Note

Please note that I have added one or the other photo and have corrected minor phrases on older posts from Georgia.

In particular I would like to point out that I have originally posted the link to Dejan's blog wrongly. It is: eonstravelblog.wordpress.com

Most astonishingly he has skipped the travel through the middle-east, meaning that I will not have the chance to meet him in Iran. Dejan has taken a flight from Ankara straight to New Delhi and is now dedicating almost all of his time to playing the Bansuri at music academy.

27 - 30.10.2011

We hitchike towards Sisian. A truck-driver takes us for a while. We pass of stretch of highway, alongside which an earthen wall has been piled up. This is as a response to shots coming over from Azerbaijan recently. We wonder at the speed of the truck, a soviet 'Kamaz'; we could walk as fast with our packs. 

"Twenty-three tons of beer" the driver explains "2600 crates of nine bottles each."

We thank him and leave the truck.

We arrive in Areni, lying in a mountain valley and ask a family sitting on the veranda whether we can set up the tent anywhere close. They beckon us to sit down and serve us a most delicious dinner of fried potatoes with onions, bread, cheese, absolutely delicious tomatoes and burning chillies. Gevgor takes us to his uncles family and then invites us to stay at their place for the night.

The following day we visit Noravank, an ancient monastery at which khatchkars are present with enigmatic, precisely formed holes. Confirming what I have read earlier, these were monoliths employed for specific purposes by pre-christian cultures, often found next to rivers - which were later converted to khatchkars. I think of the extensive knowledge of geomancy that ancient cultures disposed of.

We continue south and pass two police road-blocks on foot, at which all cars are stopped due to snow blocking the road further south in the mountains. We continue as far as we can with Armin, who invites us for the night to his families place in Saravan. We are hosted most warmly.

The sun is out on the following day and we pass Sisian towards Tatev monastery. Two men, Artak and Arthur, take us there in their van. They are delivering sweets and other food all the way from Yerevan to the villages near Tatev. We descend into an incredible abyss of a valley and climb all the way up again to the other side. The two have started to drink home-made vodka and by the time we enter the monastery together, Artak needs to catch himself on his own feet ever so often, propping himself on a wall perchance. The whole area is covered in dense fog, creating a uniquely mysterious atmosphere. Artak talks long with a friendly young priest who repeatedly gives his blessings to each of us in turn. We were planning to wait for Artak and Arthur at the monastery until they they complete their delivieries and take us back to the Yerevan-Goris highway, but now they take us straight away, with all the food undelivered, planning to go back to Yerevan straight away.

"But don't you have unfinished business in the villages?" I ask amazed.

"You don't understand." Artak replies, barely able to hold the van on the road or to shift gears. "This is Armenia; We have just been blessed by an illuminated man. Today there is no more work."

We cannot believe what we have heard. The men drive a van, packed full of food back to Yerevan. Artak drops me in Goris at his friends place, where I can stay for the night cheaply and comfortably. Roland returns to Yerevan with the two. Our ways part. The time spent with Roland will remain in memory as very educating. Thank you.

I continue the next day over a 4500 meter pass to Meghri where I stay for the night.

17 - 26.10.2011

We stay at Yerevan hostel for a night and move to Horatio's place after this, a gifted guitarist. Following this we meet Kush, who had moved here to study medicine with other friends from India and is now making a living in the city, contributing to the health reform which the Armenian government is planning to pass. We meet his friend Arin, at whos place we find an extremely comfortable new home for the rest of our stay in the city.

Roland and I walk to the monument at the top of the Yerevan cascade stand in awe at the beauty of the city. Giant Mt. Ararat dominates the skyline and in general the whole city center makes a most appealing impression in its radial layout. I am at once captivated by it. If anyone were to ask me which place in the world most resembles ancient city of the Golden Gates in Atlantis, I would at once answer: the Yerevan cascade.

We visit the Matenadaran, the manuscirptorium, in which some of the worlds oldest surviving manuspcripts are kept. Apparently the largest and heaviest book is found there as well as a recently studied manuscript, the language of which no linguist worldwide understands.   Ethnologists and anthropologists are now called upon to join the search for the unknown language. Only two small rooms show manuscripts on display. The rest of the enormous, massively constructed, 4-storey building is dedicated almost exclusively to the restoration and conservation of old manuscripts.

We meet Karina, whom we have met in Tblisi before our departure and visit the Garni temple together. This was erected in Roman times, after repeated battles between Roman legions and the Armenian army, and resembles traditional Greek architecture, incorporating symbolic numerological measures. I learn from the information boards that the Armenian regent of the time, King T'rdat, had initiated emperor Nero into the Magian rites, hence those passed down to him from ancient Chaldea.

We read, write, learn languages, cook and spend some nights out. We also visit the Design Cafe at which Horatio plays Jazz and Blues one night. We also share quality time with Kush, Sumit and their friends and finally leave on the day of Divali towards the south of Armenia, after trying a fantastic curry.

10 - 16.10.2011

Roland and I move out towards Armenia next day. A church father gives us a ride, fully clad in his official garment. He drops us at the highway where he going off towards a small village. But he too gets out of his car and persists in stopping cars for us. We try to explain to him that he really doesn't need to do this, but he continues.
"Your definitely on the safe side hitchiking with a priest in Georgia" we laugh
Blessed be our journey. But only one car stops. The driver gets out to get the priests hug, kiss and blessings and goes on again. He finally shows us that he is running late for an appointment and leaves us.

We continue to the Guguti border, walking a long way. We pass towns in which wallnuts are being harvested and we get given many bunches by the locals. A farmer passes with his cart, pulled by a donkey and gives us apples. As night falls we reach the border, where Akaki, a policeman on the Georgian side engages us in an extensive talk about his wish to travel. We share our experiences. On the Armenian side the policeman that gives us our Visas, Karem, opens up an empty housing container, the type you see for the workers on building sites, for us to use at our will. There is no shop around and we knock at a door of a house near the border. The man apologizes that he can give us no bread, but gives us delicious Armenian conserves of vegetables. We have dinner in the container.


"So what is your dream for life?" I ask Roland
"I don't know, I don't really find the time to think about these things usually" Roland replies "To have a family I suppose."
I am surprised.
But then Roland continues: "I don't know if this makes any sense to you, but I get these moments sometimes, maybe once every two or three weeks, in which I kind of . . . dissociate. Its hard to explain. Its like I dissolve and there is just oneness. Its like a higher state of consciousness I guess."
I suspect something great: "It definitely makes sense to me". But the mood in which Roland expresses the experience does not seem familiar to me. So I wish to clarify:
"Do you get this when you are walking, doing exercise, talking to others, or what?"
"No, now that I think about it, it only happens when I am sitting quietly, not doing anything else."
"Since when do you have these experiences" I ask further.
"I remember experiencing this since my childhood. I don't know . . . I'm not sure if it's something common, or something peculiar to me."
"It's definitely nothing common, but your definitely not alone with these experiences either." I reply. "Have you not talked about this to others?"
"I've only started mentioning it to others recently and nobody really seems to understand."


I tell Roland of my own story, fascinated at the wild diversity of experiences and expressions coming from the One fountainhead.


"Is it positive?" I attempt to get a clearer understanding Roland's point of view.
"I guess so" Roland answers hesitatingly.
"Does it feel good?"
"I don't know . . . when I think about it I can't really put it into words at all"
 "The Tao that can be put into words is not the real Tao" I remember the words of Laotzu.


After a long pause Roland finally adds: "It's like I see what drives humanity onwards, what is the driving force of humanity . . . it's like understanding the happenings of the world, the acts of humankind from a universal point of view. It's like seeing a grand sense in it all."


We return to Karem to ask if we can refill our water bottle. Karem gives us water, but also pours vodka into shot glasses.
"We toast to the trinity" Karem proposes.
"I don't want to drink" I say.
"To the father" Karem toasts.
We drink. He pours another shot.
"I really don't want to drink" I say.
"Me too" Karem answers. "To the son"
We drink. He pours a third shot.
"I don't want to drink" I say again emphatically.
"Me too" Karem again replies.
"Then why do you drink?"
"Because it's tradition . . . To the holy ghost"
We drink.
"So is this what life is like on the border?" I ask.
"Only when I'm on duty" Karem replies.


The next day Karem waits until we pack up the tent and takes us to Vanadzor. From there we continue to Dilijan, where we stay for two nights at a pleasant B&B. In soviet times cinematographers and authors used to come here to work in peace and soak up inspiration from the beautiful natural surroundings.

Roland and I hitchike to Parz Lake and hike from there to Gosh village. The majority of the trees in the picturesque village are either apple or plum trees and we set up our tent in the garden of a family, which is just picking buckets of apples from the ground. We help. The next morning the whole garden is covered again. We visit Goshavank monastery and admire the awesome stonework of the katchkars, the ancient stone tablets, in the cemetery of the village. On one I notice the same downward-pointing, five-petaled lotus as is allegedly found on the talismans and woodwork of the Siberian shamans.

After a two day hike in the direction of Lake Sevan, we reach the town of Semyonovka from where he hitchike to Sevan. We set up our tent at the lake. Next morning, just as we are getting out of the tent afisher rows his paddle bat to the shore and calls over to us. He Throws us four fish, round, healthy-looking carp. We are just finishing to fillet one of these when two men, Keram and Hamlet invite us to their house close to the shore. We fry our fish in their kitchen; never have I had such sweet fish in my life! We eat well and have a long discussion about the relationship between Armenians and the Turkish, our travel experiences, beliefs and life philosophies.

"Religions are for the weak. The strong find hold in themselves; they trust only in themselves."  Keram says "There is no truth in religions. Truth is in the hands, in our daily work. There are so many idiots and bad people around us. It is our responsibility to take care of our children, create a caring environment for them and take care of the house and neighborhood.


I show Kerams nephew, Hamlet Jr., some Aikido and after Hamlets and Kerams recommendations for what to see in Yerevan, we depart for the capital.

07 - 09.10.2011

As every weekend Jean-Jacques starts baking bread early in the morning on Friday and goes to the city in the afternoon to sell his bread and produce on his own market stall on Saturday. I say goodbye to my host and the other volunteers and head out towards David Gareja, a famous complex of monasteries founded in the 6th century in a desert region South-East of Tblisi. David Gareja was regarded as a saint in Georgia, lived in a cave by Tblisi for years and went down to the city once a week to teach and be with the people.


I arrive in the evening as the sun goes down and explore the front part of the complex. A great part of the monastery was chiseled out of bare rock and today some of the monastic cells are restored with modern, insulated doors and windows. I see perhaps five visitors and three monks in total. I go up to the top-most cave and observe a monk filling water from large basins in the cave to canisters. I stay in the cave for a while and see how carefully the basins are spread out to collect the bit of water which is dropping from the ceiling all around the cave. This is the water source for the whole monastery; I think of how valuable it was and still is today in this inhospitable desert region, but I imagine that the water source might have been much more copious many centuries ago. The monk offers me a cup of water and the cool and well-tasting liquid quenches my thirst well.


I hike upwards to the ridge to find a place to set up my tent for the night. The monastery is build in the rock on two sides of the mountain and I plan to visit the other side the following day. I sit down in the evening looking down on the vast desert plain bellow. I know that the hills and lights in the distance are already in Azerbaijan. It is incredibly quiet. I hear my own breath. There is not a single other sound to be heard. At first the wind blows slightly, with no trees or bushes to blow against, but then this subsides too. I understand that the monks here have indeed found and still do find the perfect external peace so conducive to prolonged meditations.


The following day I hike along the other side of the hill and find room after room chiseled into the rock of the mountain. There are well over 40 of these, ancient, with only slight traces of former windows and recesses in the walls where small altars must have been formerly placed. I enter the first one and turn around to look out from the dark inside onto the desert plain below stretching to the horizon. I instantly feel a fraction of that which 1300 years back the first monk must have felt here in a moment of exhilaration. How beautiful: the dark and cool peace of the cave; then the awesome, relentless brightness of the desert with spots of lakes visible below.

I reach massive rooms, what must have been gathering places, ceremonial rooms, communal dining rooms. Frescoes are sometimes dimly sometimes more vividly visible, in most small rooms completely absent. Allegedly 10,000 monks lived here in the golden age. On the Persian invasion in the 17th century 6,000 were massacred.

As I return to the parking lot below the monastery a wave of tourists floods in the opposite direction and I understand the value of seeing this place late in the evening and the early morning. I hike towards Rustavi, some 3-6km from where I spent the night and a further monastery comes in site, probably part of the same complex, but not shown on any map. This too I visit, join a Georgian group of tourists and marvel with them at the rock hewn church, completely within the mountain, with one large window pointing outwards.

I return to Tblisi in the groups bus and dive right into the crowds on the streets, which are celebrating the cities birthday. There is a rock concert on the old-town square and a symphony plays later in the evening. In the evening I meet Karina from Portugal and Roland from Australia. Both are heading south to Armenia and Karina onwards to Iran. Roland and I decide to leave together on Monday.


On Sunday evening we are walking along the Rustaveli Avenue, the aorta of Tblisi, and walk down into an underpass to cross to the other side of the street. Suddenly a wondrously familiar tune reaches my ears. The thrilling, bubbling, electric high of a flute painting twirls, streams and lights, while it's dancing effortlessly along the flowing beat of . . . House Music. A man standing, playing, grooving, totally in the vibe; infront a small box for coins. This is no street musician. This is Ludovic Navarre, alias St. Germain, but live, more intuitive, more creative, much faster, faultless, absolutely electric.

THIS is it. I dance. I dissolve. There is just music and flow. He shoots out his electric strings, he is the involuntary puppet master. I am the completion of his work, I am the applause. I am astounded he finds his breath among the ongoing torrent of tune, he is astounded the dance doesn't stop, but increasingly thrilled. This is a complete foreigner, we have not talked, but in the flow of music there comes nothing but absolute, unconditional Love. There are no questions, there are no thoughts, there is just the boundless flow of energy. I acknowledge Roland equally grooving to the beat.


We pause for a minute. His name is Reza Mamagulashvili. He turns off the radio so we can talk. We ask where he has the house music from. He tries to tune in the radio, first on pop, then jazz, some classical, wants to play the flute to each of these, but sees my disappointed face. He tunes again: house music bubbles out again. He sees my smile. He plays again. He has not prepared in any way. This is completely spontaneous and intuitive, but god-like. We dance again.

He proposes for us to come back every evening at around 7pm. We explain that we are planning to leave to Armenia the next day. I see yet another reason to stay in Tblisi. Finally we part.


I return to a total paradigm shift. The body pulsates, is light, like fog, similar to the feeling after an intense hour of Aikido training. A thought slowly inches into awareness again, conscious of how ridiculous its presence is in such a state of energy. There is just joy and total fulfillment. THIS is what I want. A joyous desire is planted.


There is not the slightest shade of retrospect as the energy slowly calms down. I sit down on the side of the busy street. Cars pass. How infinitely irrelevant everything seems. There is no weight in any part of me, external or internal. YES!

26.09.2011 - 06.10.2011

Sareina and I hitchike back to Jean-Jacque's farm, where we meet Lucy and Yannick from France, also volunteering. They have finished buisness degrees with the full consciousness that many of the students they have been studying with have expressed nothing close to an ethical mindset, caring little about the environment or social issues. They are themselves searching for a lifestyle, which would be more sustainable and are aware of the fact that trying to help people that live more traditional ways of life in this direction is in most cases actually counterproductive. Old, well functioning social structures are destroyed by the agency of technology and unprepaired individuals are hurled into the structure of industrialized society.

I think further: Hitherto inaccessible free time arises, which is often spent infront of the TV. Images of stars, products and an ideal world out there start to fill the consciousness of people. That, which unconsciously provided the people their spiritual sustenance, sharing the basic elements of life with the close ones - air, sun, water, food, and being close to the sounds and smells of nature - is suddenly replaced by 'things', 'objects', 'images', which seem to promise fulfilment and satisfaction.

But none the less, even among the deepest urban life, the people will always tend towards being together and will eventually always tend back to their mother nature, even if whole generations seem to dive away into the rat-race for prestige and technology.

We dig out beetroot, dig through the vegetable rows for aerating the earth, pick tomatoes, cut grass, chop more wood and crack more nuts. Yannick, Lucy and I make a short hike into the National Park surrounding Argokhi. The trees are low, but seem ancient and untouched. I see wild physalis growing on the forest floor, at night wolves can be heard closeby.

Sareina leaves for a trip to Mt. Kazbegi with Max and other travellers I come to know soon. Michelle from Switzerland comes to the farm. He too is searching for peace, spiritual discipline and a deeper understanding of life, but he needs the enviornment of country-side start to live towards these ideals.

"The city provides too many distractions. I set myself a goal for a way of life, but there are too many things in the city that are just not conducive to it." Michelle says.

One night Jean-Jaques, Lucy and Yannick drive out to collect a bulls head and intestines. These Jean-Jacques uses for making spetial preparations, which similar to homeopathic medicine, stimulate the soil which is treated with them, promote healthy growth and particular traits in the plants, depending on how they are made. We burry a bundle of herbs and flowers packed in intestinal skin and dig out four horns, which have been left in the ground for several months. The herbs which were filled into the horns have now become humus. This is dilluted in water, which is then sprayed over the terrain intended for crop and vegetable growth.

"The preparations clear for the seed the etherical space in soil and air above it, enabling the etherical body of the plant to fully manifest. The physical body of the plant unfolds simultaneously." Jean-Jacques explains, although generally hesitant to give any sort of explanations.

"There is no point in intellectualizations. First we act and then you will see. We need work, not words."

When the farmers of Austria and Switzerland came to Rudolf Steiner, asking him about how they should work in accordance with Anthroposophical principles, he wrote down for and lectured to them the principles of biodynamic farming and provided the instructions for the preparations.

"The function of these preparations will only gradually become known to science as this starts to increasingly recognize untangible dimensions in reality." Jean-Jacque says.

"That is practical mysticism" I say.

"No, this has nothing to do with mysticism. This is science: spiritual science. This is the work of one that knows. Rudolf Steiner was an Initiate." says Jean-Jacques.

I am most vividly reminded of Blavatsky's words:

"As opposed to the rule-of-thumb knowledge of the Yogis, the true Adepts base their work and knowledge on an infallible, proven, structured and scientific body of knowledge."

Jean-Jacques had himself studied physics and philosophy, but eventually disillusioned by the explanations provided by these disciplines and inspired by meeting several individuals, started to live independantly of these schools of thought.

"I eventually realized that the books and lecture-halls don't provide explanations for the deepest and most pressing questions."

In the week of the rising moon we collect all fruits from the trees on the farm. Apples, pears, plums and cornels. We climb the trees, the sun shines, we laugh at our acrobatics. Fruit picking is by far the most enjoyable work I have done in the country-side. What a joy to see the results of a years worth of growth: ripe, fresh, aromatic. Almost one quarter to one half of the days are spent in preparing jams, compots or cakes with the copious amount of fruits we are now flooded with. Most of the different apple varieties are packed for the winter, the pairs left to ripen a bit, although already now they are fantastically juicy and sweet.

"This is the fruit of summer!" I think