Through futuristic sunflower fields sown thickly with sleek New Age wind mills 
we slipped into Romania. On small country roads, only occasionally passing a horse and cart loaded to the brim with fresh hay, 
we sped towards a tiny village of Plopul on Sfante Gheorghe arm of Danube. There we had arranged for a private boat tour and a stay at a restored traditional house. The house was absolutely charming in its authenticity and simplicity 
except for a crucial detail: it did not have the promised air conditioner. With mosquitos descending with the evening we hightailed it out of there. “No worries, there are plenty of other accommodations on Booking.com,” I said as we turned towards the bigger village of Murighiol. “I am not booking anything until I see it,” my husband was adamant.
Well, let me tell you, only at the height of Sakura season in Japan did we have such a hard time finding a decent bed. I will spare you the crazy details of being turned away from guest houses that showed availability online to people not calling us back with directions to their place. The first night we ended up in a ridiculously overpriced old communist resort where an International conference of Fisheries was in its final stages with a “traditional” music group performing. 
With the secure knowledge of the air conditioner humming away in our drab room and an introduction to excellent Romanian dark beer 
I was able to join in the festivities with a few rounds of kolo circle dance. Afterwards I transferred my enthusiasm to killing some nearly frozen mosquitos on the ceiling of our room. Do you know what is the most effective way of their extermination? You take a bed pillow and you throw it up at them with all your might. Compared to a hand or actowel, the large thick pillow surface prevents their escape.
The next morning our search for accommodations continued. It was only through an accountant at a very fancy resort kindly calling her friend that we got a cute apartment at a place that was actually sold out. 
Our disappointment continued with surly slow services, and mediocre food, including the boniest fish in the world. 
When we recounted our frustrating experiences to traveling Romanians, they had no good explanation.
“It is the Delta,” said a young chap on vacation with his family. “We don’t get treated any better. Please do not let this spoil your Romanian experience. You will find it much more developed and tourist friendly anywhere else. ” And he was right. At the end Romania was our favorite Balkan country and the Delta, too, redeemed itself at the end.
I absolutely fell in love with the sweet little white and blue thatch covered village houses, many dating back centuries and some beautifully restored. 
Folk architecture of perfect proportions with lovely hand carved details. In our wanderings through the countryside we came across white and blue churches, too, with gleaming cupolas and golden altars.
They were quite a richly adorned apparition in otherwise poor Delta villages.
Turns out the blue communities are the descendants of Russian-Ukrainian Lipoveni, the dissenters (Old Believers) from the Russian Orthodox Church, who in the 18th century wanted to escape the persecution of their sect.
But it was the early morning boat trip to the Delta that sealed the deal. 
To avoid the tourist trail and explore the smaller channels we first drove a good way on the banks past old homesteads and haystacks 
to the edge of the water. 
As we climbed into our small floating boat 
all the troubles were forgotten and our hearts expanded reveling in Nature’s beauty. 
We soon turned into smaller and smaller channels 
Some were so narrow we had to watch for reeds and grasses hitting our faces. We saw water snakes and otters, but it was the abundance of bird life that Delta is famous for that had us transfixed. We were in good hands with our naturalist guide Alma, 
who seemed as excited for every even small encounter as us. 
The Danube Delta is where river Danube after flowing through nine European countries ends its journey and flows to the Black Sea. It has the third largest biodiversity in the world (over 5,500 flora & fauna species) spreading over 5,050 square km offering a sanctuary for birds, fish, and animals. 
Even for non binocular clad non birders the bird encounters are easy and frequent. From small colorful bee eaters to large white tailed eagles birds abound in the quiet of the morning. There are around 300 bird species – and among those, we saw flocks of pelicans, cormorants, wild ducks, geese, storks, herons, ibises, and swans. The Delta is a pleasant resting stop for the migratory birds. It was especially joyous to observe proud papa swans protecting their young by puffing up and patrolling the waters. 
Did you know nearly 30 bird species mate for life, amongst them three kinds of swans? 
Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site 60% of the Delta is protected from human development and indeed we encountered nary a human being except for a few fishermen. 
After an exciting day in the Delta appetites are sated by all fish specialties: sliced, diced, smoked, pickled, fried and rolled into phyllo dough. 
How lucky we have been with the weather! Looks like some rain is coming in. 
Leaving the Delta it catches up with us just before the Moldova border in the town of Braila on the Danube River. 
We watch the bride and bridesmaids quickly ushered into a limo and are left with the umbrellas just (singing and) dancing in the rain…
Still replete with old traditions and original village architecture, vast tracts of untouched beaches
and unspoiled nature, yet dotted with a few good hotels with hot shower and cold AC. Just enough to make an exploration base and wash off the grime and sweat from the whole day exploring on dusty roads. No Western tourists, (we met less than a dozen in our 8 days on the whole island ), yet a modern 4 wheel drive car with a safe driver, working AC and a decent suspension. And a fabulous local English speaking guide, Yuliana Leda Tara, personable, sharp witted and funny. She made us laugh and she laughed hysterically at our lame jokes. Together we spend many, many hours in the car on some surprisingly straight and good roads 
and then some pretty curvy and bad roads. Oops!
One of the few expats we met (it looks like there are also less than a dozen) said, “One time I drove my family to camp on a beach. It took me 2 hours to go 8 km. But it was worth it!” Yup, totally agree! There are very few cars on the road, but plenty of other traffic, including crazy motorcycle drivers, most of them helmet free, sometimes transporting strange loads, like huge bamboo poles, stacks of bricks or live pigs.
When we would hurl towards yet another one overtaking on a blind curve, we would scream and Yuli would say,
Stay tuned to see what happened. 
I mean, we just came from some seriously spectacular beaches on New Zealand and Australia but wow, these beaches are something else. Coupled with the fact that there is usually no one else on the beach, but an occasional fisherman or a kid looking to supplement the breakfast offering of rice and water spinach. 
For miles and miles and miles. 
The first one we came to was a surprising travel back in time shocker. Prehistoric megalithic settlement-live! All the museum dioramas and artists renditions in history books we grew up on were coming to life all around us. In a reverse culture shock we strolled around while furtively looking around the back to see where Indiana Jones might emerge from. 
For a relatively small island the variety of landscapes was astounding. In the drier East Sumba we climbed up to a plateau and a golden savannah opened in front of us. Any minute now we were expecting a giraffe or an elephant popping by. Sorry, just freewheeling falcons and wild horses.
In the wetter West Sumba there were rice paddies galore. As we arrived just after the end of the Wet Season the rice harvest was in full swing, 
New house, new wife, dead relative, buffalos are to be sacrificed. Pigs were everywhere, under every house in the village. Big potbellied sows walking around jauntily through the village and across the road, little piglets playing together. Dogs, chickens and roosters rounded the picture, and in the absence of toys they were constant play toys for the boys.
In fact children on Sumba are likely one of the last free range kids in the world. In the whole time we were there we have not seen one single toy. Not even made out of wood. Sticks, stones, flowers, shells, sand, water. Typically they are also not mollycoddled, they work and help, too. Herding buffalos, washing horses, carrying water, wood and younger siblings. They go hungry at times and they are poor but they cry little and laugh a lot. Is it because they don’t want anything? They do not even know what to want. Outside of main towns there are no TVs, no advertising, no stores, nothing to buy. A few simple stalls here or there by the side of the road sell petrol by the bottle, some tomatoes or a few bunches of bananas. You bet those kids never complain when they get a bowl of rice and on a lucky day some dried fish on top of it.
With the houses dark and hot, all the life is lived outside. There is a lot of sitting around on the front porch and watching the world go by. Or Happily waving at us as we pass by.
Crazy Parents Travel 