August 11, 1996

Parting with our leftover Romanian lei wasn't a problem after all; the ferry at the Romanian border saw to that. And any lingering Deutsch marks? Well, Bulgaria took care of those.

After our nine and a half hour ordeal getting into Romania, we decided against leaving via the main border crossing below Bucharest. We opted instead for a smaller crossing near Calarasi. We snaked along small roads into and out of the city. According to our map the border lay eleven kilometers away. But two kilometers from town, the road came to an end depositing us at a small ferry dock.

A policeman came rushing forward "Passports. Come with me." John followed him into his little guard hut and watched while he scribbled numbers into a notebook. At the desk was a second officer cleaning his gun and in the corner a third who looked up and asked, "Where are you from?" He glanced at the passports. "Mmm, America." Then he waved his hand in front of his chest. "Romanian passport - no good. American passport..." He slammed his fist on the desk; the gun bounced. "Go anywhere!"

When the passports had been officially processed, the third officer escorted John back to the van. He motioned me to move to the back. "I show you where to go," he said. With him in my seat we pulled down the road to a second ferry dock and with a wave of his official hand, to the front of the line. "You have cigarettes?" he asked.

The request for cigarette increased steadily the closer we got to Bulgaria. So did the scams. The first scam was at the ferry dock. I wanted to know how much the ferry was. "200,000 lei," I was told. I hardly thought an eight minute ride across the river would cost $60, but the man's friend verified the quote. Then the turning of the knife. "They only take lei. Do you need more lei? If you give me U.S. dollars, I'll give you lei." We rolled up our windows and waved them away. we'd take our chances on board with what we had in our wallets.

Once we'd boarded the ferry someone in a captain's hat approached us but he definitely wasn't the captain. He said something in Bulgarian, and then something louder and then something louder still. We didn't understand. Then he said the word dollars. He too may have been trying to intimidate us into giving up those valuable greenbacks. When we did nothing he looked in the side windows and asked loudly for cigarettes. But even if we'd had cigarettes, we wouldn't have doled them out on that ship, not after the 'tourist' price we had to pay.

I'd watched closely from the rear window as the man in the car behind us paid. When our turn came the price was seven times his. We argued a bit, got the price lowered by 10,000 lei but, when the ticket man produced a piece of paper with prices, we had no choice. Phoney paper? who knows, but it's difficult to argue with the written word. Before he left our window, request number three. "Cigarettes?"

The ferry brought us to the outskirts of Silistra, Bulgaria. A policemen at that dock checked our passports and waved us on, but not before bearing a row of rotten teeth and asking for cigarettes. "Everyone smokes," he said. Not us we assured him and almost felt guilty about it.

Then we drove parallel to two barbed wire fences; each protecting one country from the other, and up to a green metal fence that blocked our entry to customs. We had chosen well; we were the only car in line. But one or a hundred, there was a hold up all the same.

A plain clothed man rushed from his booth and demanded 7000 lei for an ecology tax before we could enter. "There's no such thing as an ecology tax," I said. The Lonely Planet guide had warned us of this scam and we were ready. "7000 lei," he said. "Do you speak English?" I asked. "No? Good. Listen, we're not paying any ecology tax. We're American citizens and we do not pay dubious taxes. It's written right here," I pointed to the page, "that this is nothing but a scam, a rip-off, a fake tax. Where's the receipt for this tax? You think that wearing a pin that says ecology tax is good enough?" The man stood dumbfounded. He couldn't understand a word I was saying. But the guard at the gate could, his lips curled up. I got out of the car and addressed the guard directly. "Is this a real tax? Do we have to pay to get into customs?" The guard just shrugged and looked away, but I caught his smile.

John and I sat in the van. Every time the ecology tax man started to talk, we started to talk. Ten minutes went by until a uniformed man stepped out of the customs office and motioned the guard to open the gate. Apparently the tax man had used up his allotted swindle time and now he had to step aside - for bigger and better swindlers.

We exited Romania with no problems. A stamp in our passports, a request for cigarettes and we were waved on. But in Bulgaria the real fun began. "Ah, you are Americans." There were smiles all around, alas the guards smiles were saying something other than welcome. If this had been a cartoon their faces would have melted and reformed into beady-eyed creations by Disney. Their bony hands would be rubbing beneath their bony chins.

"There is a $20 tax to enter Bulgaria," the smaller of the two guards said. His English was flawless. Based on our reception at the gate, I questioned this.

"There's no mention of it in my guide book."

"Well, your book is outdated. This is a new law"

"New when?"

"New..." He paused. But his pause was just a few seconds longer than it should have been and it gave him away. "New before Christmas."

"Uh uh. My book is newer than that and there is no mention of a tax."

"It's a special tax for Americans."

This guy was going to have to get better patter than this if he wanted to sound convincing. "Let me see a receipt." I said.

"If you want a receipt you can turn around and go back to Bucharest in Romania. Talk to the embassy there. They'll give you a receipt. You want to get into Bulgaria now, you pay."

We talked, we discussed, we argued. First John then I went into the customs office to see the supposed receipt that was suddenly available. The tax suddenly jumped to $22 each; processing charges had been added. But eventually after the Bulgarian nods that meant no and shakes that meant yes, I knew we were defeated. The guard looked me square in the eye and said, "In Bulgaria, every day is a new law."

At the end of the whole ordeal we settled on 40 Deutch marks ($26 dollars). Three for the woman wearing the 'ecology tax' pin who had suddenly appeared (the receipt she produced says 'Border inspection of veterinary control and quarantine - disinfection of truck') and the rest..."Fold it and slip it into the passports." I was told.

John and I were steamed at having to contribute to this obscene method of crossing borders. "You cross borders, you part with money. That's the way it works," the officer had told me. Turning around though, which we had threatened, would have meant 200 kilometers more over rough Romanian roads to reach another border crossing where we could have waited in a long line and, who knows, been exposed to the same nonsense there too.

We pulled past the custom booth. We both wanted to be far away from it. But what's this? Another tax? At the end of the drive a woman ran from a small yellow booth demanding a $3 road tax. She wouldn't produce a receipt. "Forget it lady." A sign on the window of her booth even stated, in English, not to pay without a receipt. This was ridiculous. "Is this a tax for leaving the country?" Our guide book did say that everyone entering had to pay a certain amount of tax based on where they would exit the country. I pulled out my map but she waved her hand at it, nodded vigorously and spat "Ne,ne." No, this was simply a road tax and we couldn't pass until we paid. The custom guard must have seen us and came rushing over.

"What is this tax? Is this the exit border tax?" I asked him. I tried to keep my voice level, but I don't think I succeeded too well.

He said something to her in Bulgarian and then turned to me. "She wants to know where you will leave the country."

"That's what I was trying to show her." I pulled out our map again and pointed to Kulata at the Greek border. The lady nodded and shook her hand at me again, "Ne,ne." The last words we heard were from the border guard,"Just go, get out of here," he said. We didn't question anything. John started the engine and we passed into Bulgaria.