The Enduring Dacia

Dacia is the name for the original Romania. The Romans ruled Dacia and the Roman soldiers liked the women so much that instead of going back to Rome when their tours were up, they stayed. Dacia is also the name of the Romanian car. Like the Roman soldiers, the Dacias have become stuck forever as part of the landscape.

Before the ’89 revolution the Communists controlled the supply and demand of autos. The only supply was the Dacia, and the demand was artificially controlled by encouraging many to buy a car. There were severe restrictions on when and who could drive, but everyone could own a Dacia. Because the demand was controlled and there were no other options there was never any need to make improvements. For many years the basic body style did not change. What one bought in 1976 was basically the same as what one bought in 1989.

What that means is that there are millions of these look alike cars with interchangeable parts. As rust and age finally corrode a piece of equipment, it’s easy to find a replacement part slightly less rusted or corroded and still in working order.

In the ninety’s the Dacia nameplate and factory was sold to Renault and in Romania today Renault, through its Dacia subsidiary manufactures the Logan, which is rather a nice car, simple but efficient. Meanwhile by far the most popular vehicle remains the old style Dacias. They are everywhere. When, after long decades of service, they finally fail, they are left where they stall, just pushed over onto the sidewalk awaiting their owners’ decision to repair or abandon them. It is nearly impossible to tell those awaiting repair and those abandoned.

There are more cars in Cluj than there are parking places. As residents gradually become more affluent, the demand for autos keeps increasing. Ever so slowly the old Dacias will be replaced by the new Logans or third hand Mercedes or any number of small imports but for many the Dacias remain the most economical option.


Wherever possible around the block apartments metal garages have been placed that are sold or rented. These garages have just enough space for a Dacia. However, there are far fewer garages than there are autos and those without parking space have to fend for themselves. Cars are parked on every available spot, including on the side walks and in muddy fields. And to protect their cars from maraudering used parts mechanics the owners often install quite elaborate alarm systems and protection devices. There are several Dacias that I pass on my walks that appear to have more money invested in the alarm system than the car could possibly be worth.

From the eyes of a westerner, I can’t help but see opportunity in many of the changes taking place in this country. One series of investments that I believe would be lucrative in Romania would be downtown parking lots, suburban self storage units, and parking space rentals around the apartment complexes. I know that the Dacia owners would love to get their autos out of the mud and rain, and I would love to get them off the sidewalks so I’d have space to walk. With the current price of scrap steel I think a mobile auto crusher would also be a wise investment, so long as one could figure out a way to select the abandoned vehicles from those just resting.

Preparing for Spring Planting

The Missing Bach

Gabriela had the sharp good looks that I generalize as typical of the prettiest of Romanian women. She was thin, naturally, as nearly all women of her age are. She was thin, but not pinched. Her hair was black, lustrous and undyed. Her eyes were deep brown, a color most common here, but also most appealing. She was neither too short nor too tall. Her posture was straight, her smile appeared often and her intelligence, determination and spirit occasionally revealed themselves in that smile.

Many of the young people of her age are affected by a malaise, a discouragement, about their country and their lives. It is unfortunate, for through the eyes of an outsider Romania seems a land of great change and potential. From time to time, Gabby shared the despondency of her peers, but most often the opposite showed, her vitality and enthusiasm. That enthusiasm displayed itself most often in her music. Gabby was a cellist. More accurately, she was a student of the cello.

The above two paragraphs are from a short fiction that I have recently completed. It's much too large to put on the blog, but if you are interested I'd be glad to email you complete copy. My email is snowridge2000@yahoo.com Just say that you'd to read it and I'll send it along.

Tim

Any of these guys look familiar?

People Watching

People Watching

The other day I saw Rodney Meadows walking along Calea Manastur. The Rodney Meadows I know would have no reason to ever walk on the sidewalks of Calea Manastur, but the fellow looked so nearly identical I nearly called aloud to him. It’s amazing how often it is that someone’s features remind me a friend from a previous life. It was even more amazing when a few days later I spied someone that looked just like his wife Jenny.

My mother was a romantic. She loved the old poem, “A House By the Side of the Road” by Sam Walter Foss. She had a notion of watching the ‘race of men go by’. One of the nicest of Nancy and my occupations is watching that portion of the race of men that occupy Transylvania, Romania walk by. And walk they do. People are always walking somewhere.

There are not many ethnic minorities visible in the faces here. Hungarians and Romanians are quite indistinguishable to me until they speak. The Gypies, or Roma to be politically correct, wear different clothes and are perhaps a shade darker in skin color, but are set apart not by their appearance so much as their way of life. Roma can be difficult to distinguish unless they are wearing their distinctive dress. There are very few non European faces in the crowd. But still, it is the race of man that we watch.

Perhaps it’s because we’ve lived so long in small towns and countryside that the population of a city fascinates us. Perhaps it’s because we feel a little apart, a little foreign, that we take so much pleasure in observing. Partly it might be that it is one of the three pillars of the Peace Corps to absorb a culture and explain it to Americans back home. Whatever the reasons, I do enjoy watching the people.

I’ve seen several that have reminded me of an old girl friend. I hadn’t ever placed Sharon Maulding as being typical of Eastern Europe, but there have been at least four different ladies that have brought her to my mind. None of them would be the same age as Sharon, and she would have no more chance of magically appearing from the fields of North Dakota to walk on the streets of Cluj as would Rodney Meadows. For a brief instant though, in my mind I see her as she was thirty years ago.

Nancy, too, finds familiar faces and body structures in the people here. She hasn’t mentioned finding an old boy friend amongst the Romanians, but maybe she just hasn’t told me.

Today, March 1st, is Martiesoara. People give one another trinkets tied with red and white ribbon. Mostly it’s a female thing, I gave two to my co workers at Bioterra, Nancy passed out hers to the ladies at her work. It is an emblem of the death of winter, sort of like our April 1st, but without the pranks.