A Weekend in Gela

I had a fun weekend. At first I was a bit hesitant to the idea of waking up early on a saturday, and was equally met with awe when I found out the funny smell in the car on our way to Gela, a village an hour away, was actually that of a live sheep in the trunk. What moved me was not the fact that the animal was all tied-up in the back, but that it will soon see its demise and be skewered whole on a pole later. But to quote Ms Palin, "We are men, we eat. Therefore we hunt" or something like that. Well in this case, we eat, therefore we slaughter. Point taken. Ok, a bit of background info. I had preciously agreed to join my bosses' family and his relatives in their summer house in Gela for the weekend for a "sabhor", which could be best translated as festival. It's a tradition for them to meet in Gela yearly for the festival. The oldest member of the entire extended family treats them to "chever-mey" or a whole grilled lamb. Although it might not have been your typical fun weekend for that 20-something year old, I came to appreciate their family tradition that they so gracioulsy shared with me, being haggled by one of the uncles (which I've become used to for it is almost always a gesture of being accepted as one of their own), then treated to the lamb, and then listening to most of the family kareoking Bulgarian folk songs particular of the region while the oldest grandpa played traditional bagpipe, and finally retreating to a comfy bed.

This morning I woke-up, had breakfast, and then headed to the festival. I've been to a good number of these festivals, especially last year, but there was something about this one that reminded me of a summer back home. Not so much the folk music, or the awesome bagpipe players on stage but perhaps all those tents out in the field, and all those beer in clear plastic cups and the hippie-looking cool boys and girls on a hot sunny day who danced and shouted and cheered.

Alive and swell

It's only so long before the unfamiliar becomes habit, the new becomes routine and life in a strange place is suddenly not so alien anymore. But then every now and then you come across something new, something you haven't tasted yet and that uncharted feeling of the near past comes beckoning. Today was one of those days. As you may have read in previous postings that Bulgarians by large burn wood for heating. And so is not the exception in my village incidentally.

Summer is a busy time for many in the villages because winter is not so kind in the Balkan. There's work to be done. Just to mention a few - conserving fruits and vegetables (because they are scarce and expensive in winter) and subsequently canning them, harvesting potatoes and beans, bringing logs from the forest so they can be chopped down for firewood and many more but I'll spare you the rest. As interesting as all these are to me, it is sheer hard work - or if I may suggest, life at peace with its rightful authenticity. Over coffee everyone chats about current issues, now being hauling wood from up in the mountain. So I decided I would help Basri and his family, friends in the village, carry wood from the forest to his home. When I offered to help, they warned me that it is a real "teshka rabota", meaning heavy work. His wife duly added that only men can get this job done. Well, I didn't quite anticipate anything for the ride up in the mountain was the scariest and equally most hilarious that I can ever remember. I had to board on an all-steel body truck made in then east-Germany. So glorifying is its hide, that even the dashboard is constructed of steel. Practically a tank! As we took quick turns around corners on the bumpy, usually unpaved road up the mountain, the driver would often fly off his seat and nudge towards the window. But to my surprise he kept at his pace. Well, anyway the work began we reached the destination. Basically, Basri's sons, his father and a couple of men and I helped fill the truck with logs that were sometimes over 2 feet in diameter. And then when we reached Basri's house, we unloaded them. But I didn't sweat as much as those guys, perhaps because I committed to the lighter logs. In the end I got a little taste of preparing for the cold winter that grips everyone, every year. Now it would be prudent to wait for my regiment to arrive.