Breathing in the air of Glasnost and other stories from within the Ural mountain range

The time after exams was marked with a concluding travel in the northern regions of Russia. Our wanderlust had long been waiting for the escape from university and academic responsibilities, as neither me nor Ludwig had had any break in studying for the last 8 or 9 months (not including shorter holidays like Christmas or the madness around 9th may). Despite the failure of our initial plans of renting a car and comfortably cruising through Ural mountains with the eager desire to visit outstanding Russian cities like Asbest or Nizhny Tagil, we embarked on a journey that would have us wonder at the other, brighter sides of Russia that I myself had only experienced to a minimal amount. If you are by now wondering why you have never heard head of these cities, don’t trouble your mind for it was the purest coincidence that let us to Nizhny Tagil – it was but a meme that I found on the Internet before coming to Russia.

Russia is that big of a country, that when it’s 10am in Moscow, everything is still 1994 in Nizhny Tagil.

Right after the disgraceful ending of our academic semester in Kazan, we met up with the other exchange students for a beer, then took the night train to Ekaterinburg where we had the great privilege of staying at a Russian friend’s place for our time there. Ekaterinburg… the city where we initially wanted to do our exchange; the city that surprised us as soon as we arrived; the city that had held us in awe as long as were there; a city full of pleasant surprises. In fact, the place often felt somewhat related to a Western city, as it offered a rather free choice to the inhabitant when it comes to overcoming usual social restrictions that were always sensible in Kazan.
It, furthermore, is considered the Ural capitol of Rock music. After long strolls through EKB we stumbled upon a park surrounding a pedestrian lane around a embedded rivulet. From there a small tunnel underneath a main road in the centre led to a greater basin of that same rivulet. The tunnel was insofar remarkable and astonishing as it was the so-called “Виктор Цой Туннель” (Viktor Tsoi Tunnel): all of the walls were covered in paintings and graffitis of the deceased, but still illustrious singer/song-writer that carries the nickname “the Last Soviet Hero”. In the middle of it always stands an Asian-looking singer (Asian, but not Indian… it was rather the East-Asian looking type), replaying greatest Tsoi hits, while exploiting his own appearance to earn large amounts of money.

Besides many other memorable places one building in particular struck us as unbelievable: right there, in the middle of a Russian city, stood a perfect example of an Armenian church in red bricks. A Barevzez to the priest paved the way for a guided tour through the church and over the premises. After a few explanations our surprise and disbelief vanished as effectively as Vampires when they see sunshine for the first time; the amount of Armenians living on Russian ground is significantly higher than the population of the originating country itself. After providing us with knowledge he recommended us to visit an Armenian restaurant in town – after the painful acclimatisation that was the almost tasteless and meat-heavy Russian kitchen,  every bite of indubitably authentic Armenian cuisine made my taste buds shiver from excitement.

Before you continue, you should look up some pictures of Nizhny Tagil (Нижний Тагил) and let the view have a first impression on you. This is what we did. And everyone with whom we talk to about our idea of seeing this lovely Soviet industrial horror was in turn looking at us with a face of a Teletubby. And, indeed, arriving in the city and seeing it with our own eyes confirmed all of our wildest imaginations. That is: Thick clouds of smokes escaping the many factories intestines, all indicating a different intensity of danger to the health; Soviet buildings all over the place; stray dogs roaming the roads; and drunk men squatting in the parks.
All in all a promising start!
Not even ten minutes after our arrival, a few drunkards saw us two strangers walking around with photo material and immediately insisted on posing for a portrait of them, that we immediately printed out for them (one exemplary I used as a postcard and it should already circulate somewhere in Europe).

Sitting in a Vienna-styled café and Pirogi restaurant, we checked the Internet for places to stay and eventually decided to book an Airbnb for little money close to the central city. However, there appeared to have been a misunderstanding between the unfortunate owner of the apartment and a money-grubbing office behind, that were not even aware, that the place was for rent online (one phone call had already cleared our path, whereas the following one undermined the slightest possibility of the existence of that same place). As the payment had already been completed, we insisted on moving into the flat for the time our stay, and eventually ended up sitting in the office with the employees waiting for their unpleasant boss to show up. About four hours, a couple of teas and the additional payment of another 1000roubles caused the temporary evacuation of the mistreated owner and her two children. Right after sundown he headed out again to further explore the city, despite the unlucky star it seamed to stand under. While moving around aimlessly, Ludwig and I stopped in a wonderful backyard to take in all of the architectural details and the invigorating harmony of buildings and nature. A car stopped. The driver and his wife noticed me and Ludwig taking pictures. A few words were exchanged. More inhabitants appeared out of thin air and joined us. And before long we found ourselves in a car on its way to a bar that is being provided with local beer – beer brewed by a Mexican guy who studied the magic of brewery in Berlin! A beer that was truly excellent in taste and design of the bottles. I can only heartily recommend any friend of the hop brew to pilgrimage to Nizhny Tagil and support the local brewing art!

A great beer! Really! Trust me! Mexicans can create amazing beer – legally!

Random people desperately trying to understand what we were doing in their city

The initial idea of our trip to Nizhny Tagil was, however, a completely different one: we wanted pictures, pictures of industry! Of the raw, polluting power of the purest of all Russian factories. In fact, we wanted to capture the whole scale of monstrosities that is the patriotic Russian tank industry (Tagil is fond over its tanks. The local souvenir industry is making a large split between showing the beauty of Tagil and, on the other hand, showing the full potential of its factory output).
Little did we know that on the next day the city was engulfed with genuine patriotic sentiments over a marine battle that was won by Imperial Russia over a 100 years ago. As the only logical result, by midday all the men in the city had already consumed a dangerous amount of alcoholic beverages and strayed around the city, waving flags of the Флот (fleet). This, of course, meant some beautiful motives for Ludwig. After turning down a few invitations to vodka we made our ascend to Лисья Гора [Lisya Gora] from where me made some incredible shots of the dimly lighted, terrifyingly polluting factories that would make every climate activist go on a rampage.

The strange beauty of pollution at night time

After shivering for easily 3 hours in the cold wind that had been continuously harassing our position, we decided to pack our stuff and leave, though without being perfectly satisfied. As the night started descending upon us, the flame ceased a little, and the steam escaping the factory on a regular basis served as the main motive. The minute our stuff was packed away, the flame rose up to an height, yet unknown to us while another white cloud was spit out of the deepest intestines of the urban nightmare. The mixture created the effect of what looked like an enormous explosion over the factories.
Unfortunately, we didn’t manage to capture it. It was stunning. Simply breathtaking. The hours of exhausting waiting for the perfect moment would have been absolutely worth it, but our patience had left us five minutes too early.

On the following days, we said goodbye to EKB by drinking beers and hearing about locals expressing their concerns towards either immigration to Europe or homosexuals in general… big country, same absurd fear everywhere. They, however, provided us with an unexpected gift that had us rejoicing for many hours and carried us through the city on eagle’s wings. The reputation of the city, i.e. rock capitol of the Ural, loudly resounded through the evening streets. With the coda harmoniously ebbing away, we split from our friends in EKB and prepared for the trip back the next day.
At the train station, an unexpected sight caught our sight. A souvenir that is a fine addition to my collection of small presents from Russia.

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For more pictures, access Ludwig Schubert Photo’s Instagram Profile: https://500px.com/ludwig94
or: https://500px.com/ludwig94

Ein Angebot, das wir nicht ablehnen konnten: Wodka mit der lokalen Mafia

Nachdem wir in diesem absurden Russland angekommen sind und die erste Woche ohne Frostbeulen oder Erfrierungen überstanden haben, haben wir erste Kontakte mit der lokalen Mafia geschlossen. Ja.

Ein Spaziergang durch unbekannte Orte führt oft dazu, dass man seinen eignen Horizont permanent dehnt. Obwohl man sich an einem solchen Ort zur gleichen Zeit unsicher und angreifbar fühlt, da einem die möglichen Gefahren noch unbekannt sind, so sind sie gleichermaßen komisch attraktiv, weil sie Geheimnisse besitzen, die jenen vorbehalten sind, die sich aus ihrer „Komfortzone“ herauswagen. Könnte man sich vorstellen, eine unbedeutende und altmodisch aussehende Bar zu seinen Favoriten zu zählen oder neue und interessante Leute im routinierten Alltagsleben auf der Straße anzuquatschen? Kaum, denn es besteht ja an sich kein Grund dazu. Allerdings führt das zu einem Austrocknen der Inputs zum Gehirn, was wiederum in einem allmählichen Desinteresse an der Welt und an ihren zahllosen versteckten Wundern resultiert.

Nehmen wir dieses (zufällige) Wirtshaus zum Beispiel! 

Bar NEO sucht nach Trinity

Eine ganz klassische Bar für Einheimische in einem der Randbezirke Kazans. Von Außen begrüßt sie kaum Passanten. In ihrem 90s/post-Sowjet Stil hat sie eine Zahl an Alkoholikern aufgenommen und geschaffen, die vermutlich vergleichbar ist mit der Anzahl an Geburten in diesem Bezirk innerhalb der letzten 30 Jahre. Obwohl das Äußere etwas anderes vermuten lässt, so soll der Wert von diesem besonderen Ort zu keinem Zeitpunkt unterschätzt werden. Die plötzliche Einführung eines fremden Elementes kann sehr unterschiedliche Reaktionen bewirken: Eine davon könnte die spontane Entscheidung sein, den Fremden die persönliche Perspektive auf die Heimat zu zeigen.

Da Ludwig und ich uns bereits aus unser Komfortzone herausbewegt haben und uns mit neuen Lebensbedingungen auseinandergesetzt haben, versuchen wir zudem immerzu, unseren eigenen Horizont zu verschieben – viele Projekte wurden schon ansatzweise angeschnitten, Reisen geplant, Zusammenarbeiten mit neuen Freunden und ortsansässigen „Partnern“ ausgedacht. Um uns besser mit unserer Gegend vertraut zu machen, haben wir beschlossen, uns zusammen mit der italienischen Studentin die schicksalsträchtige Bar NEO anzuschauen (aus Anonymitätsgründen werden wir sie von nun an Maria nennen). Warum ausgerechnet NEO? Zum einen deshalb, weil die Bedeutung des Wortes auf etwas Neues hindeutet, auf den Anfang einer wahrhaft russischen Erfahrung, die mancherlei Stereotype erfüllt hat. Auf der anderen Seite könnte man eine Referenz auf den Filmcharakter Neo aus Matrix vermuten; er hat sich aus einer angenehmen Illusion verabschiedet, um, nach einer Phase des Schocks und Terrors, die Realität zu akzeptieren und letztlich seinen Platz darin einzunehmen (die Schwellenphase, oder auch Liminalität, hat ihn die Wahrheit erkennen lassen). Nachdem wir eine halbe Flasche Wodka im Wohnheim geleert hatten, haben wir uns sogleich eine weitere in der Bar bestellt. Die zunächst argwöhnischen Blicke haben sich in wohlwollende verwandelt, sobald wir angefangen haben auf Russisch zu reden.

So sah die Bar von innen aus: Die Dekoration war überaus überschaubar. An den Wänden hingen einige klassische russische Gemälde, leider in schlechter gedruckt in schlechter Qualität. Die Preise waren vergleichbar mit jenen im Supermarkt (i.e. ungefähr 400 Rubel für ½ l von einem guten Wodka). Die angebotenen Waren waren ganz klassisch: die üblichen Alkohol und Schnäpse, billige Biere, Snacks und plastifizierter, getrockneter Fisch. Alle Gäste (bis auf die eine Frau Natascha im mittleren Alter ausnahmslos Männer) haben Karten um Geld gespielt, bis auf den guten Evgenij, der alleine vor sich hin gedöst hat, weiterhin gab es noch ein dubioses Hinterzimmer, mit regem Begängnis, bis dahin sind wir ‘leider’ nich nicht vorgedrungen.

Wir haben uns sofort gut verstanden. Ich wurde „Puschkin“ genannt, wir haben gemeinsam Karten gespielt und dabei genüsslich Wodka getrunken, Bier, und später noch billigen Cognac (sehr schlechte Idee) . Nach ein paar Drinks wurden wir ungehaltener und schnell hat sich herausgestellt, dass wir mit Mitgliedern der lokalen Mafia tranken. Die prominenteste Person unter ihnen war natürlich die gastfreundliche Natascha. Die Gasfreundschaftlichkeit stammte aber auch daher, dass sie für keinen der Drinks Geld ausgeben musste und in ihrer Macht, Leute herumzukommandieren, ungebremst war. Aber was anderes hätte man erwartet von der Frau, dessen Vater zufällig „Besitzer der Krim ist“. Urlaub in der Ukraine garantiert! (Gott, für diesen Kommentar werde ich sicherlich gelyncht…). Nachdem wir herausgefunden haben, dass Natascha bereits mit ihrem 5. Kind schwanger war, haben wir ihr vorgeschlagen vielleicht ganz mit dem Rauchen aufzuhören, als nur auf Marlboro Light zu wechseln. Andererseits wäre das nur ein Tropfen auf den heißen Stein gewesen… immerhin hat sie den ganzen Abend lang Kaffee getrunken und sich mit Hochprozentigem tüchtig die Kante gegeben (auch Drogen waren ihrerseits im Spiel, wir schafften es irgendwie dankend abzulehnen). Irgendwann werden meine Erinnerungen undurchsichtig… aber mit vereinten mentalen Kräften, haben wir es dann geschafft ein einigermaßen klares Licht auf die dunklen Stellen zu scheinen: Die ganze Nacht lang sind wir in einem Taxi durch die verschlafene Stadt gefahren, immerzu auf der Suche nach dem schönsten Blumenstrauß Kazans, um damit das Grab von Nataschas Mutter zu schmücken. Ein normaler Montag Abend also. Hin und wieder haben wir irgendwo ein Päuschen eingelegt, um uns mit Drinks und Essen zu versorgen (möglicherweise auch ein Mal in einem georgischen Restaurant, aber daran kann sich niemand genau erinnern, jedenfalls wurden wir jedes mal eingeladen, Riesen-Buffet, fast nichts angerührt, um dann im nächsten Restaurant/Drecksloch wieder eine Großbestellung aufzugeben).

Bild entspricht nicht dem tatsächlichen Grab

Mein Gedächtnis ist erst bei Sonnenaufgang komplett zurückgekehrt. Als die ersten Lichtstrahlen das Dunkel der Nacht vertrieben, haben wir uns dazu entscheiden Natascha mitsamt ihres Mafiabusiness alleine zu lassen und zum Wohnheim zurückzukehren. Die Wächter haben sich sicherlich sehr gefreut meinen und Ludwigs Namen aufzuschreiben (erste von 3 Verwarnungen) als wir zurück gekrochen kamen – ich bin davon überzeugt, dass man den gütigen Herren und Damen der Nachtwache überhaupt erstmals einen Sinn im Leben gibt, wenn man versucht in einem solchen Zustand durch das bewachte Tor zu treten. Natürlich haben sie es nicht als nötig empfunden, auch noch Marias Namen aufzuschreiben. Als wir dann aufgewacht sind, haben wir sofort damit angefangen, die einzelnen Gedächtnisfetzen aneinanderzureihen.

Mit den neugewonnenen Kontakten und dem Wissen, dass ein wahrhaft russisches Abenteuer zu jedem Zeitpunkt losbrechen kann, garantieren wir unserer teurer Leserschaft, dass die Qualität des Blogs weiterhin ansteigen wird.

Mehr Artikel folgen sehr bald!

Erste Eindrücke vom Studentenwohnheim: Das offene und freie Leben hat ein unerwartetes Ende genommen

Ein weiteres Kapitel unseres neuen Lebens in Russland wurde damit eröffnet, als uns der vollkommene Überwachungsstaat deutlich vor Augen gezeigt wurde. Das Schlimmste daran ist allerdings, dass wir inmitten dieses Wahnsinns leben müssen: Ausgerechnet dem Studentenwohnheim. Leute aus frei-denkenden Ländern geben freiwillig ihre Freiheit auf, sobald sie sich für eine Wohnung im Wohnheim entscheiden. Nachdem man zahllose Unterschriften verteilt, frustrierende bürokratische Hürden überwunden hat, stundenlang durch eiskalte (-20°) und verschneite Straßen gezogen ist auf der Suche nach dem nächsten „wichtigen“ Stempel, nur um sich dem freiwilligen Verzicht persönlicher Freiheiten Stück für Stück anzunähern.

Ein hoher Zaun, der von allen Seiten von Kameras abgedeckt wird, stellt das erste Hindernis dar. Die einzigen zwei Öffnungen in diesem Zaun werden ständig von Wachmännern überwacht, die jeden Eindringling abfangen. Dabei wird jeder gleichermaßen behandelt: Studenten aus anderen Wohnheimen oder Unis, Freunde, Familie, Terroristen, Proleten oder Angehörige des Adels – eine perfekte klassenlose Gesellschaft. All jene, die sich dafür entschieden haben, sich demütigen zu lassen durch Millionen Schritte von endloser Stempelsuche werden damit entlohnt, dass sie ihre Freiheiten abgeben müssen, die ihnen früher so wertvoll vorkamen. Nach 22:00 ist der Zugang zu den Häusern verboten. Studenten Häusern (insgesamt werden es etwa 30 sein) dürfen die anderen Häuser nie betreten. Ein wahrhafter Austausch mit Leuten aus anderen Ländern und unterschiedlicher Herkunft ist schwierig, mit Russen aus dem Wohnheim größtenteils ausgeschlossen. Und aus Erfahrung weiß ich, dass die Kommunikation mit Mitgliedern der Chinesischen Volksarmee immer problematisch ist, da deren Fremdsprachenkenntnisse immer auf eine Minimum begrenzt sind. Dazu kommt noch ein ineffizienter Akzent.

Alkohol, Zigaretten, sowie andere Rauschmittel, sind strengstens verboten auf dem Campus. Obwohl wir beide ziemlich sicher sind, dass auch diese Substanzen hier zirkulieren. Nicht mal das restriktivste und militaristischste System der Welt kann die totale Kontrolle darüber bekommen. Ganz gleich wie oft sie es als „böse Chemikalien“ etikettieren. Darüber hinaus wird es wahrscheinlich unmöglich sein, den Wodka aus irgendeinem Ort Russlands zu verbannen.

Die Räume betreffend: Der totalitäre Überwachungsstaat geht so weit, dass eine verantwortliche Person/Kapo auf jeder Etage abkommandiert wird, der seine Mitstudierenden ausspionieren muss. An zufälligen Zeiten können diese Leute in die Zimmer auf ihrer Etage eindringen und diese auf Missachtung der Hygiene- und Sauberkeitspflichten zu überprüfen, sowie auf das mögliche Vorhandensein von Rauschmitteln. Sollten diese zu oft aufgefunden werden, besteht die Möglichkeit, dass man vom Gelände verbannt wird.

Our beautiful Gulag

Vom ersten Eindruck her wirkt unser Zimmergenosse aus Liverpool komplett inkompetent. Aus Anonymitätsgründen nennen wir ihn für‘s Erste Mike. Mike interessiert sich im Leben nur für genau zwei Sachen: Russische Frauen(körper) und seinen eigenen Körper den er tagtäglich mit jedem synthetischen Substrat füttern, in der Hoffnung, irgendwann nicht mehr ganz so schmächtig zu sein. Und obwohl er sich jeden Tag einen solchen chemischen Cocktail hinter die Birne kippt, schafft er es nicht, seine vollen Müllsäcke runter zu bringen. Ein klarer Fall von Missmanagement! Da sein protein-durchweichtes Gehirn nicht mehr auf simple Nachfragen anspringt, müssen wir ihm seinen Aufgabenbereich in die Birne prügeln – mit manipulativen Zwängen kann man bessere Ergebnisse erzielen als mit roher Gewalt.

Andererseits erweist sich das Zusammenleben mit Ludwig in keinster Weise problematisch. Wir haben einen ähnlichen Geschmack wenn es um Musik oder Alkohol geht, der unglücklicherweise verboten ist (auf keinen Fall würden wir allerdings gegen die Regeln verstoßen und illegales Schmuggelgut in das Wohnheim einführen). Auch müssen wir uns mit den gleichen bürokratischen Problemen beschäftigen. Ich bin mir ziemlich sicher, dass unser Zusammen- leben und Arbeiten friedlich verlaufen wird… auch wenn unsere neuen Handtücher ein anderes Bild vermitteln.

Seid allzeit bereit für neuen Input von meiner Seite! Denn mehr Artikel werden folgen!

Natürlich mit armenischem Kognak

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…)

A first step towards freedom (including turtles)

A short moment of inattentiveness. You suddenly realise you’ve been talking to the girl who’s been sitting on your right for the last hour, but didn’t hear what she just said. You quickly turn your head around. She’s not the only one in this bright, comfortable dining room. Apart from the huge amounts of food and different wines that cover the large table, there are quite many people who joined you this evening. Some of the people you’ve already met on previous occasions, some of them complete strangers to you. Laughter and conversations penetrate your ears, you can make out stories about travels, experiences and simple declarations of friendship. The influence of the wine can already be heard. Then you feel the cold of the glass in your right hand, as you notice that the time has come for a next toast. Thankfully you grasp the full wineglass a bit tighter and apologetically explain the smiling dear on your right that you wish to listen to the toast that is about to be made by your neighbour across the table.
Some new food is being brought to the table by the lady of the house. Luckily, it’s not Khinkali, so fewer people will be distracted. The Tamada – your neighbour – is slowly standing up. You take a closer look at his face: Wise and dark eyes are gazing at you. Eyes that have experienced a lot, met many people and know the taste of a good story. Black hair, a certain tan on the face and a small beard are the main features of the face. A slightly edgy face, but not enough to consider it Russian. You cannot help but noticing that, all in all, it’s a pleasant Georgian face. A smile from his part, as he notices your polite attention. A waiting silence falls over the congregation; glasses are held in the right hand. And with the right attention, the Tamada begins his speech:’Let us drink tonight for our freedom. Under the rule of the Soviet Union, for almost 70 years, Georgia was deprived of its liberty and was restricted to the Union’s demands. Long enough had the quality of the wine suffered under their needs, for they only cared about quantity of wine produced. Human lifes were of little concern. However, after long fights, Georgia has freed itself again. Throughout the whole time of oppression, the idea of freedom had stayed in the minds of people. It’s not for nothing that the Georgian language had stayed an official language and it’s also not for nothing that people tried to flee this system throughout the entire time of occupation… some had succeeded, others paid a huge price.
So, this toast goes to an idea! An idea of freedom, that is shared by everyone! An idea that cannot be muted by an oppressive system, because it will always keep on living in our minds. It’s a feeling shared by an entire nation. Gaumarjos!’
The speech is followed by a short moment, where everyone goes back to memories of that time or events similarly important to them, before glasses are clinked together. In this minute of silence, a train of thoughts happens within your deepest conscience. The idea of liberty flashes before your eyes, a switch is triggered and you see clearly what freedom signifies for you:
‘It was in the early days of spring, after a celebration of our youth, the long-awaited 90s party. I clearly remember the next morning as I woke up and saw this array of bright sunlight penetrating the window to my room, filling the interior with its delightful warmth. Disregarding the lack of sleep and the dangers that might lie on the way, the decision to cycle to Udabno fell in an instant. After a quick breakfast, I left home and ventured out far… and I found something long forgotten. A sensation of exceptional freedom, Fernweh, a yen to see distant places that seems to have been suppressed for some time. But also the knowledge that my stay in Georgia for 7 months with all of its beverages hasn’t had harmed my health. If the possibility was given, I was gazing at the blossoming trees that were effected by the solar energy just as much as I was. Different shades of purple and white were coloring the landscape in a more than picturesque way.
With the thought of being exceptional independent, I entered the small village of Udabno and headed straight for the Oasis Club where I was warmly welcomed by a young Frenchman – Florent –  and a refreshing beer. He then prepared some lunch and explained what he was doing in Georgia. As it turned out, he made his hobby his job. By buying skis in the Alps – the part of France where he is from – and selling them to countries that are yet to develop their own skiing industry, (like countries from the Balkan and Georgia) he makes a living. In between of his trips, Florent sometimes helps out in Udabno Club and enjoys the perfect silence, the distance from stressful civilisation and the clear night sky with all of its millions of bright stars. A scrutinizing look over the place and the surrounding steppe was enough to capture my attention entirely. But more to this for another time…
After having shared some moving conversations, I returned home to Rustavi. With all of the positive energy and thoughts stuck to my head and an idea of returning to the desert to find some peace, I reached some concrete channel designed to prevent from flooding on my way back. In the middle of some smoothly rolling hills, a small paradise revealed itself before my eyes: A small elevation prevented some water from flowing away into the desert and due to this unforeseen circumstance, the water – which is constantly being kissed by the sun – developed a lovely ecosystem. Water, rich in nutriments, allowed the formation of reed and a marvelous fauna including frogs and turtles (!) in the middle of a sub desert. I stopped for some time, listening to the solitary ecosystem. Not only did I find some liberty on my way, but I also found the explanation to the mysterious presence of turtles in the desert.
In the end, it was a vague idea in the back on my mind that made me venture out there, seeking for something even more vague. And even though freedom and independence are terms that might differ from situation to situation, they all start from a common point: a restlessness and a certain amount of sorrow; throughout a era of oppression, the idea stays in people’s heads and can hardly be defeated. And once it reaches a critical mass, it might just burst open and cause changes, often radically. Personal freedom behaves quite the same way. Both are found in every individual and both are constantly seeking for a trigger; something genetically that wants us to venture out and discharge our chains.
Freedom is nothing limited by borders or different ethnicities. It is an idea that is stuck in everyone. And similar to a caterpillar, it needs time in its cocoon until its time has finally come to break free. Even though part of everybody’s personality, freedom isn’t something that you simply have or don’t have. Just like a solid cocoon, sometimes there is external energy required, as in the sweet sunlight in early spring. The hull is broken, the wings are developed and the ready-formed liberty is released.’

 

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Your glass is once more lifted. Accidentally, you must have spoken your thoughts aloud. The same attention that you had given the Tamada was granted to you. Without any further hesitation, you utter a ‘Gaumarjos’ and drink up. The warmth of the wine adds up to the warm gut feeling that you got from saying a toast. Your attention is being drawn back to the friendly girl who sits next to you. Perhaps, now, a nice conversation might result from your toast.

 

( http://seppziehtleine.blogspot.com/2016/02/i-become-open-minded-traveller.html
A befriended blogger, who is both an inspiration and another philosopher. His blogs are of a great quality)

Concerning Georgian beverages

‘Long live the freedom! Long live the wine!‘ A genuinely important quote from Goethe’s Faust. Although not enough importance is being paid to this sentence, because wine and alcohol are a crucial factor when it comes to culture creating. Especially Georgia is no exception. During social gatherings, you raise your glass many times for this marvelous country and – in international company – to any kind of nation or friendship between all countries. The only thing that remains the same is the quantity of alcohol consumed, be it wine, beer, vodka or chacha.

Before talking about tradition, it’s wise to get some knowledge about the origins of wine production: Georgian people are proudly claiming to be the very first to having produced the first wine (there is an actual fight going on between Armenians and Georgians). Age datings, however, prove that the first amphora containing wine particles originate from Georgia and date back to about 9000 years. The variation of vines is enormous. It’s isn’t astonishing that practically every family produces their own wine… which will then be consumed with a smaller family circle, including friends.

The traditional Georgian way of drinking differs from European styled one, as one tries to include those that are sitting around with one. As a basic principle, this is being done with toasts. While the group is seated around a table which is almost breaking under the weight of culinary masterpieces, the glasses are filled with, for example, wine. Everyone cheers; eye contact should be avoided. This is followed by dear Tamada’s (the toast master) speech/toast. Everyone says ‘Gaumarjos‘ and every glass is promptly emptied to the very last drop. Afterwards one has a couple of minutes to feast on the delicious food, that is being continuously served and seems to be never ending, until the glasses are filled again. This is a cycle that goes on and on throughout the entire evening

How is such a toast carried out?
There is an unwritten sequence that is normally respected by every Tamada. There are also some toasts that need to be mentioned. The usual celebration starts with a toast for peace and harmony between the nations of the world, followed by a toast to friendship. Furthermore, the drinking shall be continued with a warm speech about love. This is the normal way of how most Supras run down. A compulsory toast should be addressed to those that are no longer alive (Traditionally, every funeral end in a great feasting with much wine after the family and close friends had the occasion of meeting the corpse in a certain period of time after death at his/her home).
Additionally to these traditions, at other Supras, people drink from a jar made out of goat horns. Those are solely filled with wine or brandy. Another cultural specialty consists of the tradition called ‘Vakhtanguri’ (the name origins from King Vakhtang VI of Georgia). One crossed arms with a partner of one’s choice (or with 2 partners), then drinks the entire content of it at once.
At the end of each Supra you feel closer to all of the other drinking companions… in case you don’t fall asleep head to chest.

There are many opportunities where one can observe the friendly Georgian personality. The common Georgian guy is actually a debonair being… especially if there’s something to celebrate about. Directly linked to this is alcohol consumption. However, statistics show that alcoholism isn’t as much of a problem as it is in Russia. Generally, the average consumption must be lower, since one does practically never drink by oneself. Only in company. After spending some time here, this fact is oddly surprising: An escape from alcohol appears to be hard. Even if one decides not to drink that particular day, a friend or neighbour will end up leading one back to the righteous path.
As foreigner, one is often confronted with a unsurpassable language barrier as both parties don’t speak a common language. Nonetheless, with the right amount of sign language and pointing and trying, it is rather easy to live in pretty much any social class in Georgia.

We can conclude: Wine is a valuable thing in Georgia and so are all the related traditions. Those among you that have a predilection for alcohol, will find pleasure here, as drinking can occur during all times of the day. The sociophobic will suffer a little, as people are mostly drinking in congregations, be it with friends or family… or both. Getting drunk is part of the culture, contributing to both stronger friendships and social connections. It is to be added that women generally drink less, as they’re taking care of children. Having children at Supras shouldn’t be surprising.

I made my own experiences in the domain of alcoholism here in Georgia: Including everything from totally new neighbours that invite you to spontaneous food and wine and chacha, Supras at work with the most important people from Scout’s center, a great variety of wines (all special in their own specific way), cheap wine that one … enjoys during a trip to the mountains, the first beer on the beach after a long trip to the mountains (its name was 34), a last perilous beer before a trip to questionable heights,….

After 4 months now (3 months when I wrote the actual article in German), I’m experiencing doubts about my taste: Has it truly changed that drastically? Is it a natural consequence of a different lifestyle? Is it the different air (polluted, thanks to Rustavi’s metallurgical industry)? Was it chacha?
For some stranger reason, hop juice that used to please my senses, feels like an intruder to my taste. Erdinger or Baltika are repulsive, whereas Georgian beers seem to be of greater contentment. I wouldn’t have never guessed such a radical change in such a small amount of time (damn, I came even to a liking concerning local salty cheese).

The typical picture at the end

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.