Russia and the EU act towards Moldova like two fat men fighting over an after-dinner mint

Chisinau is dark. 

In the subterranean walkways, lights are scarce, burnt out, flashing or dim.

People walk in darkness. There are few lamps on the street.

In the playgrounds in the evening, children sway on the swings and climb on plastic castles. They can’t see each other. Parents sitting on nearby benches can’t see them, only hear their laughing and screaming. 

By the main square, people wait at the edge of the street for Mercedes minibuses to take them home.

But you can’t make out the number on the vehicle until it is a meter from your face - too late to hail it down.

Whenever you see the shape of a minibus emerging from the shadows, you reach out your arm. They all stop for you. Even if they don’t want to. Even if they don’t take you where you want to go.

When you board a bus, inside it is packed with bodies. All the seats are occupied and there are as many people standing as it is possible for the bus to hold.

They are crushed against the windows. Their heads bent under the ceiling. If you stand, you cannot see where you are supposed to get out. You can only guess at the road - and when you arch your face, wipe the steam from the glass and finally manage to see outside, it is too dark on the street to be sure of the location. 

“Where are we?” you ask the people in the bus, “and where are we going?” 

I don’t know why there is so much dark.

Maybe the city believes there are not enough people willing to go out at night to merit lighting up the city. Maybe there is no money for electricity.

But it discourages meetings in the late hours. It inhibits communication. It makes people afraid of footsteps behind them. Builds suspicion where there is no threat. It creates borders where none should exist.

Chisinau is a city where you hear Russian in one bar, Romanian in the next, both on the street and you can speak in both languages - even mix them up - and people understand. 

In the towns to the west, they speak more Romanian and to the north, more Russian. Communism's policy of 'the Soviet churn' of moving races from one part of the Union to another created a rich but confused identity at its western border.

Now it has ambitious people with a vision too narrow for the country. Those I stayed with in Chisinau (who spoke Russian, Romanian and French) spend their evenings learning English and German by Skype. There is a desire to transcend Moldova, whatever that may be.

Almost half the workforce is abroad, on construction sites in Moscow, cleaning hotels in Milan, in nursing homes in Lyon, leaving a state of pensioners and kindergartens.

This is a nation in transit. Unsure of what it is, but aware of what it is not. It’s not Romania. It’s not Ukraine. It’s not Russia. Moldova has not yet fully become Moldova.

Torn, yes, but peaceful for now. Although there is pressure from larger states nearby. 

Romanian politicians talk up the idea of a union with Moldova.

Prime Minister Victor Ponta, in his bid to be President this year, has a ‘five-year plan’ for Moldova to be part of Romania within the EU. 

Meanwhile President Traian Basescu and centre-right candidates for head of state Monica Macovei and Klaus Iohannis also casually employ unionist rhetoric.

But what does Moldova say about that? Only ten per cent want a union with their western neighbour. 

This willingness to redraw the map of Europe raises the hopes of people who wish for Moldova to be part of Romania. But it is not realistic.

Some politicians in Romania who I have spoken to, who publicly endorse a union, say privately “I don’t mean it”.

They use this language because the ideal of a greater Romania wins votes from locals and Moldovans with Romanian passports.

Plus it has the added benefit of pissing off Russia - a game Romania has enjoyed ever since its entry into NATO.

But when Romania toys, Moldova trembles.

Russia does the same. It wants Moldova to join its customs’ union - an open market rival to the EU. Posters in Chisinau from the Socialist Party, ahead of the elections next month, advertise the benefits of the union with Russia, Kazakhstan and Belarus.

At the same time, Russia enforces an embargo on the sale of Moldovan wine in Russia. Moscow is sending hundreds of ex-pat migrants back to their home country. In a nation of four million people, where 100,000s work in Russia, this wounds the economy and job prospects of the people. 

Russia offers one hand out to greet Moldova and, with the other, it punches Moldova in the face.

Moldova is being wooed and fooled by both the east and the west. But there is no long-term plan. They don't know what to do with the country.

To them, the Republic is important, but not that important. This is not Ukraine. This is not Poland. Moldova is disposable, but also significant. From a geopolitical point of view, the empires of Russia and the EU act towards Moldova like two fat men fighting over an after-dinner mint.

Meanwhile Moldova’s political class is equally deceptive. The politicians boast of their connection to western Europe, but the businessmen who back the politicians have financial links with Russia.

Their heart turns to Brussels, their wallet to Moscow.

But on the ground, there are bonuses to this.

From the people I spoke to, a major difference is that this year they have gained the right to travel visa-free through the Schengen space of the European Union, which they can add to their access to former states of the USSR, as well as Turkey and the Balkans. 

Suddenly the poorest nation in Europe has the people with the greatest freedom of movement.

An evening in September. There are thousands of people out on the streets. In the distance in the town square is a stage flashing with red and white lights.

Chanteuse Sofia Rotaru is singing with Romanian lyrics, but when she ends a song, she shouts ‘Spasiba’ to the crowd. 

The Cernauti-born 70s pop star is now in her sixties, but still packs a crowd when she gives a free concert, this time sponsored by Renato Usati, a businessman turned political opportunist, looking to advance in November's Parliamentary election.

Crowds have brought their children to see Sofia.

But the sound is distorted. She needs to shout to be heard. The stage is no more than a blurry figure surrounded by bright colours.

The audience is standing, watching, unmoved, not lip-synching to the songs or clapping their hands. No one is eating or drinking. No one seems to care. They are here because there is something going on and that something is free. 

Two three-year old kids are chasing an empty plastic bottle down the street, moving between the legs of the audience, tripping up, falling down, getting up, grabbing the bottle again, throwing it, all the time laughing and shrieking with joy. 

The children don't want to see Sofia.

They only want to watch a plastic bottle skipping down a pavement.

The crowd nearby turn away from the stage and watch the kids, with sympathy and envy.

The means of transport to Moldova from the west are limited. There are expensive flights and overcrowded buses, but for those looking for a retro-chic experience of real travel, there is only one option - the overnight train.

Moldovan writer Lina Vdovii has written a passionate account in the Romanian magazine Dilema Vechi about the fading grace of this service - a Soviet-era chain of sleeping cars from a time when the line would link the glorious Socialist brotherhood of Bulgaria, Romania and the USSR. 

In her account, waiters serve hot pretzels and steaming tea in a buffet wagon, while the guards wax nostalgic over how the train was a vehicle for black marketeers and drunken students. 

But now the train - named Prietenia (Friendship) - is no more than a relic of hope in a great industrial future, and a rusty iron handshake between Moldova and Romania.

Lina traveled in first class and met some fascinating characters but, being English, I decided it was too expensive, so I opted for second class. 

I didn’t meet anyone. 

But this is what happened:

Gara de Nord. Bucharest’s central train station. Eight PM. A hot Tuesday in June. 

The express train to Hungary - a sapphire-colored bullet - stretches out from its platform in a silent and smooth movement. 

Two fat dogs chase after the train, barking and running on and off the tracks. Their legs risk being trapped in the wheels, leaving a bloody mix of paw, bone and ligament spinning through the undercarriage to Budapest.

Inside the dark second class wagon to Chisinau, I find my seat in a booth accommodating four people. 

Scuffed brown and grey carpet lines the floor and the walls. Two beds are laid open above me. On these are rolled-up mattresses. Between the seats are a table and a small pot of plastic flowers. Behind is a white curtain held up by a long piece of wood across the windows. I draw the curtains. The wood falls from its breach and onto the floor. I try to put it back. I succeed. It falls again. I leave it on the table.

The levers creak. The brake loosens. The carriages move from the city and out into the rich and hot plains of Muntenia. No one will be staying in this booth with me.

In the corridor, thin red curtains drape from every window. Red pelmets hang above. Across their fabric is printed the Socialist Realist insignia of the Moldovan Railway Company. All the windows are open. The curtains gambol. The pelmets shimmy. As the sun goes down, the rays penetrate the thin linen, sparkling through the fading cloth.

Passing by my booth, a guard deposits a plastic bag of blankets and pillow cases. I kick off my shoes and lie down on a red leather couch. I listen to the rhythm of the wheels against the tracks. I look out at the verdant summer of the farms and the villages. Soon it darkens. I turn on the light and read Orhan Pamuk’s 17th century thriller about murder among rival miniaturists - ‘My Name is Red’.

But there is a smell. A familiar smell. A strong smell of urine. Yeasty. Like the urine of a cow. But aged. As though the urine has been frozen in the furnishings for some centuries - and only now been thawed. 

I try to find the source. I check the red leather sofas. Above me, I smell the mattresses. A sweaty hue. Below the cheap, byzantine-style carpet wreaks with a choking horror that invades my nose. Sickens my throat. I think about moving the carpet outside. But I do not want to bring attention to myself. I stay reading my book, ignoring the fetid air.

As I lie back, from the radiator next to the window emerges the black legs of a small insect. It creeps up between the railings of the iron grill. Its legs acute like a spider, its abdomen green, shining, almost emerald. I swear it makes a squelching noise as it moves.

Fearful, I pick up my copy of Orhan Pamuk’s ‘My Name is Red’ and slap it down on the beetle. 

I glance at the book jacket to see the remains of the squished body. But there is nothing there. I look to the grill. The creature has vanished. 

I need to go to the bathroom. It rests at the edge of the carriage. A rusted iron cabin, stuttering in rhythm with the rocking freight. Inside are only metal fittings - sink, toilet and taps - scratched and battered.

The toilet bowl has a view onto the passing tracks. On the floor is a plastic lattice-cut mat, steeped in inches of pee. So this is the reason for the urine in the booth. Men come to the toilet. They try to relieve themselves through the gash into the tracks. Because the shaking of the carriages is so fierce, their pee scatters everywhere except into the bowl. This creates a pool of urine. Every passenger who visits the toilet soaks their shoes in it. They leave the toilet. They step on the carpet, treading the swill into the fabric. Hence the carpet smells of urine. This is why the aroma is so intense and complex. Because it is not one person’s urine - it is a blend. 

Almost ten PM. I believe I should sleep. I put down Orhan Pamuk’s ‘My Name is Red’. Above me is the rolled-up mattress. This I unravel. Its links uncoil on the red leather. Staring me in the face, from the grey and open mattress, is a bloodstain. 

I put the bed linen on the mattress and lie down. I turn off the light. Outside the clattering of wheels on rails continues. A horn bellows whenever the train approaches a curve. The occasional light flashes on the windows. I think about the insect in the grill. I will not sleep.

Morning. Three in the morning. The door to my booth jangles open. My face tired. My eyes heavy. Two uniformed Romanian border guards stand there. A man and a woman. 

I wonder if they can smell the urine in the carpet. 

What are they thinking? He must have done this... He is the only foreigner on the train - and what kind of man is he? - a stranger who crosses the border between Romania and Moldova - why? - for the pleasure of discharging his bladder onto the floor of the train. And not just any train. Of Prietenia. The Englishman who pisses on our symbol of trans-national solidarity. Our Prietenia.

I want to blurt out to the guards - “That urine is not mine!” 

I prepare myself for how to say this in Romanian - “Pipi nu este al meu!”

For the Moldovan border patrol, I attempt to work out how to say this in Russian - “Ya ne mochilsaya zdes”. 

I think this means “I did not urinate here”.

However it could imply that I did urinate in another part of the train. 

I keep my mouth shut. 

The female guard asks me why I am going to Moldova. Are you a tourist? I am, I say. Do you have anywhere to stay? she asks. I tell her the name of my hotel. She does not seem satisfied with my answer. But what can I do? And what can she do? She sighs. Moves on to the next booth. This, like the others, is empty.

I lie back in my bed. Now I can sleep. My eyes begin to close. The tiredness can take me. I will forget about the smell, still emanating from the carpet. I will forget about the creature nesting in the radiator.

Another woman is standing at the door of the booth. She is dressed in a dark blue dress. Her eyes are half-shut. Her face is white. She is carrying a clipboard.

“I am a nurse,” she says. “How do you feel?”

I look at her.

She does not change her expression.

“Well,” I say.