Taking the Train into the Past
The Sofia Echo, Magdalena Rahn, 12.02.2007
Part of the fun of going places – from a first-time visit to a local museum to the monthly trip to an undiscovered restaurant to your family’s annual skiing holiday – is that you become, for whatever period of time, part of something. Tourism without emotional involvement is about as fulfilling as looking at a pretty coffee table book of photos of the Eiffel Tower – or eating shkembe chorba made from an instant soup package, by yourself in front of the computer.
Part of this connection to place comes through interaction with people who make your chosen destination their local haunts. Late last year, a friend had the idea to take a trip on the narrow-gauge railroad that runs through Bulgaria’s south-west. The plan was to take the bus from Sofia to Bansko, spend the night there, take the train to Velingrad, spend the night there, and then take a bus back to Sofia – a perfect weekend excursion. And it was!
It’s funny, though, because when you tell Bulgarians that you’re taking the train, you get these strange looks, and warnings of it being too hot/cold/dirty/uncomfortable/smelly/old/whatever. I think it’s the old factor that puts most people off, in theory. Or maybe it’s just embarrassment about the country’s past. (You ask, and are told that the warner had taken a train, once, when he was three, or that she had friends who took the train and were horrified.) Because in practice, trains here, while not at all equivalent to France’s TGV or Japan’s Shinkansen, hold a certain charm and particular magnetism all by themselves. Nor do they smell.
Details for our narrow-gauge trip start out kind of sketchy. We hear rumours of the desired train line running or not running at certain hours, buses going or not going from a certain station in Sofia... It turns out to be a lot easier than we’d thought. Morning bus to Bansko, short walk from the station to our guest house, then an afternoon free for lunch, exploration and relaxation.
It is a challenge trying to find a restaurant that was not disgustingly touristy. Really, there is nothing attractive about passing by a venue and having a large “Hello!” (are we in Bulgaria or not?) shouted out to you, followed by being followed down the road in an attempt to win your business.
After visiting the Benina House , where Neofit Rilski was born in 1793 and lived until 1811, we go to one of those places where the waiter refuses to speak in Bulgarian to you, even though you speak Bulgarian no problem. But it is warm inside, and cosy.
Returning to our inn for dinner, we are greeted with an enfolding atmosphere, merry guests and a toasty hearth-come-wood oven/grill.
And then the musicians starts – clarinet, gaida (Bulgarian bagpipe), drum, accordion – and with it, the horo. And there we are, joining with people we’ve never seen before and will never see again, in this dance that winds through the restaurant as it has winded through the centuries.
It’s an early night, for the train to Velingrad leaves at 9am, and we don’t want to wait for the 3pm option. Chugging into the station, we observe our fellow travellers. For us, the train presents excitement, novelty, history. For them, it’s just another drudging form of necessary transport. I refuse to understand how people do not recognise that it is their history – in all its manifestations, pains and joys – that is one of the most alluring parts of travelling anywhere.
We find a non-smoking compartment and settle in. With the 12 of us and luggage, we nearly occupy the whole space. I end up sitting with one of the three local Bulgarians in our coach. Though he kindly changes seats when I ask if he would switch with my friends, I feel bad, because he descended at the next stop, anyway. The other two locals are grandpas, sporting that style of messenger-boy cap that old men the world over seem to find. They are cute, and I try to listen in to their conversations, just to see about what they would be talking, what thoughts and happenings occupied their lives, but it is too low, and accented, and muddled for me to understand.
Slowly we proceed along the route to Velingrad. It’s only about 45km as the crow flies, but the trip takes three hours. We break out the rakiya early on, not unlike the other travellers. Ever-relaxing because of its slow speed, we take in the natural surroundings, hauling through mountain passes, under hills, along pasture and stream. Herds of sheep delight us; the aroma of pine fills the air. For here, it is crisper, cleaner than in Sofia, and the sun shines brightly and warm.
I had thought to pass the time reading and talking, but most of what we do is just look out the windows (which open) or stand on the connecting platform between the coachs. The train goes slowly enough that one can safely hang off the car using the side handles and take (and be in) really spiffy photos.
Before this trip, I hadn’t known what a narrow-gauge train was. In addition to it functioning on narrower rails (1435mm), the cars themselves are narrower. They tend to be used in mountainous areas, because they can take tighter curves, or were built for industry.
The line we were on, which runs from Septemvri to Dobrinishte, is the last remaining one in Bulgaria. Others used to exist, but they have either been decommissioned (Kocherinovo – Rila Monastery, 1969; Cherven Bryag – Oryahovo, 2002; Varvara – Pazardjik, 2002; Kaspichan – Kaolinovo – Todor Ikonomovo) or widened (General Petrich – Petrich; Radomir – Kysutendil). In other countries around the world, narrow gauge was once more common, too. Mostly now, they have been transformed, with tourism as their main use.
Maybe one day, our country will recognise and realise this potential.
In any case, the whole was charmingly retro, and while not spic-and-span, clean enough. I photographed every detail of the coach, much to the perplexity of the local travellers.
Highlights included reaching the highest elevation of a rail line in the Balkans (1267 metres), at the Avramovo station, where we got off the train for a minute, and an old man pointed out the sign with pride; watching the people who boarded, in their clothing recalling peasant dress of 70 years ago; and just the peacefulness that seeped out of every crevice. Not like it was cold in there – the heaters worked very well.
Well, we reached Velingrad no problem, and revelled in the balmy waters to no end. And took the bus back to Sofia the next day. But that’s not the point – the point was that we participated in a part of Bulgaria, we had connection to the people, we saw a different aspect of daily life. And it was good. Our next trip is planned for April.
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