by Keneward Hill
Keneward Hill has been living in Bulgaria for more than 20 years now. Linguist himself, he is also a husband of Mariana Hill, the famous interpreter from English and German to Bulgarian language. For the 100 Years UK in BG blog, Ken shared a memory of an unforgettable train ride from Bourgas to Sofia in 1985.
“You try and tell the young people of today that, and they won’t believe you!” –Keneward Hill
Way back in 1985 things were very different from how they are now: not just that we didn’t have mobile phones and computers, and that GPS sounded like someone might have been talking about doctors, but the Iron Curtain did not show any signs of wafting in any winds of change. At a time when it was very seriously frowned upon officially by the authorities in this country when a citizen had any contact with a person from the capitalist bloc, I had managed to come to Sofia in August on a one-month summer course in Bulgarian, with the intention of spending time with Mariana, the nice Bulgarian girl I had met a year earlier in the Federal Republic of Germany.
Rather like Jack and Jill, or maybe more like Tom and Jerry, we had managed to do ourselves injuries by taking a tumble up in the mountains after the second week of my stay. The result of this for me was a broken left wrist, meaning that my arm was in plaster. The last week of the summer course was to be spent in the resort of Elenite, near Bourgas. I wasn’t allowed to be anywhere for 48 hours without registering with the police, so staying with Mariana was out of the question and, although I couldn’t go swimming with my arm as it was, I went with the rest of the group to the seaside.
However, we decided that a good idea would be for me to take the train form Bourgas back to Sofia a day before everyone else was supposed to return. I went to the station and phoned to say I was about to get onto the 22.50 train, which was due to arrive in Sofia at about 6.30 the following morning. I found my compartment and discovered I was on the top bunk – a bit of a struggle to reach with a broken arm, but I managed. I put my travelling bag and my hold-all where they would be safe next to me and clambered up. It was one of those sweltering nights where you twist and toss and turn and just can’t find a comfortable position – especially with that arm being so awkward. I didn’t have a way of seeing what time it was, as my watch had been lost in the incident in the mountains, but I figured it was probably after four in the morning when I finally fell asleep.
When I woke up the train was at a standstill and it was very quiet. I looked at the bunk opposite mine and it was empty. I ascertained that the same was true of the rest of the compartment. In fact, it turned out that the whole of the train was empty. I managed to get down from the top bunk and looked out of the window, expecting to see platforms, but there was no station, nor houses; there were no people or recognisable places, just a lot of parallel tracks and a few carriages here and there. I realized that I had been asleep when the train had arrived and that everybody had got off… but what time was it, and where was I? I had no idea!
As luck would have it, a cleaning lady came scuttling along. She appeared rather perturbed and, I understood from the tone of her voice, started to reprimand me. There was a Kalashnikov spray of gobbledegook syllables that ended with “… militsia!” My Bulgarian at the time was pretty basic, so I asked the only question I could formulate that had any bearing on the situation: “Kolko e chasat?” (What time is it?) This was followed by another barrage of irate sounds that once again ended in an even more empathic “… militsia!!!” I repeated my question: “Ne, kolko e chasat?”, the “No” in front hoping to convince her that this was actually a far more important matter. She answered and I understood that it was eight o’clock. Yet another landslide of local language was hurled upon me, after which I asked my next question: “Kude e Sofia?” (Where is Sofia?) The woman seemed dumbfounded, but (after I had asked a second time) pointed along the railway line in the general direction of the place I needed to get to. I managed to struggle down from the train – it’s not so easy when there’s no platform and you have your arm in a sling – and started walking. I realized that I didn’t actually know how far it was to Sofia, but at least I was going in the right direction.
After some time I saw the figure of a man standing by the line. It must have been a bewildering sight for him to behold: a guy with a broken arm, with a bag slung diagonally from one shoulder and a hold-all in the healthy hand strolling along the railway track, approaching him. I smiled when I reached him and asked: “Sofia?”, indicating the direction in which I was heading. He said “Da”… then added “Idva vlak!” (A train is coming!) I was grateful for his concern, feeling that it was helpful of him to tell me so that I didn’t get flattened by the train that was going to come hurtling along. I thanked him and was about to continue on my way, but he repeated what he had said and gestured me to stay with him.
Shortly afterwards, a slow locomotive came trundling along towards us. On top of it a number of railway workers were standing. Evidently it was the end of the night shift and the signal box workers (I assume) were on their way home. When the engine reached us it slowed to a snail’s pace, but didn’t actually stop, and we somehow climbed on board. I found myself on top of the locomotive, being stared at in astonishment by a dozen or so perplexed workers. Who knows what they might have been thinking! I wasn’t sure what to do, so I did little apart from smile vaguely – at least this mode of transport was quicker than walking along the line!
Some time later – I’m not sure how long it was – we arrived at Sofia Central Station. I descended from the engine and looked around for a telephone. I phoned Mariana, who came to the station and met me, understandably relieved to hear that I was safe and sound. In the days when walls and umbrellas were in the news, it wasn’t too far-fetched to figure I might have been done away with. My final thought is reminiscent of the Four Yorkshiremen sketch: “You try and tell the young people of today that, and they won’t believe you!”