The tent equipment and all travel utensils in the trunk and in the trailer well stowed, the surfboard including mast and boom on the roof rack, so we started with four good mood in the summer of 1985 in the direction of Bulgaria.
The shorter route via Yugoslavia, then SFR (Socialist Federal Republic), was not allowed to GDR citizens, because the possibility of flight from the GDR was too great.
Like all tourists, we took the long way via Romania. It went well, about 60 kilometers before Sibiu (Hermannstadt) we turned south, because we did not want to miss the romantic beauty of the new pass road over the Făgăraş mountains.
The ‘Road of Communism’ (now Transfagarasan Highway) was under construction but was allowed to be driven on. If I had known what awaited us there with the car loaded to its performance limit, I would not have risked the trip.
It started quite harmlessly: A well-maintained asphalt road led up to a hotel at about 800 meters above sea level. In the parking lot in front of the inn, a jumbled-up pile of junk presented itself, which could only be recognized as a former passenger car with some effort.
A multilingual sign in front of the wrecked car urgently warned all motorists to exercise absolute caution when continuing to the pass. Just behind the parking lot, the dirt road began. With every kilometer the slope increased, rock wall on the right, steep abyss without guardrail on the left.
In some places, part of the road had slid down again. On countless serpentines blasted out of the rock, we had left the timberline behind us long ago, we finally reached a plateau at an altitude of about 2050 meters with an increased pulse.
Old, firn snow covered the steep rock faces. A few cars, most of them from the GDR, were parked in front of a tunnel nailed up with boards. Everyone was waiting for the passage, but nothing happened.
It was said that sometimes bears appear in front of the tunnel because tourists feed them. But Master Petz did not show up. Gradually the cold made us shiver in our thin summer clothes, but the tunnel entrance remained blocked.
A worker walked across with boards on his shoulder. We gave the man a small bottle of schnapps and a few cigarettes, and lo and behold, as if by magic, the wooden gate opened after a few minutes. All the cars sped off. The passage through the 887-meter-long Bâlea Tunnel resembled a ghost ride.
Water from the ceiling, water from the walls, water, and raw rock under the wheels. Nothing worked without windshield wipers. Construction machines were stored everywhere, barely visible in the headlights. At walking pace, we finally reached daylight unharmed, with a high mountain valley of majestic beauty before us.
We were overwhelmed. None of us had seen anything so sublime in our lives. From now on, the road, well paved, went only downhill, and finally the road led in a thousand curves around a never-ending reservoir surrounded by fir trees.
After the dizzyingly high dam, the forest and mountains gradually receded, and we reached open terrain. A herd of cows blocked the road, indicating a nearby village. A risky but unforgettable ride ended. Later, when we stopped for a short rest in a small town in the middle of Transylvania, we had a strange encounter.
The inhabitants of the little town were celebrating some kind of folk festival with a carousel and equestrian games, when an old gentleman, leaning on his walking stick, approached us.
Obviously, he had recognized us as Germans. After greeting us politely, he asked in Swabian dialect, ‘Do you still celebrate Hitler’s birthday in Germany?’ The question surprised me so much that I just shook my head speechlessly. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭…
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