Once you get your head around the fact that you can’t travel everywhere (well almost anywhere actually) at anything approaching the speed limit it kinda becomes fun driving. You absolutely cannot let your concentration lapse for a moment though. There are potholes in the road of course. We have them in England. They have them in Germany. They even have them in France (although these are a rarity). In Romania though they have a vastly more diverse selection too choose from. The Pot Hole, the bucket hole, the bath hole, the skip hole, the oh shit the road edge has just crumbled into the abyss hole leading to certain death if you drive anywhere close to the edge.
When we drove the Transfagarasan and came down the other side we were revelling in the views and experience, stopping every few miles to drink in the latest vista. There is an almost infinite choice of hairpins to challenge the driver in Romania and none more than in this beautiful region. We had just successfully navigated another of these beauties, only this one was different. It wasn’t that the drop on the outside of the bend wasn’t precipitous. Not that the tarmac wasn’t deeply rutted from the passage of millions of lorry tires, causing our steering to become almost like I would imagine it to be like driving a train, your direction pre-ordained by the direction of the tracks, not even the inadequacy of the barriers (where they exist at all) or the slippery mixture of dust, small stones and whatever at the edge of the road denying any hope of traction. This bend will be etched forever in my memory because of the hundreds of candles at the edge of the road, each contained within a small, red, glass vessel, marking the passage of a vehicle through the barrier and into the screaming nothingness beyond. I tried to imagine that moment. The realisation that, for whatever reason, you’d got it wrong! The moment that forward momentum began to slow and gravity rapidly took control. I tried to imagine the moment of realisation; that life was about to end and the sheer panic as whoever had crossed this divide between substance and fresh air began to accelerate towards inevitability…. And I’m sure, I utterly failed! I have, only once crossed my hands on the steering wheel whilst driving in the mountains and thoroughly admonished myself for this momentary lapse in concentration.
Romanian drivers… Romaniacs we call ‘em.
There are the horse and cart drivers. They are everywhere and life moves at a different pace for them. They steer a steady course along the tracks, village roads, dual carriageways and city streets unconcerned about the deficiencies of the tarmac, such is the lack of speed.
Do you remember the episode of the Good Life when Tom hitched his rotovator to a small cart and he and Barbara proceeded to drive this creation down the Avenue, much to Margo’s disgust… we have seen more than a few of these contraptions as well, being driven by dark skinned smallholders on their way to who knows where.
The drivers in these first two categories become mobile chicanes for the faster, more demonic drivers to navigate as fast as possible.
The old Dacia driver. These elderly cars have been maintained on a shoestring if at all and the drivers almost fall into the horse and cart, and rotovator category. They are oh slow and for sure would not pass as fit for the road in most of the rest of Europe and yet the drivers, usually elderly gents, with the car filled with varied bric a brac, will take them anywhere, including motorways, where it is indeed possible to reach the 130kph speed limit. These rare stretches of tarmac are usually two lanes in both directions and the Dacia drivers cause others, including articulated lorry drivers to swerve into the outside lane, just about the time when you are overtaking them.
The sports car driver. There are, in fact, no sports cars in Romania however every Romaniac thinks they are driving one. Most roads in Romania are one or two lanes, pitted and pockmarked after years of neglect and poor initial construction. People drive with aggression usually seen only on a Saturday night in Maidstone at chucking out time. Overtaking is the real issue here. Given the endless procession of vehicles in the first categories, people feel the need to overtake wherever possible, and often impossible. They come at you, seemingly from nowhere, either cutting in in front of you squeezing into the space you have tried to maintain as a safety net between you and the Romaniac in front, or worse still causing you to chuck the anchors out in order to avoid a head on as a car tears towards you, after a blind bend, on your side of the road. It’s no mean feat reducing speed this rapidly in a four and a half tonne MoHo.
In their defence though, you sometimes get a contrite wave from the Romaniac by way of an apology for causing you to change yet another pair of pants, after their failed attempt to murder you and your kin. Long live the Romaniac! (Ha ha. Fat chance.)
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