EUROPEAN UNION

ROMANIA by Romerican    ON THE BUMMEL

If you’re planning to hitchhike in Romania, know the game.

Someone else once described the process of hitchhiking in Romania as something of a full contact sport. I couldn’t agree more. On most edges of town, there’ll be a gathering of anywhere from 3 to 60 pedestrians eagerly waving their arms at motorists or holding signs aloft for truckers.

A pack of wild animals where each one dares the other to stand a little further in the street, just close enough to the speeding traffic that drivers have to swerve out of their lane to get past the herd.

Every so often that demarcation line between machine and humans is redrawn, as if the beasts were pushing against the very starting gate that held them back from chasing the little rabbit around the race track.

Ding! “And they’re off…”

When a hapless driver stops, all hells breaks loose as several people rush the car each one jockeying for a position inside the maşina. Since no one really knows who the automobile was stopping for in the first place, it is a matter of being able to trample the backs of your fellow man in order to get to the passenger door first so you can be the lucky one who gets inside.

Aggression is the order of the day. Push, shove, kick, punch, trip, bite, repeat randomly. Even a picky driver has a hard time yelling back the desperate, thronging masses manhandling one another for the chance to finally get their own trip underway.

It’s easy for the naive straine to feel somehow obligated by old notions about courtesy to give some deference to women and the elderly. However, you need to understand that decades of communism did bring one or two good effects.

One of which is a fair amount of gender parity. Your chauvanistic and paternalistic attempts at chivalry just reveal you to be a weak fool who ain’t from around here.

You better believe you’ve got a learning curve coming. At first you’ll not contest the old women out of courtesy until you realize you’ll never get a ride if you don’t finally compete because they’ll regenerate like a hydra; each time one gets in a car two more replace her.

So when you do make your own mad dash for the car, that’s when you’ll realize you’re simply not much of an athlete for this uniquely Romanian sport.

Your first clue should have been that the short, shrunken, twisted, frail, wrinkled bag of bones carries 200 pounds of food and drink in each of the large sacks she brandishes. No matter. Your misperception will be fully clarified should you dare to challenge the shrieking, clawed harpy in duelling for a ride.

Abandon all hope ye who combat bunica.

Of course, the exception to all the normal confusion is if the driver is alone and male, then the odds are he was understandably stopping for the very attractive, thin girl in the short skirt and half shirt.

But that doesn’t stop the crowd from angling to be chosen, as they won’t necessarily concede the point. The visibly excited driver will just have to shoo them away.

Being more clever and unsportsmanlike, I tend to overshoot the appointed pick up spot.

  Troita in Poiana-Brasov

Frankly, the mob rarely chooses a good spot anyway. Normally, it’s a congested area where some half-drunk guy started waving down cars at 6am, nearly killing himself in the process.

No one would him pick up, of course. But as morning progressed and the others came out looking for a ride, they simply lined up beside him and together starting flagging motorists down until the collective insanity set in.

I go further down the road where I can stand out a distance from all the other raving lunatics who would scare most non-Romanian drivers. Carefully isolated, I present a much more serene image that I like to think does me some good in attracting drivers after they’ve already passed the cacophony.

I’m generally situated at a point specifically chosen to accommodate a driver who might veer out of traffic and need some place to stop in order to pick me up. I hold up a sign which can be read clearly. Instead of waving my arms, I thrust out my thumb to indicate I’m not local.

I attempt to look somewhat presentable, instead of soiled and disheveled. My backpack is placed prominently in front of me, indicating my status as a tourist thus offering the bonus of interesting conversation.

And, what probably counts the most, I try to smile friendly-like rather than show the typical bitter scowl of someone who would just as soon throw rocks at your truck.

This strategy for differentiation is generally proven to be effective marketing as the target result is most often acquired in as little as 5 or, possibly, as many as 20 minutes. Piece of cake.

But today was different.

I believe we stood on the side of the road for a good half hour, watching the nonprovocatively dressed roma prostitute across the street doing her best to look both completely innocent of mischief while still appearing to be available for the keen-eyed, weary roadwarrior in need of a bit of stress relief.

Another young couple, not unlike the two of us, got dropped off from their first ride just in front of us. They walked 10 meters or so further down the road and then started sticking out their thumbs to catch a second ride to wherever they were headed. The competition was on.

It looked like we might win, too, when another half hour had past and a very attractive woman in her late-20s driving a Land Rover Discovery passed by before suddenly hitting the brakes and making a U-turn right on the highway. Oh happy day, if only the wealthy hot chick was turning about for us.

She came back our way and, just barely past us, flipped another huli to point her rig back in the original direction out of Braşov. Just when it seemed some benevolent goddess was smiling down upon us, she promptly parked right between the two couples as if daring us to battle it out in a landrush of yore.

Happily for our adversaries, I hesitated just a moment too long to assess the distance before reaching for my pack. That was all it took for the more aggressive local couple to already be several steps ahead of us and greeting the driver with smiles.

Monstruleţ and I would have to wait. After another half hour passed by with our only luck being truck drivers who made hand signals to indicate they were either local traffic or otherwise unable to pick us up.

At least they acknowledged us in a friendly understanding that we hitchhikers often look to the kindly long-haul driver for a lift and they reciprocate for the chance to swap tales.

A unanimous decision was made to move a bit further down the highway, partly in hopes that perhaps a new spot would be more amenable to motorists pulling over and partly to look more pathetic.

After another half hour had past, the process was repeated until we were quite far down the highway and looking very pathetic indeed. You might guess that’s when the magic happens. And you’d be right.

To our surprise a souped-up beemer sports coupe slid to a stop just beyond our present location. Granted, we didn’t actually believe they were stopping for us, so we just kinda eye-balled them like nosey neighbors trying to see what is going on in someone else’s backyard.

The passenger stepped out and looked at us like we might have some mental challenges. I literally started to salivate. And then he waved us over rapidly as if to say, “Hey, you two idiots better hurry up if you want a ride in this thing.”

Boom! I nearly ran as fast as the time I was chasing the last train out of Keszthely down the tracks as it picked up steam a few summers ago.

Our host popped the trunk, moved something out of the way, and I tossed my gear in. Inside the two-door sled was a tight fit. Plus they had their own crap taking up one of the back seats (a euphemism for the leather bench designed for no one taller than a 7 year old).

Monstruleţ had to sit somewhat sideways in the middle while I squeezed into the right side of the speedster. Both of us rested our chins on our knees as the car kicked up some gravel when the clutch was let out.

We were off. Not much conversation was had because the two young men had some music pumping pretty loud out of the nice stereo system, but we managed to get a few pleasantries out of the way.

The best news is that they were headed all the way to Targu Mureş, which means we wouldn’t need to get out somewhere along the way, like Sighişoara, in order to catch another ride to the first destination in our travels.

The passenger asked if we were in a hurry. Being late and always interested in going faster, I immediately responded, “da da!” anticipating the driver might really put the pedal to the metal.

Instead, they quickly apologized and informed us of their intention to stop for lunch along the way. Politely, they inquired if we still wanted to ride with them after knowing this information.

Let’s do the math here. You waited about two hours to get a ride with a BMW who leaves Braşov traveling north at over a 120 km/hour all the way to Targu Mureş, but stops for 30 minutes to eat en route.

Alternatively, you could get out of the soft leather seats and wait who knows how many more hours for a backfiring, rusted-out Dacia heading to Sighişoara at 60km/hour. Then when it drops you off, you get to wait another hour or two before catching a second ride in a Trabant to Targu Mureş at 25km/hour.

Lunch? Hey, you bet! I like those odds.

Zoom! Down the highway at a good pace, we only had to slow down once to avoid radar from the poliţia rurala. We stopped in the middle of nowhere at some dusty, rickety excuse for a restaurant that look straight out of a ghost town.

But apparently, this is the best ciorba de burta in all of Romania and thus worth stopping for at all costs.

Monstruleţ and I waited outside the eatery while the two guys chowed down on grub inside. It must have been all of 10 minutes. Just long enough for a band of gypsy ladies to pass by and stare at me, then — once safely away — yell back to me about how handsome my face seemed to them.

But, of course.

The two gents popped out of the chuckwagon and decided to switch roles. The previous driver now took the passenger seat and revealed a disastrous cough that would put fear into the hearts of sailors. I knew right then that I’d be deathly ill within 24 hours.

While the grating hacks of his throat caused him to wrack his body in the chair, his gung-ho stud compatriot got the car underway despite fishing around for a change of CDs. He popped in some groovalicious vocal trance that took me back in time when my neighbor was a damn good DJ in Houston.

The repeatedly-coughing passenger was barely clinging to life and trying to sleep. Monstruleţ was falling out of consciousness, most likely as a side effect of mild car sickness.

Meanwhile, the driver and I are bobbing our heads back and forth to the beat, checking out gorgeous scenery we’re flying through, and occasionally exchanging knowing glances in the rearview mirror whenever a new track we both like starts up.

Although I was assuredly contracting a fatal disease from the half-dead person in front of me, I actually had a great time goading the driver into pushing the ultimate driving machine just a little faster and a bit more dangerously through the curvy slaloms of DN13 and dancing to fun memories of a past life before the war on terror.

Each bend of the road brought the slight squeal of tires desperately clinging to blacktop before giving birth to an audible growl from the engine when downshifting as the road straightened out. The unbelted corpse in the passenger seat spilled out of both sides of his chair without ever waking up.

I played the testosterone cheerleader, egging on yet more rally racing through the twisting asphalt snake slithering through the green forests of Romania.

I applauded each jolt of adrenaline as we zigzagged in between other motorists on the two lane highway narrowly avoiding instant death by just a few millimeters here or a fraction of a second there.

I do love sports cars in the hands of a capable driver. Preferably me.

We stopped briefly in Sighişoara, so the driver could use the restroom and calm his apparently agitated girlfriend down with a long series of “bine, draga, bine.”

We stopped again in some roadside village that sold cowboy hats and mexican sombreros, so the driver could get something to drink.

As we drew nearer to Targu Mureş, the passenger came back to life with a fresh round of uncovered germ spewing. I closed my eyes so no one could see me rolling them in exasperation. The driver slowed the car down to the legal speed limit, perhaps familiar with the pattern of police patrols in his judeţ. Monstruleţ woke up.

When the music was turned down just ever so slightly, I took the opportunity to ring my as yet unmentioned contact in Targu Mureş to inform the other party of my imminent arrival. Everything appeared to be wrapping up smoothly.

But the grating cough of the grim reaper wasn’t the only thing palpable in the air. Nossir. A pungent, sulphuric whip cracked over my nostrils to incite respiratory panic. It was becoming obvious that the much lauded ciorba de burta was not setting well with someone.

You’re in the back of a coupe. There’s no window accessible to you. The stench has taken physical form, grabbing you by the nose and slapping your face near the point of tears. You’re a guest during a free ride across a long distance in a short amount of time.

Suck it up. Take the pain.

Holy Christ, my lungs cannot continue to take the burning. Monstruleţ is nearing a gag reflex. Even the driver is now looking around, mostly at me! I ignore him.

He elbows the passenger and suggests with raised eyebrows. The passenger busts out laughing, then coughing, and laughing more, then coughing more. Then the driver starts laughing. They both look into the back through the side mirror and rearview mirror respectively.

Nobody opens a damn window.

After a bit more laughing and coughing, while we civilized folks are patiently riding out the storm, the driver finally powers the window down and right back up letting in just enough air to dilute particles still assaulting the car interior. At least I knew there was some cologne in my backpack for later.

This actually happened twice, although the second offense prompted the driver to sock his friend in the shoulder in between laughs and coughs to indicate that was enough. I dare say. Lordie.

I didn’t think I’d be able to get out of my sardine state very quickly but when that passenger door opened up after arriving in the centru, I leaped out as if I’d been spring-loaded. And Monstruleţ flew out next into the fresh, open air of Targu Mureş.

Without acknowledging their airborne crimes, I shook hands with the driver and avoided touching the bacteria ridden hands of the farting passenger. I thanked them both profusely and they somehow morphed back into polite beings from planet Earth.

All this pain and suffering. Would it be worth it? It was time for another phone call. And a bit of owl spotting…

  Romerican