The village of Teshovo

The village of Teshovo

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Driving south from the small town of Gotse Delchev in southwestern Bulgaria, you head straight to Greece and you can easily get there through the border crossing of Ilinden. But somewhere in the middle of the way, at a junction in the village of Koprivlen, if you swerved right and up a narrower road, you’d head west and straight into the foothills of Slavyanka Mountain. Not long afterwards, the road gets still narrower, bumpier and ever more riddled by potholes. The surrounding lush greenery however adds to the overall charm of that small-scale village road and that fact takes away the irritation you’d instantly grow had you been driving down some city street in the same painfully familiar condition. Soon the road begins to climb. The curves get sharper. Curve by curve, you feel the elevation – your bodily senses have captured the slight altitude change. After a series of curves, the village suddenly emerged from the last one. You read the road sign. It carries the name of Teshovo.

When you look back, you register the village has alighted high up the mountain but when you look forward, you see that it rests still lower than the peaks towering higher above it. Driving slowly, you notice the houses covered in green but that is expected, it is the beginning of May after all.

Before you realize you’ve reached the end of the road, that is, the main square of the village situated on a larger curve. When you get out of you car you realize that the houses have been built on the two sides of mountain gorge and having parked at the square, you are in the heart of the village. To the left are houses. Further up above them, you spot a larger building. Later you will learn it used to be the school in times long gone but not forgotten yet. You take another look at the school and you see its peeled-off façade and its disemgoggled looks – the windows have been taken away, their frames ripped off. You hear occasional near and far-off barking.

It is late afternoon and the slanting rays of the sun seeping through the two peaks high above fall directly on the dome of a large church. Below the church you see a very large house both in traditional architectural style distinctive of the region. You will later learn that both were built in the second half of the 19th century and that the latter now served as a guest house. To the right of the church, you see a very small cobbled square with a stone fountain in its middle. Behind the fountain, you spot the shop of the village with a small roundtable surrounded by several chairs and placed right by the entrance. To the right of the shop but across a narrowed street going somewhere up, you see what seems to be the largest building in the village. A quick glance at it reveals that it used to be a restaurant. You are surprised because you have never seen such big restaurant in such small a village. But the board above the building’s entrance, aged with the whims of the seasons, says it unmistakably – a restaurant named Karamotor. You see that above the square Karamotor prides on its large terrace. You imagine it once used to host huge village gatherings and celebrations – weddings, birthdays, births. Now it is all but fully deserted, allowing its empty space to be filled with all the fantasy, more, ghost images you manage to scramble out of your imagination. A shade of melancholy seems to want to force itself onto your mood but you know better. You know that times have changed. You know that many people have left their villages in search of better living in the cities. You know because you have travelled extensively throughout Bulgaria that this is the exact same situation countrywide. At first, you think it is the same case in this God-forsaken place but you will later learn you have thought wrong.

You decide to go around and try to find accommodation. You head for the small square with the fountain and the shop. Once you get closer, more, once you find yourself in the middle of the square, you suddenly hear a multitude of voices. Some come from the shop. You look inside and you see it is full of people. Other voices come from a tiled penthouse built adjacent to the church and above its entrance. There you see a long bench running along the wall. You see on it a string of elder and younger men all having placed or holding a bottle or a glass of drink. They are all chatting vividly. You further notice to your right, that the small building you have thought was a house carries a sign telling you it used to be a monastery school. From inside it more voices poured out. You decide to go to the group of men.

You greet them and they all suddenly stop talking and turn to you. You have seen them eyeing you while you were in the middle of the square but they didn’t stop talking then as they have just now. There is a split-second instant of silence. You perceive it as century-long while they, you read it on their faces, in turn need it to size you up of sorts. This is only natural in such small village communities. After all, you are new to them. One of them, with very short-trimmed grey hair and big round paunch named Vasko, smiles instantly at you, greets you back and motions you to the bench with a welcoming gesture. While he is asking you name and where you are from and even before you realize it, he tucks a small glass in your hand while another one immediately begins to pour some amber-colored liquid in it. They tell you its local homemade brandy. In a second, a first natural, spontaneous and unforced toast is held. Then one after the other men start asking you questions. You answer each of them and then it is your turn. You ask them questions. A river of effervescent answers gushes forward to you – a river that does not drown you but takes you gently and carries you off downstream. You instantly feel at ease. What’s more, in a matter of minutes, you feel you’ve always been here and you’ve known these people all your life. Being an inner-city dweller who regularly bathes into the cold pools of urban alienation, something seems to tell you should take all this with shiploads of skepticism and label it as plainly strange. But the warm smiles you see before your eyes, the calmness of the kindhearted voices and the unstrained hospitality of these people all scream at you you’d be wrong should you do that.

One of the men is Georgi, he tells you he takes care of the large house below the church where you can stay. He also tells you that all money earned through providing accommodation to travelers goes to the church. He takes nothing for himself. He invites you to dinner. Several men from the ones present have prepared a boiled mutton. You eat with them. More talking follows during which you get to know many details about the village and its current residents. You get to know that in the past, the village used to be called Small China because it was very densely populated and most of the people were children and adolescents. Each family had from 8 to 10 children. You also learn stories about rebels from the National Revival who fought the Ottomans. It gets late. You are led to your fully renovated and cozy room.

The next day you discover the amazing view from the house where you have slept. You see a series of peaks in the distance below. You hear a mixture of all kinds of noises – roosters, dogs, children shouting, and bees buzzing. You decide to take a walk in the village. You take the narrow stone-cobbled street going up from the small square by the church. You bump into an elderly but very friendly woman who is laboring under the weight of two bags full of breads. Her name is Stoyka. You help her carry the bags to her house high up the gorge. “It is the last one in the village,” she tells you. On the way, she tells you the story of her family. She has several brothers all scattered across the country. She hasn’t seen them in years. After helping her, she takes you the village’s private small-scale dairy farm. It is further up the gorge. The milkman is relatively young and very friendly. He shows you around and explains how sheep cheese is produced. He lets you taste a piece. You savor its natural taste. It tastes like nothing you buy in the city. Here there are no additives, no Es, no chemicals. It is all naturally pure. You buy some cheese for later.

Stoyka takes you back to the small square. In the meantime you get to know there will be a village celebration near a chapel high up the mountain. You have a 4x4 and so you offer to take Stoyka there. She smilingly agrees. Vasko, Georgi and an accordion-player who has suddenly emerged from somewhere join in. You drive out of the village and under the instructions of Vasko, who is sitting next to you on the front seat, you turn left and up a dirt road. It is a long climb. On the way, you pass by groups of people already heading for the chapel.

You are surprised to see so many people who have already gathered by the small chapel. Below the chapel you see tree cooks preparing boiled mutton in two huge pots under a makeshift shed. There is a queue before the chapel’s door. People are waiting their turn to get inside and light a kindle. You queue in as well.

When you emerge from the chapel, you realize that all people have gathered in a large circle before its entrance. In the middle you see two of the village men fussing around a table. You have no idea what is going on. In a minute, one of the two, middle-aged but with a tough body posture, holds his hand up in the air. He holds large round bread in it. He says loudly it costs 3 levs, this is 1,5 euro. A voice from the crowd shouts 2 euro. Another one 3. Yet another one 4; then 5, then 6, 7, 8 and finally 9. The bread gets sold for 9 euro. A cheer of applauses runs across the gathering and a joyful woman emerges from the crowd and takes the bread. Vasko explains that this is an improvised auction held to gather money for the maintenance of the chapel. More loaves of bread get sold. Then there are pullovers, towels and home-knitted socks. People bid and laugh. They enjoy this improvised auction. Occasional voices crack jokes at the expense of some of the participants in the current bid. You enjoy seeing how people enjoy participating in this playful bidding. Towards the end of the bidding, there is one last loaf of bread left. The bidding begins at 1.5 euro. A voice says 2. Then surprised you hear yourself saying 3. Another voice says 4. You hear 5. You say 6. You hear the auctioneer saying “Six first time, six second time, six third time, sold!” A cheer of applause but this time you know it is for your bid.

After the auction is over, one of the cooks comes and announces the boiled mutton is ready. A few men immediately begin to distribute it among the people present that are already holding small plates and spoons in their hands. You are also given a small plate and a spoon. Then two lapelfuls of hot boiled mutton are poured into your plate. Stoyka makes sure you have a glass of local brandy. All people eagerly consume the steaming boiled mutton. All loaves of bread earned through bidding are broken to pieces and handed out as well.

An accordion and a tambourine suddenly emerge above the chatter of the people. An elderly man begins to sing. A few women get together and start dancing under the merry song. Elderly men and women start clapping their hands. There is goes a village party right in front of your eyes. People forget the yoke of the daily grind and delve into the festive atmosphere. A large chain dance quickly forms. You don’t know the steps but a welcoming hand has just grabbed yours and has pulled you into the vortex of the dance. You eagerly join in.

All photos are provided by the author

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The village of Teshovo

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