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EASTERN PROMISE
Page 52
Page 53
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It's been a week of assorted hospitality
including Armenian brandy at 8,30am — for
Oliver Dixon on the road to Kabul.
So. I'm in this bar in Burgas. Bulgaria.You can tell that Brussels it's an upscale place Beigum because there's more than one shade of red on the wall. Outside, there are around 50 billion mosquitoes, none of which have been admitted, probably because they're wearing trainers. Inside,there's me, a moderate Europop musazcal backdrop and a barmaid.
Task for a beer, but get -Moment, Bitted." Aforementioned barmaid proceeds to remove her tee-shirt, walk out to the centre of the establishment, and gyrate around a pole for as long as it takes for a German-overdubbed version of Duran Duran's seminal salute to the 80's' to whit,Planet Earth.
Performance concluded, and I'm not quite sure what to do. Situations like this, one has to applaud. But how much? Too much could lead to a repeat performance. and too little might be taken as irony, and you never know quite how Bulgarians react to irony. Whatever, it's a futile argument because I am, in fact, fast running out of places upon which to scribble down the metaphors raining down upon me.
Why do !relate this tale of flesh and beer? Simple it underlines the confusion that is rampant in this part of the world.This is the first Traceca country that our convoy has passed through. It wants to join the EU in 2007, and even allowing for a bit of bar stool inflation the conversations I eavesdropped on in a Sofia hotel lobby suggest that there's some big investment numbers heading Bulgaria's way.
But, what can you make of a country where a convoy's police escort turn up in a brace of SClass Mercs one a convertible no less, and yet two peasant women at the Serbian-Bulgarian border give you the finger for not leaving them some aid? If a middle class is the best means of insulating against revolution,then a widening gap between rich and poor must be one of the best ways of guaranteeing it. By poor, we are talking desperate, and rich. obscene.And for gap, read chasm.
But for all the confusion.there is some good stuff happening now. I am most taken with this Actros Distronic, Lane Assist, Cruise Control combo. We have 12 trucks, and with the electronic gadgetry working, only one person needs to know what they're doing.I just hold the steering wheel, and the guy in front dictates my speed.
Which makes me feel good. Because, if this task can be reduced to the level whereby you need one individual with some wits about them at the front, and can populate the rest of the convoy with muppets such as me, then we may have finally found a role for Prince Edward. I'd wager hard currency that even he can sit still and hold a steering wheel.Another problem solved then.
Which brings me to Serbia. Previous visits have only taken me to Belgrade, which is now a pretty international place once again. Out in the countryside, I was getting myself geared up for a bit of the Grandad's Chip Shop syndrome whenever my passport was called for. but not Black Sea a bit of it. Granted, some people give you a sideways glance but when, not ten years ago you couldn't be sure whether your neighbour was knockStage 2 ing on your door to borrow a cup of sugar or to invite you to accompany him to a concentration camp, you can understand a bit of reticence. Memories of bad news footage coupled with signposts to towns now in ruins cause a sombre mood,and I crank out a dirge or two using my Lane Assist warning noises. Bulgaria came as a bit of a mood lifter, So where are we at? Me, I'm in a room in a resort for generals with a drink problem somewhere in the rather nice Georgian countryside. Three days aboard the Sredatz put us across the Black Sea,and readied us for a visit here courtesy of the overwhelming —Armenian brandy at 8.30 am — hospitality of both the crew and the Willi Betz drivers.
Landfall in Poti was marked by a lot of children waving knives in an imaginative fashion— a folk tradition in Georgia as well as Northampton, or so it would seem — followed by a quick spin through the countryside to our sanatorium.
Tomorrow sees more of the same, plus a meeting with Edward Shevardnadze, relict of the former Soviet Union, now president of Georgia, and no-doubt a man with a tale or two to tell. If he comes up with the goods, you'll read about them here next week. •