If you’re visiting Bulgaria in the second half of May, do not be alarmed by the hoards of heavily made-up, formally-dressed teenagers roaming the streets, repeatedly screaming the numbers from one through twelve as loud as their lungs and voices will let them. They are not a part of some mysterious sect. They are simply celebrating their graduation from high school.

Rites of passage are important. Though the ways they are marked vary widely: from the quinceañera, the celebrations of a girl’s turning 15 years of age in Spanish-speaking America, to the Bar and Bat Mitzvah ceremonies that commemorate Jewish children’s entry into adolescence, to the scarification rites Australian Aborigines and New Guinean tribes perform to mark puberty.

Bulgaria makes no exception with its own set of rite-of-passage rituals used to commemorate the growing up of its children. And though they are similar to those performed in the rest of the Balkans, Europe and even North America, the celebrations connected with young people’s graduating from high school manage to pull the entire society – willingly or not, into a frenzy that is unique to Bulgaria.

While in other places such events – like for example graduation ceremonies and formal dances, concern only the graduates and their immediate families and friends, in Bulgaria the entire population is swept up – against its will, into the festivities.

Before

In the several months leading up to the big day which traditionally takes place in the second half of May, it is impossible for any female to enter a store – regardless of whether it sells cosmetic products, shoes or clothes, without being asked by the salespeople whether she is looking for something for the ball (the name used to refer to the formal dance accompanying graduation from school).

If she is under the age of 30 or is particularly youthful looking, sales people assume she is scoping stores for make-up, shoes or a dress for the big night. Adult women who could not possibly fit into the category are immediately though to be mothers/aunts/cousins helping out with the search.

Witness this interaction that I, currently 27, unwillingly took part in last April, while innocently and without any grand purpose – but that of simply buying some clothes, went shopping with my own mother:

Salesperson: Hi, are you looking for something for the ball?
Me: ...Uh... no. My ball was almost ten years ago.
Salesperson: Oh! Well… you’ve aged very well.

Even if you manage to slip through stores without being hassled by staff, you are far from unscathed. Fitting rooms bulge at the edges with offspring frantically trying on dresses, shirts and pants, while entire families stand by to nod their (dis)approval; Formal shoes in the most common sizes are sold out; Pieces of jewellery on display cannot be purchased, as there are reserved by some future prom queen who needs to see how they coordinate with her dress.

Local designers do not accept orders between March and May, swamped as they are with making dresses and suits for the graduates, complete with endless fittings; Hair and manicure appointments are impossible to come by as well, having been hogged by 18-year olds who are having “test” hair styles and nail colours done around the clock for the entire month of April, before getting the real deal at the end of May.

During

And just when you think it is over – perfect dress and shoes picked, make-up and hair all done, the real frenzy begins. Out of the stores, hair and nail salons and into the streets!

Generally, the proceedings follow a more or less set pattern of established stages, namely:

The Send-Off: The graduate’s family and friends all attend an afternoon farewell party. This is the time for aunts to drool, mothers to cry, older sisters to tie neckties or fix loose bra straps, fathers to issue words of advice on how to behave in the coming several hours (usually summed up with the brief instruction “Be smart!”), despite – or perhaps because of, their knowledge that a night of debauchery is in store for their precious child.



The Gathering: The graduate leaves the party, driven to school by a car as fancy or as quirky as his family can get its hands on. Accompanied by friends and family, the members of the entire graduating class gather in the school’s courtyard. Flowers are exchanged. Photographs are taken, forever capturing friendships that will soon fade, crushes that were never acted upon, and fashions that will be eventually but surely be regretted.

And then the screaming begins. In unison, these people – neither children nor adults, begin blaring out – as loud as their voices will go, the numbers one through twelve: counting up the years they spent in school, finalised by this very day. Started up by a small group of three or four people, the counting – as more and more join in, builds up to a crescendo, causing the whole school courtyard to echo by the time they reach twelve. And then they start all over again, as if repeating the count up will make them remember something that is very easily forgotten.



On the Way to the Ball: As evening begins to fall, the graduates – sufficiently buzzed from the alcohol from their family parties and sips from bottles exchanged amid the picture-taking and the teary hugs, jump into the fancy cars and head to the big event, usually held in a local hotel.

On their way to the ball’s venue – emboldened by the alcohol and the group hysteria, they hang out of cars’ windows and sun-roofs (convertibles are highly covetable at this time of year) and scream again, at their hearts’ content. The counting from one through twelve is interrupted by occasional screeching yelps of “Wooo-Hooo!” and accompanied by constant honking.



Regular people walking the streets are terrorised by this racket. Sometimes it gets so ear-splitting that closing the windows at home doesn’t even help. As I am writing this text, sitting in a room with windows firmly shut, I am getting increasingly distracted by the roaring screams and the honking – sometimes going for a few minutes at a time, coming from what must be at least a couple of blocks away.

The Ball: Although – as indicated earlier, my memories of the ball are now nearly a decade old, it is not hard to imagine what goes on at the actual event. For a change, however, these proceedings remain for the graduates alone, without involving the entire country.

After

After the ball, the graduates usually continue on to a club, their move from the hotel made audible to everyone by their alcohol-fuelled screaming, made even louder by the quietness of night.

In the clubs, the belles and beaus of the ball cause an annoyance to the unwillingly involved populace once more. In addition to dealing with the usual nuisances, like the impenetrable smoke and sweaty crowds typical of a Friday or Saturday night, one has to face prospects such as long lines of disoriented hoards of giggling 18-year olds, having one’s feet tangled in a hoop-skirt and witnessing the results of more than eight straight hours of drinking by people whose alcohol tolerance is usually low and made lower still by the festive occasion.

Then, finally, at the crack of dawn, they all return to their homes – a different sight altogether: smudged make-up, flat hair, painfully high-heeled shoes and undone ties in hand, ripped taffeta and missing buttons.

In the morning, they take off the fancy clothes (to be worn again when their friends start getting married in a few years), clean off the make-up and take measures against a budding hangover. And begin their new lives as adults.

And then it’s all quiet. At least until the following spring, when Bulgaria’s next graduating class goes crazy and pulls the entire nation into a frenzy.

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