DE to NZ 4 - On the Brink

 

Budapest, Hungary - Brașov, Romania

Romanian Rail Night Train 473 - 699 km (13 hours)

Cost €180

Total distance travelled - 2549km

We left Budapest under a golden gloaming, a rainbow smeared on the horizon. Our bellies were packed as full as our backpacks thanks to an Asian food court (simply called Asian Street Food Budapest) which J had scouted out on Google maps. The unassuming entrance, directly opposite Keleti main station, led us to a bustling array of restaurants surrounding a central dining area. Undoubtedly our best meal to date, the sushi, hotpot and fried tofu we ordered were accompanied by chortling water features, bonsai trees and a pumping K-pop soundtrack. After wallowing in the Hungarian capital, this unexpected taste of Asia was the perfect kickstart to our adventure East,

To add to our good spirits, we were cheerfully welcomed onto our train by our Romanian conductor, and we found our compartment to be tidy, not as cramped as expected and with fresh bedding provided. The kids, excited to be getting our adventure underway again, quickly chose their beds and set to unpacking their soft toys, pyjamas and books. Our four beds were narrow, comfortable (if a little firm) and sloped slightly to the wall. The two upper bunks could be accessed by a movable metal ladder and there was a cavity above the door large enough for all of our luggage. The window could be opened fully which was just as well as the heat regulator by the door was unresponsive. With little information to go on, we had been planning for the worst - so were happy with our digs for the night. The buoyant mood was soured slightly when a beer (opened prematurely in the excitement) was spilled, meaning that for the rest of the 13-hour trip our compartment smelled like a Dunedin student flat.

Perhaps it was the stench of alcohol that caused the Hungarian border control to take a second look at my passport. Romania, despite being a member of the EU, is not yet a part of the Schengen visa zone, which meant that, when we crossed the border at about midnight, we had to go through the formalities. I think the confusion was caused by my New Zealand passport which, being new, didn’t have an entry stamp for the Schengen zone. Eventually the two female officials, whose kindness was evident through the cracks in their stern front, became convinced I wasn't on the lam and with a swift strike of their stamp, we were free to continue our journey. Aside from that and a half-hearted scan of our carriage by a bored looking man wielding a mirror on a stick, the border crossing went without a hitch and we were soon rolling through Romanian country side. Best of all, we didn’t even have to wake the kids. Relieved, I climbed the ladder onto my bed, which was just long enough for me to stretch out, and closed my eyes.

There’s something very soothing about sleeping on a train: the rhythmic sway and clackity-clack as you are transported dutifully through the countryside, safe in the knowledge that the track you travel is already laid before you. Not all of us could appreciate the moment though, unlike her siblings who had fallen quickly asleep, our youngest stubbornly refused to settle. J, who was sharing her narrow bed with the writhing little one, was having a rough night. Woken once more by indignant grizzles at about 4am, I swung down and took the protesting bundle in my arms. Staggering up and down the carriage trying to lull her back to sleep, I watched highways teeming with lorries and factories lit up like cruise ships as the hump-backed Carpathians lumbered out of the murk.

We would be staying the next few days in Brașov - one of the Siebenbürger, seven fortified towns settled by ethnic Germans in the first half of last millennium. Our apartment was in the historic kernel, a warren of streets cradled by densely forested mountains. The modern city has since spilled out onto the surrounding plain and now houses a population of around 250,000. At 650 metres above sea level the air was laced with an autumnal chill, and I didn’t have to speak Romanian to understand the mild scolding I received from the elderly women when they saw my youngest daughter’s wispy blonde locks exposed to the elements.

Because of its Saxon heritage, German was often more useful than English when conversing with the locals. This included our Airbnb host, who attended the city's German school and later studied in Freiburg. I'm not sure whether this Teutonic influence is to blame, but to call him a fastidious host would be an understatement. It made for a spotless and perfectly organised apartment, but the long list of rules and feeling of constant surveillance spoiled our stay a little. Nevertheless, his house was in a beautiful location, surrounded by steep cobbled streets and with a view directly onto the brooding Tampa Mountain, complete with Hollywood style "Brașov" sign.

During one of our playground visits, Jenny fell into conversation with a local father while on swing duty. Afterwards, she came to me and breathlessly shared her latest intel. Apparently, brown bears, a threat which we had not taken all that seriously, were increasingly found sauntering into the city searching for food. This was a dangerous issue that the authorities didn’t know how to counter. This came as news to me, and I immediately thought back to the day before when I had gone waltzing into the woods, carrying my youngest daughter in front of me like some kind of pagan offering. Of bear, we saw neither hide nor hair, though we had a few run-ins with the local dogs, some of which seemed similar in size and ferocity.

When it came time to leave Brașov, we found that we weren't quite ready. The city had charmed us with its quaint alleys and time worn churches balanced on the brink of wilderness, and we had the sense that adventure lay just beyond its boundaries. Deciding that it would be a shame not to explore the area further we sought out one more accommodation on Airbnb. Jenny was very excited with the listing she found which boasted: "a 150-year-old farmhouse surrounded by pristine nature". It sounded promising and the reviews were all praise, so we decided to take the gamble and book a week.

What followed would be a once in a lifetime experience, in which we were woken by the rooster and the chime of the cow’s bell, spending our days accompanied by seven unkempt dogs, enjoying hearty home cooked meals while exploring a region unsullied by modernity and mass tourism. It was an opportunity to unplug, turn back time and get close to nature which, in a land where giant bears roamed free, would prove at times to be a little close for comfort.

Next Post: Bear Breath