Between Eastern Greece and Western Armenia

Alternative title: How to get yourself cancelled in Turkey

First, let me begin with a few words from my sponsor: I haven’t got one. Please, I am young and I need the money! It’s very welcome.
Cheers.

Second, I don’t want to tell you a chronological recount of every place we visited. I’d rather content myself with telling you my opinion, of retelling you the view of the local population and of giving you a broad overview.

Judging by the title you may be able to guess where I was this time. I stayed in a very ancient land, one that may be called the cradle of complex human civilisation and one that harboured a great many cultures and religions, starting from whatever people believed in at Göbeklitepe and the surrounding archeological sites to today’s love for techno. You will find traces of everything in between and they are all randomly placed all over Anatolian. In fact, almost every touristic spot was built by Romans, Byzantine (Eastern Rome), the Greek, Stoneage people, Armenians or Tsarist (pre-Soviet) Russians. Now, why did I fail to mention Turkey in this enumeration? The reason could be attributed to the fact that Turkey has extremely little to offer in terms of genuine and picturesque Turkish buildings. Apart from a few bridges and countless mosques – some of which are wonderful to look at – Turkish architecture is limited to concrete. To cities made of concrete. Wonderfully fertile, fresh soil covered in murderous concrete. There’s, of course, a well-founded reason for this brutalism, but I will get to it in a bit. Let me first conclude this part by saying that Anatolia is filled with stuff from the past.

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I had the pleasure and privilege of meeting Valentin, the French teacher, fellow writer, poet, traveler, dear friend, back in Georgia and convince him to join me on this trip. For the first time I’d spent a trip of a month with the same person. We set off in Batumi from where we followed a somewhat planned traveling route. The plan was to hitchhike as much as possible, visit a few well-situated places and stop every five days, so that he could give his French lessons online and uninterrupted. His companionship was a reassurance to me and me to him. During difficult times (mostly caused by a failure to stop a ride), we’d supported each other, read to each other or occupy our minds during endless hours of raising our thumbs in vain. I gave him reassurance by having a functional credit card and the availability of money. Curiously enough, just before our departure to Turkey, he gained 900 Lari in a casino in Batumi and got his credit card hacked at the same time. God gives and God takes, it’s a perpetual up-and-down-situation with this dude…

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  Crossing the border to Turkey. For Valentin it’s a goodbye forever.

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  Better off in Mardin.

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  Hard at work.

Luckily that senior, possibly bearded guy up in the sky gave us the ability to think and come up with a nice travel itinerary and he bestowed our ancestors with a similar ability, which caused them to create some interesting places along the way. Here’s our itinerary:

Batumi, Erzurum, Kars, Ani, Dogubayazit, Vaaaaan, Mardin, Urfa, Nemrut, Antep, Kapadokya, Konya, Antalya, Fethiye, Rhodos, Fethiye, Kabak, Luxembourg. I did not visit all the marked spots on the map.

God… right, God! Or Allah. Let’s return to his fellow for a minute. It’s pretty much the same idea and probably as old as mankind itself. A higher power of some sort. A representation of a superiority that connects everything we can and cannot perceive. Comes in different shapes too! There are the fancies deities, for instance Cthulhu, the tentacle God of destruction, or the giant turtle that hatched the world. There’s also the pagan god figures such as the ones in Göbeklitepe, that had been created to give life, death, the world and everything else reason. At some point humans lost much of their creativity and agreed on believing in only one person (let us simply blame Tik-Tok for this evolution). The magical, mysterious and frightening supernatural power may have changed, but the questions remain unanswered. Anyhow, some countries like Turkey are Muslim and there’s no doubt of this in Western Armenia (Eastern Anatolia). Ramadan is being celebrated and life adjusts to it in a most radical way: All restaurants are closed until the break of the fast, the Iftar, and the overall movement around the cities is slowed down just to come to a complete stand-still during the break. It becomes magically quiet. The silence in the cities because total, as every dehydrated and famished person rushes home to eat and drink and smoke a cigarette. No soul is seen outside. Then, within 15 minutes all is over and the streets are overflowing with happy people. The withered, yellow faces suddenly took back their normal texture and colour and night becomes day. Religion clearly takes a major role in people’s lives, even though it remains a choice of adhering to it – many girls refuse to wear the hijab for instance. Here I might add that the Islam is also being used as a political tool to keep people quiet, proud and dumb, but that would go beyond my competencies.

In general everyone we talked to in Turkey has a propensity to being in strong disagreement with the politics. The Kurds feel discriminated and left out of the political equation, the youth wants to go abroad and experience freedom and excitement, old people become nostalgic about Atatürk; all of them suffer from the dramatic inflation, from corruption, repression, a rotten education and a apprehension of lurking terror. To give you an example: the average income in Turkey is about 5000 Lira a month, which is already 16 times less than Euro. In Luxembourg there are not too few people (though by far not the majority) who earn this sum in Euro. Even if local prices were equal, the Turkish population would still earn a fraction of what a somewhat wealthy person earns in Lux. The price gap is enormous as well: not taking into consideration that alcoholic beverages are taxed heavily, a beer in a typical bar costs 35 to 40 Lira. I’d like to see you pay 40 Euro for a refreshing, fermented hop juice!

Moving on to transportation. I have been incredibly spoilt by the Armenian hospitality. Coming to this wonderful country where hitchhiking is always the fastest way of getting around, Turkey felt like the angry voice of a long-forgotten teacher, interrupting your reveries. We waited, frustrated. We stood at the road side, ready for any car. And we waited some more. In the meantime, Valentin would read me some Bukowski poems, while I tried to remember Turkish swear words. And then we waited a little bit more. Before Erzurum, this was especially true. And when someone did eventually stop for us – a ride in the cow wagon – the driver expected us to pay the preposterous sum of 500 Lira per person!! We played it cool, as we already knew he would not kidnap us and simply waited for him to stop and kick us out.
For most of the remaining time in Turkey we traveled by bus, which are fairly decent.
We once tried to take a train. Bought a ticket and everything online and felt prepared for the first time. However, when we got to the bloody train station, the ticket office worker plainly told us it’d run in four hours late. Fair enough, we thought, we’ll try taking a bus instead. But there was no more bus, they told us. We resorted to our last way of leaving: hitchhiking. A bus stopped for us and we left.

Anatolia is a densely populated place, especially the cities. A demographic explosion is taking place, coupled with a firm immigration that forces the Turkish government to erect apartment buildings in great number and without much concern for the environment. At first this was surprising, but then you hear countless stories of families having 10 or 11 children. I always feel a little reluctant to congratulate them on their successful love life and would rather be inclined to ask them if they haven’t heard of preservatives. Upon first hearing of this birthrate, I understood the beggarly children in the streets, kids squatting in dumpsters, the vast number of young gangs, the vastly impoverished families and the lack in perspective for the younger generation. They are nice though and were all keen on talking to foreigners in their quasi-nonexistent English. Discussion would start in the usual manner:

-Hello! Where are you from?”

– Luxembourg, I’d answer, knowingly saying this in an English accent.

Silence. It is virtually impossible for anyone to understand this. Usually I don’t let the awkward silence build up for too long. After a second of confused looks I’d add:

– Lüksemburg, the Turkish way of saying it, which one in one thousand may have heard of.

This is pretty much as far as our conversations would go. In an attempt to cover their inability to speak in a foreign language, the children would then bombard me with a million question in Turkish to which I would reply that I didn’t speak the language.
Great talks.
Communication in general was rather problematic, since almost nobody spoke anyother

The climate is harsh for most of the eastern part of the country. Snuggly situated between the mountains in the south and north and the western Caucasus mountains, no wind would carry humid airs from the seas, leaving an insupportable radiation from the sun lick the surface without any opposition. Valentin and I had to wear winter clothes for the first part of the journey until we reached Mardin in northern reaches of Mesopotamia. Things got a little better from there on. The sudden appearance of the vast, blue sea broke our equanimity to the beauty of the lands, which you will face sooner or later after having traveled for a longer period of time. The heat was hot and air was filled with a thousand sounds. Antalya came as a relief. We had left the drawn-out winter behind the vast Taurus mountain range and a renewed flow of energy swelled in our hearts.

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Long story short, I had left one face of Turkey behind and entered another one. Valetin’s and my path split. Farewell, once you’ve survived the “infernal anthill” that is Istanbul you shall discover all of Kazakhstan! Thanks for the nice formulation too.

Once parted, I changed my travel plans, due to knee pain. Instead of continuing my travels for the remainder of summer, I rescheduled and resolved to return home after visiting a dear friend in Rhodos and participating in the “Get your own Picture” youth exchange in the heavenly Kabak Valley, at Yerdeniz camp (we shot some amazing short films). Both of them included getting back in touch with many Europeans at the same time and always involved alcohol. Everyone is a social drinker it appears. Tough if one has left this society just long enough to see the benefits of being sober. All this drunk talk, the urge to impress and the flat-lustrous, lewd and hazy faces have become somewhat repugnant to me. It’s a psychological burden to carry when one refuses to relapse into old and bad habits, but is constantly surrounded by drunkards. A reduction in alc consumption should be considered by everyone, especially in regards to the elevated effectivity, when administered eventually.

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  Joining the drunk crew for one crazy night

One last note to end the blog entry: I only scratched the surface of my impressions; I accumulated a fair amount of knowledge and information (emotional, culinary and dry data) and choose to share only a very limited with you, whoever reads this. It wasn’t all sunshine, not all dark. I deliberately tried not to do cherry-picking as it is not my style. Therefore, I’d like to dedicate these last lines to the ambiguity I feel towards Turkey. It’s a fascinating country full of miraculously beautiful sites, littered with interesting people, contemplations about life and death and the universe, various food, breathtaking views, great distances, extremes, sadness and happiness, disturbing views on sexuality and much more. However, much of it has been built on conquest and turbulences. Many historical sites were erected by the victims of history, but little credit is given to them, hence the controversial title.
Before I conclude with a series of randomly chosen pictures, here’s a song that followed me throughout our journey through Eastern Turkey:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KeQQpLembyk&ab_channel=SerjTankian-Topic

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One to the people. One to the times. And one for the future.

I’ve got this request from a fellow student and a dear friend of mine, whether I’m going to write about friendship and my relationship with some people that I got to know in Russia. And I thought that, yeah sure! Why not tell a few stories.

What exactly did she ask? Hold on, gotta check it quickly… aha… yeah! She wanted to write about “us”. I was also surprised about this way of putting it. Indeed, she wanted to do it herself and I gently wished her good luck, telling her to deliver “качество” (Russian for quality). Apparently, I must have misunderstood her, for she corrected herself, requesting me to do it. “So, like, about our friendly relationship, the Erasmus kids or Kazan?”, I wondered. Then she suggested me to do a combo of all three things, believing I would come up with something suitable for her request (somebody has to believe in me at least), and that it would be amazing if I could add some nicknames to polish the story a little. So be it! Here’s one to friendship.

Going through the articles that I published on Russia so far I distinguished a relatively persistent negative trait that connects my impressions on different topics. Of course, it would be unfair to treat everything as if it had been awful or unpleasant. Though there were times where I had wished to be far away, longing for a common sense of rationality or a simple vegetarian restaurant, the opposite was also sometimes the case. It was the constant energy and support of a handful of people that kept me going through this experience. I feel like I owe them a lot. For it was their complete determination to abstain from any surrender of their personality that made them so valuable an asset to the group dynamic of our class and to my mental well-being. All of us faced the same problems – some were, of course, more prepared for them then others – giving that their language skills were more advanced, be it that they could cope with the general food quality easier than me -, my friends remained true to their principles and personal ideologies. Now that I’m considering who’s the most deserving to have a part in my story, I’m experiencing difficulties deciding. All of my friends from there had their own personal characteristic traits that made them stand apart from the crowd. On top of that, I wish not to anger anyone by not mentioning them. I will, however, restrict myself to the most close friends of mine.

First of all, I would like to present KyöstiOfficial to you. It’s basically the only one who actually truly had his nickname during the project, stemming from his Instaprofile. KyöstiOfficial has the special ability that he does precisely and only exactly what he wants to do. Never would he forcefully make himself change his mind. Nor would be pretend to like something that he was, in fact, against. As he appeared to be a strong-minded personality who would never betray his own intentions or lie to anyone, we always sought to introduce him to our casual hangouts. What’s more is that he was constantly high on snooze, pushing small baggies of tobacco in between his upper lip and his gum (which added something to his mysterious and unique nature). He most secretly attend the Russian classes: He would be sitting in the back rows, not steering a muscle during discussions rounds in the vain hope of not being asked to add to our thin round. He was certainly not invisible, and indeed he was greatly appreciated by all the teachers, despite his intermediate Russian. It was possible that for the exact reason that they all loved him (and so do all of his friends) that they always wanted him to speak. Life can be really troublesome sometimes… Жизнь не сахар!
With him I rode all the way to the Russian steppe in search of some peaceful place, that probably reminded us of our homes, where the mind isn’t disturbed by the constant chatter or the constant harmful car emissions. The path there had us come up with creativity to figure out how best to react to changes in planning. In the end it seemed like a never-ending recalculations, with mathematical formulas in disarray. Blablacar switched into hitchhiking, bus, train, hitchhiking, almost taxi and more hitchhiking. His patience was truly unbeatable during this trip. We may not have bought the Sterlitamak magnets, we managed to take a pic with dear Vladimir Iilich in Salavat.

This is not Lenin

Except from our irregular trips somewhere or the camping in woods, we didn’t leave Kazan together as one complete group very often. On one of those occasions we went to take a bath in march. The vapour was escaping the steamy tent in large white clouds as we protruded the place to take refreshing refuge in the clear water of the Blue Lake, the Глубакое озеро. Having felt the strange aqua-thermal sensation, we longed for the smiling group of students who all studied Russian and their engulfing warmth. Many of us had gone through much during that time – the adaptation to the absurdity that was on Russian level was comforting and challenging, for most were happy to return home after their stay (at least for a still unknown time) – so that the support and guaranteed respect for each other was always something we could count on. Let loose in a somewhat bizarre world, we created bonds between each other that would overcome nationalities, or rather, thrive thanks to the differences in our upbringing and culture. Some lived up to the expectations of national stereotypes (e.g. a predilection for drinks in Finish people, the spirited, Italian hand movements while talking,…) while others shook the foundations of the classical way of displaying the life of their specific home country. It was especially the Germans (or those living there) who did their best at shattering any German stereotype: punctuality and efficiency. We would eventually reach a certain point, where even the most obstinate teacher would stop questioning our late arrivals in class.

Clearly one extraordinarily remarkable character is the musician and friend of fine arts and he’s no other than Mr. Schubert. First name: Ludwig. You wouldn’t believe what value a brilliant name such as his possesses; it can literally grant you access to place that would have been out of your reach. In many occasions it fully astonished new acquaintances. They would be merry. As a fine addition Ludwig sometimes added that he’s playing the piano, which instantly made him become something of a musical icon. Even the officials usually plaintive world was shattered for a millisecond, so that they gave him the key to the piano room where he could play all by himself for hours. I wish for him that he eventually gets him piano at home in Berlin. It would mean an infinite evenings of jolly evenings!

He was one of my first acquaintances when I moved to Berlin and has ever since welcomed my into his flat. There we would discuss our time in Berlin and the near future – all that with a glass of wine at hand. The idea to visit Russia and to experience all of its absurdities would eventually strike us as a promising plan. Little did we know at that time that we would be dropped in an intensive two weeks of dealing with bureaucracy and preparing for the interview with an official from a Russian university, which, despite the coffee and black tea in our bloodstreams, went fairly acceptable (I might have called the city St.Petersburg by its old name Leningrad).
As devoted readers may have already read, we did move to the Russian city of Kazan right on the Volga Хуйолга river for reason of academic studies. We would share a shared flat with a brainless English guy – dear old Mikey-boy kept us wishing that he might take a looong and frosty stroll through the endless forests of Northern Siberia – and discover all of Russia’s countless absurdities and contrasts. Thanks to his photographic interest I could rest my freezing hands in the warm entrails of my jacket without bothering too much about taking photos. If I spotted something, it was easier for him to capture the moment, rather than risking frostbite myself. Whenever we returned to our shared room, we would warm ourselves with some illegal alcohol that was always comfortably stacked away in the dark corners of our wardrobes and prepare a simply dish, such as French onion soup. A nice onion soup requires long hours of slow cooking and some more of that illegal substance called wine; it’s smell filled the hallways, equally distributing the odour of white wine throughout the building.
Much more can be said about our tricky situation in Kazan and the way we mutually assisted each other in dealing with bureaucracy, strict authorities, stubborn teachers and our inner temptation to let everything be, but I’d rather end this part by referring to an older article (i.e. Breathing in the air of Glasnost and other stories from within the Ural mountain range) and my greatest gratitude towards him for following through with our silly plan to its end.

One plan that didn’t fully fail, despite ever changing means of transportation that drastically change throughout our preparation time at home and during our stay in Russia, including as many possibilities as six: buying an authentic LADA with which we could have traversed all of Russia in a speed similar to the development of public opinion in Soviet Russia, renting a car, taking a train, hitchhiking, taking marshrutka or even asking for military support (considering Ludwig’s uncle’s proximity to Russian military, this appeared somewhat within the limits of the possible). Even our initial idea to move to Yekaterinburg instead of Kazan was quickly thrown overboard. Little of what we planned actually did come into effect.
We are in a crass contrast to the Italian students. All of them appeared to know what their future will look like. That is, apart from on an emotional basis, where they surprised us and, mostly likely, themselves with their sudden changes in partners. The absurdities didn’t seem to bother them as much since they hadn’t really put too much consideration into this matter.
Both Russian mindset and its language seem to be about equally complicated to understand and mastering both at the same time requires a lot of attention and work. There’s different ways of how best to deal with this problem. Combining them worked best for me, as I got to e.g. listen to songs (mostly Viktor Coi) and then analyse the lyrics so in order to memorise new words by hearing the words repeatedly in your head while rambling through Kazan. Other ways could include literature or playing a theater role in a Russian piece. There were those students who approached the language learning process from a practical direction. However, apparently a language can be treated solely as a means of communication, therefore, dealing with the cultural or political aspect can be disregarded as useless. Some of our fellow foreign students had, prior to Russia, learnt a very decent level of Russian that was almost flawless when it came to grammatical aspects, however, they had troubles naming a single Russian band upon meeting us. They were immune to all of the nonsense that was forced on us, because they hardly questioned the system in any critical way which gave them an incredible advantage. It was especially the Italian students, who were surprised to know that the system Putin has (re-)introduced some very silly laws (though some locals were also not informed about it as well).

Maybe it was the obvious oblivion for most features of Russian musical culture and questionable political delusions that made a handful of people disciplined to a degree that they could communicate almost entirely in the Russian language outside of (sometimes) frustrating courses while, simultaneously, prepare for IELTS test and translate all of Homer’s Odyssey from English into Italian. Time to introduce to the blog a new Italian girl: Beatrice, the girl that goes by a different name, but who inspired me to write this very entry that you are reading at this moment.
Beatrice is extremely devoted to the cause and took up the challenge of living in Russia and learning the language with ease – or at least so it appeared. Blessed almost exclusively with positive character traits she could have served as an inspiration to us when it comes to punctuality, hard-working, language acquisition and reliability concerning homework. And, indeed, she was one of the few foreign friends that I’ve acquired during my stay in Kazan who would insist on speaking Russian. Though my brains came steaming out of my ears after the initial first weeks of lessons (a great adaptation to the language occurred with great force – the cold of the Russian winter helped cool our overheated heads), discussions during our walk through dense snowfall back to the student’s dorm tickled out a little bit of energy.
What shocked me therefore, for it is in crass contrast with my perspective, that she was practically entirely unaware of modern Russian culture, music and even politics. Why burden oneself with learning a language as complicated as Russian if of is all but dimly aware of what to do with it? Possibly out of contemplation that, at the end of one’s studies, there WILL be job opportunities (e.g. as translator/interpreter)? Although I am grateful of her efforts to make me be understood by Russian natives, I am not sure if I managed to raise her interest in Russian culture.

Russia, the land of contrasts, where everything should be expected, especially as it to megalomaniac ideas or ideals that grazed off of both sides of the extremes. This probably stems from the harsh climate that provides the coldest of winters and the hottest summers alike – Russia, the great sauna. And in this conditions people had come up with gigantic living quarters that stretch as far as the eye can see, though, одновременно, containing as many constitutional elements as any right-winged populist speech – that is little to nothing. In between enormous hubs of technological progress that are scattered all over the stupendous surface of Russia lay 1000s of miles of backwardly nothingness.
The diversity of the Russian soul manifests itself in its inhabitants and in those who reside in it, even temporarily. On one hand we have the hard-working Italians, whose energy didn’t diminish all throughout the semester, while on the other hand we have Uka, the Inebriate Mongolian Viking.

Uka – epitome of laziness and sociability, mostly in combination with procrastination and alcohol abuse. Though always defending the grandeur of the Mongolian empire or whatever is left of it, his patriotism does not present a hindrance to interculturality, especially concerning exchange of musical knowledge. Therefore, Uka manifests itself mainly in two ways: a fostered sense of belonging to the Mongolian nation, enabling him to carry on lengthy discussions about this very country, laying out major historical aspects and political manoeuvres of the leading families to anyone (particularly to Chinese people), and the willingness to absorb every kind of musical recommendation, placing them in a cognitive spectrum – some genres feature qualities over other genres, with certain mixes amplifying in an ultimate greatness, namely Level 5. Level 5 mostly contain traces of folkloric songs, combined with elements of modern rock/metal. Some may say that this is Post Modern music. Here are some examples:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vztRqe_CHC0

Old friends sharing their experiences with governmental experiments concerning Acid in the tap water

Half-sarcastic, though witty transition!
Despite the repressive nature of our student’s dorm and its arbitrary nature, we got into touch with some Russian fellows from out of this dimension. Credits go to Kyösti.Official for this one, as he introduced The Dudes to us. The dudes befriended each other already at a very young age and probably swore at that time that they should destabilise Kazan as much as possible by incessantly challenging Russian laws and codes of behaviour. This expression of civil disobedience, though not necessarily always wanted or anticipated by themselves, displayed itself in a profound liking of foreigners, whom they invited to home parties; those would often escalate into trespassing onto a construction side.

Are they considered to be a threat to the state just because they climb abandoned places?
Maybe. It’s Russia. But this, far from being the worst things that we could have done, was barely a drop in an ocean of stereotypes and dangers (not just to the state, though). Not only had Pasha, one of The Dudes, tuned his car to such a degree that the acceleration was bound to self-obliterate the vehicle (while cables were hanging out from the front part), he also had a lot a gadgets in his flat that could pose a threat. It’s one thing to have some radioactive isotopes stored on the balcony where everyone smokes, it’s another to have extremely reactive Potassium stored it as well – in due course he’d demonstrate this element, and throw it down his balcony into the snow beneath; a formidable explosion followed its impact. They were some of the most exceptional people though. A radio communication set in the living room, a few guitars plus amplifiers that would made the neighbours go on a late-night rampage to the restore order, a good load of beer and a loaded playlist of car tuning always ready on youtube added up to an outstanding party. Those were the moments when my stuttered and strangled Russian rendered me particularly speechless – a feeling that is mostly negligible while hitchhiking.

I was glad to be with them, here at the end of all things

It’s difficult to asses how many more names, places and faces should be named, and, doing so, how many more names should be disfigured and regurgitated in a grotesque way. Despite the fact that all have individual traits 180° opposite to the ones even of like-minded people, some specific characteristics could only be tickled out, as the group dynamic came into play.
Ludwig and I have way to the combined Finish effort (Kyösti.Official and The TitAntti) at consuming beer before Русское кино in order to make the films a tad funnier. It was one of those precious masculine moments: 30 minutes of tranquility and sunshine, just about enough to soften the emotional downfall that followed the previous lessons. Beer shaped this lovely friendship.

Coincidence got me thinking back to Luxembourg, thanks to the two classmates of mine who both originate more or less in the same region as my humble self. I’m delighted to realise that, whenever I return home, there will be friends waiting whom I have met in the far East and therefore share a unique fondness of heart.
ComeIn, the cheap Anti-Café on the student’s dorm’s campus, often instigated me to spend my sunday evening in a discussing way, protecting well-grounded arguments for a good cause, beneficent to all. It was the single-most international meeting point in Kazan. Any ethnicity or nation was represented, and a vivid exchange never failed to establish between those who attended. The conclusion of this somehow found expression in us playing frisbee during the happy evenings of Ramadan, while listening to Russian Hard Bass and screaming “Parkour!” like absolute madmen (and women).
This last picture will accurate exemplify our relations, taken beside the Глубакое озеро in the fading months of winter, just after a refreshing swim. One will never know what’s gonna await one at the end of it all. Much that was will be forgotten, fading away, becoming rumour and eventually legend. And our moments were legendary, in our particular idiom. And that’s life for you. Some moments are so precious, that they are worth waiting and remembering.

“А “жизнь” – только слово, есть лишь любовь и есть смерть…
Эй! А кто будет петь, если все будут спать?
Смерть стоит того, чтобы жить,
А любовь стоит того, чтобы ждать…“
                 – Viktor Coi, Легенда

Putting the “grim” in Pilgrimage

Russia has this weird tendency to always be a little strange. This even applies to other spheres of life that one wouldn’t think of straight away. This weekend I had the extraordinary pleasure of experiencing my first short-distance hitchhiking trip: to the Raifa monastery. While the destination was but 30 minutes away by car, it already served as staff gauge for further upcoming trips. I was accompanied by a German girl, Sophia, who lived most of her life in a city right across the Mosel River, so basically in visual range to Luxembourg – I had to travel all the way to Kazan to meet my neighbour.

 

 

Raifa monastery has little amazing to offer to its visitors. It has the typical white-stoned walls, its golden cupola, the brightly and positive religious fresco that cover every single inch of the inner walls and, last but not least, it’s golden, shiny icons. And I may not be an expert on the matter, but I’d claim, that some icons value more highly than others. This is, some shine brighter than others, have been blessed zealously than others thus increased in magical/spiritual powers (how much mana must a priest or bishop invest to get a +10 Protection for Relatives bonus?) and show a different holy person or wise man. Even though I do not possess a picture to prove my testimony, there was a literal queue waiting to touch and even kiss an icon of Maria with Son. And the religious fervency with which they (i.e. especially women with children or babushki) threw themselves at a representation of holy people that no one has set an eye upon within the last 2000 years, made me question the rationality of these fine and humble people. Even on a different level, would it not be sufficient to carry the belief in one’s heart, rather than to spread it with ones lips on a picture that has been touched by thousands before? Is it not a little silly and hypocritical that one prays for a child that serves in the army (e.g.), rather than to make sure, that war isn’t a necessity at all? Would an active, defensive position not achieve more than putting ones trust in a being/spirit/dream and sometimes nightmare, that does little more than listen?

After witnessing this absurdity display of raw and untroubled Orthodox faith, we wandered around the premises of the monastery, investing into water from a heavenly water spring and holy bread and used the celestial privies. We made a careful inspection of the divine stone walls, that slowly started to crumble and inspected the cherubic monastic gardens. Blessed are the decorations outside the walls, for they are humble, yet still fascinate the eye of the observer; the modesty is more to the Lord, for he renounces the simple outward appearance. The propriety and decency weighs heavier than gold and polish, and they are more appropriate for people who profess to worship God.

 

 

 

One more detail in the monastery that startled me before turning to hitchhiking. What are monks supposed to do while living behind holy walls, untroubled by modern hysteria? Praying for oneself and meditating can be arduous work, since one will sooner or later encounter a bottleneck and run out of ideas. Therefore, one has established a place, where children can spend their time and listen to the dramatic and fascinating stories of their favourite biblical heroes or visit a military cemetery (spreading the word of God requires modern technology). Plus, if the children are gone to play with army equipment, yet one still has no time to worship our Lord, one can leave a small tip in the monastery; a monk will take over the labour and invest all of his magical power in protecting ones relatives before the evil forces.

 

 

 

A small note on hitchhiking in Russia: It’s working perfectly fine! Though we didn’t travel far away from the city, a no point did we wait more than 10 minutes and each driver was unique in a very specific way. However, the second car that helped us managing the final part of the road to the monastery was of greatest interest, as the driver was either suspicious or unwilling to helping us; it was but thanks to his passenger, who he picked up along the road as well, that he stopped. The passenger, however intrusive he might have seemed, promptly invited us to beer and sausages and was very keen on learning more about us foreigners, traveling to Russia, for he appeared to be blissfully astonished to hear this; especially, as he wondered whether Europe was cleaner than Russia (interesting comparison anyway). He was so absorbing in his manner, than he immediately succeeded in convincing the unaware driver to made a minor detour to the monastery, where the eventually left us off.

Our return to the city of Kazan was guaranteed by a former Танкист, a tank driver, who had served in the former GDR – it is very common for me to meet former soldiers while hitchhiking, who had all served in Socialist Germany for some years and who, without exception, all adored the German beer – and was on his way home.

Please excuse the bad quality

Our voyage ended back in the city of Kazan, where we were greeted by a world, completely opposite from the one that we had just left: Welcome back to Soviet Union!

 

Victory Park

 

 

 

 

Potatoes, Tanks and KFC: Wonders of Modern Socialism

I was in Belarus.
It is not Russia and they also don’t speak Russian. In fact, they all understand it and it’s one of the two official languages.
The politics are not Russian. They are mostly just a relict from Soviet times that missed some important events in the world.
The food certainly isn’t anything like Russian one. Beside the Borschch that is served cold and with sour cucumbers… or the many potatoes… Blinis perhaps? The potato pancakes, the Draniki, are very untypical for Russia indeed.
The people aren’t Russian. Even though the culture is very similar, to a degree that locals can’t name 5 things that vary from their Eastern neighbour. There are some differences, which are similar to those from Ukraine, such as the national folk dresses – I’ve been told that the colours are different from the ones in Ukraine and/or Lithuania!
The history certainly must be something unlike the one from Russia. And, truly, the medieval times were marked by a direct cooperation with Lithuania and Poland. Until the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth struggled with its existence and Belarus was absorbed by Russians. When their former Northern ally demanded its freedom from Russia, Belarusians joined the movement of independence, but then failed at strengthening their own culture to a similar extent as the Baltic States.

Vytis, the knight on the cup, is also one of the two Lithuanian flag// The stork is the national bird of most Baltic States, including Belarus

Then it was absorbed into Soviet Union from which it’s barely escaped. Now the country is stuck in a silly limbo between capitalist influences from outside and an “authoritarian democracy” that takes care of a population of alcoholics (Belarus figures as number 1 on the statistics). Yet, the overconsumption of alcoholic beverages is hardly noticeable in Minsk where the streets are clean and no graffiti taints the walls. The only truly artsy place I’ve had the pleasure of seeing was the Oktyabrskaya street, where the entirety of the free-thinking and intellectual society lives. Many enormous paintings can be observed, while ordering some sort of drink in one of the many cafés in the area – Moby Dick Café being the one with the best music and service – or strolling down the road, all under the solemn gaze of Comrade Lenin.

 

 

The most interesting about the city Minsk, however, is this very limbo I mentioned earlier: The first thing I noticed upon my arrival in the city were the long and clean boulevards that all point to the historical and political centre of the city, whose sides were covered by McDonalds and KFC “restaurants”. A friend rightly observed that the basis on which the regime in all of its absurdities is constructed is deep-fried, unhealthy food from the USA.

 

 

What absurdities though?
Let’s take the newly-founded “Tank Day” (День Танкиста) for example. Once a year for the last 5 years or so, thanks to the most prominent crew of World of Tanks – not kidding, I’m not making this up – the celebration day was introduced and is traditionally held in the Victory Park. One could say that it is a perfect example of blunt military propaganda. Apart from the numerous craft beer stands and corn sellers, some sort of military circus was presented (with animals, i.e. extremely well-trained dogs). Then, if one continues further into the park one will eventually reach an island on the river that was renamed  “Partisan Island” for the special occasion. The backwardness of the industry, the politics and, to some extent, the society reaches its peak. The military presence and the possible threat which might result from it is ubiquitously felt all over the city, at all times. This not only manifests itself in the great number of young men (and few women) in uniforms everywhere, but also in the unbalanced men-to-women-ratio in Minsk.
On that island everything is about Partisans and resistance, as the name already suggests. Traditional partisan and Red Army songs are sung with great enthusiasm – toast to Товарищ Сталин! As one proceeds further along the river bed, one can listen to Partisan theatre pieces and the like. Lastly, it is apparently common practice to have your child photographed with Kalashnikov and helmet in front of soldiers dressed in WWII army fashion. Or just have them play around with real weapons; who knows when it come in handy to know how to assemble and dissemble a gun?
And as the happy family is leaving the beautifully decorated and staged park, why not buy the child a ballon filled with helium… in the shape of a tank? He’s behaved well. And with this little piece of souvenir he’ll certainly remember the experience in a positive light.
I frankly enjoyed this day way too much. The whole event was simply too preposterously ridiculous and the people’s reactions by no means critical, so that I couldn’t hold back a little giggle from time to time. Nothing similar would be possible in most Western countries and especially not in Berlin – after crossing a shitload many pro-vegan, meat-condemning chalk writings on the ground, I stand assured that the warmongering side of Germany has abated.

 

 

 

Some more information on my trip there – for those who actually care: After two weeks of summer school in Kaunas, Lithuania and a week of traveling in the other Baltic States, I had spent two additional weeks in Minsk in order to study the Russian language even harder. The most intensive, laborious and honestly most beneficial part was the hitchhiking trip back to European Union, as I was forced to speak only Russian for little over 6 hours with different people while discussing many different topics (one being the prices of Cocaine in Moscow, as the driver was working and celebrating there).
Some other posts on this trip might follow.

Lastly, many thanks to the usual candidates (i.e. the Royal Society for Putting Things on Top of Other Things), but foremost to our lovely teachers in Minsk, the greatly caring people that I’ve met from Belarus who welcomed my warmly and offered me a different perspective on politics and people’s mentality, the Red Army…? Is it still the Red One? At least, they didn’t wear no Soviet Emblems anymore Belarusian Army for not shooting me on grounds of espionage or whatever other reason they might have come up with and, of course, the (mostly) German group with which I arrived. Furthermore, the many drivers who offered me a ride all the way back to Berlin. Special thanks to Nino for hosting me and introducing me to Poznan. It’s a great city. Really. Trust me.

(Fun drinking game to play in Belarus: Every time you see someone in military uniform you need to drink a shot. Success guaranteed! If you play this on “Tank Day”, your liver is gonna explode in an ultimate cloud of alcohol and blood you need a strong constitution.)

 

 

 

 

 

To new shores

 Well, let’s get back to writing – shall we? It’s already been some time since i wrote the last time and since I’ve returned from Romania. Therefore, it is wise to put myself into the right writing atmosphere. Suit, coffee, music, a quick skimming through pictures and off we go. If you’re interested in the music:

In between Georgia and now a long time has elapsed in which it appears that I hadn’t had the time to write or travel as I didn’t upload any new stories to this site. This, however, is hardly true.  In fact, I have more time than in Georgia. I’ve become slightly lazy and the challenge of competing with the other volunteer’s publishing articles has greatly lessened. In the meantime, my focus has gradually shifted towards reading and adopting styles from writers that can be considered more “important” than my humble self. Fear not! For the writing will continue! Those few that I managed to satisfy with my half-assed, semi-sarcastic and surely completely biased correspondence will get what they’ve been craving for – now.

First of all, I’ll give you a quick overview on the year that separates me from Georgia… expect that it didn’t. For I have already returned there 3 more times since my official departure last March; and I’ve traveled almost all by myself through Balkans by hitchhiking a month after my returning to Luxembourg; and I helped in the task of challenging the recent status quo in politics by protesting against lignite coal in the Lausitz region and by learning the language of the most dreadful of all European and Western countries’ enemy’s language: Russian. Have my studies given me any advantage in communicating with locals while in Romania, Georgia, Armenia, Lithuania, Poland and Eastern Germany? Almost not at all. My Russian remains to this day (quite) bad. I will, however, be working on my language skills.

Let’s get to the actual story, which commenced more than a year ago, back in Georgia where the infamous WTF gang decided to start a major campaign towards Russian territory with the main objective being the magnificent Baikal Lake deep within Siberia. What exactly happened to the fighting spirit of our group I still don’t fathom, but it must be noted that more and more members turned their back on their fellow travellers and chose the routine, the every-day working life and thus backstabbing us. Much that once was, is lost. The initial group diminished in size and morale, and eventually ended up in splintering groups of which one was representative for the whole group on Woodstock and the other in Transylvania – the latter being the heart and soul of the whole movement, including the important elements of hitchhiking, musical skills, random mountain-spotting-and-climbing attitude and minor alcoholism. Sure, some minor deviations have occurred and the changes in character in everyone cannot be unseen.

Good, now that I’m finally done with the 4th introduction, I can start with the telling of  the chronological course of events; additionally, I will try to figure out some minor overlapping elements with Georgian mentality and experience that will be analysed in further detail in this article:
Gabi (Ltu) and Paula (Pol) first met somewhere in Romanian mainland after dealing with Wizzair’s incompetence and sudden cancelling of flights, then continued towards Brasov where Sepp and I would join them (actually the name of the city Brasov is written with some kind of nipple, that transforms its pronunciation into something similar [Brashov]. Actually, Romanian happens to be of an extremely interesting structure and history so that one can find elements of all neighbouring regions in it, with the basic structure founding on Latin). And that’s exactly what we did. Luckily, a lot faster than expected as a friendly Romanian guy agreed on taking us all the way from Dresden to Brasov (1400km!!!). Before meeting us he had already driven through most of Germany and had enjoyed something close to 2 hours of sleep. He insisted on driving all by himself. On the way, we had 2 breaks of 4 hours in total which he used to rest. Furthermore, he had some food provisions that consisted of the cheapest bread and meat you can buy in Lidl, which he gladly shared with us. Funnily enough, he laughed at us for falling asleep from time to time. Once we got to Romania, he unloaded his car in his employer’s father’s home where we got some strong homemade wine – a fine welcome into a new culture.

Brasov. Like most cities from former Siebenbürgen it was built by Germans, which also explains its German name of Kronstadt. Beautiful architecture, countless translations into German (however, not necessarily into English), teenage street musicians jamming in the park for their pleasure and two exhausted Gopnik-like travellers finally welcoming their female equivalents in the newly-discovered city – reintroducing Gabi(-ja-chacha-yan) and Paula, the Mysterious Dragonmaster (Վիշապագետ), to the scene. An entire book’s content could hardly suffice to fully portray their personalities, so that I will content myself with the introduction by adding a group picture:

From Brasov, where we explored the huge touristic Hollywood-like sign (also lacking this strange kind of nipple), we continued southwards in the typical style that we had to gradually adapt while in Caucasus: missing the last bus, so that one’s forced to accept a local’s private car that’s easily transformed into an unofficial taxi, thus avoiding taxes and paying less that one would have by taking a bus/marshutka. We eventually escalated a long and winding path leading to the “7-ladder-canyon”/Sapte Scari, where we stayed with the park ranger and her family. Thanks for our predilection for wine, we were able to offer some to the ranger who courteously turned it down, notwithstanding genuine Romanian hospitality by offering us intel on the region (including its bear family that inhabits the mountain range and the lonely fox) grilled potatoes and bread.

Best facial expressions…they’re simply INFINITY

The successive day gave way to heavy rainfall just past afternoon. Before that, our small group was able to skip the payment for the entry to the Ladders, climb through the creek, escape the canyon’s cold, jurassic soul by sliding down a steel rope and playing frisbee for some hours on the shining green meadow just downhill. If we hadn’t taken the bus, we would probably have drowned on the way to Sinaia. Also, we would never had heard the tourist’s information guide, telling us about the dangers of climbing Omul: 2-5m visibility if we’re lucky, 2300 bears in the region, temperatures far below 0° on the summit, at least 27 hours of walk in order to get to Bran on the other side of the national park. Enough to scare us off, aye? Putting our lives at risk for the sake of a view that would be denied – something absolutely ridiculous. For a group like ours, that hasn’t even any material to protect us against heavy rain, neither having adequate shoes for anything that exceeds a stroll on the beach (please note that the shoes that Sepp’s wearing on the picture were the best he had; the same shoes carried him over many summits in the course of the following days while granting him knee ache at the end of our trip), information like this should scare us off like a flock of sheep that sees the shadow of something that barely resembles a wolf.
Here’s a collection of pictures that shows us being reasonable and avoiding such an endeavour:

We didn’t sleep in a tent, but in a mountain rescue hut… mostly because they told us that it’s prohibited to pitch our tent on the premises of the National Park of Bucegi. The possibility of getting caught in a half-frozen state and still having to pay 3-6000Lei was an argument convincing enough to make us pay the reasonable prices of 40Lei per night per person and stay in a (bloody, exceedingly) warm quarter. We were offered some mountain cheese.

MEMES! Why are there only so few memes…?!

Well, what is Romania famous for? Exactly! for its magical garlic that has the power of prevailing against the devilish powers of their national demonic spawn. A mythical construct created by mingling Bram Stoker’s creative spirit, the desolate nature of Romania about 200 years ago and one of Romania’s most infamous personality, the Voivode Vlad III. Draculae or Vlad the Impaler. Time for some historical background! While being a hostage of the Ottoman Empire he soon learned the art of war, only to return to his home country where he claimed the Romanian throne and restored the order in a most brutal way (inviting all gypsies, homeless people and mentally and physically disabled to a feast, then locking them in and burning them alive; all oppositions from the nobility was liquidated in a similar way). When the Ottomans felt menaced by this sheer exhibition of power, they invaded the country. Vlad expected a raid and used the tactic of the Burned Soil After a gruelling, unsuccessful summer campaign of heavy losses against an enemy that used an unsupportable guerrilla technique, they were confronted with a literal forest of spiked corpses. Every single captured Ottoman soldier was put on a thin stick, which made its way through the POW’s guts. Needless to say, the process of dying was performed under an unimaginable amount of pain. Upon seeing this demonstration of pure inhumanity, the morale of the army reached its breaking point and they returned home. Vlad’s brother, however, led another expeditionary force and succeeded in laying siege to Vlad’s fortress: Bran castle (visible in the background).

It costs 35Lei to get to the other side of this fence… Bloody vampires! We should put them on some sticks!

I’d like to put your mind at ease: despite our general lack of garlic we were not visited by a nightly visitor with long and spiky canines. Yet, the only vampires in Romania are working in Bran. Those parasites asked a 35Lei fee – only to be allowed onto the premises of the castle garden! Bloody vampires! So we drank coffee instead and then searched a camping spot. Due to Paula’s great knowledge of the Romanian language, we were able to convince a local worker with a scythe to lead us to an ideal spot, where we enjoyed a refreshing night with another small bottle of wine (Georgia and Romania share a common enthusiasm for big quantities of wine; we purchased a 2nd glass bottle of 1.5l of very acceptable red wine) and grilled food.

Bran –> Sibiu (Hermannstadt). Many thanks to the two cars that helped us: a Canadian-Romanian couple who have a sort of weekend house in Bran, while actually living in Abu Dhabi; a former truck driver, residing in England, who had an excellent taste in music, whose driving skills reminded me of the typical Georgian driver.

After some tasty, nice, slightly salty Balls (Bulz, some traditional food with polenta) and a good night’s sleep we continued towards another peak, namely Cindrel. A lonely Canadian guy gave us a lift, after enjoying a local beer with me. The process of backpacking towards the top was rather spontaneous and quite exhausting. The beer earlier certainly didn’t help. And the weight of the additional wine bottle and cognac were of equal usefulness. We still managed to reach our camping spot, close to another ranger’s hut. Thanks to Sepp’s amazing singing talent no bear dared approach us… it is, however, likely that he was responsible for the Monsoon-like precipitation the upcoming morning. The high-pitched wind and its never-ceasing, cold company didn’t leave us for about 2 hours, until we finally made it to Cindrel’s top (2245m above sea level). It wasn’t until this moment, when the clouds finally lifted and gave way to a superb view on the landscape at our feet that the cognac tasted well. But the few drops that found its way down our throats onto an almost empty stomach as a reward for the arduous hike and tasted like the most exquisite beverage. The drink reminded me of the – usually very mediocre beer – Kaiser that I received after a similarly arduous bicycle tour to Udabno, Kvemo-Kartli, Georgia.

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After the highly exhausting, close to 50° inclined descent we arrived on a road. Sadly, we didn’t have cookies… (Thanks, OBAMA) so, instead of writing anything reasonable onto our fellow cardboard sign, Paula figured it being wiser to write “Mag/Shop”. By pure luck, some people actually did stop!
Our last stop as a group in Alba Iulia (also known as Karlsburg, but build around a fortress that was highly inspired by the French architect Vauban) was met with beautiful Langos, a few local beers and a freestyle on the grass dance floor within the outer fortress walls.

The next day, the WTF devotees parted ways – but not for the last time! For our trips are INFINITY! Distances are but a small barrier between us. The only thing that we’ll be missing might be watermelons (“Winter is coming”). Luckily, the next summer will come soon and there will be plenty of Cucurbitaceae and we need not worry. The fellowship will live on. See you, dear readers, next time. Til’ then, let us drink за будущее!

 

Here’s a short summary of my itinerary:
Berlin->Dresden->Brasov->Sapte Scari->Sinaia->Omul->Bran->Sibiu->Cindrel->Alba Iulia->Cluj-Napoca->Berlin

 

And some more knowledge that I’ve gathered in Romania:

• it’s acceptable to be racist against Gypsies, because nobody will disagree (at least we haven’t met anyone)
• Russian is useless; I didn’t use it even once
• the country is huge, far more enormous than we had expected… so, always a reason to go back
• everything is German: city names, explanations for tourists, tourists, the entire architecture of many cities

(PS.: I wonder if it makes any difference if you write 0° or -0°C…)

The rush for Khash, an Armenian adventure

The way I prepared the introduction to my blog, started our trip to Mount Aragats in Armenia: mostly without preparations. At least not from my part. Our group, consisting of 7 people (4 of them volunteers from Rustavi, the last 3 volunteers from Yerevan) agreed on climbing Aragats together on a good occasion. It might not have been the best and two people from Yerevan cancelled the very day we intended on climbing it. Before climbing a mountain of that altitude you should be in a good condition in order to avoid altitude sickness. Most probably, many of us weren’t.
Perhaps I could have contributed a lot more than I did. A few days before we planned our escape from the cities, I wasn’t certain if I could actually join them. There were things that could have hardly been postponed. Not to forget, the three days before somehow ended up with some serious drinking – at this point I would like to thank my new neighbor and his excellent wine, the welcoming staff from ISCR and local friends and their special taste in alcohol – which cannot be considered good preparations for such a trip in high altitudes. My contribution to the trip can be reduced to my mere presence. And the tent that I was carrying.

What can be said about Aragats?
The mountain was an active volcano in the Pleistocene and represents the highest peak of Armenia with an altitude of 4,090m above sea level. This can be attributed to the North peak, whereas the southern one has an altitude of about 3,900m. A couple of hundreds meters below can be found a couple of buildings, including a restaurant and hotel, a sort of scientific research center (from soviet times) which is still occupied by a couple of Armenian scientists and the Kari Lake. The underground is hollowed by a network of tunnels, covering a notable distance. At that height, vegetation is already reduced to grass. However, you can find a find a wide array of rocks, stones and rubbish close to the lake. Depending on the season, many different climate zones can be experienced: from sub desert temperatures and sun exposure in summer to intensive rain and blizzards in early autumn. Fog is also quite common.

As always, our travel started in Rustavi, from where Gabija – the Lithuanian volunteer – and I took a marshutka to Tbilisi (the capital, for those who don’t know it), a nice spot if you’d like to hitchhike. In virtually no time we were taken to Armenia, then to a crossroad right next to the range of mountains of Aragats. Quite similar to Georgia, we were offered food and hospitality. Yet, there is a strange particularity once you enter an Armenian car: one of the first question they will ask you is about your current relation status. Especially as female traveler there is a high likelihood that they will hit on you.
Once we reached the mountain, we got a first impression of the weather conditions: rainy, stormy, cold, no sign of improvement in sight. The next car took us up to Kari Lake along with its 3 passengers, who traveled from Yerevan to the lake for this one Armenian specialty called Khash, which was described to us as boiled lamb head. And indeed, there is a huge hype around it. Groups in large numbers risk the dangerous road that’s serpentining it way to the top. 2 cars would have trouble driving next to each other. As if it wasn’t hazardous enough, Khash is served with 3 shots of vodka and people take a traditional bath in the icy waters of Kari Lake. And already on the way to the peak, our driver and his friends were drinking beer and smoking a lot. I was offered a beer too (tasted quite similar to Sarajevsko).
Some information about altitude sickness would have been useful before drinking:

Altitude Sickness – What It Is, Symptoms, Treatment and Medication

It recommends you to avoid alcohol and stay hydrated… what can I say? It was a good beer and ‘one does not simply turn Caucasian hospitality down‘.

Since we had an excellent timing, we arrived at the lake in no time, where we spent about four hours waiting for the others to join us (only one of the three from Yerevan actually arrived) and discovering our surroundings, succeeded by a night in a warm sleeping bag, in a stinky tent, in an abandoned building. That was our acclimatization in high altitudes. A special mention must go to our communist buffet: one pot with noodles, spiced with Ukrainian ketchup (cheap, bad-tasting Ukrainian ketchup) and everyone gets one fork. ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need‘ (©Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels)

The next day, the journey began at 5:30 in the mourning…sorry, morning; stopped several times as the air was getting thinner and our orientation worse and finally had its absolute high on the icy peak. The weather was so dreadful that we decided to have a picnic there. The freezing of our hands (covered by the warm embrace of our socks) reminded us at one point that the time for safe return had arrived.
We descended the mountain again, packed our stuff, hitchhiked a local group travel group who had some Khash in the Restaurant and got back to Rustavi.

I should mention that the entire journey could have costed us no money at all: We wouldn’t have needed any food (we were offered a lot of it while hitchhiking, so need for that), the travel itself was free (hitchhiking) and you don’t need a visa to go to Armenia.

On ‘The excessively hospitable state of mind of Georgian people’

‘Do harm to no-one; but rather help all people, as far as lies in your power‘ said by Arthur Schopenhauer in ‘On the Basis of Morality‘ and could actually be considered as a leading principle of Georgian culture and hospitality.

The rather small country in the Caucasian (compared with the enormity of its neighbour, notably Russia) is populated by +/-4 million people, of which one third lives in the capital. The largest majority of Georgian’s population practices Orthodox Christianity faithfully and locals are proud of being one of the very first nations of having adopted Christianity as state religion. Famous mostly for their historic significance as guards of the Golden Fleece, Georgia’s region of Colchis (presumably from Kartvelian) appears in one of the most famous European stories written by Homer. Georgia is furthermore also known for its downfall after the Soviet era and its political crisis that accompanied the nation for most of the 90s. However, the small Caucasian country is truly outstanding for its geographic position, which enabled it to have a strong economy during the times of the silk road, largely due to its location. And despite the small surface of Georgia, great varieties in topographies can be found within its borders, mostly influenced by the Caucasian mountains and the Black Sea. Not only does this affect local culture and dialects, but offers an interesting insight for foreigners.

Linked are all of those different ethnicities by their welcoming hospitality that will surprise all outsider and often put them into a situation of discomfort. Without any bad ulterior motive, locals will invite strangers (and also their friends and family members) to their best wine and food without hesitation. For members of the Western civilization, these traditions are extremely opposite to their every-day life. Apprentices to this culture will surely propose some money or other goods instead, which will be refused by the host; perhaps he might even feel insulted.

Here are some examples that I had the pleasure to experience on first hand during a trip with a couple of friends through Georgia and my stay in the smaller city of Rustavi (a population of about 120,000 people):
•    In Rustavi: As I invited a local friend on a beer (which would have resulted in a cosy binge drinking), he suggested moving to his home and buy beer from a store for economic reasons. Once arrived in his garden, his father promptly welcomed me and offered me some of his home brewed wine instead. Surprised by an intense cloudburst, we fled into their hours where I was given their best wine produced by a monastery which is situated high up in the mountains. Not only was it an excellent beverage, but the father saved this precious gift for more than 5 years. One can only too well understand, what I’ve been through as I couldn’t figure out how a stranger can offer such a precious thing to another one, although I’m befriended to one of his sons. Even if I realized that friendship and peace are far more valuable than this wine (which the father told me repeatedly during his toasts),  a certain uneasiness engulfed me at that moment. Taking into account that it was my first real experience with local traditions, I was glad when I could leave their home after having kindly refused further drinking in a local pub. My friend then walked me home, explaining that nobody expects any money back.
•    On the road: Hitch-hiking in Georgia is one of the fastest and most marvelous ways of traveling around. Usually one does not wait longer than 10 minutes (sometimes it only takes a couple of seconds) until a friendly drivers accepts you in his car, where you experience the down side of Georgia: The roads and the terrible chaos on the streets are just a routine and are probably based on some kind of Darwinistic principle. If you’re not fit enough for it, you will eventually face some heart attack.
•    While driving: Drivers try to put their passenger at ease by offering them fruits, local food, bread, water or any kind of nutriments. They might even invite you to a restaurant and refuse anything in return. Even when their passengers reject eating (be it because of the limited capacity of their bellies or because their simply do not wish to eat), this will certainly not put an end to the driver’s friendliness. Those few drivers who do not offer any food might just offer you a place to stay for the night.
•    Being hosted by locals: It doesn’t matter if you’re complete strangers to them; not only will they offer a safe place to stay for the night, but you’ll be given typical food and wine and chacha (latter may sound attractive, but one cannot know if it’s actually safe for consumption. Traditionally people will serve it from plastic bottles. Generally there is no problem concerning methanol. The chance of turning blind is extremely little). Guests will not be granted any renunciation from further feasting.

Hospitality in Georgia is a common good and will be offered to practically anybody who enjoys the privilege of visiting the picturesque landscapes of Saqartvelo (name of Georgia in the local tongue).
The precious state of mind of Georgian people is far more valuable than material estates, without limit to foreigners and can therefore be described as a  trans-boundary gift. In it’s greatness it is unique, however, sometimes locals appear to be excessively hospital, which might startle outsiders to these traditions. Nevertheless, the generosity is unconditional; people don’t work for their personal agenda and don’t expect anything in return. In case that the former host needs a hand, the former guest will traditionally give a service back.
It is not without reason that the ancient Georgian proverb says ‘Every guest is God-sent‘. Even if there are icons or crosses hanging somewhere in every drivers car, and Christian doctrines and helpfulness can be considered related, there is no real connection between both. Georgians are naturally hospitable, a state of mind formed by traditions.