I swam in the Black Sea this morning. A cool, salty-blue surprise to someone who had originally planned to be somewhere in Eastern Poland about now. An email from The Parents reminded that I'd been lax in keeping you all up to date with where I was and where I'm going, a situation I can only put down to laziness and ignorance.
My original conception of the journey had been to go as far as realistically possible without flying. I'd first thought this would be China, but then discovered the boat to Japan and that became my goal. Shortly after leaving I learnt that I couldn't get a visa to Russia and the plan changed to accommodate this - I would fly to Mongolia and carry on from there. I'd said I'd go to Romania in the first week of June, the first fixed point of my trip. From there I thought I could loop northwards through Ukraine and Poland, on and up to the Baltic, perhaps crossing to Finland from Estonia, then Sweden, Denmark and to Berlin, the only European city with a direct flight to Mongolia. However, as I progressed through the Czech Republic and Slovakia, I began to change my mind. Having finally actually looked at a map, I realised that from Romania I could equally well head south: Bulgaria, Greece, Turkey even. Time constraints would then (probably) necessitate flying back to Berlin, so I resolved to put off my decision until I Romania, where I'd be spending nearly a week in one place and could ask my friends what they thought.
And, after a few pints, that is why I'm here, in Varna, on the Black Sea coast of Bulgaria. Rather than take the straight forward option - do I ever? - I thought I'd meander my way through Macedonia and Albania before heading to Greece and then Turkey. We shall see. At any rate, I have a ticket to Sofia and what more do I need?
Varna is a wonderful mix of Balkan and Mediterreanean, of Orthodox churches and carefully coiffed mullets (that most Mediterreanean of things). It has an air of an Edwardian seaside resort, though I doubt the speedos the men wear here would escape censure in Margate (and I think I'd be inclined to agree with the Edwardians on this one). The Cyrillic script (a tangent: wouldn't it suck to be called Methodius, possibly the greatest name ever, help invent an entire alphabet and then have it named after your brother Cyril?) adds an air of the unknown to the familiarity of a faded beach resort. The city centre is open, pedestrianised in the main part, with the large Seaside Park leading down to the beach. The latter is, according to the delightful City guide lent to me by my host, home to not only the Dolphinarium - "with an amusing show etc" - but also the "Astronomical Observatory and the Planetarium which organises observation seances for visitors". Perhaps that's where we are going wrong with public science education in the UK: we need more mediums (should that be media?). And wouldn't it just solve the great science religion schism in a stroke?
Bulgaria is apparently poorer than Romania, but I've seen no sign of that yet. The train journey here passed through fields more reminiscent of France or England than Romania. Gone were the horse-drawn ploughs and small plots, replaced with huge rolling fields of potatoes, rape and wheat. The villages were different too, no longer odd mixtures of concrete and stone, Communist and traditional. Instead the houses marched in loose rows down hillsides, in rough white uniform with red-tiled roofs, nestled against the rolling fields.
Varna is probably better off than most other towns in Bulgaria, being the 'tourist capital of Bulgaria'. Russian tourists come in large numbers and I've heard a lot of German, a stroke of luck that allowed me to actually find my couchsurfing host. I was given instructions to take bus number 8 to Trakata, but it turned out to be a restaurant that no Bulgarians (one or two of whom that I spoke to could speak some English) had heard of. I was saved by two elderly Germans who spoke no English but, astonishingly, had both heard of the restaurant and could understand my atrocious German.
Varna is also a popular area for British ex-pats, tired of the weather and Tony Blair, or whatever his name is. There are numerous signs for companies specialising in British Bulgarian real estate ("We Build We Sale"). The beaches are narrow strips of rough sand, yellow-white in the sunshine. The water is clear: bright, bright-blue and glinting; you can swim leisurely before heading up to the beachside restaurants and cafes. At night these become wild bars or clubs and it seems like half the Balkans are here to promenade the front in the warm air. It's cheap here too, the food delicious (especially the fantaaastic salads and their famous Bulgarian portions) and the weather has so far been amazing: I can certainly see the appeal.
It's a real town though and perhaps that's why I like it. Most of the visitors to the beach are young Bulgarians and behind the hotels lie the vast cranes and rusting piles of containers of an active port with the smokestacks of large factories just visible in the background. Yesterday afternoon we witnessed a local drama, evidence in miniature, as if it were needed, of real life.
Meandering down from the Seaside Park to the beachfront we passed a rough knot of Bulgarians, all leaning on the railings of a fence. We stopped and as we peered over the barrier we saw a diving tower, outlined high against the sky. A boy detached himself from the top and twisting and turning, he landed with a slap against the water.
A younger boy, perhaps 9 or 10, appeared at the second highest board. He carried on climbing, obviously nervous. The boys' coach wandered over to the music playing and turned it off, taking up a microphone. Now 10 metres up, the boy peered over the edge of the board, unconvinced. His coach began to urge him on in gruff Bulgarian, encouragement perhaps or maybe instructions. The boy climbed down to the lower board, picked up two small squares of towel and re-ascended to the top. He laid one of the squares delicately over the edge, minutely repositioning it exactly in a ritual of careful preparation. He walked purposefully back to the steps and, turning, paused. We waited. Slowly the boy approached the edge and, pausing finally, he spun round. Silhouetted against the bright sky, he stood on the edge, his heels taut, stretched over nothing but sparkling water. 10 seconds passed, then 20, maybe 30. With a start he stepped forward and away from the edge. The man began talking to the boy, urging, cajoling, persuading perhaps. We waited. As if unexpectedly resolved he stepped forward once more, spinning and then stopping. He lifted his head, his heels in that same stretched position, his calves ridged and rigid, arms outstretched, gymnastic and ready. As he fought for composure, the crowd fell silent, each of us perhaps imagining our battles, fighting our own fears through the image of the diving board. The noise and colour of the beach, out of sight behind the pool, had seemed to fade and now there was just the boy and the water and the bright blue sky. With a jerk he leapt backwards, turning twice until, at a barked shout from his coach, he stretched out, arms and legs now vertical and - crack - he hit the water, all lithe line and stretched muscle. A Bulgarian Bigger Splash. Applause broke out, the crowd gradually dispersing with the too-bright conversation of the relieved.
It had become theatre, drama that engaged and questioned, challenging each of us to ask whether we would have jumped. It challenged us to weigh ourselves in the balance, to measure our own courage, to ask whether we too could fight our own fears: art of the very highest kind. Deeper than that, it had become existential art too; the diving board a very literal representation of angst - that condition so often compared with vertigo - and the acknowledgement of our total freedom. Would we take that step, accepting, not certain but with courage enough? Or would we step away, retreating into the inauthenticity of the board, the myth of the solid?
As we watched, his battle had become our own individual struggle; he had taken on the metaphor of the heroic, the idol of those who are life's spectators. Through his triumph we too had triumphed. His success was ours, as the success of all idols through all ages has taken on the rich metaphor of own struggles with our own demons and become ours. And so are myths born. We watch and we know that perhaps we would have failed. Perhaps not. Perhaps we will never know until the time comes. All I know is that I'll remember that boy and his courage when mine next fails.
