In spite of having been miserably ill for a week, I felt compelled to attend a promising call for a protest rally for supporters of suspended Romanian president Traian Basescu as he prepares to defend himself against a national referendum on impeachment next month.
High stakes politics, Romania style.
I often sense a deep hopelessness among the Romanian people who generally perceive the political process as something done by others in a unreachable place.
An entrenched apathy and disaffection dominates the mood of the citizenry who are quick to engage in political discussion, but only so they can dismiss any notion of the power to change.
It’s the bugaboo of communism, alive and well in Romania.
So, when there’s to be a political rally of any size and import, one simply must make an effort to crawl out of bed and wade through a sea of used tissues in order to partake in what could possibly turn into a molotov cocktail riot or at least seize the opportunity to share one’s viral infectious disease en masse.
Bine. Hai, sa mergem.
General paranoia set in early as the walk down Strada Progresului and Bulevardul George Coşbuc revealed a plethora of alert, on-duty security guards stationed along the perimeter of various industrial grounds. Always in pairs, the attentive uniforms seemed out of the ordinary for what should have been a lazy Sunday afternoon.
However, it wasn’t just the rent-a-cops in a show of force. The intersection of Coşbuc and Progresului had its’ very own police squad car parked awkwardly on a corner with its’ driver keeping tabs on pedestrians. Meanwhile an unusually high volume of Dacia Logans with red and blue lights were circulating throughout the general traffic.
Was there really such a need for the highly conspicuous display of enforcement capability?
It would seem that someone highly placed was taking all conservative options to preserve public order by maintaining public visibility of police who could also serve as scouts on the lookout for any potential swell of hundreds of thousands of angry Romanians mobbing their way to Piaţa Constituţiei.
There certainly was a vibrant hustle and bustle everywhere you looked but it was comprised mostly of people out doing their shopping or running other errands, causing many people to engage in labor on kyriake hemera.
Roma teenagers on the corner of Şoseaua Viilor made crude attempts to mimick the Westside gangstas of MTV stereotypes, as do many of the youth throughout Romania. A drunk old man smiled at me without asking for money as he shuffled by in the opposite direction.
At Piaţa Regina Maria, police presence intensified with clusters of black-clad poliţia comunitara roaming about and, in one instance, apparently interrogating someone for reasons unknown.
Strolling northbound on the main drag, Strada Libertaţii, which hosts both Casa Poporului and Piaţa Constituţiei, I was impressed with the seemingly endless streams of buses and shuttle vans cargoing politically-motivated passengers from across Romania to come support the preşedinte.
Directly in front of Casa Poporului and down the entire stretch of the property were innumberable stacks of what resembled unassembled barricade materials, strewn about the length of Libertaţii which itself was encircled in wire fencing as a hastily-slapdash defensive posturing against any possibility that protesters should want to approach the parliamentary building.
Closer inspection of the materials showed they were more likely to be components for constructing temporary stages, possibly for summertime concerts, and were probably dotting the entire street in some incompetent bureaucrat’s imagination of an obstruction against possible rioters (which, if true, would have indeed been a dumb move to give said rioters ready access to wood and metal).
While the fence was sufficiently weak enough to pose no impasse should protesters advance on Casa Poporului, the piles of staging material had their gaps filled with dozens of uniformed crowd control officers, including a few K9 units ready to bite any Romanian who dared to protest on the sidewalk in front of the parliament.
Motorcycle cops whizzed about on their fancy BMW bikes, weaving in and out of lanes a little too fast for my focusing efforts, to add yet more variety to the rich tapestry of security forces.
Across the street, in a designated zone for expressing human opinion, a firebrand orator boomed indignantly over the public address system and began agitating the first couple thousand protesters who had arrived early.
Meanwhile, a handful of people were gathered on the balcony of Casa Poporului, itself, to watch the spectacle unfold. A videographer shoved 50 grams of Star gratar-flavored potato chips into his rima oris before setting the remainder down on a ledge so he could belatedly adjust his lens with greasy fingers before resuming the munchfest.
To mitigate untimely accidents, some event organizer had the forethought to ensure the presence of 10 portable sanitation units. Off to the far right was an odd scene reminiscent of a drug deal with whispering voices in close proximity and hand-off exchanges in the portapotty darkness.
Just north of the piaţa, members of a Jandarmeria — which no longer relies on conscription to draft citizens, as of 2006 — crowd control unit assembled for an impromptu team meeting outside of their riot paddy wagon where, no doubt, the older squad leader took a few moments to refresh the memory of his young troopers as to their purpose and obligation in the event of any unauthorized antics.
The exciting opening speaker had been replaced by a string of milquetoast. Disappointed by unenthusiastic drivel, it was time to tune-out the harbingers of yawn and get myself swallowed up by the vast crowd in the pursuit of slogan signage.
After a slew of embarrassingly tepid yakkers bored the rally attendees half to death, one mildly interesting fellow managed to stir some modicum of partial incitement amongst a handful of protesters eager for any sign of life from the uninspiring speakers.
Note, like some other European nations, the political symbolism for distress is the national flag with a cannonball-sized hole in the middle representing the country empty of heart due to some treachery and invokes some familiarity of the American concept where our flag is held upside down (which would be moot with some European flags, like the Romanian tricolor standard).
One or two elitist jerks drove their special brand of superiority complex in and amongst the hoi polloi. One particular gentleman was, indeed, particularly better than others… at making a complete ass of himself.
Being as he was a bit taller than most people in the crowd, I saw his cemented hair encrusted with enough gel for a dozen insecure teenage boys needing fauxhawk spikes to impress the girls as it cut through the sea of bodies like a shark’s fin.
Pushing old men down and shoving young children aside, he pried apart the onlookers like a Sentinel searching for a secret GPS coordinate he was pre-destined to stand in.
“Move. Look out. Watch it. Coming through. Out of the way.”
Right near me, he knocked aside some college students and slithered to a standstill. He then proceeded to shout for the attention of one or two persons he knew nearby to make sure they would turn around and acknowledge that Mr. Marfa was there in the thick of things, hip as cool whip.
When he finished flicking his chin in greeting, he engaged in a series of remarks made to those around him so they might be endeared with him and bask in his semi-witty glow, feeling special to have been chosen as worthy of being stood next to by this self-styled slickster.
His lackey, on the other hand, never said a word to anyone but displayed a permanent disinterested scowl like a bouncer or body guard attached to his client. Of course, Mr. Marfa more than made up for the silence by rattling of extra chuckle-attempts at nearby ladies who quickly found him overbearing and uninvited.
Although he had thrust others aside in an impersonal and harsh manner, he is partially seen below as he took it upon himself to go out of his way to block some Roma guy who was politely winding through the human forest whereupon Mr. Marfa began to loudly berate the fellow and declare he would not be allowed to pass but must go back wherever he came from and leave the crowd.
That’s some serious chutzpah! If you see Mr. Marfa and recognize him, please point and laugh.
Of course, there were some actual real, live celebrities evoking visceral responses from the crowd. One of them was 33-year-old political slut Elena Udrea who reportedly bought her way into the political game and certainly is known to enjoy displaying her breasts for limelight since she’s not taken seriously on an intellectual level by many.
The great unwashed masses recognize (and generally love) any face that’s heavily promoted on television, so they gawked and groped after her as if to ferret out some magic dust from the presence of a star. Mr. Marfa also made his move and attempted some charming remarks to which she seemed to listen momentarily in passing.
Quarantined inside the fence, some unidentified man was besieged with demands for autographs which he happily obliged for quite an extended period of time. Equally thrilled by the love and attention from television cameras and throngs of strangers was his dashing arm candy, a dolled-up lady attractive enough to fit the wallet size of an otherwise average-looking man of repute.
A huge flaw in planning for this event was the over-reliance on musical artists to prop up the waning spirit of the crowd, which is an element noticeably absent from American protests since the 1960s.
Even worse than abundance of music was the absence of performance skill.
Just before the first band took the stage, underlings passed out promotional leaflets to the edges of the crowd and I managed to get my hands one. It was designed like a leu, the Romanian currency, as a copycat of earlier political funny money that preceded it in the nu dau şpaga tradition.
Looking like some bearded dwarf from Lord of the Rings, the frontman for rap group Morometzii began spitting lyrics without any background music which he was clearly expecting and he had to stop.
Once the technical difficulties were corrected, the hip hop got under way causing most of the under-25 crowd to bop a little to the beat.
“Romania, trezeşte-te!”
[Photo credit: Mrs. Pockets]
Later I learned the Morometzii once performed some of the same exact music during the D.A. Alliance 2004 election campaign, no doubt an overt attempt to appeal to politically-aware youth. Unfortunately, my estimation is the lead rapper is a talentless hack whose primary appeal is his bizarre appearance.
Auditory acceptance was markedly improved whenever he kept his trap shut. However, he was flanked by a couple of assistant-MCs and one of those — the lanky, bald one — seemed to have a decent voice for rapping.
Maybe if he was the lead singer instead… but then the poor guy did seem kinda nervous about performing live. A little anxious. Possibly high.
[Photo credit: Mrs. Pockets]
After those clowns were finished, there was another brand of Romanian pop music, but I’m not referring to all the lame stars who desperately copycat the very worst crop of bland and creatively-challenged American celebrities down to every last detail.
No, these guys were pretty good and, like, Romanian-ish.
Their flavor was “etno” mixed in with some heavy 404 bass machine. It seemed like everyone in the over-25 crowd very much enjoyed this style of music, including the oldest folks born well before communism in Romania. Plus, I liked it. The under-25 segment seemed a bit giggly and sheepish upon hearing it.
Lastly, there was the Romanian version of James Taylor who played every bit the part upon his wood stool, holding his acoustic guitar, and strumming away a type of folk music the Romanians refer to as “muzica uşoara.”
While I couldn’t determine the entertainer’s name, I did learn his presence was iconic due to his performances around time of the so-called revolution in 1989.
To throw a little more spice in the rumcake, the event organizers though it would be a big hit to shoot out pyrotechnics and confetti into the air. A little razzle-dazzle and pizzazz. Some sizzle before the steak.
The announcement was made that while suspended Preşedinte Traian Basescu was confirmed to appear soon, he had been supposedly delayed in traffic and we’d all need to wait just a bit longer.
Unprepared for this contingency and fresh out of flaccid speakers to dull the crowd, they tortured several thousand people with a reprise from Morometzii to fill the gap.
Just when you thought the entire affair could not possibly get worse, some bonehead made the fatal blunder of giving introductory honors to Monica Macovei.
While she is a talented reformer and skilled leader, she seems clearly not geared for public speaking. It was a wet blanket on the crowd and the worst possible choice made by amateur event organizers.
Fortunately, the magic man woke everyone up in a mere instant.
[Photo credit: Mrs. Pockets]
Traian Basescu took the stage with a commanding presence and the crowd went wild. He expounded at length to remind everyone of differences between what some people have falsely accused him of and what he has actually done.
“Am greşit?” Nuuuuu. “Nu-am greşit.”
He carefully laid out the case that his attempts at reforming Romania through anti-corruption policies has been a big success, which is reflected by Romania’s ascension into the EU at a time when many were skeptical they could pull it off.
However, now that acceptance is concluded, the oligarhi — that abstract network of filthy-rich power brokers who profiteered from PSD’s post-Ceaşescu “landgrab” of immense state assets — no longer needed to keep in the shadows and could once again return to the light with a vengeance.
Hoţi! Hoţi! Hoţi!
He spoke of the need to politically defend against the upcoming national referendum. Since the Tariceanu-lead Parliament voted to suspend Basescu from the Presidency, the voting public have the power for a final decision to approve or deny the Parliament’s impeachment of Basescu.
In late May, either 9 million voters must pro-actively choose to approve the impeachment or any lower number will by default result in Basescu being reinstated as President of Romania.
Meanwhile, the interim President is Nicu Vacaroiu, a technocrat from the Communist Socialist Party, comfortable transitioner with Frontul Salvarii Naţionale, and known former-member and bureaucrat of Ceaşescu’s Communist Party who was born in Білгород-Дністровський along the Dneister river.
Basescu urged the crowd to continue supporting his efforts to break corruption in Romania. He asked the people to not forget the actions and supposed motivations of Calin Popescu-Tariceanu.
Further, he vowed to keep on fighting against seedy underbelly of the Illiescu-created mafia — what Texans would refer to as a Bubba Network of power-addicted (ex-)communist overlords — after being restored to office.
Someone got a little trigger-happy and fired off the pyrotechnics a bit too early while the president was still trying to talk to the several thousand protesters gathered to hear him speak.
[Photo credit: Mrs. Pockets]
After the sparkles died down, he came back on the stage to wrap up delivery of his message to the rally. Then, he made a dramatic exit through a swarm of desperate well-wishers and excited fans while followed by every television camera in Romania.
The folksy muzica uşoara singer jumped back on the stage to play his anthem which lead to my favorite moment when, once again, a spontaneous hora broke loose among the happy people.
