Cultural Cacophony

Having lived in London, one of the most multicultural cities in the world, I have managed to collect friends from around the globe. I went to visit one such friend who lives in Bulgaria, a country I have discovered has many different cultural influences, from its architecture and religion to its food and language.  

On my first day with Gabi guiding me around Sofia I had a crash course in Bulgarian - despite being written in Cyrillic (a Bulgarian not Russian creation), from the key phrases I learnt, only dobre den bore a resemblance to other Cyrillic-using languages. I found that sorry, mersi and ciao were the most useful 'Bulgarian' words to remember - they like to make it easy for their Western European visitors.  Signs were copied in Latin alphabet and the ticket officers and train conductors generally spoke a little English. Despite this the country felt relatively low on the tourism front. I still found Aussies in the hostels, as is the case all over Europe, but these were the more adventurous hitch-hiking three-day-trekkers rather than the drink-as-much-as-you-can and be-as-loud-as-you-can types. 

My second and more important lesson was a culinary one. Gabi was keen I tried traditional Bulgarian foods such as moussaka, stuffed peppers and grilled meat in ball or skewer form. Sound familiar? Yes, arguably these are all Greek cuisine too. The similarities don't end there - shopska salad is basically Greek salad with peppers rather than olives, yogurt is eaten for breakfast with fried dough 'mekitsi' and as a starter soup called 'tarator'. Homemade honey, wine and oils are also sold at roadside stalls in the middle of nowhere. As I travelled further afield on my own and my bargain hunter ways took over I also found plentiful gelateria and pizzeria serving both for less than 50p and with quality even Italians might not sniff at. 

As I discovered such delights I also learnt a potted history of various empires and occupations that have shaped this country's multiculturalism as i free-walking-toured my way around. In brief, the Slavs of ancient times gave way to the Byzantine (Eastern Roman) empire and after a brief independence the Ottomans invaded and ruled for 500 years. Another revolution and the renaissance of Bulgaria appeared in the late 19th century before a flaky collaboration with the Nazis in WW2. Eventually they switched sides and became affiliated with the Soviet Union. Communism reigned in the mid 20th century until the late 80s when Bulgaria became a democratic republic. The 3 main religions; orthodox Christianity from the Byzantine and Russian influence, Islam brought by the Ottomans/Turks and Judaism - in relatively high proportions thanks to the governments procrastination delaying the deportation of Jews during the holocaust - live together in harmony. As one walking tour guide pointed out at a square flanked by a church, mosque and synagogue, the temple of a modern religion was positioned on the remaining side - McDonald's of course, no culture is complete without one.

Plovdiv - the European capital of culture for 2019 and the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe (6000 years old to be precise) epitomises everything I loved about Bulgaria. Beautifully clean streets lined with austro-Hungarian style buildings, dotted with ornamental and drinking water fountains, flowers and well-manicured parks on every corner. I could sit and eat my incredible 50p pizza slice whilst listening to an old school jazz saxophonist and then hike up a little hill behind me to get panoramic views of the city with graffitied rocks in the foreground adding to the urban-meets-nature aesthetic. Strolling further down the pedestrianised high street and the paving gives way to a pristine 2000yr old Roman stadium with sparkling white marble seats that's 400m length is fully intact underneath the high street. Turning right you go uphill to the 'old town' full of cobbled alleyways and restoration era merchant houses, and my hostel. I wandered round these streets without spotting another tourist, even when I happened upon the town's other main attraction - the original Roman amphitheater with opera rehearsals in full swing. As you can probably tell I could have rambled round here for weeks but I had a mere 24hours. Like my whole time in Bulgaria, it was just not long enough, and so this beautiful, welcoming and culturally eclectic country remains firmly on my never-ending to-do list. 

Following footsteps, remember never to repeat

My day and a half in Krakow was full to the brim with sight-seeing, eating and most importantly history lessons.  After meandering around Wawel hill and the old town with Dad and catching up with a dancer friend born and bred in the city, it was time for me to investigate the darker side of this city's, country's and quite frankly the majority of Europe's past. In one day I retraced the footsteps of many Polish Jews of the early twentieth century from Kazimierz (the old Jewish quarter) to the Jewish ghetto and then onto Auschwitz. I had questioned my decision to visit such a place in the knowledge that so many were forced to enter through it's gates, never to see the outside world again. But I felt it important not to ignore what happened, however sickening acknowledging it would be, and the local guides advocacy of this standpoint was the final encouragement I needed. 

In Kazimierz things seemed fairly rosy, a variety of synagogues old and new, stories of pioneering Jewish business men and women and recommendations of traditional cuisines were the order of the day. Things took a sobering turn as we crossed the river into the Jewish ghetto of 1940-43. We saw the gravestone like wall that only symbolically kept them in at night - fear was the real deterrent. During the day those that were still physically able, after poor nutrition and sanitation, worked in the nearby factories, including Schindler - a nazi spy turned businessman's factory who, unlike the film portrays, was only persuaded to move his factory and employ desperate Jews that could afford to pay off the Jewish policeman who was actually in charge of 'the list'. For the majority though, the only way out of the ghetto was on a train bound for Auschwitz - if they put up a fight or were too weak to make the journey they were shot in the main square in the final days of the ghetto's existence, an act now commemorated by 64 statues of chairs on the square representing the 64000 Jews killed there and the furniture incinerated there as the Nazi's began to destroy the evidence of the ghetto's inhabitants.

My journey to Auschwitz, after a race through the city by tram, was in an air-conditioned minibus accompanied by an in-drive documentary about the camp's creation and history. It was a far cry from the overloaded wooden wagons carrying 80 or more people and their most precious possessions, sometimes journeying for days, or even weeks from Greece, to reach their final destination. 

Facts and figures I learnt on my journey:

- 1940 the camp was converted from army barracks to prisoner of war camp

- it was expanded in 1941 to Birkenau or Auschwitz 2, after Hitler's 'final solution' for the extermination of European Jews

- With 5 gas chambers 2000 people could be murdered every 20minutes 

- an estimated 1.3million people died here, 1.1million of which were Jewish 

- in the camp's history only 196 people escaped

However, as awful as the statistics are, the true horror of the Holocaust lies in the fact that every single number represents a whole human being - a life with a unique personality, memories and emotions was lost. The old bunk houses of Auschwitz 1 now exhibit artefacts, missed by the Nazi's hasty destruction of the operation at the end of the war, to help us comprehend this; walls of photos and documents of those selected to work with name and date of birth and death, piles of books, shoes, suitcases, pots and pans and most horrifically hair snatched from the bodies of those selected for immediate execution. All these things were a reminder that these people did not live so long ago and that they believed they were going to start a new life - where cooking and reading might have been possible activities. The bunks, left as they were, allowed us a glimpse into the daily hardships of the prisoners - sleeping on straw in crowded rooms, 15seconds to visit the latrine each day, living in fear of being tortured in block 11 - where 4 people could be kept in a square meter cell overnight for not working hard enough. A priest died in the starvation cell after having volunteered to replace a young boy picked at random to pay the price for a rare escapee. 

In the earlier days of Auschwitz prisoners were put to work building Birkenau - Auschwitz 2. The sheer scale of this place, row upon row of brick bunk houses or brick chimneys where the wooden houses had been set alight, sent shivers down my spine as we entered through the infamous gatehouse. The railway track passes through it onto the ramp where the unfortunate souls were selected for either death by labour or the gas chambers. Here we learnt more personal stories; of families torn apart on the ramp such as mother and son forced to stand in different lines, the son upset that his mother had pushed him back into the correct line but little did he know she was saving his life - he never got to see her again to thank her. Another son already working in the camp, with the worst job of clearing out the gas chambers, reunited with his mother as she undressed ready for her 'shower'. She was so happy to see her son and he reassured her everything would be alright as he accompanied her into the chamber so that they could die together. The last story was of a 12yr old girl: having already lost her parents in other death camps she lied about her age in order to be put to work. Miraculously she survived two years of mistreatment, malnourishment and slave labour that so many others did not and lives to tell her tale in the book 'Hope is the last to die'. 

Of all the shocking things I saw and heard that day one of the most surprising was the fact that after the hasty closure and destruction of the camp, as the Nazis reign ended, the camp opened as a museum only two years later - with survivors as the first tour guides. I can't imagine the awful memories they relived in order to make others aware of the crimes committed. On one wall of the exhibition was the quote by George Santayana - 'those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it'. If only the Bosnian-Serb army men could have remembered I wonder, as I, now in Bosnia, am learning about the concentration camps and largest European massacre since the Holocaust that happened 50 years later. 

Aside from the outrageously German efficiency that was used to organise the whole operation - maximum output with minimum effort - even getting the prisoners to guard each other rather than use more SS men, the worst realisation for me was that the outside world did know what was happening but there was no attempt to stop it. Photos taken by prisoners were smuggled out and planes flew over recording the layout and possible use of the buildings. Edmund Burke's quote 'All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing' rings true again and again. 

I had the privilege of leaving Auschwitz, having done nothing more than a few leisurely miles and some attentive listening, to continue my journey though Eastern Europe with an ever increasing sense of gratitude for the free and peaceful situation I grew up in and still enjoy today. I wish this was true around the world but sadly not... 

'Peace can only come as a natural consequence of universal enlightenment and merging of races, and we are still far from this blissful realisation' Nikola Tesla

The good life

I've always thought of Dad as a bit of a Tom Good from 80s sitcom 'The good life' - growing his own vegetables, recycling old car parts and building whole new rooms through dismantling chimneys. But he has now been trumped by my Ukrainian relatives - who still live on the small-holding where my grandad grew up. 

Ivan (my Grandad's nephew) and his wife Natala and their beautiful children Volodia, Yulia and Romchek were not only the most hospitable and attentive hosts but an absolute inspiration to my self-sufficient lifestyle dreams. They grow every vegetable you can think of on their strip of land running from the river valley to the far-off forest, from essential potatoes, carrots and beans to more exotic pumpkins, buckwheat and giant courgettes (abit like the oversized ones Dad used to harvest after long summer holidays). There are also strawberries and apple trees on their land and beautiful meadows that are of no use to them but certainly add to the charm of the place. To add to their culinary options they keep a cow (milked 3 times a day and for about 3 seconds by me), a very chilled pig and a whole variety of chickens. Their little black dog 'Barks' serves as a guard dog though he was far more interested in having a belly rub than barking at me. 

As well as looking after their livestock and crops, and the daily cooking, cleaning and maintenance jobs, both Natala and Ivan have jobs: as a primary school teacher in the village school and as a builder across the border in Poland respectively. My Grandad's sister Anna, or 'Babu' to the family, is also extremely well taken care of with her own little house where the bustling kitchen is still used by the whole family. I was honoured to be invited in to help prepare a few of the breakfast dishes: deep fried cauliflower and perfect pancakes - a skill only those ready to be a wife possess apparently. The rest of the family now live next door in 'the house that Ivan built' as it is fondly referred to by my own family. Built on a fairly grand scale by British standards, but the norm in rural Ukraine judging by the surrounding houses, it has 2 floors, a wooden staircase and landing not quite finished, a large bathroom (without a sink but who needs one when you have a bath) and brightly painted rooms. My teenage years of dedicated grand designs viewing allowed me to appreciate what a huge achievement building your own house is, especially with such limited funds. My hat goes off to Ivan and no doubt his helper Volodia - and Natala for keeping them all fed in the process. 

I know that, however idyllic their lifestyle may seem and however much I didn't want to leave, it's not all a bed of roses. Living off the land and building your own house leaves little opportunity for travels abroad, and the remote location probably isn't great for dance work, or work of any kind really. The country's political and economic state is also a huge burden to its people - living in fear of both their own and the Russian government. The Maidan protest shootings of 2014 are commemorated, not only on independence square in Kyiv where it took place but even in the church of Voroblachyn, as a reminder of the turbulent recent history you might otherwise forget whilst wandering through the pleasant streets. This and the war in Crimea have destabilised an otherwise beautiful country with an abundance of incredible architecture and natural resources, not to mention fantastically cheap prices for foreign visitors (15p metro tickets, £3 3 course meals, £5 beds for the night - I highly encourage you to visit if you haven't already). But despite all of these hardships Ivan and Natala keep smiling and their hard-working, caring nature, surely passed down through the generations, has blessed them with a wonderful tight-knit family worth more than anything money could ever buy.