Golden Fleece

For hours the aging marshrutka (minibus) had pitiless jolted me over a decaying high-way, pressed me between its passengers and the constant gaze of an unblinking summer sun, staring at me through the window; before abruptly depositing me at my destination. Covered as I was in a lavish lather of sweat and suffering a mild case of dehydration, I immediately accepted a cab driver's offer to take me to the first home-stay, whose name, amid a swirl of an alien language, was intelligible to me. Where, almost immediately upon arrival, I accepted the offer of the first room shown to me, the worn salon of a once grand 19^th century mansion. This faded beauty had suffered not only the ravages of time but the indignity of having tawdry bits of modernity – neon beer signs and cheaply constructed appendages - hung on her like costume jewelry on a grand dame.

Fatigued, I searched for a place to rest among the curls and cues of the 19^th century wooden furniture scattered across an ornate wood-mosaic floor and a thread bare Persian-style rug; I quickly eschewed the fainting couch, sitting in the middle of the room, in favor of a sagging bed onto which to drop my weary body; and thus, I spent my first night, sleeping beneath billowing sheer-white curtains in the Kingdom of Colchis.

It was another far more arduous journey to Colchis, undertaken by Jason and the Argonauts in their search for the Golden Fleece, which had drawn me here. As are the way of myths and often the tales of our own lives, Jason's path to his goal, the throne of his homeland, was beset with trials. Set as a test of his worthiness to rule, Jason's task was to reclaim the Golden Fleece taken from his native Greece and hidden in a mysterious land. As I first listened to Jason's story my mind drifted to my own plight and I immediately began to feel empathy for the struggling mythical figure. With the unsettled feeling of a dog circling before it lies down, I too am adrift from my homeland and former goals searching in unfamiliar and distance lands.

But even for a wanderer Colchis felt a bit like the ends of the earth, unlike countries of which I was familiar from countless imagines, this is a somewhat ignored land left to carry on with its distinct culture in relative obscurity, with a unique language, customs, and a history that are equally unfamiliar; still it was probably not as exotic to me as it was to an 8^th BCE Greek. Upon hearing of Jason's destination, a pre-classical Greek would have called it "the farthest voyage"; Colchis was a legendary land of great wealth - the place from which the sun rose – sitting at the eastern edge of the then-known world; beyond which was nothing but the river that circled the earth, perhaps to them it sounded like a trip to the moon does to a Kansas farmer.

Some tales say Jason didn't know Colchis' location when he set sail; and it was only revealed to him, during his journey, by a sage, named Phineus, in exchange for Jason ridding the beleaguered sage of vicious Harpies, birds with women's heads, who devoured any food in excess of the bare essential, condemning him to live a minimalist or ascetic life, apparently for pre-classical Greek religion a sparse life was a punishment from the gods, not, as ascetics of various religions see it, a path to God. Once Jason arrived in Colchis, the tales say it was the King of Colchis' daughter, Medea, who solved the riddles of the seemingly impossible tasks set as barriers to regaining the fleece: first she advised Jason how to yoke a fire-breathing oxen and sow a field with dragon's teeth, then to survive the attack of the army of soldiers who sprung from the dragon's teeth, and finally to defeat the sleepless dragon who guarded the fleece.

As I left for Colchis, or as it is now called the Republic of Georgia, like Jason I went in search of the gold behind the myth. As might be suspected scholars disagree on the significance of the Golden Fleece or what Jason was really searching for. Was Jason purely a symbol, the mythical 'spring hero', who comes from the east, renewing life in the west at the end of winter? Or did he represent real events?

Schliemann's discovery of the ruins of an ancient city that could be the real Troy behind the story of the Iliad has helped give credence to the idea that Greek myths are stories growing from factual seeds. Indeed there is evidence that the Golden Fleece too is based in fact - villagers in a remote region of what was Colchis have been observed in the past century extracting gold by stretching a ram's fleece out in a river then drying the skins and beating out the gold. Is Jason's story then a legendary version of the Greeks search for Colchian gold, or for the vast wealth of the eastern empires, or a display to the eastern empires of emerging western power, or simply a search for a breed of sheep? What was Jason really searching for? And where exactly was he searching? Some think that the Georgian village of Vani is the site of an ancient temple-city to which Jason might have journeyed. As a wanderer on the trail of myths, when I found an entry in my guidebook on Vani, I immediately set off to follow in Jason's footsteps.

Early in the morning, I began my search for transport from the town of Kutaisi, where the marshrutka had deposited me, to the village of Vani. Like a detective looking for clues, I walked along the line of marshutkas, peering myopically at the signs on the windshields in an attempt to decipher the swirling Georgian script. This endeavor having proved fruitless, I approached a driver and posed the word Vani as a question - from inside the bus a wall of heads instantly formed to gaze at the foreigner - the driver indicated that these buses don't go there; I must go to the main bus station. With the heat of the day already bearing down on my fatigued body, finding the main station immediately seemed more difficult than my endurance for uncertainty and comfort with the unknown would allow. Discouragement tugging on my sleeve, I turned away; but I quickly brushed it aside with the recollection that Jason needed Phineus's knowledge to slip through the Clashing Rocks and to locate Colchis; and it was Medea's knowledge that allowed him to claim the Golden Fleece, perhaps all I needed was assistance.

While walking along the tree-lined street, I noticed a line of cabs and a sudden impulse to be carried off to Vani in a private hire vehicle overcame me. Stopping at the first cab in line, I again posed the word, Vani, as a question and mumbled a few Georgian words. We managed to communicate a price for driving to and from the village; but the in-between was unclear. With excitement building to take off on an adventure that seemed within my grasp; I walked away to rationally consider this latest irrational impulse. Then, the moment came, when without my knowing it, I simply turned around, as unknown to my conscious mind - I had decided to go. As Bagrat, the cabbie, and I were working on the final details, with several other cabbies clustered around, paper and pen flying back and forth with illustrations and numbers - a woman suddenly appeared at my side. Marina spoke excellent English and within seconds everything was clear. Fortune shone further on my adventure as Bagrat asked Marina, to go with us - and she agreed. It seemed both a Phineus and a Medea had appeared.

As we set off, I sank into the back seat of the cab with my new friend, Marina, at my side. We drove through a farming village, on a road that had more holes than paved surface, until finally emerging onto a more fully paved road lined with poplars. The road led us through the rich, fertile ancient Phasis river valley, now called the Rioni, brimming with both wild and cultivated plants: corn fields, grapevines, flowering as well as fruit laden trees; in the fields and on the road, chickens, cows, turkeys and goats roamed where ever they pleased. As this idyllic /bucolic world spooled by the window, Marina identified some decaying buildings as recent ruins left by the Soviets' passing across the Georgian stage, and a defunct winery whose demise came as the deteriorating relationship between Georgia and Russia lead to closing the border and thus closing the Russian market for Georgian wine; a financial hardship also suffered by winemakers in southeastern Georgia. As a wind gently cooled the cab, blowing away a thin layer of sweat and soothing my sun-weary skin; the darkly tinted windows relaxed my eyes; I surrendered to the innate Georgian hospitality giving up my struggle to find my way and allowed myself simply to be led.

 

On our arrival in the village of Vani, there was no sign pointing to the ancient site - or not one that I could understand. On my own, without the sage Bagrat, I might not have found my way; even he had to ask twice for directions. We eventually found our way up the hill and discovered a view of both the Rioni and the Suloris river valleys and the lush Meshketian Mountains. The ancients had chosen a site both protected and gushingly beautiful. But, as we pulled up in front of an artless Soviet era building my heart sank a bit. Although lacking in outward appeal this was indeed the museum that housed the Colchian treasure trove of gold and bronze objects - and was my goal.

As Colchis was in the crossroads between the great powers of the day, Greece and Persia, it benefitted from the trade passing through its borders, and amassed a collection of the finest objects, including luxury pieces from Persia, Phoenicia, Greece, the nomadic Scythians, and Colchis itself. Its role as a crossroads continues today as Georgia is in the route of a crude oil pipeline bringing Caspian Sea oil to the Mediterranean, in Europe's attempt to bypass dependence on Russia. As Colchis was also a land rich in natural resources such as metal ores, they became master metal craftsman, especially in gold, producing the finest of worked gold objects far surpassing all other contemporary cultures with their mastery of sophisticated techniques such as hammering, punching, granulation and filigree. Many of these objects have been uncovered in Vani's burial sites and are now stored in this plain Soviet produced jewelry box, which the three of us now entered and immediately scattered among the glass display cases each in search of our own treasures.

Attracted by a seemingly primitive bronze statue of a woman, with a superficial resemblance to a Hittite statuette that I'd seen in central Anatolia; I wondered at the purpose of this dull, naked figure, adorned in shiny gold jewelry: a bracelet that dwarfed her oversized hands, thick hoop earrings awkwardly projecting from the middle of her ears, and a tightly wrapped necklace pressing into her neck; all giving her the appearance of a display mannequin for the jewelry. Evidence of Colchian metallurgy prowess appeared in a delicately worked bronze eagle and winged Nike whose extremely fine work reminded me of the granulated golden lion in the National Museum in Tbilisi. Three cone-shaped drinking cups seemed to bespeak the Georgian love of wine - the earliest evidence of wine making in the world has been found here. Since it is necessary to drain the cup in order to set it down – certainly these cups do not encourage sipping. The importance of wine in everyday life was evident as even ordinary tools were decorated with images of wine vessels; a ritual bronze-axe topped with two horseback riders each carried a cuiver, an underground wine vessel, on his back.

Then, finally, I found a display case of objects dedicated to Jason's quests: rams. Here prominently displayed was evidence of the respect accorded the ram by these ancient people. Immediately my eye was drawn to two delicately worked gold ram's heads staring at each other from their perches on the ends of an unclasped gold bracelet, and another finely carved head gracing the length of a handle. A number of simply carved ram statuettes and several rams with heads at both ends of its body, labeled cult objects, revealed a religious or mystical significance assigned to rams.

But most of the glittering gold jewelry - earrings, temple rings and pendent necklaces - decorated drinking vessels, ornate bronze caldrons for libations to the gods, and imported luxury goods were themselves journeying abroad/on a journey of their own. Even here, in this obscure village of this tiny country, the tentacles of globalization had plucked its jewels from the earth and whisked them away to distant shores, once more frustrating the traveler's thrill of finding in situ treasures of an ancient culture. I asked Marina to find out where the objects were; and the guards produced a copy of the Washington Post dated 7.Dec2007, which revealed that the objects were on tour in America, and that I had traveled almost half way around the world to see something that was in my backyard. As some consolation the guard placed a beautiful coffee-table book of the luxurious burial items found at the site in my hands for perusal. Marina was as keen as I to examine the book; and we sat on the expansive balcony overlooking the valley with a breeze blowing the pages as we poured over the beautiful luxury objects in the pictures.

We then piled back in the car and went in search of the site of the city. After swaying across a suspension footbridge, we found a spot covered over with a corrugated roof, in the fashion of archaeologists, around which we could not peer; but not far away some smoothly rounded stone stairs led to a stylobate, possibly of a round temple mentioned in the museum, all amid verdant farmer's fields with cows, turkeys, and chickens wandering about. As we stepped over cow paddies, Bagrat searched for objects to show me; and he pulled, picked and pried his way through the field. His quick eye pointed out a snake slithering for cover a few feet from me; detected a pile of pottery shards with intact handles and a mirror; and then, honed in on a grape press and dislodged stones to reveal the nearby cuivers, amphora like storage vessels buried to their rims in the ground. A little further down the road we could see the remains of another ancient stairway tucked behind a flowering pomegranate tree in an area surrounded by a barred wire fence. Undeterred, Bagrat helped me climb over some rocks and avoid the fence. Once on the other side we strode up the crumbling stairway then turned to see Marina standing behind us - she had found an open gate.

Having exhausted this area we moved down the hill, Bagrat navigated the corkscrew road until he found the ruins of a wall, which, according to museum information was the gate to the city. A small altar was set inside what might have been the guards' room next to the gate. According to the museum account of the history, in the 3^rd and 4^th century BC the city gate was part of a strong fortress of stone and adobe walls with towers, an adjoining sanctuary, and a cobblestone road passing through it into the city.

Our tour finished we headed back; along the way, Bagrat took a wrong turn and we wandered through a thick forest on a deeply rutted and barely passable dirt road but at last we emerged onto the plain of the ancient Phasis river and returned to the paved road running between the long line of poplar sentries. The word that flickered through my mind since arriving in Georgia was 'paradise' and I had resisted its use; but found myself tempted, yet again, as we drove through this land so burdened with fruit and natural abundance. Finally, I told Marina how beautiful I thought Georgia was. She, of course, agreed but said "Georgians do not know how to take care of her."

"After we gained independence, people torn down the electrical lines" she said.

Unable to conceive of being so desperate, I naively asked: "Why"

"To sell the wire" She calmly stated, and then quickly added. "So, for many years we suffered the consequences of our own folly"

It wasn't until Saakashvili, the current president, took power that services were restored and the infrastructure improved. She said life was easier under the Soviets; but when I asked her if some people wished to return to communism, she said: 'some, but not many'.

Back in Kutaisi, I collected my luggage, and then Bagrat and Marina accompanied me to the marshrutka stop. While Marina consulted with the marshutka driver, obtaining for me the front seat between the driver and the porter; I paid Bagrat, with a little extra for his gracious help; then, walked away, thinking he would stay in his cab; but as I climbed into the front seat of the marshrutka both he and Marina stood at the door like parents sending their child off into the world. While Jason certainly would not have seen this moment as the Golden Fleece he searched for, for me it fulfilled the legend of gold in Colchis. To me they embodied the Buddhist ideal of giving; they gave their help the way a tree gives shade, naturally and without thought.

 

 

City of a Thousand Gods

Like a disembodied spirit floating in the nether world, certain ghostly fragments of past knowledge have the power to beckon images to appear. So without consciously knowing anything about a somewhat esoteric name – like Hittite - a tingle of familiarity may touch you. As the ancient Hittites appeared in the pages of the Bible, the name may conjure a vague image of Old Testament antiquity. Although the small tribe, that is mentioned in certain parts of the Bible, certainly are not responsible for the ruins of the civilization that the archaeologists are unearthing in central Anatolia. These are the ruins of a powerful civilization whose peace treaty with Egypt hangs on the wall of the United Nations building in New York as the first known document of peace between rival empires. They were the rulers of one of the first kingdom in history to have dominion over a vast territory, sharing superpower status with the other major power of the day, Egypt; and they are the builders of a capital city, Hattusha, that was perhaps the largest and greatest city of the time.

But the most unusual, and for me, most attractive of their characteristics is the relatively humane conduct of their affairs; a trait weaving them into a multi-dimensional net, scattered through time and space, of benevolent leaning empires. Unlike their contemporaries, the Assyrians and Egyptians, the Hittites expected compassion of their rulers, deeming heirs to the throne to be unfit if lacking in this trait. Their art depicts only religious ceremonies, completely lacking are scenes that glorifying war fare or human brutality, their kings were subject to the rule of law and the scrutiny of the community of nobles; their laws rarely called for corporal punishment even in the case of murder; and their kings ruled merely as aristocrats, unlike their eastern neighbors, they were not gods incarnate, the kings were deified but only after death, they never ruled as theocrats.

But I knew nothing of their conduct when I first became smitten with them – what first captured me was their shoes. Perhaps not just their shoes, but their art, which is not nearly as monumental as their contemporaries either in quality or size; rather it is more human in an everyday humble, even cuddly hobbit–like way; especially their shoes. Once you have seen a Hittite relief and noticed their shoes you will ever after be able to look at their work and immediately identify it as Hittite – their shoes had curled up toes.

After my first meeting with the Hittites and their art, in the Ankara Archaeological Museum, I felt compelled to enter their world and began seeking out books on their history and culture, reading everything available from the public library, never dreaming that the remains of a 2^nd millennium civilization, a superpower that rivaled ancient Egypt, were completely accessible to a mere traveler. I assumed I would only read about these people and their culture but never walk in their footsteps and see the land that they saw. Then one day I clicked on a website and discovered that the ruins of their capital city, Hattusha, are an UNESCO World Heritage Site in central Turkey – this was for me akin to discovering that not only was the Land of Oz real, but that you can visit the Emerald City and be given the key to the city. Here is a vast archaeological site completely open for exploration by an ordinary traveler without a guide. The lure of possessing firsthand sight of this treasure began sparkling in my mind; and like a cat attracted by the glimpse of a shiny light, I pounced on a bus to Hattusha.

My first view of the city was actually a bit disappointing. Not because the ruins are rarely above waist height and require active imagination to see them as having been temples and palaces, I was aware of their withered state, but because the archaeologists have built a recreation of the city walls. Which in its pristine unblemished condition felt artificial and Disneylandish; but if I was willing to give myself over to imagining life among the ruins why not on the parapets of the recreated wall as well. So, as I returned to the city the next day, I allowed myself to see them as an approaching enemy seeking entry. What I saw before me was a formidable barricade made of sun dried mud-brick walls interspersed with tall massive block towers whose long rectangular windows warned that armed guards would be watching for intruders. Sitting atop the whole structure are the typical Hittite triangular crenellation, providing additional places for warriors to fire at an enemy. It is said that these walls were the models for the walls of Troy; perhaps this was the vision that Homer had when he spoke of the strength and beauty of the walls of Troy. These particular walls protect the lower city behind which lies the cities grandest temple used at the height of Hittite power in the 13^th and 14^th century BCE.

On entering the city, the temple complex begins to beckon even in its much-diminished state. Without signs marking the way to the entrance of the temple complex, I was naturally led to its gates and passed through the portal of a typical Hittite gate flanked by guard's rooms. Pausing in the passageway to absorb the moment of entering a place that was sacred to people some 3500 years ago, I counted myself honored to walk on this ancient sacred ground. Then with only one breath separating me from the Hittite world, I stepped onto the paved street of stones, smoothed and rounded by the stream of human footsteps both ancient and modern. Immediately taking the fork in the road that headed up a slight incline, I was now unable to rein in my excitement- I was finally standing in the Great Temple Complex of the Hittites after so many days posed over books, maps and websites - I rushed past the small rectangular storerooms, found in most temple complexes in ancient Anatolia, in search of the temple proper.

Once again although nothing was marked, I naturally came to the courtyard gate whose stone blocks are abraded by the heavy wooden doors swinging open and closed and pierced with the dowel holes on which the doors pivoted. Like petrified plants frozen in time these humble acts and seemingly insignificant objects have left an enduring imprint of their passing on earth. The space of the courtyard, while lacking in the grandeur of its past, has a purposeful presence amid the cluttered maze of the store rooms; it is restful and feels deliberately designed to invite pause. From the Hittite's text we know that most celebrations taking place here were presided over by members of the court and attended by brightly dressed spectators with colorful banners while music and incense floating in the air. Animal sacrifice was also part of these Hittite religious ceremonies and in a corner of the courtyard -crafted from the hard gabbro stone, reserved for sacred buildings rather than the limestone used for secular construction - stands what is believed to be an altar for performing these sacrifices.

Still driven to enter the heart of the temple, the cult chamber, my impatience would not allow me to linger in the court yard with the summit so close; I rushed on to the opposite side of the court yard. Frustrated at being unable to identify the open stoa that was supposed to be on the back wall of the courtyard and the front of the cult chamber; I quickly abandoned the pursuit, knowing that my ultimate goal was right before my eyes. I need only pick it out of the confusion of stones. After twisting my way through a number of doors in what had become a jigsaw puzzle of stones, the pieces suddenly fit and the puzzle fell into place: At last, I stood in the Holy of Holies breaching a threshold that 3500 years ago only the King and Queen and a few select priests could cross. Here stood, as described in my various guide books, the pedestal of the cult statue against the outer wall surrounded by two long and slim rectangular windows whose sills are still clearly visible as they are cut into the foundation stones (socles) and almost touch the ground. Through these windows could be seen the rocky outcropping of Büyükkaya, Big Rock, just as it was pictured in 1834 when Charles Texier first discovered the Great Temple of Hattusha - I had indeed entered the cult chamber of one of the mightiest gods of the thousands of Hittite gods.

But Hattusha is a large city dwarfing all other late Bronze Age Cities and I was only in the lower city so I still had real heights to reach.