Christopher Buxton | Christopher Buxton

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An Outsider’s guide to Bulgarian politics

April 15, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

A politician is an arse upon which everybody has sat except a man

e.e. cummings

With parliamentary elections looming in Bulgaria, the hot air of increasingly violent debate will leave most Bulgarians cold. There seems little credible alternative to an ailing sleaze ridden government.

Ask politicians why they went into politics and in all countries you’ll get the same altruistic answer – something along the lines of improving the lot one’s fellow man. In the UK most still judge politicians on their competence rather than their venality. In the US ideology is still a key criterion. Bulgarians are much more cynical and view all their politicians as pigs jostling at the trough.

Popular wisdom is that for the first seventeen years following the fall of the Berlin Wall, snouts were guzzling state resources and since 2007 the substantial subsidies provided by the EU.

Amid continuous tales of routine corruption, ministerial links with organized crime and a voting system that bolsters patronage and ensures a disproportionate influence of minority parties over government, it is hardly surprising that many Bulgarians have lost faith in democracy and see politicians as irrelevant to their everyday lives.

Partly to blame is the Bulgarian system of proportional representation. This has resulted in elections where electors are faced with lists of unfamiliar names rather than identifiable personalities. Once the election is over the horse trading begins, party ideologies are forgotten and the most unlikely coalitions emerge. The egregious example is the latest triple coalition of Socialists, Royalists and Turks.

The middle classes in Bulgaria struggle on in the hope that the unfairness of a corrupt system will not affect them too closely. They moan about the system, pay the bribes and get on with their lives. According to surveys they have been at least until recently fairly confident about their individual futures in a country where the corollary of ineffective government is considerable tax evasion.

Do Bulgarians feel more comfortable with stupid politicians?

In the hundred and thirty odd years since Bulgaria emerged from Turkish rule, it would be fair to say that democracy has been largely a charade. People can forget that immediately before the forty five years of communism, there were long periods of repressive Tsarist rule – most notably from 1926 when a military coup resulted in the murders of 5000 people, suppression of popular parties and an eventual alliance with Hitler.

In the history of Bulgaria since 1878, there have been very few politicians who deserve the title of statesman – all of these met violent ends. Stambolov, Stamboliski and Nikola Petkov are good examples. The few communists who might still claim Georgi Dimitrov as a statesman believe he was murdered on the orders of Stalin.

In contrast the model and benchmark for all aspiring Bulgarian politicians has to be Europe’s longest serving Communist leader and national joke, Todor Zhivkov. Admittedly supported by the state terror system constructed by his Stalinist predecessors, he was still the ideal politician for the time when every thinking person knew the truth but dared not speak it.

How much better to be reconciled to a shitty system than to have as your leader someone you could at least laugh at? And with pseudo democracy and the popularity of cheap satire this tradition continues.

Following Zhivkov’s fall the first democratic president was a dwarf in a wrinkled suit with very dubious claims to having been a dissident. Former king and more recently Prime Minister Simeon Saksokoborgotski not only laboured under a stupid name but was famous for his inability to tell the time or date – especially following his promise to put Bulgaria right in eight hundred days. The current Prime Minister Socialist Sergei Stanishev born and educated in Russia used to wear a biker’s leather jacket with the legend: “if you can read this, Elena has fallen off the back of the bike.” This lame attempt at humour has not enhanced the figure he cuts at international conferences where he hovers like the guest invited by mistake.

Nostalgia and Nationalism – key levers in popular vote

An inescapable demographic is key to understanding the puzzling success of certain parties in elections since 1990. Bulgaria has an ageing population. The birth rate is high only among the distinct Turkish speaking and gypsy communities. A large number of enterprising highly qualified young people have emigrated.

A sufficiently significant proportion of older voters can be persuaded to look at the past through rose-coloured spectacles – to a time when they fell in love, brought up children, got their first Lada and danced to Hotel California. They had secure undemanding jobs could call an ambulance every time they felt queasy and believed the crime rate was low because police could beat up thieves.

Since 1990 the factories closed. The Health System crumbled. Pensions will not cover heating bills in the winter. Press freedom brought scary crime stories. Looking for the certitudes of their youth, most pensioners vote for the BSP – the party formed by the Communists in 1990.

If older voters don’t vote BSP they are likely to vote for Ataka, the extreme nationalist party. Its leader, Volen Ziderov follows Mussolini in his espousal of extra-parliamentary action. With his shock of white hair and set expression of outrage, he is often to be seen scrambling to the top of a car, megaphone in hand, to address large crowds of supporters. Ataka depends on the paranoia and hurt national pride of the majority population. Its supporters readily believe in a version of history where Bulgaria has been the victim of some monstrous conspiracy. Sinister anti Semitism has for the time being been concealed by more popular attacks on Turkey and Europe.

Ziderov’s job of polarising the nation is made easier by the persistent presence of the Turkish party in governments of every colour. Led by Ahmed Dogan the DPS has been effective in securing the votes not only of the Turkish speaking community but also of the Turks who left Bulgaria in the 80s but still have guaranteed voting rights. Dogan is a great political survivor but he and his party have been accused of major abuses, particularly in the areas they control at a local level. With polarization caused by Ataka, there is little hope that moderate Turkish voters will see that their interests are not best represented by the DPS.

The curious failure of the Right

In the heady months of 1990s democracy the CDC (Union of Democratic forces) was formed as the main opposition to the BSP. There is now considerable evidence that this party was packed with former communists, determined that whoever won the first elections, they would still be in control.

Be that as it may, despite a confident CDC campaign featuring pop and film stars and the music of the Beatles, the first election returned a socialist government. Power then alternated till the disastrous Socialist regime of Jan Videnov saw shops emptied of goods, banks fail and serious unrest in the streets.

The CDC’s chance came and the streets of Sofia filled with tight suited American economic advisors. Ivan Kostov implemented Reaganite shock therapy but the people were not ready for it. In the next election they voted for the newly returned Tsar. Kostov still lurks on the fringes of the right wing that seems now irreparably split.

Ironically nick-named the Commander, because of perceived arrogance he probably still hopes to be recognised as a statesman without suffering the normal statesman’s fate.

Won’t somebody help?

Many Bulgarians still seem prepared to believe in the dramatic newcomer – especially if they seem strong and are without compromising past.

The former Tsar Simeon II returned to Bulgaria surrounded by European educated Bulgarian “businessmen” – the children of former exiles – and his party promptly won the election on the promise of putting everything right in 800 days. They formed a coalition with the DPS.

Part of Simeon’s attraction was that he had not lived in Bulgaria and therefore should not have been compromised by a shady communist past. Unfortunately his rule accelerated the creation of a new robber baron class. Miles of Black Sea coast fell into the possession of one of his ministers. A protégé became the new telecom magnate and arranged a meeting between the same minister and Bulgaria’s then most notorious gangster on his yacht in Monte Carlo. Inevitably as Simeon recovered his royal estates rumours began that he needed to pay off vast gambling debts.

Optimism springs eternal and the latest figure to take on the role of strong leader out of nowhere is the demagogue and former body guard, Boyko Borisov with his patriotic party GERB (literally Coat of Arms). As Mayor of Sofia Borisov loses no photo opportunity to present himself as a fearless man of action, not afraid even to pick up a spade and clear the snow from the street. He will travel far to deliver outspoken attacks on the current situation. Most recently talking to emigrants in Chicago, he described the Bulgarian electorate as “bad human material”. Nevertheless he is predicted to do well in the elections. Bulgarians clearly don’t mind being insulted – Boyko is the unthinking man’s Christo Stoichkov.

So we await the elections amid a plethora of accusations about vote buying. But, whatever the result, do not expect any Thailand style middle class revolt. Ziderov will be still on the street shouting about Turkish genocide. Ahmed Dogan will be relaxing by his yacht in Otmanlie and some kind of coalition will again emerge to face the wrath of the EU commissioners. And ordinary people will continue to go about their lives in a dark glow of cynicism
Thailand memories

March 28, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

Now as the cold rain slaps my face, it’s time to record those crucial moments before they fade into the wet grey of England’s Spring.

Daniel’s barn now stands proud and scaffoldless in its field – the workers have departed – and it only awaits Tony’s paint brush. Away to the right the cotton bushes, grown from seed this year have delivered a rich harvest.

I close my eyes and sink into the green of Siripan’s garden – seen from so many decks and floors of buildings. I hear the rasping of frogs and the apologetic hiccup from the resident gecko. The orchids writhe and blossom in mid air.

The temple of elephant carvers – whole backyard devoted to totem poles of elephantine shapes.

The shops on the Tarpei road – so many dusky interiors of dark shelves and rich glowing fabrics

Ness’s party and the joyful abandon of Tony’s singing a duet with Siripan over Love Potion Number 9 getting the timing exactly right.

On a morning bike ride Siripan encounters a snake writhing near vertical in its attempt to escape an oncoming lorry. It dances into the path of her bicycle. She lifts her feet just in time to avoid its lashing coils.
Caught in the headlights on the narrow back road the body of the neighbour’s drunken nephew lies motionless across our path. Tony goes to rouse the neighbour and together they pull the boy’s unresisting body homeward. With a suicide this year the family feels cursed by evil spirits.

Up early in the morning to meet with a group of bird watchers led by a heart surgeon. We are all ages. Our leader can spot a speck in the distance and train his telescope in seconds. His enthusiasm galvanises us all. Here a kingfisher; there a falcon breakfasting on its prey; we just miss a sunbird.

Our trip to Udom and Siripan’s mother as giggly and tactile as ever, teaching me the scansion of classic Thai poetry and Dun so good humoured and On so optimistic and beautiful.

Tony’s decisive driving, so concentrated, sensing the opening gaps, aware of drifters and blind drivers avoiding the flocks of heedless motorcyclists that blow about the road like mad starlings.

Siripan’s sumptuous meals, her photographs from Myanmar – her passionate advocacy of that country and its need for foreign visitors to sustain the ordinary people.

Siripan’s and Tony’s fierce commitment to Thailand, its arts, culture and natural beauty

For more information visit

http://www.siripankidd.com/

Written with love and gratitude
Jarring Notes

March 19, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

The cylindrical stone jars point in every direction from hilltop and plain. They have sat buried the dry ground for over two thousand years. They look like guns or base organ pipes. But their mouths are muted. They sit scarcely stirred by the earth crunching bombs that fell around them from 1964 to 1973.

Across the Plain of Jars there are still thousands of unexploded devices that will take a life, a leg or an arm – all dropped by the Americans in a war that was never declared or acknowledged.

The villagers use bomb casings for fences and house support. But the children pick up the little bomb-lettes spread by cluster bombs. The boys have been told that when they explode there are valuable ball bearings for their catapults. Often it is too late before they understand the terrible price for their ammunition.

Across the Plain of Jars there are efforts to clear the area of mines, bombs and bomb-lettes. The whole job is reckoned to take four generations.
Bangkok ludicrous

March 8, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

Well we land in Bangkok airport without a hitch, collect our luggage and make our way through the customs and according to instructions seek out the official taxi rank.

Smug in the knowledge that we have a hotel booked over the internet months before, I show the name of the hotel and its address to the driver – The Royal paradise 836/1 Ladkrabang Road (only a few minutes from the airport) and off we go in his rickety taxi with one case in the boot – tied shut with wire Bulgarian-fashion and the rest occupying the front seat.The taxi does have a meter and it is working. It is seven thirty and now dark.

After ten minutes on ramped freeways, we exit a roundabout and he exclaims “Ladkrabang Road” as though expecting a round of applause.

We proceed down a long road of a thousand neon signs all in Thai, roadside cafe’s and workshops but no hotels. After a while the driver slows down next to a closed factory and says “Telephone!” I fish out the confirmation slip printed from the internet. There is the hotel address printed as clear as clear and of course my address and even my telephone number – but no telephone for the hotel. The booking agency has witheld it to prevent me ringing direct and getting a better deal.

The taxi driver scans the page, shaking his head. I point to a traffic police point behind us and we get out of the car. But our driver is reluctant to involve the police at this stage. Instead he prefers to wake up a local who has been asleep on a bench. The local waves his arm in the general direction of ahead and we continue down the road at speed. Annie points and says the word meter enough times for it to be returned to the beginning.

After ten minutes we reach the end of the road and the driver performs a U turn. We proceed back up the road. Perhaps I reason the driver has worked out that all the even numbers are on this side. After a number of slowings down and short halts and conversations on a mobile phone the driver is clearly no closer to knowing where he is going. So at a busy intersection I spot another Traffic Police point and insist he stop.

We sit in the car and crane our necks. Yes! Our man has gone into the post. Yes! After five minutes he emerges with a tall Traffic cop in white helmet who is talking on a walkie-talkie. Problem solved! But no! To our surprise instead of walking to the taxi to bring comfort to lost travellers they cross to a cafe where a number of young motorclists are gathered. There they stand chatting for the next half hour.

All sense of logic has now deserted me. I now know that a call to the police warning them of a murder taking place in the Royal Paradise Hotel would result in no action as they would not be able to find the hotel even with the address supplied.

Meanwhile we are now freezing in the back of the car. The aircon. has been turned to maximum cold. We huddle miserably together. I hope that the motorcyclists might turn out to be couriers who know Bangkok like the back of their hands. But no. Girlfriends turn up and one by one they chug off after pointing in all directions to our driver.

Still Thailand’s honour or at least its address system is at stake and finally the driver returns with the policeman. Their body language does not inspire confidence. At first the policeman prepares to mount his bike to provide a mounted escort but then decides to join us in the taxi. This means squeezing our two big cases into the boot so that the lid is now upright obscuring the driver’s rear view.

At least the driver now has a companion in his grief and for the next forty minutes they chat away as their shivering passengers are taken on a tour of Bangkok’s industrial zone. Occasionally we stop at the end of dirt roads and peer down their dark length to see no buildings of any kind.

As we get further and further from the famed road, so I begin to chant the address like some crazed Budhist monk. Our efforts to communicate our discomfort over the air co. has met with total incomprehension, but my chanting of the address does seem to focus the mind for the driver retraces the route.

The meter has been put back seven times and I am beginning to wonder whether we should not return to the airport and sleep in a chair.

Suddenly we turn off a main road and go down an alley way of shops. At the end there is a sign in Thai and English. Yes! It says Royal Paradise Hotel. It is now 9.30 and the stumpy building in a large carpark looks like paradise to us.

Next morning it takes just eight minutes to return to the airport and our flight to Chiang Mai.
Bali

March 6, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

I feel a perverse need to watch Road to Bali again. You know one of those family approved comedies back in the fifties where warbling Bing Crosby always stole Dorothy Lamour from wisecracking Bob Hope.

What I learnt back then at ten years old was that when Bing began to sing it really was a chance to nip to the toilet and that the exotic world was full of dark skinned people who flashed wide grins and danced strange dances.

What I learn now as we travel from temple to temple is that there must be more wooden and stone statues than there are people. The road between Denpasar and Ubud is lined with workshop after workshop stacked with monument size sculptures of Gods and mythical events. Who buys all these?

Certainly the decreasing number of tourists must be a problem for a population dependant entirely on tourism. Our guide speaks sadly of the effect of the recent terrorist bombing. Bali is a 90% Hindu island. Terrorists – muslim extremists – from outside the island felt that Australian tourists needed to be punished for flaunting their bodies on the beach and liking a drink of Bintang beer.

Half past seven in the morning I am woken by a phone call from a travel company. Great news! You’ve been selected to win a free holiday. You just have to come across to breakfast 40 miles away and attend a presentation. You see we’re really worried by the fall off in Australian tourists. But I’m not Australian – I say. We know that. But we still want you to enjoy your prize. My mum taught me to always look a gift horse in the mouth but I put the phone down.

The hotel is a society in microcosm. At least fifty gardeners work in the cool of the morning across the lawns. Each pool has at least four attendants. Uniformed personnel stand on every corner and intersection of every walk way and nod and wish you the best of the day. Breakfast must be a military operation involving tons of food broought in from off the island each day. Chinese tourists swoop on the fruit and empty whole plates of cut pineapple into plastic bags.

As you walk through the streets of small shops and stalls, there are no obvious signs of poverty. There are no beggars. Teenagers who flock the beaches in the evening on bicycles and scooters are unfailingly polite, always calling excuse me when coming up from behind on the pedestrian walkways.

But there is desperation here. There aren’t enough spending tourists – the women clamour for your custom. Come see my stall: looking! looking! Every five metres you are approached by a driver wanting to take you to palaces volcanoes rice fields or temples on far away points on the island. So many unsold trips, Batik shirts, sarongs, massages, wooden sculptures – and every night the same Dutch pensioners walk on by – pensioners who winter a whole three months at cheap rates.

The offerings to the Gods three times a day have not brought back the numbers of tourists that Bali once enjoyed. The guide explains Karma to me. Sumatra was hit by the Tsunami because the people were destroying the environment. In Bali the environment is often close to a version of Paradise. Gouged by Lava the island is full of sudden lush gorges with steep high cliffs and miraculously stepped paddy fields.

However take a look at their Gods – particularly Shiva and his wife – Gods of destruction and Death. They must be honoured and held in equal repect with Rama and Vishnu and so on the road you will see statues of Gurga eating children.