Land deficient in sense

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Jorgen and Kirstine, a friendly and curious Danish couple, had enough of the Bulgarian big cities. Neither the city centres offered some meaningful experience, neither the churches impressed them, even less the architecture. They were kindly advised by Lonely Planet not to miss the mountains and this is where they were heading to. But not the most famous mountains, no, they were on their way to the mysterious and remote Strandga. The distance was not to be underestimated and they stopped at a pretty seaside town called Sozopol and rented a room from  a desperate  old lady that was patiently waiting at a New Town bus stop with a sign in her hands: “Rooms 20 lv.” 
“I am hungry, Jorden.”
“You cannot walk twenty meters here without passing by a different restaurant. It is getting late, I am hungry too. Grab the laptop, please, I want to browse the photos we’ve made.”
After a good half-hour walk to find a restaurant with a terrace towards the sea, they impatiently read the menu. 
“Yogurt and cucumber. Garlic, dill and walnuts. I am gonna try this tarator, as weird as the combination is.” Kirsten was feeling brave.
“Shopska salad. Honestly, almost every food here has feta cheese in it. I am having Shopska salad.”
“Again?”
“I only had it once. I like it.” Jorgen also decided on tongue pane, while Kirstin ordered turbot fish. 
“Now, let’s see the photos.”
Unlike more tourists, they were not hunting for famous sights. They were capturing the ordinary that for them seemed peculiar. 
“Oh, the billboards. How many do we have?”
“About twenty.”
Twenty deserted, disembowelled billboards, shreds waving in the wind, useless masses of steel that nobody cared to remove or maintain better. Such deplorable installations could be seen in the middle of nowhere, as well as by the ring road of Sofia. 
“One of the things that totally baffled me. There must be an authority that can demand a more decent appearance of these even if they are not in use. Look at this, in the middle of the mountain, such a sharp contrast with the gorgeous nature.”
“It looks sad. It is worse than littering.” 
“Oh, don’t remind me. Sofia. Trash, trash, trash. Everywhere the bins were overloaded, and around the buildings sites…and people just ignore it. I know it is a poor country, but you should pay for certain services and pay when you cause an eyesore which should not be allowed anyway. ”
“Sofia. Remember the bicycle lanes?”
Both of them burst into laughter. The bicycle lanes were a joke, ending surprisingly, with strange trajectories here and there, mostly resurfaced sections of existing footpaths. The roads were even worst, unused to the strange moon craters populating the streets, they were seriously worried about the rented car condition after a few close encounters with the omnipresent holes in the asphalt. 
“What’s else we’ve captured?”
“The colours. Cafes, bus stops, buildings, gaudy colours. Here, this is a good one, bright yellow taxi in front of this bright red, blue and black café on the ground floor of an otherwise dignified classical building. Total lack of self-control, not to mention style. These people are ruining the appearance of their cities like no man business. Even the recycling bins had to be in three different bright colours and huge as houses, why!”
“I would think it is as you said: business.”
“Bulgaria is a tourist destination. You would think they would aim to impress.”
“Well, you do not see that in Denmark, so appreciate the experience. I am more concerned with what kind of people live like blindfolded cripples, I mean, these problems sure are not hard to solve, first of all, avoid.”
Kirstene pushed the empty bowl away.
“Tarator. I should try it sometimes.” Jorgen was a sceptic from the beginning about a cuisine that used cheese in almost every meal. 
“You love it or hate it, it is so weird.”
“So how was it for you?”
“Utterly refreshing.”
After dinner, they decided to stroll the streets till they feel really, really tired. They entertained themselves by counting how many times angry drivers honked at them when they were peacefully crossing at the designated parts of the roads. In this country, every driver acted like the others were constantly in their way. 
“Wait a second. I smell trouble.” Jorgen pulled Kirstene with a hand around her waist. 
They were in front of a popular nightclub in Sozopol. Kirstene saw nothing disturbing, just a mob of people, who were not even drunk. Well, some of them were. She could not understand what this guy was shouting, but she realised he was the reason for Jorgen’s precautious behaviour. Jorgen saw something it took her a while to notice. The guy had a gun, but she realized it only when he emptied it in the air and everybody ran away from him. 
“Strange way to make a point.” Smiled Jorgen as they rushed away from the scene and towards their accommodation. With a little too much adrenaline but altogether in a good mood, they went to bed, tomorrow was hiding a long journey ahead. 
The next morning offered great weather and empty roads. It took them a few hours driving to pass the cities, Primorsko, Kiten, Tsarevo and then, it was the mountain. 
“This is gorgeous. They say here the flora of the mountain encompasses 1665 species, there are dozens of relict and endemic plants. No wonder it is so colourful. With such a nature, it is strange to me the Bulgarian urban parks are so dull. You would think they have a good example. Oh my God, look at the colours by that pond. Amazing bio-diversity, no, this is absolutely amazing.” Kirstene was happy as a kid in a candy shop.
From time to time they were crossing quite little villages with houses that were falling apart, sometimes they were stopping in front of buildings that must have been magnificent homes of wealthy villagers, but now were sad ruins with gaping holes instead of windows and ageing walls. They made a lot of photos of these tragic deserted giants. 
“Look at that bridge over there! How many times we’ve seen tyres for decoration?”
“I think this is the tenth time.” The strange idea that old tyres were making an attractive detail to gardens, bridges and fences was another theme in their photo hunt. Who knows, maybe they were to find where the charm of the tyres was hidden in some of the designs. 
“What is the name of this village?”
“Brodilovo.”
“Shall we rent a room here and walk around?”
“It is worth trying.”
They found a working restaurant and soon after they’ve asked for a person who gives rooms, an old lady caught her breath at the front door. The waiter started to translate with his broken English. 
“10lv for the evening.” And then added from himself. “This woman… really needs money. Alo fraud in Bulgaria, mafia. This woman lost all her savings.”
“Alo fraud?”
“You don’t know? They call old people, say your son was in an accident, send two thousand leva for the trial immediately, and people often send all their money.”
Kirstene and Jorgen looked at the woman. She was so fragile and tired, yet really warm, happy to see young people, they felt terrible that someone was hunting among the most vulnerable Bulgarians, in Bulgaria, they knew the old people were often receiving miserable retirement money and were living as the Bulgarians were saying “life of a dog.” They’ve heard that the Bulgarians were poor, but had managed to salvage their humanity, however, this ongoing menace upon their grandparents was not evoking much respect, especially for the authorities who were doing who knows what, but not the necessary. 
“She asks if you know what trichane is?”
“Nope.”
“It might be interesting for you. She will show you. You came just for it.”
They were puzzled but followed the wobbly woman across the village to some kind of a canal.  There was a small crowd around some strange wooden assembly. Kirstene quickly googled the strange word. Trichane. 
“OMG. They are going to spin dogs on that rope.”
“Really. What for?”
“Against rabies. It is a pagan ritual.”
“It is the 21st century. European country. Are you for real?”
She was for real. The dogs were lifted in the air, spun and released into the canal, from where they rushed to escape their loving masters in really wretched condition. Kirstene and Jorgen watched with stone faces. There was laughter, banters and obviously no compassion or any hard feelings, on the contrary, everybody seemed to enjoy this little travesty, from young children to their respectable landlady. 
“Kirstene.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure those people are not going to kill us in our sleep?”
“Far-fetched. But heaven forbid you to feel sick. I can only imagine the treatment you’ll get.”
They looked calmly at each other. Another country, another noble cause.