Moldova at last

Entering Moldova from the Ukraine

We’re here! It’s Sunday night and we’re finally in Moldova, in the village of Jeloboc, with Warren’s host family. I’m writing in my luxurious room above the family dining room, which doubles as the family bedroom.  Zach and Warren are in Warren’s own little private house, just steps away. I can’t connect to the internet up here, and so will try to post this from a coffee shop in Orhei tomorrow, Monday.  Zach will need to see a doctor about his perforated eardrum, and the nearest doctor is in Orhei.

The bus ride here from Kamyanets-Podilsky was long — 8 hours long — but fascinating. (The bus ride seemed even longer because Zach was feeling crummy.  At least he was no longer in excruciating pain.) 

The road south of Kamyanets took us quickly into rural Ukraine. If you’ve seen the film, Everything is Illuminated, then you’ll remember the scene with fields of sunflowers. They are here, and we drove through them, again and again. The sunflower fields continue into Moldova. We passed field after field of sunflowers. A month or two ago, they must have been beautiful yellow wonders. Now, in October, all the leaves are gone, all the yellow petals are gone. What remains is not photogenic — the brown heads, which are all that remain, bend down as in regret.

Also in the fields — stacks of corn husks like chubby sentries in neat rows.  

There were occasional horse-drawn carts, guys hovering around a broken down piece of farm equipment. Often we saw cows, freely roaming right down to the edge of the road. Goats roamed here and there. We rode for a long time, in southern Ukraine, along a high ridge, farmland down below on either side, mountains in the distance. 

The border crossing took about 45 minutes. Ukrainian guards — I think they were Ukrainian — came into the bus and took all our passports. A woman carried them into a little glass-windowed enclosure. Maybe ten minutes later, the bus driver came back to the bus and motioned for one of the passengers to come with him into the guard’s enclosure. The passengers on the bus sat in silence. When the passenger returned to the bus, people peppered him with questions. We couldn’t understand the questions but I got the jist of the answer — he had a visa for two months but had been away for three. But part of that time had been in Moscow — he had been looking for work. What interested me was that suddenly the silent bus came alive. Total strangers were suddenly in animated conversation with one another, all in sympathy with this kid who’d been given the third degree. Then another passenger, a woman, was called into the enclosure and eventually came back on the bus. Finally, a big burly guy in a fancy gray uniform stepped into the bus, eyed the whole crowd of us, and asked a few questions in a paternal but clearly official manner. I think he may have been speaking Russian. Don’t know. My fantasy, while he was talking, was that he was saying, “Now you all look like good Moldovans. You don’t have any contraband, do you? Nobody has any pigs? Chickens? (Passengers laughed.)  Illicit drugs? No, of course not. Does anybody have anything to declare? No? OK, then, welcome to Moldova and may you have a good trip!”  And then he stepped off the bus and we all breathed a sigh of relief. The driver turned on the engine and we moved on down the road into Moldova.

Northern Moldova looks just exactly like Ukraine, except that now most signs on buildings are in the Roman alphabet, with just some Cyrillic thrown in here and there. Everything else is the same — fields, cows, goats, sunflowers. But now, occasionally the houses look very poor, and then dilapidated, some maybe abandoned. We are now “Beyond the Pale,” in what used to be called “Bessarabia.” The road is just like the road in the Ukraine — usually OK, but with patches of serious potholes requiring the driver to execute S-curves.

Once in Moldova, things became more relaxed.  Passengers on the roadside got on, stayed for a few kilometers, and hopped off again. 

More and more people got on.  Soon it was standing room only. Baggage was left in the aisles, so that passengers had to step over the suitcases to get through. 

Shortly after we crossed the border, a young boy got on. I didn’t notice him until he began to sing!

I’d been dozing, and suddenly woke up to the angelic sound of this young boy’s voice. He couldn’t have been older than 12.  Blond, blue-eyed, he stood up in the front next to the driver. When his song was finished, the whole bus applauded! The child engaged in an energetic dialog with the driver, the two clearly enjoying one another. Every once in a while the child would make a comment that had the passengers on the bus rolling with laughter. It felt so good, so warm.

Once in Orhei, the bus dropped us off on the side of the road. Alas, Warren was waiting for us at the bus station. We'd have been in a pickle anywhere else, but here, people were full  of concern. There we were standing on the roadside, surrounded by seven or eight curious people. They wanted to help us. Where are you going? We couldn't explain in Moldovan. I dug out Warren's telephone number and showed it to our bus driver. He called the number — we don't have a working phone here — and sure enough, Warren answered, said that indeed he was expecting visitors. He told the bus driver where he was. Someone else pointed to a waiting car and indicated that car would take us to the bus station.

Minutes later, we were there at the bus depot, Warren was there, and all was well. It was maybe three minutes later that Zach realized he had left his jacket in the car. We gave it up for lost. Some time later, as we were walking along the streets of Orhei, a car zoomed to a halt and the driver rushed up to us. It was the man who'd given us the ride to the bus station. He was holding Zach's jacket. Amazing. This was a wonderful introduction to the warmth and kindness of the Moldovan people.

A short little bus ride took us to the village of Jeloboc, where Warren's host family lives.

Ooops! Out of time! To be continued...