|
Weird Encounters The bus from Sunny Beach to Bourgas stops at the little village of Kableshkovo, which every Thursday hosts a bustling market with a huge variety of products - kettles, fruit and veg, gas fittings, clothes, live chickens...and a whole collection of kitchen sinks. I was dozing when we arrived. I'd had a particularly good breakfast in Nesebar, in one of the small mehanas on the edge of the harbour, south of the bus station. From memory it was chicken livers and bacon, perhaps followed by an aperitif or two. My wife nudged me in the ribs (she seems to like doing that) and there immediately below our window was a large beast, brown haired and broad of beam. 'What's that' she said. I knew it wasn't my reflection. "It's a yak" I told her languidly. I think I'm pretty good with animals. I've spent time in the Aboriginal Only areas of Australia's Northern Territory. I'd learnt that you don't swim with salt water crocs. A sexually frustrated water buffalo had simply ignored me and chose instead to try and trash my trusty Toyota (and when, next morning, the full extent of his anger became apparent it seemed to me that, somehow, we must have shared a certain primitive, primordial understanding). Sometimes I think my genes just permeate positive animal empathy. Indeed it was only the local aboriginal kids, getting ready to party, who ultimately managed to neutralise my faithful 4WD. They stabbed through the petrol tank in order to sniff the escaping vapours and fully appreciate the full nuances of their music, the Southern Cross and, I guess, the true beauties of their nocturnal surroundings. I think this empathy with animals (if not with outback children) started when, as a child, I'd bandaged injured grass snakes. I'd rescued a beat up one eyed rook with a broken wing that had been savaged by the rookery. I took him home, we named him Nelson and he became something of a family pet. It was only later that we discovered why he'd been driven from the colony. Nelson's character, despite his noble name, did prove to be something of a disappointment - sadly he was a dirty, foul tempered thief - and he lived for years on a pampered diet of fresh eggs, cheese and decaying meats (Lady Hamilton would not have approved) and he removed anything that glistened. The neighbour's jewellery was a particular favourite.. If he was alive today he'd be a sure winner in the Guiness Book Of Records for the greatest number of Animal ASBOS (Anti Social Behaviour Orders). Socially excluded he became socially dysfunctional (or was he socially excluded because he was already socially dysfunctional - Ed?). When a teenager, returning from The Bull and Bear (or it might have been the White Duck, or the Rose in June, or indeed all three) late one night in an unlit street a car appeared to flatten a white cat. There was no moon that night but when I went to investigate the poor creature ran up my arm and I found a trembling terrified female ferret determinedly clinging to my neck. Guess it was fortunate that I wasn't a rabbit. We named her Samantha and she too lived for many years. She hadn't been neutered and the memory of her distinctive, sickening aroma haunts me to this day. At primary school I did, however, adopt a huge black rabbit called Tommy and he subsequently produced a litter. So, as you can see, I've some serious experience of animals and, indeed, as a teenager thought long and hard about becoming a vet. I'd enjoyed that breakfast. We alighted from the coach. (I've always thought "alight" a funny verb. The former Eurotunnel platform at London Waterloo bears the insignia "Do Not Alight Here" and I'm reminded of the story about this little, white haired French Lady caught on CCTV furiously cuffing a long haired, somewhat scruffily dressed French teenager attempting to light a Gaulloise. She was pointing at the sign and screaming "Defense de Fumer. Defense de Fumer". But I digress once more). Anyway we climbed down from the coach. And there, less than three feet away, were two of the meanest eyes I've ever seen in my life. They blazed with a ferocity that exceeded even that of my first wife at the very height of our divorce proceedings The animal was huge and very, very miffed. It was rocking - but certainly not rolling. It was one huge brown bear. And it was mean. But I think that every person on that bus who glimsed, however briefly, those eyes - those mean, black, recessed, piggy eyes - the angry defiance in a terrible defeat - was also, in some way touched and troubled. Attached to this giant of an animal, by what seemed to be a very short piece of chain, was one extremely tiny, sun blackened man, flambouyantly dressed in traditional costume. I quickly learnt that Bulgarians (or certainly those on that bus) don't like the roma (their gypsy people) - particularly when standing by the exit of their bus and attached by a very fragile lead to one gigantic, brain and pain numbed, tortured, shackled beast of a bear. When we returned, some 90 minutes later, in a more sombre mood than when we'd arrived, both bear and gypsy had disappeared. Sometimes, when sleep evades me, I ponder the whereabouts of that huge, brown bear with those tiny, agonised, slit black eyes. The gypsy I've forgotten.
Afterword Several years later, I do have a much greater understanding of the enormous misfortunes of the Roma peoples. Consigned and confined to extreme poverty in decaying ghettos, their former skills and trades forgotten, they are sometimes physically isolated from the view of visitors - and neighbouring Bulgarians - by huge fences. Blamed as a principal source of minor crime - and for Bulgaria's poor image abroad - even the most educated Bulgarian liberal thinkers seem to despise them. Communism removed their nomadic lifestyle. Existing as separate independent groups or tribes, with norms that differ from majority Bulgaria culture, they are fragmented, politically powerless and ignored by the decision making mechanisms. A solution to their plight will not be easy - but continued denial of their situation will be explosive. I now know that the gypsy I saw was a member of the ursari - the bear tamers. Guess it's a cliche - but that old cycle of abuse just keeps on spinning. (Perhaps Auden put it a little more eloquently in 'September 1, 1939' - 'I and the public know / What all schoolchildren learn, / Those to whom evil is done / Do evil in return' - Thank you, P.D. James* - Ed) * 'The Lighthouse'
|
