In the heart of the picturesque Bulgarian Rhodopes, a handful of people continue living on the way their ancestors did – day after day, month after month. Years pass for everyone but them – the means of working have not changed a bit, the dilapidated houses have not been repaired, the cars are kept for better, never coming days. Fields, soil, compost, fences, beauty beyond description, harmony and happiness exist together. Godforsaken, these people find sources of pleasure in their routine, daily activities, executed with skillfulness.  They are said to live in Europe, though their life is everything but European. They are supposed to be Bulgarians, though themselves they do not consider as such. As not Bulgarian, finding myself among the Rhodopians for the very first time,  I was amazed by the artificial segregation, imposed here. These people speak about “we” (we, the one who live here, in the mountain) and “you” (all the other Bulgarians actually). The language used is a strange, hardly understood dialect of the official one. Mosques are the mightiest edifices, opposing the ruined homes of the religious Muslims. Faulty political decision led to disconnection between people, to lack of identities. “Where are your children?”  “In Sofia (the capital), all of them went to Sofia”, murmur voices here and there. Despite the harshness of the life here (at least for us, not belonging to the place), the people are happy.  Surrounded by heaven-like beauty, they take it for granted, not paying attention any more. Walking down the street, you will be passed by a cart, you will appear at the very end of the “main road”. End, just like that. No way towards civilization after that – only the mountain and the echo of the Rhodopians’ lives.