Down, but not Out in Georgia Pt 8: The Road to Zarzma

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Zarzma, Georgia



July 15^th 2014





“The mind is always seeking, searching in every corner, and so the mind is never still; it is always wanting, grasping, watching, pushing, comparing, judging. You search your own mind and see what the mind is doing, how it tries to control itself, how it tries to dominate, to suppress, to find out, to search, to ask, to beg, to struggle, to compare. We call that mind very alert; is it alert? An alert mind is a still mind, not a mind that like a butterfly is chasing all over the place, not a mind that is constantly clinging, agitating, asking, begging, praying, petitioning - such a mind is never still.”

Krishnamurti





I woke up and decided it could be good to get out of Abastumani for at least some hours. The afternoon before Nato (the daughter of the hotel owner) had told me about a monastery not far away that was well worth seeing. I asked Zaza who works at the hotel: “Can I take a bus to Zarzma? There and back?” When will I ever learn never to ask someone who does not speak English a closed question (i.e. that requires a 'yes' or 'no' for an answer)? He said “yes”. But not true!

At 9 am I get out on the road and wave down a bus and say “Zarzma” to the driver, who nods. Adigeni is about 30 km on and the bus terminates. Turns out it goes part of the way to Zarzma but not to Zarzma. I ask at the bus counter and am told it is 10 km to Zarzma and that there is no bus. I begin to walk.



I get a lift about 1 km out which drops me within sight of Zarzma on a not-too-distant hill. I start walking and I feel very much here and now... there is silence (there being no traffic to hitch a life with) and the Kvabliani river is rippling fresh; the morning air is crisp and the surrounding hills and distant mountains clear and green. I decide I am going to swim in this river before the day is out. I walk about 2 km, losing sight of Zarzma but knowing it must be there up on the left somewhere.



There is no signage (which I am quick to judge as typical of Georgia. Seems I have developed a thing about Georgian signage), so I take a track off to the left. The cobbled lane way winding up the hill makes me feel like a medieval pilgrim. But at the top it joins a sealed road, which obviously came off the main road further along and with signage. I laugh at myself for my usual quickness to draw conclusions.

I approach the monastery and my expectation builds.

The currently active Zarzma Monastery (12 monks in residence), located on the top of a hill, includes a church bell tower, a chapel, ruins of two churches, and a spring. The oldest records mentioning this place are from the 9^th century. The current cathedral or catholican dates from the 14^th century.

I enter the inviting outer gate which is swaying ever so lightly in the morning breeze, and find myself in a gorgeous inner garden adorned by small ruins and statues, and adjoined on the left by a period-true new or renovated monks' living quarters, and on the right by the impressive catholicon and bell tower. I take my time to just wander around the yard before I am approached by Valairi.

Valairi is a 22 year old student on a voluntary university break work retreat. He is polite but a Christian zealot who wants to know if I believe in god, is not impressed with my eclectic answer, and who in the pursuing discussion tells me that all those Hindus and Muslims and Buddhists are not going to a good place. I ask a monk emerging from the living quarters if I might get to go inside the (locked) catholicon. He obliges by unlocking the door and leaving me to it. It's beautiful and still. Emptiness in a church.

After some more discussion with Valairi who seems to have decided that I am not a bad person, I leave for my return to Abastumani. I take a short cut which includes cutting across some fields, back to the main road. Within half a km, I am drawn down to the river and take a swim in the very cool water. I make the usual use of my gamcha as my wrap. The rivers run fast and shallow in these mountain valleys, and I manage to just submerge myself three or four times while hanging on tenaciously to a rock.

Back walking on the road, my skin tingling and the moist gamcha a relief against the strong sun, I am thinking “I am the King, it doesn't get much better than this”, only to have this thought 'adjusted' to include some humility about my good fortune in general to be able to take these little adventures. About a km on, Aram and his family stop so that he can tell me that his car is “full, full”. I can't help smiling as I ask myself “so why did you stop exactly?” Turns out he is just a very polite Armenian who works and lives in Moscow, and who is on a holiday through Georgia en route to visit Armenia. I figure he just did not want me to think he would not otherwise give me a lift. I appeal to him, saying that I can take very little room in any spare corner of his SUV, and that I only need to get back to Adigeni where I can again take the bus back to Abastumani. He convinces his 5 year old daughter in the back seat that she can sit on her grandmother's lap for a bit.

Aram seems pleased to be able to practice his English as we drive (and he takes me all the way back to Benara - about 20 km). One thing he tells me is that there are 5 million Armenians in the world but only 1.5 million live in Armenia.

At Benara, I start walking and eventually get a lift back to Abastumani.

It's just past 12 midday. A busy morning. A good morning.

And my mind has hardly wandered at all to consider the Public Prosecutor.

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Comments

[D MJ Binkley]

"I am King"
Too bad you couldn't keep going to Armenia with him...

[Big Fella]

So beautiful yet ............
Such a shame the beauty s compromised by the prosecutor