by Leanne M Wormald

Created on: April 10, 2008   Last Updated: November 24, 2008

I have been living in Bucharest for the past year so I think it is time to hit the road for a while. Moldova is the next on my list and I plan to go there for a few days then return to Bucharest. I walk all the way to the Moldovan embassy which is in a residential house with a guard outside. The guard smiles uncharacteristically and eagerly opens the gate for me. I think I must be the only person to come to the embassy who does not work there. I lodge my application then wait in a park for a few hours. The park benches are green slats of wood that have fallen off the bench legs. So, basically, I am sitting on some slats of wood on the ground. By the end of the day I am USD$60 poorer, have the rainbow visa in my hand, and am ready to catch evening train to Chisinau.

The train clacks along the tracks until we reach the Moldovan border at daybreak. At the border the train stops and waits for a good hour. The carriage is jostled about, lifted up and rocked from side to side. I cannot work out what is happening so I try and open the window to look out. The window is shut tight; I actually think it is glued closed. I try and push my face as close to the glass as possible to see out but I cannot see anything.

The Politie de Frontiera beat on the door of my cabin and distract my attention from the window. I was having problems with the cabin door before. I had a choice: Either I could leave the door unlocked and it would fall open and beat the side of the bed to the motion of the train; or I lock it and it would jam shut forever. I chose the latter but now the Politie are beating on the door louder and louder as I struggle with the lock. This lock must be centuries old and I am trapped. I try yelling Minut minut!' but the Politie do not like that and the beating steps up a few decibels. I use my hair-brush and a loosened screw I twisted out of the wall to bang down the clasp and finally get the door open.

Two Politie de Frontiera men enter quietly and suspiciously with expressions of absolute seriousness. They look like Nazis in big hats. They have dark, neatly slicked short hair and piercing light blue eyes. Their skin is white and their features sharp. They are both rather robotic and boast factory-made physiques. One guard hands me a thin A5 sheet of yellow customs paper to fill out. He squints sceptically and asks me why I want to go to Moldova. I smile and say I just want to go and explore everywhere. Moldova is the poorest country in Europe with people lucky

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