Note: I've posted more photos of Moldova at kwilhelm.smugmug.com.
Looking at the map, my route seemed simple. Ukraine to Moldova to Northern Romania and back into Western Ukraine. By train.
Unfortunately, straightforward on the map is often not so straightforward on the ground. Certainly, to reach Romania from Odessa, it made sense to go through Moldova, in fact it was the only practical ground route. But Moldova, said to be the poorest country in Europe, might not be the safest. I heard stories of kidnapping. One poster on the travel boards wrote about being set on by thugs - but he was visiting with a contingent of British soccer fans and some would call them thugs.
Then, both the rail line and the obvious road route from Odessa to Chisinau, the capital of Moldova, go through Transnistria. Transnistria? Moldova, itself a small country, once part of Romania (until grabbed by Russia in 1812 and again in 1944) included, during the Soviet years, a long strip of land on the east side of the Nistru (or Dniester) river. After the breakup of the Soviet Union, Moldova considered that its borders included that land, the Transnistrians (or some of them) did not. No government recognizes Transnistria, although Russian troops apparently support the "rebels", so while I could buy a Moldovan visa, no embassy or consulate existed to sell me one for Transnistria. (On 17 September 2006 a referendum in Transnistria produced a massive majority in favor of eventual reunion with Russia - Moldova rejected the referendum as "illegitimate".)
Reports from travelers who had taken the train through Transnistria were not encouraging. The border guards were hitting them up for money for "transit passes" at both borders. The amount varied, probably with apparent wealth, but also attitude. The Scandinavians who had paid 100 euro had let the guards see their money and then argued with them. And then, shortly before I left, the train was canceled, due to some intergovernmental argument.
At this point I looked into flying, but flying out of Odessa cost a lot more than bribing the border guards. There were rumors of a bus route that avoided Transnistria, but when I went over to the Odessa bus station to check, it seemed that all the buses went via Tiraspol, Transnistria's capital. I bought a ticket and went back to my hotel to reorganize my wallet and money belts.
The bus turned out to be a minibus, fully loaded with maybe a dozen people. Buying my ticket ahead landed me a seat near the front, with a good view and a slight breeze. The further we traveled from Odessa, the emptier the roads became, and the more agricultural the landscape. Clearing the Ukrainian border took a full hour, as all the luggage was inspected, but although four people were taken away for special processing (they all returned), I drew no interest. Entering Transnistria, however, I was one of the first called off the bus.
One young Moldovan on the bus, Evgeney, spoke a little English, and had volunteered to accompany me. One of the guards, however, also spoke English, and sent him back. We began an obviously well-worn verbal dance. Where was I going? Why was I not entering Moldova somewhere else? Where was my letter of invitation for being in Transnistria? But soon we reached the money question. My transit pass would cost 20 euro. While I had hoped to get by for 10 euro I decided not to try to bargain in case the price went up instead of down - the traveler has no rights in this situation.
I looked on the transit pass as an informal visa. At least on the way out the guards simply collected the pass (two very small pieces of paper) and didn't ask for more money. One recent traveler was asked for 10 euro on entry and 150 on exit! (Reduced to a further 10.)
I had made no plans to stay in Transnistria, and the view from the bus didn't encourage me to change my mind. The land was as flat as the Ukrainian plains we had just left, but emptier and less agricultural. Soviet era apartment blocks predominated in Tiraspol. At the Tiraspol bus station we lost more passengers than we gained, while I visited the squat toilets behind the adjacent, deserted, train station.
On the outskirts of the capital we did pass a gleaming new building - a soccer stadium with a big Mercedes sign. Apparently Mercedes cars are the first choice of dictators, so maybe this advertisement makes sense. Further on, outside Bendery, Transnistria's second city, is another anomaly - a 16th century Ottoman castle in use as a training camp for 21st century troops.
Crossing the border into Moldova went smoothly. The country became hillier as we left the Nistru behind. I began to notice something I had not seen before: Decorative metal fences surrounded the village houses, and even more elaborate metal roofs protected wells. I would see this all over Moldova. Styles varied, and some of the wells clearly had religious significance. a study of these would make a great coffee table book.
As we neared Chisinau, Evgeney wanted me to get off with him and take a minibus to Adresa, my rental agency. Since I had a hard time believing we had reached the capital I refused, but the bus station was actually very close. Although Adresa quoted prices in euros, they wanted payment in lei, and I had changed only a little money at the border. But since I had paid a deposit they handed over the keys and put me in a taxi. The driver avoided the center: we followed roads in dire need of repair, past run-down buildings. When we reached my apartment building I was amazed when we drove behind the building, along the edge of a muddy yard, to reach the doorway. The driver made sure I was inside my first floor apartment before leaving, with a parting admonition to lock the door.
The apartment cheered me up. One big room with bed, armchairs, huge TV (but no English channels), a modern bathroom and kitchen, and very welcome AC. Well located just north of the Hotel Turist, it came with an Italian restaurant and Internet cafe next door. Even better, many trams and marshrutkys stopped close by, all heading downtown. Locking the two inner doors behind me, I headed out to find an ATM and a late lunch.
Aside, possibly, from strolling B-dul Stefan cel Mare, I never had the feeling that Chisinau was a capital city. Even in the center, the wide boulevards (no doubt a Soviet legacy) and the two big parks gave a more provincial air, compounded by drab buildings and disastrous streets. More pothole than pavement, painful to drive over, Chisinau's streets were arguably the worst I'd seen.
The second ATM I tried accepted my card, and the nearly empty Green Hills restaurant provided a good chicken and mushroom dish. I asked my waiter which tram would take me to the glitzy Sun City complex I had passed earlier, and he asked why I didn't walk it. But at .75 lei a ride the trams were a bargain - even marshrutkys only cost 2 lei (15 cents). At Sun City I stocked up on orange juice, coffee, bread and eggs - things I hadn't bought in weeks.
I had arranged my apartment through marisha.net, and had also expected Marisha to act as my tour guide for two days, but she passed me up for a couple of Swiss men planning two overnight trips. Instead, Svetlana, an English professor, showed up with a friend to take me to the monastery at Saharna. While I enjoyed Svetlana's company, she was clearly not a tour guide.
Driving north to Saharna, Moldova seemed profoundly rural. We saw a few villages and towns in the distance, nearer to the road, vines and orchards gave way to fields. As in Ukraine, the fieldwork was done by women wearing headscarves. Arriving at Saharna, we could see Transnistria across the river, both sides baking in a sun much hotter than I had expected in May.
The Saharna monks had lived in caves carved into a hillside, but now churches dotted the site. The real draw here for the locals - represented by two school groups - was holy water, available all over the site, but most importantly in a pool created under the main spring. I did drink some of the water (although otherwise I was using bottled water in Moldova), but didn't jump in the pool - although I was hot enough to consider it. Despite the heat we trekked alongside one of the streams in pursuit of a waterfall, but it proved only to be a small, muddy one.
My real problem at Saharna, though, was that there was nowhere to eat. I suffer from borderline hypoglycemia, and need to eat protein at reasonably regular intervals. I had a hard time convincing Svetlana that I needed to eat NOW, and not after we drove all the way back to Chisinau. When we finally stopped at a restaurant, they said it would take them 40 minutes to prepare a salad. I settled for ham and cheese on bread, which arrived just in time.
Another day, Svetlana and I went by public transport to the winery at Milesti Mici, where we met up with Marisha and her Swiss couple. The two men had met while visiting North Korea the previous year, and were collecting "unusual" destinations. The winery certainly counted as unusual - we needed a car to explore the tunnels, now lined by huge oak barrels, but created when the site was a quarry. The barrels were followed by rack after rack of dusty bottles - the wine often spending ten to twenty years in barrel before being bottled. The winery is just starting to develop its own vineyards, it has been using fermented grape juice from both Moldova and Georgia.
Of course, the tour ended with a tasting, but not with pressure to buy. In fact, I was told that I should shop for their wines in town. We tasted five wines, accompanied by plenty of bread, cheese and sausage. I particularly enjoyed their "classic" white, and a good Cabernet Sauvignon.
Back in Chisinau, Svetlana took me over to the main bus station to check timetables and buy my ticket to Suceava in Romania. I settled on a bus rather than a minibus, although it would leave from the southwest bus station at 7:00 in the morning. In the nearby market we encountered Svetlana's father, who was selling rabbits - to be eaten. Although I usually enjoy markets, the outdoor souvenir market we visited later was a disappointment. I thought none of the art, lace, woodwork or nested dolls were worth buying.
I enjoyed traveling in Moldova, and would love to spend more time investigating the fences and wells. I found Chisinau much more laid back than I expected, but I don't imagine it will feature on mainstream tourist itineraries anytime soon - even though I would not have needed a visa if I had waited another year to visit. I most enjoyed the two evenings I spent with the young couple related to my friends. They are planning to move to the U.S. after they graduate, which did lead me to wonder about the future of Moldova, and other former Soviet countries, if too many of the young intelligentsia leave.
I also met Evgeney, the English-speaker from the Odessa bus, for coffee one afternoon. After he told me that he could not return to Israel (where he had learned his English) without risking a seven year prison term, and that although he had converted to Baha'i he was now interested in witchcraft, I decided I would be better off visiting a museum.
Another evening I ate at the Museum Cafe on Str. 31 August 1989. The street is named for the date Moldova switched to the Latin alphabet and proclaimed Romanian the national language. Formerly, this decision was celebrated on Our Romanian Language Day, but now it is called Our Language Day. The cafe was popular, and I shared my table with a local couple. A Romanian travel agent, visiting his Moldovan girlfriend, who worked for one of the NGOs, and speaking good English, they were clearly among the better off.
Adresa arranged a taxi for me the day I left. Early on a Sunday morning the streets were almost eerily quiet, and only one of the kiosks at the bus station was open. Just four other women boarded the big but somewhat grimy bus to Romania with me. We followed a winding course through town, the streets seeming half rural and half urban. Out in the country the road became progressively narrower and more potholed, and the bus began operating as a local, picking up people who traveled only from one town to the next. One older woman, who stayed longer, boarded with a cardboard box full of baby chicks, or perhaps geese. Their unhappy chirps blended indistinguishably with the bus's pothole-driven squeaks.
Leaving the country took an hour, partly because everyone's luggage was inspected, and partly because of problems with the minibus ahead of us. The guards were giving one elderly man a very hard time, but eventually allowed him to climb back on the bus. A younger man, apparently a smuggler, was led away. Entering Romania went swiftly - not so much as a stamp in my passport. My Romanian tour guide would meet the bus in Suceava, I was looking forward to a peaceful time.
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