AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE EVENTS IN THIS SECTION ALL TOOK PLACE IN 1986
THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW
ALL THE COUNTRIES VISITED (EXCEPT TURKEY) ARE IN THE EU NOW (2024) – NO VISAS ARE REQUIRED
THE BULK OF THE TEXT IS AS I WROTE IT THEN – SLIGHT ADJUSTMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE IN THE AID OF CLARITY NOW.

Tuesday, July 29th, 1986

Distance travelled 521 Kilometres

The next morning, normal “business” hours came – but the garage failed to open. I waited and I waited, but as ten o’clock came and went, it became pretty obvious that nothing was going to happen. It was only when I walked across the road and looked more closely, that I discovered a small, hand-written, notice taped to the door from which, thanks to the similarities between Romanian and French, I was able to deduce that it would be closed all day. I was now in a real fix. I took off the petrol cap and shook the bike. I could scarcely hear the petrol slopping about. It was plain that I could not risk going on and I knew I could not go back. I was going to have to spend another twenty-four hours sitting in that lay-by.

A lorry had appeared and was parked at the other end of the lay-by. The driver must have seen me disconsolately shaking the bike. He got out of the cab, walked over and asked me, in near perfect English, if I wanted to buy some petrol for dollars. It is amazing how well people can speak my native tongue when they feel like it … Of course, I had no real choice – so I readily agreed. In a few minutes he reappeared with two five litre cans which I gratefully emptied into the lower reaches of my tank. In what was a seller’s market, what I paid him equated to around six pounds fifty a gallon – it is hardly more than that almost forty years later. Viva capitalism, I say !

I suppose that it goes without saying that, almost as soon as I set off again, certainly within ten kilometres, I located an open garage where I was both able to top my tank to its very brim and donate the excess from my coupon to another surprised motorist. His Dacia 1310 was green.

The top of the hill brought me to the Transylvanian Plateau and I was a little disappointed to discover that, far from being grim and foreboding, it was delightfully picturesque.

The reputation of Transylvania, which we get chiefly from vampire movies, in not that accurate. There were no sinister castles, no thick pine forests and not a single bat in sight. I persuaded myself that the distant mountains, hazy in the sunshine were a bit menacing and, at stalls beside the road, there WAS garlic for sale … Perhaps there is something in those tales after all …..

Having wasted the morning, I was heading more or less westwards into the sun. I spotted a small restaurant and this reminded me that I had not had anything to eat, apart from a few peaches, for some time. I thought it would be good to actually spend some of my money instead of donating it to the Romanian Police Benevolent Fund. I took a seat but, despite my earlier linguistic successes, the hand scrawled menu was baffling. I employed the age old method of spotting something I thought I could eat (I had no idea what most of it even was ….) and indicating that I would like the same. It was a substantial meal and, even with a beer, it cost only a few of my coins and my wad of Leu notes remained blissfully unrifled.

Outside, in the car park, a sizeable crowd of farmers was gathered around my BMW. The absence of anyone in authority led to a round of smiles and handshaking. I even got some thumbs-up signals as I rode away. Despite appearances to the contrary, most ordinary Romanians are human after all.

Making the most of a reasonable road, which for some reason was relatively free of the troublesome check-points, I was able to make up a bit of much needed time. I passed through Turda, Timisoara and Arad and came to the border with Hungary.

I approached the border half-expecting the worst. If you consider the thoroughness with which my belongings had been scrutinised upon entry and several times in between, coupled with the complete absence of stuff to buy, what the guards expected to find during what was an almost three hour check simply mystifies me. In addition to this, just how many times my papers had to be checked and rechecked by a variety of officials was astonishing.

Despite the strenuous efforts of the Romanian Police force, I still had a thick wad of Leu notes and the exchange office refused point-blank to either change them back or to even convert them to Hungarian money. On the other side of the kiosk, a Romanian family in a small Trabant car was coming back into the country. The searching of their belongings was not as thorough as it had been with me – but it was taking time. Their small son was listlessly eyeing up my BMW. I tucked the was of Lev notes into his hand, started the bike and began my short ride to the Hungarian border post. It was only later that, considering the tiny cost of my substantial meal in the mountains, I had perhaps unwittingly perpetuated the myth that we “westerners” had infinitely more money than sense.

Out of all the visas that I had needed to obtain before setting out, the Hungarian one had been the most daunting and time consuming. I was quite surprised therefore and in a pleasant way for once, by the border checks. I scarcely had to stop the bike at all. The guard walked over, took a quick glance at my Passport and visa – and that was it, off I went.

I stopped to exchange some dollars for a handful of Hungarian Forints. On the counter was a pile of handbills for a local campsite, billed as Privat Camping Bufe and, as night was definitely coming and I was pretty tired, I decided to go for it. A bit of “official” camping would get me a much needed shower and maybe breakfast in the morning.

At a town called Magyarcsanad, the Bufe site was helpfully signposted from the highway towards Budapest, so I found it easily. It was very neat and tidy with mown pitches. There was a young woman on the reception desk who told me, in broken English, to go and get settled and then to come back and do the paperwork.

Freshly showered, it was a bit cold, but blissfully forceful, I duly presented myself and registered. It soon became pretty obvious that the young woman, whose name was something wholly unpronounceable with, seemingly, a lot of Zs in it, was angling for ride on the back of my bike. Paperwork completed, we sped into town, her extra weight serving to compensate a bit for the lack of damping in the suspension. She directed me to what was probably the local equivalent of a “biker” bar, but my buddies back at home would have been less kind. The vehicles were principally mopeds of various types and a sprinkling of slightly larger stuff from CZ or MZ, but nothing over 175cc. Some had been worked on quite considerably, however and were quite “trick” and shiny!

Although my bike was indescribably filthy, the big, blue “1000cc” emblazoned upon my side panels, caused a lot of comment. The BMW was, unquestionably the star of the show and the next few hours were spent in frantic attempts to communicate, giving almost everyone in the bar a ride around the block and drinking a few too many Hungarian beers. It was very late indeed when I finally crawled into my poly-bag.