Thursday, December 19, 2013

Flying home for Christmas

Usually he suggests going to Ireland when I ask him what we should do with the day. “Ireland!” he’ll shout. Tomorrow I’ll say, alright, let’s go!
We’re going in the morning! Yay! He’s excited and so am I!
Most things are packed. I don’t function in the morning so thought it prudent to prepare. Tickets and passports are the main things and they’re packed so we’re all set.
We both got haircuts. Both are terrible. I think I’ll avoid going to that place from now on. Sure, it’s handy – it’s downstairs – but both times I’ve gone there I’ve had to go back the next day to get them to repair the damage. And you can’t cut your way out of a cut.
Anyway. The young fella’s been asking to go back to Ireland since we came back the last time. He loves it. Cows, sheep, beaches, sticks, stones, puddles – what’s not to love?
Then there are all the people he has to catch up with over a glass of milk. He’s a sociable fella and looking forward to seeing my folks and his old pals again. He’s been listing everyone he has to see. His old buddy Matzke in Bray – they got on like Sternis in a Späti the last time...
Noddy will be there, with his wife, back from Australia. They’re coming to Berlin for New Year’s but that’s another story. There’ll be plenty of drinking done before then. I presume Sully’ll be home too. We’ll have to see what divilment we get up to this time.
I’ve a shit load of people to catch up with, new and old. Hopefully we’ll manage. This time tomorrow night we’ll be in Whitechurch.
I know Jenny will miss him – I know how it feels – but we’ll be back in Berlin by the time the Christmas hangovers are receding. And in time for New Year’s!
Flying home for Christmas, flying home for Silvester. Happy days.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

"Why is the moon?"

He’s reached inquisitiveness. Questions, questions, questions, there’s no end to them.
“But whyyyyy? But whyyyyy?” he’ll ask, about anything and everything.
Sometimes it’s about nothing at all.
“Why?” he’ll ask.
“Why what?” I’ll reply.
“I dunno.”
“What don’t you know?”
“You know, Bócito*. You know.”
I think he’s doing it just to wreck my head. He’s always messin’ with my head.
“Why is the moon?” he asked me the other day. I don’t fucking know! Nobody does! But I cannot say that of course. I had to try and distract him with something else.
But I know he’ll ask me again some other time. And I’ll have to explain the making of the universe and everything else. That’ll be a long chat. I’ll have to stick the kettle on…
He likes music.
“I like loads of music, not only one,” he told me. Which is brilliant of course. I told him the more stuff he liked the better.
He seems to like everything. He devours books and jigsaws. He likes fish, prawns, squid, octopus and any food that comes from the sea. He’s a real connoisseur. His favorite cheese is camembert, followed closely behind by goat’s cheese and Irish red cheddar, and he loves olives, as well as anything sweet. He’s also a divil for gummi bears and ice-cream. I keep telling him sweets are only shite and bad for him but he doesn’t listen. Two-year-olds think not of their futures.
He still likes nothing better than a good splash in a puddle, but he’s genuinely appreciative of every new experience, every train trip, every excursion, every meeting with friends or family.
I took him to Spreepark recently. He loved it, the dinosaurs, the train going around. He’s been asking me since if we can go back to the “banjaxed park.”
I think banjaxed is his favorite work. Everything is banjaxed, or perhaps “a little bit banjaxed” if it’s only slightly askew. It it’s not perfect it’s banjaxed in some way or another.
Every parent probably thinks their kid is great, but I’m incredibly proud of him. I know Jenny is too.
Sure, there are times he’s uncooperative and a pain in the arse, but there’s a reason behind everything. Tiredness and/or hunger are powerful forces, not to be messed with. He’s generally good natured, kind (really!) and considerate. He lost one of his gloves (again) today so I asked him if he wanted new gloves.
“We only need one glove,” he replied. Smart kid. Glove manufacturers have been ripping us off for years by only selling gloves in pairs.
Tonight, his bedtime book featured monkeys, so he grabbed his monkey teddy bear so he/she could read it too. “Look! Chimpanzees!”
He’s quick to assess a situation and turn it to his advantage. Toilet training has proved to be a challenge. It’s not that he didn’t know what was expected of him – it’s just that he wasn’t arsed. Literally. I had to bribe him with an episode of Moley (Krtek, the little mole) to pee successfully in the toilet. He did it! Another moment of great pride. But now he expects Moley every time he pees in the toilet. And the goalposts have since moved in an effort to get him to shite in the toilet too. It’s an ongoing process…
He doesn’t like to be rushed, and I don’t think pressure is the answer. Everything will happen in its own good time. He doesn’t like change. If he’s out he doesn’t want to come home, if he’s home he doesn’t want to go out.
Mornings are always tricky, especially since the Kita’s cut-off time moved to 9am so they can “enjoy advent” more. These Germans are crazy. It’s just too early. We never make it. So instead we get up a reasonable hour, even if that’s early too.
“Wake up!” he tells me. “Wake up! You can sleep tomorrow.”
He has a point – today is my favorite day too – so I get up, and we have a leisurely breakfast, free of the stresses of being on time for anything, before seeing what the day has in store for us.
It’s nearly always good.

*He still calls me Bócito. It’s better than Papa. He can call me whatever the hell he wants, as long as it’s not Papa.

Saturday, December 07, 2013


There was more to my trip to Bulgaria than Buzludzha of course. There was, well, Bulgaria.
Sofia was an assault on the senses upon arrival. My trusty guidebook told me there was a minibus straight to the center from the airport terminal. There wasn’t. The trusty guidebook failed its first test and wasn’t trusted no more. No nay never no more.
The regular bus which only goes half way took off once I decided to get it – it had been sitting there with its door closed for ten minutes before – so I wandered down the road in search of another. I passed a million taxi drivers on the way, ignored them all. Taxi drivers are as bad as bankers or politicians – they’ll shaft you every time.
After half an hour of wandrin’, another bus passed me by. Bollocks. I decided it was probably best to wait at a bus stop for the next one. After all, I had no idea where I was going.
The bus was crowded when it arrived and crowdeder once I squeezed on. The smells onboard were authentic, rural, rustic, pungent. I had someone’s foot in my face and I could still get the other smells.
Oul’ grannies nattered away among themselves in what I can only presume was Bulgarian. Three French girls also got on. I know this because they were speaking French. I almost felt we were related, so alien was everything else around me.
The writing is the killer in Bulgaria. Everything’s in Cyrillic so it’s next to impossible to decipher anything. Once the bus stopped I asked one of the French girls where the metro stop was. She pointed me in the right direction.
Then I’d to try figure out which stop was the center. I made an educated guess before getting out at Сердика and spending hours wandering around looking for my hostel, eventually finding it on Дондуков. The guidebook was no help, with all its maps and addresses in another script…
Not much could be garnered from the little bit of Sofia I saw, but it seemed interesting enough. There were plenty of grand fuckoff buildings in the center, heralding a time of former glory, or attempting to at least…
There was either loads of money on show or none at all – nothing in between the very poor and the blatantly rich. Flashy cars, swanky bars and tacky nightclubs attested to the latter. Definitely a case of more money than taste.
Otherwise the smell of poverty pervades the streets and especially the buses. Buildings are worn down, crumbling, battered looking – authentic.
Apparently there are loads of stray dogs in the city, wandering around in packs and attacking people from time to time. (According to the guidebook, so perhaps this should be taken with a grain of salt.) I only saw one dog and he looked like he knew exactly where he was going. Very determined. He didn’t stop.
The Alexander Nevsky Cathedral was quite impressive but I didn’t have time for proper sightseeing. I was on a mission!
The mission went well, as I’ve written already. Shipka, my base, was very nice. There’s nothing going on in it. I went out for a stroll on my first night and promptly found an abandoned theater and an abandoned house. There were loads of other abandoned buildings around too, as I was to find out subsequently.
I was the only guest in the hotel for two of the three nights so I felt guilty eating alone in the restaurant, keeping the woman from having the nights off for herself. They told me to have breakfast “as late as possible.” The wine was lovely.
But the countryside is the thing. The mountains are great, unspoilt, wild, home to loads of wildlife which may or may not include bears and wolves. Apparently they were in “other mountains” but Ivan told me of one fella in the village who said he was attacked by wolves and had the scars across his body to prove it. Nobody believed him because he drank so much, but from what I could tell they ALL drink so much, so it’s hard to know who to believe or not.
Shipka’s main attraction is the picturesque Russian church (unless you count the abandoned theater). It has great golden onions on the roof, and can be seen for miles around. In fact, it was the sight of the onions on my way back from Buzludzha through the forest that finally let me know that I was on the right track.
I decided to go to Veliko Tarnovo from Shipka. Time hasn’t been kind to the former capital though. It’s in a great natural setting on a rocky outcrop by the river, but now it’s just a town of souvenir shops and real estate agents flogging property to foreigners who don’t know what to do with their money. There were nearly as many property speculators as tourist shops, all advertising their offers in English.
I should have skipped Veliko Tarnovo and stayed in Shipka another day instead. Shipka was great. When I came out the abandoned theater, an old woman walked by on the road with a herd of seven goats. That’s Bulgaria.

Sunday, December 01, 2013


Some things are worth going a little out of your way for. Buzludzha is definitely one of them.
My heart beat with excitement on my first glimpse of it atop the mountain. Excitement turned to trepidation and foreboding as it drew near. When I gazed up at the imposing structure looming over me, it was sheer awe.
As luck would have it, Buzludzha – the House-Monument of the Bulgarian Communist Party, to give it its full name – was clear. The clouds were below me, stuffed between the valleys’ mountainsides like protective cotton wool, just the peaks poking through to bask in sunlight. The odd bank of cloud whooshed by in the wind but otherwise the Bulgarian weather gods were smiling down on me.
Messages written in giant Cyrillic letters on either side of the main entrance greet the visitor on arrival. I don’t know what they say, but presumably they are communist slogans proclaiming the greatness of Bulgaria, communism, Bulgarians or communists. Buzludzha was a tribute and headquarters to Bulgaria’s communists, so this is an educated guess. In any case, I took pictures. I hope to get the slogans translated.
I took pictures as fast as my eyes would let me – as soon as I’d taken one I’d already seen the next – and I circled the perimeter to get an idea of the structure’s size and marvel at a wondrous feat of engineering.
Buzludzha is way up at 1,441 meters, making it damned hard to reach. How many of the 6,000 laborers involved in its seven-year construction must have died?
Designed by Guéorguy Stoilov, the monument was built at a cost of 14.186 million Bulgarian leva (€7 million) and unveiled on August 23, 1981 to commemorate the founding of the Bulgarian Social Democratic Party (BSDP) in the area 90 years before.
Forget your past? No. Buzludzha also celebrated the joint Russian-Bulgarian forces’ important victories over the Ottoman Army in four battles for the nearby Shipka Pass in 1877-78, and its unveiling coincided with the 1,300th anniversary of the establishment of the First Bulgarian Empire by Khan Asparuh in 681. That lasted until 1018, slightly longer than Buzludzha did before the end of communism spelled the end.
The front entrance was all sealed shut, but naturally I had to get in. I had to get in! It didn’t take long. There’s a pile of rocks stacked around the corner to the right of the entrance, with a small opening above. I climbed up, threw my rucksack in, sat up on the left and eased myself in backwards taking care not to bang my head. I was in!
Someone has evidently been taking care of it recently. Sure, the lobby is fucked, and covered in rubble, but the crumbling steps were clear and easy enough to ascend to the main auditorium.
My first glimpse of it as I ascended the stairs sent my heart pounding again. Not that it wasn’t pounding already. I was in Buzludzha!
But the auditorium is incredible, awe-inspiring, just mad. A shiny white marble floor was much cleaner than I’d expected, with a massive hammer and sickle set in a red circle in the middle of the roof looking down on it.
The seats for what must once have been thousands of delegates were all gone, but most of the colorful murals on the surrounding walls remain, depicting various scenes featuring the construction of a socialist society.
Engels, Marx and Lenin are there of course, across from three other Bulgarian figureheads given pride of place on the other side.
The one on the left was probably Todor Zhivkov, Bulgarian president from 1954 to 1989. Some disgruntled native must have chipped his likeness off the wall once the communists were no longer in charge. Relatively unscathed beside him is Dimitar Blagoev, who initiated the BSDP and was the main protagonist in founding Bulgarian socialism, while Georgi Dimitrov, who led the country from 1946 to 1949, is to the right.
I took pictures as quickly as I could, mindful of the fact a piece of the roof may fall on my head at any moment. Quite a few pieces had already fallen, judging by the numerous gaps letting the sunlight and passing clouds through.
The noise was almighty. Creaking, rattling, banging, wailing, slamming – all kinds of freaky sounds due to the passing wind. I suppose it’s only natural atop a mountain, but still, spine-tingling.
I was all alone and the spine tends to tingle more as a result in places like these. I made my way back down to the lobby, took more photos, and when I turned around I saw a shadow cross my path. AAAAAAGH! I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I realized it was my own. As I said, my spine was on high alert.
Downstairs it was blacker than Thatcher’s heart, or whoever her communist equivalent would have been – Stalin, I suppose. It was dark, damned dark. I could only explore with the aid of a torch, through rubble-strewn rooms with leaky pipes and rusted insides.
The toilets were still tiled but cleared of their utensils, but by now my attention had switched elsewhere – to the tower.
I made my way under the auditorium, over dodgy floors, mindful of gaps till I came to a metal door prised open at the bottom. I crawled through and there were the rusted steps I’d been expecting.
I don’t know how many levels beside the lift shaft I went up. Maybe ten. In the dark, with my torched clenched between my teeth, trying desperately not to drop it or indeed myself into in the darkness below.
Bulgarian graffiti adorned some of the walls, written in big angry indecipherable (Cyrillic) letters, red as if written in blood. There was still clanging and banging going on, sometimes weird creaking, so the spine was tingling as before.
On I went. Then the steps ended. There was only a rusty ladder onward. The lift was there. Obviously out of order. I tried looking down, couldn’t see the bottom. Maybe there wasn’t a bottom. Maybe it went all the way to communist hell.
But I was going up. I had to the reach the top! The ladder was through a gap too small for me and my rucksack. One of us had to stay. It was decided the rucksack would wait. I went on.
The ladder wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. I’ve been down and up worse. Finally, I could see a bit of light up ahead and without too much more delay I was inside the red stars that adorn the top of the tower. They were pretty smashed too. I’m not sure shortsighted birds are to blame.
The ladder went on and so I went up, onto the roof! Woohooo! Suddenly the spine stopped tingling. I’d made it!
Then I noticed a car approaching from afar. They drove right up, stopped outside Buzludzha. Bollocks. Who were these guys? Well, I wasn’t in a hurry, I knew it would take them a while to reach me.
I made my way back down, carefully. Rather than bump into the new arrivals – they might have been trouble – I descended into the deep dark bowels of Buzludzha. There was quite a lot of water, rubble and crumble.
Apparently the place is infested with zombies and they like to play what they call “Blood Games.” I didn’t see any zombies. I found myself in some sort of computer room and there I found a shrine to two French urbexers murdered here on October 5, 2012.
There was a crude wooden cross resting against the wall, holding a note remembering Achille Pinet, 23, and Marrok Brideau, 29 and their murder date. A former bunch of flowers decayed beside it, along with something in gift-paper. On a shelf above – a bible, the remains of a candle and a book of condolences, signed by the occasional visitor, mostly from English-speaking countries.
It’s a hoax – no French fellas were murdered here, though I needed to check with Ivan back at the hotel to be sure. It was the first he’d heard of it, and you can be sure in a quiet rural village in Bulgaria that everyone knows everything going on, never mind the murders.
(I looked up the names when I got home, found it was all part of a book called MEAT - Memoirs of a Psychopath. The names and date were the same.)
Still, it was time I moved on. My hotel was 12km away (20km by road) and I had to get back before dark. Being lost in a Bulgarian forest in the middle of the night is not my idea of fun. They have wolves and bears – man-eating bears apparently and I’m sure the wolves aren’t too fussy either.
After picnicking beside the giant fists holding the torches and casting one last look at Buzludzha – it was shrouded in cloud as I left – I set off through the forest.
I won’t go into the mild terror of hiking through a never-ending Bulgarian thick forest in the middle of nowhere at twilight, tripping over roots hidden by fallen leaves, knowing it takes three hours to walk home, not even sure which way is home – eerie silence broken only by strange sounds, sudden movements, and punctuated at times by a distinctly canine smell.
I was sure I was on the wrong track until I made it to Shipka. The next day, I went back to Buzludzha again. I just had to go back.

Buzludzha, Buzludja, Бузлуджа (pronounced BUZ-lood-iya). Former Bulgarian Communist Party headquarters fallen on hard times since, well, the fall of the Iron Curtain and the end of communism. Succeeding Bulgarian head honchos were happy enough to let their predecessors’ shining glory fall into disrepair – they couldn’t resist the political brownie points to be gained. All the valuable copper was stolen from the roof in an operation that could only have been made possible with political collusion.
In 2011 it was handed back to the Bulgarian Socialist Party, the communists’ successor party, though they seem to lack either the wherewithal or the means to preserve it – perhaps they have neither. Ivan, my gracious host for my visit, reckoned it would cost 20 million leva (€10 million) to restore it. He seemed to think it was a lot, but it’s not when you consider the cost of bank bailouts and Berlin’s new airport (€4.6 billion and counting).
The socialists still meet here every year on the first Sunday in August.

Darmon Richter has some more on the history of the monument in his excellent blogpost here:
And here
’s another great account here:

In the middle of nowhere Bulgaria, in the Central Stara Planina or Balkan mountain range, north of Kazanlak (Казанлъ̀к in Bulgarian), about 12km from the village of Shipka (Шипка), which is the closest community-civilisation to the monument.
Here’s a map showing its location.

How to get there
From Berlin, both Air Berlin and Air Bulgaria fly to Sofia, Bulgaria’s capital, from Tegel. They’re both around the same price, but Air Bulgaria gives you a sandwich, bottle of water, drink (wine, coke etc.) and tea/coffee included! It’s a 2½-hour flight.
If you’re not travelling from Berlin, other airlines fly to Sofia of course. Try Momondo for flights or this website is also good.
From Sofia get the bus to Kazanlak (Казанлъ̀к) run by the Union Ivkoni bus company. They go from a secondary terminal to the left of the main terminal building. Watch out for the rude cow at the information desk in the main terminal building if you find yourself there. The bus will take around three hours and the ticket’s 16 leva (€8).
From Kazanlak the No. 6 bus goes every half-hour to Shipka (Шипка). That takes about 20 minutes and the ticket’s 1.80 leva (90c).
Once you’re booked into the hotel (see Where to stay below), you can contact the very affable Alex (+359-89-344-6102) to arrange a lift up to Buzludzha for 20 leva (€10). It’ll save you a 12km uphill hike and is well worth it in my opinion. I gave him more. If you’re nice, he may even wait for you and give you a lift back! He’s got two dogs who he’ll take along for the ride. They’re just as friendly as he is.

Getting in
The front entrance is locked as mentioned before, but go around the corner to your right, climb over the little mound of rocks and in through the hole. Mind your head.

Where to stay (Debut!)
The Shipka IT Hotel is the perfect base. Tosha and Ivan looked after me like I was a long-lost son, and Ivan was able to put me in touch with Alex above. They took great pleasure in warning me about the “man-eating bear” roaming the forest outside, and found it hilarious when I told them of being scared of my own shadow. They have a restaurant too, where you can sample Bulgarian cuisine and enjoy its fine wine. You may need to book ahead. Email, telephone/fax +359-4324-2112 or see

When to go
Go in daylight so you don’t get killed. And go early in the day so you’ve plenty of time to get back. I went last week and was incredibly lucky with the weather, but bear in mind that it can get very wild in winter, while snowfall can make it a treacherous proposition. The snow started the day after I left…

Difficulty rating
9/10, primarily due to the hassle of getting here. It actually wasn’t as dangerous inside as I imagined it would be, and it’s easy enough to get in. Still, of course, extreme care must be taken. As always, carelessness can lead to accidents.

Who to bring

Someone who’s fit. There are around 300 steps to the top of the tower. Carrying passengers is not an option.

What to bring
Camera, torch, good boots, warm clothing, bottle of water and/or vodka, sandwiches, chocolate or some other sustenance to keep you going. If you do end up hiking through the forest, grab a good-sized stick to ward off any wolves and man-eating bears you might come across. It probably won’t help but it might make you feel a bit better about your prospects.

Rubble and debris litter Buzludzha, particularly away from the main auditorium. Watch out for debris falling from the roof – this was my main concern. You don’t want a slab of concrete landing on your head. There’s abundant asbestos too – try not to breathe in too much of it. 

Time, weather, souvenir hunters and scavengers are taking their toll on Buzludzha. It should be a UNESCO heritage site and protected accordingly, but it’s likely to suffer further damage as Bulgaria’s leaders are disinclined to restore an icon of the country’s communist past.

This post also appears on the Abandoned Berlin site, where it’s actually better because you can click on the pictures to see them nicely presented in some fancy photo-presentation software package. Go on, have a look!