To the letter
We had set up a small publishing company in Sofia in 2003. Our first product would be an expanded edition of a great Bulgarian historical novel, made easier for us by two of the earlier English translators being part of my partner’s family.

Our first step was to get copies of all previous editions of the book. I scoured Sofia bookstores and book tables and spent some months buying up early editions. One bookstore owner in particular, I’ll call him Ivan, was interested in why I wanted a specific copy of the book. Cheerfully I told him it was important because we wanted to re-publish it in a new edition. We also fanned out looking for contacts in the publishing/book distributor business. Someone suggested that we speak with Ivan, the bookstore owner I had talked with, an “expert”. He even had his own publishing company. He and four of us met together one night to talk about the novel and how we would market it. Ivan presented himself as a person who could help us by navigating the system. He warned us of the sharks. He was for hire. He showed a lot of interest in our project and asked a lot of questions about our plans for it and additional books. We chatted openly.

A few days later, a friend told us he had just seen a new edition of the title which had just come out at the bookstore owned by Ivan. The ink on our edition was still wet and we were just about to pick the books up from the printer. I went to the bookstore and asked for the book. The person working there, his brother, reached under the counter and showed me a copy, hidden from view. It was without mention of translators. It had no permissions from the people who had written the introductions, as we had been in contact with them. It was a pirated edition by a man, Ivan, who pretended to be out to help us, after getting the idea to publish the novel because I had asked for it.

We made a complaint against the book to the government. Bulgaria is under international obligation to protect intellectual property, in this case the translator’s family. But like many laws in Bulgaria it is on the books but disregarded, Bulgaria has a long way to go before the laws are made real.

Someone once warned us not to talk about our business ideas. “Bulgarians will take them and do them themselves.” Is it a failure of imagination or the thought that a foreigner knows better? Time will prove that we often don’t.

Experiences in Bulgaria gone wrong? Mine happened the time I tried to bribe Bulgarian traffic cops. It was spring 2005, a Saturday night around midnight. While driving to a late-night rendez-vous at a rural hotel, I was stopped at the last traffic police checkpoint on the old Bourgas road leading out of Sofia. Having been told that Bulgarian cops expected small cash bribes, this seemed the right time to pay one and save time.

Two cops approached my car and began speaking Bulgarian, which I don’t speak. I replied in English. They continued speaking in Bulgarian while pointing towards the front of my car.

“Spreken Sie Deutsch?,” one of the cops finally asked.
“Nein…a little,” I replied.
“Documentite,” the cop said.

Before handing over my documents, I deftly slipped a 20 leva bill into my passport and handed it through the open window. The cop began leafing through it. When he came to the money page, he angrily demanded, “Was ist das?” and pulled out the bill. Startled, since I assumed he’d just quietly slip the bill into his pocket, I began stuttering and stammering in English about “always keeping emergency money in my passport...”.

Out of the car, the cop barked. I followed him back to the traffic police hut. In broken German and Bulgarian, the cop sternly explained that he (Ivailo) and his partner (Plamen) didn’t take bribes! After I apologised profusely, the mood lightened and they began asking questions about my country, the US. How much did cops earn in the States, they wanted to know. Words quickly failed us, so I began drawing with my finger a top to bottom US salary scale on the police hut’s dirty window. At the top, I wrote “Bill Gates”. At the bottom, a “McDonald’s arbeiter”. “Advocat” above the middle line, and then “Policeman” slightly below the middle line. They understood and seemed pleased.

 When this lesson was done, they said my left front headlight was burnt-out and repeated that although they didn’t take bribes, I could drive to the all-night OMV gas station across the road and buy them coffees. I quickly agreed. Ivailo and I drove to the OMV, where he surprised me by buying a new bulb for my car’s headlight, which I didn’t even know OMVs sold.

Back at the traffic police hut with the coffees, Ivaylo explained that another cop was stationed about five km down the road and would surely pull me over for my headlight, but that I should simply show him the new bulb and he’d let me go. Sure enough, five km down the road another cop pulled me over. This one was big and mean-looking, carried a long, heavy flashlight in his hand, spoke only in Bulgarian and also pointed towards the front of my car. I smiled and showed him the new bulb in its box. He directed me to pop the hood and give him the new bulb, which I did. He then proceeded to change the bulb for me, before wishing me a very good night.

It was summer 2005. The Interior Ministry had denied me a visa extension, which surprised me and half the Bulgarians and expatriates I knew. The other half weren’t so shocked and everyone had their theories. The Bulgarian Socialist Party had just come into power with their xenophobic agenda and now the foreigners were being kicked out. The less hysterical and more plausible explanation was that the country was reforming its immigration laws to conform to EU norms, making it easier for Europeans to live in the country long term and harder for those in other parts of the world like me, an American.

That was Monday, which made Wednesday my last day of work. I was on my way home that night at about 1.30am when I saw two silhouettes walking toward me. Two cops. They must have noticed some tremor in my body language, because they demanded to see my identification.

After three months, no, I didn’t speak much Bulgarian. I walked them to my apartment and asked them to wait outside while I ran in and got my passport. One cop pointed out to me that I had technically been in the country illegally for, at that point, three days. I shrugged. The cop made a gesture of putting me in handcuffs and I still shrugged. I suppose they wanted a bribe and I was just a little too dim to give them one and after waiting them out for a few minutes, like you’re supposed to do with a wild bear, they walked away, telling me to get my passport taken care of. I nodded and called up my boss who provided me a place to stay for a few days – I was in hiding! – while I put my affairs in order. I left for Prague that Saturday on a $318 one-way ticket my mom paid for.

Leaving Bulgaria was heartbreaking. There were too many stories that I never got to write and too many friendships I didn’t get to develop. It’s the only place I ever had to leave before I wanted to. But it was hard to complain. The visa maze is a dehumanising, nasty process in every country, especially the US. Did I learn anything from the experience? Well, I can say that I could never really understand why so many of my countrymen could become so enraged about Mexican immigrants crossing our borders illegally to join a nation of immigrants. After my time in Bulgaria, I understood those voices even less.

Back in Sofia from Johannesburg

Perfect timing, my case is waiting for me, straight through customs and immigration, straight into a taxi, gorgeous day, no hassle with the fare. Of course you know that this is not going to last; it didn’t. I did not have the keys to my apartment. Outside my iron grill on the 13th floor I emptied everything, yes, everything, from all bags – big and small – that I was carrying. Absolutely no doubt about it – no keys.

What follows is both very confusing and well-nigh miraculous, so pay careful attention. I remembered that I had made a duplicate set of keys for Sima, the cleaning-lady. But, I do not have the phone number of Sima. Well, yes, I do, but it is inside the apartment. Incidentally, so is my mobile phone. (“What earthly need would there be for me to trundle a useless mobile phone all over South Africa…?”)

Then I remember that, yesterday I had received an e-mail from my friend Violeta (who recruited Sima for me) saying she and her husband, Boyan, were going to Croatia, this very day. My only recourse is to take all my bags – for there is nowhere I can possibly leave them – grab a taxi and get up to Violeta’s place a.s.a.p. I find a cab immediately, but almost miss him because he isn’t sure whether I am hailing him. So, I am already looking for another when he suddenly appears, very quickly from my right, backwards. He is an affable and easy-going fellow with some English. He rushes me up to Strossmeyer where V&B live and I shorten my finger by pressing on their speaker-phone. Despite the fact that I am recessing it into the concrete, there is still no answer.

New strategy: I do have in my pocket my essential Black Book, which includes the phone number of both Boyan and Violetta. Of course, I do not have a phone! But the taxi driver does and so I call. There is a prompt response – though it is Violeta answering Boyan’s phone. I explain, as quickly as possible, and she says: “We are looking for somewhere to have breakfast.” I suggest that we meet up and she says that is unlikely because they are in Rijeka, which is on the coast of Croatia. But, she says, sit tight and wait for her call. By now, the taxi driver, whose name is Valeri, is quite enjoying this because, of course, the whole time, the meter is idling away. We are enjoying the sunshine of their banlieu when the phone rings. This is costing Violeta big bucks, so she says: “Write this down. Sima’s number is ............, and this is the number of Amelia, the estate agent who fixed the deal for your apartment. Good luck, bzzzzzz.”

First call is to Sima, and whoever answers from that number, it is not she. Second number – the estate agent, and from there, there is no reply at all. It is beginning to look desperate, and did I tell you that Roger, my guest from England was arriving that night, and what do you do to entertain someone when you cannot even get into your own home?

Then Valeri’s phone starts dancing all over the dashboard, and it is the estate agent. “Did you want something?” Valeri has now taken total control and explains that Sima’s number isn’t Sima’s number and Gospodin Baker is homeless and wandering the streets building up a Guinness Book of Records taxi fare. Does she have any solution? “Sit tight and I will call you in five minutes. Bzzzzzzz.”

This we do, but Valeri has decided to have an early lunch and buys a banitsa from a stall in Strossmeyer. Unfortunately, by now he has become confused between where I live and where Violeta lives (though she is out, and I can’t get in to either place). No matter, the banitsa is barely consumed before the phone rings. He listens carefully and writes down an address in a place I know only as the Saturday morning gypsy market along the concrete banks of the canal.

He takes off and assures me that the realtor has it all under control. Sure enough we end up at the gypsy market, but turn into a parallel, shady, cobbled street and stop. By now, of course, I have given up wondering what is going on. We both get out just as a lady emerges holding a bunch of keys. She is the sister of my landlord, Gospodin Georgiev. This is pure magic but she explains to Valeri that she needs the keys back as they are the last remaining set, and these locks were not made for easy entry if you lose your keys.

We drive off and soon locate a klouchar, or key-maker, who copies each key in trice. I recommend we return the originals, since the lady lives nearby but Valeri nixes that saying: “We don’t let go of those keys until we know the new ones work.” Good thinking. We go back to my apartment, haul ourselves up to the 13th floor, and – yes, it works. Bags are thrown in hastily and then I dash down so that Valeri and I may return the keys.

We arrive at the shady dwelling, Valeri calls and the lady descends. We discover a common language in French and so she is able to piece together some of the more curious weave of Valeri’s story since, of course, he has been talking in English to understand me and doing a valiant job, considering. The line went: “Came from Athens, arrived at flat, keys lost, somewhere in Africa, cleaning lady has key but her number with lady in Croatia who says we must call the estate agent, who sent us to the lady with the fine view of the gypsy market.”

However, no question, Valeri is the man of the hour and Mr Georgiev’s soeur, the heroine. I give Valeri an obscene tip because, frankly, without him and the free use of his cell phone, I would be outside that door-grill now like a homesick prisoner trying to break back in.

I was a graduate, heading off to Sofia in 2006 for the first time, enthusiastic about the traineeship I had just won. I was only too happy then, when a friend of mine passed me on the contact of a girl who could help me find my way around and, maybe, host me for a couple of days after my arrival.

I contacted the girl and she was very kind, came to pick me up at the airport and took me to her flat, where a big, sunny, double bedroom was waiting for me. “Anna” was wonderful, talkative, sociable, clever: our friendship started from the very first night, when she cooked pork and kartofi for me, followed by Turkish coffee.

Anna seemed just a little too perfect, plus, she suggested that I stay in her flat for the whole three months of my internship. I was satisfied, this would have saved money and time, but all the same I wondered what could have been the down side of it all.

I soon discovered. “By the way, my boyfriend is visiting tonight: he might seem rather scary, but don’t worry, he’s OK,” Anna said.

I started feeling suspicious, and I was right. “Boris” was a fattish man in his 30s, full of scars and tattoos, with a, ehm, discreet record of misdoings on his part, from drug dealing to being a pimp, with three years of prison on his CV.

I instantly wanted to flee, but actually Boris was not bad. He smiled and cooked dinners for us, made jokes in Bulgarian and as he slowly moved into the spacious flat I began to feel more at ease. As long as he does his own business outside this house, I thought, nothing bad could happen to me.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Soon, the discussions between him and Anna started getting violent, first in shouts, then turning to true fights.

Cooped up in my room, trembling, I was terrified of being involved and each night prayed that morning would arrive safely.

I could have moved out. But I didn’t. Anna was so sweet and caring and I had begun to feel so devastated that I just passively remained, week after week. Boris was eventually shooed out of the house after a massive night fight, but he still visited from time to time, causing me stomach pain. The final episode, a few days before I left, saw him coming to me and after a flow of seemingly bad words, spitting at my shaky foot angrily.

What I learnt from this experience is that I will never share a flat on these conditions again: when you don’t know the language you don’t know enough about the social context of where you are going, especially in a country like Bulgaria where things are still a little wild. Just leave. It was a nice adventure to tell later, but it seriously devastated my nerves.

In teaching his classes, “Daniel” had always styled himself as anti-Bush, anti-capitalist, anti-globalist. This went down well with many teenagers, less so with business people. One afternoon when he came to his new language school in Varna to prepare for an evening’s teaching, he was taken aback to find the front door locked. When the office manager from inside unlocked it to let him in, he admonished her that this would keep out potential clients. “We used to keep the door open at all times,” she explained, “but then all sorts of unsavoury characters would invite themselves in, soliciting, asking for money and refusing to leave.”

Then one Sunday, as Daniel taught a weekend class alone, he and his students heard a knock on the door. Unlocking and opening it, he found an official-looking, middle-aged gentleman who spoke rapid Bulgarian. Daniel could not make out what the man was saying – but he did catch one word: “tax”.

“Oh, no! It’s the weekend. We’re closed. Bye!” he replied as he frantically closed and relocked the door. But then a student standing behind him explained that in Bulgarian, “tax” meant payment fees. “Oh, I’m sorry. Please, come right in. Welcome,” Daniel said as he opened the door, graciously bowing and making an inward, sweeping gesture with his arm.

Home sweet home

A friend of mine told me how her plumber had related to her of a couple who had come to Bulgaria early one summer in search of their dream home with a rose garden set in the countryside – one they could hardly afford back in England on their salaries. After some hunting, they found one that captured their hearts: a large, abandoned house with a Victorian-style facade, set in an isolated stretch of woods and hills in the vicinity of Borovo and Byala (the one between Veliko Turnovo and Rousse). One of its previous owners was a prosperous German farmer, while the current one now resided in Arizona. “We were told that, as recently as the previous year, we could have purchased it for a few thousand leva,” the wife said.

As it were, the couple ended up footing nearly five times the original amount. Still they considered it a real bargain. Though the structure was basically sound, it needed lots of restoration work. So they, along with some local, hired hands, spent much of the summer renovating and refurbishing it. Finally by October, the builders informed the couple, now back in the UK, that they had completed the job and sent pictures of their pretty little mansion with rose transplants that blended in perfectly with the surrounding yellowing forests and hills. The couple then resumed their cold, wet, grey city life, while eagerly looking forward to their trip back.

The following summer the husband and wife returned to Bulgaria, full of excitement. But as they approached their new house, they felt that something was amiss. The garden was in a state of mess and the exterior had fallen into disrepair. Trash was strewn about. They quickly discovered the reason: two – or three or four – families had apparently broken into their house, and set up residency sometime during their absence. Seeking an explanation, the couple received one from the new occupants: “Look, this is our home! We live here!” For good measure, they added, “And you are not welcome here, so get out! Get off our property now, before we call the police!” Though they could not comprehend the language, the couple understood from their tonality and gestures.

The couple ultimately resorted to enlisting the help of the local law enforcement. The eviction that followed proved to be a rather messy affair.

“Their English is excellent, and they just love having lessons with foreigners,” Larry assured me. He ought to know; the Tennessean had been teaching at the First Language High School since 1992. “Just talk about anything…fascinating: food, TV, pop music, films, the internet, celebrities, travel…” How easy. How straightforward.

“Good morning, class. My name’s Mr ‘Smith’” I introduced myself. After the formalities I began our lesson by writing the word “food” on the blackboard. “Now what comes to mind when you hear the word ‘food’?” I asked the students. “F***in’ sh**!” shouted one fellow slouched in the middle of the room. There was hardly a response from the others due to their having become engrossed with texting messages and shooting the breeze. The better behaved did their homework.

My repeated scoldings proved ineffective, though to be fair, a few students did take the lessons seriously and participated, as was the case with every group. Mysteriously whenever I passed by the same classes, they would all be diligently paying attention to physics or maths lectures.

“Why can’t you be like Larry or Mrs Krusteva?” the director reproached me in his office a month later. “They can manage the students and have great rapport with them.” Larry must have been right after all: God was on his side, having commanded him to come to Bulgaria.

Later another teacher joined us. Charles introduced himself as a retired lieutenant colonel from the US Army. True to his grit, when it came to issuing midterm grades, he stood his ground against insubordinate students and the school staff. “Some of the boys said they would ‘unleash their dogs upon me’,” he revealed before returning to Ohio.

“This is Heather,” the secretary introduced us to a young lady. Brimming with confidence she told us of the eight years of experience she has had dealing with undisciplined, misbehaved kids in Newcastle. Five weeks later, I found her standing alone in her classroom. “Where are your students?” I asked. “Good question,” she replied. Heather did not return following the Easter holiday.

“I’ll guide these youngsters and show them the way,” vowed Lawrence, a clean-cut blonde from Salt Lake City. He lasted all of six weeks.

By the end of the year, it had dawned upon me that Larry had all the good classes, while the rest of us did not. How unlucky.