Moldova and the EU
AP came to talk about Moldova's EU policy. This guy knows his stuff, is eloquent, smart, and he excellently juggles with ideas. It was very obvious that he lived in America for some years- his presentation style was indeed very American. He may not have guessed where we are coming from (as he bragged he would) and he failed both to identity Italian accents in English and to realize that I am Romanian, but he got everything else right... The main point was that Moldova is now in a very difficult position, as it is not even considered eligible for EU candidate status, being placed on the same level with Morocco and Tunisia. Chiara and I ignited a new thread of conversation and so we also talked about labor migration, finding out that most people actually go to Russia, followed by Italy, Spain, and Portugal.
He asked who led the workshop on Moldovan history, and when he found out, he started telling us about it from scratch... This time an accurate historical portrait, with a correct map, no fake names nor years, and all the perspectives included. The debate on Transylvania that Costa provoked made me realize how difficult must be for Moldovans, who have to fight anyway with their delicate identity issues, to get that back in time , to the time of the origins.... He explained how most Moldovans feel they are Moldovans and not Romanians, and only in the category of intellectuals, some 60% would consider themselves to be Romanian.
Identity and accountability
I came to Moldova quite curious on what people think about their identity. I asked sometimes the direct, blunt question. The answers were sometimes clear, sometimes effusive like " You know what we are. " or " We all know in our hearts where we come from", trying to lead me think , maybe, that they thought they were Romanian, but nevertheless so open-ended... I got free beer at the rock festival with " For Romanians I will do everything", under the startled eyes of my Dutch friend. People came just to shake my hand and smile, to congratulate our EU-entry, to reassure me that we are brothers, to explain that Voronin got voted only by "foolish peasants" ( which is not technically the case, as in Moldova, the president is voted by the Parliament.). I found out that the mayor of Chisinau is pro-Romanian and was paradoxically elected in a city that seems so dominated by a Russian feeling.
On the other hand, the way the young people I met see Moldova is quite different. They grew up in a sovereign country called Moldova, some are from mixed families, they feel attached culturally to the Post-Soviet bloc. Some even told me that they feel much more comfortable in Kiev or Moscow than in Bucharest. Flattering enough, Olga said "For me Romania feels like Western Europe." That means a divider. That means not home. And indeed, Chisinau feels to me worlds away from Timisoara. But not from Galati or Calarasi, as a matter of fact... Complicated..
I came here convinced that, after sixty years, just as the Ossis are different from the Wessis in Germany, people from historical Bessarabia had such a different experience from the Romanians in the RSR that they became Moldovans. They clearly showed that they don't want a reunification with Romania, from simple folks to the various elites, with the exception of the cultural elites and a minority of the political class. As Lucian Boia simply puts it: Why be the prefect of the Chisinau district when you can be the President of the Republic of Moldova?
Let's leave the Moldovans be what they want to be, I thought. Even though that came through military occupation and cultural engineering. But the wheel of time cannot be changed.
And then, Chiara, Teelkien, Anna and I went to the history museum. The trip to this rather simple museum, poor in artifacts and explanations, proved to be an eye-opener. It was not the museum's obvious pro-Romanian bias that made me think again. It was the encounter with a lady there. The museum itself talked about desnationalization policies in the Tsarist Empire, a sublime harmony and prosperity in interwar Romania ( it seems that in this country everything has to be black and white..) , then they talked about the Gulag and socialist Moldova. I told Anna, Chiara, and Teelkien about the deportations to Siberia of opposers to the Soviet Union, priests, teachers, richer peasants.
At the diorama showing the fights between the Soviet forces and the German troops, we met a lady with whom I started talking. She said "This is what they say it was the moment of Liberation". I translated that to my friends and Chiara asked her what does she mean. The lady told her, in French, "It was an occupation, not a liberation." " My father was deported to Siberia- he was a teacher." "And now people just don't care, they forgot. They forgot about the suffering. And you- and she pointed at me- you forgot about us as well." She meant us, the Romanians from beyond the Prut. Her eyes were teary, and so got mine. Indeed, what about these people who remember the Soviet attrocities, who felt they were taken away from their country? Who felt and still feel Romanian? From the man in Soroca to the ones I met in the villages, the woman from the museum, all over 60. These generations are dying, and with them, the memory of a different time, of a different country, of a different identity. They feel a minority in this country, forgotten by the Moldovan majority, they feel forgotten by Romania. Or at least, by the way recent history worked. And the gap between the two Prut banks is just going to deepen even more.
I thought of responsibility, of accountability. People who just want a way to the West get Romanian citizenship but they say they are Moldovans. Just a pragmatic move. Which undermined the image of Moldovans in Romania. But what about them, the people who indeed feel Romanian, but also left out? Romania should be more subtle and more nuanced with the way it treats Romanians on the other side of the border.
An interesting insight on why Russian is prevalent
That night, at the goodbye party, the conversation I had with Anna made me understand I think more about Moldova than anything else. Anna comes from a Jewish family, but is not an observant. She speaks Russian natively and we usually talked in English. In class, she asked rhetorically why should Moldovans call their language "Romanian" , even if it is identical, when Americans call their language "American". Well, I never met anybody in the US who would call their language "American"... Neither did I hear of any Austrian speakers. At the party, I asked her about how is it to be Jewish in contemporary Chisinau. We talked about it, and then she apologized for not speaking Romanian to me. She actually called it Romanian. "I am sorry, but we had a really bad teacher of Romanian. He spoke it funny, he was a ... how do you call that? ". She flustered and mentioned something like an ox. Apparently that was a reference to peasantry, to backwardness. Anna continued by saying that her class, made of urban native Russian speakers, from educated families, regarded Moldovan as the language of the countryfolk. "That is different from the real, pure Romanian. I think Romanian is a beautiful language", she added, " but the way my teacher spoke it was a mockery."
Suddenly I saw it. Yes. That is why they do it here in Chisinau all the time. In Bessarabia, Romanian has always been the language of the indigenous peasantry. Urban Bessarabia is of recent age, as in 1812, when Russia got it, this was an extremely rural territory. Urban Bessarabia was in fact rather always a Russian-speaking affair. During Soviet times, fitting in the big metropolis of Chisinau meant for many migrants from the countryside switching to Russian. That until the migration was so large that Romanian-speakers became the majority. But Russian still remained the status-language. It is rather similar to countries like Peru- Quechua speakers prefer to speak Spanish to mark an improvement of social status... For the Moldovans, 1989 and their language-movement was a very courageous assertion. They got it. Today's Chisinau is filled with signs in Romanian. But for many young people, speaking Russian remained kind of the cool, hip thing to do. It's like the English-fetishism of many a Bucharest youth... It comes from a deep complex of inferiority over their own parochial culture...
I was thinking how everything was just so different from the Baltic states. In fact , Moldova seems to be the anti-Baltic states.
The taxi driver and the amoral Baltic states
Goodbye Chisinau, goodbye Moldova g
I am now saying goodbye to Moldova, to a trip that will stay close to my heart. For two reasons. And here, on this blog, I wrote only about one. About Moldova itself and my quest for finding out more about its identity, speaking with people in the streets, listening to their fascinating stories and points of view. It was quite a trip indeed.
But the other reason is the wonderful friendships that I made with the great people from our European group here in Chisinau. I never write on blogs about my friends, for privacy reasons, but let me just say I had an amazing time and I will miss them greatly ! Parallely to discovering Moldova, I discovered this beautiful group of people, we had tremendous fun, from exploring together to enjoying Chisinau's great nightlife, from Romanta romances to Gatito rescue-operations, from the most splendid dance of Tim and MJ to Marianna's humor. I will miss you.
Auf Wiedersehen, a bientot, goodbye!
to G
Great self-portrait of Moldovans:
http://www.basarabeni.ro/dm.php
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Seen and heard around Chisinau- part 2
Oh God, many things have been hapenning, and I will never actually get to write about them... Not to mention that, paralelly to my Moldovan discovery adventure, I am also discovering great people from our summer university. As I tend never to write on blogs about people I know, I will skip all the drama and excitement, but let me say that there are some people that I definitely want to keep in touch.
Anyway, today, before leaving to Orheiul Vechi ( again!) , the kid who approached me some nights ago (the one who talked about Moldovan politics and then asked for beer) invited me to sit with him and some people at the little bar next to our dorm. I said, why not. There were three 4o to 50 year old men, a child, and a 30 year old woman. When the kid said enthusiastically that I come from Romania, Man Nr.1 replied rather annoyed :" Yeah, you all call us Russians. When we go to Romania, din rusi nu ne scoateti." I then impressed even myself ( after the six hours of sleep I got in the last 48 hours) with an eloquent explanation of how people shouldn't generalize etc etc. The kid added the famous nu exista padure fara uscaturi clause ( "there is no forest without bad wood" . My translation suffers from sleep deprivation. Please bare with me. ), by refering also to the thief incidents that hit us.
Yeah, I didn't write how Spanish Ivan's camera, Polish Kasia's cell phone, and Dutch Teelkien's cell and money were stolen, leading to a very suspicious police search, a la Caragiale or Ionesco, which concluded that our friends just wanted money from the insurance company and hid (or stole each other's) belongings. Kafkaesque and ridiculous, the police proceedings added a very bitter taste to their Moldovan experience.
Back to our Moldovan table. Man nr 2 was rather sour : "You don't wanna know what I really think of Romania." Hehe. Finally a negative tone, finally someone I've been looking for.
"You just want to buy us."
I explained that nobody in Romania would be interested in Moldova for economic reasons, considering the appaling state of Moldova's economy; the ones that support the unification do it for historical reasons. I mentioned the common heritage, medieval Moldova, Iasi, to which he commented, " the historical capital of Moldova is Tiraspol!" (!!) . The others reacted loudly, the boy even saying " Don't listen to him, he is just an uneducated fool... You see what the Soviets did to the people, they don't even know anything about their history.". Then he continued to compliment Romania, and witnessed that he felt the immediate connection to Romania, as soon as he listened to BUG Mafia ... ( A Romanian hip-hop band singing about injustice behind the grey communist buildings...). I smiled...
****
Butuceni village, August 4th
Orheiul Vechi was just so different this time. Nothing of the emptiness and mystery of my first visit, when the three of us (me and the two Swedes) seemed to be the only humans around in a place full of stone, desertic features, herding cows, isolated horses, and happy ducks. Now, buses and what seemed to be a hundred people dotted the landscape. It seemed like we were in Jerusalem, with stony nature, religious air, and crowds of people. I told Olesea, the trip leader, that I've seen the cave monastery and left to the village.
Beautiful, fresh, untouched by time, Butuceni captured my heart like it did the first time. Horse carriages passed alongside me, little kids whispered when they saw me, with one starting to follow me , obsessively repeating "un leu!", "un leu". I got to beautiful house, with pottery all around the yard, and a long-haired man (Yay! finally I;m not the only one...) with a hat just out of Texas came to greet me and invite me in. He explained that all the objects in the yard were old things that kids in the village collected from ruins, old houses and such. His idea was to promote their interest in traditions, and he also asked the kids to make their own objects. The results were great: little treasures, made out of stone or pottery, and more than that, all in traditional styles. I mentioned the rural exodus to Italy and we talked about how all that people want is to leave, not caring about preserving traditions old of centuries. Indeed, this the time of the greatest transformation in Moldovan and Romanian society, with the final axe in the heart of rural civilization. What communism did not manage to destroy in 50 years, labor migration seems to do it in 5. We shall see. In any case, his idea made me very enthusiastic and I respect him greatly for finding such a nice way of bringing kids back in touch with their traditions.
Their objects were displayed in the house, together with his paintings, nice ones ( he gave me a catalogue and an autograph; apparently he had exhibits in France, Belgium, Romania and so on.), and a dozen tricolour flags. The absence of the Moldovan coat of arms made them identical to the Romanian flag, so I asked, shyly, what flags are they exactly. He answered " We all know where we come from. ".
***
Trebujeni, 4th of August
An enthusiastic show and a great feast put on by the organizers at a local pensiune in Trebujeni. Another great village, stuck in time, with dusty roads, painted houses, ducks and geese, and plenty of people talking on benches in front of the fences, all curious who these foreigners were.
They welcomed us with bread and salt, which in the speech was described as " an old Moldovan tradition" ( which made me more to think at the kind of welcoming foreign guests had in Ceausescu's time in communist Romania). This Moldovan tradition was followed by the typical Moldovan dish, mamaliga. And Moldovan dances and songs. Long live Moldovan nation-building!
Anyway, today, before leaving to Orheiul Vechi ( again!) , the kid who approached me some nights ago (the one who talked about Moldovan politics and then asked for beer) invited me to sit with him and some people at the little bar next to our dorm. I said, why not. There were three 4o to 50 year old men, a child, and a 30 year old woman. When the kid said enthusiastically that I come from Romania, Man Nr.1 replied rather annoyed :" Yeah, you all call us Russians. When we go to Romania, din rusi nu ne scoateti." I then impressed even myself ( after the six hours of sleep I got in the last 48 hours) with an eloquent explanation of how people shouldn't generalize etc etc. The kid added the famous nu exista padure fara uscaturi clause ( "there is no forest without bad wood" . My translation suffers from sleep deprivation. Please bare with me. ), by refering also to the thief incidents that hit us.
Yeah, I didn't write how Spanish Ivan's camera, Polish Kasia's cell phone, and Dutch Teelkien's cell and money were stolen, leading to a very suspicious police search, a la Caragiale or Ionesco, which concluded that our friends just wanted money from the insurance company and hid (or stole each other's) belongings. Kafkaesque and ridiculous, the police proceedings added a very bitter taste to their Moldovan experience.
Back to our Moldovan table. Man nr 2 was rather sour : "You don't wanna know what I really think of Romania." Hehe. Finally a negative tone, finally someone I've been looking for.
"You just want to buy us."
I explained that nobody in Romania would be interested in Moldova for economic reasons, considering the appaling state of Moldova's economy; the ones that support the unification do it for historical reasons. I mentioned the common heritage, medieval Moldova, Iasi, to which he commented, " the historical capital of Moldova is Tiraspol!" (!!) . The others reacted loudly, the boy even saying " Don't listen to him, he is just an uneducated fool... You see what the Soviets did to the people, they don't even know anything about their history.". Then he continued to compliment Romania, and witnessed that he felt the immediate connection to Romania, as soon as he listened to BUG Mafia ... ( A Romanian hip-hop band singing about injustice behind the grey communist buildings...). I smiled...
****
Butuceni village, August 4th
Orheiul Vechi was just so different this time. Nothing of the emptiness and mystery of my first visit, when the three of us (me and the two Swedes) seemed to be the only humans around in a place full of stone, desertic features, herding cows, isolated horses, and happy ducks. Now, buses and what seemed to be a hundred people dotted the landscape. It seemed like we were in Jerusalem, with stony nature, religious air, and crowds of people. I told Olesea, the trip leader, that I've seen the cave monastery and left to the village.
Beautiful, fresh, untouched by time, Butuceni captured my heart like it did the first time. Horse carriages passed alongside me, little kids whispered when they saw me, with one starting to follow me , obsessively repeating "un leu!", "un leu". I got to beautiful house, with pottery all around the yard, and a long-haired man (Yay! finally I;m not the only one...) with a hat just out of Texas came to greet me and invite me in. He explained that all the objects in the yard were old things that kids in the village collected from ruins, old houses and such. His idea was to promote their interest in traditions, and he also asked the kids to make their own objects. The results were great: little treasures, made out of stone or pottery, and more than that, all in traditional styles. I mentioned the rural exodus to Italy and we talked about how all that people want is to leave, not caring about preserving traditions old of centuries. Indeed, this the time of the greatest transformation in Moldovan and Romanian society, with the final axe in the heart of rural civilization. What communism did not manage to destroy in 50 years, labor migration seems to do it in 5. We shall see. In any case, his idea made me very enthusiastic and I respect him greatly for finding such a nice way of bringing kids back in touch with their traditions.
Their objects were displayed in the house, together with his paintings, nice ones ( he gave me a catalogue and an autograph; apparently he had exhibits in France, Belgium, Romania and so on.), and a dozen tricolour flags. The absence of the Moldovan coat of arms made them identical to the Romanian flag, so I asked, shyly, what flags are they exactly. He answered " We all know where we come from. ".
***
Trebujeni, 4th of August
An enthusiastic show and a great feast put on by the organizers at a local pensiune in Trebujeni. Another great village, stuck in time, with dusty roads, painted houses, ducks and geese, and plenty of people talking on benches in front of the fences, all curious who these foreigners were.
They welcomed us with bread and salt, which in the speech was described as " an old Moldovan tradition" ( which made me more to think at the kind of welcoming foreign guests had in Ceausescu's time in communist Romania). This Moldovan tradition was followed by the typical Moldovan dish, mamaliga. And Moldovan dances and songs. Long live Moldovan nation-building!
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Jewish Kishinev
All my attempts to find out where are there remnants of the Jewish presence in Chisinau, once 50% Jewish, and also the place of one the first and most violent pogroms in Tsarist Russia in 1905, were met with rather suspicious questions from the organizors and even some participants: "Are you Jewish? Why are you interested?". Or " Why would you want to see the remnants of something from the past? (duh!) There isn't anymore a Jewish Chisinau."
There was one who said yes to my proposal. Oliver, our German guy. Great! A Romanian and a German togeher in the quest for Jewishness in Chisinau. One of history's ironies... It was the Romanian and German troops that sent the Jews from Chisinau to Transnistria during the Second World War and killed most of them. Antonescu's Romania considered that all Jews from Bessarabia ( =today's Moldova) were in cahoots with the communist Soviet Union and therefore enemies of the Romanian state. That explains why, while the Jews from the rest of Romania were spared their lifes, the Jews from Bessarabia were brutally removed and killed. A tragic history about which only now Romania dares to speak...
We found a Jewish school converted into a pharmacy, many houses that once probably housed Jewish merchants, and then a small street with a small synagogue, the last surviving one from Chisinau's prewar seventy synagogues. An old man inside, with a looong beard. Reading a newspaper. He seemed not to care that we are inside. Continued to read undisturbed by our intrusion. We looked around, and then, we approached him. He asked if we spoke Russian. Sorry... I started using my three Rusian words...
"Pa rumunski? angliski? italienski? ( I avoided to say nemecki...)
"Niet. *** Pa russki!"
"Ok... Awkward pause. Skolka Evrei w Kishniow?"
" Osemi **** ( I presumed 8000)
" I skolka byla ?"
" semi ******" ( 70000?)
" Gdie jest sgodnia? Israel"
" Gitler! ( = Hitler...). Israel, Amerika..."
"aha..."
"Gdie **** ty? "
" W Bukharest..."
"aaa... Rumunia... Bukharest... Constanta... Antonescu..."
I had no idea how to say I'm sorry, I tried to mime my disagreement with Antonescu. And then he asked...
"Gdie *** on? "
Oh God, let's see now..
" W Ghermanii..."
"Ghermania... Ia *** yddish!!"
Thank God he did not say Hitler again. Oliver seemed very uncomfortable anyway. It is quite interesting to have a Romanian-German duo speaking with this guy, who probably lost a lot of his family because of fascist Romanians and Nazis...
No yiddish was unfortunately spoken, despite my attempts to use German words...
And then:
" Ivrit?"
"Da.. Lehaim, Shalom, Hava Nagila!" I said, ready to sing...
"Gdie toya Yeshiva?"
Based on my knowledge of the Yeshiva University in NYC, ( Yeshiva means some kind of university), I answered:
" W Ameriki. Stanach Ziednoczonych."
That's my Polish coming in handy. I guess.
" Aaaa! "
Very happy reaction.
My vocabulary was emptied at that time.
" Dobro Shabbath! Da sfidania!
And we left, meek and sullen, while he continued to read his newspaper.
There was one who said yes to my proposal. Oliver, our German guy. Great! A Romanian and a German togeher in the quest for Jewishness in Chisinau. One of history's ironies... It was the Romanian and German troops that sent the Jews from Chisinau to Transnistria during the Second World War and killed most of them. Antonescu's Romania considered that all Jews from Bessarabia ( =today's Moldova) were in cahoots with the communist Soviet Union and therefore enemies of the Romanian state. That explains why, while the Jews from the rest of Romania were spared their lifes, the Jews from Bessarabia were brutally removed and killed. A tragic history about which only now Romania dares to speak...
We found a Jewish school converted into a pharmacy, many houses that once probably housed Jewish merchants, and then a small street with a small synagogue, the last surviving one from Chisinau's prewar seventy synagogues. An old man inside, with a looong beard. Reading a newspaper. He seemed not to care that we are inside. Continued to read undisturbed by our intrusion. We looked around, and then, we approached him. He asked if we spoke Russian. Sorry... I started using my three Rusian words...
"Pa rumunski? angliski? italienski? ( I avoided to say nemecki...)
"Niet. *** Pa russki!"
"Ok... Awkward pause. Skolka Evrei w Kishniow?"
" Osemi **** ( I presumed 8000)
" I skolka byla ?"
" semi ******" ( 70000?)
" Gdie jest sgodnia? Israel"
" Gitler! ( = Hitler...). Israel, Amerika..."
"aha..."
"Gdie **** ty? "
" W Bukharest..."
"aaa... Rumunia... Bukharest... Constanta... Antonescu..."
I had no idea how to say I'm sorry, I tried to mime my disagreement with Antonescu. And then he asked...
"Gdie *** on? "
Oh God, let's see now..
" W Ghermanii..."
"Ghermania... Ia *** yddish!!"
Thank God he did not say Hitler again. Oliver seemed very uncomfortable anyway. It is quite interesting to have a Romanian-German duo speaking with this guy, who probably lost a lot of his family because of fascist Romanians and Nazis...
No yiddish was unfortunately spoken, despite my attempts to use German words...
And then:
" Ivrit?"
"Da.. Lehaim, Shalom, Hava Nagila!" I said, ready to sing...
"Gdie toya Yeshiva?"
Based on my knowledge of the Yeshiva University in NYC, ( Yeshiva means some kind of university), I answered:
" W Ameriki. Stanach Ziednoczonych."
That's my Polish coming in handy. I guess.
" Aaaa! "
Very happy reaction.
My vocabulary was emptied at that time.
" Dobro Shabbath! Da sfidania!
And we left, meek and sullen, while he continued to read his newspaper.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
One Moldovan for three
Chiara is really interested in Moldovan people who have relatives working the EU. She came from Bologna sitting next to a woman working as a help to an old Italian, while her parents were lying sick back in Moldova. I embarked with Chiara today in a photographic journey of tens of people in the central market, while also talking to them about their relatives abroad. One, Claudia, was the mother of a young man living for seven years in Portugal. Others had mothers, sisters, brothers, sons in Italy. We passed by Strada Bucuresti and out of curiosity, we went to see the Romanian consulate. A rather boring house, but with a hundred people or more waiting in front of it. One guy came to me and gave me a card with his name, saying that he wil help me get a Romanian visa faster, by taking me to Odessa. I played his game, and asked further, and he assured me that my dream of getting to Romania will become true.
A young man was watching me and Chiara, and approached us. We started talking.
A young man was watching me and Chiara, and approached us. We started talking.
"Illegal visitors in an illegal country"
An impressive red-green sign welcomed us to the Moldovan Nistrean Republic ( =Transnistria=PMR). Grains and grapes adorned its colorful coat of arms, which ironically reminded me of the coat of arms of communist Romania... Between trees, I could see the communist blocks of Bendery ( Rom. Tighina), the only city on the right bank of the Nistru that is controlled by the PMR.
A border officer approached us. It was now time for bribe games. Looking forward to them, as Lonely Planet warned about this special delicacy of travelling in the area. Where are these people from? What are they doing here? "Well, we are visiting Moldova with all its sights: wineries, Orheiul Vechi, now Tiraspol" said S., the organizer of the Summer University. "Tiraspol is not part of Moldova" mumbled the officer. S. and the driver dissappeared in the building next to the road with our passports. Twenty minutes later, after constantly reminding the Spanish guys to be quiet and not take photos, as this was pretty serious, S. came back. "They said that the newest rule of the PMR is that only foreigners with an invitation from a PMR citizen can get in..." However, after negotiations, S. managed to get us in with a bribe, the first in her life, as she witnessed. They were writing the names in a big book and then started typing them slowly in a computer. "You want faster? We need incentive!". Eventually, we just went in without having the official registration. As one of the Spanish guys put it : "We are illegal in an illegal country."
And we went on. The road suddenly became more potholed, the blocks of Bendery followed, tall and sad, but the proud presence of a new church, defiantly placed at the crossroads, made me question the anti-religious policy of communist Transnistria, the last bastion of the Soviet Union. And indeed, parallel to all the funky monuments of tanks, mother heroines and other communist paraphernalia, there were quite a few crosses, troikas, and renovated churches around.
The Tighina fortress, the one Stefan cel Mare erected, followed on the left of the road, big, covered with grass and desolate, though signs of some contemporary military activity were to be seen. And then we crossed the Nistru. The border of pre-1940 Romania. Welcome to Parkany. Trilingual welcoming sign, all three in the cyrillic alphabet. One was in Romanian, spelled the Cyrillic way.
And then, Tiraspol. Great surprise. Nice socialist-realist buildings, even some older buildings, all renovated, well kept, flowers everywhere, well dressed people. Stores, bars, restaurants, a general impression of prosperity. Big surprise.
Thoughts of an excellent Potemkin village.
We walked around the communist monuments and the numerous reminders of the independence of the PMR. A peaceful afternoon. Only some five women and two men resting on the side of the road, under the eternal flame and a military tank which functioned as a monument. They were visibly surprised to see us and asked " Pa russki?". I said "Pa rumunski?" and surpisingly, I got an answer. they all spoke Romanian. "Where are you from?". Bla. Then I asked the difficult question " How is it here?". "Oh, well, really well! Like in Romania!" a woman answered. They either believed or she was afraid of saying otherwise, I still don't know. The place looked too well though. Much better than any town I've seen in Moldova, better than even Chisinau. No sign of garbage.
Two 20-year old women approached our group, visibly excited about the presence of foreigners. Their eyes were sparkling with curiosity and they asked, in Russian, how do we find Tiraspol. Luckily one of the Moldovan organizers was there to translate. On the other side of the street, young people were eating at Andy's Pizza, the ubiquituous Chisinau-based pizza chain...
I got panicked at one point: a soldier was walking faster and faster after us. Oh God... We got scared, only to see him running by to an undisclosed location... maybe he was jogging...
Time was short here, but other adventures continued. In any case, Transnistria left me quite startled, and as some friend commented, this is how probably the Soviet Union looked in the 1970s, Swiss-clean, with flowers everywhere, armies of street cleaners , and a placid, frozen athmosphere. Except that in Tiraspol there is Andy's Pizza.
A border officer approached us. It was now time for bribe games. Looking forward to them, as Lonely Planet warned about this special delicacy of travelling in the area. Where are these people from? What are they doing here? "Well, we are visiting Moldova with all its sights: wineries, Orheiul Vechi, now Tiraspol" said S., the organizer of the Summer University. "Tiraspol is not part of Moldova" mumbled the officer. S. and the driver dissappeared in the building next to the road with our passports. Twenty minutes later, after constantly reminding the Spanish guys to be quiet and not take photos, as this was pretty serious, S. came back. "They said that the newest rule of the PMR is that only foreigners with an invitation from a PMR citizen can get in..." However, after negotiations, S. managed to get us in with a bribe, the first in her life, as she witnessed. They were writing the names in a big book and then started typing them slowly in a computer. "You want faster? We need incentive!". Eventually, we just went in without having the official registration. As one of the Spanish guys put it : "We are illegal in an illegal country."
And we went on. The road suddenly became more potholed, the blocks of Bendery followed, tall and sad, but the proud presence of a new church, defiantly placed at the crossroads, made me question the anti-religious policy of communist Transnistria, the last bastion of the Soviet Union. And indeed, parallel to all the funky monuments of tanks, mother heroines and other communist paraphernalia, there were quite a few crosses, troikas, and renovated churches around.
The Tighina fortress, the one Stefan cel Mare erected, followed on the left of the road, big, covered with grass and desolate, though signs of some contemporary military activity were to be seen. And then we crossed the Nistru. The border of pre-1940 Romania. Welcome to Parkany. Trilingual welcoming sign, all three in the cyrillic alphabet. One was in Romanian, spelled the Cyrillic way.
And then, Tiraspol. Great surprise. Nice socialist-realist buildings, even some older buildings, all renovated, well kept, flowers everywhere, well dressed people. Stores, bars, restaurants, a general impression of prosperity. Big surprise.
Thoughts of an excellent Potemkin village.
We walked around the communist monuments and the numerous reminders of the independence of the PMR. A peaceful afternoon. Only some five women and two men resting on the side of the road, under the eternal flame and a military tank which functioned as a monument. They were visibly surprised to see us and asked " Pa russki?". I said "Pa rumunski?" and surpisingly, I got an answer. they all spoke Romanian. "Where are you from?". Bla. Then I asked the difficult question " How is it here?". "Oh, well, really well! Like in Romania!" a woman answered. They either believed or she was afraid of saying otherwise, I still don't know. The place looked too well though. Much better than any town I've seen in Moldova, better than even Chisinau. No sign of garbage.
Two 20-year old women approached our group, visibly excited about the presence of foreigners. Their eyes were sparkling with curiosity and they asked, in Russian, how do we find Tiraspol. Luckily one of the Moldovan organizers was there to translate. On the other side of the street, young people were eating at Andy's Pizza, the ubiquituous Chisinau-based pizza chain...
I got panicked at one point: a soldier was walking faster and faster after us. Oh God... We got scared, only to see him running by to an undisclosed location... maybe he was jogging...
Time was short here, but other adventures continued. In any case, Transnistria left me quite startled, and as some friend commented, this is how probably the Soviet Union looked in the 1970s, Swiss-clean, with flowers everywhere, armies of street cleaners , and a placid, frozen athmosphere. Except that in Tiraspol there is Andy's Pizza.
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