Bulgaria: Boarder-Crossing Secondhand Asphyxiation
By Rich Gawron

Entering from the rear, the first sight that hits me on this Romanian bus heading for Turkey is this rather large man sprawled out on the last row. Walking towards the front of the bus I see another monstrous Romanian who makes the first guy look small. He is shirtless with a belly I could fit in, in fetal position. Snoring loudly, he is taking up almost both seats; and I walk by, quietly praying my seat is not the three inches remaining on the seat next to his. Thankfully, it is not; and I settle in, across from Glenn and Emily, the couple I met the other day when I arrived in Bucharest.

With the bus finally boarded and ready to go we head south and before we know it are at the Romania/Bulgaria border. The demilitarized state of the border is noticeable - you can see communist remnants, including a spiked metal bar to stop cars from driving by unauthorized. The bus stops and the heat intensifies. We exit the bus, and are standing in the hot midday sun, seeking shade. Two wild dogs attack a third who has approached their territory. The border crossing seems to be taking an eternity. I cannot imagine how long it would have taken with additional communist red tape to cut. Finally we board the bus again, and we move from one crossing to the next. Just when we think we are home free, the bus makes a turn and drives back north for about ten minutes. The locals are just as confused, so I don’t worry too much. Then we stop, turn again and drive straight towards the border. For a quick moment I think the driver was rejected and is upset and about to go postal and slam through the barricade like in the movie Speed.

My imagination cools, we slow down and get off the bus again. Customs at this border consists of having your passport collected and making you line up outside the bus and wait for them to call your name in their best Bulgarian accents. After we were all good school children we boarded the bus and headed for the hills of Bulgaria. Most of the road from Romania through Bulgaria is a two lane dark and winding road with scenes of burned sunflowers and empty brown fields on either side.

On each and every window, is a no smoking sticker, but as we quickly realize, the sticker is just to keep birds from flying into the large windows of the bus, and not to really indicate that it is illegal to smoke on the bus.

All Turks and Romanians not sleeping have lit a cigarette. A Romanian about my age is in the seat in front of me, and is almost chain smoking. I watch him as his mouth opens towards the cigarette, his lips fully encircling this small paper cylinder - he sucks it like an infant and his bottle, pulling as much as he can. I read in Discover Magazine that when a cigarette burns, as much as 10,000 chemicals are produced, and this guy wants each and every one to reach as far as his toes. The bus has no windows that open. I turn to look at Glenn, who has been quite miserable the past week because his allergies have acted up. To make matters worse, his allergies are exacerbated by cigarette smoke. His face is getting red, and he looks like a snowfall in reverse, white tissue paper rising one after the other to his face.

There is some kind of air system on this bus, but as I unfortunately realize it is not bringing fresh air in, but rather circulating whatever air is in the bus. The chain smoking continues. Like the valves on an internal combustion engine, when one smoker puts out his cigarette, someone somewhere lights one up. Glenn`s face is now fully red, and he begins to murmur something about walking up and down the bus, coughing directly on each smoker.

A burning cigarette in a wind free room is a wonderful example of chaotic movement. The stream will slowly bend and waver back and forth inches from the cigarette, then the further the smoke travels, the more its movement becomes random and unpredictable. This dissipation is in most humane conditions followed by ventilation and removal. This bus knows not ventilation. The smoke is just spread thin by the air system and does not leave. I look longingly at the fresh, smoke free air mere inches from my face, past the window.

A small snack is administered to the passengers - custard cookies. Then, in horror Glenn and I look at each other, both realizing at the same time that it is not a snack at all, but rather a cleansing paste that when chewed removes any trace of nicotine from the mouth’s of these nicotine burning fiends. Moments later like a unified choir, the entire bus lights up. I feel dizzy. Looking over, Emily has put her feet on Glenn’s lap and lowered her head to seek, in vain, cleaner air below seat level. A nauseating feeling builds in my stomach.

The second hand smoke in this bus has mixed perfectly and evenly with the air and has become part of it. Normal air is composed of approximately 80% Nitrogen, 18% Oxygen and 2% other gasses. I am convinced that the Nitrogen levels are currently twice that. Smoke is settling on my skin and in my pores. The worst however is the inviting thin film of saline mucous on my eyes where the smoke dissolves. My blinking swishes it around, putting it in contact with tiny blood vessels, where it causes inflammation and irritation.

Then just when I thought I was going to succumb to second hand smoke seizures, the bus halts. It’s near midnight at the Turkish border and we have stopped for a late dinner. Like a scuba diver out of air, I rush to the front door, jumping out of the bus into the cool, clean Bulgarian air. I find a table, plop down and break open some horrible Romanian cheese and feed it to the cats. I make a sandwich with turkey and salami and offer some salami to a friendly guy at the next table. He declines, reminding me of his Muslim religion and that he cant eat pork. It hits me that I am getting closer to that mysterious gateway to the East, Istanbul.

The break is over and we board again. It’s late, and more and more smokers are sleeping so it’s not nearly as bad as before. Sitting in my seat, I hear their altered breath - wheezing, damaged alveoli in their lungs fighting to pull in enough oxygen. The chain-smoking Romanian in front of me wakes. Rubbing his eyes, he reaches for his cigarettes.

Page 1 of 1

All contents copyright ©2005 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.