Gypsy Village (alternatively titled: Mel Gibson, Dead or Alive?)

December 10, 2007

Well, I find myself back at the Internet cafe. I've had such a nice time on the assorted vans that have been picking me up in this tiny town that I keep coming back for more. That, and the orphans are sleeping. Or eating. Or sitting. They are doing something, but nothing that I have an urge to document in photos at this moment.

Last night my only friend in the village, Brian, and I had a small adventure. Let me first tell you about Brian and Ally, my other friend who has now left to do some acid in a yert. I think a yert is like a tee pee but can't be sure. Brian is from Maine. He is 23 and has held the following jobs: cook, deacon, musician, writer, artist, politician, sharp shooter, laborer, and "clinical psychologist". There are more but I can't remember them. He claims to have studied for 4 years at the Kinsey Institute...hmmm. Again, Brian is from Maine so who knows what to believe (no offense Lew). Brian always walks 3 to 4 paces behind me so I have to turn around when I want to speak to him. I actually like this about him. Ally is from Australia and is very spiritual. She is also a big drinker and hooks up a lot and tells good stories and lent me her laptop with seasons 2 and 3 of Grey's Anatomy, so she's okay in my book. As I mentioned, Ally is off doing acid in a yert. I am pretty sure she will be enlightened when I see her on Tuesday.

Anyway, Brian and I tried to catch a van back to our village last night, but it was filled to capacity. We had a nice offer to get a ride in the trunk of a car but passed. While trying to formulate a plan a man named Christy approaches us. Christy fancies himself a singer - it was his chanting that I had the pleasure of listening to for 4 hours in church. Lovely vocals. Anyway, Christy tells us that he has a plan, and wants us to follow him to another van that will supposedly get us closer to our destination. We board this van and who do I see but Jon Lovitz. Ok it wasn't actually Jon Lovitz but it was the closest looky-likey I have seen. Closer than I am to Fred Savage even. So this was exciting and distracted me from the fact that this van wasn't actually to take us home. Eventually Brian, Christy and I are dropped off literally in the middle of nowhere, and it is so foggy at this point that we have no clue where we are or who might pick us up to take us home. It is so foggy that we cannot see our glowing neon cross in the distance. Well damn. Christy seems vaguely concerned about this, but proceeds to spend a good deal of time explaining to me that starting next year Romanians will no longer be able to slaughter pigs with knives. Yes, I hate to be the one to tell you, but slaughterhouse regulations are changing. Romanians will now be asked to use tranquilizers first (this is NOT going over well). Christy also proceeded to tell me that Mel Gibson is dead. I do not believe this to be true - in fact, I would be shocked if it were true and it didn't make the Yahoo! headlines (Britney Spears' parenting skills made the headlines, so I imagine the death of Mel Gibson would as well). Please inform me, someone, if this news is true. If so I will come home immediately.

Brian and I are eventually picked up by a completely random vehicle that takes us to a road that we think might be ours. Seriously, it was so foggy and dark that we were asking strangers if we were in our village when we were literally on our own porch. It is mid-morning right now and I have a flashlight with me, because not once have I made it home without incident/fear of being left to die.

One thing that I am noticing about Romanians is the complete and total inability to accept that you don't speak their language. Don't, in fact, understand a single word they are saying. Never have I encountered such conversational perseverance where none is warranted. Romanians, without fail, strike up a full blown conversation with you, despite the fact that you know not what they say. And when this barrier becomes evident they don't even think about giving up - no, they press on. And on. And on. You get the feeling that they really want to KNOW you, and not just on a casual level. It is really so strange I don't know what to make of it. You can easily become engaged in a 10 minute, one- sided 'conversation' in which your role is to stand there and shrug your shoulders again and again. Friendly? Insane?

The other thing I've noticed about Romanians is that everyone appears to be at least 10-20 years older than they actually are. I have been erroneously treating people like elders to be revered who are my age or younger. Life in the mountains hardens the face.

Of note this weekend were my encounters with Gypsies. I visited a Gypsy village, and was told repeatedly by a young Gypsy girl that I had "no intelligencia". This was said as she tried to talk to me, I shrugged, not understanding, and she pointed at her own head and told me I was an idiot. It was nice. It was Andrei, the leader of the orphanage, who took Brian, Marco (an Italian photographer on a magazine shoot) and I to the Gypsy village, and the only instructions we were given were to "get in the car IMMEDIATELY when I tell you to" and "whatever happens in the village, DON'T PANIC!!" Well now, that builds confidence.

Apparently the Gypsies sometimes get agitated, at which point our lives our endangered. Or something like that. Getting to the village itself was unbelievable - Andrei drove his wreck of a car through a river and up the muddiest bank I have ever seen. It was completely ridiculous that you would even try to drive to this place - and it's not like we were working with an SUV. But we made it, and peace reigned in the village. God must have known we came from the land of the neon cross and blessed us....