Moonshine and Brimstone Romania's Izei Valley
Rebecca McKeown
Cover picture: A warning to sinners on the interior wall of Poienile Izei's wooden church.
Moonshine and Brimstone Romania's Izei Valley Rebecca McKeown www.rmc-squared.com
The photographs which follow were taken in the summer of 2014 in Romania's glorious northern communes. This photo essay is dedicated to the country and its people.
Nestled between the verdant and rolling hills of Romania's northern Maramureș region, the remote Izei Valley is home to a smattering of small, hardy communities lining the road from Vadu Izei, near Sighetu Marmației , to Moisei on the road East towards Moldavia.
Here, communities still hold centuries-old traditions dear, but embrace the trappings of modern society when and where they can.
Theirs is a highly devout society, and an intimate one. When one local passes away, the entire village turns out to bid them farewell.
Traditional tiled house in the village of Glod.
The village of Ieud lies down a no-exit road in the heart of the valley, well and truly in off-the-beaten-track territory. Yet Ieud, graced with two of the region's finest historic wooden churches, is a lively and proud community. UNESCO has, in recent years, rolled into town with funds for the protection of the heritage churches, and new houses dot the landscape - many of them products of hard-earned wages in foreign lands.
Ioana is buoyant, a joy. She smiles toothlessly and babbles in indecipherable Romanian. This indecipherability is confirmed by a Romanian passer-by who fails to translate and quickly gives up, shaking his head in amusement. Ioana is not deterred, and has plenty to say. She is sitting outside Ieud's oldest church, the Biserica din Deal - "Church on the hill". The church is closed, she explains, but there is a nice museum down the road. Taking off at a pace, she arrives at the gates of the museum and finds them closed too. Whacking her hoe against the intricate wooden structures, she bellows to attract attention, but nobody is home. It is hard to say just how many trips around the sun Ioana might have made in her lifetime. Her skin has been well and truly ripened by decades in the blazing summer heat, in the midst of which - every day - she toils in the fields. Hers is a truly subsistence lifestyle which, to the eyes and ears of a stranger, does not appear to have dampened her zest for life. Ioana's son is in Italy, she explains, earning a good wage. She wants him to send back money for new boots. These ones are tired and worn. I ask if I can take her photograph. She replies with "How much?". Some time passes before I realise she is asking how much she needs to pay to have a photograph taken, and not - as I had cynically suspected - how much I might pay her. It is a moving moment. I hug her, take the picture, and slip her 10 RON. "Pentru p창ine sau cizme" - "For bread or boots", I say. She dictates her address so that I can send a copy of the photograph. I try to check the spelling, but she isn't sure - she cannot write. When we part she is still grinning - a big, gummy, simple, warm smile which disappears only as she turns her back and returns to the fields.
Traditionally carved wooden gates can be found throughout much of northern Romania, but the Izei Valley is home to some of the most towering and intricate specimens of them all. The gates are a status symbol in these parts, a tradition going back centuries to a time when only a certain pedigree of person was allowed the honour of building such a monument. Nowadays less about caste and more about cash, the gates are often erected on a property before the house is even built. In some cases, too much money is sunk into the huge archways, and the building projects behind them lie abandoned - a family home unrealised, but a gate standing proud, alone.
The village of Botiza lies to the West of Ieud, down a loop track diverting from the main valley road. Botiza is known for its two churches on the hill - the newest one built to accommodate a growing population; the older one, St Parascheva, now lying in disrepair just metres away. The door to the latter is open, and not a soul can be seen. The whole of Botiza is out in the fields, tending to their business. Inside, the church is musty and dark. Artefacts lie scattered on the floor, gathering dust and cobwebs. A glass Icon sits shattered on a table. The scene is both sad and delightfully natural. There are no efforts here to preserve the past, only to protect the needs of the present community. A bigger church was required, and now St Parascheva lies forgotten. Unlike the painstakingly renovated painted monasteries of Moldavia, the frescoes here are a much more tangible connection to the past - free from shiny new licks of paint, they are more honest and arguably tell a richer tale. Emerging from the dark little church, the sun blinds. The muted, blackened colours of the frescoes contrast exactly with the cacophony of colours abundant in the village. Down the path from the two churches, a tree stands in a family garden, its branches covered in pots and pans of the brightest hues. It is a tradition in these parts: A tree hung with kitchen implements indicates that a girl of marriageable age lives within.
DomniĹŁa's house is a rural nirvana in Poienile Izei. She keeps several cabins for those who wish to escape the city for hiking holidays or visits to the wooden churches. DomniĹŁa is the quintessential Romanian hostess: Not at a single point does she cease feeding, watering and fussing over her guests. Everything comes directly from her small farm: cheese, eggs, meat, vegetables, and moonshine.
The only sounds here are made by an orchestra of crickets and a light breeze rustling through the cornfields. A little girl teases a kitten with a blade of grass. Hens cluck about, anxious for their afternoon scattering of grain. For those who do not have to milk the cows and churn the butter and repair the fences, it is a rural idyll. For those who do, it is home.
Dinner at DomniĹŁa's consists of three variations of pork nibbles, three types of homemade sheep and goat cheese, Romanian sour soup, and three varieties of homedistilled hornica, Romanian moonshine (from left to right made with honey, wild berries, and plums). Yet another course, the main event (venison sausages and cabbage), arrives when stomachs are already fit to burst. Then, of course, there are the two desserts.
George Cosbuc, Noatpe de Vara
Zările, de farmec pline, Strălucesc în luminiș; Zboară mierlele-n tufiș Și din codri noaptea vine Pe furiș. Care cu poveri de muncă Vin încet și scârțâind; Turmele s-aud mugind, Și flăcăii vin pe luncă Hăulind. Cu cofița, pe-ndelete, Vin neveste de la râu; Și, cu poala prinsă-n brâu, Vin cântând în stoluri fete De la grâu. De la gârlă-n pâlcuri dese Zgomotoși copiii vin; Satul e de vuiet plin; Fumul alb alene iese Din cămin. Dar din ce în ce s-alină Toate zgomotele-n sat, Muncitorii s-au culcat. Liniștea-i acum deplină Și-a-nnotat. Focul e-nvelit pe vatră, Iar opaițele-au murit, Și prin satul adormit Doar vrun câine-n somn mai latră Răgușit. Iat-o! Plină, despre munte Iese luna din brădet Și se nalță,-ncet-încet, Gânditoare ca o frunte De poet. Ca un glas domol de clopot Sună codrii mari de brad; Ritmic valurile cad, Cum se zbate-n dulce ropot Apa-n vad. Dintr-un timp și vântul tace; Satul doarme ca-n mormânt Totu-i plin de duhul sfânt: Liniște-n văzduh și pace Pe pământ. Numai dorul mai colindă, Dorul tânăr și pribeag. Tainic se-ntâlnește-n prag, Dor cu dor să se cuprindă, Drag cu drag.
George Cosbuc, A Summer Night
The horizons, filled with charm, Shimmering within the clearing; Blackbirds flying to the bush From the woods the night is coming Stealthily. Burdened horse carts from the field Slowly drawing near, creaking; You can hear the herds lowing, And the lads back from the meadow Shouting songs. With the pitchers, leisurely, Wives returning from the river; And, with their aprons in their belt, Flocks of gals will come asinging From the wheat crops. From the brook in thick clusters Loudly all the kids return; The village is fully roaring; And white smoke slowly arises From the homes. Slowly, steadily it eases Every noise within the hamlet, Workers, all have gone to sleep. Silence now is fully reigning And light fades. Fire's wrapped around the fireplace, Rushlights are but dead and gone, And in the sleeping village Just a dog in its sleep barking Hoarsely. There! In full, above the mountain The moon rises from the pines And she slowly starts her climbing, Thoughtful like the temples Of a poet. With a soft chime whisper The pine woods will bend; Rhythmically waves are crashing, As the water struggles loudly In it's bed. Shortly does the wind grow silent; The hamlet sleeps like in a tomb All is full with Holy Spirit: Quiet heavens and but peace Upon the earth. Only the longing keeps on straying, Young and wandering longings. Secretly they meet on doorsteps, Longing takes ahold of longing, And love of love.
A summer night, B창rsana Monastery.
End
All images Š Rebecca McKeown. Contact: rem.mckeown@yahoo.com www.rmc-squared.com