we were in the process of putting up tents when an guy from a nearby house
came up to us. we thought we might be in trouble, so started trying to say
the people from the shop said we could camp there. he didnt speak
english, but lead us to his hay barn and arranged the bales so we could
sleep there. when we tried asking if it was ok to light a fire he led us
to his house and in his little kitchen and showed us the gas cooker and
all his pots and knives. he got water from his well for us and gave us
tomatoes he grew in his garden. it was really amazing his kindness, and
was great to sit and eat in one of the houses we had been passing. and
sleeping 3 in a row in the hay barn was really funny. since then another
guy we asked for water gave us home grown tomatoes and peppers from his
garden and refused payment.Since i wrote that last installment we have experienced lots of offers of places to camp and food! I knew within a few hours of crossing the border into Romania that i really liked it. The road that led us from Hungary to Baia Mare had more horse and carts on it than cars, and all the people we encountered were really friendly, even through the language barrier.
From Baia Mare we cycled over the Neteda Pass which curves its way over the mountains, reaching over 1000 metres, and down the other side towards Sighet. With the mountains still looming behind us we reached an area called the Maramures, which is said to be virtually unchanged for about 200 years. The villages we passed through definitely had a character that differed from the previous part of Romania. The houses were all made from wood, many with intricately carved doors and gateways. Even the roofs were tiled with small wooden tiles. Some had sticks in the garden with brightly coloured pots, cups and jugs hanging from them. Unfortunately my camera batteries were dead, so i didnt get any pictures...bummer!
We stopped for a morning coffee at a cute little place that comprised a shop, bar and coffee shop, and seemed to be the social hub of the village. The head-scarved women were drinking coffee inside whilst the men sat outside drinking beer. We three girls broke with convention and sat outside with coffees, where we had a view of the mountains we had crossed.
After cyclng though many more villages we reached the town of Sighetu Marmatiei where we found a bike shop and got a new set of pedals for Claire since one of hers was falling apart.
We thought it was a bit odd that the town was full of cycle tourists, and when we got chatting to some of them outside the museum we realised why. All the little groups of cyclists we had been seeing all day were part of the 40 strong Baltic Cyclists group, who were pedaling from Brussels to Cypress. They were heading the opposite direction to us, but we decided we would back track 30km to the campsite they had arranged so we could chat some more and go through the cool villages again.
The museum in Sighet, as well as having a very long name "The Memorial of the Victims of Communism and of the Resistance in Sighet", was interesting and sobering. It is housed in a former prison where 100's of former ministers, academics, journalists, students, peasants and priests were incarcerated in dreadful conditions. As a visitor you walk the corridor and go inside each cell where there is displayed artifacts and information about the prison, the prisoners and life in Romania under communist dictatorship. Despite all the information being in Romanian the photos, objects and English guide sheet helped us get the gist. Conditions were inhumane, with prisoners forbiden even to sit down during the day, or to look out of the window. At this prison by 1955, 54 out of 200 prisoners had died. Romania under Communism was a violent police state.
One particularly moving item on display was the bandage on which a prisoner had elaborately embroidered poetry in secret in a bid to make his life more bearable. One of the aims of the museum was to make available Romamian history, that had been falsified for more than half a century under communism.
After the museum we headed to the campsite and spent an evening sharing cycling stories with the Baltic Cyclists, and challanged the logic of some sexist but friendly Lithuanian men who thought it was not possible for women to travel without a male escort!
The next morning we took a "swim" in the campsite pool...this was no ordinary pool though, but one filled with really salty water. i never before had experienced the hilarity of bobbing about suspended by the water like an inflatable. Very strange. We got in and immediately all three of us couldnt stop laughing.
We were on the brink of leaving when i realised i had lost my bike lock key. Disaster! After eventually locating it in my sleeping bag we headed back towards Sighet, stopping at a cool local market and buying Palinka (homemade plum spirit...paint stripper strength!) off an old lady.
Sapanta was the next stop on our itinery, home to an unusual and colourful
graveyard known as the Merry Cemetery. Each grave stone is a brightly
coloured wooden cross, onto which a picture and poem are etched, giving an
insight into the persons life or death. We unfortunately couldn't
understand the poems but looked at the engraved pictures of several car
crashes, a priest on a bike, a two timing wife, an adulterous husband and
many weavers, tractor drivers and drinkers.The next day we made short work of another mountain pass, and i made use of the convieniently located phone box on top of the mountain to phone mum and dad and say "im on top of a mountain in a phone box!". Descending the other side we passed rows of brand new and partially built houses that seemed to be competing for the OTT bad taste awards. I'm talking cherubs moulded onto every wall, pseudo corinthian columns holding up massive porches and balconies and golden fences. A world away from the Maramures just 100 km back over the hill.
After a lengthy nightmarish detour down a busy dusty road we arrived at the lake we had scoped out on the map. It didn't look like a perfect camping spot...loads of people around fishing, and houses really close. We checked with a local family it was ok to camp there (in italian!?) and got the tents set up, with the fishermen looking on curiously. It turned out to be a perfect camping spot...we got given milk still warm from the cow, beer, firewood, an umbrella when it rained and a still wriggling fish! The rain was still coming down the next day so we stayed put till the afternoon, but then left anyway cos it wasnt stopping.
We were less than 20km from the Ukrainian border but decided to spend another night in Romania and cross the next day. The problem was that there was nowhere good to camp. We backtracked away from the border, still not finding a place, until we took a small track leading to a tiny village in the distance.
Here at the shop/bar we were at first met by giggles (it happens a lot!), and the only-english-speaker-in-the-village was summoned. We set up camp where he suggested, but then were invited to traditional hungarian goulash (they were hungarian romanians) by his family, and also given a room in their house. Wow! After being served hot goulash (we ate around the meat!) we decamped to the bar shop, owned by our hosts and drank beers and various spirits with them and their farm workers.
The evening didn't end there either. Intrigued by what a Romanian disco might be like we accepted an offer by the young farm workers to take us to experience some nearby nightlife. As it turned out we still don't know cos after a few more drinks in a bar in the nearby small town we were feeling a bit worse for wear. The guys kindly delivered us back to our families house.
And the drunken adventure didn't end there...!
In the morning nursing hangovers and packing away our stuff we were once again summoned to the bar. This time to meet some more english speaking Romanian Hungarians who had just returned from an all night fishing trip. One of them, Attilla, had spent time in Canada studying the art of grapes and wine making. They invited us to their vineyard cottage for lunch, where we drank more beer and Attilla's homemade grape spirit. By the time lunch had been prepared on the open fire me and Saskia were in a drunken sleep so Claire was the only one who made it to the lunch table. Apparently Attilla was also worse for wear, standing on the table and falling off his chair.
We also met the local Catholic priest who spoke good english, having also spent time in Canada. He had some "interesting" theories about the Ukrainian people, explaining that many years of Communist rule means that stealing is now in their blood. Not the first time we've encountered racism against Ukrainians and Russians disguised as concern for our safety.
As well as providing us alcohol, food and good company the guys also called their "contact" at the border to ensure our smooth passage into the Ukraine. Pretty useful and probably saved us making a bribe, which many people have to do.
Sometime around mid afternoon we wobbled off on our bikes to meet Janos (the Hungarian Hungarian from Budapest), and cross the border into Ukraine.
