Goat and sheep pens of the monastery

I spend the whole day in the room and write about our experiences. In the evening, I go for a walk with Tanja to clear my head. We are just at the monastery’s draw well when master builder Atoll is about to drive away in his car. When he spots us, he gets into the irons, puts the bike into reverse, stops next to us and asks in sign language if we want to join him. Although we don’t feel like going anywhere at the moment, we agree immediately. The master builder of the church is a friendly man who is hard to describe. He laughs, slams the driver’s door of the rickety old Golf shut and off we go to a destination unknown to us. While I’m sitting next to Atoll, Tanja has made herself comfortable in the back seat next to a nun.

The patched-up car body is sprawling across the Moldovan tarmac towards the town of Causen. We pass the crossroads with the sign indicating the kilometers to Bender, the town in Transnistria. We rush past the yellow hotel, whose appearance was still very irritating to me a week ago. Then we leave the town, speed up a ridge and stop next to some simple stables. “These are the sheep and goat pens of the monastery. This is where the milk and cheese come from,” we understand.

Before we walk to the stables, we let our eyes wander over the unconventional area. Scattered groups of green trees stretch across a hilly landscape scorched by the sun. A few roofs covered with gray corrugated iron huddle at the foot of the hill. The animal enclosures are set against this beautiful backdrop. A dog watches over the simple facility. Some of the huts are also covered with corrugated iron. A shepherd proudly poses in front of the camera with his dog to be photographed. Under the simple roof, four men and two women sit next to each other in front of a wooden wall. Another worker pushes a goat through a narrow opening in the wall. She is immediately grabbed by one of the people sitting there and pushed to a colleague. He pulls the goat by its hind legs over a bowl. She is taken between the legs and nimble hands work on the teats of the udder. The milk splashes into the bowl. As soon as the udder is empty, the next goat is clamped between the legs. The six milkers work in this way on a piecework basis and are very productive. I kneel in the middle of the herd of goats and take photos. At first I am watched suspiciously or shyly. However, it doesn’t take long for people to start laughing. The first questions are asked and Atoll explains to the shepherds and workers that we are guests in the monastery.

On the way home, Atoll stops at a magazine. Beaming with joy, he brings three bottles of beer and hands each of us an ice cream. “Oh, ice cream!” I say in surprise, thinking back to our last experience at Luda’s. But how should you refuse in this case? Impossible. Atoll would certainly be disappointed. I open the ice cream and take a bite. “Mmm, delicious. You can eat it without any problems,” I say to reassure Tanja. Then Atoll opens two bottles of beer. One is for Tanja and the nun and one for me. As he drives, he drinks his beer later, he explains. Then we set off again. This time in a different direction. “Here is the shortcut to the Ukrainian border. You don’t need to drive via Causen. This route is at least ten kilometers shorter,” he explains.

Back at the convent, we are immediately welcomed by Sister Domnina. “I’ve already been looking for you. Come on, your food’s ready,” she says and leads us into the dining room. Some sisters and nuns join us at the table. “Are you going to tell us another story?” Sister Domnina translates. “I’d love to,” I say and recount an experience from our travel life, as I soon do every evening. This time, how my brave Tanja saved my hand in Pakistan. How she jumped at our camel bull’s mouth and tugged at his lips until he released my hand. The nuns listen spellbound, accompanying my story with an “Ah” or “Oh”. They open their eyes when things get particularly exciting or laugh heartily when they hear something funny. They are a very appreciative audience. An audience that takes great pleasure in listening to our adventure. None of them interrupts. They wait spellbound to hear what Sister Domnina has to translate. Atoll and his father Andrew are also often at the table. They also have exciting and interesting stories to tell about their eventful lives. We often don’t say goodbye to each other until 23:00. When we go to bed, they go to church to pray.

Night-time camp by the lakeIt’s around 30 degrees in my room. I grab my sleeping mat, head torch, sleeping bag, a plastic sheet and a pillow and sneak past the stables as I do every night. Loud noises emanate from the pigs’ accommodation. “They snore like humans,” I wonder. All I can hear of the cattle is the soft jingling of chains and the rumbling of their stomachs. Then I have the enclosures behind me, walk slowly past the holy spring, go down the stairs and find myself on the way to the monastery lake. Once there, I spread out the plastic tarpaulin where our tent used to be. Then I lay the sleeping mat on top and I’m ready to camp for the night. The temperatures here are pleasant. A light breeze rustles the leaves of the oak trees. “Aren’t you afraid of sleeping all alone by the lake?” Domnina had asked me. “No,” I replied. But the first moments in the monastery forest always take some getting used to. Suddenly, two teenagers come by and sit down at a nearby table to drink a bottle of beer. A few moments later they discover me. Startled, they jump up and disappear. I look up at the moonless sky. Satellites move through the firmament. Stars shine brightly. However, the Milky Way is only dimly visible. Frogs croak sporadically. Every now and then someone jumps into the water with a loud splash. Are they being hunted by snakes? Just yesterday morning I discovered a snakeskin next to my camp. Tack! Tack! Tack! Tack! It suddenly sounds. The wind carries the sound down to the lake. Toak is the name of the board which is worked by a nun with a wooden hammer. The toak (Romanian) or bilo (Russian) is a wooden board about two meters long. It has been used since the third century to announce the service to the nuns and monks. It dates from the time when there were no bells. This old tradition is still practiced here at the Marta si Maria monastery. But since we live in the 21st century, the bells still ring afterwards. It is 23:00. The nuns should go to pray again. It is not compulsory to pray, but every nun knows that skipping a service is not good for her. Domnina explained this to us yesterday. As a rule, the fairs take place from 7:00 to 10:30 in the morning, from 17:00 to 18:00 in the late afternoon, from 23:00 to 24:00 and from 24:00 to 2:00 at night. I turn onto my side and moan loudly. “Thank God I’m not a monk,” I whisper. I watch the night sky again. The wind picks up and makes the large branches above me groan alarmingly. An animal with four legs scurries past not far from me. What was that? In the beam of my headlamp, I can only make out the glimmer of reddish fur. The nocturnal movements out here remain varied and keep me from sleeping. It is 24:00. The wind causes temperatures to drop further. Estimated 21 degrees. I unpack the sleeping bag and put it over my hips. I hear voices at the holy spring. I wonder if it’s the nuns on guard duty out here. Dogs barking from a farmyard penetrate the forest. The call of a bird sounds at regular intervals. I try to find out where he is sitting, think about the rest of the journey and finally fall into a restless sleep.

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