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!
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.
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.
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!
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