My dream of a European Moldova

Author: Jules Bigot/ Editor: Elene Mikanadze, Alumni

The spring sun is high up in the sky of Chișinău as I hit the road on my bike this morning. My route is loaded onto my GPS, but I prefer not to check the number of kilometres I still have to ride… Bucharest is a long way from Chișinău. 

I’m excited! Once I’ve left the capital and survived the stray dogs hidden in every corner of the suburbs, I find myself on one of these long roads that wind through the spring-green hills of the Moldovan countryside. The sun crushes me when the road goes up, but then when it goes down, I breathe in the warm and clear air of spring. On these roads, on this bike, in this environment, I feel good, I feel free. Nothing but the passing shepherds stops my bike, but sometimes my attention is caught by the mosaic-decorated bus stops that line up along the road. 

In this bubble, time and kilometres pass with me realising, and soon, I reach the banks of Lake Costești and its beautiful village. Behind the characteristic green fences of Moldovan villages, sit traditional houses, painted in a distinctive blue, which makes the contrast with the blue of the lake even more beautiful. Why go to the overcrowded French, Italian or Spanish rivieras, when Moldova can provide these kinds of gems? I sit down for a couple of minutes by the lake to enjoy the view and the peace, before getting to the border checkpoint that leads to Romania. 

It’s very warm outside, but there’s something old and inhospitable about this road leading to the border: the fences that enclose the surrounding vegetation; the signs that line the road, each more alarming than the last – “Speed 30”, “Border zone”, “Prepare your documents”, “No parking”, “Don’t take pictures”. The stretching line of cars with engines running at standstill makes the hot atmosphere of the afternoon even more suffocating. A cyclist’s privilege, I pedal up the queue before also finding myself at a standstill in the heat – disadvantage of the bike, without air conditioning. A man in uniform finally waves to me. I approach, and hand him my documents. I feel this odd sense of vulnerability, so characteristic of border crossings. That of knowing that my freedom depends on the will of a customs officer, and on my administrative conformity. Once this right to freedom is granted to me, I cross this symbolic line that is drawn on my GPS and which represents the border between Moldova and Romania. The road that leads to the Romanian checkpoint is splendid, dominating the lake. But the border status of this road somehow spoils its charm, with its many cameras watching over each of my movements, and the ban on stopping along the way. What a pity, I would have loved to take the time to contemplate the fish in the water beneath, and the birds flying high in the sky. This rigidity is all the more frustrating, as once my passport is returned to me by the Romanian border guards, I enter a world not so different to the one I just left, confirming that there’s nothing more imaginary than a border. It was with that thought in mind that I made my way to the campsite that would host me for the night, and that I fell asleep, my eyelids heavy from the effort and the heat.

My sleep was the beginning of another journey, one that took place in the world of dreams. The effort wasn’t as hard and the heat wasn’t as crushing, but Moldova was as beautiful as ever. However, on arriving at Lake Costești, there were no signs indicating the border, only the bird song telling me I had arrived at a lake. The border was still on the GPS, in the form of a line, but that was all. On the road to Romania that crosses the lake, I stop to take this splendid photo, where in perfect symmetry, the green hills that stand on the Moldovan side of the lake echo those on the Romanian side, while on the lake, whose blue shimmers through the picture, a family of ducks splashes about in peace. On the other side, a tree with ample foliage seems to open its arms to me, so I join it. I unroll my blanket at the base of its trunk, take off my shoes and fall asleep for a moment, my face caressed by the spring breeze.

When I woke up the next morning in my tent, I realised what I had been dreaming about that night: quite simply, about a European Moldova.