Instalment 7 of 7
Released from the ordeal, should I stay? and a gloriously golden piss.
From last week:
Steering the conversation back to Malta together with St.
Luke and St. Paul, seemed a safer course to sail, and I resolved to shipwreck
my presentation on these shores with a lengthy digression on how Malta became
Christian. Here I was on secure territory and could invite and encourage questions
from the floor. Malta was an unknown entity for many of the pilgrims present,
so the remainder of my presentation comprised a synopsis of the Island’s long
and variegated history, from the Neolithic temples to British Colonial Rule,
via village festas, statues of patron saints being carried aloft by penitent
parishioners, pyrotechnics and partisan politics. For the main, the treasures
of Iviron and their secrets remained unexposed to the scrutiny of scholars during
my presentation that day. However my presumed
reputation as Medieval scholar had escaped unscathed and I could calmly
suppose that I had rightfully earned my
supper and overnight stay that evening. Nonetheless I would be giving my fellow
pilgrims a wide berth for the rest of the day.
Now read on....
Released from my ordeal, with a modest applause to boot, I
spent the afternoon wandering around the monastery, down abandoned wings and
forgotten corridors, musing under low
apses, and lingering in dusty niches,
reconstructing a bustling, quietly industrious monastery of yesteryear in my imagination. A
sort of soft, gentle settling descended
upon me. It may have just been a
lowering of the level of adrelanin in my blood stream, but I felt incredibly
peaceful. I had been on Mount Athos for less than 24 hours, yet I could
envisage living here, in this ordered
tranquility.
Later that afternoon the Arhondaris, who refrained from
referring
to my lecture (which suited me
fine),
joined David and me for a stroll,
down by the harbour. We walked in silence by the water’s edge. Along with
sections of the Croatian coast,
Mount Athos possesses one of the last virgin
stretches of Mediterranean shoreline, unpolluted by beach resorts,
unsustainable tourism, noise and development. The sea is a limpid green,
alternatively tourquise and jade. It sparkles and the water is clear and inviting.
There are no jet skis, or speedboats whizzing past,
disturbing the serenity that hangs in the air
and wraps itself around you like a warm security blanket, encouraging contemplation.
The pebbles are bleached white by the
sun and the sand is devoid of flotsam and plastic debris, towels, ice cream
wrappers, and especially ghetto blasters
blaring jarring techno music. The only sound is the soft swish and splash of waves
rippling onto the rock pools that garland the pristine shore. I imagine that
the Ancient Greeks would be familiar with this timeless setting. There would be
no need for a movie to 'dress' this location. What a shame, I think to myself
that bathing is not allowed. I wonder if the monks ever swim or would the
sudden exposition of flesh educe lewd thoughts?
Earlier, the Arhondaris had mentioned that when a novice monk
dons the robe of black cloth during his investiture, he symbolically dies to
the world. Anyone with a vocation to become a member of the Orthodox clergy, has
the opportunity to select one of two paths to pursue. He can either take vows
of chastity and become a celibate monk in a monastery, secluded away from
sexual enticement, or marry and become the the protestant equivalent of a vicar. Both the orthodox monk and the ‘priest’, present a similar outward appearance, in
addition to possessing
similar
officiating duties. This choice of role, accommodating different dispositions
as well as natural inclinations, made more sense to me. I have never been able
to understand how Catholic priests, for example, are able to give practical
marriage advice to couples having for the most, never experienced what it
entails
Having deliberately
settled on a life of seclusion, I ask the Arhondaris, whilst we are seated on a
rock overlooking the idyllic vista below, if the monks minded having to
entertain a constant stream of visitors each day. “But how can you decide who
is to stay and who will go”, was his quick response. “ A monk, as an angel on
earth and as a man of heaven, has chosen silence over idle talk. But one has to
experience the silence, before one can begin to understand its rewards”, he
continued, cryptically. We did not have to ask for clarification, because the
following sentence answered our puzzled frowns. “For every hundred thousand
visitors that pass through, one might stay on to become a monk and he must
have this opportunity. “
For the rest of my stay on the peninsula this last sentence,
penetrates my every waking moment, fast becoming my main preoocupation. I
observe the novices, the monks, the mainland workers. There is an other
wordliness that permeates their every gesture which is measured, contained and
serene. They truly appear to be ‘in the world but not of it’. A productive kind
of stillness is distilled from the air here. I am sure passions run deep, for
after all the monks are human and innately flawed, but the atmosphere of quiet
brotherly affection and tranquil renunciation comes as close to a reflection of
earthbound perfection as anything I have experienced .
I begin to nurse a yearning to join this community of calm.
The day passes quickly. There is no running hot water at
Iviron and I content myself with a cat wash . Yet even then I gasp at the icy
cold temperature of the liquid against my sun warmed flesh. Following vespers I
retire to sleep, and though exhausted, I am kept awake by an inner restlessness
I can’t put my finger on.
Sleep shuts my eyelids too late and as a result, I miss
matins. There is no breakfast and it is time to leave.
Gandalf has grown on me and inspite of my baptism of fire
yesterday, I already have slotted him into father figure role. I am sad to go,
I wish to hug him but I don’t. He blesses me and chuckles. “We will be waiting
for your return “he says as he shakes my hand, the creases at the corner of his
eyes deepening, “Perhaps next time you will give another tour, it was most
entertaining” I am left wondering what he meant by ‘entertaining’, but think it
best to not pursue the matter.
After a surprisingly
emotional leave taking, I’m off on the road again. David and I take different
directions. I am grateful to be on my own again, but we part fondly, partners
in crime, in a way. I have drawn a triangle upon the map and fixed upon
visiting the monasteries of Stavronikita and Pantakratos, which lie
approximately
in equidistant proximity
to Iviron. This will enable me to make the most of my remaining days on Athos,
rather than spend half the time travelling to and fro. It is with some
trepidation that I enter the forest again. I wonder what tasks lie in store, for
me to secure my subsequent bed for the night.
I am intrigued to observe that it is true that all the
mammals are male, only the birds and reptiles are allowed to mate freely on Mount
Athos. I tread the same paths trodden by pilgrims throughout the centuries. I
am one of them. I feel so so happy and freespirited to be able to walk back safely
in time. This solitude is sweet and the trees and foliage part
to let me become one with the environment. It is as though I take my
place in the order of things, where humans live in harmony with nature,
relinquishing the need to subjugate, that springs from the deep, deep
unacknowledged fear of mortality. These monks are alive in their death to the
world, they are already immortal. They are not afraid to let the light shine on their
souls. Suddenly, female voices from afar, drift on the wind interrupting my
reverie. The chanting is Byzantine and melodic, the same refrain is repeated
over and over as if in a school drill. I feel enchanted as if under a magic
spell, there is a saccharine lightness and freshness to the chant that I have
never heard before. Gone is the heavy timbre, yet there is something not quite
right, an uneasy feeling of incongruity accompanies the sound, but the reason
is elusive, It is only as the walls of Stravronikita , come into view that I
understand why and the obvious dawns on me once again. The voices were female
voices. I had taken the pitch for granted, having been brought up amongst
women. The sight of the monastery reminded me that Mount Athos was a man’s
world. Females were prohibited from trespassing on its hallowed ground. Yet
this was extremely bizarre, was I following a siren call from the sea?. Had my
ears deceived me ? At Stavronikita it was explained to me that summer camps
were often organized at Sketae for Greek Orthodox school boys, and it was these
pre-pubescent voices lifting sonorously and harmoniously up to the heavens that I had heard, not those of
women, "for fear of God."
The remainder of my stay on Mount Athos proved uneventful
enough and passed by pilgrim fashion;
in scribbling thoughts, long walks, respectful observance and not much in the
way of conversation.. I had been travelling through Greece for over 5 weeks now
and autumn was fast approaching. My thoughts turned increasingly towards where I
would winter and I knew a decision had to be made. I could choose adventure,
excitement and risk;
cross the border, continue onto Turkey and an uncertain future of immediate destitution, sleeping
on park benches for a few nights and possibly getting by finding employment as
a teacher of English as a foreign language. Alternatively I had just enough
money to travel back to Athens and fly back home to stability and convention.
My plane ticket however, could not be extended indefinitely. Back home the door
was still open to continue and complete my University degree. And then,
finally,
here between East and West, lay
the middle road, the road less travelled. Could I not just stay put on Mount
Athos? I had never experienced such a feeling of profound peace in my life and
had I not always flirted with the idea of living a monastic life?, away from
the constant ‘slings of outrageous fortune’, far from the heaving, madding
crowd, from decisions and striving, comparing and becoming?
On my last night whilst a guest at the monastery of
Pantakratos, I was a wakened by an urgent need to take a leak. Although still early October, I shivered under
my thin blanket, reluctant and postponing getting out of bed. I wasn’t exactly
sure if I was able to make my way to the bathroom in this monastery at night.
There were fewer resident monks here than at Iviron, and the monastery was
mainly Idiorrhtmic, so we had been left
to our own devices for most of the day. On this visit, I had spent most of the
day down by the harbour looking out to sea, hoping to find answers on the horizon to my dilemma
and my next move. Thus
Pantakratos had remained largely explored. I squeezed my buttocks, kicked the
sheets until my bladder was about to bust. This wouldn’t do, I had to locate
the bathroom. It was eerie to traipse the empty, silent cavernous corridors at
night. My imaginations played tricks with the long shadows cast by the
moonlight and I traced gargygoles on the patterned floor tiles. I inched my
way, palms on the wall, my bladder egging my trembling knees on.
The bathroom itself was the size of a
basketball court. And cold in an intimidating
and institutional way. The last attempt at modernity had probably been in the
1930’s. However unlikely the setting
(probably the result of a presenting plumbing problem),
it was incredibly dramatic. The guest bathroom was strangely situated in an
enormous covered balcony that jutted out over a low cliff from one of the top
floors of the monastery. The breathtaking view was unfortunately
obscured by a row of toilet cubicles. Once inside one of them and
simultaneously relieving my straining bladder, I looked up from the business at
hand, and inhaled a sharp hiss of air. I was literally gobsmacked by
the scene unfolding beneath me. Dawn was
breaking on the horizon. Shafts of sunlight fanned down in streams of violet,
gold and pink, from the multi hued sky, throwing a series of three rocks that cut
through the indigo sea, into chiaroscuro. The rocky islands were strategically
placed in the centre of the bay like stepping stones to the edge of the world.
As darkness seeped away from the borders of this panorama, framed by the
balcony window, and the radiance of the morning sun burst through the glass pane,
casuing me to squint, I had a moment of epiphany, of all places in a toilet
cubicle. Such a glorious, golden piss, but what a waste of a view.
Anyway, as I was saying, lost somewhat in wonder, a thought
slowly simmering in formulation, had
been making its way to witness the light of day. The curtains opened in
my conscousness, and the idea announced itself, with the insistence that whilst
it would be the easiest thing in the world in the long run, to remain on Mount
Athos, somehow I was running away. I had to give something back to society and
deep down I was not cut out for the monastic
life, at least not yet. What I really was to contribute back to the world,
would become clearer in time, my inner voice suggested.
Has it? Well…., but that is the subject of another story, a
long, long, long one which I shall write in my rocking chair. In retrospect as
I jot this down on my keyboard, maybe I should have stayed. Spiritually it
might have been the better choice, but who knows; the story hasn’t been written yet. I like to finish what I start, and there was a degree to complete. I
reasoned with myself that Mount Athos would always be here waiting and I could
return after graduating, because
if I
didn’t go back to my studies, then that would have been another what if? And I
might have always regretted it, looking westwards from my monk cell. On the
other hand, sometimes,
there are doors
you just have to close, and quite possibly not finishing everything you start
might be the best option for your highest good. Whom am I to say? The thing is
to decide. Our lives are the sum of every decision taken at any moment in time.
There are those decisions when the riskiest decision is to take a risk and
other situations when the riskiest decision is not to take a risk. The worst
decision to make is not to decide, and be a victim of circumstance. This tale
as I have said has not been done yet. There are still stories to tell and weigh
in the balance. And Mount Athos still awaits, albeit with wifi and taxis.
For an up to date Mount Athos in 2013, do read this
excellent article by National Geographic Correspondent Roger Draper
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