Hitching in Romania

Article by: Mat Schulz, May 2006

When I got to Amsterdam, I met a Dutchman who explained that hitching from Paris was notoriously difficult. He scribbled rows of equations on a napkin, unlocking the secrets of roads from Amsterdam to Berlin. To complement these used-napkin equations I purchased a foldout map that depicted Europe from Ireland to Mongolia. Four tiny red lines represented all Dutch roads. Needless to say, I got lost.

Over the years I tried hitching in Western Europe many times - but was never any good at it. The romance of standing at the edge of a highway, waiting, was belted out of me.

Cut to the present day, Maramures, Romania. The Maramures county, snuggled against the Ukrainian border, is a land that time forgot, rural and remote, cut off from the rest of the country by the Carpathian Mountains. To go there is to step back in time. Public transport is practically non-existent. Locals hitch - and with no car, I suddenly found myself forced to return to the transport of my youth.

The first part of the journey I was able to do by bus, from the small spa city Vartra Dornei to Borsa, a town near a winter ski resort. Looking out the window I saw mountains rising up, covered by pine trees.

Maybe when hitchhikers die and go to heaven they find themselves in Maramures - a place where drivers actually stop...

At the edge of the road running through Borsa two women were already hitchhiking. I stood nearby, backpack leaning on my leg, and observed.

Americans, Australians and Brits stick out their thumbs. In some countries you lazily extend an index finger. Here in Romania, the two women were waving their hands frantically.

It was with some embarrassment that I stretched out my hand to do the same. Locals walking past stared. I stuck out because of my Western clothes and backpack. I could see what they were thinking: where the hell was my car?

Horse-and-cart is a standard form of transport here. Two passed by, and then an ancient, battered vehicle stopped. The two women got inside. So did I, sitting beside our driver - an old man with golden teeth in a cowboy hat. He didn't say a word, just put the car into gear and drove.

In the morning sunlight the mountains were stunning.

We passed a gypsy camp, then a hermit living in a tent in the middle of nowhere, selling honey. The driver got out, bought a jar, got back in. Pot-holed, bumpy, the road worsened, bringing us to the town of Moisei, which with its dusty streets had an almost Latin American feel. The women paid. I did the same.

Hitching in Western Europe in the 90s, I often found graffiti scrawled on road signs next to hitching points. There were messages of encouragement, but usually they were darkly pessimistic. 'I have been here 2 days', or 'This is the worst hitching site in Europe'.

In Maramures there aren't such problems. Cars pick you up quickly. After Moisei I was dropped off at a petrol station and joined a group of about 20 locals, all hitchhiking. They stared, for once again I stuck out - they had farm equipment and bags of grain, I had a backpack. There were so many of us I thought we'd be there forever, but as almost every car in Maramures stops, it was a surprisingly short wait.

We passed a gypsy camp, then a hermit living in a tent in the middle of nowhere, selling honey. The driver got out, bought a jar, got back in.

After a couple more lifts, I realized that there are three types of drivers in this region.

The first is going somewhere, and gives you a lift for free. This is not the norm. The second is going somewhere, wants to make money for petrol, and charges you. Then there is the third type, the professional, who actually makes a living from cruising up and down roads like a bus.

The problem with paying is that you can't be sure how much to give. If there are Romanian passengers in the car, simply watch what they pay and offer the same. The worst situation is where you have to ask. If the driver is in the professional category, he's basically a small businessman - and may up the fare. But this type of mercenary driver is rare, and compensated for by the sort of lift I had later in the day.

I'd reached the Izei Valley, famed for its old wooden houses, churches and monasteries - but most of all for its traditionally dressed inhabitants. As I waited in a tiny, peaceful village, a Romanian in a new Peugeot stopped for me.

Lack of money was the only reason he could think of to account for a hitching Australian. He asked me if I needed help. I said no. He didn't believe it. He dug deep into his trouser pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, peeled off a few sweaty notes and forced them into my hand, saying that God would pay him back later.

He dropped me off near Botiza, my main destination in the Izei Valley. A river winds through the village, with many rickety wooden bridges leading to individual houses. The village also boasts an impressive wooden church, built in 1694. I dropped the money I'd been given in its donation box.

Americans, Australians and Brits stick out their thumbs. In some countries you lazily extend an index finger. Here in Romania, the two women were waving their hands frantically.

Botiza is the most perfect European village you'll ever find, the kind of place where traditionally garbed villagers carrying scythes return together from the fields at dusk. Cows wearing bells drink from wooden troughs at the river's edge, graze, and find their own way home. Old women open gates to let them in. On Friday nights, people sit outside houses, chatting. There doesn't seem to be anything else to do. The hills surrounding the village are low and as soft as green velvet.

Maybe when hitchhikers die and go to heaven they find themselves in Maramures - a place where drivers actually stop, and the people are remarkably generous. But if you do get stuck at night, one person told me, you can knock on any door. You'll be given a room and food in exchange for a little money. Botiza is the perfect end to the hitch through rural Paradise: a place to kick back, savour the remote beauty, and let time slip by.