Romania: The Gypsy Baby Biter ( Part Two )

This story available with photographs at: http://www.thelifeofanaverageperson.com/

Arriving in Sighisoara, we were exhausted. The air conditioning on the train had broken. It was hot, and traveling with closely packed unwashed bodies, accompanied by the ever present stench of urine had taken its toll on all of us. Perhaps that is why I was unprepared for the young gypsy woman standing at the bridge that led to the city, holding a dirty sleeping baby, saying the expected words:

“Baby, hospital. Baby, hospital.”

“Next time.” I said, lugging the suitcase with my money in it over the bridge. I didn’t want to unpack it in front of her.

When she realized I wasn’t giving her anything, she cursed me, raising her hand angrily.

Sighisoara is famous as one of the best preserved medieval cities in Europe, that along with the notoriety of being the birth place of Vlad the Impaler, the inspiration for Count Dracula. The clock tower, the narrow cobblestone streets and the stag’s head Inn give the impression you have stepped back in time.

Gypsies were not welcome in the historic center where the tourists are, instead, they congregated in the park outside the ancient town. From a distance, the park looked beautiful, blooming flowers and benches ringed by lines of trees and green grass. Entering the park, however, the odor of urine was so overpowering that it was impossible to stay. I quickly hurried through it. On my way out, I saw a group of elementary aged Gypsy children, playing with coins and sticks. One of them pulled his pants down and urinated, spraying the sidewalk and grass. No one found this unusual.

It was very hot, so we sat under an umbrella at a café in the historic center, sipping sodas. A dog lay on his back in the middle of the street, all four paws comfortably in the air. The residents and tourists all paused to scratch his belly and slip him bits of sausage.

“This is Jimmy!” One of the locals informed us, smiling at the dog, “He’s drunk!”

“He always drinks!” Someone at another table added.

Everyone laughed fondly.

Jimmy was content, sporting what looked like a perpetual smile plastered on his muzzle. In the midst of the heat, he was allowed into one of the restaurants, to rest on the cool tiled floor. We continued to sit through the afternoon heat watching Jimmy on his rounds from place to place.

A gypsy girl of 12 or so sidled into the square, lugging a baby. Her blonde hair hung in dirty strings, her pink pants caked with dirt. She had what looked like an infected boil on the side of her neck. The baby was naked. His buttocks were scratched and his hair gummed in mats.

She approached several tourists. “Ca-lay-ga!”

“Away!” The waiter burst from the café with a broom. “Away!”

The girl took a half step back.

He lunged at her, his previously congenial face now a distorted mask of distaste. He lifted the broom threateningly, shooing her away much like one would a stray dog – if we even do that anymore as a society.

She decided he was serious and bolted.

He watched, hands on his hips. Satisfied she had gone, he disappeared back into the café. The contrast of treatment between Jimmy and the Gypsy girl was stark. Jimmy would never have been chased away with harsh words.

After a few minutes, she crept back into the square.

This time, she noticed us watching her and made a straight bee line our direction.
“Papa Ca-lay-ga.” She said in a wheedling voice, “Mama Ca-lay-ga.”

We gave her five lei.

She smiled and wandered over to the next tourist.

We asked our waiter what she was saying.

The waiter frowned with rank disapproval at our actions and reluctantly answered, “She says they have no work.” She marched back into the café, annoyed.

When more money was not forthcoming, the little gypsy girl returned.

“Mama ca-lay-ga. Papa ca-lay-ga. Baby, hospital.” She whined, pointing to the dirty baby sleeping in her arms.

Half admiring her persistence, we gave her another 10 lei.

She pointed to half empty bottle of Sprite.

We threw that into the bargain.

She happily trotted off, drinking the Sprite.

A few minutes later, a gypsy woman came from around the corner, carrying the same sleeping baby. She walked towards us with purpose.

“Baby, hospital.” She pleaded in a sing-song voice, “Baby, hospital.”
We shook our heads.

After ten minutes, she finally left.

The gypsy girl skipped by, carrying a box covered in white paper, eating what looked like pretzels.

Preparing to leave, we glanced up to find her mother had once again given her the baby and sent her back to us.

“Mama, Ca-lay-ga. Papa Ca-lay-ga.” She said, parking herself at our table.

The locals started scowling at us outright, shaking their heads.

“No.” We told her kindly, but gave her the rest of our Coke.

She grabbed it and promptly guzzled most of it down. Burping unapologetically in our faces, she continued her cajoling, “Baby, hospital.”

“No.” I said, “You have enough.”

She knew she was losing us. She watched us packing our things preparing to leave, still pointing to the sleeping naked baby and trying to convince us he was sick. With a sidelong glance, she subtly lowered her mouth as if to kiss the sick little thing and promptly sank her teeth into his arm.

The baby woke with a scream, tears flooding his bright green little eyes.

“No!” We said sternly, “Bad! Bad!”

“Baby, hospital!” She said, pleased to have proved her point, oblivious to the fact we could see the red teeth marks clearly on the infant’s arm.

I pretended to bite my arm and pointed to her. She was impressed I had figured it out, and acted shocked, like she would never do such a thing, shaking her head and saying ‘no’. She kept the act up for a minute and then realized it was a lost cause. She blithely skipped away, sharing the remainder of the Coke with the baby, who promptly quit crying and guzzled his share.

A short time later, we rounded the corner to find them being expelled from the historic section by a pompous man. He proudly chased them out like animals, stomping, yelling insults and raising his fists. He was supported by most of the local bystanders who wagged their heads in disgust.

The baby-biting gypsy girl skipped her way out, unfazed by the insults following her. She recognized us and gave a cheery wave, flashing a brilliant smile.

We followed them to the park and they spent time with us, posing for pictures, dancing to the music of an accordion and playing games. When we ran out of money, they pointed to our ear rings, phones, watches, backpacks and even the camera, though laughing a bit at the last one.

A passerby stopped to watch and then indicating the dancing gypsy children, said, “This is the real Romania.”

Several new children joined, a dark haired girl with the only gypsy baby we ever saw in a diaper, and a girl that we didn’t even think was a gypsy at first. Her hair and clothes were far too clean. We motioned that we did not want her picture but this caused the others to frown and they refused their picture to be taken without her. Later, we discovered she was the prostitute, standing on the street corners at night - she couldn't have been more than 14, if that.

A local barista informed me that foreign men pay for the sexual services of nine year old Gypsy girls. The families sell them because they claim to have no food. While the Romanian people deny this, I met very many hungry Gypsy children.
Heading to Brasov, we made our way to the train station.

A gypsy family sat at the outdoor bar restaurant, eating burgers. They wore vivid colors, the white skirts and gold colored coins. One of the fathers proudly carried his baby girl.

Two dirty children approached, a boy of about 10 or so, holding the hand of a little five year old girl. Their clothes were grimy.

The old woman sweeping the sidewalk with a twig broom watched them suspiciously. When they got too near, she chased them away, yelling. They obediently ran off, but only as far as the line of trees, waiting until she had finished and left before coming back.

They held out their hands, pointing to their mouths, trying to tell us they were hungry.

We pointed to the café and motioned that we would buy them food.

The boy brightened, dragging his little sister along with him, but insisted on going behind the train station. The thought crossed our minds that it might be a trap, so we followed cautiously, but he was just leading us to a much cheaper food stand that sold liters of non-labeled soda and burgers.

The two children grabbed their burgers and skipped off, though not before the boy stopped in front of me and made a point to say, “Thank you” in English.

The brightly dressed gypsies watched the entire exchange, and whistled at us and holding out their hands for money, but they were laughing. We watched as the two children sat under a tree, devouring the food in seconds. They posed for a few pictures, we gave them some money, and they left, content, clutching their bottle of soda.

We left Sighisoira, but our direct train to Brasov never arrived. The line numbers
on the departure board did not even remotely resemble the trains passing through, and rather than wait hours, we boarded a four car local train that would stop in every village. The wagons were full, men propped on sacks of either flour or cement, a woman sitting on a burlap bag of potatoes. Another man filled the aisles with long, fluorescent light bulbs.

Each car reeked of urine and sweat. I found a seat in the back, next to an open window, but it didn’t help much. The conductor finally came on board, accompanied by three large, burly men. I wondered why such a small train would need four men to manage it - by the end of the journey, I knew.

The next four hours was spent playing a twisted game of hide and seek with the gypsies.

The already weary conductor would ask for their tickets. A precious few paid on the spot, obviously hoping to reach their village before they were asked, but the majority only offered a few coins, far short of the fare, accompanied by a wheedling explanation.

The conductor would stifle a sigh and he, or one of the men, would escort them from the seat to the carriage door. At the next stop, they were forced off the train. The conductor and his men standing in the doorway to prevent them from hopping back on.
However, there were groups of gypsies waiting in the shade at each station, mostly women with up to a dozen children sharing a single sandwich and a liter bottle of soda. The train attendant on the ground did their best to watch them, but it was almost impossible to prevent them from sneaking on board while they were all busy evicting the others.

And so, it was an endless cycle, each stop presented a challenge. There were a couple of ancient gypsy crones that the conductor took pity on. He kept trying to get them up, off their seats and out of the door, but they steadfastly refused, and he eventually gave up. They hobbled out on their own, never paying a penny. By the time we arrived at our destination, two hours late, the conductor was exhausted. We were as well, from simply watching the poor man.

Brasov was relatively free of gypsies, or at least the town square. I thought perhaps it had something to do with the high numbers of police patrolling the sidewalks. This was later confirmed by Lucy, our taxi driver who ended up turning into our travel guide for a time. He said the gypsies had their own section, as in Bucharest, and were not allowed to pester tourists.

We left Transylvania the next evening, swatting the hoards of mosquitoes that we laughingly called Dracula's minions. While waiting for our train, we watched the gypsies wander nearby. An old woman, blind in one eye, her toes twisted so much I marveled she could even walk, hobbled to rest on the bench next to me. She didn’t beg. She didn’t have to. I pressed money into her hand. She bowed her head, thanking me, mumbling something through a mouth mostly devoid of teeth. With excruciating exactness, she pulled open her sweater and took out a scrap of cloth, wrapping the money securely in it and tying it back before shuffling painfully away.

A teenage boy was digging through the trash can. He found what looked like a tea bag and began to suck on it. His clothes were far too large; they hung off his gaunt frame like dirty curtains. I gave him a pretzel and cash, he was thrilled. He started sucking on the pretzel, at first I thought to savor it, but then I could see there was something wrong with his teeth. He could only gum it.

The last I saw, he hopped on the same local train we had taken before with the same exhausted conductor, still holding the money I gave him in one hand – more than enough to pay his fare – and clutching the pretzel in the other, trying his best to chew.

The majority of the locals were vehemently discouraging of anyone giving the Gypsies money, telling us the money went straight to the alcoholic father and that we were perpetuating a problem that they were doomed to live with long after we had returned home. Yes, these Gypsy parents were guilty of abusing their children, using them to beg and not feeding them. They were hardened to the plight of their own children, but the Romanian people were as well, chasing these kids off with brooms and treating street dogs with much more kindness. Whatever the sins of the adults, I saw many hungry, tired and abused little children. I watched them wolf down whatever I gave them to eat, and then I gave them change to appease their handlers, at least it would help them avoid a beating. And, for that, I offer no apology.

I left Romania marveling how the country appeared advanced, with its car dealerships and wireless networks, yet a large part of it is trapped in the Middle Ages. Horse-drawn carts mingling with cars on the road was not an uncommon sight. A large majority of the fields were still being harvested by hand, the farmers creating the rounded haystacks with their pitchforks. I wondered which direction the country was truly headed, if it was going to rise and rebuild or if it was going to fall back into the mists of time. For the sake of the boy sucking the tea bag and all the other Gypsy children I met, I hope it progresses. I hope he can find a way to better his life and show the others it is possible to do the same.

But, by far, my most vivid memory of this country will always be that baby-biting-gypsy girl. She still astounds me and I cannot but help admire her. In the course of a few hours, she had been chased by a broom, sworn at, spat upon and run out of the city as fast as her bare feet allowed. Yet, she had still waved as she ran past me, sending me a genuine smile, of one human to another. Her spirit was not crushed. In that brief moment, she demonstrated something powerful to me, the power of tenacity, of not being crushed by failure. Nothing would stop her from her goal, when she met obstacles, she merely tried another way. I cannot help but wonder, if we shared but a tiny fraction of her determination, what might we accomplish?