One Night in Romania

After a particularly grueling and emotionally draining year, I decided to do something to reinvigorate my spirits and so last December I put a backpack on my shoulder and headed to Europe. I traveled through Turkey, Greece, Macedonia and Bulgaria. Now it was onwards to Romania. I was traveling on an American passport and so did not have to engage in any pre-planning related to obtaining visas. My plan was to visit a country until I had my fill and then would catch a bus or a train to the next country.

From Bulgaria, I planned to take a train from Sofia to Bucharest, Romania. It would be a 12 hours journey that would take me to Bucharest around midnight. Sofia’s Grand Central station with its gigantic hall, statues, and carved images from Bulgaria’s past kept me occupied until my train arrived. After getting over some initial hurdle of reading the Cyrillic alphabet to locate my compartment, I settled into my seat. It was an old soviet era train, with black steel interior, a few dim lights, and waterless, paperless, unclean, and freezing cold toilets.

I shared the compartment with a Romanian TV journalist and a Bulgarian chemist on his business trip to Bucharest. As the train started to move we began to open up to each other. The Bulgarian was a jolly and talkative man. He told us how he got married, how he hated his work yet was making good enough money to live comfortably. The journalist told us that she was a chemist too by her education but had taken up journalism due to lack of jobs in chemistry after the collapse of communism, and that how hard her work related travels to Bulgaria had been on her husband and young son. I told them about my travels, that I was an American of Pakistani origin, that I wanted to visit the countries not frequented by tourists etc. Both were united in their belief that I was the first Pakistani they had ever talked to. She told me about the places in Romania that I must visit; I must go to Transylvania, the birthplace of Dracula; the palace of Ceausescu; the small towns near the Carpathian mountains, and the picturesque villages by the Hungarian border. She also told me about an area on the outskirts of Bucharest frequented by illegal Pakistani immigrants. Illegal immigrants use this route on their way to Europe. Some spend years in Romania before finding a way out. Others get rounded up by the Romanian authorities and are sent back to their homelands. I added meeting those Pakistanis in my plans.

Few hours later, we were all dozing off in our seats. Bad ventilation in train caused me to develop sore throat, running nose, and headache. Our compartment would sometimes get uncomfortably heated, and then at times it would be freezing. And so the journey continued. A gypsy family occupied the neighboring compartment. Once in a while I would wake up from my slumber by loud talk or baby’s cries from that compartment. I would look at my still dozing compartment mates and then close my eyes again, thinking about all that was to come in Romania; the land of Dracula; the Carpathian Mountains; an ex-communist Romania looking forward to its membership in EU.

Around 9:00 pm, in the bitterly cold and dark night, the train crossed the bridge over Danube River into Romania and stopped at what seemed like a rural train station. It was time for customs and visa. After a bit of commotion in the corridors, a uniformed border agent slid open our heavy steel compartment door, threw torch light at our faces, and spoke something in Romanian. Taking cue from my journalist friend’s action, I handed him my passport. The agent left the compartment and looking out the window, I saw him walk across the track and into a very poorly lit warehouse type of office building. As we waited for him to come back with stamped visas on our passports, I amused myself with thoughts on how different my treatment would have been if I were traveling on a Pakistani passport.

It would be another hour before that agent reappeared and woke up the dozing passengers. This time however, a second agent accompanied him. They proceeded to return everyone’s passport, except mine.

In a very poor English the agent asked me if this was really my passport. Sensing I needed help in understanding agent’s queries, the journalist acted as my translator. The agent asked me why I was traveling to Romania. He asked to see the reservations of the hostel where I would be staying. I told him that like a typical backpacker I have not made prior reservations. He was not convinced. The journalist asked me to show him any plans or maps for my trip in Romania. I remembered I had picked up some Romanian hostel brochures from a hostel in Istanbul. I dug into my backpack and produced a brochure for him. The brochure had picture of a hostel and some description - “centrally located in the heart of Bucharest city”. I told the agent that was the place where I was possibly planning on staying. He examined the brochure very closely and spoke a few sentences in a harsh Romanian. I looked at journalist for translation, but she kept quiet. The agent got up and left the train with my passport. I asked the journalist what he had said. She said in her halting English “ He does not believe you”. My sixth sense screamed of trouble.

As I waited for the agent’s return, I began to wonder what was it exactly that Romanians found troubling in my passport. Did they suspect it to be a fake passport? The journalist told me not to worry and that these border agents were known for causing trouble. They harass travelers with stupid questions, she said. “The next time he comes in, he might ask for your shoe size”, she said laughingly.

As I looked outside the compartment window I noticed a few border agents having an animated group discussion, including the one who had my passport in his hand. My heart skipped a beat when one of them turned back and pointed to my compartment. That was followed by two of the agents walking back to the train, sliding the steel door of the compartment open, ordering me to pick my luggage and follow them. I looked at the journalist and the chemist. They had concern in their sleep-deprived eyes. I left the compartment not knowing that I would not be meeting my new friends again. We did not get a chance to exchange email addresses. How much I wish they were reading this account!

The agents first took me to another empty compartment in the train where they hand checked my luggage while their cold blue eyes from underneath heavy woolen hats examined me. Then they motioned me to follow them out of the train. As I stepped out, a bone chilling cold wind struck me. I looked around. The station appeared to be at a very remote location, with no covered waiting area, and no street lights in the surrounding. In the immense darkness of the night, the station with its few bulbs was the only sign of human settlement as far as my eyes could see. Agents motioned me to wait outside while they entered the building and shut the door behind them.

Waiting outside, shuddering in cold and wondering what was to come, a terrifying thought hit me like a bolt. I realized that while I did have an American passport, my place of birth listed on it was still Pakistan! That started a chain of panicked thoughts in my mind. Do they think I am trying to enter Romania with terrorist intentions? Are they investigating whether I have any links to al-Qaeda? Would they hand me over to FBI as a potential suspect to score points with Americans? Would I be in captivity for 3 months? 6 months? One year? Or until I am proven innocent? Images of being in a cold and brutal Romanian jail began to appear in my mind. These worries were not without basis in the charged environment after September 11th.

It would be another two hours before the agent would return. My legs were shaking with cold and I was desperately moving my limbs to stay warm. To add to my misery, I needed to use the restroom. The agent walked up to me and began asking me questions in broken English:

"When was the last time you visited Pakistan?"
"Why and who did you visit there?"
"Are you carrying a Pakistani passport too?"
"How is it possible that you were trying to enter Romania without knowing where you would be staying?"

My answer to his last question was that backpackers do not make prior reservations. They go by their instincts. They sense adventure in not knowing what the next bend in the path would lead them to. Besides, I surely could not be the first backpacker that ever entered Romania! I wondered if perhaps being the first “Pakistani” backpacker entering Romania was the REAL issue here. The fact that I was a US citizen mattered little. I was still a Pakistani. He never acknowledged at any point that he was talking to an American passport holder. He walked back into the building. Another hour would go by. Through the small opening in the door, I saw him talking animatedly to two other guards.

He re-appeared. With not a word spoken, he put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me towards the back seat of an old soviet-era rusty dingy car parked nearby. He sat on the front passenger seat while a uniformed agent started the car and we rolled off to a destination I knew nothing about.

My momentary relief at being inside a warm car however evaporated soon. As I looked out the window it was complete dark and a thick layer of snow covered the ground. I could not see far enough though, as the blowing snow made visibility extremely poor. The only light was that of the car’s headlights. There was no other traffic, traffic lights, or signs of humanity on the road. I was now convinced that I was in serious trouble. Were they taking me to a snowy ditch to shoot me in the back of head? Stories of Mafia’s infiltration in ex-communist countries had passed my eyes in the past. I began to wonder how my family would take my disappearance. Would they find out soon what happened to me? No one spoke during the 30 minutes ride.

The car stopped at a small building that was guarded by a few soldiers. It appeared to be either a police station or some investigation center. The agent in the passenger seat left the car and disappeared into the building. While I waited in the car, some of the soldiers walked over, talked to the driver and then peeked through the back windows of the car to take a closer look at me. The agent returned after some time and made some remarks in Romanian to the driver. Whatever they talked, the result was that once again we were driving through the cold dark desolation. I made one desperate attempt to ask in English where we were going, and if there was a problem with my passport. My inquiry was met with a stony cold silence.

Another hour would pass before the car made a full stop. It was now around 4:30 a.m. I was pulled out of the car and my backpack thrust into my hands. An overcoat clad figure appeared from the dark. The agent approached the overcoat figure and began talking to him. Some comments were made back and forth as I stood there looking at them. My passport was handed to the new agent and I was motioned to go with him. As I walked with him, I heard the car’s ignition behind me. The two agents who brought me here were driving away.

I asked my new handler if he spoke English. He told me in a coarse and halting English that he did. I asked him hurriedly where I was. He told me that I was in the territory of Bulgaria. The two Romanian agents had dropped me back at the Bulgarian border. "Now you are our problem", he said. A sense of relief washed over me. My immediate concern was whether he would grant me a re-entry into Bulgaria or would I be stuck in a no-man’s land until they figure out what to do with me. He entered his small rickety wooden cabin, while I stood outside by a small glass window. After a few minutes of hustle and bustle of paperwork, he stamped my passport and handed it back to me. I asked him why the Romanians had dropped me back. He responded that according to Romanian agents, I was a "national security threat". I had “links” to a country where al-Qaeda was active. That after September 11th, Romanians were very vigilant on who entered their country.

With the Bulgarian visa stamped, I was now a free man. I was no longer in the custody of Romanians. The frightening prospect of being in Romanian jails had disappeared. The only thing now on my mind was to get as far away from Romania as possible and as soon as I could.

Romanian-Bulgarian border is unlike the US-Canada border. At the US border you have plenty of hotels, restaurants, lights, gas stations and any other amenity you may need. There is plenty of traffic. If nothing else, one can get inside the Duty Free Shop, use a restroom, and pass time by reading newspaper. Around me was complete darkness and desolation. The only light was that from a bulb hung by a wire inside the wooden cabin of the border agent. I could see him through the cabin window bundled and sipping some hot liquid in a cup. Snow blew in swift gusts of wind and the visibility was only a few feet. I could barely keep my eyes open as the snow struck my face. My ears were near frozen. My legs shook uncontrollably. My breathing had become irregular. I feared hypothermia was beginning to set in.

I asked the Bulgarian agent how to get to the nearby town. His curt response to my inquiry was that about 7 km away there was a small town with a hostel. Then he shut the cabin window and started sipping that hot liquid again, with steam visibly coming out of the cup. I looked around in the dark to get some bearing on which direction I should walk. Whatever road there might have been, was covered with snow and not visible. In the physical condition that I was in, I could not imagine walking 7 km, especially since I had no idea which direction to walk in. The frightening prospect of getting lost in this cold wasteland was real. No one knew me here who would alert authorities if I went missing. From what I knew of the poverty stricken Bulgarian society, no one would really care if I were to freeze to death at the Romania-Bulgaria border. The sun would not be out for at least another 3 hours. I could not last for that long in cold. There was not even a wall or a building around me that could shelter me from the howling winds. I looked through the window of the cabin; the guard had become completely oblivious to my presence. The urge to empty my bladder had been increasing steadily. I doubted that guard would welcome another intrusion from me regarding the availability of a restroom. Besides, there was no structure around me that resembled an outhouse. I took a few steps into the darkness away from the guard, and with my back against the wind, I emptied my bladder.

Another hour had passed since my last interaction with the border guard. Each minute of this hour was a trial. Contrary to my hope, no car or bus, which could possibly give me a ride to town, had crossed the border during that time. Just when I was beginning to prepare myself for the prospect of hunkering down till the sun came out, I heard the sound of a car’s engine. Through the thick of blowing snow and darkness, I saw the back red lights of a car making a turn. Apparently it had just dropped a guard at the border post and was now beginning to head back. With my backpack in hand, I used all my will power and energy to run after the car before it picked speed. This could be my only chance for next several hours to get a ride to the town. I stumbled and slipped once. The driver had not seen me yet. Just when the car started to pick speed, I bent forward, extended my arm to full length and thumped at the trunk. The car stopped!

The challenge of communicating to the angelic driver about where I wanted to go was overcome when I used the Turkish word "ottogar" (bus station). He understood, nodded, and we did not speak again. In about a few minutes we were at the bus station of that small border town. To show my appreciation for this favor, I handed him a $20 note (a small fortune for anyone in that town). He accepted smilingly. I stepped out of the car with my backpack strung on my shoulder and slowly trudged over the thick snow towards the bus station.

I was the only one at the station at that time. It was a small and dusty room with a ticket counter. The old lady behind the counter took a glance at my haggard look. Twelve hours of brutal train ride from Sofia to Romania, the sleepless night, the nightmare that followed, and hours in Siberian cold had distorted my facial expressions. “Sofia…” is all I managed to say. She hand wrote a ticket (yes computerized tickets have not made it there yet). There were no benches or heat inside that room. But at least I would be safe from the bone freezing wind outside. With ticket firmly clenched in my hand, I walked to a corner, sat down on the dusty floor, and waited for my bus that would take me back to Sofia. At that moment a sudden exhaustion descended on me. I was in the highest state of fear for my personal safety through the previous dark, cold and sleepless night. My nerves to survive the ordeal were at their peak for so long. A nightmare had ended. My senses began to calm down. From where I sat, I wanted to move no more.

Cold and hungry, I rested my head against the wall. My eyes closed and I started to think about the sunny Istanbul in Turkey. Ah Istanbul - where there were warm smiling faces, where the narrow streets of the old city were full of aroma from sizzling kofta kababs.