This is a marvellous, personal account of the border zone between Bulgaria, Turkey and Greece, from the Ottomans to cold war menace and beyond Kapka Kassabova has written a marvellous book about a magical part of the world. In Europe’s southeastern corner, where Greece, Bulgaria and Turkey meet, modernity seems to peter out in the ancient forests. The low mountains that give the Balkans their name force most of the traffic between Europe and Asia to run either side of them, while providing shelter and sanctuary over the centuries in their secluded valleys, and not only to the bears and wolves that still roam them. Strange rites and superstitions survive, customs and beliefs that have vanished elsewhere. Deep in the roadless uplands there are remote Bektashi temples, the remnants of that humane and mystical strain of Sufi Islam that accompanied the Ottoman armies centuries ago. High in the mountains of Thrace each August, crowds gather to watch the great wrestling bouts in the meadows. Thirty years ago, when Bulgaria lay on the other side of the iron curtain, the easiest way into these mountains was from the south, a flight into Salonica and then the eastbound train that ran towards Istanbul. It rumbled slowly along the beautiful Nestos valley, curving inland away from the sea because that was how the Turkish sultan Abdul Hamid II had instructed the engineers when it was built. Eventually you would arrive at Xanthi, a quiet old tobacco town that had seen better days: the market did a lively trade in locally produced Ralph Lauren rip-offs. The Muslim quarter, its mansions largely unchanged since Ottoman times, climbed the hill behind the new town, and behind it, the road ran up into the Rhodope forests. Continue reading...
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