006 CYCLE TOURING BULGARIA

 

By Eddie Carter

6 BULGARIA

507 Kilometres – 9 Days

17 August – 26 August 2007

MAP

PHOTOS

FLIP-BOOK

 

 

17 August – Oltenita, Romania - Silistra, Bulgaria – 85 kilometres

After a breakfast of fresh tomatoes and paprika from Peter's garden, we hurried towards the Calarasi border to cross the Danube River towards Silistra. I was worried about my Romanian Visa, as I had exceeded the two-day limit stated on it by staying 20 days. However, I said nothing and handed over my passport to the border officials. The officials took my passport and disappeared behind a screen. After a while, they returned and returned my passport without saying anything. I was relieved that everything went smoothly.

I noticed that communicating in Bulgaria would pose a bigger challenge. Bulgarian is a Southern Slavic language that uses the Cyrillic alphabet. It was the first Slavic language to be written, and a new version was standardised after Bulgaria gained independence in 1878. However, I found it particularly confusing that nodding one’s head actually means ‘no’, while shaking it side to side means ‘yes’. It was tough to get used to. I first encountered this behaviour when I was trying to find accommodation. The lady initially shook her head, which I assumed meant no rooms were available. However, she then produced a room key, causing me much confusion.

 

18 August - Silistra - Balchik - 136 kilometres

Bulgaria covers an area of 110,994 square kilometres, roughly the same size as Malawi - a country that I consider small. Eddie and I decided to head towards Balchik, a Black Sea coastal town and seaside resort. We chose this town because of its prime location along the shores of the Black Sea. Our route took us 136 kilometres through farmlands, cornfields, and vast fields of sunflowers.

We arrived in Balchik late in the evening, only to find that the town lacked camping facilities. We had no choice but to cycle another fifteen kilometres to Kavarna, which had a beautiful campsite on the lake's shores. The place was idyllic, and we wasted no time submerging our sweat-soaked bodies in the lukewarm waters of the Black Sea —a blissful end to a long day of cycling.

 

19 August - Kavarna

The next day, we spent the day at the beach and unexpectedly reunited with the Baltic Cycle Group from Bucharest. It was a fun night of drinking and trying to communicate, as almost everyone in the group spoke Polish, and neither Ed nor I spoke the language.

Initially, I mistook the Black Sea for a lake, only to realize upon studying a map that it connects to the ocean through the Bosphorus Strait. The waters of the Black Sea first flow into the Sea of Marmara, which in turn is connected to the Mediterranean through the Strait of the Dardanelles. I was surprised to learn that the Black Sea is a vast body of water, spanning 436,400 square kilometres and reaching a depth of over 2000 meters in some areas.

 

20 August - Kavarna - Kancija via Verna - 96 kilometres

The following day, we continued our journey towards the Turkish border. However, navigating proved difficult as most signboards were written in Hungarian.

Despite this, we found a basic campsite in Verna, which had a decent beach. While there, we again met the Baltic Cycles, who were also in search of an inexpensive place to camp. We had a great time together that night, partying and enjoying the company of these cyclists who were equally good at cycling as having fun. The restaurant owner later offered us Rakia, a potent fruit brandy, along with homemade wine. I guessed the alcohol was offered to help us tolerate the mosquito-infested campsite.

 

21 August – Kamcija

We spent a leisurely day chatting with fellow cyclists. Communication seemed to improve proportionally to the amount of vodka consumed, and they quickly became good friends.

 

22 August - Kamcija - Nesebar - 104 kilometres

We had established a comfortable camping routine of packing up and cycling to our next destination. During our stay at the campsite in Nesebar, we met a 70-year-old German man travelling around the world with his bike and trailer. He had started his journey a year prior to our meeting in Germany and was still going strong. Curiously, his bicycle lacked pedals, rendering cycling impossible even if he wanted to.

The campsite in Nesebar was so good, and we had so much fun, that we decided to spend two days.

 

24-25 August - Nesebar - Yuk Camping - 96 kilometres

I was grateful to the Baltic Cycle Group for sharing their camping location, as it turned out to be one of the best options in the area. On our way, we stopped at Pomorie and Sozopol, which were great places to swim and cool off from the hot weather. While my fellow cyclists moved on, I chose to stay at the beach and work on fading my awkward cycling tan.

 

26 August - Yuk Camping - Border – 75 kilometres

Bulgaria has diverse terrain, including a coastline along the Black Sea and a mountainous interior. Once we moved inland, the terrain grew steep. Since it was August, and thus mid-summer, most days were sweltering, adding to the challenge. Flies also added to the problem. They buzzed in hordes around our heads, strangely reminding us of biking in Ethiopia.

Shortly before reaching the Turkish border, Eddie and I rode into a small village to get some refreshments but decided to stay. Unfortunately, the town lacked campsites or accommodations. However, we were directed to the hospital, which doubled as a guesthouse.

 

005 CYCLE TOURING ROMANIA

Pedalling Through Romania's Myths and Mountains

5 ROMANIA

959 Km – 19 Days

30 June – 17 August 2007

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 PHOTOS

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FLIP-BOOK

Prologue

Romania had lived in my imagination long before I pedalled into it — a place of gipsies in swirling skirts, Dracula’s castle perched on a cliff, and mysterious forests where garlic was both seasoning and spiritual protection. So when Ed and I left Szeget with a tailwind that morphed into a crosswind of biblical proportions, I clung to the handlebars and the thought that I was finally heading toward the land of my childhood fascinations.

 

Crosswinds, Crossings, and a Visa That Should Not Exist

Ed and I departed Szeget powered by a stiff tailwind that quickly escalated into a near-gale-force crosswind. This kind makes you question your life choices, your centre of gravity, and whether cycling is really a hobby or a prolonged cry for help. Trucks thundered past in a steady stream, and I spent most of the morning convinced I was about to become a hood ornament.

At the border, I discovered that my Hungarian visa was not the sensible, grown-up visa I thought I had, but a mysterious 2 × 10‑day visa. Where it came from, nobody knows. Why it existed, nobody could explain. What mattered was that I had overstayed it. After being shunted between buildings like a lost parcel, I was finally allowed to leave. Phew indeed.

Romania felt thrillingly exotic — the land of real gipsies (or so childhood-me believed), Dracula’s castle, and place names that sounded like they belonged in a gothic novel. I was ready for cloaks, garlic, and atmospheric fog.

The language, however, was a formidable opponent. Everything was in Romanian, and English was about as common as unicorn sightings.

We arrived in Arad late afternoon, only to discover that the campsite on the map was actually an abandoned field. It was raining, it was getting dark, and I was not in the mood to camp in a puddle. We retreated to a nearby pension like sensible, soggy adults.

 

Concrete Cities and the First Taste of Rural Romania

Arad was bustling, full of old buildings that had clearly survived communism but not without emotional scarring. Apartment blocks loomed everywhere — grey, tired, and in dire need of therapy.

Crossing borders always feels like switching dimensions. Just when you’ve figured out how a country works, you enter a new one where everything is different, including the rules, the food, and the plumbing. Romania had very few campsites, but plenty of truck-stop accommodation offering cheap food and rooms that were basic in the way a monk’s cell is basic.

 

Wells, Horse Carts, and Childhood Myths Corrected

I finally fixed the slow puncture that had been tormenting me. Then we headed toward Barzava through the countryside dotted with small communities. We saw real-life gipsies with horse carts and elderly ladies dressed entirely in black — straight out of a forgotten century. The gipsies, however, were not wearing the bright, jangly outfits of my childhood imagination. No gold coins. No swirling skirts. Childhood-me felt mildly betrayed.

Traffic was chaotic, and the main road was a conveyor belt of trucks. But the rural villages were peaceful, and the locals stared at us with the same curiosity we stared at them. Facilities were basic: water came from communal wells, and farmers worked the fields by hand. Filling our bottles required lowering a bucket into the well and hauling it up with a pulley — a workout before the actual workout.

We stayed in Deva, dominated by the ruins of a citadel perched dramatically on a hill, as if supervising the town’s daily business.

 

Potholes, Roman Baths, and Backyard Camping

Leaving Deva meant braving the congested, pothole-riddled main road — a nerve-wracking experience that shaved a few years off my life expectancy. We escaped onto a smaller road at the first opportunity. A sign pointed to a Roman thermal bath only 12 kilometres away, and that was all the encouragement I needed.

Geoagiu Băi was small but lively. Camping was in someone’s backyard among chickens and dogs, with a long-drop toilet that redefined the word “rustic.”

 

Dirt Roads and the Transylvanian Starter Pack

We continued along a dirt track past villages, farmlands, cornfields, and vineyards. The countryside was gorgeous — twisting roads, wooded mountains, scenic rivers — the whole Transylvanian starter pack.

 

Into Garlic Country

We were now deep in Transylvania, a place that conjured images of creepy villagers, wooden crosses, and wolves howling at the moon. Shockingly, this wasn’t far off. We passed askew graves, wooden crosses, and bunches of garlic hanging from gates. Childhood-me was thrilled.

The riding was spectacular: dense forests, medieval towns, and fortresses steeped in legends. Făgăraș, at the foot of the mountains, came complete with its own fortress — Romania really knows how to commit to a theme.

 

Beer for Breakfast and the Road to Dracula

We attempted to find breakfast, but at 9:30 a.m. it was apparently far too early for food — though not too early for beer. Locals were happily drinking at pavement cafés, but when we asked about food, the response was a baffled “Don’t know at this hour.”

The ride to Bran was beautiful: wooded mountains, raging rivers, and the promise of Dracula lore. Instead of fangs and fog, we found a campsite called “Vampire Camping,” which felt like a tourist trap and a warning simultaneously.

 

The Castle, the Count, and the Truth Behind the Myth

We visited Bran Castle and learned its real history. Built in 1388, it served as a customs office and fortress, perched dramatically on a cliff. It was used to stop the Ottoman Empire’s expansion and was owned by many, including Vlad the Impaler — the inspiration for Dracula. Bram Stoker would have loved the marketing potential.

 

The Carpathians and the Great Grocery Fiasco

We cycled over the Carpathians via Bran Pass — a stunning ride marking the divide between Transylvania and Wallachia. The language barrier, however, remained undefeated. I bought yeast instead of butter, a fountain pen without ink instead of a ballpoint, and cream instead of yoghurt. My shopping record was abysmal.

We stayed in Câmpulung, a historic town full of beautiful 13th‑century buildings.

 

Glorious Descents and Royalty by Name Only

The ride to Târgoviște came with a glorious descent. The town is home to the Chindia Tower, built by Vlad Tepes. We arrived early but decided to stay rather than push on to Bucharest.

“Pension King” became home for the night. Despite its regal name, it was located next to a scrapyard and had all the charm one would expect from such a location.

 

Surviving the Capital on Two Wheels

Cycling into Bucharest was hair-raising — a chaotic, honking, swerving ordeal. A kind taxi driver gave us directions to a campsite on the opposite side of the city. We couldn’t find it, so we hunted down an internet café, located the campsite, and then had to cycle all the way back. Character-building, I suppose.

The campsite was lovely but mosquito-infested. On the bright side, it had trees.

A closer look at my passport revealed that my Romanian visa was valid for only 2 days, not 3 months. Who issues a two-day visa? I decided to deal with it at the border and hope for the best.

 

Parliament Palaces, Laundry Day, and Stray Dogs

Casa Alba Campsite was convenient. We did laundry, shopping, and sightseeing. We visited the massive communist-era Parliament building with its 1,100 rooms — the world’s second-largest building. Far more terrifying was learning that over 10,000 people are bitten by stray dogs in Bucharest each year.

The city was a fascinating mix of communist blocks, neo-classical buildings, and Art Deco structures with oyster-shell canopies. The grey high-rise flats were especially striking in their uniform drabness.

 

Waiting, Watching, and Wondering If We’ll Ever Leave

I applied for Bulgarian and Turkish visas. Returning to the campsite, I found it invaded by hundreds of little tents — the Baltic Cycle group on tour. They mostly spoke Polish, except for one Brit and one New Zealander.

The Turkish Embassy informed me that I had to apply in my home country. After phoning my sister Amanda in South Africa, she worked her magic, and the next day I returned to the embassy. By 5 p.m., I had my visa. Hallelujah. The Bulgarian visa was also approved.

 

So Close to Leaving

At the Hungarian Embassy, a crowd milled about in a system that defied logic. An official eventually pointed at me, whisked me to the front, and handed me my visa. Fifteen days granted — good enough.

We cycled to Oltenița, only to discover that the immigration office on our map did not exist. Romania was determined not to let us leave.

We met Peter, a Romanian man who invited us to stay in his tiny wooden shack — two rooms, no bathroom, no kitchen. One could pee in the garden among the chickens. As for bowel movements… I decided not to think too hard about it.

 

The Ferry, the Passport, and Sweet, Sweet Relief

After breakfast — fresh tomatoes and paprika from Peter’s garden — we hurried to the border before the vegetables staged a digestive rebellion. A ferry crossed the Danube to Silistra.

I was nervous about my two-day Romanian visa, which was now 18 days overstay. I handed over my passport, they disappeared behind a screen, reappeared, and returned it without a word. I nearly wept with relief.

Bulgaria immediately presented a new challenge: Cyrillic script. Also, Bulgarians nod for “no” and shake their heads for “yes.” I braced myself for a spectacular series of misunderstandings.

 

Epilogue: Leaving the Land of Legends

Romania had been everything at once — chaotic, beautiful, baffling, mythic, exhausting, and unforgettable. I arrived chasing childhood fantasies and left with a far richer, stranger, more human story. And garlic. Always garlic.