The Ban Bus

The morning had us on the road again to continue to Bucharest, the capital of Romania and the retirement place of Nicolae Ceausescu, the old dictator and one of the last of the former hard liners to fall. When the Romanians have a dictator fall they mean it literally. As the revolution happened, he was arrested, tried in the next few hours and taken out the back and shot. They even tossed his wife in for a bit of good measure to make sure the legacy was finished once and for all. Since then they have moved at a dramatic rate of modernisation and membership in the EU and NATO.

Bulgaria is a little, hidden back water - but it’s nice. In the 24 hours I was there I met nothing but nice people who really were making a go of it. They were studying and getting more languages and trying to connect with the wider world. The drive across the country took us into a world where horse and cart overlaps with massive trans-European trucking routes. The mountains and forest were beautiful and safe to go for a long walk. That is a novelty for me in this part of the world as I am used to Balkans at war. The roads were slow and way behind any European standard. We finally knew we were getting to the northern border when we found the welcoming line of hookers on the other side of the road battling for the passing truck trade.

As we pulled up in the traffic approaching the border there was a hundred yard dash between two stiletto clad “ladies of the day” to a truck that had pulled over. The mini skirt runner was doing well, but overtaken in the final 20 by the beefy fishnet tart she pulled out a desperation move and launched herself up the step of the truck and straight into the cabin. Another happy client, another financial injection into the local economy.

The border between Bulgaria and Romania should be open as they are both EU members, but it’s not. They are hanging onto the final bastion of separation by keeping a dog box open in what was once no man’s land. The approach is decrepit with weeds and rust the only features. There are only two lanes open as officials lounge about sharing the cramped booth between nations. They take our passports and scrutinise. The fat, younger guy come back and says, “You must pay!” Of course we must pay! It wouldn’t be a border if we didn’t.

We handed over the required cash and Davor struck up a conversation with the other official.

“Norwegian, Canadian and Australian? What do they do?” quizzed one.
“Big shot movie makers,” was his reply, “they are scouting locations for a big budget movie and looking for good places and local talent.”

The official nods approvingly and says something to the guy in the booth. We sit around oblivious to the game that Davor is playing. The passports are handed back and we are on our way again. The day is late and the chance of getting into Bucharest before dark seems slim. We press on. The road is small and narrow, the housing is poor and clapped out and so are the Russian cars that clutter the surrounds. The traffic increases as we get closer to Bucharest till we feel we have entered the outer suburbs. From the scant information and dodgy downloaded map we think we just have to keep heading north till we hit the centre then start asking people again where our hotel is. We are booked into another Ambassador Hotel.

The world of grid locked chaos closes in around us, until every metre driven has to be duelled for and won. This is no road for the faint hearted and a healthy hand on the horn and barging forth is all that will get you through. Davor keeps his cool and makes progress. We finally get into the centre of the main road and ask all where the hotel may be. We make a bum steer and do a few extra laps of the one way system till finally we are outside the Ambassador. It’s crappy and run down, just as we expected.

The first thing that hits you in Bucharest is the constant horn honking, continuous police sirens and incessant whistle blowing. It just goes on and on and on some more. I jammed ear plugs in but Mette suffered the same treatment they were getting in Guantanamo Bay. Sleep deprivation and plenty of it. She only collapsed for a few exhausted hours then was pulled back into the din that never abated.

The morning had us doing a presentation at a local university and our contact was Claudia. She had been hired the week before by the Norwegian embassy to organise whatever events were possible for the Ban Bus. Talk about dropped in the deep end with alot to do and no time to do it. She had pulled together the open public forum at the campus then a dinner the following night with the Norwegian Ambassador and as many local journalists as possible.

I was escorted into a magnificent round auditorium and we set up as many photographs and information as we could. We waited for the assigned time of 10 o’clock and the Ambassador and representatives from UN and other NGO’s turned up. A few press wandered in then the students started to come. We had about 20 people so it was time to pull out all stops and try to make converts of them all.

The Ambassador opened with comments about the process and a welcome, then came a prepared speech from the UN, then it was me. I figured it was make or break time so I launched into as strong and indignant a presentation as I could manage. I wanted these people to hurt and feel the pain of those they know nothing about. Vision of air strikes and victims saturated them as I took them on a journey from war to peace and into the horror or dangers of a post conflict world. Children in Laos whose parents were not born when the war was on, by Lebanese fishermen and Afghan villagers. All were non combatant and innocent.

I measure myself by the impact on the audience and by the looks on their faces and body language, it was working. Mette followed me with her experiences in Afghanistan and shock turned to horror when she spoke about the 50 injuries per day she was dealing with in Kabul and what they did to turn the tide.

We finally wrapped up with a talk about permanent poverty and the treaty that will hopefully fix it all. One point that again hit a chord was the concept that Romania had cluster bombs for self defence and if they used them they would commit national suicide. Nothing like bombing your own country back to the stone age. That’s great leadership.

We finished up the talk and no one left. They all wanted to hang about and talk. We all had little groups around us and the talking went on until I said to them, “write your name and email contact down and we will connect you all and help you bring about a strong local campaign”. There was a stampede for the signup sheets.

The three journalists who came also stayed and talked till they felt they really had in depth stories. There are so many facets to this story that if a clever journalist gets involved then there is no shortage of stories they can pull from it.

In the mean team Davor was pumping the car park and collaring students to sign the people’s treaty. He has really taken to the whole mad world of trying to create a treaty and is 100% behind what we are trying to do. I felt although our connection with Bucharest was small in numbers it was of high quality. The Norwegian Embassy and Claudia had pulled so much of this together and the Ambassador had one more trick. He was going to host a dinner with us and as many journalists as he could muster.

The rest of the time in Bucharest became a blur of computer screens and emails except for one short walk in the main central park.

The Ban Bus had a secret problem that was plaguing it and it was the flu. Mette and Daniel had had it and were just shaking it now but I felt the slightest pangs of it getting me. As I spoke my throat was killing me and it was an exercise in pain to squeeze out each word, particularly when you need to belt them out so as to be heard. I was going down and I was not happy.

Claudia met us and we walked to the restaurant the Ambassador had picked. It was a traditional Romanian place that was supposed to serve the best real Romanian cuisine in town. We assembled and the journalists arrived and we settled down to one of the most lively conversations on the cluster bomb problem over wine and a great meal. It was always going to be more meat, as it’s that Balkans. What did raise a few eyebrows was when the meal arrived. It was Brown Bear steaks. It’s certainly not what I would eat but felt that the Ambassador had done a great job in pulling all of this together so tucked in and sent old Yogi down. The wine certainly helped as I scanned the table to see how everyone was doing. Mette was tucking in but the locals were gingerly picking at it politely. There is a polite technique for when you don’t want to eat something that involves moving the food around, making a mess of the plate, then piling it up in a corner. There was certainly a bit of that going on now.

Everyone took to the issue quickly and passionately except one TV journalist. She sounded like an old party hack regurgitating the most banal objections to any form of ban. She made one objection and excuse after the next. I have always preferred arguing with someone who is against what I have to say than someone who agrees and here she was. We went at each other toe to toe for over an hour and one by one her arguments disappeared. She attempted to revisit some of them a second time until she ran out of reasons to disagree. At that she rolled over and started talking about how she could get stories on her network. That is a most satisfying win to me, to really turn an adversary.

When we left we had a heap of new allies from students, to embassy, to the press. The engagement in the country may have started small but it was quality.

The next morning we would be on the road again but going our separate ways. I was grabbing a flight to South Ossetia in Georgia to hopefully find strikes from the recent fighting while Mette, Davor and Daniel would drive to Sofia in Bulgaria then onto Belgrade and Sarajevo, where we would reunite.