 |
|
|
 |
| THE MASTIKA EXPRESS - 2004 |
|
|
Today (October 15, 2004), I'm fresh out of the Rhodope Mountains, where we rode like mad shopska-salad-eating-bulgars for five days while scouting itineraries for next summer. The rakia was good (can you really call this stuff "good"?). But the Mastika was better: on one morning's marathon climb, an enormous logging truck with a hacking cough passed us and stopped. Out stepped two Bulgarian loggers, already tagging a bottle of chilled Mastika and offering it's sparkling contents (when chilled, icy crystals form in this clear anise liquor of 47% alcohol).
Well, you mustn't refuse a Bulgarian logger offering a cold drink, regardless of its contents, so we sipped. At the friendly loggers' invitation we were soon heaving our bikes into the back of the sputtering log-hauler. We stumbled over hewn bark sides of recently felled trees to reach the front of the flatbed. Standing tall against the back of the cab of our Bulgarian Mountain Taxi, we laughed heartily at our good fortune as we lumbered up the rutted road. At the top, the exact location of which was left to the discretion of our Mastika-induced Taxi drivers, we felt relief and joy at the thought of the imminent descent.
As we tripped over log scraps and boards to unload
our now-energized two-wheeled riding machines,
our logging friends swung out of the cab, glittering
and fully of generosity. The Mastika found its
way down our throats again. We were two loggers
and three riders standing together, ready to bid
farewell. The bottle was passed. A rider sipped.
And then another. The momentum of the crystal
bottle grew as it circulated around our circle
of new friends, and the crystalline liquid disappeared
like water swirling down a drain. New friend and
Rhodope-riding-mate "Bacho Gele" (whose
real name is Angel, but who, on this trip, took
the affectionate nickname of something like "Uncle
Nikki") sat to tell one of his animated tales,
and a logger sat to listen (I hope you all will
have this particular pleasure; I don't understand
the language and yet Bacho Gele's Bulgarian
yarns had me laughing every time). Soon, we were
all seated comfortably in the sun-drenched grasses
beside the Taxi, sipping and nibbling on Choco
Bars or other Bulgarian specialties passed down
from the communists (Peter made sure I got a taste
of communist candy!). The magic elixir swirled
and so did we.
And then the loggers left us to The Descent. Since
I carry a voice recorder with me to make mental
notes, I decided to tape this particular singletrack
journey through the woods (if I remember correctly,
it was actually Peter who prodded me, "Kim,
is your dictaphone on?"). What a treasure
of one-liners and glee among friends on a journey
south, for down is south when you're on
such a journey. My favorite artifact is a section
where I am shouting to Peter and to Bacho Gele
In a state of half-laughter/half-terror, "You
Bulgarians are CRAZY, NUTTY, NUTTY people!"
Not sure how, but we made it out alive. And the
Mastika was just making its debut... but I promise
we won't offer Mastika Service during trail hours
on our future trips.
Kim McElhinney
|
|
|
|
|
|
Trail Mastika
|
Did someone say
"ride to the top?"
|
The drop-off
|
Ready for the Descent!
|
|
|
|
