Ken's Blog

Sofia. A city of open spaces, parks, bustling shopping streets. Modern facades amidst the older buildings. Plovdiv, once the capital, with its well kept old city on the hill above the new. Wide pedestrian areas, familiar high street names.

Very different in the rural towns and villages. A much more simple existence. Tough for many. A strong sense of community, the upholding of traditions such as the killing of the family pig for Christmas, and a willingness to share these with outsiders. Ignoring the pervasive spread of the mobile phone, some ressemblance with the UK thirty or forty years ago, maybe more. Fashions – clothing and hairstyles – a little more recent, perhaps early 80s.

I’d spent some time staying near the town of Elhovo in the eastern part of the country, close to the Turkish border. I’d expected to see some familiar supermarket chains. They’d already permeated across much of Europe and Bulgaria. But not here. Not yet. But they’d come. And soon. Consumerism was slowly replacing the material reminders of Communism. Bulgaria had joined the European Union.

But wherever you went in Bulgaria, a very hospitable people. Welcoming, friendly, always willing to share with others. Katyusha and her team at Outward Bound Bulgaria in Sofia. Julie and George, Zoya and Jack, Donka and George, Radka and Christopher, Mitko and his bike, Nicky, Nanette and Michael in the eastern hills. And many others. I’d loved it.

I’d joined Zoya and Jack, together with their family and friends, to experience a traditional Bulgarian Christmas celebration. Dinner in the afternoon was a communal affair, no plates, just forks, and an endless succession of dishes to dip into, all made using the family’s pig reared for the occasion. Ample home made wine and Rakia, the local firewater. With so many guests, the men sat around the table in one room, the women next door in the kitchen.

The day had started early with the traditional killing and then butchering of the family pig, as much a part of the festivities as the meal itself. The whole process took the best part of four hours, done outdoors with great skill, passed down from father to son. Nothing went to waste. Water was boiled in large cauldrons over open wood fires beside the house, used to help scrub the pig clean. Tasty morsels of meat for those busy stripping the carcass were prepared on a small grill, fuelled with the embers. Indoors, the women prepared dinner with the freshly cut meat.

After the meal, I’d returned to the house where I was staying, a few logs for the woodstove, phone calls to family and friends. Then back to Zoya and Jack’s. A chance to sample home made sausage, prepared earlier in the day entirely from various parts of the pig, and then slowly boiled. Tender. I ate a good few slices. Zoya seemed pleased.

Off next to Christopher and Radka’s house on the other side of the village. Thirty, perhaps forty, people in two small rooms, one the kitchen. Long tables arranged in the sitting room as if for a banquet. A small space was found for me next to Christopher, a jovial chap who’d been learning a little Welsh. I offered a few new phrases I’d learnt growing up in Wales, in between tucking into the meal Radka had presented me with. Keen to show my gratitude by eating a decent amount, I soon found myself presented with a second plateful.

I returned once more to the house where I was staying, thoroughly fed. The day had been a wonderful experience. But now it was time for more adventure. I’d been given a knitted woollen cap for Christmas, thoughtfully designed to be worn under my cycle helmet. I was ready.

[The author is indebted to Chris, Ruth, Alex and Emily for the very generous use of their home in Bulgaria, and with it the opportunity to experience traditional village life]

It appeared that the surgery doubled as a waiting room. At least, I hadn’t found one, and there were two women sat in the corner next to what I recognised as a dentist’s chair. I was fairly certain they weren’t dental assistants. Never moved. The dentist herself was left to wipe the instruments with what I hoped was antiseptic spray. No autoclave. Just a microwave in the corner. Probably for lunch.

I already knew they didn’t do local anaesthetic, and had toyed with bringing along some of my own. In the end I’d decided against it. Never mind the language difficulties, I’d a pretty good idea that inadvertent misuse of such drugs could be, at best, unwise. Besides, the dentist had been sufficiently unimpressed with my use of antibiotics. Not for dental treatment I was told. Not what the UK patient information sheet said, but probably best to leave it there.

Bit of tapping. Did it hurt? Had to concentrate. Bulgarians nod for no, shake their head for yes. I was very keen to get it right for once, reliant on word association. ’Ne’ means no, and I’d imagine a horse nodding as it ’Ne’d’. Inconclusive. I’d need an X-ray. But that would be in another town, forty or so kilometres away. Then treatment would be spread over five or so days.

Back outside I contemplated what to do next. Quite mild now. About minus five. I’d had some last minute emergency dental treatment done before I’d left for France, finally sorting out a problem that had niggled me all summer and which had eluded my own dentist. But that was with a very experienced surgeon and a well-equipped surgery. Here I sensed a lot of time and effort could be expended for little, if any, benefit. I’d already started a course of antibiotics and had plenty of painkillers. No need to rush into treatment I might come to regret. Istanbul was looking like my best bet. At least any X-rays would be within walking distance.

[Author’s note: My medical kit includes a number of drugs prescribed for personal use, and for which I have received specific training from UK medical professionals with extensive overseas expedition experience. Notwithstanding this, advice was sought from a very experienced dental surgeon before embarking on the course of antibiotics]

Emma’s low maintenance. One of the reasons I like her so much. But after close on five thousand miles this year, three thousand of which spent crossing Europe, a proper wash and brush up was in order. Fit winter tyres. Maybe even a bit of pampering. Actually, my plan was two-fold. Firstly, to see just exactly how well she’s wearing. That way I can re-assess my field kit, both the tools I carry and the spares outfit I hold. Secondly, in a way because she is just such low maintenance, an opportunity to refresh my own skills. Of course, working on Mitko’s bike had been a great help.

I’ve been busy compiling some pretty comprehensive notes – things I’ve learnt, problems I’ve solved – together with a detailed specification and parts inventory for Emma. Very helpful to me, and I hope to anyone else thinking of undertaking a similar venture. Quite a bit more time-consuming than I’d imagined, but I hope to make it available for download via the website shortly, if that’s your sort of thing.

Ordinarily I’d have done quite a bit of this before I’d left home, but simply ran out of time. That’s the trouble with going away for four years. Lots to do. Lots. And I was never going to miss my first goal, getting away on the chosen date.

Left brain, right brain. I can never remember. Whichever it is, I do struggle with languages. Not that I don’t try of course. But it’s definitely enthusiasm over ability. And quite a bit of smiling. Logically, and that’s more my thing, I should be able to do better. After all, met lots of people who speak English as a second language. And do so very well. I’d watched Julie, my guide and mentor here in the village, chat away with the Bulgarians. She’d moved here a few years ago and just got on with it. And, fair to say, like me, languages probably weren’t her thing at school. She’d shown me the art of the possible.

Time helps, provided you use that to immerse yourself into everyday life, learning to deal with the day-to-day challenges. Unfortunately, I’ve rarely been in a country for more than a few weeks, a month at the most. Turkey should be a bit different. Couple of months, maybe a bit more. And I’ve a decent phrase book to get me started. Much better than my small Eastern European one. Which did each one not very well, and skipped Serbian.

But South and Central America’s another matter. Spanish. For months. Reckon even I’ll become fairly proficient by the end. Myles, with whom I’d cycled from Sofia eastwards across Bulgaria, had spent some time living in South America and suggested it would be worth a month’s crash course, living with a Spanish speaking family. I’d liked the idea, and the costs sounded very reasonable.

But, for now, I was in Bulgaria. Julie had been helping me improve my pronunciation. ’Dobra den’ not ’Dobra dan’ for ’Good day’. But I’d steer clear of asking for the bill in a cafe. ’Smetka’ – ’The bill’ – can be easily mistaken for ’Smatka’ – ’Stupid’ – unless you’re very careful. Best left alone. Unless you want to say ’The bill, stupid’.