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Foreign tales of Bulgaria
Bulgaria: The Importance of Being Alf
Bulgaria: A Balkan country slightly larger than Tennessee, and yet spelled completely different. A country rich in rose oil, yogurt, and dead pigs sprawled on sawhorses getting blowtorched by large men in shiny nylon athletic suits. Birthplace of Spartacus. Birthplace of Orpheus. Birthplace of Christo, the artist that is gradually Saran-Wrapping the planet.
Much of Bulgaria is mountain and beautiful, and Bulgarians call it “The little piece of land God left for Himself.” Unfortunately, 68% of the population live in the cities, also called “The run-down eyesores God should sweep under the carpet.” Grim Communist-era apartment complexes line up like dominoes, all in need of pain, all with laundry flapping from their narrow balconies. Granite statues of high-ranking sycophants with stern expressions constitute the majority of public art, although cubist renderings of mash potatoes are also popular, adding a dash of gray concrete splendor to an otherwise gray concrete city. The dumpsters are full of feral cats, the streets are full of potholes, and the parks are full of giant funky-looking Alf dolls.
Alf is to Bulgaria what Jerry Lewis is to France. There are Alf stickers on the taxis parked on the sidewalks, old ladies wear “Nyama Problema!” t-shirts, and mafia thugs strut and spit outside of Café Melmacs, the alien life form’s home world.
But why Alf? Most histories agree the answer to this pressing question can be traced back to 1396, exactly 600 years ago. Ask any Bulgarian about their country’s turbulent history and they will surely tell you about the 500 years (1396-1878) that they were oppressed by the Turks. Say hello or ask for the time and they will tell you about the 500 years that they were oppressed by the Turks. They seem to be kind of upset about it. Compound the bad luck of border the Ottoman Empire with losing land in both World Wars and then having the Communists step into power. Next to the phrase “up shit creek,” there should be a picture of Bulgaria.
History has made Bulgaria a nation of self-reliant shut-ins. Outside might be Hieronymous Bosch but inside it’s Martha Stewart. They can fix, cook, grow, brew, and bootleg anything. Older generations pass down traditional skills like siphoning gas or lighting cigarettes without matches, often in the same lesson. Then they eat dinner for 6 hours and sing songs. But to a person they year for a secret they can lock away from the authorities, something to set them apart from he drab sameness. Alf personifies that. Nothing sets a family apart like a furry little space alien that eats cats. Also in Alf’s favor is the fact that he looks like a miniature replica of an old pagan tradition, the dreaded and drunk koukeri.
There are dozens of traditions and superstitions alive and well in Bulgaria. Solar flares are the cause of most headaches; guinea pigs can predict the future by nibbling on tarot cards, giving roses to your date may lead to romance, but flowers in even numbers are only for funerals, and a dozen roses will lead to a night of sobbing about the Uncle Stoyan’s untimely demise. The koukeri take tradition to a level of demented contact sport. In the early spring a Dionysian celebration called Trifon Zarezan begins that corresponds with the pruning of the grape leaves. The men get tanked up and put on hideous masks and big stinky outfits made out of goat fur. Then they sling cowbells around their waists, grab some big phallic sticks, and begin running around the countryside smacking people in the head. This drives away evil spirits, in which case all women in Bulgaria must be Linda Blair, because the koukeri pay special attention to them, often feeling the need to bear hug, shake, tickle, and grope those demons right out. It’s a pretty amazing spectacle; imagine Alf drunk at a Grateful Dead show, or herds of horny cross-dressing wookies on a rampage.
There is a bit of Bizarro World in Bulgaria, where the opposite of what you believe often turns out to be the custom. A bird shitting on you is considered good luck. Any fresh air moving through a room is deadly, so if you want a long life shut all the windows and chain smoke. Bananas are peeled from the bottom up, the stem used as a handle. Incidentally, bananas were impossible to buy for many years in Bulgaria, so comedies featuring the classic slip-on-a-banana-peel gag substituted watermelon rinds instead. Also Bulgarians nod their heads “no” and shake their heads “yes.” This accounts for lots of wacky misadventures with hapless foreigners. A Bulgarian wrings his hands and says, “I told him there wasn’t an elevator in the shaft, didn’t I?” and the crowd shakes their heads in agreement. In Northern Bulgaria people just sort of bobble their heads around like those little toy chihuahuas on the back dashboards of geriatric-driven Lincolns. It’s anybody’s guess what the hell they’re saying.
Bulgarians are hospitable to a fault, and it’s good to know phrases like “I’m pretty sure I have alcohol poisoning now” and “We’ve been sitting at this table for five days straight and my muscles are starting to atrophy.” The exception to this rule are the folks who are supposed to be nice, the waiters and waitresses, hotel receptionists and train conductors, basically the whole service industry that a tourist in Bulgaria will come in contact with. These people are perpetually doing crossword puzzles and would prefer you didn’t disturb them. They get real cranky when you do, and will help you at the speed of January molasses. Imagine Cruela Deville from 101 Dalmatians on smack. Imagine the hicks at the end of Easy Rider with menus instead of shotguns.
This is a real pity because Bulgaria has some pretty neat things to see: The Pirin, Rila, and Rhodope Mountains, the Black Sea, and quaint little mountain villages. These are places where you can get the feeling for the architecture and culture that once prevailed. In the village of Bansko the white-haired grandmothers wear ponytails saved from their youth attached under their scarves, a shiny black coil flowing down their backs as they limp along the cobblestones.
Some places should be visited for other reasons. The International Museum of Humor and Satire resides in the little town of Gabrovo north of the Balkan mountains. In this Bizarro World a pissed-off troll with a crossword puzzle (the guide) follows you from room to room, turning on and off the yellow florescent lights that rattle with age, keeping a close eye on you so that you won’t steal any of the displayed comedy gems. These include photographs of Iranians crossing their eyes and sticking out their tongues, and bored cats sitting in a tree with the caption “Crazy Cat Tree.” The fact that a museum of humor could be so unfunny is stunning until you realize it’s a museum of humor and satire, and maybe, just maybe, the museum is pulling off a very canny joke. Whatever the case, for the full effect go in the winter when the rooms are dim, the trolls at their grouchiest, and you can see your breathe while looking at cartoons of Hustler-esque quality.
Despite the museum and that weird Alf thing, Bulgarians traditionally have a great sense of humor, except it’s Slavic so it’s gallows humor and nobody can afford to buy a rope. Asked about the economy, and Bulgarians say: “We are drowning right on schedule.” About shortages: “Due to financial difficulties, the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off until further notice.” About politics: “The reason you never see a stamp with a Bulgarian President on it is that they never stick; people keep spitting on the wrong side.”
Bulgaria: The women are beautiful, the men are mechanically inclined, and the toilet paper feels like tree bark. A land of possibilities, where people take their windshield wipers off at night so they can’t possibly get stolen. A land that embraces America and all the cultural riches it has to offer: Camel, Marlboro, and Winston. A land rich in its own cultures and traditions, awaiting the intrepid traveler. So grab a backpack, clench a rose between your teeth, and put on an Alf t-shirt covered in pigeon shit. Just run like hell when you hear cowbells.
Joel Haskard
Seattle, Washington
Bulgaria: A Balkan country slightly larger than Tennessee, and yet spelled completely different. A country rich in rose oil, yogurt, and dead pigs sprawled on sawhorses getting blowtorched by large men in shiny nylon athletic suits. Birthplace of Spartacus. Birthplace of Orpheus. Birthplace of Christo, the artist that is gradually Saran-Wrapping the planet.
Much of Bulgaria is mountain and beautiful, and Bulgarians call it “The little piece of land God left for Himself.” Unfortunately, 68% of the population live in the cities, also called “The run-down eyesores God should sweep under the carpet.” Grim Communist-era apartment complexes line up like dominoes, all in need of pain, all with laundry flapping from their narrow balconies. Granite statues of high-ranking sycophants with stern expressions constitute the majority of public art, although cubist renderings of mash potatoes are also popular, adding a dash of gray concrete splendor to an otherwise gray concrete city. The dumpsters are full of feral cats, the streets are full of potholes, and the parks are full of giant funky-looking Alf dolls.
Alf is to Bulgaria what Jerry Lewis is to France. There are Alf stickers on the taxis parked on the sidewalks, old ladies wear “Nyama Problema!” t-shirts, and mafia thugs strut and spit outside of Café Melmacs, the alien life form’s home world.
But why Alf? Most histories agree the answer to this pressing question can be traced back to 1396, exactly 600 years ago. Ask any Bulgarian about their country’s turbulent history and they will surely tell you about the 500 years (1396-1878) that they were oppressed by the Turks. Say hello or ask for the time and they will tell you about the 500 years that they were oppressed by the Turks. They seem to be kind of upset about it. Compound the bad luck of border the Ottoman Empire with losing land in both World Wars and then having the Communists step into power. Next to the phrase “up shit creek,” there should be a picture of Bulgaria.
History has made Bulgaria a nation of self-reliant shut-ins. Outside might be Hieronymous Bosch but inside it’s Martha Stewart. They can fix, cook, grow, brew, and bootleg anything. Older generations pass down traditional skills like siphoning gas or lighting cigarettes without matches, often in the same lesson. Then they eat dinner for 6 hours and sing songs. But to a person they year for a secret they can lock away from the authorities, something to set them apart from he drab sameness. Alf personifies that. Nothing sets a family apart like a furry little space alien that eats cats. Also in Alf’s favor is the fact that he looks like a miniature replica of an old pagan tradition, the dreaded and drunk koukeri.
There are dozens of traditions and superstitions alive and well in Bulgaria. Solar flares are the cause of most headaches; guinea pigs can predict the future by nibbling on tarot cards, giving roses to your date may lead to romance, but flowers in even numbers are only for funerals, and a dozen roses will lead to a night of sobbing about the Uncle Stoyan’s untimely demise. The koukeri take tradition to a level of demented contact sport. In the early spring a Dionysian celebration called Trifon Zarezan begins that corresponds with the pruning of the grape leaves. The men get tanked up and put on hideous masks and big stinky outfits made out of goat fur. Then they sling cowbells around their waists, grab some big phallic sticks, and begin running around the countryside smacking people in the head. This drives away evil spirits, in which case all women in Bulgaria must be Linda Blair, because the koukeri pay special attention to them, often feeling the need to bear hug, shake, tickle, and grope those demons right out. It’s a pretty amazing spectacle; imagine Alf drunk at a Grateful Dead show, or herds of horny cross-dressing wookies on a rampage.
There is a bit of Bizarro World in Bulgaria, where the opposite of what you believe often turns out to be the custom. A bird shitting on you is considered good luck. Any fresh air moving through a room is deadly, so if you want a long life shut all the windows and chain smoke. Bananas are peeled from the bottom up, the stem used as a handle. Incidentally, bananas were impossible to buy for many years in Bulgaria, so comedies featuring the classic slip-on-a-banana-peel gag substituted watermelon rinds instead. Also Bulgarians nod their heads “no” and shake their heads “yes.” This accounts for lots of wacky misadventures with hapless foreigners. A Bulgarian wrings his hands and says, “I told him there wasn’t an elevator in the shaft, didn’t I?” and the crowd shakes their heads in agreement. In Northern Bulgaria people just sort of bobble their heads around like those little toy chihuahuas on the back dashboards of geriatric-driven Lincolns. It’s anybody’s guess what the hell they’re saying.
Bulgarians are hospitable to a fault, and it’s good to know phrases like “I’m pretty sure I have alcohol poisoning now” and “We’ve been sitting at this table for five days straight and my muscles are starting to atrophy.” The exception to this rule are the folks who are supposed to be nice, the waiters and waitresses, hotel receptionists and train conductors, basically the whole service industry that a tourist in Bulgaria will come in contact with. These people are perpetually doing crossword puzzles and would prefer you didn’t disturb them. They get real cranky when you do, and will help you at the speed of January molasses. Imagine Cruela Deville from 101 Dalmatians on smack. Imagine the hicks at the end of Easy Rider with menus instead of shotguns.
This is a real pity because Bulgaria has some pretty neat things to see: The Pirin, Rila, and Rhodope Mountains, the Black Sea, and quaint little mountain villages. These are places where you can get the feeling for the architecture and culture that once prevailed. In the village of Bansko the white-haired grandmothers wear ponytails saved from their youth attached under their scarves, a shiny black coil flowing down their backs as they limp along the cobblestones.
Some places should be visited for other reasons. The International Museum of Humor and Satire resides in the little town of Gabrovo north of the Balkan mountains. In this Bizarro World a pissed-off troll with a crossword puzzle (the guide) follows you from room to room, turning on and off the yellow florescent lights that rattle with age, keeping a close eye on you so that you won’t steal any of the displayed comedy gems. These include photographs of Iranians crossing their eyes and sticking out their tongues, and bored cats sitting in a tree with the caption “Crazy Cat Tree.” The fact that a museum of humor could be so unfunny is stunning until you realize it’s a museum of humor and satire, and maybe, just maybe, the museum is pulling off a very canny joke. Whatever the case, for the full effect go in the winter when the rooms are dim, the trolls at their grouchiest, and you can see your breathe while looking at cartoons of Hustler-esque quality.
Despite the museum and that weird Alf thing, Bulgarians traditionally have a great sense of humor, except it’s Slavic so it’s gallows humor and nobody can afford to buy a rope. Asked about the economy, and Bulgarians say: “We are drowning right on schedule.” About shortages: “Due to financial difficulties, the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off until further notice.” About politics: “The reason you never see a stamp with a Bulgarian President on it is that they never stick; people keep spitting on the wrong side.”
Bulgaria: The women are beautiful, the men are mechanically inclined, and the toilet paper feels like tree bark. A land of possibilities, where people take their windshield wipers off at night so they can’t possibly get stolen. A land that embraces America and all the cultural riches it has to offer: Camel, Marlboro, and Winston. A land rich in its own cultures and traditions, awaiting the intrepid traveler. So grab a backpack, clench a rose between your teeth, and put on an Alf t-shirt covered in pigeon shit. Just run like hell when you hear cowbells.
Joel Haskard
Seattle, Washington
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