do electric goats dream of europeanoids?

sofia, station to station

I was told to call when I would arrive in Sofia airport. My plane plunged into Vazhdebna in time but when I checked my phonebone for new messages I read: hi gregor, I get difficulty to pick you up from Sofia. I’ll try to find Diana. There will be some one else to transport you to Bela Recka… have a nice traveling! - Vessela

While I was consumed with collateral thoughts what to do, I checked through the gates for Schengen citizens, realising that the idea of being one Europe has been labeled by a small Luxembourgian town which was the place for the Schengen Agreement in 1985. Schengen provided for the removal of systematic border controls for their member states, now extended to 28 countries. Gee, that’s what I am here for, bound for a festival in the vracanska planina where people from not-only-Europe, from north to south, from Britain to Iran, will meet, discuss, dance and drink sweet, pure goat milk – and maybe some rakia.

Will I take the train, the bus, the thumb, my feet? While contemplating the varieties of nice travelling, a card board was held agaInst my nose, saying: gregor.

The card was held up by Boris while Vessela talked passionately to someone on her cell-phone. Hell, how did they made it to the airport, anyway? This was my first lesson in Bulgaria: expect the unexpected.

When we were outside, it was warm. I could feel the beginning of summer immediately, thick with humidity, long evenings, honking cars and people on the streets cheering with glasses of frozen goatmilgaritas – and maybe some rakia.

Vessela and Boris, as friends and colleagues of Diana and Mariana, frequent guests of the fest brought me to the train station of Sofia. The station is situated next to the bus station which is unevenly much more busy than the train station. Buses of different makes from all over the country were heading from different booths run by different companies back into different directions. The train station was a haven of socialist grandezza and serenity but slightly out of focus – especially for a guy whose experience with cyrillic letters is remote. There were armies of sandwiches crammed into the glass cases of dozens of kiosks and illuminated by orange light.

The idea was for me to meet the country as a travelling train man, while the young duo would pick up a mother with her kid and go north by car the curvy way up the hills. Fine with me. The running time to Gara Lakatnik, the station where they would meet and pick me up again, was 1h 21minutes. Boris was so sweet to steer me through the ticketing process shaking his head about the exact timing, adding: I wonder why they bother about it, they’ll never make it in time… hey, and watch out whether it’s a siemens train or not. You know the used but better-off siemens traIns are much more economic because they do not need so much personal maintenance… see you in lakatnik… lets say in about 2 hours or so… don’t go anywhere… just stay in the station… safe travel… see you… don’t go anywhere…

Blues at expresso-train to lakatnik

The balkan adventure continues. Summer is here. Pace all slowing down since Berlin’s hecticism. Now there is dust next to abandoned industrial sites, while rails running up into a greener north. A lady embarks the expresso train alone with a lily. An elderly countrysider In a dark blue mao jacket licks at a popsicle. The completely occupied four seat compartments in our wagon rustle with newspaper. Half the passengers are standing, they have nothing to rustle. I am tired but cannot sleep. The blue girls next to me don’t fuss about it. After checking their latest short messages they bow their heads In the direction of the engine, a siemens. The train is emptying since Svoge, a small town which seems to be preparing for a huge wedding party, people carrying flowers and throwing kisses and hugs around. The expresso takes 1 hour 25 minutes. Before I leave the train I can see bleached out maps of the railway system around Dresden pinned to the plastic walls separating the compartments.

cool lakatnik

The least thing I expected was this wrought-iron stove in the waiting room in Gara Lakatnik.

The air outside was flushed with mossy heat and this kind of occasional mountain breeze that is slightly cooler than the warm static air. As soon as I stepped down the expresso-train I entered the tiny one-table bar shortly before the lady who runs it that afternoon closed for a break. An ice cream, a chocolate bar, a beer, the nice traveller’s meal. The woman was angry at me because I opened the freezer myself to pick the ice but she accepted my donation. I sat in the shade respecting Boris’ command not going anywhere. I didn’t go anywhere. Ice, bar, beer – all gone. Shortly after that my legs went crazy. So, I let them loose and they entered the waiting room. It was much cooler than outside.

The stove rested there, completely polished, no fluffy stuff around, no grains of dust, no sound, no nothing. Just the stove. Like an object from a fairy tale, a sleeping beauty in a cool place.

lakatnik heat

Outside the station was a little bench under a cedar. I layed my head. There were birds in the trees on the other side of the railways. They flutter and twitter. Three young men walked by from the opposite, laughing and laughing, their shirtless bodies bending forward. They couldn’t stop laughing. One train came to a halt, another was rushing further north. I felt so comfortable. Nearby a river murmured the litany of stones and sweet water. Are there cedars in Bulgaria?

Cheers to Boyan

You will be staying at the end of the village, said Diana. She drove me there. This is Boyan, she introduced me. His smile was charming, sly, a man on his own. A man with his own garden, in his own right. He waved his hand for me to come closer. A giant, almost purple peony was looming into the narrow concrete path to his one-storied house. Outside wood, inside wood. A tiny kitchen, the door to the room behind it he kept always locked. Good to have a place to stay when abroad. The kitchen was so small that I decided to wait outside for the coffee Boyan was about to brew. In his wooden cabinet were calenders, one starring Saint George, the other one with slightly clothed women posing in front of brilliant european city sights. He was a printer before he moved back to bela rechka. I don’t know how we figured out this melange of bulgaritalianenglishgerman, a puzzle of words and pieces that were not from the same box. It happens when people are willing to do both: talk and wait.

When coffee was ready, his and mine, because he could do only one after the other, we went inside nodding, smiling, drinking and staring outside into the dark green mountains rolling softly along bela rechka river. His smile was intense. Spring onions lay on the table, neck & neck.

pilgrimage

aah, the bell. A bunch of colors and people were waiting by the old school when suddenly but adagio ma non troppo the procession began. My heart jumped up a bit. It happens when you see in person the one whom you have only seen depicted on a photography. It happens when you can see and listen to the symbol of the whole thing: the bell in her house.

While I listened to my heart beat a memo shot through my synapses: eisenstein’s fragmentary film que viva mexico. The zig-zagging of the pilgrims up to mount calvary, re-enacting the way of the cross… Only that bela rechka was guarded by nut trees and a welcoming red wine, mexico was greeting with agaves and pulque instead. The cross is a house, the body is the bell – and Magdalena is a young lady who played violin from Bach to Pancho Vladigerov.

the belles

Amongst the visitors were three girls from Norway. After the concert we were carrying the wine glasses like little bells to Diana’s house. Two handful each. On the road we were met by a flock of goats heading for their own music…

Sofie, Anna Elise and Brita were invited by Diana and Mariana because of a funny coincidence: they were organisers of a goat-cheese festival at the beautiful but remote Aurlandsfjord.

Boom! This is another closing of another circle… In 1997 I took the post boat from Bergen up to Aurland doing research on a german writer, Hans Henny Jahnn, who emigrated to Aurland in 1915 during WW1. Years later he wrote his major work fluß ohne ufer located largely in this pristine and raw fjord landscape, a novel which has never been completed. The first part has been translated into NorwegIan, Treskipet, The Wooden Ship.

Now, wait a minute, a ship?… let’s not get lost in the mountains…

Soon she will sing

In the village women and men seem to move in different orbits. They mix rarely in public. You see ladies sitting and chatting together. You see gentleman standing one by one cupping their chins over wooden sticks which can be used to muster their goats.

One of the ladies fascinated me particularly. I heard her name is Deshka. Or Dilja. It is a bit mysterious. She was one of the village ladies but appeared to have a unique air of independence. Her hair, for example, was carefully combed and her posture was rather that of a baroness. After the concert of Milena Karadzhova she climbed the stage. The air was full of sound. She told us the story of one particular song she used to sing. When her husband heard her singing it on the other side of the mountains he would leave his goats and ran down and up to sink into her arms.

Then she sang this song for us again.

early morning goat

The window from my room opened into the green, away from the road. Thicket. Bushes, a wall of vegetation. Behind that are: a meadow, footpaths, another meadow, trees, mountains further down south. Sleep was little these days but sun did not enter the curtainless room before mid-day.

One morning I heard anybody wailing. It sounded like an infant crying. The adjacent house to Boyan’s is abandoned, his next neighbour is yards away. I didn’t open my eyes. Maybe I was dreaming. It was a high-pitched voice. Could it be an animal? I dozed off again. After a short while it came up once more. Nervous, weak, animally. Maybe trapped somewhere. Or just born. And silence. Light was slowly filling the room. I got up, I opened the window. Birds were singing their songs. When I came to the balcony I realised the place where Boyan has parked his lada was empty. A man with a wide-brimmed straw hat was bending over the calm body of a black goat.

breakfast at galina’s diner

One of things not be missed is food. No supermercados around. A small spot, Tzecka’s shop, opens from 6 till 9 on working mornings. I never met anyone who made it in time. But there is Galina Ivanova - and her friends. In the morning, at lunch, in the evenings… feta-cheese, bread, tomatoes, sweet cakes, carrots, water. Simple, delicious. that’s all what it is. That’s all what you need. And maybe some rakia.

simon is here… and double-bo, too

There were men with hats around. Some were without hats. One guy, Simon Walker, was never seen without his stetson. Simon and his colleague Sandra Hall from the British Midlands came here as artists to work with participants and villagers mapping Bela Rechka, mapping the future. This was done by writing and drawing personal biographical lines including life changing or inspiring moments. One of the central points could have been the year 1989. Trauma or miracle? - that’s how Diana and Mariana subtitled this year’s festival topic.

Simon and Sandra were seen all over the area armed with pens and paper and people drawing and discussing their maps. Sandra was never tired to talk to almost everyone, a very attentive kind of communicado wizard. She came up with the idea to placing small tags with messages, wishes and thank-you’s in different languages to the benches within the village range. Plastic roses, too.

Centrepiece

ONE may I lay my heart at your feet
TWO if you won’t make my floor dirty
ONE my heart is pure
TWO let’s see
ONE I cannot bring it out
TWO do you want me to help you
ONE if you don’t mind
TWO it is my pleasure
I can’t get it out
ONE cries
TWO I will remove it
for what I have a pocket-knife
it’s done thing, right now
work, never say die
well, here you are
why, this is a brick
your heart is a brick
ONE but it beats just for you
(© Heiner Müller, Herzstück, 1983; Translation by Mirwa)

Before lecture, 20 years after the turnaround

Tea conversation with Zlatko Enev. 1989 -seen from Berlin and the transition, emigration and more. Antina Zlatkova from Montana and I should have been moderators. Unfortunately Zlatko, editor of the electronic journal ‘Liberal Review’, had to withdraw his presence due to personal reason. All of the sudden I had to jump into the role of an eye-witness, recollecting my personal news reel from Berlin before/after the wall came down. One thing had to be put up in the beginning: I was not liberated, I was not revolutionary, I was not shouting “we are the people“‚ like the Leipzig monday marchers or “we are here“ like protesters in Sofia. I had been a 28 yrs old catholic boy from the West. One night we woke up in the middle of events and we could smell the two-stroke fuel. Trabbi cars were there, the East opened their gates, decentralised politics (& politicians) were stumbling onto the global stage. I think in the West - even as close to the East as in Berlin - we had a different attitude and conscience towards the political situation and the impacts of it… it was a strange occurrence, slightly unexpected and - in a certain westernist way - void of political necessity. We heard it coming, but it was rather news than revolte.

Gates, yards and caps

In between sessions, music and talks was time to stroll around. One of the places to go is Valeri’s public house. It is run by his father, a grim looking man whom nobody has ever seen laughing. There are no people who never laugh. So, I guess he will smile only at special occasions or places. Nevermind, he handled the bottles in a perfect way: opening them and dumping the caps into the bin was one singular move.

And the ass saw the angel

Appears mainly mornings at the bus stop in direction to Varshetz. Likes to eat leaves in upright position. Mostly silent. Was never seen boarding.

But when the ass saw the angel, who stood there with his sword drawn, she went sideways into the green.

Kids for fountain, web for junkies

Sometimes miracles. A mobile internet station was installed. Since then net junkies were walking around the village with big smiles.

It is been amazingly few years that web, browsing, reception or mail have received additional significance. Our lives have been enriched by and made dependent on new information technologies. It is a mind-blowing set of revolutionary banality. Incidentally or not, the switch decade 1980/90 provided us with the invention of the World Wide Web. Tim Berners-Lee, a computer scientist at the research center CERN, closed the bag combining electronic protocols and services, just one day before the 1 year anniversary of Nicolae Ceausescu’s liquidation.

There were happier meetings between wo/man and goat by the bridge that crosses Bela Rechka river since internet access was established. A stone’s throw away kids were playing with water rising from the fountain at the edge of the old school. They were drinking it out of their hands and hunting insects with a mouthful. While inside lectures and discussions went on festival mothers were observing drawings of their children in the silent green corner. Outside reception signals varied.

The drums of Murat

Finally, rakia. Not that we were drinking it out of the bongos and djembés. Adem Murat from Turkey held his drumming workshop under the parasols by the open bar near the rakia distillery.

Experienced sessionists, twins, film-makers and dilettantes like me were invited to participate – first of all to listen. A simple rhythm… daba-dabadaa… pause.. daba-dabadaa… pause. Listen. Follow. “Now You”, Murat motioned to the other side of the circle, “Can uou do dabdabba- da-da… dab-dabba-da-da…?” We formed groups now trying to stick to each common rhythm. Hands were warmin’ up. Smiles exchanged. Eyes closed.

We finally made it to the stage in the old school doing a long get-out dance after the Folk Jazz concert in the evening. Our hands became small power stations, our hearts grown wild and mellow. We were all one throbbing forward. Will it ever end?

Cosmic brass

One day they were there. Silent men. Checkered men. With big golden instruments. They moved around like a smiling ballet. Serious. Their faces centred. They sat on the platform in front of the festival hall. They stood up. In honor for Lady Di(ana). Then they sat again and on it went. A storm of brass. Dances after dance. The audience shaked their bodies, laughed, started to dance. They formed circles. You can’t help it, can you? You shake, jump or dance. It lasted. The men were blowing their horns into the mountain air. People were assembling on the little square, on both sides of the river. Nobody would hold still. The brass was going potty until it stopped. Nobody wanted to go. The musicians needed a pause. This day was sabor, a local festivity in Bela Rechka. People from the village gathered. Family members arrived with their cars, occupied the gardens, the yards, the houses, the little dusty square where the brass band from Varshetz was playing. Even goats came by and looked and chewed.

The other night a DJ was ruling the platform and the square. The Norwegian belles, Deshka, her friends, youths from the area, expatriates from Germany and California were listening to the beats that pulsed from the system, raving to the sound of DJ Dosju Amudzhiev. Vessela was there and all the others. She came by and said like a princess who knows all about the secret, “You know, this is my husband. We are married for just two weeks.” A young woman appeared from the dark, both arms were wheeling the firepois freely. Although the BPM were on eurotechnoid speed, I couldn’t help thinking of Dylan’s ‘Girl of the North Country’… if you’re travellin’ in the north country fair, where the winds hit heavy on the borderline, remember me to one who lives there… she once was a true love of mine…

Alphabet, a song contest for europrophets

Was it a play, a deconstructive jump into a box of letters, a gymnastics exercise, was it a religious service, a parody on immigration affairs, a chart show - and who the heck are the brothers Methodus and Cyril?

My mind is still blurred from the acrobatic speed and compactness of the Mamapapa performance. We were in the old school’s festival hall, placed in rows like in a fashion show. But what we’ve got was neither Prêt à porter, neither Haute-Couture, but what else?

Tomas Zizka and his colleagues, dedicated actors and excellent musicians from all sorts of countries, are on a grand tour through the Balkans… they are the Mamas & Papas of an “alphabetization campaign” which is equally teaching and learning from the places and people they stop over.

(and who said that a tree makes music ?)

Buttercups listen

There is a lot missing in this report. There was Chris Baldwin from Spiral, Spain, who began together with Mariana Assenova a workshop with students from surrounding high schools -in order to install a “personal library of communism”. For example, Evgeny Mihajlov, a cameraman, was showing and commenting on so far unseen exceptional footage of the 1989 events in Sofia – for some a bit vaguely edited, though. There was Babak Salari, Iranian-born photographer, introducing his book about the war in Afghanistan –a report of despair, a journey into the reverse side of light. And we enjoyed Miroslava Kazarova and her band Eko – one of the most
amazing jazz concerts I ever came across. There was a conversation between Boyan Znepolski, Yurij Valkovski (both from Sofia University) and Agnieska Cwielag (from polish-german Krzyzowa Foundation) about “How to talk on 1989 today?” - which contemplated about the aftermath of the political changes and, actually, the missing enthusiasm to complete the change process towards a civil society…

But that’s how it is, our perception is ravishingly selective.

Black & Blue, eyes wide open

Two things I will never forget.

One. A few meters away from the gate to Valery’s public house runs the murmuring Bela Rechka river. A small bridge leads you to a tiny rest area with a spring of fresh water. People sat there occasionally, chatting, bantering, drinking. This afternoon an elderly gentleman came along, long wooden stick, blue shirt, black trousers, straw hat. He smiled and nodded at me. He said something into my direction while I was sitting on a stone bench. I tried to respond in personal esperanto. He smiled and pointed at the stone. I stood up to offer him my place. Maybe that was his traditional seat? He shook his head and waved his free hand in adverse. Then he bowed down pointing at his right knee, saying “kaputt.” “Sure,” I thought, “He wants to sit down. I offered him my seat again. He came closer, limping to the stone seat and stroking the long leaves of wild grass which were next to it with few tender moves towards the seating surface keeping them down. He took my arm and gradually pushed me forward to sit. He moved his hand downward. When I finally sat on the grassy pad he leaned against his stick and nodded.

Two. The carefulness of Boyan, the old printer. Tomatoes, cucumber, spring onions, oil, sweet vinegar, bread, water – maybe some rakia. The way he prepared one afternoon a salad for us. He was interrupted three times and continued just at the point where he had to pause. I sat at his table, my restlessness gone. I watched him cutting the onions. A breeze was going along the road. It took him quite a while. As if preparing a silk screen. Reds, greens. Just hit the mark. The light was changing.

From Gorna to Dolna via Varshetz to Sofia till Berlin

One of the reasons for Diana and Mariana to invent Goat Milk Festival was the rumor about the local bell stolen by a Roma. Yet Roma do live in the neighborhood sometimes having nothing else than their hands sometimes a rackwaggon or a horse. On the way back to Sofia Airport I had a dispute with Yurij, the moderator of the “How to talk on 1989” - round, about how finding the right approach to live together with a stigmatized, distrustful ethnic minority. We agreed finally that whoever the host (country), whatever the cultural mindset (language, ethnics, law, rituals, convictions) of the society might be, these principles need to be communicated and should, by all means, being set as a standard to respect. On the other side, a good and open-minded host will express a desire to know more about the unknown, s/he might even learn techniques (music, healing, small trade) from them. This might sound a bit peculiar, especially when you regard the recent brutal serial arsons and murder in Hungary, killing lately a Rom and his child when he was trying to save it from the house that was set on fire.

When I returned we were having an actual Roma situation in Berlin! About 50 people from a small Romanian town after having been banned from camping in a public parque were invited by former squatters to share the place they had squatted few months ago, a spacious culture center in Kreuzberg. They accepted. Subsequently, local authorities pitchforked them into a bureaucratic odyssey. Finally they were paid 250 Euro each, i.e. a one-way-ticket to Bucharest, and they disappeared. The German way to do intercultural studies, you may say. A reporter was sent to their hometown, Roÿiori de Vede, and talked to the locals. Gypsies in Berlin? “So, what’s so special?,” was their answer, “We are all over the place.”

GREGOR D. MIRWA has founded the festival Le Week-end in 1998, situated in the german-polish bordertown Guben/Gubin. Although he has a degree in medicine his ambitions as a writer and editor (since late 80ies) have directed him towards intercultural projects, such as Shrinking Cities. He has also written and co-edited two artist books under the label „loeffel+doc“ and has texts been published in anthologies. Since 2005 he is involved with the activities of the Borderland Foundation Pogranicze, Sejny. He works now as a occupational health physician in Berlin.