Biser emBraces
Saturday, October 3rd, 2009Biser, Bulgaria
We’ve been here a week and haven’t even walked through the village. Unheard of for us! But in some ways it didn’t matter where we were right now – just had to be off Schengen territory and preferably somewhere kids could hang out while we got the vans in tip-top shape. Biser (pronounced bisser) provided both, and more.
So this morning I head out of the gate and off for a walk with some of the kids….
…..and we are drawn into village life.
We stop to watch an old man lead his donkey and cart towards the road. When he reaches us he stops to connect and let the kids pat the donkey.
A little further up the road, a lady is sweeping the footpath and I snap a quick pic of her. When we reach her and say our “dobry den” (good day), she clasps my arm and quite literally pulls me in to view her gorgeous flower-filled garden. When I ask to take a photo, she removes her apron, smooths her hair and poses in front of the laden pear tree, calling for her daughter and grandson to come out and meet us (multi-generational living is not uncommon in Bulgaria).
Across the street, and right next door to the flowering oasis yards are disguised under high-growing weeds, houses falling to pieces. Actually, the greater part of the village is like that, but then there are pockets of beauty that spill right out past the courtyard walls to the street.
In a village that is mostly tumbledown, there is also an intriguing very-out-of-place tudor house.
A man called Dr Jenkins and his Bulgarian wife moved to England, where they had a son. Tragically the son was killed, and in their grief they returned to Biser to build a memorial for him. The house is uninhabited (the parents went back to England) and it is now a mixed memorial to the boy and to Biser history.
Actually, there’s a bit of death round here. We are intrigued at the number of houses with death announcements attached to the gate. In such a small village, you would not expect so much death.
Across the road from the tudor house, this Saturday morning two old ladies are deep in conversation, but when I glance with a smile in their direction they draw us in. It still amazes me how much you can converse with someone when you speak none of their language. And quickly you find yourself echoing words they understand. This would be a fantastic place to learn the language. People stand around in the streets chatting, and readily invite you into their conversations. Almost every house has a bench of some description (usually *decrepit* would be the right word, but I took a picture of the one nice arrangement of seats that we stumbled across) parked on the footpath, for the express dual purpose of watching the world go by and talking with neighbours.
They sit, chat and then move up the street to another bench, another friend. Two old men invite us to sit with them. As I understand it, I have done the spiel about having eight children and coming from New Zealand and no I don’t speak Bulgarian, but I have agreed that yes I speak English and so one man ambles off to find someone who can also speak English. We wait. And wait. I don’t understand a word of what the remaining man says – his lack of teeth and almost-permanently-closed mouth do not exactly make for clear speech. I start doubting. Maybe he didn’t say to wait. Maybe he’s gone home for lunch. Maybe I kicked him off his bench. And then Elena arrives. She does, indeed, speak English and before long we are all invited for coffee tomorrow at five.
(this is not Elena and she does not speak a word of English either – she
stops to talk while we are waiting and waiting and waiting)
We continue our walk, passing normal Saturday morning activities – old ladies are out shopping, men stack firewood, children play in the sandy footpaths, one family sits outside plucking and gutting half a dozen chickens, a handful of cars pass us, and just as many horses-or-donkeys-and carts too. We walk through the town square, a large open deserted area. Off to the side is the school, empty today, but in use during the week. It’s a big grey forboding falling-apart communist era building. The Bulgarian orthodox church, survived communism, but only just.
Now we have much more of a feel for the place we have planted ourselves in for a couple of weeks. We are amazed at how welcome we feel.
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rayres