horizon hunters

{ traveling around the world }

Two iconic landmarks in Mostar:
The sniper’s nest and the old bridge.

Destructive and constructive, the contrasts couldn’t stronger and the impact of both is powerful.

The sniper’s nest resides or rather comprises an entire building situated about 1km from the bridge. The ghostly shell of an old bank building, it still stands as one of the tallest structures in the city. Shattered glass, empty shells, and crumbling concrete are found throughout the building. You can make your way up to the 7th or 8th floor via staircase that is seems to be suspended by rusty sinews of iron rods. Each step increased both my anxiety and altitude, until I stopped in my tracks and looked out on the surreal scene unfolding in front of me.

Looking out from the sniper's nest

From where I stood I could see Hisako silhouetted against a backdrop of green, rolling hills, and a vibrant turquoise river – all framed by shards of glass. Beneath my feet the glass crunched and shattered and my toe bumped up against some spent ammunition. Below me and spreading out from the building was a beautiful park with fathers, mothers, children, and pets at play. It was hard to imagine such a beautiful setting being caught up in war.

I held a used bullet shell in my hands. I turned it over wondering about its violent and brief history. Wondering. To my left was an empty elevator shaft that ran straight down, 7 stories deep. The doors long gone and a creepy wind howling through its bowels. A shaft of sunlight was streaming in through a hole in the shaft towards the top. Only later did I realize that it was a whole created by an RPG. Everywhere I looked destruction, desperation, and depression.

Spent bullet shells

Before long neither Hisako nor I could take it any longer and we hurried back down the rickety stairs and felt a the emotional weight lift from our shoulders as we stepped into the sunlight and out of the ruined lobby.

We then struck out from the sniper’s nest toward the bridge of Mostar.

An engineering marvel when it was built and another engineering marvel when it was rebuilt, the bridge arcs beautifully across the Neretva river that runs directly through the center of town. Built in the mid 16th century, the bridge stands a steeped in mystery in terms of its construction. But you need only stand on, beneath, or beside it to appreciate the elegant shape. Supposedly the widest man-made arch when it was built, you can find all kinds of other juicy details over on the Stari Most page on Wikipedia.

Mostar bridge's shadow

Our main mission, though, was to try and capture the bridge in the sunlight. Since it was already October and the sunlight coming in at low angles by early afternoon we made our first pass at the bridge around 10 in the morning. Unfortunately, the shadows were just so that the bridge and water below it were not illuminated. Disappointed, but not discouraged, we made our way around town looking at the numerous shops selling trinkets made of bullet shells or small models of the bridge. We found a nice little cafe to enjoy a few relaxing hours whiling away the time and noticed that the shadows were starting to get long again. Hurrying back to the bridge we found, to our great dismay, that the time had flown by and now the shadows were being cast from the other canyon wall. A perfect shot just wasn’t to be had this time around.

Trinity chilling at the cafe

Aside from our superfluous failure at capturing the bridge in a good light, we were nevertheless, is a great mood after seeing the bridge. Much like our time in Sarajevo, a ray of hope was shining strongly in the dark history of Mostar and I was glad to have soaked up the rays for just a little bit of time.

Bridge... in the shadows

But we're still happy campers

Snow! Our bus was parked for a few minutes as we made our way from Serbia to Bosnia-Herzegovina. We were heading over a mountain pass that put us high enough to see some flurries. The snowflakes dusted the landscape around us and gave a fairytale feel to the landscape. But where we were headed was anything but a fairytale.

Snow on the moutnain pass

After one or two mandatory snowballs, I was back on the bus and huddled close to Hisako as the we descended down towards Sarajevo. It was nearing dusk as the bus pulled into the far side of town, concrete blocks of buildings welcoming us.

The highlight of our stay in Sarajevo was definitely a tour we took with one of the locals. Offering the tours for free to anyone who contacted him through his web site, I was astonished to hear about all the trials and tribulations of this Sarajevo local who had lived for the war. Of course, I wanted to come to Sarajevo when we had changed our plans to come through Eastern Europe. Seeing the images on TV as a kid and listening to the news, it seemed like world away and I couldn’t believe I’d have the chance to see it for myself.

It tears me in two. The reason for my excitement, if you can call it that, was because of the devastating war there. It seems so wrong that something so horrible can cause a destination to be a tourist stop. But on the other hand, I’m glad that the tourist market can lend a hand in getting the city back on its feet.

Tank

From what I saw around the city, the town is embracing its tourism industry and sections are thriving because of it. With nearly all heavy industry gone after the war, it seems to be one of the few bright spots for its residence.

Including Neno.

Neno giving us a tour

This wonderful local took us around to some of the famous sites within the city. Of course, we saw the Holiday Inn where the journalists stayed and the Sarajevo roses which are grisly reminders of the mortars that terrorized the city. But it was listening to Neno talk about the war, how it affected him, how he feels about it now, and where he wants to go that was truly inspirational. Not wanting the past to be forgotten, he has embraced the idea of educating the masses as his personal mission. Between classes and study he makes time for those that would like to learn more about the people of Sarajevo.

It was fascinating to hear how strongly he just wants to move on from the whole conflict, but simultaneously wants the world to truly understand the terror that the people of Sarajevo were put through. It was impossible for me to relate to the situation. Still, Neno opened my eyes with the retelling of his first hand experiences.

Bullet holes covering a wall

Sheltered in a basement for the majority of the war, Neno spent years without proper nourishment, a place to play, or a mother who could stay home. Each morning his mother would creep out of their apartment complex and would crawl, run, and scamper across town while sniper fire and mortars filled the air around her. Each time Neno saw his mother leave in the morning it was always with the feeling that this might be his last time to see her off. And yet, miraculously, his mother returned each evening bringing with her tiny rations, bits of bread, or whatever she could scrounge up for the day.

Neno and many of his fellow residence began to resent the canned beef being shipped in from the West almost as much as the sniper fire from the hills. Tasteless and unchanging, he said that the dogs wouldn’t even eat the canned “meat”, but his family had to subsist on it for years on end. Couldn’t the West intervene? Couldn’t they send them something other than canned beef? The war squeezed him, his family, and the citizens of Sarajevo in every direction possible and somehow he managed to persevere.

And yet, after the mortars stopped falling, the troops withdrew, and peace returned to this city where a World War had started less than a century before, Neno and many like him were quickly searching for a way to move beyond the terror. For him, that step was too keep educating others so that the mistakes of the past wouldn’t be repeated for a new generation.

A bit of lifesize chess

As an American I often resent the long reach of our government in affairs overseas, but here was someone who believed that it was the responsibility of governments like mine to intervene when a situation spirals out of control like Sarajevo. Thankful that Clinton did finally bring in airforce, but resentful that it was 4 years after the conflict had started. Like I said, it’s impossible for me to relate to the situation and always easier looking back to decide what might have been the “right” action, but it has given me pause to think about a government’s role in oversea affairs.

Between the crumbling facades and bullet holes, Sarajevo gave me plenty to think about. The city and its people stand as an amazing example of the perseverance and wickedness of humans. But for me, it won’t be a place of sorrow, but a place of hope because of a new generation that is slowly rebuilding from the rubble of the last.

Bridge from the past

For those who can read cyrillic or the title for this blog entry, you’ll know that we’ve arrived in Belgrade.

Hisako looking happy that she can read the native form of the word Belgrade

Belgrade began of foray into the worn torn states of Serbia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, and Croatia. The impacts of the war weren’t immediately apparent to us when we arrived in Belgrade, but gradually stories unfolded. As we ventured deeper into the countries we became more and more overwhelmed with the sheer complexity, tragicness, and spirit of the people that met.

While our stay in Serbia and Belgrade was short, it was an experience that remains close to our hearts. When in Timisoara just a day before, we were looking for a couch surfing host in Serbia but having no luck finding one. Our current host told us of a host coming to Romania that evening and said we could meet up him. Arrangements were soon made and later that night we had dinner and drinks with Rade. Rade didn’t know of any open couches, so he graciously offered us his.

Next day we made or way towards Belgrade while Rade had taken the night bus back. We found his place on the outskirts of Belgrade and were greeted by a large German shepherd mix as we came though the gate. We nervously approached the door with the dog close on our heels. After a few rings, raps on the window, Rade’s familiar face appeared in the door’s window.

Rade surprised us with his wonderful stories, altruism, and super friendly dog Bobby. He had gone from 0 to 60 surfers in the course of only a couple of months, deciding to bring the world to him if he couldn’t travel. He reminisced about Yugoslavia, the war, and finding new purpose in life with couch surfing. Inspiring stuff. At Rade’s we feasted on all kinds of locally prepared dishes. When we asked if he had any requests for a meal, his only response was “not pasta”. One of the side affects of being a heavy couch surfing host. Lots and lots of surfers like to cook pasta.

Rade cooks up a delicious casserole dish

Downtown Belgrade was a one day event for us. Serbia itself was only a 2.5 day visit before we traveled to Bosnia-Herzegovina. The weather wasn’t playing so nice, which muted the vistas throughout the city and was a drastic change after the beautiful autumn weather in Romania.

Nevertheless we made it to some of the highlights of the town, including the Kalemegdan fortress which is perched on about 100 meters above the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers. The fall colors were falling like wet paint to canvas below our feet as we walked through the fortress’ innards. Half park and half museum, I was surprised when we came over a bridge into the main complex and saw tanks and heavy guns lined up in the dry moat below. Here was a our first real introduction to the war.

A deadly moat

I was to learn throughout my time in the Balkin states that what I knew of the war growing up was extremely limited. The events that I saw on tv, however, were memories from my childhood. And now I was here, standing above a moat filled with weapons of that very war. World war one or two seems less relevant, easier to put into a historical context, like the walls of the castle around me. But faced with something that made me grimace 20 years ago there right before me was eye opening.

Throughout the fortress grounds, we saw more weapons on display juxtaposed with what-would-be beautiful views over the city. The rain and clouds kept us from taking in one of the most heralded vantage points, but we still managed to snap a few pictures.

Peace for Belgrade and the region

The rest of our time in Belgrade was pretty much spent chatting with Rade, eating food, or sipping coffees at one of the cafes downtown. Unfortunately, were weren’t there for the CS meetup that Rade goes to religiously and we missed out on a number of other touristy sites.

As we boarded the bus bound for Bosnia-Herzegovina, however, we thought back on our experience in Belgrade as one filled with heavy past, but a promising future. If you are ever in the region, maybe you too will experience the hospitality and magic of the Serbian people.

At first a host, now a friend - Rade

Of all places to be listening to John Philip Sousa, a cave in Romania was the last place I would have imagined. With bats. Fluttering around the damp air and hanging from the limestone, the little critters seemed to be enjoying the booming tuba and sharp crack of the snare drums as much as we were. Nature’s powerful forces of erosion had shaped the acoustics of this place. A whim had placed us in the middle of it.

Passed out in Timisoara

The day before Hisako and I arrived from the northern provincial town of Baia Mare via a micro bus filled with peasants, college students, and one peace corps volunteer. I felt a bit like a VIP considering the amazing hospitality we received from our couch surfing hosts. After a delightful stay in Baia Mare, our host had gone as far as talking to the bus driver and our next host to arrange our point of drop off once we arrived in Timisoara. Sure enough, when the bus pulled into Timisoara, our next host was there hiding behind a beard of dazzling proportions. I thought I was looking at a taller version of Gimli. Hardly surprising that we headed to the mountain caves the next day.

An avid music lover, our host had heard about the concert a few days early and it wouldn’t be his first time to a concert in the mountainside. His attire spoke heavy metal. Late into our first night at his place he backed up my suspicions by breaking out Metallica’s Black Album. On cassette. He and his friend praised Sony’s auto-reverese feature of their boom-box resting on a shelf. The nostalgic sha-chunk of the tape deck’s play button began the blaring guitars and we were off and rocking. Somewhere between auto-reverse number 2 or 3, he brought up the option of going to see a concert the next day. When he mentioned that it would be in a cave, we jumped at the choice.

Off to a cave concert

The next day, four of us (Hisako, me, our host and his friend) piled into a well-loved Yugo. Tucked into the back with Hisako and gouging myself on grilled cheese sandwiches, I watched the countryside go whipping by as the friend drove us further and further away from Timisoara. We scooted across a brand new bridge that arched gracefully over another highway and a second later passed by an old materials factory that was covered in rust and decay. The road gradually got bumpier and started twisting through farmland.

A couple of hours after departure, the car slowed and I saw cars lining the side of the road up ahead. We had arrived. A nondescript village in the middle of nowhere was to serve as our base camp on our venture up into the mountains. Surprisingly, the number of cars lining the road was not small. Many others joined ranks with us as we walked along the road and turned up a dirt road. Young, old, punk rock, classical, rich, and poor all seemed to making their way up the mountain and this is where I got confused.

Given the music we had been listening to with our host to date, I thought for sure we were headed for a rock concert at this point. But as you know, and much to my surprise, it was a concert band performance instead. I was delighted to be going to see a band performance in a cave, but was also slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t be reenacting some wild cave dancing from Zion in the Matrix. All the signs to date had been pointing to rock and roll. Our host had just removed his shirt and was now walking bare chested next to us. Another clue I had thought! Turns out our host is just one of those types of guys that can wear shorts and sandals throughout the winter and to classical music concerts. It baffled and delighted me silly that this guy was taking us to a concert band concert.

30 minutes or so into the hike we came to a steep downward slope, followed by a sharp curve, and then a small incline disappearing right into the mouth of the cave. The several hundred people who had arrived before us had already created a well worn path heading into the cave and it was no easy matter to maintain your balance and keep from slipping. Collision with the person behind you here would have resulted in disaster, toppling people like dominos. Now I was rather happy for the low-key nature of the concert. Alcohol and this slope would not have mixed well. Hang overs wouldn’t have been the only cause of headaches I’m sure.

On the way to the cave

The mouth of the cave stretched a good 15 meters across and once my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw the interior bending off to the right. The sound of the generators outside the cave died off as we plunged deeper into the cave, our feet making their way through the loose rubble. Floodlights hung from small scaffolding here and there, providing just enough light to make the ground and walls visible but the ceiling fade to black. Inside the cave was huge. Several hundred people crowded into the space in front of us, forming a solid wall that prevented us from getting any close to the action. Far at the other end of the cave I could make out the concert band, large speakers, and what looked like some important looking people.

Shortly after we had settled into our spot amongst the throngs, the band started playing and we swayed, bopped, and shuffled around to the music. A mix of concert band, operatic, and choir music filled the cave for nearly two hours. A few times I thought I recognized the tunes. My mind kept racing back to my days in concert band in Ohio and imagining if we had gone down to Hocking Hills to play trumpets, bass drums, and clarinets among the stalactites. I wonder if dripping moister proves troublesome to the woodwind players. Or guano.

A slippery entrance

A highlight of the night must have been the opera singer who’s voice seemed to fill every cubic inch of the space. Stalagmites trembled at the high notes and creepy crawlies must have paused during their creeping and crawling to give her a good listen. This was nature’s own Sydney opera house.

All told, the concert lasted about two hours. Towards the end I was about ready to find some place to sit and we made our way back towards the exit. I felt like a bear, waking from hibernation as we neared the exit. I had forgotten that it was still daytime. The slippery, treacherous slope was still there. Back through the woods and stopping in a field for a picnic of more grilled cheese sandwiches, we wrapped up our little adventure.

Back in the car our host popped Metallica back into the cassette player. It wasn’t long before our heads were banging to the music again as we tore across the countryside. But it wasn’t the heavy metal tones that were ringing in my ears and memory for days to come afterwards. Instead, the works of classical composers in the most prehistoric of settings were echoing in my mind.

The picture you've all been waiting for, a cave concert!

Behind the Scenes

Apparently, these types of concerts are to uncommon in the area around Timisoara. So if you are in the neighborhood it’s definitely worth checking as to whether or not any concerts might be going on.

For more pictures and good times from our stay in Timisoara, be sure to check out the album.

Hillsides of northern Romania

Corina heard the muffled clank of the metal on wood from up the hill. The shrouds of damp fog were doing their best to engulf the sound, but the tone like claves being struck pierced the mist. Corina let her cold and muddied hands drop to her pleated skirt that stopped just above her knees. The bright purple thread woven throughout her new skirt particularly pleased her as it had been a great deal of effort to save up the money for such a garment. Purple, such a noble color, but Corina was no noble. She was far removed from any court or castle. The courts of Brasov were hundreds of kilometers away by a strenuous horse or cart ride through twisting mountain valleys. They had little to do with her except when the tax collectors showed up.

Corina was a peasant and living in Maramureş, the northern reaches of Romania. You might say it was a simple life. You’d be hard pressed to find Corina calling it that. Each day was filled with chores around their home. A small plot of land. Pigs to feed, cows to attend to, hay to stack, food to prepare, and linens to mend. Her husband of 10 years plowed the fields and attended to the livestock by day and drank palinka by night. The couple, childless despite the many prayers and offerings at the church.

So it was with relief and excitement that she heard the calling of the church. Her chance to escape the drudgery of daily life.

Corina off to feed the pigs

Corina made her way back inside after having fished two large buckets of water out of the well outside. Several years ago a local peasant had come up with an ingenious idea for fetching water out of a well. A giant lever and fulcrum with one end weighted and the other with a bucket hanging on a rope. It was as simple as pulling the rope down to lower the bucket into the cold depths. Gravity did the rest. The hours spent hauling smaller buckets up from the well were a thing of the past.

She slipped off her shoes as she entered the house and made her way to the houses central, ceramic-tiled stove. The fire was going inside the stove, radiating heat throughout the room and she refilled the large tub of water simmering on the range. The ice cold water calming the turbulent surface. A few splashes for her hands and face and she was ready for church.

When it’s not covered in fog or rain the countryside was breathtaking. Especially in the autumn. Oaks, maples, and walnuts exploding into red, yellow, and orange. Autumn is Corina’s favorite time of year. The time of year when the last of the fall harvests make for wonderful soups, filled with hearty vegetables like pumpkins, squash, and potatoes. A certain excitement would start to fill the air on the buildup to Christmas. Hogs would be fattened, palinka brewed, and the villagers gathering together to dance.

Farm pigs

Corina moved between the linen covered walls back out to the small courtyard between the hog pen and the cattle barn. A visitor to these parts would probably fetch a clothespin to navigate through that stretch of land. Not that they got any visitors. Corina picked her way gingerly through the muddy landscape. No amount of caution was going to completely eliminate the inevitable splattering of mud that would make its way up onto her stockings. The mist was lifting as she closed their house’s gate behind her. It wasn’t as ornate as her neighbor’s 3 meter high ordeal, but Corina was proud of the modest gate that her husband had carved and crafted in the traditions of the area.

Walking up the hill she met a lady from down the street and they began talking about the weather and how many kilograms their hogs had gained since the last time they spoke. Corina could already see that her hog might be bigger than last years and they should be able to barter off some of the meat in exchange for radishes or onions which hadn’t fared well that year. The conversation twisted and turned, keeping in time with the muddy road beneath them.

It always struck Corina as a stark reminder of why she went to church after she passed through the outer gate. A graveyard held the relics of many a loyal church goer. The heavy stone and iron crosses always chilled her. She felt a sense of relief that she attended church regularly and felt a pang of dread for her poor husband who all to often worshiped the bottle instead.

Graves at the merry cemetery

The church stood atop a small hill. She had heard the stories from the villagers of how the Catholic church had been driven from this region centuries ago and wooden churches erected in their place. The Orthodox religion was strong here. Their wooden churches rising gracefully out of the very woods from which they were made. Slender, towering spires like tree trunks and intricate carvings a testament to the woodworkers of the area.

Corina filed through the low doorway, bowing her head. Above her the vaulted ceiling rose 8 meters and was lost in the darkness. The flames of the candles tried heartily to cast their rays into the highest recesses. She made her way to one of the 10 pews arranged on either side of a broad aisle and sat. To her side hung many small and large hand-embroidered banners. Hanging from small poles. The icon of Jesus and the holy trinity adorned each piece, depicting the life and times of Christ. Her gaze shifted back to the front of the room where rows of candles were burning and the priest was beginning his sermon.

Religious weavings

The church filled with the sound of speech, prayer, and song for the next hour and Corina felt embraced in the warmth of her community. The hard life outside these wooden wall was drifting away like the smoke from the incense burning overhead and a smile crept onto Corina’s face.

Churches of Maramures

Behind the Scenes

Northern Romania contains one of the few remaining peasant culture in Europe. A living museum, if you will. The churches in the area are still very much active and UNESCO world heritage sites. About 600 kilometers from Bucharest, you’re probably just as close coming from a neighboring country.

The autumn time is absolutely stunning in the region, with temperatures staying moderate until the winter kicks in.

The area is best explored by car as the churches are relatively spaced out and there was little in terms of transport at the time of writing to get you around.

If time permits, also recommend going even farther north to the see the merry cemetery, which didn’t give us very many laughs but did seem like a good place to be buried. A celebration of life rather than a morning of death.

Lastly, if you see a Corina, tell her I said “hi”.

Lots more pictures from our wanderings around northern Romania.

Things have changed around here after the fall of communism

Since 2007, Bulgaria and Romania have been members of the EU. It seems like a tenuous relationship with the rest of Europe at best. The following observations were made from a very small number of people from various backgrounds in both countries, but I feel as if their opinions should be heard. You should not assume that these are or aren’t the opinions of the population at large. I’m also not an economist by any means, so please feel free to shed any light on the numbers as I’d love to hear more from all sides.

EU membership seems to work like the food chain. Wealth is not evenly distributed across the board. Then again, what capitalist nation does so? Germany and France both have well established economies with huge and growing corporations. These and other international corporations wield unprecedented power in not only their own countries, but in the many countries in which they’ve set up their satellite offices. From what I’ve seen and heard, such corporations as Siemens and Microsoft have sunk their teeth into the opportunity that was the fall of communism 20 years ago.

The story of Romania’s and Bulgaria’s entry into the EU was a romantic one, full of national pride. Romanians and Bulgarians alike were fighting for a spot in the elusive EU, figuring that it would pave the way towards a bigger and brighter future. Who wouldn’t be tempted by the bright lights of Berlin or Paris and think that Bucharest could reestablish its reputation as the Paris of the East? In the lead up to the assimilation, roads were built, factories put into overdrive, and a general state of elation filled the country. That was 2006.

2007 welcomed both countries into the EU and from the sounds of things, it has been downhill from there. More and more the grumblings of “why did we even join the EU?” can be heard. I see the loss of jobs affecting many of the people we met. Police buying their own weapons and armor in Romania, government employees moving back to subsidized housing when their paychecks took a 25% cut in 2010. Worrying signs for a country that should be extolling the benefits of EU membership.

Many of the large houses we passed in the countryside were also vacant. I was told that these houses were owned by Romanians or Bulgarians who were now working abroad in France or Germany. They send money home on a regular basis to build elaborate mansions in the countryside for their families to live in. The disgust with these houses was palpable. With options to invest more wisely in their home towns, the locals scoffed at the money wasted on these opulent homes. The disparity was sickening. It’s also hard to see how the money is going to filter back into these countries when the majority of income tax being charged is done so in the countries which the Bulgarians and Romanians are working. The psychological affect of all 20 somethings moving away from the country cannot be underestimated. The same is true in Japan and the US where many are seen migrating to the big cities to make higher wages. As a member of the EU, however, it drives those similarly minded people away from their country to find greener pastures in the west.

The fierce national pride that goes along with belonging to any one country also makes for a sticking point when it comes to distributing out the wealth of a nation. Why should Germany dole out money to Bulgaria? Why should France give a damn about Romania? Who cares if high paying and low paying jobs in Germany and France are being filled by other members of the EU. The cash was earned in those countries. Unlike a country where a single governing body with one national identity has sway over key monetary decisions, the EU will always be at odds with itself.

A few are thriving with the corporate giants who are taking advantage of the cheap salaries and IT savvy population. But I also heard just as many people suffering from corporate buyouts and factories being moved away. Car manufacturers, plastic producers, and more once had homes in Romania that employed hundreds, thousands of people who can no longer find jobs to match their skills.

The locals blame the politicians who they say are stuffing their own pockets and becoming rich by schmoozing with the foreign companies. At the expense of the locals of course. I hear time and again that the objectives and policies set by the politicians are too nearsighted. Each new deal is detracting from the foundation that was laid during the golden years of 2000 to 2007.

But all this negative talk led me to take a look at some rough figures on the web. The numbers don’t seem to match the stories I was hearing throughout both countries. GDP (PPP) has increased since 2007, but taking a dip like the rest of the world during the financial crisis. Unemployment rates are on the decline for the most part. A close look at the rates, however, shows that Romania’s rank compared to the rest of the world is dropping in 2010 and 2011. This seems to contradict the rising import and export numbers. Makes me wonder where all that money from this business is going. Our friend suffering the 25% pay cut in the government job may help explain how the public debt is dropping to all time lows.

The more I look at the numbers, the more it confuses me. From the outside looking in, it appears that Romania and Bulgaria are on the up and up and yet, when talking with the locals, I get this sinking feeling.

I’m rather uneducated when it comes to the foods of the world. It comes as no surprise that where my ignorance is greatest, stereotypes do their best to the fill the voids. My image of Romanian cooking was about as broad as an ant’s thorax. Stews? Tasteless meat? Potatoes? In some ways, yes, but the complexity and richness of Romanian cuisine makes my stereotypes look extraordinarily embarrassing. I couldn’t have been more pleased or delighted by the culinary delights awaiting me.

The culinary adventure started in Bucharest and concluded in Timisoara. From sausages made of game, savory soups, and desserts, I tasted a bit of everything. In Bucharest things got started with the covrigi. Locals line up outside bakeries with their treadmill ovens spitting out these scrumptious pretzels almost as fast they are snatched up from the baskets. The smell of the baking dough fills the streets and it’s not uncommon to see a woman or man up ahead of you ambling down the street with the a batch of five crovigis strung together with twine, steaming in the autumn air. Crispy on the outside and soft and chewy in the center, you’ll never go far in Bucharest without a crovigi stand.

Covrigi - hot, fresh, pretzels

While only a couple of days in Bucharest, we were also fortunate enough to indulge in papanash. Take everythig you’d to fatten up your arteries and combine it into one mega dessert. A combination of cream cheese, berry sauce, and a doughnut. Mr. Donuts and Dunkin Donuts should take note.

Papanasi. Creamy and delicious

Our next stop was Braov – a small outdoor lover’s paradise in the southern reaches of Transylvania. When Dracula wasn’t sinking his teeth into us, we were busy sinking ours into a wide variety of homemade foods. Our CS host once again played a big role in introducing us to the local specialties. A man who takes matters into his own hands, Catalin had ample quantities of homemade wine, soup, sausages, and palinka. The sausages were made from game (wild boar), hunted in the very hills surround downtown Brasov. As expected, the meat was a little tough, but the flavors rich and rewarding with each bite.

The perfect companion to these sausages was a short (or tall) glass of palinka. Palinka is a strong, strong vodka-like alcohol – ranging between 30 and 40 percent alcohol. Actually, that sounds pretty much like vodka. Locals are apt to consuming vast quantities and we bore witness to a few shockingly brazen drinking sessions during our stay in Romania. For a region that sees heavy snowfall in winter, the fire in the bottle is sometimes the preferred source of warmth. Certainly cheaper.

Shortly into our stay in Brasov, I succumbed to a fever of 39 degrees as was prescribed the household remedy of palinka with chilies. I was skeptical. The combination of spicy and flammable appeared to be too much for the viruses in my body, however. Within a day or two of drinking my first glass the fever lifted.

Palink! Does the body good!

Like moonshine in the mountains of Tennessee, palinka comes in many local varieties, although the taste seems to vary little for my unsophisticated tongue. Locals take pride in their palinka and the greatest differentiating factor from one bottle to the next appears to be the alcohol content. Some may tell you they can taste the apples, cherries, or plums, but the only true sensation is a burning one as it does down. Each distiller has their method for testing the alcohol content level, but my favorite was splashing a bit from the tap on the boiler, striking a match, and then seeing how many seconds it burns. Shorter the burn, the stronger the brew. Strikes me as interesting (read dangerous), considering some get drunk off the fumes filling the shed. Combustion anyone?

Recovering from the fever with my palinka and chili took me into Romanian soups. The only liquid more prevalent in Romania than palinka must be soups. You don’t have to limit to children ages 11 and older either. Tomato based, stewed, clear, you couldn’t go a meal in Romania without sampling the local soup. I even heard of a Russian who loved his soup so much that he would go to a soup stall before going to another stall for his main meal. Our couch surfing host topped the list with the most delicious soup in Romania that we ate. A tomato-based soup simmered slowly for hours and reused day after day, the delicious broth was rich, deep, and full of flavor. A slice of bread from the local bakery and a big bowl of soup was all you needed for a first course or even the meal. Talk about delicious fast food.

Ciorba, or sour soup, is found throughout Romania. According to wikipedia, the differentiating factor between soup and ciorba is the use of sour (acidic) ingredients (lemons, sauerkraut juice, etc) and various other ingredients. Conversely, clear soups are just that, a simple broth with few veggies or other ingredients. Our host’s soup included meatballs and tons of vegetables. The oil from the meat beaded on the surface and filled every spoonful with fatty goodness. The beauty of the soup is that it is timeless and 3 weeks into our time in Romania, it became as essential to the meal as rice is to Japanese food.

A little soup to accompany Hisako's main dish

Soup was definitely a highlight, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that not everything we ate sat well with us. For me that lowlight was mamaliga (polenta). A corn based paste that sits somewhere between bread and porridge, it comes off as rather bland and tasteless. I guess the same thing could be said for rice or potatoes. It was served as a main meal, however, with cream, yogurt, or cheese mixed in. I think it’s one of those tastes that you acquire when growing up in Romania.

Not my favorite... mamaliga

While on the subject of main courses, let’s get back to one that hit the jackpot. During our second day in Brasov a friend came over to hang out and do some cooking. She had been preparing the meal for some time at home already and brought over a pot that was already smelling good. We took a peek inside and saw a bunch of cabbage leaves. A little closer examination showed they were all wrapped up in cylinders, like eggrolls. Ah! Cabbage rolls, otherwise known as sarmale in Romania. Stuffed with the usual ingredients, pork, onions, etc the sarmale was extremely popular and disappeared quickly.

Cabbage rolls - sarmale

Moving north from Brasov we went to the land of the peasants. One of the oldest, surviving peasant cultures in Europe, the area north of Baia Mare is a mix of wooden churches, ramshackle towns, and fat hogs just before Christmas. While we didn’t participate in any feasts with the peasants, we had many great meals with our CS host. In addition to her extremely generous drives around the countryside she showed us how the Romanians up north do pizza pie. It took me a second to get my head around the fact that we were ordering a cheese pizza and a apple pie pizza. But when the pies arrived, I understood. A rather flaky crust with a pocket in the center, it resembled an over-sized pita. Cheese sprinkled on top and baked in the pouch for the cheese pizza and cinnamon and sugar on top and apples in the middle for the apple pizza pie. Needless to say, it was delicious.

Not your typical pizza pies

Rounding out our little tour of Romanian cuisine, I have to include something that is hardly a Romanian specialty, but is a fond memory of mind. The very last city we stayed in was the college and industrial town of Timisoara. Our host was an avid music lover and invited the two of us to tag along with him and his friend to a concert in the mountians. It was going to be a long drive up and back so we prepared some grilled cheese sandwiches for the road. Our host had one of those sandwich presses that clamps down on two slices of toast and whatever you’ve got thrown in between. When you raise the cast-iron plates, a pair of golden, crispy triangles are sitting there waiting for you. Still groggy from a hefty bit of traveling and drinking the day before, Hisako and I wok to the smell of cheese toasting. Someone should an invent an alarm clock that does that. I think he must have gone through a loaf and a half before we started packing them into bags for the trip. I can remember munching on the tasty mosels in the car, on the walk to the cave, and the again in earnest when we picnicked. By the time we headed home I was stuffed like sandwiches, with cheese.

Stuffing ourselves with cheese stuffed sandwiches

Whether it was the one-bite wonders in Timisoara or the slow cooked meals in Brasov, Romania was a surprise to our culinary senses. You can bet that I’ll be searching out places in Tokyo to help rediscover the aromas and memories wafting out of a good ciobra.

Heavily forested woods surround us on all sides. The air is cool and crisp with the leaves turning to match the fires burning in the hearths on autumn evenings. The ground beneath our hiking boots tries desperately to foil our scientifically engineered treads, failing. Most of the time. A certain stillness fills the air, focusing our senses so that each crunch of leaves and rustle of twigs slices through the air. Gazing up into the canopy above, a sparkling light filters down through a multitude of shapes and colors, a kaleidoscope.

Fall colors on the mountain sides of Brasov

Keeping my sight on the trail ahead is difficult thanks to the natural beauty all around me. Winding along the contours of the valley near Brasov, the trails makes its way from one hamlet to another. Over the mountains and through the woods. The occasional hiker passes us from behind or in the opposite direction. For the most part, silence.

Intermittent breaks in the forest offer up vistas of the surrounding valley and a few distant peaks. Perfect for skiing I’m told. October is too early to be perusing the slopes so a few hikes and bus rides will suffice to satiate my mountain vista lust. I’d just as much love to be hiking to a summit as walking through these autumn colors.

Hisako and I always have this debate. Why climb mountains? Well, “to conquer them,” I say. That rarely has any persuasive power. “To use as an analogy for life,” I’ll follow up with a slightly improved affect. The trust is, I can’t really say why I enjoy the scaling of a mountain. My knees don’t appreciate it. Anything over 3000m has a good chance of giving me a splitting headache. Back and shoulders ache for days after hauling heavy loads up and down the hillsides. These are the physical discomforts that I try and bear with each ascent. The reward? A spectacular view over soaring mountain peaks, meandering valleys, and crystal clear skies. Or…. a blank white canvas. The rock I just stumbled over catching me by surprise in the white fog.

Hisako gets artistic with the foliage

For the moments when the weather cooperates and so does my body, the reward for me is the journey up the mountain. Each step a chance to focus on my sensations and feel one with everything around me. It’s the solitude. It’s the humility. After the challenging day, days, or weeks it takes to ascend I always feel refreshed and invigorated. A challenge isn’t always what I’m looking for, but it tends to be the most rewarding. Something about pushing myself physically has the dual affect of boosting me mentally. I enjoy a meditative walk as much as the next yogi, but a good physical outing helps me push those barriers and focus. Like students of meditation sitting for 5 hours straight because the say the pain in their back gives them a point to focus their thoughts on. A chance to summit with big, sweeping vistas is just the cherry on top. The climb provides me with time to focus and perform my own type of meditation. This is the real reward.

I’m not climbing mountains today, however, and far below the peaks in the valleys and stretching up the slopes are the thick forests. That’s where Hisako and I find ourselves. From the majestic to the miniscule, the forest offers up all kinds of nuances to lose yourself in. A different kind of mediation. I pause during our walk to snap a picture of the canopy covered trail, smothered in color from floor to ceiling. Up ahead Hisako has discovered a huge, white umbrella mushroom. Poking its head out of the fallen foliage. I close in for a shot, but Hisako urges me to get down on my hands and knees so that frills are looking as large as tree trunks. Pulling back I listen to the emptiness of our surrounding and can almost hear that mushroom pushing back the leaves.

Some beautiful, delicious looking fungi

20 to 30 minutes later the trail starts to climb a bit higher into the hills and a break in the forest give us great views of the villages down in the valley as well as some distant peaks , peering over a far ridge at us. Tempting me. A stream can be heard tumbling its way down the ravine nearby. We continue along the contour until we get to the stream. It always surprises me how much sound can emit from such a small trickle of water. The stream doesn’t even need a stepping stone to cross it, just one large stride. Yet, we’ve been hearing it for the past 10 minutes. I was expecting something much larger.

Another analogy for life? Expect the unexpected?

The clear water gurgles and playfully splashes us. Carrying crimson leaves to the valley below with aggravating ease. If only we could get back so easily and swiftly say my knees. We linger here for some time, soaking up the sounds.

Rustle. Crash. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Silence.

My heart has dislocated and is now sitting somewhere in my throat. I look over at Hisako who is staring wide-eyed at a pair of wild boars across the stream from us. The boars stare wild-eyed back at us. I can’t tell who is more spooked. It’s a standoff that must have lasted only seconds, but seems like minutes. Should we back away? Are we a threat? Can I protect us? Am I going to piss my pants if they charge? I can’t read the boars little eyes behind those long, sharp tusks. I just stand there. So does Hisako.

What's out there?

Nature apparently knows what to do and the two boars crash back into the wilderness. Certainly not a scary encounter for anyone from Brasov, probably looked at as a good opportunity for making sausages, but our heart rate stays high on adrenaline. Finally, our hearts slow about the time we drop out of the hills and back into civilization.

Glad to be back after our little walk in the woods

We both sigh and feel relieved to be surrounded by humans. Away from the threat of nature. It wasn’t without some trepidation that we made our way into those woods to begin with. Large signs and tales from our CS host warned us of the black bears of Brasov. Those bears have caused a few fatalities over the years. We had expected the worst when the boars came crashing through. Unprovoked there was probably no real danger to us out there, but I’m very glad there wasn’t a snout, beady eyes, and four legged giant mammal staring at us from across the river.

This puts me into a difficult position. On one hand I’m a lover of nature with all its beauty. But it only takes a split second of confrontation to make me run for cover to the nearest human settlement. A part of me wants nature to be like a roller coaster – controlled, thrilling, but safe. Keep those “when nature attacks” moments for Fox and the Nat Geo channel. This may be the thing that most perplexes Hisako about mountaineering, which certainly has its share of dangers. Why seek the dangerous in order to focus your thoughts when you could meditate in the comfort of your own living room or push yourself physically with something like dance? For me, I think it’s nature’s beauty that keeps me coming back and the changing backdrop for my thoughts that keeps me excited. Pushing myself while staring at the bottom of a pool while doing the crawl or planting my face on a yoga mat just doesn’t seem to have the same appeal. As for danger? I probably put myself in equal or greater danger every time I get into a car.

While my desire to get out into the wild was put on hold for a brief time after the boar incident, I’m please to report that I’ve gotten back to my blissfully meditative walks through the woods. The lure of the grand peaks, noisy brooks, and vibrant leaves will always be worth a stare down or two.

Chowing down on some sausages (wild boar)...

Behind the Scenes

Brasov is a picturesque town in the southern part of Transylvania in Romania. Just 30 minutes from Bran (notorious for Dracula) and surrounded by beautiful mountains. The historic downtown is a pleasure to walk through, with one of the oldest schools in Romania as well.

Hiking and skiing is very popular in the region. If we get the chance, someday I’d love to head back there for a vacation. German bakeries in the downtown, it would be easy and relaxing to pass the days.

The warnings regarding bears in the region are very real as these youtube videos can attest to. Try to avoid the mistake that some idiot travelers and locals make. Trying to get in close for a picture or taking pictures at all. Hence the reason for no shots of the wild boars.

Bear in Brasov
City Bears – Brasov – Romanian Town – Romania

Something happened when we signed up for couch surfing. Even before our first experience in Europe, something changed in our philosophy towards travel and people. It was as if our world was being turned inside out. The compass was doing an about face. Our new direction was steering us straight ahead towards humanity.

I could feel it as soon as we clambered off the bus in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. After half a year of travel ranging from the peaks of Patagonia to the depth so of the Red Sea and through the bazaars of Istanbul, you’d think I would have been used to seeing humanity in a different light at this point. But it wasn’t until our couch surfing request box was brimming over with accepted requests that I began to see the warm and generous hearts of so many people. Complete strangers.

Standing there, fresh off the bus and still shivering from our 2:00am border crossing in the rain, I looked around helplessly at the Cyrillic on what I assumed was the bus timetable. The clock (thankfully not in Cyrillic) read 5:00am and all the windows of the attendants at the bus station were shuttered. I longed for anyone to give us a hint as to where we could catch the bus to Veliko Tarnovo. I exchanged smiles with a young man nearby and asked if he knew.

My Bulgarian is nonexistent, but he spoke just enough English to understand me and let me know he had no idea regarding the bus. But his open nature seemed to reaffirm those feelings I was getting from the CS requests. Without anyone else in the lobby, a sleep mixed with haphazard Cyrillic study passed the hours.

Finally, the dark sky had lightened and my eyes flew open at the sounds of shutters rattling. Hisako gave me a little nudge and I went up to the window to ask if they knew where buses to Veliko were leaving from. Once again, I was treated kindly and given only a smidgen of information. “Down the street,” she said, so that’s where we headed.

I took us some time, but we eventually found the bus stand that would take us to the other side of town. A nice lady at a small kiosk, through a mixture of English and body language, told us where and when the bus was leaving from. She also sold coffee, which was a godsend. Another smile, another encounter.

The lack of any means to communicate or even read was really sinking in as we arrived at our second bus station of the morning. As much as this was making me anxious, the kindness of strangers was conversely uplifting. Unfortunately, we missed the early bus to Veliko by only a few minutes, but that gave us several hours to plod around Plovdiv.

The central area was walking distance from the bus station so we made a go of it. It took longer than expected. On our way we passed large, concrete apartment blocks, dilapidated buildings, and remnants of an era gone by. The overcast sky and slight chill painted a stark picture. Still, we forged ahead to see more of the wonderful people we had met so far.

As we stood gazing at the old mosque in the center of town we were greeted by an elderly man. He spoke to us in fluent English and proceeded to talk about the mosque’s history and his own. A concert violinist and concert master. It blew me away. We chatted for some minute before he darted off, wishing us well and us him.

The decrescendo of his footsteps barely faded from our ears when a younger voice took us by surprise from behind us. This time, a young man in what looked like the latest in Brooks Brother’s apparel started pelting us with question after question. We took the question in stride and answered them calmly, but feeling slightly on edge after being confronted by a complete stranger for the second time in a matter of minutes. Scams, thieves, and dire warnings from travel books and travelers were racing through my head, making me wonder if I should trust these people. My thoughts always came back to the invitations to stay in a stranger’s house and relaxed my nerves.

Travel is always about opening your mind and starting with Bulgaria the two of us were quickly beginning to understand that it means opening your heart as well. Only a few hours in Bulgaria and already the dynamic relationships with strangers was steering our adventures in exciting and new directions. All of these chance encounters (and a few planned ones) with people I may never see again, were making me reminisce on my own interactions with strangers in Japan and how I might add a new and exciting twist to their adventures with a simple 1 minute conversation or a restaurant recommendation.

I was slowly learning an important lesson in learning to trust in others and letting the wings of fate take me for a ride. There’s a good change that strangers will take you on a ride you won’t forget.

Early morning. 2:00am early morning. A slight drizzle and I’m standing outside the border guards house shivering. Tonight we cross from the East into the West – Turkey to Bulgaria. It’s exactly as I would have imagined it. Cold, rainy, gray eastern Europe.

After an hour or more mingling around we get back on the bus and finish off our journey by arriving in Veliko Tarnovo sometime in the late afternoon. It feels late because the sun is quickly setting, but a glance at the watch reveals it’s only 3:45pm. The northern latitudes in which Bulgaria sits has taken me by surprise and means we’re going to have short days until our flight to Cape Town.

Veliko holds a special treat for us, it will be our first attempt at couch surfing since our experience way back in Bolivia. In fact, due to shrinking savings we’ve got couches lined up for our entire stay in Bulgaria and Romania. It’s a leap of faith and I’m nervous about what all these strangers have in store for us. Do we trust them? Do we have to bring gifts? Will they like us or will we like them? Turns out my worries are completely unnecessary.

Day one of our couch surfing adventure is with a Bulgarian student and his Belgian flatmate. The excitement doesn’t stop from the moment we come through the door. Finding the door was an adventure in itself. Hristo, our host, told us his apartment is on floor 2 or 5 depending on what door you come in. I was expecting some kind of Harry Potter magic and us roaming various floors looking for floor 9 and 3/4. While we manage to bang on a few wrong doors, and push more incorrect doorbells, our persistence wins out and we make it “home”.

Both hosts are out when we arrive and we’re surprised to be greeted by a Dutch guy who is also couch surfing. And he’s not alone. A Dutch girl, a Hong Kong girl, and two Israelis are also staying the night. No less than 7 couch surfers in one apartment with two existing tenants for the night! It feels more like a hostel, but no one is paying. The Israeli girls are off playing volleyball with our Bulgarian host and are scheduled to cook up some shakshuka for dinner (a wonderful egg and tomato dish soaked up with bread). The conversation between the 5 present surfers flows easily and we exchange the usual stories of where everyone’s been and getting to know each other.

An hour or two later the Belgian host arrives home and then several more before the Bulgarian one appears. By that time, the couch surfers are well acquainted and sharing laughs and beers. The atmosphere is extremely relaxed and becomes energized with Hristo’s arrival. Immediately it’s on to more drinking, music, and introductions all over again. The Israeli girls make their way to the kitchen to start up dinner and with the aromas of the kitchen mingling with the conversation in the air, I’m thinking, why didn’t we do this sooner?