Eastern sunrises, traffic vioaltions and moblie shebeens...

Romania is east of Hungary. The sun rises in the east. I know this because I left at the crack of dawn and the sun was in my eyes. This would not have been a problem, except that my sunglasses were missing. They might be in Prague. It's the last time I remember seeing them, but there was an element of debauchery in Bohemia and it may well be that a painful head left them in the hotel room after checking out. If this is so, Prague is cool and the Ray Bans may well feel right at home there; even they spend there time on the bridge of a house maid's nose. Budapest had been good, the room was alright and, all going well, the road ahead to Romania may be long but there was much to think about and reflect on en route: not least of which is, what else might have been left in Prague; and how much is Hungarian money worth? The thing is, I started with 50 000 of whatever currency it is that the Hungarians use, and after buying McDonalds and other refreshments, the obligatory local ales, and paid for the hotel room; there was still something close to 35 000 left! I figured I would drive as close to the Romanian border before filling up with petrol and unload a lot of it there; the rest, well I was sure to find an supermarket to get supplies. Watching the road signs, the last town with ornaments over it's name was Puspokladany (imagine two dots above the U, two dots above the O and a little dash above the second A, I'm reluctant to try pronounce it, but suspect that if you put an Afrikaans twang on it, it might sound like a very unpleasant disease) and it seemed the ideal place to stop. So we did. Paulo is a conservative drinker and needed less than half a tank - that brought the total down somewhere near 30 000. I need to mention that the previous night I tried to buy a Coke with a 10 000 note, but the cafe owner refused to accept it. So I suppose it's a bit like a 50 pound note which I found awfully difficult to palm off in England and thus had to buy a car and open a bank account. Anyway, with so much left, we found a Tesco's in Puspokalot, and lots and lots and lots of local chocolate and liqueurs later, the money was off loaded. But I still had no idea how much the money was worth. Driving out of that strangely named town I was flashed by an on-coming motorist and chuckled to myself that I had nothing to worry about since Lilith was very good at keeping us within the speed limit. And so it was that we passed the speed trap sans problems. Less than 100 metres later though, there was the local Plod on the side of the road, motioning for me to pull over. You can't believe how my heart sank; but knowing that I hadn't been speeding made me a little more confident. Thoughts of all those beers and newly acquired liqueurs all about the car, made me decidedly nervous. Plod couldn't speak English, but his mate could. Plod-who-couldn't-speak-English made it clear that he wanted to see my documents. I handed him my drivers' licence. He wanted my passport and I didn't need to understand Hungarian to know that. I gave it to him. He marched off. His mate, who could speak a smidgen of English let me know that it is the law in Hungary that you drive with your lights on. I explained that I had had my lights on, it was just that I had put in petrol at Puspok,-whatever-and-Paulo-screams-like-a-stuck-pig-if-I-stop-and-don't-switch-off-my-lights-and-forgot-to-switch-them-back-on-when-I-pulled away.... I tried desperately yo look naive. He didn't go for that. The fine was a thousand-and-something of the local currency. "About 15 Euro," English-speaking plod explained. And thus I learned the value of Hungarian money. Still don't know what it's called though. Hopefully that little indiscretion will not lead to points on my licence. It was sad to leave Hungary with this experience, and really, if I were a plod, I'd let a tourist off the hook for something so silly, but the non-English-speaking one had a bit of an attitude to him, even had a slot in his sleeve, just above the cuff, that he rammed his pen into with on swift, yet abrupt, motion after I'd signed receipt of the multiple paperwork he handed me. That image shall forever be branded on my mind; a lasting memory of Hungary that overwhelms the joys of its capital. Having said that, I'll also remember causing the accident too... With that wretched feeling that accompanies getting a traffic ticket, I headed towards the Romanian border where, for the first time so far, the border crossing was manned... I was overcome with paranoia. What about the booze in the car? Paulo was practically a mobile shebeen. And those guards; they were intimidating all in official dress and everything. I began wondering if Eastern-Europeans hate the British being in their country as much as the British dislike East Europeans being in theirs. I considered using my South African passport; but dismissed that quickly - firstly, there are no visas in it and, secondly, Paulo has British plates. Somehow, without any obvious shakes, I handed over my driver's licence and European Union passport to the guard, which wasn't all easy because I had to hand it through the passenger side window. All I could see was the guard's crotch; he not bothering to duck down to get a look at me. He muttered something like "documenti match-sheen" which I guessed was the vehicle registration and dug it out of the glove-box before handing it to him. This motion ment that at least I saw a bit more of him, about belly button level. It was with great relief that he handed them back and motioned me on. I never saw his face, nor he mine. I drove on, deeply traumatised.... It wasn't a great way to leave Hungary, and it wasn't a great way to arrive in Romania. But heck, this is Transylvania, country steeped in superstition and stuff... This was going to be great!