mark jackson. serving time in bulgaria. letting you know about it.
"Not all those who wander are lost." [J.R. Tolkien]

Monday, March 21, 2005

If I told you to jump off a bridge, would you? Of course.


This past Saturday I was lured to Veliko Turnovo (about two hours away from Shoumen) with promises of Kenyan food and a gathering of Peace Corps folks. Once I got in town, I was supposed to meet up with a couple friends at the bridge and then we would head over to the apartment.

While I was waiting at the bridge, I couldn’t keep my eyes from the bungee rig. It wasn’t ever really a question. The price was right (about 8 dollars) and before I knew it, I was filling out a waver form. One of the questions was weight – in kilograms. My first reaction was, ‘nosey Bulgarians, why do you care how much I weigh?’

It is common to have people ask your weight, age, salary, etc… and that is one of the cultural differences that still gets to me occasionally. Luckily, before I scribbled down a half thought out, rough estimate of my weight in kilograms, I realized accuracy was critical. Weight determined rope length. Rope length determined if I hit the river below me or not. I did the math a couple of times before I wrote down an answer.


With that disaster averted, I got strapped in. The dreadlocked and long haired duo that made up the ‘staff’ seemed competent enough. To be honest, I just wanted to make sure they were sober and the straps were on tight. Really, really tight.

Once I was all clipped in, I stood on the railing and just let myself fall forward. Free fall, not breathing followed by a quick yank.

One thing that I didn’t really think about was how close to the bridge you get on your bounce up. As you are rocketing upwards, a little alarm goes off in your head and I was sure I was going to smash into the bottom of the bridge. After you realize you won’t hit the metal, it gets even more fun; as you are bouncing around, you can do flips and flail your limbs around. After a couple minutes, you are pulled back up to the bridge.


With my feet on solid concrete, the dreadlocked girl stopped me from climbing over the railing and said, ‘10 leva’ to go again – just over 5 bucks. ‘Of course,’ is my reply. After the onlookers heard I was going to do it again, they all kept saying the Bulgarian word for ‘surprise.’ Surprise?!? I think ‘surprise’ is the second worse thing I could have heard at that moment (the first being ‘whoops’). Turns out the surprise was for me to lean back and the dreadlocked one would hold my wrists. She would determine my fall.

Once we had that cleared up, I agreed and leaned back. With my eyes close, I waited for the drop. She told me, ‘No, no, no. Look at me. Look at….’ The second I opened my eyes, she let go. Tricky.

Gut jumps, free fall, no air… yank. While I was bouncing around, I completed a couple of flips. And, as quick as it had started, I was standing on the bridge. It was all over.

After that, we went to the apartment and feasted on Kenyan food – really good, by the way. And, perhaps the best part was that on Sunday I only had a two hour bus ride home. I was in my apartment at noonish.

Hope all is well,
Mark

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Friday, March 18, 2005

Sorry St. Paddy

Last night was a flop. It had all the ingredients for being a great night: St. Patrick’s Day + an Irish Pub + Green flip flops. So, what more does an expat need?

I guess the answer to that is: people. No one had a clue it was St. Paddy’s. No pinches for lack of green, no green beer, nothing. We walked in to ‘Ulysses’ – the Shoumen Irish joint - and it was deadly quiet. A few tables of people who were just beering work worries away and a light bar staff.

Myself and a couple other Americans sat down and ordered a few Becks – because the bottles were green – and sat around for what hopefully will be the lamest St. Paddy’s I will ever endure.

So, to my friends in the land of the free, I hope you enjoyed toasting to the Emerald Isle and put enough back for the both of us. Cheers.

~~~~~

Completely different note, there is a site for Peace Corps Bulgaria folks to share pictures. Here are a few of mine: http://upcbpg.blogspot.com/2005/03/mark-l-jackson.html
And, here is the site in general: http://upcbpg.blogspot.com

--Mark
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Friday, March 11, 2005

They came with bells on.



Four day weekend, House in the mountains, Pagan festival, greatness.

For the last however many blogs, I have griped about the traveling. The bus, train stations, waits, stop and go, no sleep travel. You get the picture. It took me well over 12 hours to get where I was going. But, worth it – it was.

~~~~~

The cabin (which was free somehow) was amazing: big, three floors, bay window over looking the snowcapped coniferous trees and mountain peaks. Real wood floors and real glass glasses. Well, la di da. The fact that the place did not have heat, water, and the electricity was totally unreliable couldn’t beat the fact that it had a bay window. It also had enough beds for the mob of us – no floor for me this weekend. Sometimes it’s just the simple things.


For two nights and a day, we worked hard at emptying the town of its grocery stock (the village was not really ready). Unfortunately, the walk to town involved hiking up/down a couple of hills – in the snow – that were steep enough to turn back sherpas. Trips for wood were painful. And, I was wearing clogs – on the theory that they were better than sandals. (Side, funny note: a buddy pulled me aside at some point during all this to tell me, ‘man, the story of your life is inappropriate footwear’. True.) I never stopped seeing my breath all weekend.

Once well stocked with wood, food (that didn’t need electricity or water to cook), and drinks. We settled in to kill time till the festival on Sunday. Thanks to one guy, the theme music became an awesome Jazz CD on repeat. This place was not a hip hop scene.

~~~~~

Sunday morning came in a hurry and we had to rush to catch the minibus to take us to the festival. The festival of fertility – I think that is what it was for (pathetic, I know) – was awesome. Drums beating, assorted grilled street meats, homemade wines were mixed in with musty, furry costumes worn by musty, furry men. The bells on their belts made sure that there was not a moment of peace.



Guns don't kill people.
Eight year-old kids on roofs
with hand-cannons do.
One added benefit of going to this is that I am pretty sure I am not due for a heart attack any time soon (insert: pagan wood knock) for two reasons.
One: people were firing guns off at frequent, irregular intervals. The instinct to run slowly melts to an instinct to duck, which fades to a mild cringe, and finally you just make eye contact with a buddy, smirk and say, ‘this is crazy’ or ‘what are we doing here, man?’.

Two: I jumped into a river. It should be noted that this village is in the mountains, it is March, and I had to run across snow to get to the river. This requires more explanation:



Me, getting dunked.
At the end of the whole shebang, there is a hay hut with a guy inside. They light the hut on fire, with the guy inside. In some sort of faux rescue they drag the guy out and toss him in the river. Well, as word circulated that people would be in the river (and perhaps more importantly that people would be watching the people in the river), a few of us discussed joining them. And, in a mix of group-think plus burst of blissful youthfulness, I joined. It was great. One of the locals was even nice enough to dunk me completely under.

Post river, I danced the horo (the traditional thing that is always coming up) in the streets with a ton of other people. We celebrated, grin permanently painted on, clothes more than damp, clogs slipping on and off, and not totally sure what we were celebrating. It was good.





After all this, it was: taxi, hike, taxi, wait 1 hour, bus, wait 4 hours, train, wait 2 hours, train, taxi, home. Tired.

Monday: work.

Hope all is well,
Mark


[Special thanks to PCV James Tully for the pictures.
I forgot my camera at home. Shocker, I know.]

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Wednesday, March 02, 2005

On the road again, again.

In honor of the Liberation of Bulgaria, we have both Thursday and Friday off. [Liberation from whom; I am not sure: the Turkish, the Germans, The Soviets?]

To take advantage of the four day weekend, we are going to try and participate in an annual Kokori Festival. Again, transportation is reaching epic status. It looks like it will be an hour taxi ride, a 6.5 hour train ride, a 3 hour bus ride, and then we will have to hitch-hike the last part. These are the times you really wish Peace Corps would let us drive cars. I will make sure to take pictures and put them up.

Be well,
Mark
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Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Happy Baba Marta!


The Bulgarian holidays strike again. Baba (grandma) Marta (taken from the month March) falls on March 1st every year and is the start of a nationwide vigil for the end of winter.
The entire country puts on little red and white strings (martinizas) and waits until they see a Stork; this signifies the start of spring. Once you see the stork, you put your little string on a tree branch or under a rock – for good luck.
I spent the afternoon at the Orphanage. There, baba marta made a special appearance and gave the children each a martiniza as well as a traditional bread with honey.
If you are really interested in the holiday, here is a good article. [link]


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