Heavy Metal, Heavy Myths
Part 3 of a 3-part journey…Sofia to Bucharest
I thought of about three ways to open this story.
One was a play on the point of life. That, and the title, will make sense if you keep reading but I thought it a bit wank’ish.
Another was discussing how this particular travel route, on this derelict train, would have been all but impossible for a westerner not so long-ago. It’s true but that didn’t grab me either.
So, to avoid sounding immediately pretentious (why not save it for later?) or too historical, I’m going with “the Sofia to Bucharest leg started well”.
Straightforward, a little boring, but let’s move on shall we…(unless you want to catch up Part 1 and Part 2 first)
Get on board
I made my way to Sofia central station first thing in the morning and was greeted at the ticket window by a helpful staff member who took my bag and lead me to the international platform.
I assumed the boys from Türkiye were on the train or nearby but couldn't tell as it was a bit of a reception dead zone.
As my helper took me all the way to my carriage, Tibet appeared from inside and waved me in. They gave me a look of amused dismay and recounted their same experience just as the 'help' held out his hand for payment for services.
They had tried to warn me, but the mobile dead zone took care of that.
Neat and harmless scam he had going, turning up at the ticketing area with an official looking tag around his neck.
One version of heavy metal. Circa 1971 and going strong. Sort of…
"He saw me coming from a mile away", I laughed to myself and got comfortable in train that had clearly seen better days. Besides, 5 Lev isn't exactly much to argue over.
We surveyed our surroundings, admiring the graffiti that adorned every carriage and the diesel locomotive that sat waiting for its next assignment on the platform adjacent to us. "Made in Romania, 1971" informed the manufacturing plate.
Was anything made in 1971 still in active use or duty at home?
I wish it was, I liked it!
Eventually we found a six-seater cabin and spread ourselves out to avoid being bothered by other passengers.
It's a strange feature of train travel in some parts that there is simply no signal the train is about to depart. For such a momentous departure (for us anyway) we expected a whistle but here the question of 'when are we leaving?' was answered without warning by the jolt of carriages pulling in behind the engine.
Just make sure you're on the train when it happens.
English (or Turkish) isn't widely spoken or used in Bulgaria, so some details passed us by. Like the route the train would take.
Over the next 9-10 hours we made our way through Bulgaria ("East, are we heading east? Shouldn't we be going north?"), rolling slowly through the Central Balkans National Park, remote Bulgarian towns, villages, and stations, many decorated with murals or statues of heroes of the Soviet past.
Tibet seemed thrilled to be experiencing his homeland again, recounting stories of family holiday car trips to visit relatives in rural Bulgaria.
Conversation was around our collective experiences in Sofia.
"A good way to judge a country is by its second largest city" suggested Tibet.
Tibet; bass player, metal fan, train traveller
"Probably unfair of me to compare the best experiences of one country (Türkiye) to the worst of another" I offered, diplomatically.
We weren't going to explore Plovdiv (Bulgaria's second largest city), so it was Sofia, the passing wheat fields and villages, that would shape our collective view of Bulgaria.
At a quiet moment Efe pulled out The Myth of Sisyphus again (refresher; its title is drawn on the mythological Greek king condemned by the gods to push a boulder up a hill repeatedly for eternity).
“So, what’s in the book?” I asked.
“It’s about the philosophy of Absurdism. Once you realise life is basically absurd, or has no fundamental or real meaning, you are faced with three choices. The first choice is suicide, exiting an Absurd existence.”
“Ummm, that’s a bit dark. Aren’t you guys too young to fill your head with this?” I joked, “but go on…”
“Yeah, probably! The second choice is philosophical suicide; basically religion. You just accept the stories, meanings, and destiny religion gives you.”
“Yeah, I can see that. It makes life simple, but you remove those meanings and stories and what are you left with? We will search for a replacement set of ideas and beliefs…What’s the third?”
Efe, Tibet, and Berg as we crossed the Danube
“You choose or find what gives life meaning and purpose and you pursue that. The only true meaning or purpose is the one you decide or find for yourself” explained Efe, “well, according to the author”.
I could see it but paused and thought for a moment before responding. “I had kids very young and that was good for me, I think. Good to have a purpose and responsibility bigger than me. It wasn’t a choice around a defining purpose, more like it was thrust upon me.
But looking back it worked and was the making of me, for whatever that is worth.
So, I sort of think that children and family give life a purpose and meaning that’s hard to beat. Compared to that, everything after that can seem a little…self-centred or trivial, even if I choose it.
And true legacy is children. But left to my own imagination I would never have come up with that meaning or purpose, without first experiencing it.”
They listened and we threw that idea and others around for a while. I wish I could remember what they thought their purpose might end up being or what it was right now, apart from building a life outside of Türkiye which is more of a goal of necessity, than purpose.
Outside of the small matter of the purpose of life, conversation flowed effortlessly…
Music, religion, secularism, Turkish politics, the British Empire, WW2 bombers secretly buried in the Anatolian desert (they’re out there somewhere!), basement parties in mid-west USA college towns, the best of Istanbul, the worst of Konya, the Devil's Feather, President Ataturk (the father of modern Türkiye), the relevance of Gallipoli to the Turks (we share a strong unique bond), Anatolian Psychedelia (yes it’s a real music genre), and life in general.
When I look at that list, I am certain I learned more from them than they did from me.
On the banks of the Danube River
They were the best of travel companions. Young men whose company I enjoyed beyond words and young men I came to admire; fun, hospitable, engaging, intelligent, articulate, curious, aware of their country's history and present state, and thinking deeply about the future.
Growing up in a country like Türkiye with its historic, religious and political dynamic, and current economic state, is very different to Australia.
Peace and prosperity seem to have a sedative effect on us Australians. The absence of conflict to obtain that democracy and build that prosperity leads to a sense there's a natural progression in the world to those ends.
There’s no doubt we take it for granted.
The boys are under no such illusion, much to their dismay, a hard lesson learnt from growing up in Türkiye.
Sadly, Türkiye will probably lose all three of them. Corruption, nepotism, economic decay, a drift to politics driven by conservative Islam; none of those things offer much hope for driven young men.
Bulgaria was now behind us
Some 8 or 9 hours later we crossed the Danube River into Romania.
All four of us stood excitedly to see one of Europe's most historic rivers, each side of the border signified with Romanesque monuments erected during the height of the Soviet era, today overlooking some Romanians fishing, and enjoying the sun on the banks below.
By the time we arrived in Bucharest Nord, our friendship was sealed, and my train travel idea turned out to be a great instinct.
More men have set foot on the moon than have ridden from Sofia to Bucharest in clapped out Soviet steel with a Turk, a Bulgarian, and a Cypriot!
We hung out for a few days in Bucharest and while the temptation to stay with the boys was strong, I wanted to move at a slightly slower pace.
There was no wiggle room in their schedule, they were heading to see Metallica in France, and I wanted to soak up a little bit more of Romania than just Bucharest.
And I needed to set foot in Transylvania to prove it was real.
We parted as friends, richer for the experience.
Whenever I dream of travel, comradery, and adventure, my mind will inevitably drift back to the graffiti covered train that meandered its way from Sofia to Bucharest.
That’s the kind of Absurdity I’d happily repeat over and over.
