Moldova

We visit Chisinau, Moldova – one of Europe‘s most obscure and cheapest capital cities.

There is an enormous army tank on the dancefloor. Peering out of the gun porthole is a manic-looking DJ whose decks are hidden inside. To his left is a pile of sandbags and a hammer-and-sickle USSR flag. Hanging from the ceiling is a giant portrait of Lenin. Taking all this in is hard for a first-time visitor. Uniformly sultry and beautiful Moldovan women pack the dancefloor and around the room more svelte women and their companions down the local speciality of three different schnapps in one glass.

Then the increasing sense of the surreal gives way to outright lunacy as the dancefloor of the Chisinau ‘Military Pub’, packed on the early hours of a Tuesday morning in the middle of winter, grinds to a halt. The barman is vigourously ringing his bell. The lights dim as the bell rings louder and grimaces give way to cheers as the imbibers bounce off the bar counter and back on the dancefloor to a collective cheer. My local boozer in Stockwell suddenly seems like a drinking emporium from a different and vastly more boring planet.

Moldova’s reputation – what little is known by the outside world – is hardly glittering. This tiny sliver of a nation, sandwiched in between Romania and the Ukraine, is often cited as the poorest in Europe. Problems concerning two break-away regions (one of which, Trans-Dniester, has created its own currency, flag and parliament), a chronically high level of unemployment and an average monthly salary of under £100 help to explain why barely 20,000 visitors arrive at Chisinau airport each year. However, the grisly stories tucked away in the corners of international news sections are utterly at odds with the wide boulevards, gorgeous Orthodox churches, thriving markets and roaring nightlife that is on offer if you dare take a peek into this forgotten corner of Europe.

Prices, as you would expect, are quite hysterically cheap and more than make up for the relatively expensive cost of reaching Moldova. Take a random stroll around the enormous outdoor market in central Chisinau and you will encounter legions of women wrapped up in scarves and fur hats, selling everything from Moldovan vodka (50p for a half-litre bottle), homemade hot dogs and burgers (12p each) and mountains of cigarettes (7p a packet), underwear, fish and chicken. The monumental, distinctly Soviet buildings of the Presidential Palace and the Opera and Ballet House lie only minutes away, but the numerous money-changing outlets and immaculately dressed locals clutching Benetton bags are a reminder that these people have long harboured Western aspirations, despite the repressive regime.


History weighs heavy on the minds of most Moldovans. Tossed and torn between competing superpowers over the last century, they still have a great reverence for Stefan the Great – a fifteenth-century king who fought more than 36 battles in his reign against invading armies from Poland, Hungary and the Ottoman Empire (and is said to have only lost two). His face adorns all banknotes and his recently restored statue – which makes him look unnervingly like Jean Rothschild in Terry Gilliam’s aborted version of ‘Don Quixote’ – stands imposingly at the entrance to the central park named, like the main high street, in his honour.

If anything is likely to get Moldova noticed by the West, it will be its wine. The Cricova vineyard is the biggest of dozens of producers that are scattered throughout Moldova’s flat and demure countryside. The wine, while not spectacular, is quaffable, and the cellars, said to be the biggest in the world with over 120 kilometres of vaults, can easily be reached in a day trip from Chisinau. The current Communist government heavily promotes its yearly wine festival, for which all visa restrictions are lifted in order to attract the cream of Europe’s oenophiles.

Watching ancient trams hurtle down the main drag of the city passing exquisite baroque buildings that wouldn’t look out of place in Vienna or Prague, it’s hard to imagine Moldova falling victim to the hordes of budget airline weekenders that clog up Tallinn or Riga. For the foreseeable future you’ll find yourself as one of the very few to have sampled the eccentric delights of Russian speaking taxi drivers (officially the cheapest and most incompetent on earth), ‘Vitanta’ beer and locals who are as surprised as they are delighted to meet you and practise their English. It’s an infectiously fun mixture of Soviet hip and old-school European charm – and you can have it all to yourself.

Austrian Airlines flies daily from London to Chisinau, from £350 return if booked seven days in advance (www.aua.com). Flight transfers, hotels and tours can be arranged through Glemus (www.logisticsmoldova.com). All visitors need a visa which can be bought at Chisinau airport for US $60.

Rob Crossan
Time Out London Issue 1841: February 15-22 2006

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