Time to write

It’s been a while since I wrote on my blog. I’d even forgot that I had one. Does it signify laziness? Perhaps. Or now that I’m in Budapest, that I’m having less challenging adventures, do I see no reason for comment or reflection? Not really.

Everyday on social networking sites I see a flood of comments that range from the satirical and funny to the deeply personal and intimate. I’ve never been one to share my deeply personal and intimate thoughts so easily, so perhaps I can see why my blog is just a series of satirical remarks based on experiences I’ve had or observations I’ve made.

Not to say I haven’t continued to experience things or make observations.

We have now moved over to Budapest, Hungary and it’s been the first time in one place since I arrived here. One location; (with the odd trip back to Romania), doing work, discovering the city and having something that resembles a normal life. I’ve come to like it, and especially come to like the small octagon in which we surround ourselves here in Budapest.

This year has been an eventful one. And although I woke up today thinking I’d write a blog without any particular motivation, I have since read the election has been called. Meaning I’ll vote from an embassy somewhere, up to 2 weeks before the official date. I’ll have less time to decide what to make of this politically messy landscape Australia seems to be in. I feel I have little choice.

But the year started with me participating in the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras for the first time and riding on a motorbike at that! It was an exhilarating experience. Firstly to be making such a public statement about myself, me the private one, and secondly, to be part of something so big.

Public declaration hasn’t stopped. Last weekend I attended the gay pride here in Budapest. I’d heard the last few years were tumultuous for the LGBT community here, with angry protesters throwing objects at marchers, so I wanted to attend and document the event.

This march this year felt somehow more significant and important. There was a stand to take, a claim to make and a voice that needed hearing. It was a sort of small gathering but important one.

Here is a link to the video we made. Featuring Linda Silaghi as reporter and Attila Modra in subtitling. Thank you!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2C8YYk6jcqY

The day I'd been waiting for

It was shaping up to be one of my best interviews yet. The only interview I’d managed to line up on my own here in Romania and that’s only because the very friendly contact I made at the SMURD Foundation understood my English in email and replied. The others have gone unnoticed.

I am to interview Dr Raed Arafat, a Palestinian born medic, who studied in Romania and has since gone beyond the call of duty and established SMURD (mobile emergency service) – a unique combination of the emergency services here in Romania and who now holds a position at the Ministry of Health.

My work here, for those who don’t know, is to document on video, some of the interviews taking places here in Romania and Hungary with people who have taken up citizenship in both countries. Dr Raed Arafat is a Romanian citizen, and a notable public figure for his contributions to the public health system. He’s a ‘good’ example of a citizen and ‘immigrant’ though he doesn’t consider himself one.

I start to research and discover he’s the second cousin of Yasser Arafat, the once leader of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO). I get excited for some reason. The day arrives, it’s 35 degrees and we’ve been carrying gear all over the city till we reach the Ministry of Health at 5pm. He’s locked us in late so we won’t have to rush I think to myself. Very kind.

All the interviews I’ve read about him tell tales that he’s a hard man to get, and keep. He’s often volunteering with an emergency service or attending to very important matters.

We arrive and he’s not seated at his desk, but rather at the large boardroom style table in his office. He’s tapping away at his Mac computer and I feel we have a connection before words are spoken. He acknowledges our presence but continues to demand things from his PA. I feel intimidated. This man knows what he’s doing and knows how to get it done.

The first fifteen minutes we are there, our attempts to explain who we are and where we’re from are interrupted by numerous phone calls. One, about a major road collision and another about someone trying to undermine SMURD activities in another county. Can hardly ask him to put his phone on silent. But then he does! He notices I have a strange accent (first in this country to make note) and I don’t have to say I’m from Australia. Though he was once denied entry to Australia with his Romanian passport he seems to know our accent.

I set up the camera, ask him to sit in front of the Romanian flag and we’re off. It goes fast and he moves around and I dare not stop him to re-position the camera. We’re done and he springs out of his chair as though it was perfectly timed and calls the Minister of Health, who is waiting for him! I guess I wasn’t the last thing on his list today.

We say good bye and thank him for his time. And we’re gone. Didn’t get to small talk about Palestine, didn’t take a photo with him nor tell him I want to be a Paramedic someday and didn’t get some overlay of him sitting at his desk signing some important document, like I’ve been trained to do.

I watch back the footage. Definitely not the best I’ve achieved thus far. In fact rather disappointing. How did I manage to stuff up my most important interview?
I had tried to arrange to ride in an ambulance to gain ‘important’ footage for the story but that didn’t happen. Maybe just as well as I might get so excited that I’d not concentrate on filming. Like that time I put my hand up to film a knee reconstruction and got so engrossed in the surgery that I didn’t realize my picture was over-exposed. It’s been my dream for a while to ride in an ambulance but maybe Romania won’t be where that dream comes true.

Still a memorable interview with a man who has extraordinary vision and determination to overcome even the toughest and most complex bureaucracies that exists. An applause for this Mr Arafat please.

(If you’re interested in finding out about SMURD, visit www.smurd.ro )

1st June has much significance

Today is the first day of Summer and also International Children’s Day (though seems only celebrated here in the former Eastern bloc). It’s raining and a bitterly cold 16 degrees. I’m also away from my family, who are European but never seemed to tell me about Children’s Day nor shower me with over-priced gifts. I don’t feel like such a winner today.. I escaped Australia ‚knowing’ i’d eventually be hit with a European summer and escape Sydney’s cold winter. I contemplate writing to the Ministry of Tourism or perhaps the European Union and asking for my airfare to be reimbursed. Seems like the joke’s on me. The sun still seems to shine in Sydney while here it does not.

There’s no apparent buzz word here to describe this climatic schizophrenia. No global warming warning, no apparent amazement at the oddity the weather patterns display. Is Europe exempt from the global warming guilt? Surely there’s enough industrilisation even here in Romania that such an impact must be notable? Causing some affect? I suspect it is.

On matters European, the other evening I celebrated a memorable event, albeit a superficial one. My first LIVE Eurovison Song Contest broadcast. I didn’t have to wait a whole day for SBS to broadcast the event nor evade the cruel folks who each year seem intent to spoil the fun I create for myself waiting for this yearly iconic event.

No this year, I watched it live and faced the excitement of being able to vote. A double whammee. The friends came over, there was beer and wine and Țuica. Comments were aplenty as the Romanian compères tried their best to seem knowledgeable – though nothing in comparison to the BBC Knight, Terry Wogan.

There’s much fun in waiting as each country takes its turn to try the least humiliating way to convince the world, if not Europe, that they can sing. Musicians and songwriters must hate this competition - but sadly I LOVE IT. There are beautiful women and men, dressed in the most complex outfits, usually white. There are fireworks and flames and lyp sincing even Britney Spears would ridicule. But the real fun, or best I say, the real illusion is the hour-long collection of votes. As we’re busy sending text messages to vote for our favourite country, (we can’t vote for our own country as that would be unfair!) all the votes are collated and an English speaking host (if only that at times) present the results form their country. (I do have to admit that I wasn’t actually able to vote as one sms cost 1.49 Euro – of course I didn’t have enough credit). We all sit and wait as though there’s a mystery unfolding. But each year it’s the same plot with a different protagonist. Greece votes for Cyprus, Romania for Moldova, Spain for Portugal and so forth. Israel seems to fluctuate from year to year. Of course it’s a mystery how Israel is even in the competition seeing as its not in Europe (and for several other reasons that seem obvious to me)..I digress.

I start to have a premonition that Greece will win. They are scoring well. I think this will be a token gesture to help ease their economic woes. But I get it wrong. Of course how could Greece afford to host such an extravagant event I’m asked? (Surely it’s like the Olympics – the host country gets sorted out some way?) Instead Germany is thanked for bailing out the Mediterranean cause and Turkey gets a consolation 2nd. I’m pleased to reiterate that (my) Romania come third. Quite impressive. Best result in years. There are excited remarks from all in Romania amidst the shock of a pixie song by an alleged porn star! winning what is normally a European dance sensation.

On a musical note this year I’m disappointed. There are no flamboyant dance numbers, no flames on stage, save for Romania, not many scathingly clad women and not many songs sung in European languages.

I’d like to motion that the Eurovision conglomeration ban songs in English (except for Engalnd and Ireland of course). Im a puritan and I vote for conserving European languages! Perhaps I’ll write them a letter. Perhaps they’ll read it and laugh.

At least I live knowing I watched Eurovision live on TV and who knows, one day I may even get to go to the event in person. I’ll hold out waiting. Another Eurovision is over and I sit here clicking refresh on the weather page hoping for a brighter forecast in days to come.

Be careful of Hitchhikers

Ever since I arrived here in Romania, and since I am driving lots in the car, I notice the roadside. I notice that the lush green pastures are now being turned and seedlings are starting to sprout. I notice road signs of which I have no understanding of their meaning, I notice people trying to hitch a ride and occasionally I notice the street workers.

I've been wanting to stop for a hitchhiker ever since I started driving. Unlike in places like Sydney, it's quite common to hitch a ride here in between towns and cities. Some places aren't serviced well by any public transport so people rely on hitching a ride to get to work. And they pay for it too. I often wonder who they are, where they're going and also wonder why there isn't a more efficient system to make this hitching a ride business easy. Like why don't they hold up signs stating where they want to go?



We travel a lot between Arad and Timisoara and sometimes to Szeged in Hungary and see lots of people. Today was the day we stopped. It was a chilling and quite devastating 10 degrees today. Rain and wind. Just after crossing from Hungary to Romania at Nadlac I see this woman with shopping bags standing on the side of the road. We have to stop and pick her up I say. It's freezing. I'm excited. Our first hitchhiker.

I get out and make room for her and all her shopping bags. I expect we'll have a conversation about where she's going and what she does. We learn she is headed to Deva, about 5 hours drive from where we collect her. We tell her we can drop her off in Arad. She seems OK with that.


Silence. The conversation stops. She doesn't reveal any more information and I don't probe. Not that I can really ask deep and meaningful questions in Romanian yet.

We drop her off and I notice her high heels, extra tan stockings and bright red lipstick. I'd only noticed her shopping bags before. Perhaps they didn't have groceries in them. Linda2 tells me she realised just after we picked her up that perhaps she was a street worker and we'd be expected to pay her going rate. If so we were not very demanding clients. Then I thought she might be an occasional street worker. Only doing it when she needs to.


I later told a local that we picked up someone on our way back. They thought we were crazy. They're gypsies you know, they have more money than you. Why should you waste your petrol on them! What an insane idea. Why wouldn't I pick up someone who wants to go where I'm heading? And I'm already polluting the environment by driving and that person isn't.

Might just pay better attention when collecting a woman next time. Be sure I won't have to pay her instead of her paying me!

Uneven Ground

The cobble streets are uneven yet delightful. I’d forgotten what it’s like to walk through a historic city. Timisoara. I’d almost been captivated before I knew how important this city was. I’ve found my favourite café, my favourite pastry shop and remembered how to navigate my way between the two beautiful piazzas that dominate this city. I’ve driven round in circles – the city was built as a fortress - managed to identify and remember a few street names and distinguish the two bridges that cross the Bega river.


Timisoara (pronounced timishwara) is the site where the 1989 revolution was born when protesters gathered outside the house of Pastor László Tőkés, a vocal opponent to the Ceausescu regime. The secret police were ordered to deport him and his supporters protested. The army were ordered to fire and thousands were killed. It ended the communist regime of Nicolae Ceauşescu and marks the Romanian revolution.

I could have walked through the cobbled streets of Timisoara and not have known what significant ground I was walking on. They cause me to trip, women in high heels navigate them and hundreds of birds feed on them.


I later saw a water fountain where people stop to fill their water bottles. A water fountain adorned with hundreds of names. I ask and am told this is a monument remembering those who died on that fateful night. It seems a rather insignificant monument for such a catastrophic event. I ask again and am told it’s just one of a series of monuments that were created and installed around the city. An eternal flame, a statue and others I haven’t yet located. Then there are monuments that were donated by companies. One is a tall and intrusive neon cross erected in front of the Romanian Orthodox Cathedral by an electrical company. Seems somewhat dubious.


I then wonder if there’s a symbol or face to this revolution? An image, an icon or worse or better still a figure. I glance up and see a billboard that features Che Guevara selling something. How different the idea of a revolution seems here than in Latin America. Why? Yes hundreds died, fighting to free themselves from an oppressive regime. Should this not be revered? I meet an Iraqi immigrant, now a Romanian citizen, who introduces me to his daughter, her name is Gegehvara. Named after the ‘revolutionary’ figure he tells me.




No one seems to smile. Everything seems a struggle. But you’re free now I think to myself, why are you still so sad? Of course I don’t think it’s that simple. Are they all waiting for a miraculous turnaround of events? Now part of the EU, most people tell me there’s been no real difference. This week the president announced salaries would be cut by 25% starting June as the country has no more money! Each election a different party is elected and seems to undo, for better or worse, the work of the previous government.



Sure there is progress. Infrastructure, technology, commerce….but do all these things mean that much? The average wage is 200 Euro per month while the average apartment in the city centre costs about 300 euro per month?

I paint a bleak picture. I get frustrated easily. I get happy when someone smiles. I’ve discovered birds outside my window that sing all day and night. I begin to like walking on the uneven ground.

A good coffee is hard to find

There are many things that are different here in Romania - that's what's so interesting. So many great things like pastries and sweets, free wifi everywhere, very helpful people and so much more.

There are some things that take adjusting to though, when you get to a new city, a new country and culture.

Coffee has been a sore point for me. Some who know me have been privy to emails detailing my excursions in pursuit of a good coffee. OK, so I drink coffee with milk and the puritan Italians will argue that's not real coffee. Argument taken into consideration.

I have after many attempts though, found what is called here a LATTE MACCHIATO - which in Italy is in fact a cup of warm milk with just a hint of coffee. Commonly consumed in the morning. Here in Romania though, the Latte Macchiato is similar to the Australian Latte. Bingo! So I think I'm sorted. I know the coffee to order that sort of relfects what I crave in the morning.

There are are a few problems though. The milk tastes strange here and the best coffee they have is Illy (no offence, as I quite like Illy - but since the wave of artisan coffee blenders arrived in Sydney I've been fortunate to have a lot of choice and good coffee - like the ones made by my good friend Renea)...I digress.

Today I came to Bierhaus - a pub. You can have coffee in pubs here which is another great thing about this great country.

I ordered from my friendly waitress (who is dressed in traditional German attire - alas no flaunt of the bosom) in my broken Romanian a Latte Macchiato. She returned quickly. First problem I notice is that they serve it with a straw instead of a spoon. How in God's name can I stir in the sugar with a straw. And why do you expect me to drink coffee out of a straw! Again I digress. After I've managed to stir the sugar around a bit, I take a sip and it's cold. Maybe luke warm at best.

What words do I use in Romanian to complain? I gesture to her, she comes over smiling and I tell her "It's not warm". She is horrified. She steps away. I smile. A friend helps explain in better Romanian than mine that she should just make one that has war milk in it. She's puzzled and dosen't want to take the coffee away. What, do they never have anyone complain? Has she never made a mistake. She has problems to deal with that go beyond not being able to deal with dissatisfied customers. Don't they give staff an induction that includes how to deal with unhappy people like me? I guess not.


She goes away and comes back with a new one (see above). I touch it and it's warm. I'm pleased. I smile at her and thank her profusely. I wanted to ask for a spoon instead of a straw but thought I'd just deal with it. I stir, take a sip and burn my *%&$ing tongue! Is she serious. Do they really not know what temperature the milk should be warmed to? Renea what is it? Perhaps I should tell them.

I dare not tell my waitress that I'm even more dissatisfied than I was before. I drink icy water to soothe the tongue and vow to find a place that knows how to make coffee at the right temperature, let alone GOOD coffee.

OK, so there's one thing I miss about Sydney. It was bound to happen. It certainly didn't happen when I called Westpac's 24 hour hotline to ask for a new pin number earlier today. The woman, forgot her name now, though she introduced herself so well, had the strongest Australian accent I've heard in months. I don't really miss that do I? There's another great thing about Romania - there's no horror of bumping into a crowd of loud Australians behaving badly.

Adventures with the Dacia continue

My dad used to drive a concrete truck. That was Diesel. Trucks have Diesel not small city sedan’s right? Well the robust Romanian Dacia takes Diesel – now I know. I also know what happens when you put petrol into a Diesel engine!!! Not at all good.

Seems like all my adventures happen on the road. This time we set out to our next city, Timisoara. We were lucky enough to be given the trusty Dacia to take along which was a huge relief. No one likes the idea of public transport here. On the way we stop for petrol, benzina as it’s commonly known as here. We pull up at the pump unaware what any of the labels mean but realise they’re some form of petrol. Good. Surely this can’t doesn’t take Diesel so we can’t be wrong. Fill her up, pay and head back on the highway (one lane between major cities is considered a highway here!).

Dacia starts to choke, she starts to shake. What am I doing wrong? Chug. Chug. Chug. Linda and I look at each other. Maybe I’m driving too a high a gear. Yes that’s it. Go down to third. Chug. Chug. Did we put the wrong petrol in the car? Agnes on the other end of the line quickly confirms that of course the car takes Diesel! What? So what now? Should we pull over? Can we continue? Oh fuck. Will we make our meeting at 2pm? Could we be that stupid? We call people. One says pull over straight away, the other says go to Timisoara and sort it out there. Hmm. We pull over on the side of the road. There is a poor unsuspecting victim standing outside his village house, unaware his afternoon will involve hard work.

Linda asks him for advice. It’s happened to him twice. I feel reassured. He’ll help us. We have to get the petrol and out, do some technical things and put diesel in. I try to start the car to move it off the side of the road. It doesn’t start. Jesus what have we done. Why would this need to be a Diesel engine! I see three robust men and Linda out of the rear vision mirror as they push the car to safety. The man’s father emerges laughing and another older man who will surely be the knowledgable one gets to work.

They have empty plastic containers. This will be interesting.
I have some vague recollection from my youth of my father sucking on a hose pipe to get petrol out of a petrol tank and sucking until the petrol touched his lips in order to empty out the tank. It seemed easy enough, but I wasn’t going to step in at this point. Apparently you can’t do it like that anymore, not with new cars the younger man informs us (well informs Linda – I understand nothing but am given little bits of translation). You have to remove the back seat, do some strange thing to remove something I’ve never seen and then suck the petrol out. 5 plastic containers later, yes we’d filled the car up, all 35 litres it could handle, we have one empty petrol tank. There are some further complications I don’t understand. One man opens the bonnet and looks aimlessly for something. The younger man emerges from his backyard with what looks like a plastic bottle filled with Diesel he just happens to have lying around. Some further complications but soon enough we have 5 litres of Diesel in the car, the car starts and we’re assured we’ll make it to the next petrol station 5kms away to fill up.

How lovely of these men to help us damsels in distress. And what did they want in return? Nothing. Well except the 35 litres of petrol they’d sucked out of the car! They helped us and dealt with the unwanted petrol as well. Super. Back on the road and we reach Timisoara and make our 2pm meeting. We vow to go back and bring the men a bottle of something strong.