Bagaje in rutiera

Rutieras suck. They're cramped. They're either too hot or too cold. And most of the time when I'm on one, I have one or two bags with me. So here's the dilemma: where do I put my bags?

It's simple enough when I have a seat and only one bag. Sometimes on an inter-city rutiera, there's even room on the seat next to me for a second bag. More often than not, though, I have to put my second bag in the front of the van, next to the driver. In a crowded rutiera, I have almost no ability to keep visual contact with my bag, so I merely have to trust that the driver knows it's mine, that everyone on the rutiera is either a good person or afraid of getting caught, and that no one on the rutiera realizes that it's an American's bag. Sometimes the bag I leave in front has my clothes and medications. Sometimes it has my iPod. Sometimes it has my laptop. Sometimes it has my camcorder. The only way for me to check that no one is walking away with $2,000 worth of gear is by sitting on the right side of the rutiera and looking out the window at people as they get out of the van.

After living more than a year in Moldova, I don't even think twice about it. Even when I have something expensive, who among the strangers on the rutiera with me know what's in the bag? I make it a point not to show any signs of wealth (like listening to an iPod or speaking English) while traveling, so why would they think I had anything other than clothes?

I still remember the first public bus ride I took in Moldova, traveling about 10 km from Ialoveni to Costesti. I was returning to Costesti, my training village in summer 2005, with several volunteers and some of our host mothers, and had gotten on a bus with no more seats left. We crammed ourselves in, and I took off my backpack in order both to make room for other people and to make sure no one would steal from me. It was then that I heard my name. Gheorghe, a teenage neighbor of mine with whom I had only talked once before, was sitting in a seat near me, and he offered to hold my bag. I was hesitant to give my backpack to a boy whom I barely knew in a country whose customs I was just starting to learn. Would he expect some money for holding my bag? Would he maybe not give it back at all? Despite my reluctance, I handed the bag to Gheorghe, smiled, and thanked him. I told another volunteer standing next to me to keep an eye on Gheorghe, and he too was worried that I had given my bag to a practical stranger a little too quickly. Ten minutes later, the ride was over, and Gheorghe gave me back my bag, leaving me to feel stupid for not having trusted him.

I had no reason not to trust Gheorghe, and I have since trusted a handful of other Moldovans, perfect strangers, who have offered to hold my bag when I'm standing. Rutieras in Moldova, after all, are improvised communities in which people help each other. Passengers lucky enough to have seats often offer not only to hold standing passengers' bags, but even their children. I can't imagine getting in a van and standing while my two-year-old child sat on a stranger's lap, but I can't count the number of times I've seen trusting Moldovan mothers pass their children to anyone sitting in the first two rows.

It's refreshing to see an environment where trust, rather than the typical American suspicion, is the first instinct. And while I won't leave any future children of mine with a perfect stranger, I have no problem with having those same strangers hold a bag full of my most expensive possessions.