The Forest Trial
There can be no
argument with the fact that if you are a female and live in New Delhi, it
becomes second nature to be careful, ultra careful every time you step out. Or
even when you are in and the doorbell rings. You will always read meanings –
underlined or tacit or maybe even non-existent – in everything you see, hear
and encounter. When your daughter steps and you say, take care, be careful,
look after yourself, you mean it with every breath. So what is it like to give
in to temptation and walk into a forest (okay a cultivated one right within a
city), take a quiet stroll, look up at the sky through the lacy canopy of tall
trees, occasionally hum a song and foolishly smile at no one? Exhilarating! There’s a lightness of being, of being at
complete peace, refreshing and rejuvenating. And an uplifting feeling of unconditional freedom.
I did that at Sofia. I admit
it was not a forest in the true sense of the term; the trees were planted in
neat rows and it didn’t cover too vast an area either, but who’s complaining.
It all happened on the
second day in Sofia. Everyone, just about everyone one talked to said a visit
to Vitosha Nature Park at the foothills of Vitosha Mountains, on the outskirts
of Sofia, was a must. So a must it had to be. The park is said to be the oldest
protected area in Bulgaria and also the oldest nature park in the Balkan
Peninsula. Also at the foothills of the Mountain was the medieval Bulgarian
Orthodox church, the Boyana Church (of St Nicholas and St Pantaleimon) at the
foot of the Vitosha Mountain and the only UNESCO World Heritage site in Boyana.
That was enticement enough! The question was how to get there. Join a regular
tour group or take a taxi. I found neither appealing – one would mean being
herded around in a group with an eye on the watch all the while and the other
would be too pedestrian. And so I chose instead to be a pedestrian, the two
foot kind! As a precaution I got the hotel staff (Kempinski Hotel Zografski) to
write down the name of the church and the probable buses going there both in
English and Bulgarian.
And in between came the
forest, right next to a regular street. The heart and the head fought it out for sometime but the legs of its own volition turned right and stepped in into
the wonder world. Am I glad I did! The world retreated; the rush of vehicles
faded and it was just the trees reaching up to the sky and me. Somewhere way
beyond one could hear the woof of a dog, but neither the dog nor anyone
accompanying it appeared in sight. It
was one of those rare moments in life when a sense of bubbling happiness and
soothing serenity overtake you and you give in completely.
The forest however had
to be left behind, it was Boyana Church I intended to get and before doing so
walk through the Boyana National Park for a while. The lady at the hotel had
said to head to Paradise Centre, the largest mall in the city, and hop onto a
certain numbered bus from the bus stand outside the mall. Presumption can be a
total complication creator; yours sincerely assumed she meant a bus depot
(shades of Sarai Kale Khan!) because after all it would have to be a long
distance bus. Phew! It seems she meant the humble bus stop. It took the two
security personnel from the Paradise Centre to find out someone within the mall
who could communicate in English. The elegant silver haired lady was more than helpful;
she actually managed to get one of the guards to accompany me to the bus stop. It was right there, a wooden board that had
the names of the places and the numbers of the buses that went there. Great! Just that I don’t read Bulgarian and the security guard spoke no English. It left me standing there for sometime peering
at every bus that stopped – the numbers were not what I was looking for. To
make matters worse, the short and sudden soft drizzles that seemed to be the
norm had everyone scattering. Thanks to the previous day’s purchase of an
umbrella, I decided the best option would be to walk further on, towards the
direction of the Vitosha Mountains.
After quite a long brisk walk, came one more bus
stop where I managed to locate the bus number on the board. Hallelujah!
Standing out like a fish out of water among the all-local commuters, I
kept my eyes firmly on the mountains on my right. Oops, the bus takes a left
turn and seems to be speeding away from it. Maybe it will take a U-turn and
come right around. Yikes, it doesn’t. I
whip out the paper with name of the church, the park, the bus routes. The
formally dressed man looks at me in complete dismay. As the next stop he takes
me by my arm, trundles me out of the bus and, still keeping a strong hold on my
arm, starts speeding up, almost sprinting down the very road that I had taken,
passing the bus stop where I had hopped on to the bus, a left turn, more
sprinting, cross over to the right and wham, one more bus stop. Thankfully there are two youngster passing
by, both fluent in English and after a short rush of conversation with them, he
lets go off my hand, pats me on the shoulder and runs back all the way up. He
was clearly in a hurry to get somewhere. Feeling both foolish and guilty, I
seek help from the youngster; they are not too sure about the bus numbers but
suggest I take bus no 64 which probably passed by Boyana Church. Bus 64 turns
up, I get in and the first thing I do is show the paper with the destination,
bus number etc to the first passenger, a young lady. She is clueless. A
sprightly elderly lady takes the paper, reads and suddenly an incongruous sight
unfolds, she taps her head several times talking nineteen to the dozen, she
must have said something funny because the other passengers laugh out loud.
Once more my arm is held in a tight grip, marched to the exit and at the next
stop she indicates I get out. From her frantic sign language I make out that I
have to cross over to the other side of the road and take another bus from
there. I get down and almost throw up my arms. I do cross over to the other
side and start walking. I didn’t want one more bus fiasco, the weather was brilliant
by now, sunny and pleasant. Then hey, hey, there’s an endless stretch of
greenery spread out, which seems to gradually rise up and reach the top of the
hills in the distant. Was I near the
park? A burst of white among the greens
appeared in my vision, it was stunning – a lone cherry tree in full blossom. A
little further off to the left there seemed to be a car park, quite packed and
presto tourist buses too! That could only be the entrance to the national park.
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The lone blooming cherry tree
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A little distance away
further down the road, away from the park entry there seem to be some café like
structure bang off the road. Could I get a cup of coffee there and maybe someone
to direct the way to Boyana Church? It is indeed a café and a bar, with a huge
garden all around and a second outdoor bar too. Yes they serve coffee and yes
the two gentlemen at work - Hristo and Dimitar are more than helpful. The café
cum bar, they tell is located at Nikola Petkov 46. Not being able to
communicate in a common language comes in the way and what ensure is a
hilarious pantomime- sing languages, exaggerated body movements, sketching of a
bus on a piece of paper and yet we seem to be going round and round in circles.
I keep repeating Boyana Church and both look back at me blankly for a few
seconds and then start off in Bulgarian, nineteen to the dozen. An elderly head
scarf-ed woman sweeping the garden outside is by now in splits. In sheer desperation
I make the sign of the cross and fold my hands in prayer. I thought I had
cracked it but no, it was still all confusion. Simultaneously mouthing Boyana
both would point back to where I had come from- so did they mean the entry to
the national park which I presumed I had crossed. Then making the sign of the
cross they point to the opposite side. The way they pronounced church was
something else too. All I do is repeatedly make the sign of the cross. Then
Hristo, dressed in all black, gets up and takes a car key from the key hanger
next to the door and gestures me to follow him. Is he asking me to go with him
in a vehicle, no way, never! How do I explain to him that taking a lift from
someone I met the first time in my life is a complete no no; besides why on
earth should be go out of his way to take me to the church. I hope it is allright to say that he seemed like a character out of a movie, like one of those guys who hang out with the bad man. Then Dimitar plays
the gallant knight holding my elbow and walking me to the car. The old lady
toothless grin and all waves a cheerful bye-bye. With a prayer on my lips, I
get into the car. Hristo drives up through a road and soon houses, shops,
restaurants, hotels etc spread all around.
The car climbs up another road and Hristo parks the car next to a
church. It is a church all right, but nothing about it says hundreds of years
old! I get out, Hristo points to the church says something, smiles and gets back into the car.
I thank him profusely and wave him bye as he zooms off. I know it is not the
church I was looking for and it is not.
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Hristo, who offers me a lift
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Dimitri (right) plays peek-a-boo
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The wrong church!
I am literally at a
crossroad and don’t know which direction to head for. The best thing I decide
is walk back the way we had driven. Boyana Church I declare is not fated to be
viewed by me. A lady crosses my way and yippee she not only is fluent in English
but knows where exactly Boyana Church is and gives me precise direction to get
there. A kilometre or so of walking,
another steep-ish climb and I finally make it to the church. As I approach the
old wooden entry door, it starts to drizzle again. The sole person, an artist
displaying his artworks next to the door, hurriedly packs up and leaves. An
entry ticket and a curving path take one to the church. The light sprinkle, the
stillness, they sky grey, the aged walls of the church situated in the middle
of a forest, all combine to make it seem
that one has been transported back to the medieval period when the eastern
church was built. From outside it looks
a huge, well kept but a huge old barn. The
church was built in the 10th century and a second two storey
building was built next to it in the 13th century (1259) by
Sebastocrator Kaloyan. The last addition was made in the beginning of the 19th
century. While the outside might look a bit ordinary, once you step in, it hits
you why it has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site. The stunning
frescoes painted on the walls of the second church, somewhat faded and at
places bits missing, make it difficult to wean one eyes away. Age and time have
of course taken a hard toll but the serene beauty is still unsurpassed. It’s a
tiny church and a beyond a point one is not allowed access. |
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Boyana Church (The main part built in the 10th century)
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Boyana Church with the two-storey addition made in the 13th century on the right
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The main gate of Boyana Church
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The lady who doubles up as both guide and ticket seller is quite voluble and apart from relating the history of the church, she is also for some strange reason, quite keen to drive home the point that the Bulgarian script Cyrillic has not come from Russia as is of touted but is true blue Bulgarian, home grown and home bred. One has no option in the face of such vehement assertion but nod frantically in agreement. After all as they say in Delhi, what goes my father (Mera baap ka kya jaata hai?) as to where the script originated from. She also informs us that she has an Austrian son-in-law and right from the outset she told him that she would speak to him only in Bulgarian and not English, because English was not her mother tongue nor his. Yes, the son-in-law has learnt enough Bulgarian to communicate with her. Made me wonder if he was a unique breed of son-in-law wanting to converse with his ma-in-law. But never mind, apart from the me the only other visitors inside are a Canadian couple and they too wholeheartedly agree with everything she has to say.Wise move! It is only when we step out that a busload of Malaysian tourists’ troop
in; every member has a camera hanging around their neck. I request one to take a photograph with the church
as the background. Initially one had mistaken them to be Chinese but the
enthusiastic photographer who insisted on taking several photographs lets
everyone know they are Malaysians, they are he says from the nation that made a
whole plane (MH 370) vanish into midair. I tell him that I don’t find it funny.
He says he doesn’t either but is sick of being asked about the mysterious
incident wherever he goes and thus had decided to preempt it all with what he
thought was a wisecrack.
The return back to the
hotel is again a saga of wrong buses and all that jazz and most of it ended up
being done on foot. At one point I had begun to feel like an idiot till presto
the confusion was sorted out. After
hoping into what I thought was Bus no 64 and was now safely on the right track,
the bus makes a sudden turn, stops, the driver gets up and changes the
number Bus no 111. Apparently from one
point to another, the bus is a certain number and then the number changes and
unless you work out such intricacies you are a confused soul.
There’s however always
a joke lurking around the corner and I encountered the one in store for me
after catching up with the husband, who had been holed up in a conference the
whole day long. Guess what? There was this wonderful restaurant called Vodenitsata (or Vodenitzata) up
in Vitosha Mountains where one could not only dine on authentic Bulgarian fare
but be treated to an evening of traditional Bulgarian folk music and dance and
a cab had been booked for the purpose. So back it was to Vitosha Mountains, this time
through a different route passing some beautiful houses on the hilly climb,
till we entered the forest – dark, deep and mysterious. Right in the midst was some dim lighting and
the restaurant appeared. It is located in an old water mill abutting an open garden and is above the Dragalevtzi River. The structure is all wood, stone and traditional materials. The décor was cultivated rusticity complete with
strung garlands of onions, garlic, chilies, bread, stuffed birds down to a cock
that looked like it would crow any moment, pelts strew around, thick stone
walls, guns, swords and the works. The dinnerware was beautiful Bulgarian
ceramic; the table mats bright woven traditional designs.We
needed a bit of help with the menu and started with a Bulgarian salad. It was
quite a plateful- fresh and filling. Just how filling we realized only when the
main course came- pork, mashed potatoes, greens, onion rings, fried egg
accompanied by traditional bread and we couldn’t do justice.
The entertainment
element won hands down, a band of musicians and dancers clad in traditional,
coloured attire made it a lively evening. Folk music and dance always carry the
aura and aroma of the land and its people, maybe over the years there have been
some tweaking and modifications, but the beauty of it all remains undiluted,
striking an emotional chord. Suddenly
the waiters were at every table requesting the guests to step out to watch the
performance outdoors. What followed was dramatic and breath-holding. In the
dark courtyard like area, stone walls keeping the forest out, was a big circle
in the stone paved floor and in the circle was a huge cross fashioned out of coal cinders,
some still red road. To one side stood a man and a young girl, clearly father
and daughter. The heavy elderly man was dressed in the traditional attire of
black trousers (this time knee length), white shirt with embroidery, a red
waistcoat also with embroidery and a broad red cummerbund; she was in a flowing
white below the knee dress edged at the hem with lace with bright floral
embroidery at the hem and sleeve ends and red silver buckled belt with her long
hair left loose. She stood holding a picture that features what looked like
ornately attired saints. Soon she
removed her shoes. There was something Madonna like about her. It seemed like a
pagan ritual especially when she began to circumvent the circle with her arms
outstretched. There was complete silence and the only interruption came from
camera flashes. There was a palpable feeling of both anticipation and not
knowing what was to follow. With a rake
the man began to spread the cinders all around until it was like a circular
carpet. Then be began walking on the cinders and she followed soon. It was like a dance ritual and the movements became faster, holding uplifted hands and breaking away. It seemed
like a rite from animistic times before the advent of organised religion. Either way it was
fascinating, even though the cynic within screamed totally tailored for
tourists! Who cares – it was memorable. On the way back a prickly thought
surfaced – why couldn’t we have something like right in the heart of the ridge
area in the capital? Sure, and fishes would fly and birds would scuba dive!
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Vodenitzata Restaurant in Vitosha Forest
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The cock is not for real!
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Have your pick
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Traditional ceramic and table mats
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That's the salad!
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The main course with bread
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Folk song and dance
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The pagan play
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Is she in a trance?
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