Rila Monestary

A summary of my week in a haiku:

My son you marry?
Too much horo, I'm weary.
Woot, monastery!

Yesterday, we left before the roosters crowed to go to the Rila Monastery. It was built in the 10th century by a monk who lived for 12 years in a cave with no material possessions. It was so picturesque, the black and white striped arches, the Eastern domes and the way the clouds nestled between the mountains. Inside its doors, amongst the glow of candles, we saw a priest offering Holy Communion to a small line of the faithful. He held out his hand, they kissed it lightly and he handed them bread. The church was painted with frescoes, not an inch on these old walls was spared.

 

 

 

 

Proof I was there.

Afterwards, we walked 2 miles to the monk's cave. Even the walk itself was exciting because we ran into what can only be called "wild" cows.

 

Bulgaria: Where speed bumps are called cows.

For those of you unlucky people who have never been in a cave it is quite exciting. Just imagine a hole that is dark. Or you can just close your eyes and touch a rock and you've pretty much recreated what it's like. Kidding aside, this cave was way cooler because it has a vertical tunnel which you must climb through to reach the outside world. The legend goes that the highest offense against God is gluttony and only those without sin can pass through the tight passageway. I am pleased to say we all made it, even Billy with his thousand dollar camera and tripod.

 

We joked, saying it was like being birthed by mother earth.

Later in the day we went to a folklore festival where the horo group from my village was performing. There were groups from local Bulgarian villages, and from Serbia and Macedonia. This past week I went to a couple of the horo practices where you can see all generations locking arms and laughing. They were excited to see the Americans there, and they took the time to teach us some horo dances. Instead of playing music, they sang the songs as we twisted around the room kicking our feet.

 

 

 

Serbian kids dancing.

 

My village performing the story of Goritsa's wedding.

Awkward moment of the week: I live at the top of a large hill and on Friday I was playing basketball with 3 girls. We play at the end of street using as our basketball hoop a rusty iron frame nailed to a wooden shed. The ball bounced off the side of a house and started to roll down the steep hill. I ran after it, speeding down the unevenly paved street with a growing momentum. I ran past old men, a birthday party and kids playing while I chased after this unstoppable, rolling basketball.

 

Petia, one of the girls from my street.

What the H-E-Double Hockey Sticks are Chicken Hards?

Last week I took a little trip to a nearby city, still so reminiscent of the Soviet era. There are large bloc buildings and fountains with new civilizations of microbes growing in them. I loved all the sights and sounds of the city, like the signs that warn of horse and carriage. We went out to eat and although the menu was half in English, it is no English I have ever seen, nor ever want to see. Some delicacies on the menu were: chicken hards (I have no idea what part of the animal that comes from), milk salad, eggs of eyes, and chicken morsels with cornflakes (sounds like something Nick would eat).

 

 

 

We passed this interesting fountain reminding me of those glorious days of my childhood when I danced in the spit of fish. Oh to be young and carefree again.

 

Friday we took a bus to another village and met up with some other trainees to play ultimate frisbee and basketball. We played at the school there and soon the kids started to show up. We were inside the gates playing and a group gathered outside. I walked up, gulped and said in horrible Bulgarian, "Do you want to play soccer?" A long uneasy pause. Did they understand me? "Yes!" they responded and walked in. Their soccer skills were impressive, bouncing the ball against their chest, using their knees and head. Every time I kicked the ball they would yell, "Bravo", probably just surprised I could meet foot with ball.

 

Saturday there was a religious celebration in town. There is only one priest for the whole area so he travels from village to village performing mass and other ceremonies. 45 years of communism had its toll on religion in Bulgaria. Every house is adorned with religious artifacts but few actively attend church. On Saturday the dedicated people walked up to the small church to hear the priest pray, to light candles and to join in a community feast.

 

Every family had their own table and people walked around to give gifts of bread. Someone from the family would carry a bucket to the large, steaming pot sitting next to the priest. A man with a large iron ladle used both hands to pour courban soup into each family's bucket. Courban soup is made with vegetables and lamb, with a nice healthy layer of oil on top.

 

*Animal special!

These are the goats that pass my house. I love it, everyday is like a goat parade.

 

This is a horse rolling around on our soccer field. And I mean literally it was rolling.

 

This picture is pretty self-explanatory. This cow looks like it has important business to take care of.

 

The kitten my family has. Time for a collective, "Awww."

 

I am a rock star. Except replace 'rock' with 'village' and 'star' with 'oddball'.

Thursday night the other trainees and I had dinner at Vladi's house (our language trainer). We wanted to cook spaghetti for two reasons: one, we were craving a familiar non-greasy meal and two, Bulgarians dislike spaghetti and we wanted to prove that it is delicious.

 

We borrowed pots and plates from our babas and we had to make use of the few ingredients available. We played American music and Vladi taught us a card game, then finally it was time to eat. Now I can proudly say that we made the nastiest spaghetti known to man. I think I can pinpoint exactly where it went wrong and it was probably when we got out of hand with the sugar and never added salt. So we ended up with very sugary spaghetti sauce, yummy.

 

After dinner we headed to a nearby town to meet up with another trainee group and attend a chalga concert. If you have never heard of chalga then your life is incomplete. Chalga is a music genre that can be best described with two words: folk-pop and sexuality. I can't understand the lyrics but I would probably bet a jar of precious American peanut butter that every song is about sweet, sweet love.

 

The line for the chalga concert.

We knew we were going some place special when we boarded the bus and half of it was filled with dressed up giggling tweens. The best part was that the concert was held in a dilapidated soccer stadium. I sat on crumbling concrete with weeds growing around me and I almost saw a man selling whistles and glow sticks wearing short-shorts and a blond wig tumble down the steps after tripping over a rusty piece of metal. It was a lot of fun, especially seeing the excitement of all the people there and hearing them sing to every word of the songs.

 

Me and my host sister.

Friday was my village's holiday, which was amazing. After a morning of Bulgarian language class we walked to the outskirts of town to join in the festivities. The air smelled of grilling kyufte and ham. Families brought food and sat on long picnic tables as the children ran around with squirt guns making any innocent bystander their victim. People horo danced to the music a folk band played. I stepped into the circle, grabbed two hands and joined in the dancing.

 

The village holiday.

 

Awkward moment of the week: I was sitting at a picnic table with friends at the festival and there are some teenagers tapping me on the soldier. They ask me a question in Bulgarian. Uhh, what? Then I see the camera in their hand and they start pointing to it. Oh, they want to take a picture with me. The teenage boy smiles really big as he wraps his arm around me and his friend takes a picture. I was such a rockstar. This happened two more times, but I refuse to give autographs.

 

Horo dancing!

 

Can you see the oil and salt?

 

 

Some trainees ordering rakia.