8. Party

The next morning in Kiten, the manager of the marina, Georgi, pays an early visit. He – tall, thin, and unshaven – had a party the previous evening and still looks a bit groggy. “Have you not heard anything? There were even shots fired in the air.”

“The marina and the apartments are partly owned by the military and the secret service,” he later explains over a cup of coffee. “They have signed a new contract with an investor.” Enough reason for a party, but Georgi is disappointed. “Another three million leva need to be invested in the project, of which 750,000 leva in the marina. It was decided yesterday that all the money will be invested in the development and completion of the apartments. More vacationers are expected for the apartments than in the harbour.” He points: “You are the first foreign sailor to visit Kiten.” It’s early July, and Georgi sees his job at risk.

And he’s not the only one. After 1989, many police officers, members of the secret service, and military personnel were left unemployed. They often found new employment as bodyguards or security personnel, or ended up in criminal activities. ‘In the lawless raw capitalism that followed,’ journalist Hellen Kooijman would later write in De Groene Amsterdammer, ‘various groups with connections to the security services privatised the old smuggling channels. After 1989, thousands of police officers and wrestlers were also left jobless. They were used as bodyguards for more experienced gangsters or as instruments to extort unwilling businessmen. Smarter vratove (big shots) started their own businesses, aided by corrupt officials and politicians’.

Georgi doesn’t want to share much more about the outcome of the negotiations and last night’s party as he stares at his coffee. Ivan also remains silent. His interest has been piqued by a rather dilapidated motor yacht on the shore. It’s a gift from Fidel Castro to Zhivkov. Nobody knows what to do with it. Ivan has thought that the yacht could be useful as an escort vessel for flotillas, for trips with multiple sailboats. But nobody dares to make a decision about a new purpose for Zhivkov’s plaything.

Ivan looks a bit regretful until, with Georgi’s help, we manage to refuel with diesel. The skipper is satisfied. “Six leva per litre and better quality than what you usually get.”

Later that day, we sail through the bay where the Ropotamo River flows into it, a beautiful natural area, and arrive in Djuni. It’s a typical modern tourist resort. But instead of the towering workers’ paradises you often see in the north, the construction here is adapted to the surroundings. There are terraces, restaurants, and a campground around the harbour. Across the road, there are vacation cottages, shops, and a post office.

In the Balkan Tourist office, we exchange dollars. One hundred dollars yield over 2200 leva, a thick stack of banknotes. Maria and Svetoslav advise against exchanging money on the street. It’s unclear whether a bank exchange receipt is still required at the border as proof that the money was legally exchanged. And whether dollars need to be re-exchanged. Additionally, there’s a risk of being cheated on the street and ending up with counterfeit money or old banknotes.

Sailing with the spinnaker, we then blast downwind from the sea towards Sozopol, 48 nautical miles away from Varna. The smoothly contoured hills are sometimes ruggedly overgrown, then bare and rocky again. The coast is indented with cliffs and scattered with boulders. There’s a bit of north-to-south current along the coast, but we are not greatly bothered by it.

Sozopol is a naval port. Question is: are we welcome?