Pitesti

Let’s continue the story of my travels through Eastern Europe in 1990. Today’s post covers our first week in Romania, where we lived with a family in Pitesti, a satellite city located about 100 km west of Bucharest. At the time, it was a city of approximately 175,000, making it the 12th largest city in Romania.

Our group of 12, part of a YWAM outreach program, were invited to Pitesti by an enthusiastic and energetic young woman who’d witnessed us performing a street drama in Hungary. Sadly, I can’t find any record of her name. However, she was a dynamo, an internal optimist who simply made things happen. She’s the dark-haired woman in the front row, left in the image above. Her parents are on the far left. She became our local host and group coordinator. She arranged for families from her local Baptist church to billet members of our group, organised daily outings for us and translated for us wherever we went.

We drove into town late afternoon on 14 June 1990. We’d spent a full day driving through the countryside from Timisoara. Our host was shocked to see us. For two days, deadly riots had been unfolding in Bucharest, the worst violence the country had witnessed since the downfall of dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu six months earlier. She assumed we’d abandoned our journey.

Until that moment, we’d had no knowledge of these riots or their violence. Fortunately, the situation in the capital calmed down over the next few days. I vaguely recall conversations about ensuring a safe passage out of Romania for the group if things escalated. Pitesti was about 187 km from the nearest border crossing. I also recall a measure of discomfort among the local families that hosted us. They were clearly nervous about being responsible for the lives of a group of foreigners during a national crisis.

We spent eight days in Pitesti. It was an eye-opening experience. None more so than the abject poverty we witnessed everywhere we went. The nation’s collective impoverishment was the result of a draconian austerity program Ceaușescu had launched in 1980, designed to pay off Romania’s national debt within ten years. Vast chunks of economic production originally destined for domestic consumption were diverted for export, plunging the population into painful shortages and increasing hardship.

The Romanian TV channels were reduced to a single channel, which transmitted only 2 hours per day. Electricity was interrupted for hours, mostly at night. Repairs of basic infrastructure ground to a halt as spare parts disappeared. There were long lines at the grocery stores for the most basic goods, including meat, eggs, milk, bread and more. As a result, we saw queues outside stores, like the one above, and structures in disrepair wherever we went.

For example, whenever a footpath was dug up or a road repaired, the residual soil, old components, broken concrete and other debris were left piled in place. Painted surfaces were always worn and flaking. Nothing had a new coat of paint. Weeds grew everywhere. I distinctly recall that the apartment building we stayed in only had hot water for a few hours each day, and one of its external walls had a large crack running down its façade, starting at the roofline and extending for several stories.

Without a doubt, the most striking visual difference between Romania and other nations was simply the lack of advertising and promotional signage. Billboards and posters didn't exist, except for the occasional socialist propaganda poster. Neither did neon signs nor promotional signage outside stores and cafes. 

 The result was a remarkably clutter-free urban environment that gave local streetscapes an old pre-war newsreel look and feel. I’ve said that it felt as if I’d stepped into the world of grandparents, as if it were when they were my age. The image above came from the web. It's dated 1986. Romania looked no different four years later.

In fact, the only advertisement I recall was a faded, weather-beaten billboard promotion for the nation’s popular Dacia motorcar. It had been painted directly onto the concrete beam of a flyover bridge that spanned the motorway between Pitesti and Bucharest. The Dacia probably deserves its own blog post.

S.C. Automobile Dacia S.A., commonly known as Dacia, is a Romanian car manufacturer. It was established in 1966. For years, almost every car driven in Romania was one of a handful of Dacia models manufactured in a large facility about 15km from Pitesti. They looked like a classic small car from the 1960s. Their design remained largely unchanged for decades. We saw them everywhere we went. Often the same colour, the same dated style and in the same slightly drab condition. It was another visual prompt that left me feeling as if we’d stepped back in time.

For many of the families that hosted us, we were the first foreign nationals they’d ever engaged with. For decades, fraternising with a foreigner simply raised suspicions and invited trouble. Nicolae Ceaușescu had ruled Romania with an iron fist, ruthlessly suppressing all opposition with the help of a secret police service known as the Securitate. At its peak, the Securitate operated the largest network of spies and informants in Eastern Europe.

Neighbours, and even family members, were encouraged to spy on one another and report the most minor of civil infractions, or seditious chatter, no matter how banal. As a result, foreigners were avoided like the plague. It was fascinating to watch our hosts alternate between intense curiosity about the West and instinctive discomfort whenever they were in our presence.

I recall a conversation one evening with an older mother. I commented on the sound of children playing and laughing in the apartment grounds outside. She froze, explaining that the sound terrified her. Under Ceaușescu, parents discouraged their children from playing in groups for fear they’d inadvertently reveal a civil disobedience indiscretion happening in the home, be it a passing conversation, a black market transaction or otherwise.

I also recall our host receiving a phone call and then disappearing for hours. The calls were usually friends or neighbours advising that the local store had received a shipment of bread, eggs or some other household commodity in short supply. The shopping bags would immediately be gathered, and off she’d go to stand in a queue for hours to grab her share.

However, despite the hardships, the families in Pitesti welcomed us with open arms.  Our host's father was particularly proud to have us stay. As you can see in the image above, he would break out in song or play his flute to entertain us. Given the language barrier between us, he'd decided music was the only way he could express his joy at our presence.

One night, an elderly man came for dinner. It may have been our host's grandfather. He was introduced to us as the first Christian in his village. It was a fascinating evening to hear, through our youthful interpreter, snippets of his life story. He and his extended family were truly inspirational role models. It was the first time I came to understand that wealth doesn't necessarily bring happiness. Yes, it makes the necessities of life easier to obtain.  However, real joy and fulfilment come from the people you connect with along the way.

At times, this austerity created amusing moments. Our enthusiastic young host invited us to visit the town centre one day. She wanted to take pride in showing us the city’s premier department store. In particular, she wanted us to see its internal escalators. It was one of the only buildings in town that had them. Let’s just say these moving stairways were arcane in both their style, with worn wooden foot treads, and their less-than-smooth rumbling motion. Likewise, the content on sale looked more like op-shop fashion statements, and many of the goods, like everything in Romania, looked dated and lacked the functionality we take for granted.

On one of the department store’s higher floors, we came across some Smurf blue long pants. While not at all on trend, we decided they’d make superb costumes for group members playing the roles of God and Christ in our street play. However, our interest in these pants quickly drew a crowd. Within minutes, everyone wanted the same outfit as the well-dressed foreigners. I still chuckle that, for a moment, we created a hot new fashion trend in the city of Pitesti.

Our new costumes worked a treat. We spent a week conducting outreaches (street performances) in local churches and on the streets of Pitesti. We frequently drew crowds of several hundred people at a time. We generally conducted only one outdoor performance each day, but occasionally performed for a local church before or after these public events.

After a week of street performances and engagement with the local Christian community, we packed our bags and headed for the city of Craiova. You can follow this link to learn more about our time in this regional city of more than 300,000.

Making a beeline for Bowral

My EO Forum has just completed its annual mini retreat.  This is our overnight event where we go away as a group to bond, learn together and experience something new.  Once again, I was our retreat organiser.  I’d set myself a high bar after a memorable event in Queenstown in June this year. I’m delighted to report that I successfully delivered on the brief once again.

This time we travelled to the Southern Highlands, about 90 minutes south of Sydney. After staying in a large homestead in New Zealand, the group was keen to do the same again. After a little research, I stumbled across a fabulous old sandstone homestead on a small acreage a few miles out of town near Mittagong.

Booking the homestead required a minimum two-night stay. As a result, I went down on Wednesday afternoon to do our group grocery shopping and prepare the homestead for our time together. This includes resetting the dining room as a boardroom, preparing the outdoor courtyard as a breakout space, preparing for breakfast and so on.

I also took advantage of our proximity to Bowral. Garry and I needed to purchase some unique gifts for two special occasions, including a 50th Birthday celebration last night with Liz Benson (dinner for four of us at Gowings in the QT Hotel) and Zoe Hollis’ engagement party tomorrow. I found a couple of superb gifts for both events in some of Bowral’s popular upmarket gift boutiques.

We gave Liz a pottery cottage that doubles as a tealight candle holder (or incense holder), and I found a large wooden cheese board or serving platter that Zoe and Ben can use for hosting guests in their new home. That’s the pottery cottage in the image above.

We kicked off our mini retreat on Thursday with morning tea in a spacious, light-filled lounge room before retiring to the converted dining room for a two-hour training session hosted by Rachael Heald. Rachael delivered a brilliant session on change management principles and practices. The group loved it - several even said it was the highlight of their retreat. We then broke for lunch in an intimate cobblestone courtyard outside.

The rest of the day was spent on our monthly forum meeting. We then finished with wine and cheese before a shuttle bus collected the group and took us to Eschalot in Berrima. Here we enjoyed a private dining experience in an old sandstone cottage. More great wine and food were consumed!

On Friday, we enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast in the dining room before departing for Bowal Honey Farm for a once-in-a-lifetime experience (OIL). The honey farm operates from a national trust property near Bowral, which was once owned by the Fairfax family, founders of the Sydney Morning Herald newspaper empire. Owner and Master Beekeeper Hamish Ta-Me spent the morning with us delivering a special VIP tour.

Hamish normally conducts these tours for overseas groups and high-profile guests of Tourism Australia. However, he kindly agreed to do the same tour for us. Over the course of three hours, we learned about bees and their lifecycle, opened a hive while wearing a full-length beekeeping suit, held a handful of bees, collected a frame of honey, and harvested it to take home. We also spent time tasting a variety of honeys. I honestly never thought you could spend three hours talking about bees and love every minute of it.

It was a truly spectacular experience. Holding a handful of bees was exhilarating. We could literally feel them vibrating, an amazing sensory encounter, as they attempted to communicate—just as they do with their sisters within the hive. In the video below, my hand is in the middle on the right-hand side. Yes, I am holding a handful of bees! 

We concluded our time together with a relaxed farewell lunch at Franquette Crêperie, an upscale French crepe restaurant in Bowral. I was a bit sceptical about savoury crepes. However, our lunch was delicious. About 2:30 pm, we said our farewells, and I drove back to Sydney in time for Garry and me to venture out for dinner with Liz and Adam Benson.

Another birthday week

Garry’s birthday week drew to a successful close for another year on Sunday. A group of us came together for lunch at Three Blue Ducks in Rosebery. Garry and I were last here for EO Sydney’s White Christmas Party in 2023. We have a wonderful afternoon filled with great food, wine and laughter. We even roped in our waitress for a group photo at the end. That’s Sophie next to Ian on the back right.

After lunch, we retired to Archie Rose, a gin distillery across the quadrangle from the restaurant. More cocktails ensued before everyone came back to our place for cheese and wine on the balcony. I went to bed around 11:00pm. Garry was up until after 4:00am with Nat, a friend who lives in the building next door.

We kicked off the celebrations a week earlier, also on Sunday, with lunch at Biviano's, an upmarket Italian restaurant in Dural. We last dined here a couple of years ago with Rhonda and Murray. It’s the first time we’ve been back since Rhonda died. Nicole, Jason and Mitch joined us for a relaxing family afternoon.

I then surprised Garry on his official birthday last Wednesday with dinner at Mjølner, a Viking-themed restaurant in Redfern. Its meat-centric menu was a hit with the birthday boy. The restaurant was impressive. It’s located in a vaulted brick cellar on Cleveland Street and reminded us of the medieval lunch we enjoyed years ago in Tallinn, Estonia. We even drank mead from authentic drinking horns.

Once dinner was done, we walked a block to enjoy front row seats at the Wizard’s Hideout. An intimate magic show held in a converted warehouse. For 90 minutes, we were dazzled by some impressive sleight of hand. Garry certainly keeps his coins in some odd places. Afterwards, we walked home. Enjoying two unique and memorable experiences within walking distance of home was rather special. We’ve never done that before.

The road to Romania

Time for another retrospective post. This is the story of my brief journey through Yugoslavia in June 1990. At the time, I was travelling with a group of 12 from Youth With A Mission (YWAM). We’d just spent three weeks in Hungary and were now on our way to Romania. We travelled in two minivans on loan to us and camped overnight in tents along the way.

We departed the border city of Szombathely, Hungary, on 11 June and headed towards Graz, Austria. Our route took us via Vienna, the city where our European odyssey had begun weeks earlier. This included a brief pitstop in Baden, where we debriefed the local YWAM base on our time in Hungary.

We continued south before finally crossing into Yugoslavia late afternoon. We stopped for the night at a local campground on the outskirts of Maribor, about 20 km south of the border. These days, Maribor is part of Slovenia, a nation-state that broke away from Yugoslavia in June 1991. In other words, we visited during its final year in this now-defunct nation.

Crossing the border proved to be an anticlimax. A handful of relatively disinterested border personnel gave our passports a cursory review, then stamped them with a seven-day transit visa and sent us on our way. You can see the stamp in my passport above. I still marvel at the fact that this feat would have been far more fraught with challenges a few months earlier.

The following day, June 12, we continued south to Beograd, better known in the west as Belgrade. Our route took us through Zagreb, Croatia's capital. Although again, at the time, it was still part of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. Croatia broke away a year later, on 25 June 1991. 

The images below were pulled from the web. They show two of Zagreb’s most iconic sights. The first one shows the ornate roof of St. Mark's Church, a historic parish church located in St. Mark's Square. The second shows Zagreb Cathedral. We were lucky enough to see the cathedral without scaffolding. In late 1990, just a few months after our whirlwind drive-by, the local diocese embarked on a major restoration. Since then, for more than 35 years, its spires and facade have been progressively shrouded by scaffolding.

We spent the morning in Zagreb buying supplies in anticipation of our crossing into Romania the following day. Tim, our group leader, recommended that we purchase flour, eggs, bottled water and other essential ingredients to feed ourselves for several days while on the road. He’d previously led groups who’d survived on pancakes for breakfast for days at a time. Hence, he thought flour should be at the top of our shopping list. Ironically, these large bags of flour sat unopened in our van for the next two months. We ultimately gave them away to local families in Bulgaria.

It would be fair to say that Tim was more of a “fly by the seat of your pants” kind of guy. Don’t get me wrong, he was an experienced leader who’d successfully led many groups over the years. However, he wasn’t inclined to plan a great deal in advance. As a result, decisions often seemed to be made on the fly as we progressed.

For example, our overnight stops were rarely planned in advance. Instead, we literally drove into local campgrounds on a whim. Likewise, we were unable to enter Czechoslovakia shortly after arriving in Europe simply because Tim hadn’t researched the group’s visa requirements before reaching the border.

Readers who know me well will testify to my passion for meticulous travel planning. While I leave room for new experiences along the way, I always have a good sense of our options before travelling to any destination. As a result, I found Tim’s lack of preparation and planning frustrating, to say the least. 

From Zagreb, we spent the afternoon driving towards Belgrade, a distance of more than 400km. Our final night in Yugoslavia was spent in a local campground. The following morning, 13 June, we finally crossed the border into Romania. The transition could not have been starker. We instantly transitioned from a relatively modern and advanced economy to one suffering acute shortages, where investment in basic infrastructure was visibly lacking.

We spent our first night in Romania camping on the outskirts of Timisoara. I couldn’t believe where we were. Six months earlier, the city had witnessed a series of mass street protests that swiftly evolved into what would later be known as the Romanian Revolution. The revolution began on 16 December 1989, when the Hungarian minority in Timisoara held a public protest in response to Government attempts to evict László Tőkés, a local church pastor. László Tőkés had been a persistent critic of Ceaușescu’s totalitarian regime.

The protests began outside the pastor’s home but quickly spread into the central city. For three days, rioting crowds gathered in central Timisoara demanding an end to Communist rule. At one point, the rioters broke into the nearby district committee building and threw party documents, propaganda brochures, Ceaușescu's writings, and other symbols of Communist power out of windows. The military was sent into the city to control the riots, and bloodshed ensued.

The uprising soon spread to other Romanian cities, including the capital Bucharest. Nicolae Ceaușescu and his wife eventually fled the capital on 22 December. The dictator was subsequently executed on Christmas Day following a brief military tribunal trial. Street fighting continued around the country for several days before a new interim Government finally restored peace. I arrived six months later, a few weeks after Romania’s first free elections since the end of World War II.

On June 14, our group spent the morning visiting central Timisoara, including the city’s infamous central plaza, colloquially known as Revolution Square. That’s the square above. The first photo shows the National Theatre & Opera House. It’s located at the square’s northern end, while the Orthodox Cathedral stands about 300 metres south at the end of a broad pedestrian boulevard.

Standing in Revolution Square, now known as Victory Square, was an extraordinary experience. The scars of protest were still visible, including makeshift memorials for those who’d died in the revolution. The image that opens this post is a memorial for Jean-Louis Calderon, a French journalist, killed in Bucharest six months earlier. He was crushed by a tank while reporting on the protests on 22 December. As for the handwritten sign next to this memorial, it reads, "We ask you nicely. No! Don't shoot at us!!! We are with you, soldiers."

I recall watching queues form around the square as people waited to buy a newspaper. We assumed this reflected a hunger for independent news reporting after decades of Communist propaganda. We later learned there had been violent anti-government protests in Bucharest the previous day. The first such protests since the fall of Casuseau. Historians claim up to one hundred were killed in what’s now known as the June 1990 Mineriad. I doubt our group would’ve continued towards the capital had we been able to read the headlines. 

Instead, oblivious to the unfolding riots, we headed south to Pitesti, a city less than 100 km from Bucharest. Weeks earlier, we'd been invited to visit by an enthusiastic young woman we'd met in Hungary. I recall vividly a debate that raged in our minivan along the way. There were no motorways in the region, hence our route took us through village after village. The posted speed limit was always 50 kph, regardless of the village's size or composition. However, Dave Craddock, a friendly Canadian in our group familiar with driving on the right-hand side, didn’t always slow down when passing through the smallest of them.

This lack of respect for the law drove a Swiss couple travelling with us from Zurich completely insane. They simply couldn’t fathom how anyone could disregard road signs so blatantly. It was my first taste of immutable Germanic adherence to rules and regulations. It was one of many fascinating cultural encounters that lay ahead. Follow this post to learn more about our time in Pitesti and a day trip to the capital, Bucharest.

Hungary for Jesus

Here's the first in a series of posts about my travels through Eastern Europe in 1990. As I explained in an earlier post, twelve of us were travelling as part of a Christian missionary organisation called Youth With A Mission (YWAM). Our journey began in Hungary on 19 May.  However, this wasn't our initial destination. We attempted to cross into Czechoslovakia shortly after leaving Baden, a small town on the outskirts of Vienna, Austria. However, without pre-authorised visas, we were denied entry at the border. 

Our leader, Tim Coates, decided to head for Hungary. This time, we were more successful, arriving in Balatonfüred late in the afternoon, on the shores of Lake Balaton. We spent the next eight days at a local campground, building our esprit de corps and rehearsing a street drama called The Tale of Two Kingdoms. More about that shortly. The women lived in one large canvas tent while the men lived in another. Two married couples, a Swiss couple plus Tim and his wife Jo, had their own small tents.

The lake proved to be a popular summer holiday destination. As the weekend approached, Empty campsites around us began to fill. Our portable boom box blasting out an instrumental soundtrack certainly drew a crowd. Before we knew it, locals had gathered on folding chairs and sun loungers to watch us rehearse, including on more than one occasion, several topless women. It was an eye-opening introduction to European sunbathing etiquette. The images below, pulled from the web, provide a good sense of the campground's location.

On 28 May, we packed up our campsite and headed west for the city of Debrecen, Hungary’s second-largest city by population. At the time, it was barely 100km from the Soviet border, that is, the territory which subsequently became the sovereign state of Ukraine. For the next 11 days, families from a progressive Pentecostal church hosted us in their homes. Our visit was coordinated by an enthusiastic local who'd witnessed us rehearsing in Balatonfured the previous week.

The city’s proximity to the Soviet Union was abundantly clear from the moment we drove into town. I still vividly recall passing a large military compound. It was surrounded by high concrete slab walls. However, through the metal grill gates, we caught a glimpse of dozens and dozens of artillery tanks parked in long rows. I’d never seen so much military firepower in one location, that is, until we visited Bucharest a few months later. More about that another time.

Over the years. I’ve tried to identify the location of this massive tank parking lot. As best I can tell, it was possibly military barracks located at MH Bocskai István 11. Páncélozott Hajdúdandár in Debrecen. It was the first of many reminders that NATO and the Warsaw Pact were once locked in a relentless ideological battle, backed by unprecedented military might. Nothing about life in New Zealand or Australia could have prepared us for such an extraordinary experience.

We filled our days with a range of activities, including street performances in the centre of town and a memorable day trip to a gypsy church near the Russian border. As a former university tutor of 20th-century political science, living on the opposite side of the globe, I couldn't believe I was a mere handful of miles from the Soviet Union. 

We also spent several days training the local youth group to perform our street drama. In the image above, you can see them performing at their local church. The photo above it was taken in Kossuth Square outside the Great Reformed Church, one of Debrecen's iconic buildings. I've pulled an image of the church from the web in the bottom photo above. 

The image that opens this post is our group performing on the street in central Debrecen. In case you're curious, Jatekterem, the sign on the store window, translates to amusement arcade. In other words, we were performing outside a supermarket featuring a video games parlour. I'd later write in a travel diary that our time in Debrecen, along with a church group in Plovdiv, Bulgaria, was the best local contact we made during our entire time in Eastern Europe.

On 8 June, we drove almost the entire length of Hungary to Szombathely, a regional city located less than ten kilometres from the Austrian border. Our route took us back through Budapest. I recall driving along the Danube riverbank in crawling traffic, but little else. Sadly, for a second time in two weeks, we stopped for little more than a brief bathroom break. It would be another 17 years before I’d return to finally explore Hungary’s picturesque capital.

According to Wikipedia, Szombathely is Hungary's oldest recorded city. It was founded by the Romans in 45AD. The photos above, taken from the web, show County Hall, home to the region's municipal council, along with the main city square (Attribution: Pennyjey, Flickr). Much of the city's architecture reminds me of nearby Vienna and Graz in Austria.

For three days, we were hosted by a local house church. A house church is a group of Christians who gather to pray and worship in private homes rather than a traditional church building. House churches were common in the early days of Christianity. In modern times, they've become popular again among Christian denominations operating outside dominant institutional churches, such as the Catholic or Eastern Orthodox churches.

We'd been invited to Szombathely by a church member who'd seen us performing on the streets of Debrecen. They arranged for us to perform at a non-Christian children's Summer camp, and assisted with several street performances in the centre of town. Our performances, which we colloquially called "open airs", were typically structured around three distinct activities. 

We'd begin the program with a 15-minute non-verbal production set to a soundtrack on a suitcase-sized boom box. It told the story of God creating heaven and earth, and populating it with the human race, the temptation of Eve in the Garden of Eden and the subsequent corruption of the human spirit by Satan. The drama then concluded with the story of salvation through the ministry and crucifixion of Christ.

A member of our group would then deliver a message of salvation, translated by one of our local hosts, before the program would conclude with us ministering to anyone who came forward to learn more.  We'd typically conduct this program once a day. On some occasions, we'd draw a crowd of close to two hundred people. The image above shows us performing in Varna, on the Black Sea coast - but more about that experience later.

After three weeks of travelling in Hungary, we headed for Romania. For four days, we travelled through Austria and Yugoslavia before reaching our final destination in Pitesti, Romania, on June 14. Follow this link to learn more.

Behind the iron curtain

Seven months after the fall of the Berlin Wall, I spent three months travelling through Eastern Europe. It was an unforgettable journey. Free elections were being held for the first time in more than four decades. Hope and optimism were palpable everywhere. However, the region’s dreary socialist infrastructure was still intact, and its deep psychological scars had yet to heal. For a brief moment, I witnessed life behind the Iron Curtain before it vanished forever.

At the time, I was travelling with a group from Youth With A Mission (YWAM), a Christian missionary organisation. We travelled through Hungary, Yugoslavia, Romania and Bulgaria from May to August 1990 as part of YWAM's Discipleship Training School (DTS) course. This was a six-month program, split between three months of practical study and three months of in-the-field outreach, preaching the gospel in the community.

My DTS studies began in Goulburn, an inland city in New South Wales. Several New Zealand friends had recently completed the course and spoke highly of their experience. I flew from Auckland to Sydney to join the course on 4 February 1990. Little did I know this flight kicked off 35 years of living in Australia. I was joined in Goulburn by 22 others, plus several teaching staff, including Tim, our charismatic base leader.

For three fun-filled months, we studied the scriptures, learned effective outreach techniques and prepared to go out into the wider community to preach the gospel. This included learning a non-verbal street drama, set to music, that presented the story of salvation. Without a hint of irony, I played the part of Satan. In April, I was invited to participate in YWAM’s inaugural outreach in Eastern Europe.

About a dozen of us subsequently departed for Europe on 14 May 1990. We flew to Vienna via Singapore and Amman with Royal Jordanian Airlines. We spent four days making final preparations for our foray into Eastern Europe at the YWAM centre in Baden, Austria. This included fitting out two minivans, preparing two large canvas tents on loan to us, and securing basic provisions to get through our first week.

Our flight to Vienna included a quirky stopover in Amman. Our connecting flight to Vienna departed about nine hours after arriving from Singapore. Royal Jordanian Airlines put us up in an airport hotel for six hours. However, by the time we'd waited for its shuttle bus, checked into the hotel and finally grabbed a shower, we managed less than four hours of rest (or sleep for a lucky few) before it was time to return to the terminal. I've never counted this stopover as my first time in Jordan. The same goes for a brief transit stop we made in Belgrade, Yugoslavia.

These days, with decades of global travel under my belt, I also look back on our arrival in Vienna with amusement. At the time, I recall walking out of the airport terminal and experiencing massive culture shock. We were greeted by enormous billboards touting popular products and services. Why the shock? Everything was written in Deutsch. I couldn’t read a word of it. I recall the overwhelming sense of vulnerability and helplessness I felt in the moment. Until that time, I’d always travelled in native English-speaking countries.

For three months, we travelled more than 6600km in our two minivans. We travelled as far north as Vienna, as far south as Porto Koufo in Northern Greece, as far west as Einigen, Switzerland and as far east as Varna on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast. Along the way, we passed through seven countries, although Yugoslavia later disintegrated into a myriad of smaller nation-states. We stopped overnight in, or passed through, at least four of these future nations.

One minivan, the newer yellow one, was on loan from YWAM in Switzerland, while the older, rattlier red one, was borrowed from a church in Austria. I spent most of my time riding in the red van. Our accommodation alternated between camping and staying with local families. While camping, the women slept in one large tent, while the men slept in another. The two married couples in our group each had their own small tent.

We camped for a week or so in Hungary, throughout Yugoslavia, and for one night in Timisoara, Romania. The Romanian campground was an eye-opener. The facilities were poorly maintained, and the toilet blocks were filled with human excrement. It was our first experience of the devastating impact of dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu on everyday life in Romania. 

His regime had progressively impoverished the nation by slashing welfare and investment in favour of rapidly repaying its foreign debts. The net result was painfully evident. Decrepit, run-down infrastructure, appalling pollution, endless queues for basic goods and austere socialist architecture dominated the landscape wherever we went. The opening post, taken in Romania, offers just a hint of the world we encountered.

We also camped several times in Bulgaria, staying in popular resort cities along the country's Black Sea coast. Then, when our outreach program ended, a group of us travelled south to Greece, where we camped on a remote beach on the Chalkidiki Peninsula. It's fair to say that camping kept our expenses under control, and the European summer made it a pleasant experience. European campgrounds were often situated in shaded, tree-filled parks, alongside scenic lakes and other natural beauty spots.

I’ve often described travelling in Eastern Europe as a journey through three generations. When we crossed into Hungary, we stepped back into the era of my parents’ youth. The architecture, the urban landscape, and design aesthetic constantly reminded me of the late fifties and early sixties. Then, when we crossed into Romania, everything regressed again. The urban landscape and its aesthetic morphed into something I'm sure would’ve been familiar to my grandparents. 

Below is a brief overview of our final itinerary. In future posts, I’ll take you on this journey, sharing our adventures and introducing you to some of the wonderful people we met along the way. Follow this link to learn more about our time in Hungary.

DAY	DATE	LOCATION	DRIVE (km)
Austria
MON	14 May	Sydney - Singapore	Flight
TUE	15 May	Singapore – Vienna (via Amman)
TUE	15 May	Vienna - Baden (by train)	24
SAT	19 May	Vienna – Czech Border	79
Hungary
SAT	19 May	Czech Border - Balatonfured	293
MON	28 May	Balatonfured - Debrecen (via Budapest)	346
FRI	8 June	Debrecen - Szombathely (via Budapest)	442
Yugoslavia
MON	11 June	Szombathely - Graz (via Vienna)	140
MON	11 June	Graz - Maribor	59
TUE	12 June	Maribor – Beograd (via Zagreb)	516
WED	13 June	Beograd - Timisoara	158
Romania
THU	14 June	Timisoara - Pitesti	454
FRI	22 June	Pitesti - Craiova	121
SAT	26 June	Craiova – Turnu Severin	113
WED	4 July	Turnu Severin - Motru	113
THU	5 July	Motru – Turgu Jiu	42
FRI	10 July	Turgu Jiu - Pitesti	174
SAT	11 July	Pitesti - Varna (via Bucharest)	389
Bulgaria
THU	19 July	Varna - Bourgas	134
TUE	24 July	Bourgas - Plovdiv	254
MON	30 July	Plovdiv - Sophia	149
Greece
MON	30 July	Sophia - Thessaloniki	293
TUE	31 July	Thessaloniki - Porto Koufo	148
FRI	3 Aug	Porto Koufo – Nea Mouldania	84
SAT	4 Aug	Driving through Yugoslavia (all night)	1877
SUN	5 Aug	Yugoslavia - Liechtenstein
MON	6 Aug	Liechtenstein - Einigen	219
Backpacking by Eurail
WED	8 Aug	Einigen - Helmstedt	Train
Click here to follow my backpacking adventures

Life as a gypsy

My sixtieth birthday has left me reflecting on my life thus far, especially its many twists and turns. Over the years, I’ve lived in four countries and, at last count, in at least 26 different homes. This tally includes my current home, which I’ve owned for more than 21 years.

Dad’s career at the Bank of New Zealand had a profound influence on my early life. To advance his career, he continually accepted promotions with the bank, which involved relocating the entire family throughout New Zealand. Over the years, we lived in Greymouth on the South Island’s West Coast, Paraparaumu on the North Island’s Kapiti Coast, Dunedin and Morrinsville in the central Waikato. The image above shows my parents and me outside my first home in Greymouth.

Above all are the family homes I lived in as a child. From top to bottom, Greymouth, Paraparaumu, Dunedin and Morrinsville. Every home had one thing in common. My parents always chose a house within walking distance to school and close to an open green space. For example, in Paraparaumu, we lived in a new subdivision. As a result, we had undeveloped lots next door and across the street. They were filled with Lupin bushes which we repurposed into bush huts or jungle tunnels. There was also a creek out the back and the local golf course lay beyond the end of our cul-de-sac street. 

The house in Greymouth featured a steep grassy incline that was home to the family's goat. In Dunedin, the house backed onto a school playing field while in Morrinsville, we backed onto open farmland with paddocks, a tree-lined pond and a fast-flowing creek. We often spent our Summer building earthen dams across the creek or catching frogs in the pond.  

On several occasions, we lived in a motel for three or four months before my parents finally bought a home in our new town. This included a stint at the Bayfield Motel in Anderson Bay, Dunedin, and a motel in Morrinsville. I distinctly recall our time in the Morrinsville Motel. Directly across the road was the local cinema. However, it was the convenience store next door that captivated my brothers and me. Its front counter included a candy buffet. Customers could choose a selection of treats on display, including bargain options offering three sweets for the princely sum of one cent. It was a dream come true for a ten-year-old child.

Without a doubt, these repeated inter-island transfers explain why Hamish and I came to live overseas as adults. We were clearly familiar with uprooting our lives and relocating again and again. However, relocating regularly had a profound impact on my well-being as a child. I often struggled being the new kid at school. Later in life, as an adult, my mother revealed my school in Dunedin even recommended I be formally assessed by a clinical psychologist. We moved again to Morrinsville before this occurred. Although years later, Mum admitted she was reluctant to refer me.

I recall an incident in Dunedin where I lost my cool with the teacher and stormed out of the classroom. The teacher later found me sitting under a tree by the school’s boundary fence. I distinctly recall my behaviour emulating a similar tantrum I'd witnessed from another child. I suspect I loved the drama of it all. However. I also remember being shocked when my parents were told of my behaviour.  For the first time I learned that school and home life were intrinsically linked. Until that point they’d always been two distinctly separate worlds.

I also recall some mildly neurotic behaviour in my final year of primary school. Most notably, I stopped eating my lunch in the playground. I couldn’t fathom how anyone could bring themselves to eat in front of strangers. As a result, much to my mother’s frustration, I’d take my full lunchbox home every day. The following year, I started Intermediate school. It was ten minutes walk from home. I started going home for lunch each day, a ritual I continued right through high school. Eating lunch alone definitely appealed to my introverted nature.

After I left for university in 1985, my parents moved four more times. First to Hunterville, and then Taihape. My parents then relocated one final time with the bank to Matamata in 1992, where my father eventually retired four years later. They made one final move to Mount Maunganui to live out their final years by the beach. Dad passed away first in 2013, and Mum last year. That's their final home below.

Hamish and I both left home while living in Morrinsville. Matt joined the bank for his first job out of school in Taihape, before my parents relocated and left him to fend for himself. I left home for the first time when I went to the USA as an exchange student for a year in 1983. I returned for seven months before heading off to university.

For several years I returned briefly for a few weeks during university holidays. However, I never moved back home again after my parents relocated to Hunterville. For the next decade, I became somewhat a gypsy, living in a total of 16 different homes. Excluding my parents’ house, I lived in six different locations during university. I then moved another ten times before finally putting down roots in the inner-Sydney suburb of Surry Hills, where I rented a two-bedroom apartment for a decade.

I also travelled in Australia and Europe for a year in 1990. Initially, with an organisation called Youth with A Mission (YWAM) – you can read about this experience here – then backpacking through Europe for another four months. For years, my itinerant life drove my parents to distraction. I also got very good at packing all my worldly possessions into the back of a rented van and relocating in a single day. In fact, it wasn’t until I moved into Surry Hills, in 1993, that I seriously began accumulating more than just bedroom furniture, i.e. a bed, a chest of drawers, a bookcase and a storage chest. 

While living in Surry Hills, my furniture collection grew to include a dining suite, sofas, storage shelves, outdoor furniture, and home appliances, including a fridge, microwave, washing machine, TV and a stereo. Likewise, my worldly possessions grew to include an entire household of linen, cutlery, crockery and other miscellaneous items such as Christmas decorations. The Surry Hills apartment is shown above.  For years, friends called it the David Jones showroom, naming it after an upmarket Australian department store.

As a classic introvert, I sometimes struggled to live in a shared flat environment. I also trialled a few different living environments along the way, occasionally succumbing to shiny-object syndrome, where a glamorous home enticed me. For example, one place I lived in for nine months in Roseville had a pool in the backyard (which I don’t recall ever swimming in), another in Drummoyne offered sweeping views of the Parramatta River. In hindsight, I was slow to learn that the people you live with matter more than a fancy house.  

The Drummoyne apartment is shown above. It's the balcony displaying an enormous Australian flag, while the photo of me was taken from a side balcony. Below is our current home in Redfern. I'd like to think that I’ve finally achieved the right balance between a home in a great location and an ideal stage for building treasured memories with friends and family.

Since relocating to Surry Hills, I’ve moved again twice. First, to my current home in Redfern – a three-bedroom sub-penthouse apartment I bought with my partner in 2003 – then to London for business for five years, before returning to Redfern. By the time we relocated to London, our household goods (including a car) filled an entire 40-foot container. Gone were the days when a rental van was enough.