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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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

 

 

 

 

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.