Apuseni National Park

Romania, August 2020

The Apuseni National Park conserves within its boundaries an enchanting glimpse into traditional rural Romanian life; a way of life now largely condemned to the past in the rest of Europe. Unravelling westward from the city of Cluj-Napoca, the idyllic, emerald hills of Apuseni are seldom explored by foreigners. Likewise, the strange Karst underbelly of the landscape thus remains largely undiscovered.

Beyond the tentacular city sprawl, civilisation dwindled to a series of quaint hamlets that flashed past the car window in an instant. The narrow and poorly surfaced road sliced through green fields with tall grasses. Hours rolled by, and the road began to feel interminable. From time to time, progress would come to a standstill at inconsequential building works where bulky, tanned and unkempt workers loomed over holes in the tarmac: talking, gesticulating and lighting up cigarettes while wearing vexed looks upon their faces. 

A ramshackle, wooden, horse-drawn cart stalled momentum to the pace of a hypnotic procession. Laden with dozens of long, cylindrical timbers, the wagon swayed and veered along the road. The logs hung languidly off the end of the cart, bobbing up and down, and occasionally splintering on the concrete. Three scrawny, shirtless Romani farm boys lay nonchalantly across the timbers, eyeing with disinterest the line of cars that gathered at their rear. The helm of the wagon was presided over by an old man who drove forth the disgruntled horse. The man was entirely clad in black - trousers, blazer, shirt and a broad, round sombrero. His clothing was timeworn, but he conserved an upright pride and an air of gentility belonging to another time. 

A short while later, a scraggly dog emerged scampering along in front of the bumper of an oncoming car, with a frustrated march of vehicles amassing behind. The ragged hound had only one good eye, and would repeatedly turn its head back towards the front wheel, letting out deranged barks and yelps. Everyone was on their own time and agenda in this land.

Rust and disrepair were ubiquitous in these forgotten Apuseni villages - tainted by time and the elements. Tin roofs, garden gates and road signs were saffron-orange with oxide around the edges. It seemed absurd to imagine that anything would be replaced anytime soon. 

Now within the borders of the national park, the rolling hills clambered higher, attaining the status of mountains. Ample farm estates tumbled down the steep valley sides and their terra-rosa tiled roofs radiated the midday heat. Between farmsteads, swathes of forest stood abruptly to attention at the boundaries of verdant meadows, and colossal bales of hay settled all across the fields; like awkwardly-shaped dollops of solidified cream. 

At the homestay, a party of middle-aged Romanian couples were whiling away the afternoon sitting on ornate garden swings, clutching alcoholic drinks. A few of the men were standing around, soberly discussing some matter or another, and puffing clouds of cigarette smoke into the clear mountain air. Wary and curious stares became trained on me as I pulled into the pebbly drive of the house. A young boy of no more than 12 years old gazed at me with a nervous and excitable look as he stood leaning in the doorway to the owners’ living quarters. All of a sudden, the boy bounded over as I stepped out of the car, landing at my feet and belting out an enthusiastic and rapturous “Hello”. I replied in English, but he did not seem to understand me, and looked disappointed and bemused. 

The host of the guesthouse eventually emerged from the kitchen with a look that sat somewhere between surprise, bemusement and disquiet. She was a robust woman with rosy cheeks, and wore a stern and flustered look on her face, promising to erupt into either a torrent of anger or raucous laughter at any given moment. Bundles of washing draped over her arms, I had interrupted her flow of endless domestic work. She did not understand any English, and I was only able to grasp at a few words of her Romanian, rendering the exchange amusingly confusing. After a couple of minutes of mutual befuddlement, she appeared to warm to me, and showed me to my room with a series of lively gestures. 

The bulging sun sank towards the horizon in the depths of the glowing, summer evening. The soothing light pitched across the curvature of the landscape, dousing the white walls of the houses in pastel tones of deep yellow and orange. The walls spoke sedate, nostalgic stories. 

The lanes surrounding the homestay were mostly devoid of traffic, apart from the occasional farm vehicle. Overgrown pastures descended suavely from either side of the road. I wandered along an unmarked trail into the woods and stumbled upon stone cottages with chimneys that smoked with serenity. After a long walk I arrived at a large clearing that spanned several fields. Perched at the crest of a steep slope was a tiny hamlet - composed of nothing more than a cluster of simple, minuscule abodes and barns, all made from timber and corrugated iron barns. A dog was sleeping in the shade cast by the first barn that I approached, and was startled and displeased to be alerted to my presence. He quickly became vociferously agitated, but was restrained by a short, rusted, steel chain, attached to his collar. The only other sign of life was signalled by a trail of smoke rising steadily from the chimney stack of one of the little houses. Net curtains covered the small, green-framed windows of the modest lodging, but there was no discernible movement from within.

Back on the lane, I strolled alongside the well-kept lawn of a farm in which a drunken and raucous family gathering was taking place. A beaten-up hatchback was parked in the garden, with the rear door open. Romani-style dance music blared from the car stereo; rife with accordions and ludicrously animated melodies. The grandfather stood, arms aloft, dancing a jig to the wild amusement of his grandkids. He wore a mischievous grin from ear to ear as his look caught mine from across the field.