Note: You can see more photos of Romania at kwilhelm.smugmug.com.
I had decided to concentrate on Northern Romania - Bucharest sounded like all the other ex-Soviet capitals, and I had no interest in following the vampire trail in Transylvania. But public transport seemed a little lacking in the north, so I arranged for a guide, the same one I had planned to use last autumn before I broke my wrist. Lonely Planet described him as "highly recommended" and as an expert on the painted monasteries I looked forward to visiting. What could go wrong?
As my bus pulled into the Suceava bus station, I scanned the group of waiting men. Was the dark haired young man in the front my guide? For some reason, alarm bells were going off at the thought. Of course, he was my guide, Ciprian Slemcho (or Slemco). Later, I would wish I had listened to my intuition, but I had paid a deposit, and wasn't wild about trying to find another guide at short notice. Next time, my intuition will be accorded more respect!
After introductions, Ciprian walked me over to the Hotel Continental, uninspiring but unobjectionable. Over coffee, he told me the first of several stories about previous clients. These fell into two categories: young women who had enjoyed partying with him, and older men who had riled him. This first story featured a man he had ordered out of his car on a lonely mountainside. While he assured me he had later picked him up again, and "of course", wouldn't do that now, this did nothing to quiet the alarm bells. Neither did the discovery that he wanted to use an advantageous (to him) exchange rate to calculate how much I owed him.
Next day we set off by car for the Maramures district to the east. As originally planned, Ciprian would be both guide and driver, but owing to a persistent stomach bug, he added a driver, saying he would cover the extra costs. Despite his lack of English, I found Christian, the driver, much more agreeable than Ciprian. Christian was a fine driver, but Ciprian spent much more time talking to Christian, in Romanian, than in talking to me. Instead of volunteering information about the beautiful villages and countryside we drove through, he wanted me to ask direct questions, but when he didn't know the answer to a question he would get angry!
Remember that I started limping back in Turkey? Nearly three weeks ago? I was still limping in Romania, but I was able to rest up in the back seat of the car, with my foot, wrapped in an Ace bandage, propped on the seat. I also acquired some anti-inflammatory cream, after visiting a local doctor, and by the time I left Romania, I was finally walking normally again.
I forgot my doubts about "don't worry, your guide isn't trying to cheat you" Ciprian in my delight in Romania. Once we left Suceava we started passing through villages with carefully decorated houses - each village with its own style, the original wooden patterns now reproduced in concrete. Leaving the villages behind we began to climb through northern fir trees, their branches sweeping towards the ground, and past grassy alps, to the isolated Prislop Pass (around 4,500 feet high).
Coming down from the pass we entered Maramures. Here the buildings were less decorated, but the area was even more fascinating. Aside from the road, the 20th, never mind the 21st, century had yet to arrive. Horsepower here still meant horses, pulling carts. Horse drawn carts loaded with logs rolled past women wearing traditional dress: short full skirts and leggings, in dark colors, and black headscarves. Haystacks decorated the fields, the hay piled around poles or draped over racks.
While the village of Botiza still retains its traditional ways, many of the villagers offer homestays, signs outside their houses listing the facilities on offer in four languages. The woman running my homestay, with bedrooms and a shared bathroom in a building apart from the main house, was getting ready to leave town to attend her daughter's wedding - most of her neighbors would also go.
After eating way too much dinner (cheese-stuffed peppers, meatballs, soup, meat, mashed potatoes, cabbage, plum brandy!), I walked through the village and ran into a British couple traveling with their young sons, and some German guys, drinking beer outside a bar. We all agreed that Maramures was magical. While the houses were not as decorated as those in Bucovina province on the other side of the pass, the larger houses were surrounded by fences with elaborately carved gates, and Botiza's church loomed impressively over the village.
The weather in Romania, predominately cold and wet, worsened the next day, turning the local market damp and muddy. Only starter plants and cheeses seemed local, the clothes and shoes and imported veggies were uninspiring. I found the much-hyped Merry Cemetery uninspiring too. Checking my emails later, I realized I had told Ciprian I wanted to skip it, but we wound up there anyway, apparently along with every other tourist in Northern Romania.
For several decades a local artist had provided each new grave with a carved and painted wooden marker, most showing the dead person engaged in a favorite activity, along with a verse. The artist's son was now carrying on the tradition, but I found the newer markers somewhat stiff and repetitive compared to the weather worn originals. I might have enjoyed the visit more if I could have read the verses, or if Ciprian hadn't claimed it was a form of Romanian he found hard to translate. I enjoyed lunch, at a touristy restaurant in Sighetu, much more - wild boar with bilberries and sour cream - delicious!
Aside from the medieval atmosphere and rural scenery, my main reason for visiting Maramures was to see its old wooden churches. Again, Ciprian disappointed me. We saw the outside of several, but the inside of only a few. When I met up with the British couple in the evening they said their guide had had no problem gaining access. The cemeteries associated with these churches were less colorful, but felt more real, than Merry Cemetery, and I loved the steep, tall, shingled roofs, some crowned with delicate, filigreed crosses. And I was still marveling each time we passed another intricately carved gateway.
After two nights in Botiza we drove back over the Prislop Pass in gloomy weather, and I insisted that if the weather improved the next day we would switch the itinerary to visit Red Lake before the monasteries. This did not go over well, and my relations with Ciprian deteriorated further when we discussed my transport to Chernivtsi in Ukraine. Early in our email exchanges I had inquired about buses. Ciprian replied that I could take a bus, or a shared car, but a car for one person would cost 100 euros. Later he said that he was applying for a Ukrainian visa and could maybe drive me himself. I concluded that a bus or shared taxi would suite me fine and never agreed to the (to me) ridiculous price of 100 euro.
Now Ciprian said he wanted 120 euro to drive me to Chernivtsi. And he claimed there was no bus! Or no bus on a Saturday. Someone who regularly posted on the Lonely Planet discussion boards about how cheap and easy it was to take the bus from Chernivtsi to Suceava was now claiming there was no bus in the other direction? A visit to the bus station, revealed, of course, that there was a bus, and that it ran on Saturday.
Amazingly, the weather cleared for the drive to Red Lake (and turned to driving rain the next day). On the way we passed a group of children singing in celebration of the Feast of the Ascension, with a priest on one side of the group and armed soldiers at attention on the other. The route initially led through open fields, but then we reached the Bicaz gorge, deeply carved by a narrow, rushing river. The road squeezed between the river and the soaring cliffs, and I left the car to walk beside the water.
With my foot improving I was also able to walk partway round the Red Lake, enjoying the quiet under the trees. The lake itself didn't live up to its advertising, being neither red nor particularly large. It's known for the dead tree stumps poking above the surface, but how excited can you get over dead trees? The folk tales explaining the phenomenon interested me much more than the lake.
Bucovina's monasteries were, in contrast, plenty exciting, literally covered, inside and out, with colorful frescoes. I could have done without the plentiful martyrdoms, but lingered before the many angels, the obligatory depictions of the Day of Judgement, and even the occasional battle.
The frescoes mostly date to the 1500s, but the colors are still vibrant, especially the particular blue used at one monastery, known as Voronets blue. All of the monasteries have hefty outer walls, and were used a refuges during invasions. Even in the heavy rain, they made a lasting impression. A place to revisit in sunshine!
Ciprian and Christian wanted to leave for Chernivtsi after we finished visiting the monasteries, instead of Saturday morning, and I realized they wanted to use me to cover the cost of a trip to the massive Saturday market there. I had told Ciprian how much I was willing to pay for the ride - a great deal less than he was asking, but a great deal more than the bus. After he finally accepted my price, we had another problem when he claimed I had quoted in euros when I knew perfectly well I had said dollars We left for the border in chilly silence.
Crossing to Ukraine was slow but uneventful, although the guards matched the car's VIN carefully with its paperwork, and wanted to know where I was headed after Ukraine. In Chernivtsi, a short drive from the border, we checked into the cavernous, unrenovated Hotel Cheremosh. Here Ciprian made one last attempt to get more money from me, claiming that his card wouldn't work in the hotel's ATM, and that he needed to borrow hryvnia from me for gas. He would pay me back in the morning. Feeling this was unlikely to happen, I insisted on dollars in exchange for the hryvnia, and subsequently discovered he had, in fact, plenty of hryvnia. We did not part on good terms.
Between the weather and the tour guide it would not be surprising if I had taken a dislike to Romania, but in fact I enjoyed it. I'd love to go back, hopefully in better weather, and spend longer photographing the houses in Bucovina and the gates and churches in Maramures - not to mention the people and horses. I ate well in Romania, too.
But next time I'll use a different guide. Or visit the south without a guide. Once I reached Ukraine I sent a lengthy complaint to Lonely Planet. I'll be interested to see whether Ciprian is still "highly recommended" in the next edition.
Note: Since first posting this I've learned that it's likely too late to get the listing removed from the next LP editions. But I've also received email saying that I'm not the only person who's been treated this way by Ciprian. For his views see this fodors.com thread, where he is kiprianis. He doesn't seem to understand why being lied to would upset me.
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