In the spirit of Walt Whitman I sing the joy of Bulgarian pavements.
In their cross concrete eruptions, slabs tilting, rocking, soaking ankles with hidden waters, potholed, jagged, stepped and rooted.
I step I shuffle I trudge I trip I stagger I lurch I shift my gaze to my feet as they chart the three dimensional jigsaw.
I am blocked thwarted diverted by the hulks of deserted cars, black monsters that nose the walls and fences and stretch their arses to the very gutter.
They sleep in my path like bulky panthers fed on elephant, sleek in obese glossiness
I sing the community of the pavement as I pass elbows of drinkers spending whole days in bitter carousal
Hey! Gay! Come here so I can chop your prick off! A growl from a table as I weave my way. I turn to see a boy behind me flinch.
Dressed-down punk! A dog collar round his neck and faded eye shadow are the signs of his well known gayness. His step falters and he looks away. He is part of this pavement life
Drunken vituperation peters out to a low murmur to be drowned by the next pull at the rakia, the next outpouring of passion to be applauded by companions wise in their inebriation.
Turks Gays Gypsies Chicks
I pass bench after bench along the unending wall of block that rises to the sky. I am haunted by the eyes of single old women. Sit down next to me, son. I have something to say about life, about health, about the dead.
Lucky twos and threes support their chins on walking sticks and discuss their neighbours. Didn’t you know she’s the most fallen woman in Burgas? How is she not a peasant? Have you seen her white teeth?
I sing the grim determination of pavement dwellers, the Grannies and Grandads that squat all day selling flowers and pure honey, straggling herbs and accurate weight.
The seventy year old woman on the dusty rutted pavement on the edge of the complex, among trees and grass and roots and broken stones, she pushes a pram full to the handles with old vegetables. The wobbly wheels catch in holes, are stuck at steps. I have ten mouths to feed she says.
I sing the memories of dark night time wandering past low houses set in vine covered gardens where friends sat lit by single lights and drank home made wine. Whole nights of song and roasting peppers.
Where are those houses now? Where are the gardens? A brontosaurus blocks my path in the dark. I thought at first it was an earth mover. A cement lorry smashes the corner curb. Scaffolding and corrugated iron surround the sites where once fig trees burst with plopping fruit. I step back to crane my neck. Another modern block to join the wall of modern blocks. I tip my hat to the past.
Tipping my hat to the past as I once danced with my special girl on the crooked pavements of Burgas! All the way home singing Hit the Road Jack in drunken harmony till all friends peeled away to their houses leaving lovers free to kiss and canoudle in the dark.
I sing the scandal of pavements even in the dark, the hushed report relayed by neighbours and relatives to her parents.
He danced with your daughter in the street. Yes Martha, Kalinka, Vitka, Bonka, Donka, Danka, Dinka, they all saw it or heard about it the next day.
He’ll use her, he’ll abuse her. How can you let them dance on the pavement? The shamefulness, the outrage! And when he dumps her on the pavement, what will you do then? Best send her away to Stara Zagora. There are no foreigners on Stara Zagora pavements.
I sing the detritus, the spat sunflower husks, the plump figs and plums dropped from trees, the plump turds dropped by dogs.
The wrecks of grey rubbish bins loom like shipwrecks. They are the haunt of scrabbling cats and ravenous paupers in ragged jump suits.
I sing myself that have learnt to walk like Long John Silver, striding the pitfalls with bags of treasure bashing at my peg legs.
I am restless, cannot sit at home, my toes tap unsatisfied, yearning for massy challenge of the wild outdoors.
Like Shackleton on the ice, I must go forth or die.
‘Uncategorized’ Category
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Merry Moments on Bulgarian Pavements
January 13, 2009 by Christopher Buxton
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A likely Story
December 2, 2008 by Christopher Buxton
Sofia Airport closed by anti government protestors
Middle Classes in People Power Revolt
President Purvanov’s flight re-routed to DupnetsaDressed in blue pinstripe shirts and Manchester United scarves, the men turned us back from their makeshift Audi barricade at the entrance to Sofia Airport. Despite lines of waiting police, their confidence seemed high. News had reached them that middle ranking Army and Police Officers had sent their support.
Four days into the airport occupation and the signs are that the coalition populist government has been paralysed by this unexpected explosion of middle class wrath. The present location of Prime Minister Sergei Stanishev is uncertain, following the occupation of his residence. There are rumours that he is hiding out in the mountains close to the film set where Stefan Danailov is shooting the heavily subsidized Turkish Partizan.
Meanwhile leaders of CRAP (Civil Restoration Anti-Mafia Party) have demanded the instant resignation of the government and the dissolution of all existing political parties. The government, which draws its support from peasants and ethnic minorities, has been accused of buying votes with rakia. Politicians from all parties have been mired in corruption scandals.
Beneath portraits of Dimitur Berbatov, Bulgaria’s only living hero, CRAP leaders speak every day to cheering thousands of protestors occupying the Arrivals and Departures Hall. Leading light and frustrated golf entrepreneur MV pinpointed the reasons for middle class fury. “Corruption! Corruption! Corruption! We are the pariah of Europe – an execrable tribe! Our politicians buy votes so they can grab what’s best and give juicy contracts to their friends. Only Berbatov can save us!”
The emergence of the Manchester United striker as a possible saviour has surprised many opposition leaders who now find themselves rejected by CRAP. Even on the first day of the protests Sofia Mayor Boyko Borisov turned up with a posse of Media reporters and a spade to help in the building of the first women’s barricade only to be told to fuck himself. For the Tom Jones of Bulgarian politics this was extremely hurtful.
Back in the airport a handful of Brits sit surrounded by their luggage. Nearby a hundred strong delegation of American evangelists read their bibles. Because of the non stop noise from CRAP protestors they have not managed a hymn in four days. On Stage ageless Lily Ivanova leads choruses of Yes We Can.
The Frustrated Brits’ counter-chorus of No we can’t seems churlish under the circumstances. They do admit that protestors have treated them well but complain that the promised cups of speciality Maika Tea never seem to arrive.
Meanwhile there are signs that the occupation is affecting important trade links. With frontier posts also occupied, vital elements of the Bulgarian economy are under threat. Customs officials are complaining of lost revenues and legitimate businesses in cigarette, narcotics and human resources are having to lay off their fat-neck workers. Unemployment has reached dizzying heights.
Yesterday government spokesmen were thin on the ground. In a campaign of voluntary self inflicted euthanasia, several ministers have managed to use their left feet to blow their brains out with multiple bullets. Attempts on the life of Ahmed Dogan are suspected.
Bulgaria watchers are unable to predict the outcome of this extraordinary upheaval. In the villages government supporters are promising resistance at every kilometre provided they can retrieve the metal road signs previously sold for scrap. Mr King – otherwise known as Saxewhatsisnamovski has donated one of his mountain tops to pro government radio stations.
Foreign Office advice to Brits planning to travel to Bulgaria is as always ambiguous. The only spokesman we could find was overcome with emotion following a briefing with Gordon Brown. We are monitoring the position closely. He said before staggering against the No 10 doorpost. Beer in Romania is not as good. I usually holiday with Spas Roussev in Montecarlo but we must not forget the needs of the poor – I mean disadvantaged – British holiday maker. The Home Office predicts an increase in alcohol fuelled crime this summer on Britain’s streets if Bulgaria continues to be closed.
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Response to Kapka Kassabova and Dylan Jones
December 1, 2008 by Christopher Buxton
It all depends on where you are sitting
In the last few days three articles have appeared in the UK press that reflect on contrasts between culture and experience in Bulgaria and the UK.
In ‘Britain is scarier than Bulgaria’ appearing in the Sunday Times on November 23rd, the Bulgarian born writer and poet Kapka Kassabova draws an uncomplimentary comparison between the lawless streets of weekend Edinburgh and the quiet boulevards of Sofia where the only night-time disturbance comes from stray dogs and pensioners scavenging through rubbish bins.
The stimulus for this article may in part have originated in a question raised by a reader at the Sozopol Literary Festival presentation of Kapka’s Kassabova’s latest book Street without Name. Upset by “Chalga blaring out from every restaurant” and horrified by the indignity of being served by a “dark faced gypsy in a local café” the reader wanted to know how Kapka reacted to the “awfulness of everyday life in Bulgaria”. Instead of the expected dose of Bulgarian O Tempora O Mores, Kapka treated the woman with the lightning sketch of life in a UK city which she has since worked up into her article. Key features are drunken youths, urine soaked streets, smashed cars and the threat of a bottle in the face of any resident brave enough to come out and remonstrate.
This picture of life in the UK will come as no surprise to any British reader, who from the comfort of his breakfast table is treated to apocalyptic stories of national decline in the Daily Mail every day. In Britain as in Bulgaria petty crime is actually falling, but the impression fuelled by dramatic headlines is different. The real target audience for this article I suspect is the Bulgarian reader who believes that Bulgaria is uniquely miserable and does not want to hear even from compatriots that life anywhere else could be worse. The UK is civilized. They live like white men there.
Editor of GQ, friend of David Cameron and Jeremy Clarkson, author of Mr Jones’ Rules for the Modern Man, Dylan Jones is undoubtedly a white man in every Bulgarian sense of the word. In December 1st’s Spectator article: ‘How I became Bulgaria’s etiquette guru’, Jones celebrates his welcome to Sofia where his opinions were sought on every topic including the competence of the British Prime Minister. Jones goes on to describe his wonder at finding himself a hero in a land that “looks like Birmingham” but contains sufficient Berbatov look-alikes to benefit from his sartorial advice. To the Bulgarian media – hungry for his every word – he is comfortably patronizing. Not everyone looks like Borat.
Jones has read Misha Glenny and knows about Bulgaria’s corruption problems. Bulgarians know as much about corruption as Daily Mail readers know about drunken crime. On the other hand as Jones has discovered Bulgarians are also impressed by dazzling success. Media and telecommunications mogul Spas Roussev appears in Jones’ article as a glittering socialite and more importantly publisher of Jones’ book. The fact that Roussev represents with all his extravagant wealth the aspirations of Bulgaria’s nouveau riche is good enough for the editor of GQ magazine. Therefore he is described as obviously a great man. .Bulgarians probably know a lot more about Spas Roussev than does Jones. In 2002 Roussev hosted a cards party on his yacht in Monaco. Players included the then Minister of Finances Milen Vulchev and the now assassinated gangster known as the Doctor. The card game became emblematic of Bulgaria’s mafia problems.
But then the lesson from these two articles is that particular point of view is everything – whether you are flying into Sofia on a ten-seater NetJet Falcon or you are negotiating streams of urine in Edinburgh. Living in corrupt but cheap and relatively petty crime free countries has been fine for countless British ex-pats. They can sun themselves, drink cheap beer and complain about the natives while thanking their stars that they have escaped rat-hole Britain. Only a few will wake up one morning and find they have been conned out of their money and property and that there is no recourse to a legal system because they are dealing with powerful locals who are better connected.
This is precisely the experience described in a 25th November Guardian article with the headline: A ski resort, a lost investment, and a Bulgarian murder. British Nicola West has lost her money and all hope of a dream home in the ski resort of Bansko. On top of that she has been assaulted by a mad property agent. The Bulgarian lawyer in the case shrugs her shoulders and says “C’est la vie.”
http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2008/nov/27/bulgaria-property-dream-homes
http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/the_way_we_live/article5188287.ece
http://www.spectator.co.uk/the-magazine/features/3043221/how-i-became-bulgarias-etiquette-guru.thtml
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Memorial for Monica Stewart
October 24, 2008 by Christopher Buxton
Dad opened the memorial exhibition on his birthday – 21st of October in the Mercury Theatre Digby Gallery. Dad and I were overwhelmed by the number of friends who made the journey – most from London but some from further afield.
Charmian Eyre came from Birmingham, Ronnie Cunliffe came from Newcastle. John Keenan came from Ulster. Other former colleagues included Celestine Randall, Pam Ruddock, Eve Shickle, Peter Yapp, John Harward, Barry McCarthy, Sarah Thomas, Melvyn Hastings, Peter Laird, Giles Phibbs, Mary Gillingham Ian Granville Bell, Adrian Hutson, Romy Alison, Lorelei Lynn, Miranda Bell and Liz Mansfield rushing up from preparing for her superb performance as Marie Lloyd at the Theatre Royal Bury St Edmunds. Former Theatre manager David Forder gave a lovely appreciative speech remembering David and Monica’s contribution to the success of the theatre in Colchester.
A big thank you to Chris Snow for the preparing and hanging the photos and Chris Holden and Clare Birks for designing the whole thing.
The photographs reflected the sheer variety of Mum’s work in the theatre from unpaid ASM in Perth, through Summer season at Cromer, on to Oxford, the West End, Birmingham, Colchester, leess, York, Milford Haven, Harrogate and Ipswich.
The exhibition goes on till the 1st November.
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A Bulgarian Story – Petrol turns the screw
October 5, 2008 by Christopher Buxton
There have been some shocking developments in this story and it is time to unmask the main players.Step forward Mitko Subev the popular football boss and chief of Petrol. Mr Subev states that above him is only God and since he is the son of a general and a protege of Dobri Zhurov (Communist Minister of Defence), he feels he has little to fear even from the creator of the universe.
Mr Subev who co-owns half the building on Vuzrazhdane 4, wants to pull it down and replace it with a modern office block. He would like to have total control if not total ownership of the resulting building.
Milka Vulkanova has the misfortune to be co-owner of Vuzrazhdene 4. She is 84 and physically disabled. The daughter of a hard working self made man, she had to suffer considerable discrimination following 1944. All her father’s properties were confiscated and she was unable to work for many years. Thus she has a very little pension. Following restitution, her sole source of income came from rents from her half of Vuzrazhdene 4. She needs this money to pay for the full time 24 hour care she needs in a country where provision for the elderly is minimal.
Mr Subev has used his financial power to have the house on Vuzrazhdene 4 condemned by the council. An order has gone out ordering its demolition. This was a tortuous process during which his company deliberately did not communicate to Milka what they were up to.
Following an unannounced commission from the town hall that could find nothing wrong with the building, Mr Subev then paid 36,000 leva to buy his own experts. The resulting glossy report features emotive drawings of residents being crushed in a possible earthquake, almost managed to disguise the fact that even the expensive professors could not find any evidence that the building in its current state was unsafe. Burgas is not in an earthquake danger zone. Most of the older buildings in Burgas are not only in a much worse state of repair than Vuzrazhdene 4 but equally do not answer to the new building regulations. We await Mr Subev’s proposals for the demolition of three quarters of Burgas with interest.
In spite of her disability and relative poverty, Milka has been conscientious in her relationships with her tenants. Thus she has paid for repairs to the roof and last year spent a considerable sum underpinning the ground floor, repairing damage caused by a chronic leak from the floor owned by Petrol.
An unholy alliance
Mitko Subev has not talked to Milka ever since she dared to quibble over his first and “final” offer a year ago. However he has courted her tenants assiduously in the hopes that they will leave and so cut off her only source of income. He has used the computer graphics report to try to scare them out of the building.
He appears to have succeeded with only one of the tenants, the Austrian insurance firm, Grawe. Their representatives turned up at Milka’s judicial appeal against the demolition order, and appeared to be on very good terms with Petrol. The fear is that they will feel encouraged to sue Milka for lost income if they are “forced” to leave the building before their agreed five year term.
(Incidentally, despite their expressed fears, Grawe have not withdrawn their staff from the building.)In this way Mitko Subev may hope to increase the financial threat hanging over Milka’s head – so she will agree to sell her half of the building for very little money. He has already sent a bill to Milka for half the expensive “expertise” he ordered up without consulting Milka beforehand.
A final appeal
Mitko, you know that in principle, Milka is not against your rebuilding plans. She understands economic realities, but your avoidance of meetings and your secretive plotting have done little to increase her confidence in you as a partner. This case is in serious danger of becoming notorious as an example of corporate bullying of a defenseless old woman. All she seeks is a fair settlement which guarantees her the appropriate support to which she is entitled. based on a continued income from the building plot her father bought all those years ago.
Don’t be a leather-face! You may go down in history as such – and even God might not forgive you.
