Where the hell am I?
The bus left me on a lonely dirt road that supposedly went to the Serbian border. The road drifted away and disappeared around a distant corner. All I could see were haystacks, cows and miles of rolling hills.
Hills. I wasn't ready for hills. After 3 hours of sleep, a wild night with a Brazilian backpacker girl, a city tour of Sofia and several hours lost in the Bulgarian countryside I was ready to collapse. The Red Bulls had worn off much faster than expected and my guitar had suddenly grown a lot heavier when I stepped off the bus.
I shook myself out of my exhausted haze and started walking down the snaking road towards the corner. The corner soon gave way to a large descending plain of rolling hills on my right and a farm that meandered off into the horizon on my left. In the distance I saw a farmer with a scythe hacking at hay as several cows lulled around him. Chirping birds and evening crickets gave the surroundings a tranquil, pastoral feel that I was completely unable to enjoy since I had no idea where I would sleep that night. I had the vague feeling of a trespasser as the dirt road slowly brought me in the farmer's direction.
Maybe he would offer a wayward traveler a place to stay? Sunset was evident now and long shadows played over hills which refused to show a large sign or line that said in big letters, "SERBIA." This was not the kind of road I expected to find any hitchhiking cars on...maybe tractors or donkeys.
Among the tranquil bird and cricket chirps I detected sounds of civilization: cars!! The large hill descended to a highway - the same highway I had lost when I got on the bus. The Serbian border would be there somewhere.
The farmer became a distant concern of mine as I scanned the highway for signs of a border crossing. I saw it; cars were forming lines in front of highway border checkpoints and two large gas stations. I breathed a sigh of relief and walked through the trees that lined the road. Although my route was not the obvious border choice, clearly others had taken it since there was a worn path that lead down the hill to the gas station.
And several border police. Damn.
Well...even though I magically appeared out of the middle of nowhere like an illegal immigrant, I wasn't doing anything wrong, was I? The hill was clear and I felt completely exposed as I walked towards the gas station. Once I walked through the trees, the police saw me instantly and pointed as I descended the hill.
They stared me down as I advanced on them with my guitar case and black backpack. There was nothing I could do so I continued walking casually as if it was perfectly normal to be wandering around alone on a international border at nightfall. They stopped me. They had guns.
They didn't speak English, but "passport?" is an international word. I stood there tensely as they flipped through my blue passport. "Amerikan??" I nodded, and fortunately they liked Americans. Smiles broke across their faces as they pointed at my guitar.
Did I mention "guitar" is another international word? I celebrated my first Bulgarian-Serbian border crossing by performing "Hotel California" for a quartet of armed border police.
The bus left me on a lonely dirt road that supposedly went to the Serbian border. The road drifted away and disappeared around a distant corner. All I could see were haystacks, cows and miles of rolling hills.
Hills. I wasn't ready for hills. After 3 hours of sleep, a wild night with a Brazilian backpacker girl, a city tour of Sofia and several hours lost in the Bulgarian countryside I was ready to collapse. The Red Bulls had worn off much faster than expected and my guitar had suddenly grown a lot heavier when I stepped off the bus.
I shook myself out of my exhausted haze and started walking down the snaking road towards the corner. The corner soon gave way to a large descending plain of rolling hills on my right and a farm that meandered off into the horizon on my left. In the distance I saw a farmer with a scythe hacking at hay as several cows lulled around him. Chirping birds and evening crickets gave the surroundings a tranquil, pastoral feel that I was completely unable to enjoy since I had no idea where I would sleep that night. I had the vague feeling of a trespasser as the dirt road slowly brought me in the farmer's direction.
Maybe he would offer a wayward traveler a place to stay? Sunset was evident now and long shadows played over hills which refused to show a large sign or line that said in big letters, "SERBIA." This was not the kind of road I expected to find any hitchhiking cars on...maybe tractors or donkeys.
Among the tranquil bird and cricket chirps I detected sounds of civilization: cars!! The large hill descended to a highway - the same highway I had lost when I got on the bus. The Serbian border would be there somewhere.
The farmer became a distant concern of mine as I scanned the highway for signs of a border crossing. I saw it; cars were forming lines in front of highway border checkpoints and two large gas stations. I breathed a sigh of relief and walked through the trees that lined the road. Although my route was not the obvious border choice, clearly others had taken it since there was a worn path that lead down the hill to the gas station.
And several border police. Damn.
Well...even though I magically appeared out of the middle of nowhere like an illegal immigrant, I wasn't doing anything wrong, was I? The hill was clear and I felt completely exposed as I walked towards the gas station. Once I walked through the trees, the police saw me instantly and pointed as I descended the hill.They stared me down as I advanced on them with my guitar case and black backpack. There was nothing I could do so I continued walking casually as if it was perfectly normal to be wandering around alone on a international border at nightfall. They stopped me. They had guns.
They didn't speak English, but "passport?" is an international word. I stood there tensely as they flipped through my blue passport. "Amerikan??" I nodded, and fortunately they liked Americans. Smiles broke across their faces as they pointed at my guitar.
Did I mention "guitar" is another international word? I celebrated my first Bulgarian-Serbian border crossing by performing "Hotel California" for a quartet of armed border police.
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