The "Friendship" Train of the Soviet Era

Photo: Vlad Ispas

An Internet vlogger named Noel posted a video of his trip on the “Prietenie” (Friendship) line, a Soviet era train, connecting from Bucuresti, Romania, to Chisinau, Republic of Moldova. He was excited to travel in the first class, Soviet-era style car, on a 13-hour overnight ride that involved changing the wheels on each train car before the Moldovan border, as their tracks were not the same size as the European ones, they were wider. He had hoped that wider train wheels would translate into a smoother ride across the border into Chisinau, but that was not the case.

The vlogger is overly enthusiastic about the prospect of traveling in Soviet-era comfort, just as he was thrilled, in a previous video, about his stay in a five-star hotel in Moscow, hotel reserved for Soviet and world dignitaries, such as the dictator Stalin and the Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. He was so ecstatic about staying in such a historical place, that he propped up his socked feet on the desk where Stalin allegedly signed important documents. I cannot say that I share the vlogger’s enthusiasm about Stalin, a killer of his own people.

Noel arrived at Gara de Nord in Bucharest, a very familiar place to me, having spent two years of my young adult life there during my daily commute to college, to and from my hometown of Ploiesti to the capital, Bucuresti, arriving and departing from Gara de Nord.

Seeing my old stomping grounds, I was overcome by an intense sadness and the tears of distress flowed. The place had not changed much since those two years of my youth, it only looked cleaner.

Noel boarded a very familiar-looking train, sporting a fresh coat of blue paint, but the same interior, albeit it much cleaner compared to long ago, with brocade drapes and worn-out carpets, something that second class train cars in the Soviet era did not have.

The W.C. (water closet) had the same stainless-steel commodes and sinks but so much cleaner than I remembered them. The daily commuters tried hard not to use the bathrooms on the train, we knew how disgusting they were. We just held our bladders for one hour or more until we reached Gara de Nord where we could use their facilities, a little bit cleaner, but quite smelly.

During my two years of commute to the university via the train and then the tram, I made lots of friends who either rode the train to work or to school like me – a railroad administrator, an ophthalmologist, college students, future architects, linguists, engineers, teachers, mechanics working for the railway system, a few doctors who were party-connected and lucky to practice medicine in the capital, a couple of theater actors, a ballet dancer, and my English college teacher who always said that I did not take her class seriously enough and nothing good will ever become of me.

We took the train daily at 5:35 a.m. and returned in mid- or late afternoon when classes were over, or work shifts ended. Late commuters sometimes jumped on the train as it started to move. Once I did the same, not realizing that the metal bars were iced over, and my hands would slip; I would have certainly fallen under the tracks had it not been for a quick and smart man who grabbed my coat collar and pulled me inside the train. That moment had been etched into my memory forever and it flashes through my mind from time to time.

Each morning, we were all sleepy, bleary eyed, standing and crowded in the dirty hallways, the seats were always occupied from the previous stations, packed like sardines in a can, looking through dirty windows at the passing landscape. We swayed back and forth as a single body as the train stopped and started abruptly after each station.

The controller would push his way through, squeezing this mass of humanity huddling in the hallways, to check for tickets or monthly passes. The tickets, although subsidized by the communist government running the country, were not cheap. My mom and dad struggled to pay for my monthly “abonament” (pass). And the train did not exhibit any of the “luxury” the vlogger encountered on the Moldova train.

Noel’s destination, the Republic of Moldova, formerly part of USSR, was carved out of Romania by the Soviets after WWII as war reparations. A large majority of inhabitants of Moldova are Romanians from the state of Moldova in the eastern part of Romania, who speak Romanian at home.

The vlogger was unhappy about his accommodation on the first-class train from the Soviet era – the bed was too uncomfortable, the ride very bumpy, and punctuated by constant jarring of stop and go, resulting in 13 hours of misery and inability to sleep. Everything was spartan and minimal but clean.

And our American Millennials, Generation Z, and others want socialism/communism instead of capitalism. Be careful what you wish for, you might get years of misery in your “utopia,” thinking about our National Anthem and the Pledge of Allegiance you protested against and bent the knee against at sports events.

 

An American in Cluj

“Bucura-te, Tara scumpa, imbracata de parada,
Ca, din alte tari straine, vin prieteni sa te vada!     -  Vasile Militaru, 1936

Our paths have crossed years ago at the Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science, a residential school in Columbus, dedicated to gifted students from around the state who wanted to be challenged by an enhanced curriculum and by the combined expertise of teachers with doctorates in their respective fields.

His interest was not necessarily math and science, Darius Roby loved foreign languages and the wonderful programs offered there by two foreign women, who taught five different languages. His mentor was my colleague, a very inspiring and entertaining teacher from Venezuela, who supplied their fantasies with stories of world travel, especially France, and mysterious places. Her enthusiasm was contagious!

Darius was born in a town close to the Mississippi Delta, a poor region left behind by its own making but rich in culture and music; it is “dotted by antebellum homes and destitute black communities,” as Darius wrote. He described the poverty as self-inflicted by people who “live hopelessly chasing the Pie in the Sky that democrat candidates always promise them and never deliver.”

But his ancestors lived over the past two hundred years in the “Red Clay Hills” area where “Appalachia begins, more ethnically mixed,” where great cotton plantations give way to more forested and hilly regions where small farmers grow crops like corn.

Darius pursued International Studies (Social and Cultural Identity) at Ole Miss and, after graduation in 2010, decided to make good on the promise to see the places that he had spent years reading about in his history books. Europe to him was not just France, Great Britain, Spain, Italy, or Germany; it was Eastern Europe as well with its long history dating back to the Roman Empire. He wanted to see where the “backwoods gravel roads led to and what was on the other side of the hill,” so he chose Romania to study at Babes-Bolyai in Cluj, the Faculty of European Studies.

It did not take long for Darius to fall in love with Romania - discovering her beauty was curiosity, enchantment, and serendipity. On his semester abroad in France in 2009, he decided to visit Moldova but had to spend one day in Bucharest because his connecting flight to Chisinau was canceled. A year later he found himself in Bucharest and, instead of hopping on a flight to Cluj, he decided to take the long route by train, the trip of a lifetime.

“The grey, rather depressing communist architecture around Bucharest’s Gara de Nord [northern railway station], the farms of the Wallachian Plain, the smell of petroleum and heavy industry in Ploiesti, seeing the Carpathian Mountains for the first time and instantly falling in love; passing Brasov and getting my first glimpse of Transylvania was a special moment – seeing little villages that would do any postcard justice, shepherds in cojocs standing on the hills watching over their flock, and familiarizing myself with the new names whenever the train would stop: Sighisoara, Medias, and Campia Turzii.”

Arriving in Cluj by taxi, passing by the old synagogue, the Roman Catholic cathedral, Darius marveled at the Hapsburg architecture, so different from the Wallachian architecture, Darius knew he was in for a fascinating adventure.

Learning Romanian seemed easy to Darius after having spent seven years studying French and two years Russian, but remained a “source of grief.” While the French congratulated him when he spoke French to them, even though he made mistakes, punctilious Romanians made sure to correct him or switched to English every time he made errors. Darius understood first hand that education socialist style was not the feel good, let-me-give-you-a-trophy-for-trying American style education, but it was based strictly on merit and achievement, impatient, you can either do it or you don’t, and much too harsh for westerners.

He met Romanians who lectured him on how Romanian is a Latin language and he should not make certain mistakes. There was so much pride in their language that a Westerner could easily mistake good intentions of perfection for arrogance.

But Romanians are friendly, warm, and kind, ready to offer comfort to someone in need, and very forgiving.  Darius discovered that “Romanians truly appreciated the small things in life because they were not spoiled by them. They might go about their business with frowns on their faces but they will go to the moon and back for you once you become a part of their circle of loved ones.”

Small things in life were lived and appreciated more, Darius discovered.  After four to five months of cold winter, when most fruits were hard to find, it was a special treat to find new potatoes in spring, cartofi noi, or late summer plums, prune.  

When the snow has barely melted on the ground, it is heart-warming to celebrate “Martisor” on March 1, pinning a symbol of spring tied with a red and white string on a favorite girl’s lapel.

He quickly discovered that Romania is a “bureaucratic paradise” and cultural rules of etiquette are quite different. While filling out paperwork for residence permit, for school, and other documents, carrying bags and books, Darius used his foot to shut the door to the health clinic. That simple act of necessity in America earned him a rebuke from the doctor who yelled at him that he disrespected her by closing the door improperly.

Upon finishing his M.A. in July 2012, Darius was offered a job as Chief Editor for the English and French pages of “Clujul Vazut Altfel,” an NGO that promotes the cultural, historic, and touristic attractions in the region as well as the ethnographic value of Cluj County and Transylvania. The salary is nothing compared to what he could make in the United States, but his work brings him a sense of contentment not unlike the Romanian joie de vivre.

“Clujul Vazut Altfel” organizes excursions to villages and cultural sights in the surrounding areas, a wonderful educational experience worth far more than many boring days in the classroom. www.en.cluj.com

Romania is a gem of history, its cultural, historical, and natural wonders are truly breathtaking. “Almost every village has its own treasures – from Roman castra found in the middle of a cow pasture and fortresses that once defended medieval Moldova from the Turks, to waterfalls with stories that have long ago passed into legend. Six years have not been long enough to discover them all - I do not think that a lifetime would suffice.”

NOTE

Darius Roby’s travel blogs can be found at the following links:

http://uatoday.tv/opinion/bakota-the-place-that-no-longer-exists-on-maps-473638.html
http://www.moldova.org/along-lesser-traveled-roads-trip-to-moldova-part-one/
http://www.moldova.org/along-lesser-traveled-roads-trip-to-moldova-fortress-soroca-part-two/
http://en.cluj.com/rosia-montana-where-history-and-industry-meet-progress-and-conservation/
http://www.moldova.org/darius-roby-orheiul-vechi-a-window-on-the-past-2/

 

 

 

 

The Romanian Tradition of "Mucenici"

The 40 Martyrs (Mucenici)
Photo: Wikipedia

The celebration of spring in Romania starts on March 9 through April 23. It coincides with the Orthodox tradition honoring the forty martyred Saints (Mucenici) at Lake Sevastia. The forty Saints were Christian soldiers employed by the pagan Roman Emperor Licinius around 320 A.D. The governor of Armenia, Agricola, who found out about their faith, forced them to pray to his pagan gods. Because they refused and did not give up their Christian faith, the forty soldiers were jailed for eight days, stoned, and finally sentenced to death by freezing in Lake Sevastia.  During the night, the lake warmed miraculously, the ice melted, and forty crowns of light descended from Heaven above the soldiers. Taken alive from the lake in the morning, the emperor crushed their feet and left them to die.  Their remains were burned and their ashes were thrown into the lake. http://www.romaniajournal.ro/march-9-the-romanian-tradition-of-the-40-martyrs/

The folklorist Simion Florea Marian described the legend from Fratautul Vechi, Moldova, which actually mentions forty-four Saints, the exact number of days between March 9 and April 23.
In honor of their sacrifice, the Orthodox Church celebrates the forty Saints with special sermons across the country and the tradition of a special food called “mucenici.” March 9 coincides with the beginning of spring when all rural communities bring the plow out which is repaired by the village blacksmith, cleaned and purified by fire, while the farmers decide when and how they are going to start breaking ground for seeding the soil. Plows are then placed in front of each house, declaring the beginning of the agricultural season open.

"Macinici" as Mom prepared them
Photo: Wikipedia

In southern Romania named Muntenia, where I was born and raised, women cook dough dumplings cut into shapes of eight and boiled in syrup with nuts, sugar, and cinnamon. Mom gave away “mucenici” or “macinici” for the souls of the dead while others did it as prayers for an abundant harvest. Women from the regions of Moldova, Dobrogea, and Banat bake “mucenici” pastries in the shape of eight in the oven and serve them with honey and ground nuts. According to Ramona Ciortescu, the regions of Maramures and Crisana do not celebrate “mucenici.” Why the shape of eight? Perhaps it is a reminder of the eight days of jail and a stylized shape of the human form of those forty martyrs who died for their Christian faith.

Baked "mucenici"
Photo: Wikipedia

Rural secular superstitions intertwine with Christianity, celebrating the end of “old ladies” capricious and cold winter days and welcoming the warmer and fertile spring days of “old men.” Around the country rituals of chasing winter and frigid days away abound -- striking the ground with sticks, repeating incantation verses, and a peculiar children’s game of jumping over fires, a symbol of purification. To this day, my Mom has a scar on her right leg with snow-white hair, when she burned herself as a child jumping over such a superstitious fire ritual.
Copyright: Ileana Johnson 2015

 

 

 

A Cow, Wisdom, and Economics

I have always learned from the wisdom of my senior generation. As a child, I sat spellbound in the twilight around the elders of the village, listening to their stories. The lessons learned were priceless and fascinating for someone who “had not seen the world yet.” The moral of those long ago and faraway sagas have served me well through life.

I was delighted when, Ionel Iloae, a Romanian journalist, told a humorous story, albeit dark humor, of an entire village in Dragata, Moldova, who ate a “mad” cow. He was not talking about mad cow disease or Creutzfeldt-Jakob syndrome, but a cow that had been bitten by a rabid animal, presumably a fox.

The drama started with a family’s cow breaking a window and exhibiting the strange behavior of kicking the walls of the barn. Frightened, the Chiriacs called in the veterinarian, Robert Ciubotaru. After the cow was immobilized, the vet took blood samples and warned the family to stay away, as he was suspecting that the cow was infected with rabies.

The rabies virus is a neurotropic virus that causes fatal disease in humans and animals, the transmission occurring through saliva, hence the speculation that the cow had been bitten by an already infected animal.

A cow is a very precious and lucrative commodity on a farm. Why let such an opportunity go to waste? The wife decided to slaughter the animal before it expired, cook part of it for her family, and sell the rest to the village for 10 lei a kilogram. Word spread like wildfire and the villagers came in droves to buy fresh meat sold so much cheaper than the going price. Some, who left empty-handed and disappointed when the meat ran out, did not realize how lucky they were.

By sun down, Elena Chiriac sold all the beef, about 200 kilos. The village police officer bought some but the mayor left disappointed. People all over the village had a feast and enjoyed their fresh beef. Elena cooked the liver immediately - it was her favorite dish.

The next morning, the results of the blood test came in. The cow was rabid and everybody had to turn in the meat bought the previous day. A large hole was dug up, the leftover meat was thrown in with a good dose of diesel and a fire was lit up until every piece of the poor animal was burned.

I never liked or ate beef personally – cows were always pets for me. My Grandparents kept them for dairy purposes. We milked them and made butter and cheese. Cows had a good and long life on our farm; they always died of old age, not disease. Only then were they sent to the city slaughterhouse.

Twenty-five people admitted that they had consumed the infected meat, the rest of the villagers were too ashamed. Only the fear of a painful death by rabies convinced the rest to submit to immediate vaccination. The mayor and the prefect had to obtain special dispensation for immediate delivery of all the necessary vaccines or the entire village would die.

The remorseful Elena, who knew better, but was more interested in the economics of her cow than the safety of her neighbors, hid in shame. A retired teacher and a village elder, everybody trusted her.

The incubation period of a rabies infection is 20 to 90 days. If the vaccine is administered immediately, there are no dangers. The virus enters through saliva and micro-lesions in the skin. After 30 days from infection, the disease becomes fatal. There are some cases in Africa of a rabies strain in the Yellow Mongoose where the animal can live asymptomatic for years.

The Director of DSV in charge of the food supply and animal safety did not assign blame to anyone. “The woman is not responsible that her cow got sick. We will assess the situation and pay the owner for the cow. We found the rabies in time, people are being vaccinated, and the risks are minor.”

As Ionel Iloae so aptly describes it, in Moldova everything is handled with kindness – even a potential “small accidental genocide.” The whole story would make a perfect comedy of errors plot.

Most people, who lined up at the village dispensary in a state of agitation to be vaccinated, admitted, “It was an issue of national interest.” Some villagers have refused the vaccine so far. From a family of eight who ate the tainted beef, only one person admitted to have eaten the meat, and time is running out. The cow was slaughtered on May 12.