And Then Transdniestria Got in the Way… – Part 3

We eventually relented, thinking, “How often would we get to see a Moldovan village house?” Probably never again. So off we went up the road, which soon turned into muddy tire ruts. You know you’re in the middle of nowhere when the pavement in a village ends and all you have left are makeshift tracks that horse-drawn carriages only stopped using twenty years ago.

After a quick right turn and up a small hill, we arrived at the residence of our new friend. It was a modest dwelling. An addition had been made to the front of the house that now represented a kitchen. We were ushered in and sat around the table. There was stuff everywhere; strange sweets, coffee packets, vodka bottles strewn about.

Our friend continued with the vodka while water was boiled for coffee. Then the guy’s phone started ringing. Conversation and conversation in Moldovan. In between calls he kept saying how is wife was in Italy and how his friends were part of the mafia. He also had a relative in Canada who he was trying to call. Who really knew what was going on?

The next grand idea was to put on some Moldovan/Romanian music videos. Our friend popped one of two VHS tapes into the VCR and pressed play. Unsurprisingly, all I remember from them is a Romanian girl prancing around on a stage wearing the shortest dress known to man. I wonder how many times these tapes had been watched.

After our little foray into the local music scene, we were given the grand tour. Behind the kitchen was the bedroom. “Italian furnishings,” the man would continually exclaim. The room to the right was a living room. There were the customary pictures of the man and his parents. In the corner were pictures of his sons. He had two. One was a DJ somewhere in the Moldova, the other was into computers. Outside we went.

The yard had a small shed and another building that we soon learned acted as a home for the mother. She was an incredibly sweet woman. Her pension was virtually non-existent, so her days were spent tending the garden and making preserves.

We were then introduced to the neighbour, a Belarusian who was busy building a sauna or something. The guy had the biggest nose I had ever seen. I couldn’t help but ponder how on earth a Belarusian ended up in rural Moldova.

Back inside we went and back to the phone went our friend. I think he was trying to arrange us a ride to the border, or maybe he was organizing a sale of our body parts. Either way, we were in for something interesting.