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In Which I Get To Tick Off Moldova

November 10, 2008 by Mike

Izmail

Route: Isaccea - Brăila - Galaţi - Giurgiulesti (Romania) - [1.4 miles of Moldova] - Reni (Ukraine) - Orlivka - Izmail

I explored Isaccea early this morning before fleeing. There is a memorial to the war of 1916-1919.. just shows how different our perspectives are. As well as 'Romanian' names -- Gheorghe Radulescu, Marin Dima, Sandu Topoleanu, a couple of Popescus -- and there's a 'Popescu' in every list of Romanian names, from dead soldiers to 19th century politicians to any football team in Romania ever -- there are some 'Turkish' names. Ahmet Iusmin, Ferat Husain and Zechia Memet all died for Romania. There's a mosque in town too.

The hotel owner may have apologised for his manner last night. He told me "I was drunk". Hmmmm.

He had also been on the phone to a friend, 'the head of the Romanian Coastguard'. "He says the nearest border crossing at Giurgiulesti is closed. You'll have to go on to Oancea to cross into Moldova at Cahul."

We studied my map. It doesn't look good. Oancea is 40 miles further north, for starters. The problem isn't Romania, he explained, but Moldova. They make things up as they go along. Crossings open or close with no notice. So even when I get in to the country, it's anyone's guess which route I'll be able to take to get through to Ukraine. And, by the way, the roads are terrible, the people are gangsters and don't trust their petrol.

[I checked: he's never been to Moldova in his life, or Ukraine, although it's on the other side of the river. "It's poor. Why would I want to go there?"]

Best case scenario: I get through at Oancea *and* the border guards there know which of several possible crossings are open into Ukraine.

Worst case scenario: Moldova won't let me through any of their crossings with Ukraine and I'll have to pass through Transnistria instead.

Transnistria?, you ask, what the hell are you on about, Mike? What is a Transnistria when it's at home?

Short answer: Transnistria is a breakaway Moldovan province seeking independence and/ or closer ties with Roosia. It's small, paranoid, dangerous and a treasure trove of horror stories about corrupt border guards; lots of them; all over the internet.

*And What Actually Happened...*

I escaped from Stelian and rode on to Brăila and Galaţi, crossing the big river itself along the way on a little ferry. There is nothing blue about the Danube here -- it's a steely metallic grey, fringed with cranes and gas holders and warehouses and rusting long boats tied to abandoned docks.

In Galaţi I asked around and was told that Yes, of course the Giurgiulesti was open. It's five bum-crunching miles down a rocky road -- worth checking despite what the Stelian's pal, the Head of the Romanian Coastguard, had said. He was wrong. I was.. unsurprised.

The Romanians waved me through. I smiled and said "Don't be surprised if you see me again in a few minutes.. or a few hours."

But, while it took ninety two minutes to cross from the Romanian-Moldovan border to the Moldovan-Ukrainian border.. a distance of 1.5 miles.. an average speed of 1.0222222 miles per hour.. I had no problems whatsoever.

I almost spent long enough to grow attached to Moldova. The border guard at the Romanian frontier who spoke engagingly in French; the apologies with which they sold me the obligatory "road tax and insurance" (€10 for 1.5 miles *is* a little steep, after all); the.. err.. well, I didn't see anything else of the country. There was a rusty bus parked by the road, a couple of homesteads with wooden fences, petrol stations selling fuel in a currency I have never heard of, and those potholes.

Getting in to Ukraine was slowed by the need to buy more insurance, which involved waking up the insurance salesman and helping him complete the paperwork [my Ukrainian is almost as good as his..]

I was through, into Ukraine and reached the village of Orlivka, a mile across the Danube from Isaccea, after no more than five and three-quarter hours and 77 miles. [Average speed.. I'm obsessed.. 13.391304 mph]

But really, it's all a bit of nonsense. Here's the view down to the Danube from Moldova:

and here's the view down to the Danube, 1.5 miles and an hour-and-a-half later, from Ukraine:

And if you're thinking, 'I can see what you're getting at, Mike. Not much difference. But clearly the roads in Ukraine are much better', I submit the following exhibits for the prosecution.

Ukraine. My average speed may stay quite low here too:

I just had time to ride on to Izmail, still on the Danube -- ten miles from Turcea, yesterday's town with the big kebabs but a day and a half's riding and two border crossings away. A town with almost no public lighting and no apparent centre. There's a bus station, a supermarket, a taverna which had run out of food, a couple of statues of Lenin, some teens in hoodies, a walk-on part in history that I couldn't sniff anywhere. No view of the river: not through design, I'd suggest; rather through the complete absence of design.

And a small hotel on a dark street with a funny, smart, relaxed, beautiful, sassy, confident, attentive, twinkling receptionist; I discovered, quite innocently I must point out, over nothing more than a cup of coffee, that if I wasn't leaving in the morning on a bicycle made for one -- and if she wasn't married -- I would find it rather easy to fall in love with her. I don't know if this makes it easier or harder, but she seemed to feel the same way.

I took this picture on 1 November 2006, thinking this little Estonian village was as close as I'd be getting to landlocked Moldova, the country. Wrong!

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Get To Tick Off Moldova

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