A Few Words About ‘Yes’ and ‘No’

Bulgaria and Greece lie right next to each other. For some reason, this led me to believe they would have more in common besides a shared claim on Macedonia. What I found instead were two very different countries, cultures, cuisines, ethnicities, and languages.

 

Bulgarian montage.

In Bulgarian, as in many other Slavic languages, da means yes and ne means no. This much is straightforward. Where the confusion begins is the accompanying head movement. Bulgarians shake their heads from side to side to indicate da and nod their heads to indicate ne. Even after a few weeks in the country, I found myself befuddled by this.

Dancing the hora at a Bulgarian wedding

But the confusion began in earnest when I arrived in Greece and found that ohi means no and ne means yes. So in Greece, when someone nods her head and says “Ne”, she’s indicating an affirmative, whereas in Bulgaria, the same word and the same head movement mean exactly the opposite.

Durian. In January. In Bulgaria.

My love for and obsession with durian is no secret. Let me share with you my excitement after one of the friends I was traveling with returned from a short trip to China with an extra special present for me.

29/01/2011

Krushevo, Bulgaria

Well, well, well journal. You'll never believe what happened yesterday. I think only caps lock can truly express my feelings on this matter. DANIEL CAME BACK FROM CHINA AND GUESS WHAT HE BROUGHT ME?! HE BROUGHT ME DURIAN! DURIAN ALL THE WAY FROM CHINA! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT! I'M GOING TO EAT DURIAN IN BULGARIA IN JANUARY! LIFE! AM I RIGHT?!

He brought it back for me in a vacuum seal and had spent hours over the span of a few days searching and searching for my durian. Amazing. This may push him over the top into the best gift giver I have ever met. First the headphones, which I really did need, and now DURIAN! DURIAN IN BULGARIA IN JANUARY!

31/01/2011

This morning I ate the aforementioned durian for breakfast. Oh, it was a glorious morning—a morning that started with durian can only be glorious, no? Though I had hoped to help Lily, Yan, and Tracy [Lily and Yan were my workaway hosts and Tracy, along with Daniel was one of my traveling companions] all try their first taste of my favorite fruit, the timing hadn't worked out, so only Tracy was around to try durian for her first time that morning. Daniel seemed convinced she would throw up even after smelling the fruit, but I thought that was preposterous. Tracy didn't like jackfruit, though, so I didn't expect that she would be a durianphile. But we were both wrong.

Tracy took her first bite and as she ate it, she looked thoughtful. “It’s better than jackfruit,” she declared as soon as she had processed the experience. “I think I like it,” she remarked after having a bit more time to mull everything over. And soon she was saying, “This is delicious!” as I clapped my hands in joy. With every bite, her devotion became more intense, her understanding of my obsession became more profound. It was such a delight for me to have someone to share my durian love with. And Tracy really did begin to share that love.

We spoke of its taste—a bright, almost bubbly, fermented hit of acid first, followed by a burst of sweetness, then a rich, creamy finish and potent, garlicky aftertaste. And Tracy spoke the idea I had often expressed of comparing durian, in its complexity and variety, to wine. I told her of the World Durian Festival I would likely be attending in Chanthaburi, Thailand in May, of all-you-can-eat durian buffets in Malaysia where you get a chance to try several distinct varieties of durian side-by-side, of the vegan coconut milk and durian ice cream I had found in Bangkok, and of my favorite of all Thai desserts—sticky rice (not with mango!) with durian. Perfection! Sweet coconut sticky rice topped with ripe durian and a salted thick coconut cream and sprinkled with crunchy fried yellow mung beans for a wonderful textural touch. Perfection!

Though there were only two pods of durian, I was more than happy, nay, I was thrilled to share it with someone who could appreciate the fruit (the king of fruit) like I could. What a pleasure to watch Tracy become increasingly addicted, fall increasingly in love with durian. How wonderful now to have someone to obsess over it with! Even minutes after taking her first bite, she began talking of going to southeast Asia next, almost purely for durian.

It was a beautiful morning. I could smell the durian on my fingers and could taste it each time I burped. But more precious than all was the experience of sharing something I love with someone and watching her begin to love it as well.

Cabbage Again?

Eat seasonally. Eat locally.

While it is wonderful that developed nations are rediscovering the notion of eating in season and eating locally produced food, the reality is that most of the world eats this way by necessity. Food out of season and food that is imported is generally prohibitively expensive. And though I can afford to pay the higher price, wherever I go, I eat what is in season and abundant. There are two good reasons for this: the food is cheaper and tastier.

It's not always easy though.

When I was in southeast Asia, this meant eating no apples, grapes, or leeks. In Istanbul, it meant buying no soymilk. Everywhere

Photo courtesy of Nathan Edgerton

I've been it has meant no pecans. And here in Bulgaria in mid-winter, it means I am becoming very conversant with cabbage.

I can list the varieties of fruit and veg available in the Gotse Delchev, Bulgaria market on my hands. Cabbage (red and green), carrots, leeks (rapidly fading), onions, potatoes, apples, oranges, beet root, pumpkins and kiwis. If I see anything else when I go into the town on market day I am surprised by the abundance!

Luckily, cabbage is a versatile vegetable. Lately, I've been eating it in sauerkraut, stuffed with rice, sauteed with rosemary and red wine, curried with black mustard seeds and coriander, smothered with lutinitsa (a tomato and pepper spread), and my favorite, eaten raw. I've been eating a variation of cabbage salad just about every day for lunch. With a rotating cast of shredded carrots, beets, raw pumpkin, oranges, onions, and garlic, the salad has stayed interesting for now. Talk to me in a few weeks, though!

The real advantage of eating this way is that it keeps me in the moment, in the present, in my current country. Instead of missing and thinking about food I ate in another part of the world, food that is difficult to find where I am now, I focus on the delicious specialties of the region I am in. So while it would be tempting for me to reminisce about mangoes, lemongrass, and dragonfruit, I am delighted to focus instead on the culinary wonders of Bulgarian winters—jams, pickles, oranges, leeks, sunflower seeds, pumkpin banitsa, and, of course, cabbage.

Side Effects of Decreased Smoking

Sheep graze in the empty tobacco fields near Krushevo.

There are two main sources of income in Krushevo—fashioning tiles out of the local stone and tobacco farming. As it is all over the world, the latter enterprise is really suffering. Fortunately for the health of everyone, smoking is on the decline, but unfortunately for our tobacco farmers in Krushevo, this means a decrease in demand.

In the past, the Bulgarian government has subsidized tobacco so farmers could continue to make a decent living. But this year the government stopped providing that subsidy. So even last year, many farmers received 8 or 9 Leva per kilo of dried tobacco leaves while this year their compensation has dropped to 3 Leva per kilo. I'm sure I don't need to point out that that is a massive difference.

For many villagers in Krushevo, and likely in towns and villages all over Bulgaria, tobacco farmer has been the primary source of income for years, indeed many people don't know any other way to make money. But with the lack of government subsidy, clearly this will need to change.

These open sheds are drying racks for the harvested tobacco.

This long-winded introduction is all a prelude to the events of today. We drove a few of the villagers into the nearest town, Gotse Delchev, where they and a few thousand other tobacco farmers shut down a major highway as they marched in protest.

It was a stirring sight to see so many men in their drab black and navy blue tracksuits and women in their floral trousers and headscarves gathering and marching together in peace and solemnity, yet I couldn't help but wonder what exactly they hoped to accomplish? Renewed subsidies at the expense of the government and, by extension, the Bulgarian people? What, specifically, were they protesting? A worldwide decline in demand for their tobacco? I'm not sure that trend is going to change. So while my emotions were high as I watched thousands of people struggle against tough economic changes, I couldn't help but feel pessimistic about their chances. As the Chinese proverb says, only the most adaptable survive.

For a bit more information on this protest, check this link.

Preserving Food for Winter in Bulgaria

Though I've been away from the U.S. for over two years now (seems infinitely longer and simultaneously shorter. You know what I'm sayin') I still like to keep my finger on the pulse of some American trends. Maybe that's not quite accurate. Might be better to say I occasionally take a peek (“cop a squiz” as an Aussie friend says. Am I getting that right?) at the finger that is on the pulse. Anyhow, what I'm saying is that I get it. Cupcakes are out. Pie is in. I get it.

Besides the trendiness of baked goods, I've also noticed a trend toward canning, pickling, and fermenting. I suppose this was a natural progression from eating more locally considering that many parts of the U.S. do not have access to much that's fresh during the winter months. So now those trendy folks are doing what their grandmothers likely did: canning and preserving.

Yes, yes Sarah. But how does this belong in a your travel blog? Well it happens that I first became more closely acquainted with pickling and canning right here in eastern Europe when I stayed with a Romanian man in Bucharest and helped him prepare his giant containers of pickles for the winter. I also helped him eat up some of his sour cherry preserves—a tough task.

Now I find myself in the mountains of southern Bulgaria, a region that enjoys its sauerkraut, pickled peppers, preserved plums, and lutinitsa (a smoky pepper and tomato spread). Though I'm staying with and volunteering for a transplanted British couple, Lily and Yan, Lily is a prolific canner, preserver, and pickler so I'm still able to take part in this tradition, albeit through an English lens. This means the emphasis is off sauerkraut and more on marmalades and jams.

Let me give you a tour through Lily's pantry.

Recognize my handwriting? This is a beautiful chili red onion marmalade that I helped make shortly before Christmas. You can't see it from here, but it has the most beautiful pinkish red hue.

Lines of jarred cherries stored since the cherry glut last summer.

The obligatory shelf of marmalades, including lemon, orange, grapefruit, and mixed.

Shelf of chutneys, including apple, tomato, peach, quince (my favorite), and quince apple.

Jars of peaches from the summer glut.

Lily makes and jars some unusual jams like gooseberry, persimmon, and (my favorite) drenki, a wild, sour cherry with a very intense flavor.

Melodies and Memories: Bozdag's Theme

This is Bozdag. He is a karakachan, or Bulgaria sheep dog, a large livestock protection breed. He has taken it upon himself to escort us, the volunteers, every night to the house we sleep in on the other side of the village. He then sleeps outside our door and escorts us back in the morning.

Besides his penchant for herding, his most notable characteristic is his boundless energy. I do mean boundless. He is ready to play anytime and has a tendency to hop and bound through the snow like an over-sized bunny rabbit.

And this is the theme song that plays constantly in Bozdag's head, which may explain why, as he jumps and bounds and tears at clothing, he is unable to hear the cries of "No, Bozdag! No!"

My Imminent Engagement and Turkish Connection

A common language is magic. It opens up worlds that were previously inaccessible, landscapes that were previously unseen.

My Turkish has served me well. Though I've forgotten a lot of vocabulary and grammar since I lived in Istanbul in mid-2009, I've had the opportunity to use and practice my Turkish all over the world.

At the Halal Indian restaurant in Phnom Penh, I heard Turkish being spoken and invited myself to join the speakers, two men who worked at the Zaman language school. They offered me a chance to practice speaking Turkish as well as a job at Zaman. I appreciated both offers, but only took them up on the latter.

While hitchhiking in Hungary, I began to notice that several of the kamyons had Turkish license plates and while I didn't target them specifically, I sent out a silent request, and sure enough, a Turkish driver pulled over for me. Our common language was Turkish, and through it I was able to communicate basics about myself--where I was going, where I had been--and learn about him and his family in return. He bought me çay and offered me lunch, explaining that while I was in his truck, I was his guest. As we were parting, he pressed a 20 Euro note into my hand, and though I repeatedly refused, telling him thank you but I couldn't accept it, he insisted. I walked away with tears in my eyes.

How excited I was, after ten months in southeast Asia, to hear Turkish in the markets in Skopje, Macedonia. When I asked, "Türkçe biliyor musunuz?" and the market seller replied, "Tabii!" a giant grin spread across my face and I felt a sense of home.

Most recently, while staying in the small village of Krushevo in the southern mountains of Bulgaria, I have found and/or been found by the two Turkish speakers in a village of 250 inhabitants. The first, an elderly cross-eyed man, broke into a wide, gapped grin when I began speaking to him. And what a delight it was for me to finally be able to communicate first-hand with someone from the village! The man asked me if I was a maiden or if I was married, and upon hearing my answer, invited me to marry one of Krushevo's many bachelors and settle in the village. "We'll see," I responded. "Only Allah knows."

As if on cue, the next Turkish speaker I met was one of the afore-mentioned bachelors--a blond-haired, blue-eyed, high-cheekboned young man--who was training to become the village's next imam. We flirted very modestly while my friend Tracy looked at us and raised her eyebrows suggestively. He invited me to drink çay with him, "beraber" (together). We'll see. Only Allah knows.

Hitchhiking Tales. Paragliding in Bulgaria, Hated in Bosnia, Brass Band in Croatia

The following is an excerpt from a series of emails I sent to a friend while hitching through eastern Europe:

Piotr and I just said goodbye this morning. He's heading for Poland and right now I'm thinking of staying a day or two in Belgrade.

We started from Istanbul then to Bulgaria where we stayed with a group of people who run a sports outfitter called Extreme Bulgaria. They do all kinds of extreme sports. They took us biking and skinnydipping in an ice-cold lake, then on the last day we went paragliding! It was my second time ever and was so so beautiful. And then to Sofia, and on to Belgrade. It's a cool city, got a great vibe. But my favorite place yet was Sarajevo. Wow. Simply stunning mix of mosques with Catholic and Orthodox churches. Bosnia is an absurdly beautiful country.

In Bosnia we got picked up by a guy who took us home and his sister fed us. That was before he found out I was American! When I went out of the room, he turned to Piotrek and said "Polska good. American..." and made a throat-slitting motion! Eek! But his sister adored me and gave me a big jar of ajvar--a spread made with red peppers, tomatoes, and aubergines.

Piotrek's a good guy, but it was funny how little we have in common. He's anti-abortion, anti-gay, anti-feminist! Haha, my opposite.

Hitching alone was easy peasy. I got a great ride in a sleek, swift new black Mercedes which took me all the way to Zagreb in no time flat. He was going 160 the whole time. Awesome.

Tomorrow I leave for Budapest. That's the plan. Hitching alone again! Tonight to a big music festival to hear Kocani Orkestar play! (They play great brass Balkan music, a whole orchestra.)

I made hummus :) And I've been biking a lot through these little Croatian villages, filled with grapes and huge red apples and dogs that bark at me as I pass. And the people in the cars that pass me are jealous because I'm riding a beautiful black bike and singing as loud as I can and filled with so much happiness I think I might burst.

This happens to me: I'm sitting or walking or doing anything really, and then I feel some physical expansion in my heart, like my heart opens up and face itches and has to smile and I feel so much warmth and bliss and true happiness. And I just want to kiss everyone and everything!

I met a girl tonight and we might hitch together. But I just don't know, I get a weird feeling about it. I almost think it might be better to continue alone. You know how I feel about women.

In Zagreb I saw Kocani Orkestar play and danced with a guy who kept clutching at his heart as if in pain over how much the music moved him. In Bulgaria, Piotrek and I hitched with a guy who we think was a mobster. He owned a casino and the cops tried to stop him on the road, but then recognized him and let him pass. And you would be proud of me I think because on the way to Budapest, I hitched with a guy who tried to feel me up, but as soon as he touched my thigh, I just said, quite forcefully, "No." And he stopped and said something in Croatian, probably something along the lines of "It was worth a try!"

And Budapest has these clubs, these underground cellar-like clubs filled with mismatched retro furniture and kids who think they're so fucking cool. Then there's me, in my stinky shoes and tie-dye hippie shirt but no matter because I dance and close my eyes when I dance because it's just for me. I'm not trying to impress anybody. And I let my fucking boobs hang out and jump up and down until they both hurt from bouncing, but I can't stop jumping and smiling and closing my eyes. But why is it that men I'm not interested in want to dance and grind with me? I just jump and dance away from them. This girl I met tonight said I have an energy and that's why I meet perverts. Maybe she's right, I mean you know me, I'm always horny and thinking about sex. So maybe people can pick up on that, even though I don't realize I'm putting it out there.

I think my next stop will be through Serbia, Macedonia, Albania, then Greece and back to Turkey. Then I will fly either to Hong Kong or Delhi. I'm leaning towards Delhi because I have cousins there. But who knows.

Father Christmas is Drunk Again!

In Bulgaria, the traditional Christmas Eve Feast is vegetarian and features only an odd number of dishes: seven, nine, eleven. When giving flowers, it is also crucial to only give an odd number of stems. Even numbers are reserved for the dead.

The women in Bulgaria are beautiful, if overly made up. They seem obsessed with shoes and you can often find them teetering through cobbled streets and even dancing in the mud in their stilettos. When walking down muddy streets, you can follow their tint indented tracks, which look like the impression made by a small walking stick.

Chocolates play an important social role, often in the breaking of bad news. In Bulgaria, if you take down a box of chocolates and offer one to a friend, that friend will likely ask you, with a pained, worried expression, what has happened. "Is everything all right?"


Last Christmas, in the nearest town, our Workaway hosts Lily and Yan observed the Christmas morning festivities in the town square. All the young children of the town gathered around in anticipation when the announcer appeared and told the children that Father Christmas was on his way, but "as usual, he is drunk on Rakia". Father Christmas then stumbled onto the stage just as a stray dog did the same. With his staff, FC chased after the dog, trying to beat it off the stage. he then addressed the children, telling them he had their gifts in his bag but that they shouldn't expect too much, what with the global crisis going on. He then handed out said gifts in bags plastered with mildly pornographic images of naked women. Merry Christmas! Vesela Koleda!