiful quite big station and some people waiting for the train; this was what it looked like at first sight. After a brief "No, thank you" - meant for the taxi drivers willing to make both my trip easier and my wallet lighter (if possible) -, I got out of the station area. Well, that girl was certainly right: the city was full of green areas, full of parks: the first one was just in front of the station. There were some people selling paintings and other "nice" stuff. Then I turned right and soon found the main avenue called "Stephen the Great and Holy"... well, what about that name? This used to be the king that ruled over all Moldavia (which included both this republic and an area in Eastern Romania durimg the Middle Ages), and the fuss made around his rule is so big that one can hardly tell what is true and what is false about his story. Going up the hill, I soon noticed on some side street a blue church; that was very appealing; instead of the carmine, white or yellowish colour usually used in countries like Romania or Bulgaria for churches, this was all blue. A light blue had been used for the walls and a more intense and dark one - for the roofs. Walking on and on in that street, I felt strange; it was as if I walked on a road in the woods; the houses were somewhere down, to the right and to the left, well hidden by lots of trees, while the wide road was shining in the sun. At a distance, there was this sky-scraper-like building, with a typical UFO-like terrace on top. This city was mixing cultures and feelings in a mostly interesting way.
I soon noticed that I had got pretty far from the main road and went back, to find an avenue filled with many people, most of which were young, cheering and laughing. The avenue was bordered by some buildings that looked - at a first sight - built in the Renaissance style or in a 19th century style. However, at a closer look, one could realize that they were cheap copies made of concrete and with inaccurate craftsmanship; they were the perfect symbol of the 1950s. It was all about the "rage to build the socialist glory". However the lack of originality was half covered up by the many trees bordering the avenue. And, to be honest, some of them looked pretty nice. All of a sudden, the avenue got wider: to the left there was this huge typical official building, while to the right, there was this absolutely fascinating park, with an entrance that copied somehow - at a much, much smaller scale - "L'Arc de Tripmphe" from Paris. The whole place was full of people, it was so alive and that saturday was so beautiful, that I ignored for that time the few signs of the flu I was to get because of the cold compartment.
Going on and on, I soon reached a building that I had known about, but never believed to be exactly that way: the Presidential Palace. Well, usually, in most countries, this is an old palace, a nice 15-19th century building, with a nice garden, a deccorated fence and many guards. Well, this was not the case here. A 10 floors - or higher - 20th century building, covered in glass, located in a small garden with flowers, looking just like any commercial centre, appeared. This was so interesting that it made me go round it a few times, until the guards there noticed that - and as they were not used to tourists that much - they started looking at me in a way that made me think of leaving the place. Just across the street there was the Parliament Palace, another 20th century building with some great front yard full of red tulips. The avenue was soon over - at least the interesting spots on it - as I noticed a bunch of the so well-known typical socialist concrete square and ugly-like-hell buildings. Going back everything seemed different in a way.

Former City Duma, nowadays the City Hall, Chisinau

I focused more on the people in the street, just to discover that Moldova had a very happy people - despite the poverty - and alot of extremely nice girls, that made the avenue flourish evern more. In a crossing where the traffic lights were not working, there was this policeman trying to coordinate the cars. I couldn't keep myself from bursting into laughter when I saw him. It seemed that all traffic policemen there had - as a part of their official outfit - a Stetson-like black hat. Well, look where you live now, Mr. J. R. Ewing! Trying to get some rest, I stopped over in one of the parks on the way back. The fountain and the Puskin statue right in front of the bench where I sat nicely completed the sound of the birds singing and the image made by the so many young people there. It sometimes feels so good to sit in such a place, less frequented by tourists, where people live just the way they feel like, and not as a result of the tourist industry. And Chisinau was well rewarding lone travellers for the effort of going there.
While trying to change the few dollars I had in an exchange office, I gladly noticed that the main currencies they were dealing with there were the US Dollar, the German Mark, the Russian Rubla, the Ukrainean Hrivna and the Romanian Leu; it is nice - or rather funny - to see that one can exchange local money to local money, without the need of making everything go through a foreign currency. I then stopped in a music records shop, to buy some Russian rock, as in Bucharest one could hardly find that - and music, or generally art - has nothing to do with politics and should not be messed up by it. I spent all my money there and - trying to get rid of all material values and to remain only with the memories the city had inspired me - I spent all the change I had on some potato pies and a bottle of Cvas, a traditional Russian non-alcoholic drink that was a mixture of Cola and beer if talking about taste.
The station appeared again, and it seemed to be lonely until a slow train from Odessa arrived; a crowd of people got off it; old people carrying huge bags, peasants, workers, city people dressed up in tiny suits, wearing that sad, unsatisfied look on their face, women with children, "wise" youngsters playing the smart by loudly talking on mobile phones, beggars and hard-working middle-aged men, all people in the world seemed to have travelled with that train. Ten minutes later, the platform got empty again and the yellow / red train from Odessa left with a sad whistle. They soon announced our train. I was looking at the people waiting somewhere in the back with some big luggage and hoping that they were to get the train too. But they were not. They seemed to be part of the station, they seemed to have been tied there eversince this railway existed; only people like me, going in and out of the cities, were really taking cross-border trains. Such people were meant to live there, with their poor lives, with their smile or sadness on the face, with the sunshine or rain drops in their hair, while we - students, travellers, merchants - were only passengers, visitors for 1 day, 1 month or 1 year...

St. Great Martyr Teodor Tiron Cathedral, Chisinau

Eventually the already known green train arrived and I got into a wagon that seemed to be part of the "good bye" I was saying to the city. The already familiar curtains were not all there, the artificial flowers - the same. This - some will say "kitsch", some not - made the wagon look "regular" now. I was just a traveller going home, nothing else. The nice lady-conductor was replaced by a cold, but still respectful middle-aged man, that kept on running from one end of the wagon to the other for a long time, in his funny black beach sleepers. I was to share the compartment with a young fellow that was listening to some music on a walkman. But - on the way back to Bucharest - I can say I met Life itself. I met in the culoir this 50 years old guy. He was a truck driver and kept on telling me stories for 3 hours. He used to speak very fastly with that typical Moldovan accent, and it was hard for me to understand what he meant at first: I could understand like 3 words of 5. But eventually I got used to it. He told me of the "old" times:
"We had to manage then, man. He who did not manage, was dead, as most things relied on the number of connections one had."
Maybe it sounds dull to talk about such things nowadays, but the way this man told his life story was magnificent. He went on and on, while his eyes looked through the window, trying to find something that was obviously not there:
"You know, we were supposed to carry most Moldovan fruits and vegetables to Moscow - 7 millions of people to be fed, imagine that. You could see the big lines made of Kamaz trucks, going northwards. Then they used to send us on some narrow street, to some God damn market, where we were selling the goods; and then we could add some small commission for ourselves; this way one could live well enough. Some other time, we were supposed to sell Romanian furniture to Moscow, to some rich generals there; well, Romanian furniture meant customs to be paid, and that also meant a longer transportation. Besides, the work force was cheaper here, so we used to order the stuff in a local factory here and switch the documents. What a time..."
If I had only read about this guy, I should have said that he was the Willie Loman - kind of man Arthur Miller wrote about. Meaning, a loser looking to the past. But he was obviously not, for he was a survivor:
"Right after the <> I went to Germany and worked there for this bloke, what a fine man, he had so many factories, workers, deals, but he was still so good to us; I stayed there for 3 years and returned when he died. The green grass of home was calling me anyway."
"And where are you heading to now?"
"Berlin. I work for this international transportation company and my mate has his truck broken there. I am going to take him home, to help him out. By the way, do you happen to know the trains timetable for Budapest or else?"
Well, do you rabbit, eat carrots? Of course I had the CFR timetable with me. It only took him a few seconds and he figured it out; he knew all cities in Germany like his pockets, he even knew the stations there were and the distances.
"This is not that long a trip... I'll be there allright"

Presidential Palace, Chisinau

Then he started talking about Romania. He told me of the times when he crossed the Prut, the river bordering Moldova and Romania, swimming. He told me of the times when he got drunk with the soldiers there, he told me of the times when they tried to ask him for a bribe while entering Romania and he shouted at them like nuts, then threw two boxes of chewing gum in their face, grabbed his documents and started the engine... And then, of course, politics:
"You see, my friend, I don't believe in this crap the politicians keep on talking about, Romania and Moldova getting together in a big stinky country. But I think that we here should be better neighbours. You see, they bombed Yugoslavia, and they bombed it when the wind was blowing eastwards. They did not care that there were innocent people living both in that country, and in the countries bordering it to the East; after that both you and the Bulgarians hardly had any crops because of the pollution cloud; they also dropped <> a few bombs in Bulgaria; just a warning. And who do you think gave the Milosevic regime the equipment to gun down that invisible plane? Well, where are you, Russian Bear?! Thing is, my friend, that we here, should be better neighbours; the others do not care much to give, they only care about the interest we are to pay back one day."
I hate talking about politics and that is why I hardly interrupted him with any comments, but I have to say that I cannot aggree more to what this stunning man was telling me.
Eventually we got back to the compartments, the customs officers got in the train and started checking the passports. Two Canadians in the next compartment started being nervous, because of the long stay in Ungheni. They were asking us why they were bothering that much to change the train wheels, when they could have moved all passengers from one train to another one. Well, what could I say? Should I have said "Welcome to the Balkans"? Should I have said "For your own comfort, sir"? Should I have said "Well, the passengers, that might be done, but imagine that we were dealing with a train made up of cysterns filled with oil"? Maybe I should have said something, but I preferred to shut up. Trying to explain things is as useless as trying to change weather in Sahara Desert. People should take life for what it is and make the best of it, instead of trying to change life, as they can never succeed to do that.
The customs checking was completed when we reached Iasi Nicolina Station in Romania and, after asking the conductor for blankets, we went to sleep. The compartment was frozen. Five hours later we were awaken by the same conductor in the same funny sleepers. He almost shouted at us, as if it was the end of the world:
"Wake up, wake up, Bucharest, Bucharest"
Well, chill down, man, chill down. After putting my shoes on I looked at the watch and realized that Bucharest was for sure more than 45 minutes away and cursed him allright. The cold train, the drizzle outside and the even colder platform in Bucharest made the arrival look as if I had left Bucharest in spring and I got back in autumn; maybe this is the way things were. The way back home is always the sad one. Luckily we always go back home richer than we have left it; richer in memories...