7 San Martin

I was up and out of the house by 7:40. Kristov gave me a lift  the station, and helped me get my  ticket to 'Ciuc' (pronounced 'Chook', to rhyme with ‘rook'): Miercurea Ciuc, in official Romanian language, and therefore on maps and signposts, Csíkszereda to the Hungarians (the majority). Ciuc (csik) apparently means 'line' (long straight street), where a market is held, and the rest of it means Wednesday – the day the market is held.  By train, the journey took an hour and a half, even though it was less than 60 km in distance.

I shared a carriage with a family who were off out for the day’s walking, with a picnic. English was limited, but it transpired that the father was also a member of EKE (they showed me Facebook pictures of the club and Istvan, the Ciahlau walk leader), after which the 13-year-old girl suddenly announced, “I have a cat, and its name is A--- !” When they got out, they stood there on the platform waving to me, until the train left.

Ondi and Cottie (Andrea and Catalina)

At Ciuc, Jackie  introduced me to two 17-year-old girls, Ondy and Cottie, who had volunteered to show me around the town. Enjoyable couple of hours, as they showed me the 'clapping square' by the town hall, where Ceaușescu  used to make speeches, and where the townspeople were supposed to clap, whatever they thought of them. Recently renovated, there is now an attractive clock on the town hall, with musical chimes. We also visited  the ice hockey rink (ice hockey apparently being to the Romanians what football is to the English, and one of Ondy’s passions), the old houses at the back of the museum, their school, and a park. Much of the town has now been renovated, and there are wide pedestrian streets, a couple of squares, a new Millenium church, a theatre, and a soon-to-be opened new cinema .

Ice hockey is as important to people here as football is in the UK

By 1pm, I was on the bus to San Martin, and was met just half-an-hour later by Kinga, the 30-year-old accounts and admin person for the rehabilitation centre, together with Timmi, her 8-year-old daughter. Kinga’s English was excellent.

First we went to her home, where I spent a bit of time playing with Timmi and the neighbour's son, in their yard: the ice broken by an old aluminium washing tub, which they were using as a very acceptable drum.

Kinga

Evika, spychologist

Tahir, psychologist

Monika, physiotherapist

 

Istvan

Judit, special education specialist

Melinda

When she was ready, Kinga took me over to my accommodation - positively luxurious, compared with that of the previous three weeks: a modern flat, in a house owned by Prosperitas Vitae, the charity that supports the Early Years Development and Rehabilitation Centre, and situated in the same grounds. Downstairs was another flat, occupied by Melinda, a friendly, bubbly young physiotherapist, from Miercurea Ciuc, who was usually out riding horses after work, since she was hoping at sometime in the future to get a qualification in hippotherapy  – which, of course, has nothing to do with hippopotamuses, and everything to do with movement and horses.

Melinda and I find a visitor at the door!

 





Kinga had invited me to dinner, and back at her house, the afternoon’s entertainment was soon to begin. A shout from the street took us all out to the side of the road, where men were riding down the street, ahead of and behind a couple of cartloads of women in traditional costume: beautiful red and white traditional striped; one of them containing an accordionist and a violinist. (Sadly, by the time I had established that the violinist was local, he’d left for Hungary.) Today was the local farmers’ harvest festival, Kinga explained. An hour or so later, they would be back – probably rather inebriated.

 

Dinner began, preceded by a strong home-made alcoholic drink (seems to be obligatory at almost any time - I have even been given it before breakfast, once at the herb/tea-making farm, and once at the mountain hut, that first weekend!): a beautiful goulash soup, followed by lasagne.

  

Just as we were just finishing dinner, a shout went up from the street: the horsemen were back – as well-oiled as Kinga had predicted. Some of them were now galloping along the street, and I had  the camera ready, to photograph the cart full of colourful skirts. Suddenly, I found myself being dragged out of  death's way as, unnoticed by me, one of the more drunken riders came galloping along the grass verge, nearly running me over! (Kinga apologised profusely: she’d been sure the rider would pull back onto the road, but he’d kept coming, so she’d had no alternative but to pull me back out of the way. Not a problem: better to be alive without a photo than to be dead, with one!)

The  centre was actually connected to the Mercurea Ciuc hospital, I was to discover, with a staff of 12 (10 of them therapists: 4 physiotherapists, three psychologists, two special education teachers, and a music therapist), some of whom were full-time, others part-time: some actually employed by the hospital, some by the  Prosperitas Vitae  charity, and some by the education department.

They were a young and enthusiastic staff, working closely together, very much as a multi-disciplinary team, and are currently running between 100 and 150 sessions a week (both group and indiviual), working with about 120 children, the youngest client being only a few months old, and the oldest a smiling 17-year-old boy with spinal problems. Some of these children  needed to come only once a month, others two or three times a week, or even more. Problems range from those children who are a little bit retarded, and need extra help and stimulation to enable them to benefit from their education, to children with  Downs syndrome, children with spinal problems, and some who are severely disabled, due to cerebral palsy or other problems.


Work at the centre started at 8 am, and sessions went on until 3 pm, 4 pm or later, most days. Most of the staff spoke English really well, and were not only friendly, but also willing to explain things to me. I began the first day by sitting in with Melinda, who was working first with a little Downs boy, and then with a small girl, who should by now have been crawling, but who wasn't. Interesting objects were placed just beyond her reach, in an attempt to get her to try and go for them. If the child got too stressed, she was handed back to her mother for a short cuddle, before work continued.

Istvan works with several groups of children with flat feet, in a similar way to Dalma , in Gheorgien. During the next few days, I was also to sit in sessions with Judit, one of the special education specialists, and with Tahir and Evita, the psychologists who worked with children both  individually and in groups, alone and/or with their colleagues,

It was fascinating to see different therapists working with the same children, and to see how the same children responded to different situations. A music therapist came in for two afternoons a week, but was struggling with convincing parents of the value of music to aid with concentration, when the children had so much homework. The second time, he brought in his guitar, a recorder, and a book of Hungarian tunes, which at the end of the afternoon we played through: my music fix for the week!

Outside working hours, Melinda kindly lent me her bike on two afternoons, when she was not needing it herself, and I took myself off along some quiet roads, passing small villages. Even where the houses were reasonably modern, there were several examples of beautiful wood carvings on garden gates, and elsewhere.

 

  

Agnes, who ran a shelter for women in need, and also looked after the creche for two to three-year-olds too young to go to kindergarten, yet whose mothers were forced to go back to work once their child had reached two, had a warning for me, as I sat out in the evening sun, I'd just come back from a lovely bicycle ride, I told her. She was horrified. "But the light's going!" she said. "You must be very careful: there are bears only just outside the village, and they are really dangerous! My son saw one on the road from the school bus, only this morning!" Ooh! What time did the school bus go? Seriously though, bears are not to be messed with. Nevertheless, I would have liked to have seen one from a safe distance. However, iIt wasn't to be.

The week passed all too quickly, with beautiful weather (apparently the best autumn weather for 10 years), beautiful colours, another bike ride, and an impromptu English/Hungarian lesson, with two young boys who I met, while taking a stroll one late afternoon.

 

Time to go back to Brasov for two last nights, before getting an early morning bus to the airport. The Brasov bus eventually arrived (25 minutes after it was due, I was reminded of the Brasov receptionist's warning that timetabled buses did not always actually 'exist'; but patience was rewarded), and at Brasov, I was able to enjoy the comfort of familiarity (ie I knew where I was going), while also knowing that there were still parts of the city and outskirts that I had not yet had time to explore.

Friday evening's rain had cleared enough for me to enjoy a stroll around the outside of the city walls, up to White Tower and Black Tower, next morning. There was also just time to take a bus to Bran Castle: rather too touristy for my liking, on account of its alleged connection to Dracula, but quite enjoyable, despite the weather being too cloudy to see its mountainous setting at its best.

 

  

The journey home next day was not uneventful. The 'maxitaxi' minivan left on time, was in good condition, and arrived at the airport in only 2.5 hours: over 4 hours before the flight was due to take off. Unfortunately, the plane had been delayed in Frankfurt, so was 3/4 hour late taking off. ("I hope you enjoy your flight: have fun!" the pilot announced, in his strong German accent,)  

Having 'fun' turned out to mean marathon running through Frankfurt airport. Frankfurt is not a small airport. Leaving the plane only 20 minutes before the Birmingham plane was due to take off, I ran as fast as I could (not very fast, since I was wearing walking boots, and carrying several layers of clothing, worn in preparation for a British October evening, but stripped off in the sub-tropical temperatureof 20' that had hit Frankfurt), following the transit signs to security. Here they said it would be faster to frisk me and make me do ballerina-style exercises on one leg, than for me to take my boots off. 

Job done, I raced for the departure gate (or, as I got nearer, staggered, absolutely parched, and completely out of energy), To my great relief, boarding had not even started yet, since the Birmingham plane was also delayed. Soon we were allowed on, and astonished, I was greeted with broad grins from the air hostesses: the very same ones, on the very same plane I'd just got off! Even the pilot was the same. How did I know? "I hope you enjoy your flight: have fun!" he announced again. 

6 Herbs and a 'Bal': Last week in Gheorgi then all change!

I was beginning to realise that here, it was not just physiotherapy that the therapists were offering. They were working with all kinds of problems, many of them requiring exercises, but with many children there because of learning problems. The Romanian education system was not necessarily suitable for children, explained Zsuzsa. They did not begin to learn to read until they were nearly 7, but after that, they were expected to be able to write from dictation within a year. Furthermore, the system did not recognise a child's limited attention span. Some children come to the centre because the parents want their child to be provided with activities that will help with concentration, and therefore improve their performance in school. Parents pay a token amount for the physios' time. 

This week, some of Dalma's patients included a hyperactive little boy with an amazing talent for drawing. He flung himself into the room, then went straight to the little art table, and within seconds had made a detailed drawing of his grandfather's VW van, the detail including 1.9 written on it. Only then was he ready for his gymnastics. His mother was apparently pleased I was there, so that she could practise her English! Dalma herself had good intentions, when it came to English, and could understand a lot: but I teased her, since she found it easier for her to send her English-speaking footballer boyfriend in to have a chat with me, than to settle down to do anything more formal than try to tell me about her clients, as best she could.

There were more physio sessions with the little blind girl, and the little hydracephalus girl. Both have remembered me, but T--- is not very well this week, and after laughing with delight last week while moving her arms in time to music, this week she is struggling with everything. However, she is a brave little girl, and slowly starts to lift her arms above her head, even before Zsuzsa asks her to. What was missing was all the laughing. While last week she was copying the 'd' sound as I was saying “Up – down”, this week she is much quieter.

V---, on the other hand, is in fine form, and Zsuzsa watches as she 'dances' with me, and makes some suggestions regarding movements. I also get to meet two more beautiful children: a little girl whose face is a picture, when she sees all the stimulating toys and apparatus available, and an 8-year old boy who starts playing on a drum, while Zsuzsa is standing outside the door talking to his mother. I can't resist it: I go into the room and start beating out rhythms with him, while he is waiting for her. He doesn't have the greatest sense of rhythm, but he is concentrating, and seems to be enjoying himself. I look up to see Zsuzsa standing quietly at the doorway, watching. “This is good,” she says. “Do you mind continuing?” I don't mind at all – I'm also enjoying myself!

Culture House at Gheorgi

For a small town, Gheorghieni has more going on that might at first be apparent. Besides its numerous churches (Romanian, Armenian, orthodox, Jewish synagogue etc), It has a 'culture centre' , concerts and other events are held, as well as a very nice little museum, with exhibitions of the different village national costumes (with different colour stripes and patterns representing fields, mountains, water for irrigation, and other indicators of wealth or otherwise), and a huge collection of stones and rocks, that were collected over a 40-period by a local geologist. They have also just taken over a collection of paintings that had been made at summer camps in Lazarea, and that had been held in the castle there, until the castle had been sold.

  

(Museum, Gheorghi)

Noticing a poster which appeared to be advertising an event to do with Mongolia on Wednesday, I wandered around to the library, to see if I could find out more. As I approached the entrance, a man  appeared from nowher, saying, “Good afternoon! Can I help you?”

Astonished, I asked him how he knew I was English, when I hadn't even opened my mouth? (Most people who realised I was a foreigner, tried to speak to me in German or French.) He laughed. He was the library manager, and had seen me in there on Friday, when his assistant was helping me get connected to the internet. He was also a member of the English club that met every other Wednesday (not tonight), but hadn't liked to disturb me because he could see that I was typing.

The Mongolian presentation was being given by two local motorcyclists who had taken themselves off on a 2-month adventure to Mongolia, this summer. He thought it would be worth going, because there would probably be someone there who spoke English, and in any case, there would probably be a film.

He was right. The usher was a girl called Andrea. She was a friend of Peter's, the guy who had introduced me to the EKE walking group, and when she found him, he said of course I could sit by him, and he would try and translate a bit for me. Andrea, it turned out, played violin and double-bass in the folk group that met at the Culture Centre on a Monday evening, and told me that she'd heard I might like to go along. Too bad that Peter had mixed up two groups and told me about the group that met elsewhere, and where there were no instrumentalists, except just before a performance. By next Monday, I would be at San Martin.

With the 'bal' coming up on Friday, the wrapping of pastry 'hands' and other last minute arrangements stepped up a notch, I am free for most of Thursday afternoon and Friday, so able to accept an invitation to go with 'the other Zsuzsi' and family to the grandmother's, where they will be spending the next day or two working with the herbs.

Grandmother Anna and her sister

They are late leaving, so suggest I go with them in their van, taking the bike with me, then stay overnight and cycle back next day, since I need to be back by mid afternoon. I grab a few things, including some fruit, cheese and biscuits to take along for them, and duly get picked up. Travelling with Zsuzsi are her mother, her brother Albert, the brother's fiance Bernadette, and her great-aunt. Bernadette has worked in Italy, where she made friends with an English woman, and has excellent English. Her brother's English is also more than adequate for us to be able to chat a bit. We turn off the road somewhere after Ditro, and continue past the village of Brotva – or Jolotca. (Romanian/Hungarian names for the same village – no wonder life is confusing!)

Zsuzsi

Wood burning stove

  Arriving late afternoon, we are warmly greeted by the grandmother, who has a wonderful kind face, and twinkly eyes. After we have unloaded the van, Albert sets about preparing the outdoor barbecue, for cooking some meat: sausage in shape, and a mixture of beef and pork, but without the fat that I' d normally associate with sausages. 

Soon, a wonderful smell drifts into the room where Zsuzsi and I are filling cotton 'socks' that she has sewn, ready for us to fill with herbs scooped from a huge sack, and meticulously weighed: the measure depending on foot size. My job is to pour the herbs into the  'socks' through a funnel made from half a water bottle, poking the herbs down through the funnel with the end of a wooden spoon. Once filled, Tunga, Zsuzsi's mother, uses a small machine to sew lines of stitches. The flattened 'socks' are to be sold as insoles for shoes or boots – to eradicate nasty smells.

 

 

Meanwhile, other members of the  family have been busy in the kitchen, and later we go in there  to eat: bread, home-made pickles made from tomatoes, carrots, beans and spices, the non-sausage, cheese, pork fat, etc. After more sewing and chat, it is bedtime for all, with people on sofas everywhere.

Bernadette, Tunga (Zsuzsi's mother) and Grandmother Anna

Got up on Friday to another beautiful morning, and to find most people surfacing only slowly: including a man who had appeared from nowhere – he'd not been there at 11pm the night before, whoever he was! Went out for a short walkaround, and after Zsuzsi surfaced, went up a ladder with her to the loft of an outhouse, where herbs of all kinds were drying on racks. We bagged some up, and afterwards went to help two other members of the family bring sacks of herbs down from another outhouse attic, and line them up in rows, according to herb type, ready for the remaining activities of the day.

Soon it was breakfast time: yet another feast, this time to be eaten outdoors, in the sunshine. I would have liked to have accepted the invitation to spend the whole day there, but tonight was the 'bal', and I'd promised to be back in time to clean up, and then help set tables etc, late afternoon. After buying a couple of products from the family, who then insisted on giving me a jar of pickle, a jar of preserved berries, and some home-made tea, I set off back on the bike: it was a 2-hour ride, very enjoyable  in the autumn sunshine, and when I got back, there was even a little bit of time to explore some of the backstreets of Gheorgi.

 

This week has turned out to be 'good food week': large quantities of meat were being cut up atkitchen St Anne's at the beginning of the week, presumably for the freezer, and on Thursday afternoon, the older girls had been feathering 10 chickens, after their corpses had been plunged into boiling water, to make the job easier. 

 

Result: on Thursday, lunch had been a delicious thick rich gravy, with some kidneys, served on a bed of poliska, leaving  me full for the first time in nearly three weeks (other than in the mountains), and on Friday, the thin soup and bread was supplemented by plate of potatoes and fried chicken.




Why all this talk of food? Take it as a direct result of the children's home diet of thin soups and bread, sometimes spread with tinned liver paste; alternating, on occasions, with cold pasta, sprinkled with cheese, if you were lucky, or sugar and spice, if you weren't.

The 'bal' was the ultimate: wonderful food, which I felt quite guilty eating - with lots of dancing beween courses.

Some of the clients were there, including T-----, who although still not well, was clutching two marracas. Her mother asked if I would perch next to her when the Hungarian dancing began, to help her keep time, and I was surprised at how well she managed to stick with the beat.

 

As for the dancing, my turn was to come - though not until much later, after the tombola. The dance was a circle dance, with one couple dancing in the centre: sometimes it was fairly sedate, other times really wild. When the music stopped, the last person to have been called into the middle put a scarf around the neck of the person (s)he chose to dance with next, while the partner re-joined the circle.

  

 

I'm not really into the sedate stuff, but I'd noticed a man in a blue shirt, whose dancing seemed to me to be more like gymnastics than dancing. Still dizzy from my first turn in the middle, when the music stopped, I noticed said man was just about to leave. Last chance! Quickly, I flung the scarf around his neck: he was now honour-bound to dance with me, and I found myself being whirled around, jumping up and down (don't think I've done a star jump since I was in primary school!), and goodness knows what else, as the music picked up pace, with those on the outside clapping in time to the music and whooping and cheering. (Dee from Ffonic would have been proud of me!)

With local volunteer Rozi

Zsuzsa and husband

I just about managed to keep going, until the music stopped. Afterwards, Zsuzsa came over to me. “Congratulations!” she said. “I'm so happy!” Did I know that the man I'd been dancing with was the boss of a big bank? Well, missed my chance there then, didn't I?!

 

Dalma

Altogether, a really enjoyable evening, and a great way to finish my placement at Gheorgi. However, I'd not yet said a final goodbye: the next day, I was to go with Zsuzsa, her husband, her daughter Esta, husband and children, and several of Esta's friends, to Lac Rosu. 



From there, we would all walk up to one of the surrounding mountains, for a picnic, with some of us continuing to a second peak, led by Zsuzsa's husband.

 

I was to leave for San Martin (south of Miercurea Ciuc) the following morning: and so, finally, it was "Goodbye, Georgie-Santa-Claus!"  

Lac Rosu