Polyparty-ism - Search for Common Ground

The custom officer
asks the boy
to open the box.
The boy hesitates
for a moment.
The order is
repeated. The
boy, having no
choice, opens the
box. Two
Bulgarian
turkeys, that
have "crossed"
undetected "the
soon-to-be
Schengen border,"
pop their
heads out of the
box. The turkeys,
as if released,
utter sharp
shrieks, which
were probably
suppressed for a
long time and can
undoubtedly be
heard on the
other side of the
border. The boy
looks at the custom
officer with
fear, but to everyone's
surprise,
the officer laughs
naturally and
sweetly.
Europe and us
The schengen turkeys
Luan Starova
Some time ago, to meet a
respectable Bulgarian writer friend, I
had to travel from Skopje to Sofia
and return on the same day. I decided
to travel by bus. The departure from
Skopje was in the early morning,
whereas the returning from Sofia was
planned for the late evening hours. I
did not find the journey to Sofia too
long with a Proleter bus, which was
obviously worn out, most likely from
its "proletarian days." There were
few passengers. Then at the border
crossing we waited less than the
transporter anticipated, so we arrived
in Sofia an hour and a half early. I
had more than three hours available
for the meeting with Bulgarian literature
and unavoidable political topics,
especially for our "stabilization and
association" within the framework of
the European Union. My friend
talked to me with excitement and
optimism about his country's May
entry in the European Schengen
Zone. Optimistically, but also a little
bit fantasy-prone ( recalling one
diplomatic proverb, which says that
optimists are those who are ill
informed) we both concluded that
happier days are yet to come for the
Balkans. Lucky us!
After the wonderful welcome and
the quick tour through beautiful
Sofia, which is adopting the rhythm
of European capitals, we went to the
bus terminal. Here, there was a
chaotic turmoil of busses to all destinations
in the Balkans, Europe and
Asia. Big luxurious busses with all
possible comforts. At the periphery
of the terminal, I found my Proleter,
which looked as if it had pulled in
from some era other than in the present.
I recognized a few of the returning
passengers from this morning.
New passengers arrived and the bus
fills up.
In the dark Balkan night the bus
headed towards the Bulgarian-
Macedonian border. The driver in the
bus couldn't turn the heating system
off, so it becomes hot as hell. He
managed to hit almost every hole in
the road, while we passengers seated
on the clacking seats, felt as if we
were in the rodeo.
Fortunately, there is a pause. Here
we are at the border on the Bulgarian
side. The bus stands for a long time
with the engine idling. An order
comes: "All passengers out!" They
line us up, everybody with their own
suitcase or plastic bag, cardboard
box, backpack or a modern travelling
bag. They leave us standing still for a
minute, two, three. The two custom
officers keep a close eye on every
passenger, they follow every facial
movement, every suitcase. A young
customs officer with a flashlight in
the dark night checks each corner of
the bus whose luggage compartment
doors are opened upwards. It is unbelievably
quiet at the border. The elegantly
dressed customs officer, as if
he were at a fashion parade beside
the suffering passengers, operates
quickly, in command. With the flashlight
he checks even in coat pockets,
he also checks in the bags. It is forbidden
to take anything alive,
uncooked or partially baked across, it
says clearly on the billboard in front
of our eyes. At last the operation
ends. "Safe and sound," we continue
our journey through the speedy passport
control. The ramp is slowly
being lifted upwards at the Balkan
border. A border is always the same,
difficult to change no matter how
much they change it, especially in the
Balkans…
Now, we are on our Macedonian
7
Ten years of pluralism, December 2000