The Worst Way to Waste a Day

Today began with the loss of my sandal - only one, left behind when we opened the side door at the campground or at the phone booth or maybe at the gas station. It was one of a three dollar pair I'd bought in Bali as shower slippers. In Romania it may be a hassle finding a replacement. That is if we ever get to Romania. We have been sitting at the Hungarian-Romania border crossing for over three hours and in that time inched forward only two kilometers. I'm afraid even a 'Mr. Tweed Jacket' couldn't help us this time. Even if a "Somebody" were behind us, he'd have a six kilometer walk to the customs booth - if that booth is really up there at all. From where we're parked we can't tell. Occasionally we see police cars drive past. They turn somewhere behind us and pass again with a following of buses or cars. Perhaps these are the ones entitled to special treatment. More likely these are the ones who have parted with some of their picturesque Hungarian forint notes for the privilege. The thought of a bribe has crossed out minds - not that any customs official deserve it - but we spent the last of our cash on diesel 40 kilometers ago.

The impression we've gotten from the few English speaking people in line near us has been to expect an eight to ten hour wait. The Lonely Planet guide refers to Romanian border crossings as "Disasters". This isn't how I envisioned my day, starting the engine every ten minutes to crawl forward a tenth of a kilometer, or two if we're lucky, each crawl a small sense of accomplishment. We've whiled away our time by slicing open a melon, cooking up some pancakes, catching up on our writing, our reading, our people watching and by watching the corn grow. "John, hang onto the frying pan, we're moving again."

At 10:30 this morning we were the last ones in the procession. Within half an hour the line behind us made it look like we had been here all day. And now our slow progress has been slowed even more by a continual train of police-escorted cars heading to the front of the line or by fed up individuals forfeiting their spaces to try their luck by doing the same without the bribe. An Italian car filled with 'Gypsies' (two ratty-clothed men and four ugly three-toothed woman wearing bright prints) has cut in behind us. Their yelling and rudeness, their useing of the side of the road as a urinal, has everyone around them on a short-fuse. Now they are trying to make amends with the people behind them by offering a half-eaten watermelon.

Restlessness is rising with the temperature. People are continually leaning from their cars to look at the line. Hands are on hips as people discuss the matter. Some hopefuls behind us have left their engine running even though it is clear that the line of cars extending around a bend in front of us isn't moving. Their running motor is probably an early indication that another bribe is about to take place. Our position right now is slightly more favorable than it has been. We are under a tree and that at least affords a bit of relief in this growing heat. The steady breeze that's been blowing all day hasn't helped, since it has also carried with it the stench from the garbage-littered road and a constant stream of flies.

Five hours and still we see no light at the end of the tunnel. We overheard a man counting cars. We are number 199. Of course with every bribe that exchanges hands behind us, our number grows. It is a sad situation when moving two tenths of a kilometer feels like sailing. Ahead of us are trucks full of watermelon and corn on the cob; shrewd sellers those, who know that after this long a wait we are easy targets. The trash at this point is horrendous. The wire baskets along the road are overflowing, their bottoms tucked deep in pools of rotting garbage. Corn cobs, melon rinds, cans, bottles, food and reams of used toilet paper are everywhere. Certainly not a pleasing farewell from a country.

But farewell it is. We can see the red roofs of the custom building ahead. Finally the waiting game is coming to an end. I wonder how long the line behind us is now, and how long it will be before that last person crosses the gate.

August 5, 1996

I was wrong. Sighting of the custom booth wasn't the end; it was another beginning. It wasn't until 7:40 pm, four hours later, that we pulled into Romania. Total time waiting clocked in at 9 hours ten minutes. The Italian Gypsies, who had been behind us, cut out of line again and inserted themselves two cars ahead. They were held up for questioning at the Hungarian side of the border (two weren't allowed to pass) and that meant that everyone behind them was held up too. From there the line of cars were broken into seven lanes. How it is possible that seven lanes can go slower than one I don't know, but they did. Merges and lane changes left us several cars behind the ones we had previously looked back at. Finally we got close enough to customs to see some activity, but a lot of that activity was just people combing their hair and tucking in their shirts. Apparently one has to look spiffy for the inspection. John fixed a curl on my forehead, I did the same to him - we were ready! But still we had a long wait; my curl fell. Everyone ahead of us was arguing with the custom guards. We timed them; each car remained at the booth for ten minutes. When our turn came it was a simple kerchunk and a wave. What was all the fuss? They didn't even look at our hair.

Our first glimpses of Romania were of a sinking red sun and dismal road conditions. Then we were plunged into darkness and left to navigate the pot holes, dips, divots, missing road pieces and crumbling edges by only the glow of our headlights. At times the road completely disintegrated off an embankment or into a trench of gravel too soft to support four tires. Railroad crossings were so badly pitted or sunken that we had to cross at a near standstill. People walked on unlit roads two or three abreast; horse carts and bicycles pulled out from nowhere. Our eyes strained. Disorientation, hunger and exhaustion set in. It wasn't until 9:45 that we found a truck stop outside of Lipova. The attendant wanted 5 Deustch marks to park there. I handed him three U.S. Dollars and he left us alone. Finally the end of a day spent in the worst possible way.