Hitching in Romania

The first time I ever tried to hitchhike was in 1995, out of Paris, on a cold grey morning in March. I stood beneath a concrete bridge, clutching a cardboard sign saying AMSTERDAM as an endless stream of Renaults zipped past. Eight hours later, I had to drive back into town and buy a bus ticket.

When I got to Amsterdam, I met a Dutchman who explained that hitching from Paris was notoriously difficult. He scribbled rows of equations on a napkin, unlocking the secrets of roads from Amsterdam to Berlin. To complement these used-napkin equations I purchased a foldout map that depicted Europe from Ireland to Mongolia. Four tiny red lines represented all Dutch roads. Needless to say, I got lost.

Over the years I tried hitching in Western Europe many times - but was never any good at it. The romance of standing at the edge of a highway, waiting, was belted out of me.

Cut to the present day, Maramures, Romania. The Maramures county, snuggled against the Ukrainian border, is a land that time forgot, rural and remote, cut off from the rest of the country by the Carpathian Mountains. To go there is to step back in time. Public transport is practically non-existent. Locals hitch - and with no car, I suddenly found myself forced to return to the transport of my youth.

The first part of the journey I was able to do by bus, from the small spa city Vartra Dornei to Borsa, a town near a winter ski resort. Looking out the window I saw mountains rising up, covered by pine trees.

Maybe when hitchhikers die and go to heaven they find themselves in Maramures - a place where drivers actually stop...
At the edge of the road running through Borsa two women were already hitchhiking. I stood nearby, backpack leaning on my leg, and observed.

Americans, Australians and Brits stick out their thumbs. In some countries you lazily extend an index finger. Here in Romania, the two women were waving their hands frantically.

It was with some embarrassment that I stretched out my hand to do the same. Locals walking past stared. I stuck out because of my Western clothes and backpack. I could see what they were thinking: where the hell was my car?

Horse-and-cart is a standard form of transport here. Two passed by, and then an ancient, battered vehicle stopped. The two women got inside. So did I, sitting beside our driver - an old man with golden teeth in a cowboy hat. He didn't say a word, just put the car into gear and drove.

In the morning sunlight the mountains were stunning.

We passed a gypsy camp, then a hermit living in a tent in the middle of nowhere, selling honey. The driver got out, bought a jar, got back in. Pot-holed, bumpy, the road worsened, bringing us to the town of Moisei, which with its dusty streets had an almost Latin American feel. The women paid. I did the same.

Hitching in Western Europe in the 90s, I often found graffiti scrawled on road signs next to hitching points. There were messages of encouragement, but usually they were darkly pessimistic. 'I have been here 2 days', or 'This is the worst hitching site in Europe'.

In Maramures there aren't such problems. Cars pick you up quickly. After Moisei I was dropped off at a petrol station and joined a group of about 20 locals, all hitchhiking. They stared, for once again I stuck out - they had farm equipment and bags of grain, I had a backpack. There were so many of us I thought we'd be there forever, but as almost every car in Maramures stops, it was a surprisingly short wait.


He dropped me off near Botiza, my main destination in the Izei Valley. A river winds through the village, with many rickety wooden bridges leading to individual houses. The village also boasts an impressive wooden church, built in 1694. I dropped the money I'd been given in its donation box
Maybe when hitchhikers die and go to heaven they find themselves in Maramures - a place where drivers actually stop, and the people are remarkably generous. But if you do get stuck at night, one person told me, you can knock on any door. You'll be given a room and food in exchange for a little money. Botiza is the perfect end to the hitch through rural Paradise: a place to kick back, savour the remote beauty, and let time slip by