Romania #3: As Long as They Don’t Have Guns, We’re Fine

A pepper seller waves at me.

“What are you doing?”

“The gentleman wants a photo with the peppers.” The forty-something seller of red peppers strikes a pose, proudly showing off his impeccably grown vegetables and beaming at us. This Romania travel story begins as we wander through a fruit and vegetable market in a grimy town called Targu Jiu — a place that either had its glory days long ago or never had them at all.

The town looks more like China than Europe. Communist tower blocks, filthy streets lined with broken windows and ugly shopfronts that seem frozen in the 1950s. A single modern-looking café is the only clue that we’re still in the 21st century. In Targu Jiu, it looks almost futuristic. But who cares. The people are friendly — they smile and study us curiously, as if they’d never seen blond-haired foreigners before.

“My daughter studied in Prague!” exclaims an enthusiastic middle-aged woman we asked for directions to the Endless Column (Coloana Fara Sfarsit). It was the last time we’d have a conversation in English in Romania for quite a while. In broken English, she explained how to get to the town’s only attraction worth seeing — and we still wandered around lost for another half an hour. Perhaps we didn’t quite understand each other after all.

A Place with Untapped Tourist Potential

We followed the Danube towards Banat. This imposing, mighty river cutting through the mountains feels in places like a region with enormous untapped tourist potential. The decades-old communist resorts and spas that litter other stretches of the Danube are far less common here. Most of the riverbank is a blissful, people-free oasis.

The only thing spoiling our idyllic drive was rubbish scattered practically everywhere — and we got slightly rattled by enormous boulders lying in the road, making it almost impossible to pass. After that, every time we spotted a “caution: falling rocks” sign, our hearts skipped a beat. (VIDEO)

https://youtu.be/A-NX3etScs0

Compatriots Abroad Are Kinder to Each Other

“Need a lift?”

“We certainly won’t say no.” A couple in their forties had set out to hike through Banat and had already covered 30 km that day. It was the first time in our lives we’d picked up strangers in our car. When you meet fellow Czechs abroad, you just feel a certain kinship. So we gave them a ride to Sfânta Elena (known to Czechs as Svatá Helena) and had a beer with them at the local pub. It was about 35°C again that day.

The tinkling of sheep bells, a view over the calm waters of the Danube, and wind turbines on the horizon. That’s Sfânta Elena.

“Good day,” a young Czech shepherd greets us. We grin at him as wide as our jaws allow. Sfânta Elena is a beautifully kept Czech village in Banat. In stark contrast to the neighbouring Romanian village, it’s an oasis of calm and cleanliness. Houses are decorated with colourful tiles, courtyards are tidy, and the locals have round Slavic faces. And the thing that impressed Lukáš the most: even the fire brigade has a sign reading “hasiči” — the Czech word for firefighters.

It certainly doesn’t look like anyone here is struggling or in need of help, as some Czech travel books suggest. Quite the opposite, in fact.

We made friends with a local dog, soaked in the view of the wind turbines, and set off towards another Czech village — Grădinari (known as Gerník in Czech).

A 20km Road of Terror

We couldn’t quite understand why 20 km was supposed to take an hour.

“The GPS must be wrong again,” we reassured each other. But soon enough, we regretted not staying longer in Sfânta Elena and driving straight to Oravița instead.

The sheep bells faded behind us. Around us, nothing but fields with the occasional emaciated horse. The sun was slowly sinking behind derelict buildings, reduced to nothing but horrifying concrete panels. And between those panels we spotted stripped-down cars, clothes, and rubbish. It dawned on us that this was no home to romantic, wandering Roma. These were Roma who weren’t going to smile at us.

We drove into a Romanian village as though waking from a dream into a nightmare. Nobody would believe that just a few kilometres away, there are neat little Czech villages and idyllic countryside. We crawled along a crumbling road full of potholes at about 10 km/h. People sat on their front steps, watching us.

“Well, as long as they don’t have guns, we’re fine, right? And besides, we won’t be driving back this way.” I tried to calm both myself and Lukáš as we caught their distinctly unfriendly glances — a response to the clicking of my camera.

We hoped the road would improve beyond the village. Not only did it not improve — the forest swallowed our car whole.

“If anyone ambushed us here, we couldn’t even drive away.” The fairly realistic image of bandits leaping out of the forest with sticks and stones genuinely scared us.

The light was fading and we crept along, surrounded by deep, dark countryside. In the darkness, a forest opened up before us, and through it we could make out the silhouettes of multi-storey panel buildings — remnants of former mines. Through the dark gaps in the walls we couldn’t see a thing, but we sensed that someone was living in there, just like in the panels at the edge of the village.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Something cracked. I pressed my face against the window, trying to spot any movement in the forest.

“Just a stone?” Lukáš replied, not very convincingly.

“Shall we get out of here?”

“Let’s go. We’ll wreck the car if we stay on this road much longer.”

“So we’ll have to drive through that village again…” I whimpered. I had a bad feeling about it. At the same time, I was oddly pleased that I’d get another chance to photograph those panel buildings at the entrance — I’d been too stunned to take pictures the first time.

“Don’t bother photographing them.”

“As long as they don’t have guns, we’re fine, right?” I tried to joke again, but neither of us felt like laughing.

“Stop.” I ordered as we passed the first panels where Roma families were living.

“Just for a second. Be quick.” We left the engine running. We looked around. Abandoned fields — all that was missing was a tumbleweed rolling across the road.

“Got it. Let’s go.”

We tried to drive off. But a car came hurtling out and pulled directly into our path. My eyes instinctively clenched shut, certain we were about to be rammed. At the last moment, the Roma driver swerved.

“What the hell was that!?”

“I don’t know — just drive!” But we both knew exactly what he’d meant by it.

The entire drive to Oravița, my paranoia ate away at me. I couldn’t enjoy the bleak landscape that looked like a carbon copy of some Hungarian western. I kept turning around, scanning for a car tailing us, and staring obsessively at the kilometres remaining on the GPS.

When the town of Oravița finally appeared — as bleak as the landscape around it — I still couldn’t relax. There were barely any people about, and we had certainly not arrived at a top tourist destination. Rubbish. Peeling walls. And darkness.

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