Exploring Buzludzha, a Ruined Communist Era Building Resembling a Spaceship during a Snowstorm and Being Invited Into a Gypsy Ghetto before having to Escape a Gang of Glue Sniffing Kids

Exploring Bulgaria’s Surreal Side

A Winter Road Trip to the Buzludzha Monument and Beyond

January 2015 — As part of a larger Eastern Europe trip, my friend Frank and I spent four days exploring Bulgaria. I planned the visit with help from my Bulgarian friend in San Diego, Svetlana, who graciously arranged for us to stay at her parents’ home in Sofia.

One of the highlights of our trip was a road journey to the central mountains, where Svetlana’s friend, Stanislav, drove us to one of the most bizarre and haunting remnants of the Soviet era: the Buzludzha Monument. Shaped like a giant concrete spaceship, the abandoned structure looms eerily over the snowy peaks, a surreal relic of Bulgaria’s communist past.

The road trip itself turned into an unexpected adventure, filled with moments that gave us a deeper glimpse into the country’s culture, landscapes, and history.

Inside the Ruins of a Communist Spaceship

Hunting for a Hidden Entrance to Bulgaria’s Buzludzha Monument

Buzludzha isn’t just a relic of concrete and decay — it’s a symbol of Bulgaria’s turbulent past, perched high in the central mountains like a forgotten spacecraft crash-landed on Earth. The site marks the location of a pivotal 19th-century battle between Bulgarian rebels and Ottoman forces. It was here, on this remote mountaintop, that Bulgarian troops claimed a symbolic victory. Decades later, in the 1970s, the Bulgarian Communist Party seized on that symbolism to build a colossal monument in the shape of a brutalist UFO — a surreal meeting hall for party elites, designed to showcase the power and permanence of the regime.

But permanence wasn’t in the cards. When the communist government collapsed in the late 1980s, the monument was abandoned almost overnight. In the years that followed, it fell into eerie ruin. Vandals stripped the building of its valuable metals, graffiti artists left their mark, and winter storms battered the exposed structure. Today, Buzludzha teeters on the edge of collapse — a ghost of a grand political vision that time, and nature, have not been kind to.

Officially, the monument is closed to the public. The entrance is sealed, and signs warn that trespassing is illegal. But enforcement is another story. When I visited, there were no guards, no fences, no cameras — only rumors of hidden entrances and tales from travelers who had slipped inside. Despite the warnings, it was still possible to enter, and that was the main goal of my trip to Bulgaria: to stand inside the belly of this fallen giant and experience the decaying grandeur for myself.

Location of Buzludzha

Day 1: Warm Welcomes in Sofia

We landed in Sofia on a cold January afternoon and were met at the airport by Stanislav, a friend of Svetlana’s who would be our driver and guide for the coming days. After weaving through the traffic of Bulgaria’s capital, we arrived at Svetlana’s family home — a cozy apartment tucked into a quiet residential neighborhood. That night, Frank and I slept in Svetlana’s childhood bedroom, surrounded by old books, posters, and the echoes of her early life.

Her parents greeted us like long-lost relatives, laying out a generous spread of traditional Bulgarian food — hearty stews, roasted meats, banitsa (a flaky pastry filled with cheese), and endless rounds of homemade rakia. Their warmth and hospitality set the tone for the trip. We didn’t speak much Bulgarian, and they didn’t speak much English, but somehow we all understood each other.

Sofia itself was a pleasant surprise — a city framed by snowy hills, with layers of history stacked beneath its streets. We wandered past grand Eastern Orthodox churches topped with golden domes, crumbling Roman ruins tucked between modern buildings, and cozy cafés spilling warmth into the winter air. It was a blend of old and new, worn but welcoming — a capital with character and charm.

That first night, full and content, I fell asleep with the excitement of what lay ahead — knowing that in just a few days, we’d be standing inside a crumbling Soviet spaceship on a mountain.

Sofia Homestay

Day 2: Monks, Tombs, and Mountain Roads

The Journey to Buzludzha Begins

We left Sofia early in the morning, piling into Stanislav’s car for the long drive to Buzludzha. The road twisted and climbed through snow-covered mountains, past villages tucked into valleys and forests dusted in white. It was one of those drives where the journey itself becomes part of the adventure.

A Hidden Moment in Shipchenski Monastery

Our first stop was Shipchenski Monastery, an Eastern Orthodox sanctuary tucked into the hills. The grounds were silent under a blanket of snow, and the golden domes gleamed in the pale winter sun. While wandering the grounds, Frank and I quietly slipped into the monastery’s basement and discovered a small group of monks rehearsing. Their voices rose in unison, echoing off the stone walls in hauntingly beautiful chants that sounded like something from another world. We stood in silence, hidden in the shadows, listening to the chorus of devotion until it faded into stillness.

Among the Echoes of the Thracians

Later in the afternoon, we visited a set of ancient Thracian tombs, carved into the earth centuries before Bulgaria was even a concept. The Thracians, once fierce warriors and skilled craftsmen, left behind burial mounds scattered across this region. Though mostly empty now, their quiet presence added a mystical touch to the day’s journey — layers of history whispering through the wind.

A Quiet Night in Shipka Village

By nightfall, we arrived in the small village of Shipka, nestled in the valley below Buzludzha. We checked into a cozy, family-run guesthouse that smelled of wood smoke and home cooking. The hosts didn’t speak English, but their warmth came through in every gesture — hot tea served with homemade jam, blankets piled thick on our beds, and the kind of quiet only a mountain village can offer.

Tomorrow, we would make the final push to Buzludzha — the frozen UFO waiting for us above.

Shipchenski monastery (St Nikolay)

Shipchenski monastery (St Nikolay)

Thracian Tomb of Kazanlak

Thracian Tomb of Kazanlak

Thracian Tomb of Kazanlak

Day 3: Into the Unknown

A Chance Encounter on the Road from Shipka

We left Shipka early in the morning, the car heater battling the chill as we wound down the mountain roads toward Kazanluk. Just outside the village, we noticed a man standing on the roadside, trying to flag down passing vehicles. He was Roma — or Gypsy, as they are more commonly (though often pejoratively) referred to across Europe.

At first, we drove right past him. But something about the moment stayed with me. I turned to Stanislav and asked if we could pick him up. Stanislav — like many Europeans I’ve met — was deeply wary of the Roma, and his reaction was immediate and firm: absolutely not. He expressed what many in the region feel — that the Roma are unpredictable, sometimes dangerous, and best avoided altogether.

But I pressed. “It might be interesting,” I said. “Something different. We’ll be careful.” After some hesitation, Stanislav gave a reluctant nod, turned the car around, and we pulled up alongside the man.

The Gypsy Man and a Changing Story

The Roma man jumped into the backseat next to Frank and thanked us for stopping. He was friendly, talkative, and clearly intoxicated — despite the early hour. He said he was on his way to work in Kazanluk, and we just happened to be heading there ourselves to visit the famous Thracian tombs nearby. It felt like fate — or at least, a curious detour.

During the ride, I struck up a conversation with him. I’d read that many Roma live in large, tightly-knit communities governed by so-called “Roma kings.” I asked if there was such a community in Kazanluk and whether he could introduce us — adding that I’d give him $20 if he could take us to meet a king.

Without missing a beat, he said yes. Suddenly, the man who had been urgently on his way to work had a completely different agenda. Work no longer mattered. Now, he was our guide into another world.

Stanislav, meanwhile, was tense. He voiced his concern plainly: “This is dangerous. We are heading into a Roma ghetto. Things happen there.” He warned us about the risks — the poverty, the crime, the unpredictability. But I had already made up my mind.

“This is the kind of experience you don’t get from a guidebook,” I told him. “Let’s see where it leads.”

Horse driven Roma Cart-common sight in parts of Bulgaria and Romania

Into the Gypsy Quarter

Following a Stranger into the Shadows of Kazanluk

While I’ve always been drawn to off-the-map cultural experiences, I’m not naïve. I’ve traveled enough through Europe to know that visiting certain Roma neighborhoods carries real risks — not because of any stereotype, but because poverty breeds desperation. Crime, especially petty theft, is not uncommon. And here we were, strangers with passports, cash, and all our belongings sitting in an unlocked car on the edge of a city we barely knew.

Still, curiosity overruled caution. The Roma man in our backseat directed Stanislav through a maze of back roads until we reached a bleak city block that looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic film. Towering concrete housing blocks — relics of the communist era — lined the street like grey skeletons. From a distance, many appeared abandoned, hollowed out by time and neglect.

A Landscape of Decay and Resilience

As we got closer, the scene came into focus. The buildings, while barely standing, were not empty. Windows had been removed or shattered, leaving jagged gaps where glass once held. Strands of laundry flapped like prayer flags in the wind, strung between rusting balconies and tangled electric wires. Small wooden shacks had been erected around the base of the buildings, constructed from scavenged materials. Heaps of garbage filled the gaps between. Children wandered barefoot through the mud. Stray dogs picked at scraps. The place felt completely disconnected from the rest of Europe — and yet very much a part of it.

“This is where we’ll meet the Gypsy King,” the hitchhiker announced with a grin.

I glanced at Frank, then at Stanislav, who looked visibly uncomfortable. Every instinct said this could go sideways — fast. But we had come this far. And when you’re standing at the edge of a world few outsiders ever see, sometimes you have to step in to understand it.

Searching for the Roma King

Parking at a Distance — and for Good Reason

Stanislav was growing increasingly nervous. He flat-out refused to park his car near the Roma neighborhood. “It could be broken into — or gone entirely by the time we return,” he said. Even our hitchhiker agreed, suggesting we leave the car a few blocks away near a small shop that looked marginally safer. We tucked it between a row of parked vehicles and made sure everything of value was out of sight, though of course, everything we had was in that car — passports, money, clothes. If anything happened to it, we’d be in serious trouble.

From there, we continued on foot, following our new guide down unmarked streets and into the heart of the Roma quarter.

No Plan, No Contacts — Just Wandering

It became clear almost immediately that our hitchhiker wasn’t quite the “in” we thought he might be. He didn’t seem to know anyone here. There was no direction, no plan — just vague gestures and improvisation. We were now walking, somewhat blindly, into the heart of the community, hoping to stumble across someone who could lead us to this so-called king.

Still, the people we passed didn’t seem hostile — more curious than anything. Children stared from behind makeshift fences. Older women peeked out of doorways, and young men stood around in small groups, observing. Occasionally, we stopped and Stanislav would translate brief conversations.

A Tattooed Giant and a Quiet Baby

Eventually, we encountered a striking figure: a towering man, massive in build, with prison tattoos covering the backs of his hands and forearms. He stood outside one of the crumbling apartment blocks, cradling a small baby in his arms. His eyes scanned us for a moment, unreadable, then softened. When asked, he nodded and agreed to pose for a photo — a surprising moment of openness in an environment charged with uncertainty.

There was something surreal about it — the contrast of this imposing, tattooed man gently holding an infant, set against a background of urban ruin. He didn’t offer much else, but the gesture felt like a quiet welcome — or at least, not a warning to leave.

Gypsy Ghetto

Gypsy Ghetto

Roma man with prison tatoos on his hands holding a baby

Rain, Lies, and a Willing Guide

About to Turn Back — Until Someone Found Us

The cold rain had started to pick up, soaking through our jackets as we wandered further into the crumbling maze of the Roma quarter. Without a clear contact, and with our hitchhiker increasingly unhelpful, it began to feel like a mistake. Frank and I exchanged a glance. Stanislav was clearly uncomfortable, and even I was beginning to question how much further we should push our luck.

Just as we were about to turn back, a curious local approached us.

A Spontaneous Lie and an Unexpected Doorway In

He was friendly, animated, and smiling — but something was off. His movements were erratic, his eyes wide. He gave off the undeniable impression of being high on something. Still, he was welcoming and asked what we were doing there, three outsiders wandering aimlessly through his neighborhood in the freezing rain.

Without hesitating, I leaned toward Stanislav and whispered a cover story. “Tell him we’re journalists — from a newspaper in America. We’re here to report on the poor living conditions of the Roma, to pressure the Bulgarian government to invest more in their communities.”

It was a lie, of course. A spontaneous one. But it felt like the kind of lie that might actually open doors — maybe even lead us to the elusive Roma King.

Stanislav hesitated, clearly uneasy with the whole situation, but relayed the message.

A Willing Guide Appears

The man’s face lit up. His excitement was genuine and immediate. “Yes! Yes!” he said, beaming. He was thrilled that we had come to shine a light on his people’s struggles. Without hesitation, he declared that he would personally take us around and show us what life was really like in the community — for the sake of the story, for the sake of change.

It was the moment we didn’t know we were waiting for. Our hitchhiker quietly faded to the background as our new “guide” took charge, eager to lead us deeper into the ghetto and, hopefully, closer to the Roma King.

The Roma man who became our un-official guide

Into the Heart of the Gypsy Block

“Come, I’ll Show You My Home”

Our new guide, still buzzing with enthusiasm, assured us he would take us to meet the Roma King — but first, he wanted us to see where he lived. “Come, come,” he said, motioning us toward one of the towering concrete apartment blocks. The place looked as if it had been abandoned years ago — windows missing, walls stained by decades of rain and soot, wires dangling like vines. But people lived here. Lots of them.

We followed him up a crumbling stairwell, the walls tagged with graffiti, the floor littered with trash and soggy clothing. Each level seemed more surreal than the last, and yet this was home to dozens of families.

An Audience Gathers

As we moved deeper into the block, something unexpected began to happen — we started to attract attention. First a couple of kids trailing behind us, then a few teenagers… then more.

Within minutes, a crowd had formed. Nearly 20 Roma children and adults were following us through the corridors, laughing, pointing, whispering, and cracking jokes in Romani and Bulgarian. Our guide played it up, proudly introducing us to anyone we passed as “the Americans from the newspaper.”

The mood was surprisingly light — curious, not hostile. It was clear that outsiders, especially foreigners, almost never entered this world, and our presence had become the morning’s entertainment.

Small store selling food in the Roma community

Eyes Open, Exit Ready

Cautious Curiosity in a Crumbling World

Though the mood was mostly light, we weren’t naïve. As we followed our guide deeper into the apartment block, Frank and I exchanged frequent glances, silently checking our surroundings. Stanislav, ever the realist, kept close and alert. At every turn, we tried to keep track of a way out — mentally marking stairwells, doorways, and exits in case things took a wrong turn. Curiosity may have brought us here, but caution was always riding shotgun.

A Home on the Edge of Collapse

The building our guide led us into looked almost abandoned from the outside, but inside it was alive — barely. The first floor was a bleak mess of broken tiles, exposed wires, puddles of dark water, and the unmistakable stench of rot. Garbage was piled high in corners, and raw sewage seeped from busted pipes along the walls. It was less of a lobby and more of a ruin inhabited out of necessity.

Our guide pointed to the piles of waste and looked back at us seriously. “This,” he said, “you must show. Put in the newspaper. Tell your government. Tell the Bulgarian government. No one helps us.”

He wasn’t angry — just resigned. His words carried both pride and pain, as if he was both ashamed of the conditions and proud that someone was finally seeing them.

I snapped a photo. The flash lit up the filth and cracked tile for a split second before vanishing again into gloom.

Rigged electrical cables tapping re-routing electricity from the main electrical grid.

Life on the Edge of the Grid

A Community Born from Ruins

The apartment blocks around us weren’t originally built for the Roma. They were constructed during Bulgaria’s communist era — standardized concrete structures meant to house workers during the height of socialist planning. But after the fall of communism, these buildings were abandoned, left to decay as Bulgaria transitioned into a new political and economic reality.

The Roma, marginalized across Europe and often left without formal housing or employment, moved into these forgotten spaces and claimed them as their own. Over time, a massive Roma community emerged in this corner of Kazanluk — not by design, but out of necessity. Squatters in a crumbling complex, they built a world for themselves where the state had long stopped looking.

No Services, No Support — Just Survival

Because the Roma occupy these buildings illegally, the government provides no basic services. There is no garbage collection. No sewage treatment. No running water. Trash piles up in the stairwells. Raw sewage flows through the hallways. And still, life goes on.

The community survives through an improvised network of small shops, micro-economies, and hustle. Some people collect and sell scrap metal, others beg in town, do manual labor, or work odd jobs. It’s true that some turn to crime — but in a place where there are few options, people take whatever paths they can to survive.

Despite the poverty, there’s energy and resilience here. A kind of makeshift order. Children run through the corridors. Families cook on open fires in the courtyards. Men hang out near storefronts that sell everything from snacks to salvaged electronics. Satellite dishes — many of them stolen — are mounted at odd angles along the buildings’ exteriors. Electricity is spliced directly from power lines and rerouted haphazardly into the units. The buildings are windowless, raw, and exposed — yet lived in, claimed, adapted.

Improvise, Adapt, Survive

What struck me most wasn’t the poverty — it was the ingenuity. The sheer will to survive and make something out of nothing. Legal or illegal, clean or not, this community was alive. Not just existing, but adapting in its own raw, complicated way.

This wasn’t the Europe of guidebooks and grand cathedrals. It was a parallel world hidden in plain sight — one that demanded to be seen, and, maybe someday, understood.

Squatting quarters of a gypsy family we visited

Inside the Apartment

A Glimpse Behind the Door

After navigating the debris-filled stairwell, our Roma guide proudly invited us into his home. It was immediately clear that he didn’t live there alone — several families appeared to share the space, scattered throughout its cramped, damp rooms. There were children, elders, teenagers — all moving through the narrow, dim corridors that made up what once may have been a modest apartment.

The living conditions were heartbreaking.

The Epitome of Squalor

Mold stained the walls. Blankets were draped over doorways in place of doors. Garbage lined the floor in some corners. There was no sign of plumbing, running water, or even basic sanitation. Children with runny noses crawled on the filthy ground, picking up food and eating it with bare hands. The air was thick — with smoke from indoor cooking fires, the stench of rot, and the dampness of a leaking ceiling.

Our host motioned us toward one of the water-damaged corners, pointing up with frustration. “Take a photo,” he said. “For your newspaper. Show them what we live in.” He was hopeful — not for himself, but maybe for his kids, for the community. He believed the story we had told him: that we were foreign journalists trying to help bring attention to their plight.

And in that moment, I felt a pang of guilt.

A Lie That Opened a Door

I had made up the story on the spot — a fake identity to give us a reason to be there, to smooth over suspicion, to create just enough distance from danger. But now that story had grown legs. It had given us access. It had made people feel heard. And it had also made us feel a little safer.

I stood there, camera in hand, surrounded by people who had nothing but were willing to share their time, their space, their stories. I felt both honored and conflicted.

We weren’t journalists. We couldn’t promise change. But maybe we could remember what we saw — and share it, truthfully, later.

Roma Child eating some food we brought with us. 

The wood heating stove next to the sleeping pads on the floor where multiple families slept

The Mob Turns

When Curiosity Becomes Risk

While inside the apartment, the atmosphere began to shift. What had started as a strange, chaotic but somewhat controlled encounter began to feel increasingly unstable. More people had gathered outside — mostly adolescent boys, eyes wild and distant, sniffing glue from crumpled paper bags. Their laughter had taken on an unsettling edge. They weren’t just curious anymore; they were high, emboldened, and sizing us up.

I kept one eye on the doorway and another on my camera — my SLR, slung over my shoulder, suddenly felt like a liability. I knew that if things escalated, it could easily be ripped away, or worse. I had mentally prepared myself to give it up if it meant avoiding something more serious. The possibility of someone pulling a knife was no longer abstract — it felt imminent.

Whispers of Violence

Stanislav pulled me aside. His face was pale and tight. “We have to go. Now,” he said in a hushed voice. “I overheard them talking about stabbing us and taking everything.”

That was all I needed to hear. Meeting the Roma King no longer mattered. Any cultural curiosity we had was long gone. This was about getting out — fast and safe. We quietly exited the apartment, but word had spread. As we descended, people began asking us for money. Hands reached out. Faces closed in.

And then it turned into a full-on mob.

The Chase

We started walking quickly — then jogging — back toward the car. The mob followed, shouting, demanding, closing in. Some were still laughing, but others looked desperate, even angry. We had wandered too far, stayed too long, drawn too much attention. Now, we were surrounded by a chaotic crowd that didn’t want us to leave empty-handed.

As we reached the car, the group encircled it, blocking our exit. People pounded on the windows. A hand grabbed at the door handle before I could close it. That’s when instinct kicked in.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a handful of Bulgarian coins and small bills, and flung them high into the air. The effect was instant. The crowd turned on itself — diving for the scattered money like a pack of hungry wolves. That moment of frenzy bought us just enough time.

We slammed the doors shut. Stanislav gunned the engine, and we peeled away in a blur of exhaust and adrenaline.

The Last Visit

None of us spoke for a while. The tension lingered in the car like a storm that had just passed. I glanced at Stanislav — he was gripping the wheel tightly, eyes locked on the road ahead. I didn’t need to ask. I was certain this would be the last Roma community he’d ever willingly enter.

As for me, the experience left a mark — not of fear, but of sobering complexity. It was a glimpse into a hidden world few outsiders see. A world defined by neglect, poverty, survival — and moments of both hospitality and danger. I don’t regret going, but I left knowing just how quickly things can shift when you step beyond the safety net of the familiar.

Day 4: Into the Blizzard — The Road to Buzludzha

A Mountain Ascent Into the Unknown

After the intensity of our time in the Roma community, Day 4 brought a different kind of challenge — a physical one. Our goal was finally in sight: Buzludzha, the surreal, decaying monument that had drawn us to Bulgaria in the first place.

From the small, quiet village of Shipka, we turned onto a narrow mountain road that snaked its way into the hills. The route was deserted, lined with bare trees and sheer drop-offs, climbing steadily toward the monument that sat perched at an elevation of over 4,000 feet.

Whiteout at the UFO

We were prepared for cold, but we hadn’t expected this: a full-blown blizzard. Snow whipped across the road in blinding sheets, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Whiteout conditions made every bend in the road feel like a gamble. The once-clear views of the surrounding Balkan Mountains vanished into a wall of snow.

Stanislav gripped the wheel and leaned forward, squinting into the storm. This was his first time visiting Buzludzha too — and though he’d initially questioned our obsession with “Gypsies and old communist buildings,” by now, he seemed quietly invested in the adventure.

To him, Buzludzha was just a relic — an eyesore from a forgotten era. To us, it was a myth made real, a brutalist spaceship stranded on a snowy peak, waiting to be found.

Road to the mountains

Communist era monuments

Communist era monuments

Hiking Into the Storm

The Mountain Fights Back

As we climbed higher into the mountains, the storm only intensified. The road narrowed, visibility dropped, and ice coated the pavement in slick, unpredictable patches. Stanislav’s small, low-clearance vehicle — a city car at best — was completely out of its element. Each curve of the road was a test of traction. The wheels skidded, the engine groaned, and for long stretches, we weren’t sure if we were still on the actual road or simply plowing through powder.

We pressed on, inching our way through the swirling white until, finally, we reached what we guessed was a small parking area — buried under a thick layer of snow, unmarked, unplowed, and barely visible. It was impossible to know for sure if this was the designated lot for Buzludzha, but it was as far as the car could take us.

Into the Blizzard on Foot

We bundled up — thick winter jackets, snow pants, gloves, scarves, hoods — everything we had. The cold was immediate and biting, and the wind howled across the mountainside like something alive.

With no trail markers visible and barely any definition in the landscape, we picked a direction that felt uphill and started walking. The blizzard had erased everything — the path, the horizon, the sense of scale. All we could see was swirling snow and the faint outline of a ridgeline ahead.

We were hiking into a white void.

Each step was slow, deliberate, and disorienting. The cold seeped into our boots. Our breath froze on our scarves. Somewhere above us, buried in the clouds, Buzludzha was waiting — but at that moment, it felt like we were chasing a ghost.

White out conditions

Finally the spaceship form of Buzludzha appears out of the snow

The tower with a staircase that climbs to the top

Entering the Spaceship

A Hidden Way In

As we reached the summit, the storm briefly eased, revealing the silhouette we’d been chasing — Buzludzha. It loomed above us like a stranded spacecraft, its brutalist design barely visible through the swirling snow. Towering, round, and otherworldly, it looked exactly like the photos — and somehow more surreal in real life.

I had done my research beforehand and knew that the main entrance was sealed. But explorers had long whispered of a small, unofficial way in — usually somewhere along the building’s side, often shifting as entrances were patched up and new ones created.

Sure enough, after circling the massive concrete base, we found it: a narrow gap beneath a side panel, partially hidden by snow and debris. We climbed through, carefully stepping over rusted nails, bent rebar, and loose bricks. And then, suddenly, we were in.

A Frozen Monument to the Past

Inside, time collapsed.

We had the entire structure to ourselves — no tourists, no guards, no signs, no sound. Just us and the ruins of a fallen regime.

Snow had drifted through massive holes in the roof and was slowly accumulating inside the structure. It blanketed the floor, climbed the walls, and filled the air with a cold stillness. The central chamber, once a proud meeting hall of the Communist Party, opened before us in eerie grandeur. The ceiling, shaped like an enormous saucer, was cracking and collapsing, its metal framework exposed like the ribs of a dying beast. Gaps in the roof let in shafts of diffused gray light, illuminating the vast space in an ethereal, post-apocalyptic glow.

And there, at the very center, was the enormous red hammer and sickle, still clinging to the ceiling — faded but defiant.

A Surreal, Forgotten Time Capsule

The walls were covered in the remnants of massive propaganda mosaics — heroic workers, revolutionaries, communist slogans in Cyrillic, all slowly peeling and crumbling. The snow and decay gave the entire space a dreamlike quality, like walking through a forgotten Cold War hallucination. It felt less like breaking into a building and more like breaking into history.

It was haunting. Beautiful. And strangely peaceful.

A hole in the side of the building that leads to the inside

The Heart of the Monument

Through the Belly of the Beast

After entering the side of the building, we began navigating through a labyrinth of dark, frozen tunnels. The air was damp and icy, our breath visible with every step. Each corridor was choked with collapsed beams, shattered tiles, and unidentifiable debris — much of which likely contained asbestos or worse. It was cold, quiet, and absolutely still, save for the sound of snowmelt dripping through cracks overhead.

Our flashlights cut narrow paths of light through the dark. Twisting stairwells spiraled upward, their metal railings corroded, the steps slick with ice. We climbed carefully, uncertain of the building’s stability but driven by a singular goal — to reach the main chamber, the auditorium, the crown jewel of Buzludzha.

Me Standing in the Communist officials Meeting Room

Hammer and Sickle Ceiling

Stanislov

Communist Murals 

Communist Murals 

Dark and creepy dungeon 

Auditorium

One Last Look Before Collapse

The Thrill — and Risk — of Urban Ruins

As awe-inspiring as Buzludzha was, it was impossible to forget where we were — inside a structure on the verge of collapse.

The stairs creaked and crumbled beneath our boots, each step threatening to give way. Exposed rebar jutted from the walls, and long cracks spiderwebbed across support columns. Snow and time had done their damage. This wasn’t just abandoned — it was actively falling apart. Every corner whispered danger.

Still, the draw was too strong. We climbed a few more flights up one of the deteriorating staircases — each footstep slow and deliberate. Eventually, we emerged at a side viewpoint near the curved wall of the “space shuttle”-like upper structure. From here, through a break in the clouds, we caught a fleeting glimpse of the mountains spread out below, their ridgelines dusted with snow and wrapped in mist.

For a brief moment, we stood there, perched above Bulgaria, surrounded by history, rot, and silence. It was one of those rare travel moments — where time, danger, and beauty collide.

Back Through the Rabbit Hole

After a few hours inside Buzludzha, we agreed it was time. The temperature was dropping, and we had seen everything we could — from the propaganda mosaics to the skeletal dome, to the snow-covered main floor where history echoed louder than voices.

We snuck back out the same way we came in — through the narrow opening beneath the snow-drifted wall. Emerging into the cold mountain air, we looked back one last time at the crumbling monolith.

Then we hiked down through the snow, climbed into Stanislav’s car, and began the long drive back to Sofia, tired, cold, and deeply satisfied.

A Ruin Worth Remembering

Buzludzha remains one of the most surreal and incredible urban exploration experiences I’ve ever had. A decaying communist cathedral perched on a snowy mountain peak — silent, haunted, and wide open for those willing to brave the storm.

It’s a place that doesn’t just tell a story — it traps you in it.

View from the top