Foaie verde, cinci chiperi, eu am fost la Cantemir

Amidst travelling home to England, spending Christmas with my family, and looking for work in the New Year, this blog has sadly not taken priority. However, since I’m determined to finish documenting my travels, I will write as best as my memory can serve me, and hope that being back in England and not Moldova does not taint my narrative. Enjoy!

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We set off under clear skies with the low, glaring winter sun giving just a glimpse of warmth, the ubiquitous mud now dry as we trundle over the path from the house and join the main road of the village. Our driver continually swerves to avoid the worst parts of the road, and then lingers on the wrong side to give way to a passing car. A strange concept, but on Moldovan roads the 'normal' perceptions of travel are slightly skewed, as is confirmed when I see a couple pass in a small open carriage, pulled by a donkey. As we near Cantemir, with the open fields stretching wide beside us, I see some men planting an orchard, one leaning on his spade and surveying the vineyard next to him, the Moldovan earth is likely all he knows, and all he has to know. Descending a winding hillside road I take in a panorama of Cantemir, capital of the region of the same name. The town is a sprawling blend of familiar coloured houses, small apartments blocks and grey, vacant factories, with one major road snaking through the middle.

We park and enter the market, the entrance of which has a bold iron sign stating ‘Commercial Centre’, but what’s inside is a simple but nonetheless charming collection of grocery and household stores.

The layout reminds me of my near-native Newton Heath market, but with more stalls and permanent buildings, and less pirated DVDs and counterfeit trainers. Typically dressed ‘babushkas’, laden with bulging plastic bags, hustle through the narrow paths between stalls, and my taking photos puzzles some of them, since I’m hardly in a tourist spot. My girlfriend even overhears one worried stall owner warn the vendor near her that I could be carrying out an inspection for the government. One man stares at me curiously at the end of an alley, and when I pass him he blurts out, in a thick Eastern European accent: “Merry Christmas, Santa Claus”, I smile acknowledging his seasonal greetings despite it being November, but don’t have the heart to tell him that, in fact, I’m not Saint Nicholas.

Aside from the traditional market atmosphere, there is the confusing image of a second hand stall with a flashing disco light hanging above its door as pulsing rave music blares out of a speaker nearby, an obscure sight within the mundane marketplace. Another store sells sweets and confectionary, next to the till is a small piece of history in the form of a pair of old Soviet-era scales that look like something you’d see used to measure out rations in war-plagued Russia. Sparrows dart between the varied and rustic fruit and vegetable stalls, stopping to pick up scraps beside women selling sunflower seeds from huge sacks.

Before leaving the market we wait in line to buy half a dozen plăcintă, and the queueing is worth it for the oven-fresh snacks, warming our hands as they steam away in the chilly piaţă air. A surreal break follows in a bar where the ceiling is made of chipping board, as we drink instant coffee while most other punters wield full tankards of beer, ‘Mr. Bombastic’ by Shaggy plays, and the Kafkaesque painting is complete.

Dismayed, we visit a more swanky bar, which is stylish enough to have a billiard room downstairs, and even the toilet signs shows a sense of humour.

Finally, we pick up my girlfriend’s sister from her high school, before visiting the war memorial nearby, erected in memory of the Moldovans who lost their lives in the in the Transnistria conflict with Russia.

And lastly, the quickest way to clean your sole: a Jesus floor mat!

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Mulțumesc, grazie and thank you!

Toamnă şi poamă

A note on the pictures in this entry: while some images may seem bleak, this is both the reality of the season (autumn is after all, the prelude to winter’s death) and the reality of some areas of Moldova. After years of poverty, many villages such as Cîrpeşti, where I am currently staying, face a mass exodus of population, especially with the ability of Moldovans to now possess Romanian passports through hereditary means and thus travel freely in Europe. With many places abandoned, houses stand unfinished, gardens and communal spaces are unkept, with the majority of residents now emigrated to Italy, the nearest major European country. Still, amongst the harsh landscapes and lonely streets, I hope I can reflect some of the rustic and natural beauty this area displays to me.

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The rain seemed to have followed us from the airport all the way to my girlfriend’s home, and it looked as if it was there to stay for the next few days, changing intermittently between soft patter and tempest like torrents with howling rain which ran around the isolated house. On the first morning after my arrival, we even had the first snow of autumn, first in drabs, then in thick flakes, unable to stick to the ground because of it being drenched the night before. I moved from the living area of the house to the kitchen area, where my girlfriend’s mother was diligently preparing a continental breakfast for us.

In contrast to the cement coffee of the day before, we now drink Italian latte macchiato, with bread and butter, topped with homemade quince jam.

We eat well, and when nature calls my way to the outside toilet is blocked by chickens, who cluck around the back garden contentedly a make way for me once I advance. The privy is obviously a new experience for me, and although having to go out into the cold seems a chore, once I’m left to my own devices I am more relaxed that I would be in an indoor toilet, where I could be disturbed at any minute. Leaving the privy, I see the snow is thickening and the chickens now huddle under the corn shed.

While the outside is bitterly cold at times, the house is never chilly, having been built with clay, it retains warmth in winter and releases it during Moldova’s stifling summers. Furthermore, the house is well heated by a brick fireplace (that kind of looks like peanut brittle) which radiates both sides of a wall, a living room on one side and a bedroom on the other. The house itself is separated into summer and winter rooms, with only the latter having a strong fire. In addition, there is a separate kitchen and bathroom section, which helps keep cooking smells away from living section, and allows for more efficient heating.

We head to my girlfriend’s cousins for lunch, on the way a gaggle of geese gather at a street corner, and dogs bark as we pass houses, marking their territory and scaring the geese, who honk and hurry away from the noise. On arrival, I meet my girlfriend’s two nephews, one of whom is still a baby, the other is two years old, but almost silent, as he has seemingly realised he can get what he wants without making a sound. Wise indeed. 

Lunch is served: plain boiled rice, crispy fried potatoes, and a carrot and cabbage salad. (With meat for the non-vegetarians!) Once this is gone, it is followed by bergamot tea accompanied by plăcintă cu cartofi.

On the way back home, the cruel wind is in our faces, and I long for the warmth of the house. The surrounding countryside is desolate, with distant rolling hills softly powered white with snow, which has now ceased but has left a chill in the air. Once home we take the last of the good grapes from the vine, and eat them with homemade pastries. On this subject, it was brought to my attention that the shape of Moldova is more like a bunch of grapes than a banana, which is probably more agreeable considering the wine culture here.

Specifically, this type of red grape is called Moldova, a testament to the country’s place amongst the top wine exporters in the world.

 Now holed up for the rest of the day, we await the arrival of my girlfriend's sister from school. When she comes she is stone cold, and we nap together on the divan like two lazy cats.

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Mulțumesc, grazie and thank you. 

Picture Source: http://wineofmoldova.com/en/