Istanbul to Sofia Train Ride: Cigarette Smuggling and Bribery on the Bosphorus Express (Part 2)

You can read Part 1 here.

A view from the overnight train from Istanbul to Sofia. It was around three or four in the morning before we reached the border, where all the fun began. We stepped out into the bitterly cold morning and stamped our feet. Here, the story gets all blurry and fun as I become an international cigarette smuggler for a Turkish woman we can only recall as Candy Boots. Candy Boots was a vision, a woman who screeched her way towards us speaking a Turkish that only alley cats and banjo players understand. She approached me with the deal of a lifetime — she only needed to buy one more carton of cigarettes at the border duty-free, then she would reach the allotted amount to enter Bulgaria. Or so I thought. “Sam, I need you to buy the last pack, I’m out of money and I just need you to buy this last one and then we’re all good.” It was too early in the morning for this to register in my confuzzled mind, so I set about buying a pack of coffin nails to get the woman out of my hair and be on my way. It was here that the trap was set. I handed over my passport to the duty-free man and he completed my transaction. He handed me back the receipt and it was here I saw that all of the ladies consignment of cigarettes was under my name and passport number, and I was over the legal limit of what I could take into Bulgaria.

I looked around for Candy Boots but she was busy remonstrating with a bush. With all orifices puckering, I boarded the train and tearfully explained to Archie and Cardiff my current predicament. Archie consoled me by placing me in a headlock and calling me a “dozy pr**k”. I sat down with my head in my hands, wondering if mealtimes in Bulgarian prisons matched up with my bowel movements. The floor was now straining under the weight of my man tears as we set off again. What happened next was so wonderful and jazz-tastic that I could have adopted a dolphin on the spot and shaved my beard annually at a red-neck hoedown.

We arrived at the Bulgarian border town, and I said my goodbyes to Archie and Cardiff and readied myself for the imminent arrest and torture. Suddenly, I hit upon an idea. It was a long shot but I had to do something. Bulgaria has a national football hero in Stylian Petrov who, before being struck down with leukaemia, played for my beloved Aston Villa. If I could marry these two points together, maybe I wouldn’t be shivved in showers with a makeshift knife. I had in my possession the latest Aston Villa shirt. I kissed it for luck and put it on. Meanwhile, the knocks on the door and the solitary shout of “bags!” got nearer to us. I took a deep breath and awaited my fate.

*bang bang*

*open door*

Me: “Yes?”

Guard: “Bags!”

Me: “Stylian Petrov!”

Guard: *intense stare* … “Ok! Have a nice journey!”

There it was! I’d successfully evaded capture by uttering the name of a Bulgarian footballer! There was no bag check, nothing! They weren’t going to discover the contraband that was sneakily put under my name! Too many exclamation marks, I hear you cry! Well have that, Bulgarian prison system, big Sam escaped (for now)!

I turned to Archie and Cardiff, who were open-mouthed and staring at me in disbelief. I’d cracked the system, I’d created a wormhole. I wasn’t going to do porridge! I sat on my bunk and allowed myself a smile. My head was now filled with a scene-by-scene replay of what had just happened but now it had a dubstep make-over and I was burning fields of marijuana with a gleeful expression. A little while later Candy Boots came to collect her booty, replete in her pink boots and hat. She showered me with thank-yous but she will never know the sheer, beautiful joy of what just happened.

Meanwhile, the train was still moving towards Sofia, albeit a little slowly. Out of wine and gummy-bears, we retired to our bunks and checked our eyelids for holes. We awoke to our foreheads being spittled with cold Bulgarian rain. The train stood stationary, so we slid down the window and surveyed the scene. Well, we were definitely in Bulgaria, the Cyrillic alphabet screamed at us from all angles. I took the opportunity to explore the desolate station in search for answers to our static state. God knows where we were, but there was not a soul about. No driver, station master or candlestick maker. The engine was as silent as an experimental German art house film from the thirties and the area as desolate as a toilet vacated by a man who’s just eaten forty hotdogs in two minutes. Bewildered I squinted my eyes for any signs of life, as Archie joined me by my side. Cardiff followed suit and we stood all three, looking around us for answers and light refreshment.

A mere two hours later there was a flurry of activity as important men appeared with grimaces. After the manic waving of hands, we set off again. Our tickets had said we’d arrive in Sofia at 10:30 am, but it was now 11 am and this place didn’t look like Sofia. We decided the best course of action was to huddle up as a three in our blankets sharing war stories and comparing the dryness of our mouths. A little later we were making good speed through the large expanse of Bulgarian countryside, smoking out of the window and waving at men with large hats and equally large moustaches. Archie mooted the idea of sending out an SOS message from the roof of the train, but I sternly told him that this wasn’t The Polar Express and Tom Hanks wasn’t at the top waiting to stamp his ticket. He looked at me dejected and weary and, like a scene from a Vietnam War movie, screamed, “I gotta get out of this place!”

We fell back to sleep and awoke many moons later, again at a station and again not moving. People were getting off and milling around. I saw a kiosk in the far off distance and allowed myself a yelp of excitement before telling my emaciated bunk buddies of my discovery. We got off and walked towards the small wooden shack to fill up on sandwiches and beer. We asked the station master how long we had before the train ran off without us and he confidently held up three fingers before smacking his index finger down on his fist. We assumed this meant thirty minutes so we sauntered off. Whilst paying for our life-saving nourishment, we heard a pull of the horn and we saw the train slowly moving off. “Christ on a bike!” I shouted. “Welsh rarebit in heaven!” shouted Cardiff. “Monkeys playing the stock market!” cried Archie. We shovelled up our food and ran like gazelles. Like a scene out of a generic ‘we-need-to-catch-the-train’ film, we ran and jumped onto the train as it was moving. Back slaps all round, cheerful cries of relief and British War film style jolly-good-show shouts. We had sandwiches and beer, and we were moving onwards to Sofia. We’d take it by nightfall.

No.

The train lurched to a stop fifty metres away and promptly went backwards back into the station but onto another platform. We stayed like this for another two hours. I could see the station name now, and clearly written in the Queens was Plovdiv. We were another good three hours away from Sofia. The beer numbed our pain as we wept silently like men who’d had their duffle coats stolen in the deepest of winters. We stayed another few eternities before we set off again. This time the train stopped intermittently at small stops but only for a few minutes. No one got on or off at these places, but we were relieved to be finally getting somewhere. I’m sure the train was just stopping to ask advice as to where the best places for a meal in Sofia.

We arrived in Sofia later that afternoon. A full sixteen years (hours) after leaving Istanbul. We strapped on our bags and we were good to go. After saying our goodbyes to Cardiff and promising to mention him in our dispatches, we set off on our week long Bulgarian adventure.

All being said and done, this trip was brilliant. The train had no water, toilet paper or functioning area for ablutions, but we had each other and a stinking hangover as a memory. It was cheap and cheerful and an excellent adventure. Just, if you decide to do it, take a box of sandwiches, plenty of water, a fistful of toilet paper and a low expectancy of any sort of luxury. The scenery is breathtaking and the memories will last with us for a long time.

Sam Leivers is a contributor to Yabangee

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