Bittersweet Recollections of Bulgaria in the 70s

by Anne Clay 

Anne Clay lived in Bulgaria between 1973-1975. Anne is Edward Clay’s wife, who was Second Secretary and Cultural Attaché at British Embassy Sofia in the same period. To reach Bulgaria, Anne and her husband, together with their fourteen-month old baby, crossed Europe by car. Before Bulgaria, the family spent two years in East Africa.

“What did we expect about life in the Communist world? We were apprehensive but prepared to face reality with all the courage and ignorance of youth.” – Anne Clay

It is astonishing to think that 33 years have passed since we first set foot on Bulgarian soil. We crossed the border on a late spring afternoon from Nis and Subotica on the Yugoslavian side. We had been travelling for a week across Europe, our car, a Morris, loaded with all the paraphernalia that was necessary for transporting a fourteen-month old child in those days. At most stopping points on our journey we had had to unload the entire contents of the interior, boot and roof rack to avoid pilferage.

This had become more pressing as we headed further east and, although we didn’t actually hear the clang of the Iron Curtain behind us as we entered present day Croatia from Austria, we did feel the frisson of a swish. It was rather a relief therefore to discover that on the other side everyone looked the same; appeared to behave in the same way and fortified us in our belief that donkey cart drivers around the world over exhibit most of the characteristics of the animals they direct. Bulgaria would be a real challenge but an enjoyable one!

What did we expect about life in the Communist world? We were apprehensive but prepared to face reality with all the courage and ignorance of youth. We had already spent two years in East Africa so felt pretty confident of our ability to cope with “abroad”. We knew that we would not find the range of goods in the shops that we had become used to.

What we had not factored in to our cosy equation was that in the world of state controlled universal democracy the individual is merely a cog in the great machine and that the customer is always wrong, should he or she ever get the opportunity to try to buy something. This we encountered almost immediately as we struggled with a new language, currency and excruciating bureaucracy.

Our flat in “Louis Farouk” style

Our flat in central Sofia was on the ground floor of an old building opposite the Bulgarian TV studios. In this we were lucky. Most foreigners were housed in purpose built, modern high rise blocks built together in distant suburbs so that they could be observed en masse by state security. It was rumoured that listening devices had been built into them from the foundations up at the time of construction.

Our movements were observed and recorded on a more casual basis; we knew that our phones were tapped, but as we moved around the city we must have stood out like sore thumbs with our different clothes, car and pushchair. The flat was on a corner overlooking an unlovely canal, which flowed swiftly between grey concrete channels. At night we would be woken regularly by the workers on street cleaning duties leaning against the wall for a much needed break: a chat and a vile smelling cigarette.

Somebody once described the decorative style of our flat as being “a kind of Louis Farouk”. It was a curious mixture of pseudo baroque and modern with a huge marble topped fireplace, sliding doors, barley sugar pillars and brass handled glass doors. As the main reception area opened directly on to our bedroom we had to be careful when receiving guests.

We had a very large entertaining area, filled from time to time by visiting delegations, student groups, choirs, and so on. Local people could only venture into our territory en masse as their authorities would not permit closer contact by unchaperoned individuals. The kitchen was archaic and looked out on to a rather grubby courtyard, the haunt of scraggy stray cats and little else apart from the dustbins.

Every year the central heating and hot water system was turned off for a month for “remont” or general servicing. In pride of place in a corner of the high ceiling was a spare tank which had to be turned on manually during these times. This involved mountaineering over the gas range and work surface and a great deal of brute force.

The biggest insult was “peasant”

Maria* was the maid who had worked in our flat during the tenures of a series of foreign diplomats. She prided herself on her grasp of English which was pretty impressive considering that she was relatively uneducated, from a large family in the north east of Bulgaria and had lived a life of service.

She was unmarried, short, with severe dyed black hair which gave her a rather startling appearance. But she had a big heart and a genuine love of small children. She was hard working, very strong and a good cook. Her age was impossible to guess. Of course, we assumed she reported back on us to the authorities at her monthly “conferencia” (trade union meeting), but she had a healthy disregard for most people in authority irrespective of their political clout.

The biggest insult she could use about anyone was that he or she was a “selandur or selandurka”. This translated into English as “peasant” and always struck me as odd.  It quickly became apparent that Maria was a great snob and regarded herself as being a cut above many others since she worked “in foreigners’ house”.

She was by no means fawning or subservient with us, however, and delivered a great deal of unsolicited advice about everything from running the household to childcare to fashion. We tolerated this because she was invaluable and knew how to cope with all the regular aberrations of life in Bulgaria. Unblocking drains, chopping firewood, cleaning the huge windows (with old newspapers and white vinegar) and cooking with a limited and unpredictable range of ingredients were routine matters to her and she took them in her stride.

Turkey for Christmas

Christmas was not celebrated in Bulgaria, of course, but the markets filled with poultry from local farms in December. Geese were walked home to be fattened up on diminutive balconies for the New Year holiday.

“I get very nice”, said Maria and seizing the laundry bag she headed off to the market. She had made it clear that my presence would only hinder her, possibly driving up the price. I duly waited for her return. This happened some hours later when she returned, stamping the snow from her boots and in a bad mood.

“That big selandur would not let me on the tram!” she grumbled. “What does he know?”

She had walked the considerable distance from the market carrying in our laundry bag two young turkeys that now stood on the front door step, tied together by the leg, and peering curiously about them. I could only imagine that the tram company’s rules did not extend to livestock and she had been forced to get off and walk.

Happiness second to none

On the occasions when I did venture out to try to buy something on my own I did struggle. First I had not realised that a shake of the head meant “Yes” and a nod meant “No”. Nobody spoke English so my faltering attempts at Bulgarian were my lifeline. I took to push-chairing our daughter across town in search of various items from sirine cheese which arrived in barrels and had to be scalded before it could be used to oranges. These were seldom seen, their arrival being marked by long queues.

In the huge department store ZUM you had first to identify what you wanted to buy, entice an assistant to write out a bill (they occasionally felt sorry for me as I had had the misfortune not to be born a Bulgarian) queue to pay and get a receipt, queue again for the item to be wrapped in cheap paper and then totter out. At no point did anyone smile.

I would return home through streets which smelt largely of drains and green peppers feeling emotionally exhausted. Yet there was also elation in that I had managed to actually perform a task and bring something useful home. I have never felt quite the same about shopping since as my long suffering family will testify.

Maria* is not the featured person’s real name. The name has been changed for privacy reasons.

Photo via Нашето детство