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This looks like a good day for driving yet another 100 km. Let’s see if Mike is going to be able to get himself together and if this freaky junction village has another joint to have some coffee ‘cause I could sure use some with all this food I’ve been not having lately. And then, maybe even find the right way to go on...

Hey, it only took us an hour to actually get started but at least I had some coffee and now I’m ready to go! And look at the other white people on bikes, which can only mean that we’re on the path to salvation, or, at least to the next stop. Oh, how I wish to get Mike to move faster and maybe stretch it a little bit and drive up to Tham Kong Lo today so that we’ll have less to drive tomorrow... Now that would be a nice thing: for once, I wouldn’t have to wake up this early and just take my time. Well, all in due time. For now, let’s drive!

Hmm, it appears that this rocky dirt road is not that bad and I can almost drive normally. Cool. Wait a minute! Did I put some sunscreen on? Although it doesn’t matter much because I’ll be orange anyway, although it will be from the dust and not the sun. This is what ‘safety first’ means, not that silly helmet that Mike always insists on tying tight around his head. And, if you think about it, driving with no shirt on, as he does – men and their tans! – is far more dangerous than driving with the helmet untied, as I do. Well, at least my skin won’t peel like that of a moulting gecko and like it once did. But I don’t want to remember that. It could make an interesting blog post but there definitely has to pass more time until I can actually think about that.

And look at that! So this is the ‘environmental disaster zone created by the recent flooding of the Nam Theun 2 dam’ that the prick of a guidebook was talking about. It really looks amazing. I guess I have enough time to stop and take some pictures until Mike gets here. And even if he does stop, I’ll catch up with him soon.

What the hell is wrong with the bike? Something’s definitely off but I don’t understand what. Could it be this gravely road we’re driving on? Damn! I should stop and check the bike because not being able to take curves is not my style. Oh, yeah, cool: another flat tire! How come everything’s going wrong for me these days?! Well, at least Mike is here, not that he can be of any help but at least I can shout at someone. Bad self-joke, I know... Anyway, let’s see how we can go about this: there’s nothing here, except this ‘environmental disaster zone created by the recent flooding of the Nam Theun 2 dam’ so trying to fix the tire here is totally out of the question. Which only leaves me with driving like this ‘till we get to some village or someone that can help. Let’s see now... oops, too fast. This piece of Chinese metal doesn’t want to do what I say any more. Slower... Okay, it looks like I’m getting the hang of it and I can think about some people who could actually appreciate my skills. Even I’m impressed by this. And I actually imagined something like this a lot, only getting the flat tire while driving really fast and on some blacktop back in Romania. Well, this will have to do. But why in the name of unnamed higher forces did this have to happen here: there are so many ups and downs and hairpin bends and I could have had so much more fun with a bike that’s properly equipped and with enough atmospheres in its tires...

This looks like it could be one of those villages made for people displaced by the flooding that the guidebook was describing. Well, this is my chance. How was that again? Yang hua, right? Flat tire. But I’m sure I’m not the first... and they actually have a proper workshop! Oh, how could I have imagined it would be that easy?! Of course they’re out for lunch. And of course we’ll have to wait, who knows how long... At least he’s a fast one. And nice enough to line the tire with another piece of rubber so that the tube will be protected from further mishaps. Yeah, man, I know, you don’t have to explain... I know the tire is bad but hopefully you did your job well and I’ll stop having bad luck from now on.

Well, look at that! We’ll have to ‘datour’ from the dirt road onto some dirt road... now this is a change. But the scenery is something I’d love seeing every day; granted, not with the bike’s seat imprinted on my butt and I really have to stop thinking about it for a while, maybe the pain will go away. How did I do this driving-a-motorcycle for so long without ever thinking about the pain of countless of hours of sitting down? Maybe bigger bikes have bigger seats or something. Let’s get back to what’s important: which Disney soundtrack was I singing now? Oh, if only Mona were here, she could recite all the lyrics I forgot... oh, well. Caaaaan you feel the love toniiiight...

So, if all the surroundings look like this, than that’s how I probably look like. Hmm, a small price to pay! And it seems that the dirt road is finally over and we’re not that late right now. It’s bound to be smooth sailing from now on!

Wow, now this is what I call driving! This road totally rocks! And the curves and the ups and downs... this is really exciting! I love it. And with this new skill I’ve discovered, everything’s more fun. Let’s see: this thing, I mean the motorcycle, has no clutch so if you press and hold the pedal, it actually doubles as a clutch or a neutral point and this means I can cut the engine and I can drive downhill without using gas. I only have to remember not to raise my foot from the pedal. And this thing flies 60 downhill! Should I wait for Mike or go these next 20 km on my own? This one’s a no-brainer: onwards!

This is what I call ingenuity: giving a new meaning to useless things, like, in this case, bombs. And these Lao people, who turned the bombs into boats... now that’s really something. Kind of sad, though but totally remarkable!

Aaaand here you have your sunset of the day! But it’s so cool to see it from this nice view point, meaning that all that driving uphill finally paid for something! And the whole valley looks cool, especially with this light. This is just about 10 km from the village. And, supposedly, the next 50 kilometres to Tham Kong Lo are really good. If only Mike would be willing to drive them today. I just have to wait for the perfect time to skilfully place the question (as if that’s going to do it) but at least I have to try... Okay, back in the saddle...

It appears that my knees almost stopped shaking so this is a good time to recap: I did have a whole side of a hill to overhaul that crawling bus and driving uphill behind him not only gave me another good reason for cancer from exhaust fumes but took forever. And then, on the down side, I bit the bullet and gave a try at passing him. True, the fact that I was experimenting with my no-engine method was not such a big help because it put me right in front of that SUV that was grumbling uphill exactly at the time that I got to the middle of the bus. Yes, the bus did hit the brakes, as did the SUV, but I had no power to arrow past the bus and with these brakes, there’s no way I could have slowed enough to get back behind the bus. So this is how I ended up on the grass on the other side of the road. And the grass was green, thank heavens! Well, at least all drivers smiled at me when I tried to gesture an apology (ha! The perks of being non-Lao). Note to self in CAPS LOCK: OVERTAKING REEKING BUSSES CANNOT BE DONE WITHOUT A WORKING ENGINE. Although I’m still pretty proud to use the Lao way.

Wow, the diversity: I’m really overwhelmed by the choices of food around here! What should I choose? Fried noodles with vegetables or fried rice with vegetables? Or I could go for the fried noodles... But there’s also that fried rice... With these many choices, we should have went on and driven the last 50 km but Mike was too exhausted. At least the room is nice and I didn’t hear any rats around the place as I had in other places (yeah, those ones playing or hunting or whatever above the room could have been awarded with the Most Original Place to Spot Rats award). And how can they imagine we’ll pay almost double for that room with a hot shower? News flash: this country doesn’t really need hot water save for a couple of months a year and, although right now you couldn’t say it’s actually hot in the mornings and evenings but this is totally bearable.

Well, all in all, this was a pretty good day. Except for the flat tire; and the aching butt; and the soul shaking overhaul of the crappy bus; and this sticky dirt that under no circumstances wants to get out from under my fingernails!

The Loop - Day Two part II

Save for the battered behind, the frozen fingers, the numb legs and the general dusty orange tint from the dirt not settled on the dirt road, driving a motorbike in the Lao countryside is a joy. Provided you don’t end up driving into the sunset when, as if on a special outer-sensorial queue, all the creatures of the night come to life. Especially the insects; tiny beings that don’t live to see another day swarm all over the place, especially towards something; especially towards the light; especially towards your light.

I was driving peacefully, going about 25 km/h trying to avoid crashing because of the trenches left by tractors in the moist ground, when I started thinking about finding ways to avoid the attack of the insects directed at me. Well, like I said before, the creatures were flying toward the light but I suspect most of them had a really bad aim, so they ended up bombarding my face instead. You see, I was so concentrated on getting somewhere, preferably intact, that I didn’t really register the sunset and its aftermath. The previous day I didn’t have as many problems with insects but this being truly the countryside, the number of insects increased dramatically. Also, I should have seen ‘the environmental disaster zone created by the recent flooding of the Nam Theun 2 dam’ on one side of the road, as my guidebook confidently instructed, but that also leaves a gap in my memory. There shouldn’t have been a long way to the next village and the obligatory guesthouse so I pushed on, deciding to leave Mike to tackle his own insects (although, at the impressive speed of 5 km/h, not even insects could have hit him too hard). And, as I reached the village and for the squashed bugs stuck in my eyes, night was peacefully wrapping around the freakishly quiet village.

Along came Mike 15 minutes later commanding to find the first guesthouse and stop fooling around with this driving-through-the-night-on-a-crappy-road stuff and just relax. The only problem was that we couldn’t find a guesthouse and not even an open shop, not to mention somebody who would understand what we wanted and who could have assisted us. Thus I had to use my language skills yet again and I trespassed some properties in search for someone. Kids and women, I decided, would be of no help because neither are any good at giving directions so I spotted some elderly men chatting around a fire who weren’t very impressed by us, mostly because they had difficulty seeing us through the get black unlit night. But, as soon as I put on my help face, they promptly started explaining something in the tones on ‘faaaar away’. Wait! What?! To my great joy and happiness, the village we were looking for was being pointed in the direction where we came from with the indication of something along the lines of ‘30-40 km’. Apparently, we took the wrong road at the aforementioned junction and so, ended up further inside the unseen Lao countryside. Off the beaten track, to put it mildly, eh?!

Mike bluntly refused to turn back but he soon realized that there was no other solution other than asking some chicken to move over and make room for us in their chicken coop. So I offered to drive just in front of him so that he could see where he should be driving. I’ll spare you the excruciating details of driving 5 km/h under an amazing sky full of stars (of which Mike didn’t see any because he was too concentrated on cementing his eyeballs on my rear tire) and doing everything humanely possible so as not to get bored to tears by the voyage, from standing up on the bike, singing every imaginable Disney movie soundtrack and smoking while trying to drive without hands (at one point I even decided I could light up while driving but gave up on that particular project). Two hours later we were back in the junction village and were checking in at a very respectable hotel where it sounded like they were having a marriage party (of course, the karaoke people propped the bar, as always) so we set out in search of some food; on foot, of course because neither of us wanted to get their lower parts back on any bike seats sooner than necessary. And there was some food indeed: the only open place we found was serving only barbecued meat and didn’t even have any rice for that matter.

‘This is how one becomes an alcoholic’ I reasoned while ordering another beer and watching Mike sharing a nice barbecue dinner with the local dogs. With our bellies full (some of us with food, while others with nausea-causing beverages), we went back to the hotel where we planned to crash the party plundering everything until I would find something to quench the thirst of my recently swallowed beers. Simple: I would go out and smoke a cigarette and incidentally stroll towards the area where people were singing before and now just cheerfully chatting away and, surely they will not be able to restrain their curiosity and would invite me over. And sure enough, it was exactly what happened. So I sailed right in the scene where the only English speaking person out of a group of about a dozen Lao, was a nice young Lao lady, who asked me the usual while handing me – surprise! – a beer. They sat me down on the mats and in a matter of seconds I became the focus point of the entire gathering.

‘And your darling not coming?’ This took me by surprise.

‘Who? Oh, Mike... well, yes, he’s coming only he’s taking a shower right now.’ To which everybody laughed as if I’d made the joke of the day. So they made me go and get Mike and then proceeded in keeping us well hydrated with beer after beer, cheerfully shutting out any possibility of me desperately needing some food. However, by this time, I was in no mood for food any more.

‘Oh, this is not marriage?’ I asked obviously confused by the reason of their happy gathering on a Tuesday.

‘No. It only because we had football match with other city.’

‘Very nice!’ I said thinking of a lot of people that I am sure would have been really impressed by this.

‘... but we lost,’ the nice girl told me equally happy. ‘So now we drink because our team so bad that not possible to beat the other team never.’ She then translated this and my joke of the day was short-lived and this new über-joke took the cake.

You might wonder how I escaped this joyous celebration without having to be dragged back to bed by someone slightly less inebriated than me. But I outfoxed them and, with the excuse of going to the bathroom, I left Mike in the loving hands of one very, very happy group of Lao people and sneaked in the room without a second thought.

Thus, day two ended with me barely hitting the bed and already cruising on the dreamland motorcycle.

The Loop - Day Two part I

Well, although it’s very much out of the current situation of affairs, I’m still keen on evoking the wonderful experiences I’ve had on Lao soil. The last account containing something about said soil was all about the hypothetical situation of the unfortunate traveller who set out with too much hope and enthusiasm and too little possibilities of pouring her frustrations on whatever was around.

Spoiler alert! That hypothetical situation totally took place.

Spoiler alert #2! I jest you not: that poor unfortunate traveller was none other than I.

The next morning we set out on what would appear to be a very early hour so that, at least in my head, we would compensate the missed start of the previous day. But packing everything and tying it to the bikes and trying to find at least some coffee proved to be too complicated to be finished early enough, so it was already around 9.30 AM by the time we revisited the (previously unnoticed) roads of the night before. We even discovered where we were in relation to where we wanted to be – not there yet – and where we wanted to get by the time the day would be over – pretty far.

Still, because of my wrongfully estimated guidebook (and we shall get to that in due time!), I suggested we should try visiting a pretty interesting cave, Tham LotSe Bang Fai, really out of the way and not easily accessible for tourists but, as someone from the city told us, it would only be 80-something kilometres from Tha Kaek. According to my estimations, this would mean a fairly simple detour of about 40 km from where we were, which would mean that we could be back on track in time to not get caught driving by nightfall. Alas, my calculations didn’t include the fact that Asian distances are longer than they appear, meaning nobody actually means what they say about distances. So, the 40 kilometres morphed into about 60... up to the junction towards the cave with traditional, authentic dirt roads and the inevitable trenches that adorned them. And, hail Buddha!, they had a sign: Tham Lot Se Bang Fai 50 km. Check mate!

I was pretty set on seeing the cave so I started driving on the road but:

• It was a pretty damned dirt road, even the first part of it, not to mention the part with the little stream-crossing and the pushing the bike through the water, to which I had already been let in on by the motorcycle rent guy.
• It was already about 1 PM, and it would take us at least two hours to reach the cave and about the same to get back, not to mention the visiting and the getting to the next guesthouse part.
• My companion was not the best of drivers, meaning that he professed his love for driving bikes and not his driving skills, the latter being composed mostly by short drives on Southeast Asian islands without a driving license. Also, to be on the safe side, he preferred the constant driving speed of 40 km/h. Constantly.

It was then that we sat beside the dirt road, me with my crushed hopes, him carrying his newly acquired plastic bag of petrol (he refuelled and the standard quantity of gas didn’t all fit in the tank, so they gave it to him nonetheless: to go.). And, against all of my wishes, we settled for the reasonable thing to do and turned back.

I did get my wish of seeing the inside of a cave, as Laos has tons of them wherever you turn, so, at one point, when I stopped by the road to give Mike a chance to catch up with me (only because I refuse to drive 40 km/h when a respectable 60 is still slow) I saw a cave entrance and decided that I should not miss my chance again. By the time Mike came, I was nervously jumping from one foot to the other and crazily pointing towards the cave. He indulged me and we went for a closer look. My standards of travelling always imply at least a headlamp by my side, which I used like a pro when I ventured inside the cave. Only my lamp isn’t anywhere near the standards of contemporary headlamps but would probably impress some turn of the century miners, although rather because of the pretty blue light and not because of its intensity. Basically, I saw more of the inside of the cave with the help of my camera’s flash than with my cute accessory headlamp. And what I did see was enough to call it a day with my underground activities:

What you can see there are normal underground creatures that don’t really squeal or even move but when you see them, you’ll likely want to start screaming yourself. As you can see, these are not friendly-looking creatures. But what isn’t all that visible is the sheer size of them: so, whenever you encounter anything looking like a mutant bloodshot-eyed moth or an overgrown deformed spider with way too many legs, each the size of your right hand, you can confidently put an end to exploring places best left to researchers or Indiana Jones.

I retreated shamefully and, back on The Loop, we drove through overpopulated villages, mostly avoiding school kids on their way home (which is basically what they do, at any given hour), and, as you might imagine, got to the point when we had to watch the beautiful sun set. Yes, that’s right: the sunset, as in: soon enough you’ll start driving by ear or, as faith would have it, by hands and feet in order to feel your surroundings as it’s increasingly hard to see them. And, at a junction, we had to make the decision: right or left? Of course, the guidebook was of no help whatsoever, as it convincingly told us to drive straight ahead, an impossible option if one insisted on going around buildings...

You'd think day two would be over that fast? Not a chance! But the rest of it, tomorrow...

Happy Dreaded Birthday!

Well, I'll admit, it is a little late (two days too late, to be exact) but this cannot not be committed to the collective memory of the world wide internet.

It has been an entire year of peaceful - sometimes frustrating - communion to which I have been subject to and it seems to go on stronger than ever. I'm happy, at peace and content in this relationship and I do not intend to part with it. Yes, it's true, our first get together was uncomfortable and the entanglement of our relationship took well over 12 hours, and then it took about a month for adjusting, but in the end, we're happy together. I would even go so far as to say that I'm closer to being complete, whole!

Sure, all relationships have worse times and rocky parts and I won't hide the fact that I have had second thoughts about this union but now, one year later, I realize it has indeed been worth it.

So, this one goes to you: I'm truly blessed to have found (and accepted) you in the first place. You've accompanied me through all seasons, dry, snowy or rainy and never once complained. You've brought me joy and made me feel special. Even the problems you posed made me find hidden meanings in everyday life and, at the end, the solutions gave me satisfaction. You were always there with me, close to me, putting your special touch in everything I did, changing the way I see life and am seen by other lives. The world changed because of you and, though it sounds conceited and vain, I changed the world through you. Our special bond did raise flabbergasted questions and doubts but it also candidly touched the realm of serenity and delight.

I'm sorry but I am now drained of all the churning words that have been inside of me for the last couple of days and desperately wanted a chance to display their affectionate appreciation. And all I can say now is:

Happy Birthday, dreadlocks!

Winter Cold Remedy

The ice age era is upon us or, at least, upon those of us who feel they have acclimatized to the wintery continental weather, yet are as comfortable with temperatures below zero as much as tractors are accustomed to running on rubbing alcohol. Among the followers of this particular category is also my cold-oppressed self, who underwent a wonderful experience just yesterday, when I had the privilege to stand in the cold and snow for no less than three hours. By ‘stand’ I really mean stand and/or sit while the walking part took too little to be mentioned here. The reason, you ask? Well, simply taking pictures.

You might ask yourself why I would up and snap shots in the cold and then complain about it. Well, of course, nothing is as simple as it appears at first glance: first of all, I went outside to learn how to take pictures during a photography course I’m taking so it was not exactly my unrestrained wish. Second, this was the first practical session I took part in so I couldn’t complain much on the spot (although, God knows I’d have loved to be able to do so!). and third, I omitted donning my skiing outfit while strolling through a local park but, had I known that winter photography can be easily compared to arctic expeditions, I’d have thought better of it.

You see, photography requires, among other things, working hands, preferably non-shaking  ones, and, trust me, gloves fail to serve any purpose in such a situation, because taking pictures with gloves on is worse than having animals without opposable thumbs do it. Also, frosted, non-responding feet tend to complicate matters more, because – as one might know from merely walking – joints have to work properly in order to carry you around. Ears? Who needs them; they can be left outside, subject to the piercing cold, and a person like me is reluctant to wear hats (especially considering the size of a hat that would contain my dreadlocks). And red ears make for a very nice, camera-friendly contrast to the snowy surroundings. Nose? Don't even mention it! Although you might not be very interested to know, its functions work abnormally well in dire conditions (if the goal is to produce a protective film of frozen mucus all the way to your lower lip).

So, after some three hours of doing this (although ill-omened rumours said it wasn’t that cold), I drove stiff as a crash-test dummy straight into a hot bath hoping to regain some sense in my limbs and to be able to properly articulate words again. And, after soaking for a while, the thick layer of ice finally melted, revealing my pink-complexioned tegument all warm and fuzzy... until I left the bathroom and realized that the rest of the house is not as cosy and snug as were my expectations. The only sensible thing to do was get into bed and hope to sleep the cold off; only that proved to be more difficult than I imagined: I was still refrigerated and the sneezing wouldn’t stop. So I turned to the last resort my mind was able to produce: I clapped together a winter jogging outfit any true athlete would have envied me for, with which, I decided, I wouldn’t suffer any more. I found some woollen socks, a jacket and – la piece du resistance – a woollen hat. Which I wore. To sleep. 

Malaysian Moment

Even though Malaysia’s KL didn’t satisfy my oh-so-refined tastes in cityscapes and urban planning and activities, KL is home to one of the finest moments in human kindness and is responsible for one of my dearest Southeast Asian memories. That is, on top of all mishaps that went on there (the three trips to KL’s busiest, most famous electronics shopping centre for a new netbook cable being just the tip of the iceberg of lost patience and nerve wrecking Malaysian experiences) providence, the gods, karma or whatever, gave me a short but fulfilling occurrence in return.

After the daily afternoon rain, I was aimlessly wandering on the capital's streets when I decided I needed some nourishment, preferably in the form of meat-less food; as much as I love Indian food, the choices at hand were not to my timely tastes or to my budget at hand and the Chinatown market was missing one important element, that is the owner of the food stall that fed me the previous days a choice of fried noodles or fried rice, him being the only one as all the other cooks don’t serve much except meat in various shapes, sizes and combinations. So I headed away from the market (some might call it an open-air food court barricaded on all sides by little Chinese kitchens on wheels), and found a nice corner place where my culinary requests were understood and were about to be met.

The place was crowded, packed to the ceiling with hopeful locals who stormed through their foods and left, only to make room for more hungry people, but I played my tourist card and claimed a whole table for myself and my trusty sidekick, THE KINDLE, and waited (somewhat impatiently) for the noodles to make their way towards my eager appetite. As seats were hard to get, an elderly lady politely asked if she could sit down and I happily offered her a choice of four or five seats waiting for someone bold enough to sit with the tourist.

She sat down and insisted on engaging me in an extensive interview, as if she was there to give me a full psychotherapeutic assessment: where I came from; what I do; where I’ve travelled and where I wanted to go next; what religion I was and how many siblings I had. I scrupulously answered every question to my best abilities, not forgetting to mention how sorry I was for not having enough time for a proper visit of her home country and city. She was thrilled by my interest in her life and home and proceeded to tell me how, after the recent passing away of her husband, she visited her daughter in Hong Kong:

‘It was beautiful, but I don’t want to go again. It was too tiring, too confusing... You must be so brave to travel alone...’

‘Well, if I meet people like yourself, it’s a pleasure to travel...,’ I retorted.

We went on chatting until she paused:

‘I must buy you a tea. You know, the tea here is great, not too sweet... usually, everywhere else they serve tea that’s too sweet...’

I tried to refuse as politely as possible because I felt she was already being too nice but mostly because I like tea as much as cats like to take baths; but there was no way she’d back down. So I got the tea.

‘Do you like it? Drink, drink. It’s not too sweet, is it?’

‘Oh, no, it’s great, thank you!’ I said gulping down another mouthful of black tea with milk, just to get the thing over with. Honestly, it wasn’t all that bad, except for the taste of, well, tea.

‘Be careful not to burn yourself.’

Still, she wasn’t happy. She seemed to be thinking; she looked around in her handbag and handed me a bag of fruit candy. She insisted I take it, the candy being a great energy booster, yet, again, not too sweet. She’d only opened the bag a couple of hours before so I could be sure they weren’t expired. And they were sooo good... Refusing her was not an option. So I ceremoniously took the bag, thanking her the best I could, all the while making a mental inventory of the contents of my bag so I could return the gesture, alas to no avail. I thought she would leave after finishing her tea, but she proceeded to explain to me where the most beautiful Kuala Lumpur temples were, which I surely must visit. And still, her kindness was not over: she rummaged through her bag again and this time she produced a half a dozen of nicely wrapped drugs.

‘This you might need,’ she said showing me the drugs. ‘They’re antihistaminics. Very expensive so don’t throw them away. If you have a headache or stomach problems you can use them. But not more than one at a time.’

‘You’re too kind and I thank you very much, but I have a lot of medicine...’

‘Oh, no, no. You must take them. Here. I have some more. And I’ll give you these as well. Here’s ten of them. Use them. You travel a long time so you need them.’

By this time I was half impressed and half embarrassed and just a tiny little bit sceptical about the wonder-drugs that I couldn’t say anything but thank her again. Refusing was, as you might have guessed, still out of the question.

‘Well, I have to go now,’ she said. ‘Don’t pay for the tea, I will handle it. Don’t let them charge you for it. Tourists get into this kind of trouble so be careful.’ But she didn’t get up. She looked tired and lonely. But she was determined to be the best spokesperson for a country I hadn’t enjoyed so much until then.

‘Can I give you something?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you gave me so much already, I couldn’t...’

‘Oh, no, wait. I told you I was a Buddhist? Well, I want to give you something for protection, something you can take with you.’ and she searched around for a small string bracelet in her wallet. ‘I make these,’ she said holding the bracelet with both hands. ‘It will help you, I’m sure... Can I tie this on your bag?’ Of course, I agreed and she tied a wonderful bow on the side of my bag and petted it lovingly, blessing it while doing so. Finally, she was satisfied. And so was I. But the smile on her face while soundlessly chanting a small mantra when she tied the strings on the bag was the best gift she gave me.

Dominator

So, after a long and fruitful (self)inquiring, I finally decide I should get a bike for at least a week to go and do a little country tour, starting at my work place and making my way south to the jazz festival I wanted to see since forever.

The night before leaving I go and see my future steel horse and its full-fledged master, and make a complete fool of my having-over-ten-years-a-driver’s-license self while trying to make a U turn with the 650 Honda Dominator. I succeed in inching my way round a light pole in a supermarket parking lot, saying “Oh, yeah, it’s fine, just that it’s turning around its own axis in a surprisingly small circle – yeah, I know how that happens…” Ahem…

The next morning I put my luggage on the bike at the price of perspiring to the point of total dehydration and proudly leave town: I am a biker and, moreover, I am a girl biker and finally, I am a girl enduro biker, with the right kind of helmet and all (well, actually with no boots, just sandals, no jacket, just a hoodie… Still!).

100 km later I get to work and try to look dignified while getting off the damn thing which tried to roast my right calf with its exposed engine! After the “wows” and “ohs” I give up my poker face and silently admit that my inner self is bursting into a very distressed state with the occasional spots of horror at the only now realized fact that I’m travelling with a vehicle from which I can barely touch the ground and which, if fallen down, will take the strength of two grown men to be reestablished in a properly working position. In a word, I’m screwed. Totally. Screwed.

Still, I admit I did this to myself and I cannot be so close to Geamăna lake (actually the mine dumps, reachable by Dacia and/or bike) and not try to get there. So one evening, after finishing early, I decide to ride there and take a look around.

Not a bad start: I smoothly ride uphill waving at the locals and nodding at passing cars, being safely hidden by the helmet’s bulging lower jaw and huge visor. After some doubtful bends, wanting to get lower, closer to the water, I ride downhill on the dusty, rocky road, congratulating myself for being wrong when I first deemed the cross-like tires unworthy of my quest, but end up balancing the bike with my own shifting-where-needed weight; not one of my better moments, but definitely an efficient one.

After slaloming between picturesque cows, I finally get that the place has little visitors (especially motorcycled ones) by observing the native dogs, which can be easily grouped into two categories: Titanic and Braveheart. As their name suggests, the Titanics sink to the bottom of their own little oceans, while doing what the orchestra on the Titanic did (keep in mind, the reference solely concerns the movie script): they continue on doing whatever it was they did before, which grossly amounts to doing nothing (mind you, not even glancing in the bike’s direction). The Bravehearts are no less the exponents of their respective category: while not quite shouting “freedom!”, they do give their all and dive headfirst for their cause, regardless of the perils; in other words, they throw themselves full speed at the front the wheel, the back wheel, the engine or the general direction of the bike and run beside it ‘till the bitter end (which, as opposed to Braveheart, is not death, but fatigue).

People are quick to give me directions but totally lack in existence when I get to the crossroads which can either take me home, or to some remote village on even on worse country roads. It is not even mentionable, but I take the wrong road and only realize it while driving uphill on an impossibly narrow side of the road. And by “impossible”, I mean definitely not possible for me because of my state of chickenshit. So I decide to back up in spite of my not really touching the ground. Backing up by literally millimeters, I lose my balance and, in the hustle of the moment, I grab the rotting wooden fence on my side, which, incidentally, gives in and only produces some cuts and bruises on my palm while I am still falling to the ground on my left with 180 kg of bike on top of me. I awkwardly shamble from under the bike and freeze when I see the little spring of gasoline happily squirting in the alarmingly growing puddle on the road. When I finally succeed to stop the gasoline from flowing all the way to the Danube, I start panicking, thinking that I will have been left without gas completely. Still, the bike must stand on its wheels again so, in the rush of the moment, I clutch one side of it and jerk hard.

Nothing. Well, maybe just some centimeters off of the ground. But not enough. No more strength. A growing tingling feeling in my lower back. Adrenaline level: abruptly, totally freefalling. Judgment slowly creeping back. A thought finally taking shape: must find help. Strong help, of course, because otherwise I’ve got nowhere. Surely, country folk are strong from all their country activities and will be undertaking their country activities out here – in the country. And, most likely, they will be eager to help me, a poor, mad girl, lost on these back roads. I only have to locate them for this:

15 minutes later I hurry back to the bike alone, being convinced that all the country folk have been undertaking their country activities in hiding (needless to say that just a few minutes earlier there were lots of country folk in their own country!). Also, I started having this obsession that some professional motorcycle thieves will come the moment I turn my back and will steal the bike.

So, after I dragged the bike a few meters down in a sort of ditch left by the wheels of some cars or tractors, I put all my strength, determination and insanity into getting the bike back on its wheels; and behold: I inexplicably succeed!

The last couple of meters backing up only took about 20 minutes. Each.

Labour Day II

As a privileged escort in the maternity ward, if you wanted to go outside and say, smoke a cigarette, you’d find that there’s no way to get back in because all the doors had card/badge based entry. And so, being separated from your worldly possessions, and accompanied by some tens of husbands/boyfriends and family members all awaiting the wonderful news of the new added offspring and all trying to peek inside stretching their necks like giraffes whenever the doors to the heavenly wards opened (this is because they were not part of the fortunate few and had to leave their spouses all alone during labour, thus winding up in the waiting room aka the entrance hall of the maternity hospital), and so, as I was saying, I wanted to get back inside, in my warm (although disturbingly noisy and visually harassing) little corner next to my by now yelping friend (yelping is right because after seven or eight hours of labour, you sort of lose your enthusiasm and stop acknowledging every little cry of pain).

What I failed to mention is that, on this lovely winter day, in mid January, the percentage of little creatures coming to life was overwhelmingly favoring the (more) colored population of Cluj, meaning that most of the hang-arounds in the waiting room were, more or less, of the gypsy persuasion; meaning that the amount of uncoordinated colors on the backs of these people was, just like the volume of their conversations, immensely high. Also, the quantity of facial hair was definitely imposing, so much so as not to get anyone second-guessing the bearer (moustaches are a well groomed trait of gypsies… preferably male).

Everything made my throat dry like sandpaper and had me swallowing as if my tongue were the size and shape of a tennis ball. Yet I had to look calm and peaceful for the sake of the ones truly suffering (of course, that was not the best time to point out that the sufferings were self instilled and so annulled any type of rightful complaints) and had to keep my cheerful nature (ha!) so as to always be remembered as the friend who was there in times of need (I have yet to find a better means for extortion!).

Finally, the future father arrived in the waiting room, having some friends over as well (because they figured, what the hell?! It will eventually happen and the more supporters the better. Also, parties can occur in the most unexpected places). Having no scrubs or anything the least bit resembling hospital clothes (as opposed to me, who got the hospital props from well-intended doctor friends), he had to wait outside, fussing and fidgeting, looking awfully concerned. By that time, we were all a little edgy and were waiting for the blessed moment of birth, just to be able to go home and reprogram our minds the best we can and simply shut the memory of the whole day out (at least that’s my personal take on things).

In the end it came; or the end came; or, rather, she went; inside; where, because of my special condition, they cordially invited me to assist, participate and observe the act that they call the great miracle of childbirth. To their dismay, I refused the wonderful offer and contemplated the beauty of not participating (for which the father probably despises me even as we speak): my frown disappeared, my exhaustion faded away and my whole being came back to being! Only for an hour or so, during which the husband sprinted closer to the OR and paced around nervously, just like a rally car, and I tried (unsuccessfully) to organize my after-the-birth time, as in: where to drink, what to drink and when (if ever) to stop, just to wash away the memory… I planned it all well: as soon as she got out, I’d offer my congrats and scram! I would not even take a shower; I’d just leave the car somewhere and run to the first open joint to drown my sorrows. But reality tricked me yet again…

…and the child came screeching. Everybody was exulting greatly, rejoicing and celebrating, all under the spiteful eyes of the other pregnant laboring women, awaiting their own match (I’m not saying that women are defeated, on the contrary: they win, in spite of their battle scars but Mother Nature puts up quite the obstacle course). The father was thoroughly prepared, with a camera to (literary) flash in front of the newborn’s eyes, and he gave it to the doctor, who turned out to be a pretty good photographer.

First picture of the baby: shot by his personal photographer, chief surgeon doctor dude.

But, sadly, I was not spared: the midwife proudly presented the kid to its father, right in front of the OR, before taking it to the newborn ward. No sooner than she exited the OR and showed the kid to the father, she scanned her surroundings and harshly declared that there has to be somebody else that must see the baby. And her sharp eyes stopped when they identified me and acquired my identification features. I sheepishly obeyed and glanced in the direction of her protective arms, only to be shattered to my bones. She was holding ET!!! And he was brown. With bulging closed eyes. Completely. Brown. Puffy. With a strange sheen to its wrinkled, brown skin. I grimaced uncontrollably and tried to hide behind the husband from the merciless glare of the midwife-robot, who obviously wouldn’t tolerate such behavior and in a second would use her flamethrower to eliminate me, the enemy of the newborn, who does not appreciate The Miracle. I was relieved to see them go, kid trying to scream, midwife hovering protectively, like a mummy gorilla on her way to the watering area.

I gulped back sobs of horror and imagined breathing in a bag for the next month or so, but then something distracted me from my living nightmare. Next to the not fully aware husband, enter the wife, the mother, the (forever indebted) friend, riding head-first on a stretcher, being completely soaked, scared and still hurting! A nurse told us to try to calm her down and massage her belly to stop the contractions (say what?! yes! apparently the body is not aware that it gave birth right away; it will eventually realize that but it takes at least an hour to come to that conclusion, hour in which there’s someone who tries to get some sense into the body sooner by massaging it). Around this magical time the husband went green, and, shortly after, ghostly white like a muse-less sheet of paper and had to excuse himself to go retch or smoke or something. As much as I wanted to extend my congratulations (or rather, my condolences), I realized I had to stay and rub the belly, which is a little too much for me in terms of physical contact with people of the same sex, regardless of the friendship type. So I rubbed as instructed: clockwise, applying the same pressure, not stopping. My trials were not over but my own little heavenly cloud was definitely assured! And then, between fading sobs of pain and drug-induced states of peacefulness and calm, she said something truly breathtaking: “Remind me never to want to give birth again!”

Epilogue

Celebrating this day all my life, never to be able to get it out of my memory, this is to mark the second year post-the-most-traumatizing-day-of-my-life. Happy birthday, Aron!

Labour Day I

Have you ever wondered why the word “labour” defines both hard work and the excruciating pains that occur right before (and slightly during and after) the act of giving birth? Well, trust me, it’s because the acts are quite similar, in aspects so obvious you simply fail to acknowledge…

There they are, right in front of your (naïve, not yet fully aware of the magnitude of the situation) eyes, and you just cannot see them; women, especially tend to consciously ignore them, being socially and culturally programmed to believe that the act of creating life is the most wonderful, fulfilling, enchanting and meaningful gesture in the universe. Fulfilling is right, as it completely fills you (filling you with tears will be the least of your worries) in ways most human creatures – those who, fortunately, are blissfully oblivious to the miracle of life -- wouldn’t endure.

Men, on the other hand, don’t care so much about such details, yet still they’re bound to remember some days of their lives better than others, because of the unforgettable, monstrous and – ironically – natural event of the most beautiful day of their lives (or, at least, that’s what the birth days of our offspring are called): some say it’s a special day, a special event, a special feeling, yet I now know that this kind of special means only that people are polite enough not to say it’s mind-numbingly horrendous and not so hypocrite to say it’s beautiful.

I’ve been in labour and I’ve laboured through it. And trust me: it’s everything they say it is!

So, it’s 1 pm and I get this call:

-       Hi! My water just broke, come take me to the hospital ‘cause my husband’s at work and cannot come for some hours.

-       Good god! Stay put, I’m on my way! Don’t worry! Everything’s okay!!! …!!! Sheesh…!!! Err… I’ll get you… err… umph… whatever! Don’t panic!!! Oh, yes! Breathe!!!

-       Relax! I’m making myself a sandwich and, by the time you get here, I’ll have already ate this and you can come help me to the car and carry my bag and my blanket and…

-       Yeah, sure, I’m coming, on my way!!! Don’t panic!!!

And I’m off. Never before has downtown Cluj seen such a small car with such speed and determination (and by this I mean that I aimed to scream/honk at anyone standing/driving in my way, while being totally diligent in not hitting the brakes at any cost, all of this with great care for the safety of the passenger-mother-to-be). By the time I got to her place she calmly made me sit and wait until she eats, dresses and takes all measures to leave everything shipshape. She almost insisted on tying her shoelaces all alone (although pregnant women tend to get some kilos in front of them, which usually leads not only to instability, but also to the inability of bending over, making simple everyday procedures nearly impossible), but relented when she realized that her labour could end sooner than humanity could invent the shoelace tying robot.

My five phone calls on my way to the hospital got me nowhere nearer to any form of assurance for my wellbeing, so I had nothing more to do than just stay there, look confident and calm and wait for a while ‘till the husband showed up. Or just until she got on the other side of the fence that divides the healthy from the (self-inflicting) sick (or just the too slow-witted to know better than to have children).

But oh, the inhumanity! When we got there we got the silent (and indifferent treatment) and the nurses ignored us and treated us like any other still-pregnant-but-by-now-in-labour couple who had shamelessly wandered in the hospital, seeking care and know-how in the special art of childbirth. It shattered my world! I wasn’t going to take this! I was going to get her to the starting point and then just stay on the side, maybe go further away and get live updates with no visuals (maybe even congratulate her at the finish line)! I was going to be the do-gooder but still keep out of it. I was going to give birth to a life, yet not have to be there to do it…

My doctor-resident-friend finally arrived to tell us that it’s not over yet, that we’ll have to wait, that we had a bed and everything, and that I should resign to waiting like everybody else does. I considered disappearing, pretending to go get coffee and just run away; I couldn’t. Seeing the pain and horror deeply engraved in my friend’s features, I decided to stay; to hold her hand; to encourage her; to (unsuccessfully) try to shut out the cries of pain of the other women around us and just concentrate on our own cries and shrieks.

Panic ruled just like a communist dictator. In just two wards women ready to pop, women who already had popped minutes before, and a fortunate few with acquaintances “on the inside” crammed together, spreading terror and anxiety like the black plague. Different cries of pain, many ohhs and arrghs clashed together in so many different voices and timbres that it was hard to be sure which one came from mine own throat. Not only were the future mothers-to-be scared of the impending pains and suffering, but the ex-pregnant women who came back to the wards on stretchers, bearing IVs hinted that the experience was not the least bit similar to a walk in the park.

The traffic was something terrible. All around us everybody wanted to get somewhere, preferably somewhere else than their current spatial positioning, which led to everybody (pregnant, un-pregnant, doctors, nurses, midwives) running around in different directions, but getting in the same place over and over again. It was like looking at some racing circuit: any single person that drove away eventually came back, only to start their own race (against no one in particular) all over again. But everybody was happy to feel important by just moving around.

And on top of everything else, going to clear my thoughts (and mostly my eyes!) on the corridor in front of the wards only subjected me to the horror of the truly nightmarish experience of actually giving birth (going even further away meant just getting to the newborn section which was certainly worse): opposite the wards was the operating (pain inflicting, urgent drug administrating) room, from where the vociferations of “Push!!! Now! One more time…” and “I CAN’T DO IT ANYMORE!!!” were mercilessly piercing right through my internal ear. The luckiest moments were when I also had a little, just a little (but enough to last me for a lifetime) visual contact with the activities undergoing behind the doors that made women screech like the breaks of a train on a rusty railroad track. And trust me: nobody wants to know that in any detail whatsoever!