The Other Side Of The Tracks

12-16-2006

Everyone tells me not to give begging Roma kids money because if you give them money once they will keep coming back for more.(ok…….. its true) And also there is the argument that I am not in this country to give money to the poor or to supply food for all of the poor kids in my community. I don’t exactly agree with this; it is not like I am giving money to the local drunk, or handing out bundles of cash. I think that giving poor, cold and hungry kids a bite to eat is not that big of a deal. I say no from time to time, but I always feel better about the situation when I say yes. This mostly happens when I am coming out of the grocery store with bags of groceries and small change clanging in my pocket; this as you can imagine makes me an immediate target.
It seams like every time I leave my house and walk through the center of town Checho finds me. Checho is the Roma orphan I have mentioned a few times. He is a 15 year old kid who comes to Chirpan during summers and holidays to stay with his grandmother. He lives in a small orphanage in the Rhodoebe Mountains. Checho usually walks with me(follows me around asking me questions) to wherever I am going, which more often than not results in Checho receiving a hand full of change or a sandwich from the store. This kid has a very kind and sincere heart, and truly hangs around me for friendship and not just a free lunch. This becomes quite apparent when I see the look of shame in his eyes when he asks me for food. About half the time I see Checho he walks with me and leaves without asking for anything.
Today was quite an eventful day; I had an adventure I will not soon forget. The initial game plan for the day was to walk around Chirpan and take interesting pictures. I have not taken many pictures in the last 6 months; so I figured it would not be a bad idea to take a few photos to show the family when I return home next week.
After about 3 minutes into my walk I suddenly heard loud footsteps behind me, as I turned to look I saw Checho running toward me. As he approached I told him that I was going for a walk around town and that he was more than welcome to join me if he wanted. He immediately joined me without hesitation and was visibly excited to accompany me on my journey. We then began to walk toward the edge of town in hopes of finding something intriguing to photograph. Checho suggested to me that I could take some great pictures in the Mahala(Roma slum). I agreed but told him that it would not be safe for me to enter the mahala because I was not Roma. He persuasively guaranteed my safety and assured me that I would be perfectly fine because I was to be accompanied by him. With enthusiasm, eagerness and a dash of safety uncertainty, I said “let’s do it”. As we walked through the soggy garbage and manure littered field that separates the mahala from the rest of the town, I began to feel uneasy about the situation I was about to be in. Here I was about to walk into ‘no mans land’ accompanied by an orphan I hardly know. To an outsider the mahala could be a very dangerous place to visit; especially if you are unexpected and uninvited. I was now only 100 meters away from a place that no Bulgarian I know had ever been. Your average Bulgarian would never consider going into a Roma mahala; the age old segregation seems to be in the interest of both sides. Both groups have a deep tradition of segregation and a strong sense of cultural pride and unity. The Roma and The Bulgarians though living in close proximity; have not historically meshed well together as a community. Checho showed me the mahala’s water supply which consisted of a stream of water coming out of a concrete block. With a voice of pride he assured me the water was in fact mineral water and very good for consumption, but the heaps of manure and garbage surrounding us told me otherwise. The next thing that caught my eye was the large pigs that were wandering around the edge of the mahala digging through the heaps of garbage(definitely a Kodak moment).
After crossing over the heavily polluted stream and walking up a muddy road, I had arrived. Upon arrival I was greeted with concerned and puzzled looks that soon turned into warm friendly faces after I nervously spoke a few words about my intentions and reasons for being in the mahala. I told my new friends that I simply wanted to take pictures for the viewing of my family and friends in America. The people I met were more than willing to allow me to take photographs; so the journey continued. I then walked around the muddy streets with Checho by my side; greeting all the Roma and taking pictures. The Roma people I met became very excited about my camera and happily posed for pictures with warm smiles. The Roma I met on my walk were all very warm and kind people. It just proves that stereotypes should not be believed as fact; it is always important to form your own opinions and not to judge or make assumptions based on the views of others. As I was leaving I received many invitations from various Roma I had met to return to the mahala. One man insisted he give me a haircut (he was a barber) and come to his home for a nagosti(dinner party). While I was there I became involved in a few conversations about problems the Roma people are facing(mostly listened). They told me that the plumbing is almost non existent within the mahala and that the water runs only about an hour a day and is often shut off for weeks at a time. One Roma man spoke about violent run-ins with police officers who had harassed him and tried to fine him for things he claims to have not done. I took a picture of Checho’s relative’s home, and was quite surprised that it was even inhabitable. Some of the homes I saw in the mahala were so small and poorly put together; it was difficult for me to imagine anyone surviving a harsh winter in such a place.
After leaving the mahala I felt a sense of accomplishment and hope. I had made a few contacts in the mahala and was now able to enter the community without any foreseen conflict. I have decided that the next time I visit the mahala, I will bring copies of the pictures I took and hand them out to all the people in the photographs. I think this will prove to be an easy way to regain their trust and to make friends with these people. I never realized how self sustaining the mahala was. The mahala contains make-shift mini markets, a small internet café, and even a hut with a pool table in it. I was under the impression that the mahala only consisted of brick and mud homes intertwined with dirt roads. But in fact this neighborhood proved to have more than meets the eye; it contains everything this community needs to survive and live their own unique lifestyle. However, truth be told; I have never seen any place quite as poor and primitive. There were people using broken down Russian cars to sell cigarettes and gum that were on display on the dashboards. I saw a man and his infant son burning a wheel to get the metal from it for recycling. It is difficult for me to put the things I saw today into words. I feel like this blog has no real format or consistency. It is just a bunch of jumbled sentences thrown together in hopes of accurately describing the exotic world that I recently saw for the first time. The following are photos I took today, perhaps you will find them as interesting as I do.
Trevor