We have all heard about them: they are the lascivious dancers of Carmen, Cher�s �beggars and thieves�, but is any of it true? On the back of my old, but trusty Honda Magna 750 I went to find out.
I came to Romania where Gypsies (Rrom in Gypsy language) make up Europe�s single largest Gypsy population � and rising - giving way to the running joke that Romania will soon be spelled with two r�s, Rrom-ania.
I was touring the mountainous fresh air of the county Arges, Romania�s Wisconsin, innocently searching out the (14th century) mountain top monastery at Catateni. There were no shortage of mountaintops, yet no sign of the monastery. I pulled into the first Ma and Pa hotel I came across for directions and sure enough, there was Ma and Pa sitting outside on the deck amongst their less than friendly dogs. �Where�s the Catateni Monastery,� I shouted from a safe distance; the dogs weren�t letting me get any closer. They pointed across the road, across the river and up the side of a cliff, though my sights didn�t go that far, but dropped and because cramped between the gushing river and rocky cliff scattered the quaint community of little Gypsy homes.
I knew at first glance that these were the Rudari (and not any one of the other 40 tribes that make up the Gypsy people) by their hidden away location. Like lepers they are always kept away at great distances from the village, over rivers and streams, down long, lumpy, dusty, dirt roads and where the valley�s merge into the wilderness. They are the people of the forest, neighbors to the bears and wolves. It�s the forest where they do their daily shopping, harvesting its mushrooms, nuts and berries. From the twigs and reeds that they collect they weave colorful baskets and old style brooms, from the wood they carve wooden spoons.
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The hotel was full; a busload of French had taken all the rooms; now I was faced with the dilemma � do I ride into the Gypsy section and ignore all the warnings of leaving my bike within grasp of their �sticky fingers�. Well, I was feeling lucky and rode in. Yet let me quickly jump ahead and do away with the suspense; I never had a problem of theft with the Rudari or any of the other dozens of other Gypsy communities that I visited � but one, yet more of those rascally Gypsies later.
I rode in and there I was suddenly inside a land of fairytales. Captured between the gushing river and foreboding precipice huddled their ramshackle little huts with little windows and low hanging roofs. Against the wobbly porches leaned handmade stick broom like something Cinderella or Snow White might use, of course before came the prince. Inside the narrow doorways, inquisitively watching me, stood witchy old women while at the rivers edge were the pretty Gypsy girls (young mothers and wives) washing clothes in the stream. Coming down the back slopes followed a team of adolescent boys and girls, but mostly girls, lugging heavy bundles of sticks off their hard spiny backs, and of course what would a Gypsy village be without the hordes of knee-high children running wild - like the old woman in a shoe �who had so many children she didn�t know what to do�.