Diary

Dan Dimancescu

Nearing a fork in the road, the Honorary Consul of Romania in Boston chose the less well trodden path

Posted: 20/04/2007

The 1982 Pinzgauer, formerly a Swiss army vehicle.

This story is less about my diary than about back roads. Byways interest me, the worse the better. Interest in back roads started when in the early 1960s I was a student at Dartmouth College in northern New England. The region, ninety-five per cent forested, is criss-crossed by numerous narrow dirt roads used for forest fire protection or foresting. Robert Frost, himself once a Dartmouth student and a poet of national American fame, wrote a frequently quoted poem entitled The Road Less Traveled. In it he brings the reader to a metaphorical choice frequently encountered in life of taking the road most travelled or the one branching off that is less traveled. Driven by curiosity in the less known, my propensity was for the latter. In those days a beat-up second-hand Beetle VW was a perfect, nimble vehicle to explore different roads. Occasionally I would get the use of an old world war two Jeep and could have more fun on steeper, rockier climbs.

Over ensuing years those college-era driving experiences came in handy when travelling in different countries – though not without some difficulties. In Czechoslovakia in 1966, I was alone one winter night in the Tatra Mountains following a small unpaved back road and drove straight into a scene that could have been lifted from the pages of a John Le Carré novel. Ahead of me in the sub-zero night was a military vehicle, its headlights shining towards me with several greatcoated soldiers visible with their machine guns standing alongside; their breath emitted small bursts of condensed air. Having no plausible reason for being in this place at this late hour, I grew nervous. Forced to stop I was asked to step out of my Austrian-rented VW. My passport was handed over. None of the military spoke English and I spoke no Czech. A tense half-hour of waiting ensued and then a cursory hand signalled that I could move on. Luckily no questions had been asked. With much relief, I could only surmise that they were looking for someone else unluckier than me.

In Romania during recent years almost all my lateral detours deep into forests or remote villages were accomplished with normal cars. No Jeep. No 4WD. In Romania I keep a superbly engineered all-road 1982 4WD Pinzgauer 710 bought at auction from the Swiss army, but it is too old to be registered legally as a road vehicle and too young to be considered an antique allowed for use on public roads.

As others have discovered too, Romania is a back-roaders delight. Some are handy short cuts at least as indicated on detailed maps. Near Ghimbav I followed such a road leading to Stupini and then Halchiu only to arrive at a scene from a sci-fi film. Ahead behind an open gate, once guarded but now abandoned, was a collection of giant strangely shaped metallic structures long given up to weeds and wild dogs. This, it turned out after subsequent inquiries, was the site of an experimental wind farm in communist times. All sorts of unusually crafted and rusting wind vanes stood idle, their designs influenced perhaps by experts in aircraft technology from the Ghimbav airplane and helicopter factory nearby. Continuing on from there, the road turned to ruts and then fields and then to mud pits. My two unnerved husband-wife companions and I were lucky to get out by driving through a cornfield with a firmer base. On another occasion I took a road from Miclosoara to Racos. What looked like a reasonable secondary road on my map turned into an unbelievable series of ruts and holes running parallel to the main rail line. The adventure was less in the difficult driving than in the white-knuckled fear it caused in my American-business driving companion on his first visit to Romania. He had gamely accepted my “Why don’t we drive down this road ...” suggestion only to find himself headed to some uncertain dangerous outcome in the dead of night.

Dan Dimancescu.

Two beautiful back roads start at Podu Dumbovitie just north of Rucar in Arges County. Turn left toward Dumbovicioara and you’ll reach Sirnea and Pestera the back way. The road was heavily damaged by rain but the vistas and landscapes were exceptional, especially in hay-cutting season. Similarly you can turn right and reach Fundata the back way along well-maintained forest roads and a deep canyon. I did that with the Pinzgauer and found myself at a dead-end having to consider maneuvering through a steep forested hillside on wet ground. That didn’t work, even though the Pinz is supposed to be able to climb a 40 degree grade (I haven’t tried). Another forest road branch led to the old church in Fundata although a forest service gate had to be jemmied to get through. In the church’s balcony, by the way, I found piles of dusty unopened brochures outlining the services required to honour Stalin’s death in 1953. They are probably still there minus one.

Among the more pleasant dirt roads is one that leads from Mosna then to Richis and the back way into Biertan. One is quickly propelled into medieval times as the fortified church looms ahead in a rural landscape unchanged for hundreds of years. This reminded me of a trip some years earlier when I walked with my family several miles through fields and farms the back way to Stonehenge, England. Approaching it that way carried one back to pre-industrial carless and wireless views of the monument slowly rising above the horizon. The effect is much more vivid and timeless than arriving by car and maneuvering through crowd-control metal barriers.

A detour of more personal interest took me to Bacau, Onesti and then Oituz (also known as Grozestii in times past). There with an introduction to the mayor, I was led up rutted roads to find ‘Hill 789’ also known as Cosna. In August 1917, my father was an officer in a Mountain Battalion of the IVth Army charged with holding this position against invading German forces coming from Transylvania to the West. The 2-3 day battle on this hill marked a turning point in holding the famed Marasesti line at a critical point. My father was wounded there, one bullet hitting his foot and another grazing his nose. Today, the zone is unchanged from what I imagined it to be almost 90 years earlier: a narrow dirt lane, scrubby hillsides, and a strategic view of the Oituz River valley running westward. A photo of the 789 hill event and a detailed description were published in a history of the first world war by Constantin Kiritescu. My father’s WWI experiences can be found at www.memoria.ro

Some back roads just don’t work. This happened on a trip with my family to Maramures. Heavy rain didn’t deter trying a back road that showed on a map as a direct link between Targu Lapus, Lapus and Botiza. Though it clearly ran through a mountain pass, I continued on in my rented car from Cluj, this one not in the best mechanical shape. Not believing admonitions from farmers from whom directions were asked that the road was impassible, I continued forward onto narrower and narrower ruts themselves muddier and muddier. The farmers were right – and for a seemingly endless distance we had to drive backwards before turning around. My recommendation: don’t try these things with family members. The same, too, for attempts in the Vrancea to drive from Nereju to Vinteleasca, two villages known for traditional ceremonies and mask-makers. Rain and mud made movement impossible. I was pleased to find that ever-ebullient Ambassador Jim Rosapepe had found his way to Nereju’s mask-maker’s house on one occasion. To get there, a wooden-saddled horse was found to help my wife, Katherine, who was hampered by a bad hip.

The Pinz approaches a fork in the road.

I hoped, too, to go with my son and a friend from Tulcea across the Danube on a small barge at Nufaru and deep into the Delta. Our goal was to follow a back road showing on our map as leading to Sulina about 55 kilometres away. An easy drive took us along the central canal to Gorgova near where a ship had been scuttled, allegedly by Ukrainians, to bloc the canal. But here the ‘good’ road suddenly led into a farmyard and the expected barking dogs and emerged the other side as a narrow rutted road. We were soon precariously driving (again in a small rented car - no 4WD) with our wheels balanced between deep ruts on either side and in the middle. A small wrong maneuver and we would have been there a long time. That, too, was a clear message to turn back which we did with some difficulty.

But while these rutted-road adventures may not appeal to most people, there are less travelled paved roads. My favorite ones are within the triangle formed by Sibiu, Sighisoara, and Brasov. Without trucks, road signs or modern intrusions they form inviting ribbon-like pathways through the appealing low hills of this Transylvanian region. For a sport-car afficionado there’s ample opportunity to speed through gentle turns - though having to remain alert to the occasional pot-hole. Going north-south from Sighisoara to Voila is such a route passing through Apold where the church is being restored by a young German with help from itinerant German apprentice crafstmen, or Iacobeni where Father Demidoff has created an ecumenical church and runs an orphanage nearby, or Cincu where you might see tanks on military exercise. Or you can turn east below Cincu and reach Soars and then Rupea.

What’s the ultimate pleasure in these lateral detours? It’s a chance to encounter a culture in places most remote from modern trappings. One comes closer in this way to core traditions of a nation and its inner identity. During my past travels this was so in reaching small secluded Japanese coastal fishing villages as it was in landing on tiny hard-to-reach islands off the Korean peninsula as it was in visiting Nereju or trying to reach Vinteleasca. Remembering Robert Frost:

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Dan Dimancescu is Honorary Consul of Romania in Boston and owner of the Inn on Balaban (Bran).

Be one of the first to comment on this article