By Nelya Rakhimova

There are places on the Earth where winter lasts almost 9 months. Yar-Sale is one of them. Located above the Arctic Circle, it is a small town with population about 5,000 people. It’s the administrative center of Yamal Region, which occupies the whole Yamal Peninsula. It was founded in 1927 by Soviets. In 1932 it became the administrative center in order to the Nenets, nomads who live there. In the Nenets language, Yar-Sale means “Sandy Point” as it is located on a sand island surrounded by endless marshy tundra.

My parents moved to Yar-Sale for several years to earn more money. As they worked in the educational sphere, they couldn’t make much money in the south. Because there is need of education for local nomads, you can easily get good bonuses to your usual salary because of the “hardship” status of the living in the area. I visited my parents for New Year’s.

Visiting the northern nomads—the Nenets Nation—became the best New Year’s present. It was an incredible experience also because one of my classmates, Alexey Serotetto is one of them. He was glad to show me around and to introduce me the wild northern life of his nation.

Getting to Yar-Sale

First of all, it is necessary to say that it is one the places in Russia where it is really hard to get to. I flew from Tyumen to Salehard. Then you have two options to get to Yar-Sale: helicopter or jeep with huge wheels. During the summer you cannot drive cars between towns because there are no roads, only helicopters and boats can be used.

During the winter everything is frozen and only experienced drivers can find the right way. They prefer to drive when it dark because apparently they can see the way better than in daylight. However, it is not a problem in this region, because sunlight appears here only for two to three hours per day in winter. Helicopter pilots, in contrast, prefer to fly during this short sunny time.

I tried both means of transportation. As I landed quite late and I did not want to stay in Salehard for a night, I took an eight-hour jeep ride. Even though it is just 190 km (about 120 miles) it takes a lot of time to cross tundra. There is no road, snow covers traces of cars immediately and it is really easy to get lost. There is one stop on the way—the small town Aksarka—which is a good way to know you’re on the right path.

Nomads in Modern Life

The main purpose of the settlement is to provide local people with education and medicine. Every fall, children are collected by helicopter from the nomad’s camp and are brought here. They stay in a special school for nine months and then go back to their parents’ camps. Usually immigrants work in these organizations; most of the Nenets keep a traditional way of life.  They have a lot of subsidies as they are indigenous peoples. As a result they can get additional equipment to make life a bit more comfortable.

Only some of them try to get political power and defend their rights at the local level. They have apartments and from first glance have the same living conditions as Russian people. However, I realized that it is not really true when I visited my classmate in Yar-Sale. His apartment was organized as a traditional tent with lots of deerskins everywhere. They treated me with raw cut fish and instead of soup they offered me a bowl with reindeer’s blood. I liked it, by the way.

Some Nenets fit into the modern era very well, and some of them can get in real trouble. For example, the biggest problem is alcohol. The Nenets have not adapted to it as we have and it’s really easy for them to become dependent on alcoholic.

Day in the Tundra

Nenets people are really hospitable and they really like to show how they live, entertain and treat their guests. I was told that my classmate’s family participated in a documentary series of BBC ‘Tribe’ when a BBC crew spent about one month with them to make an episode about their tribe.  I had only one day to experience the freezing temperatures and their lifestyle was so unusual for me.

My classmate invited me to visit his relatives that were in 20 km from the town at that time. We met in the morning, while it was still dark. They gave me natural clothes to be comfortable during the trip. They are made from reindeer skins and are really warm and comfortable. The Nenets usually travel by snowmobile from the town to their camps. Camps are setup by families that overtake the reindeer in order provide them with the possibility to find food. As they eat reindeer moss, they need to move all the time. So sometimes people come and stay next to the town to get provisions and see relatives who have changed from the traditional lifestyle.

It took about one hour to get ready and another to get to the camp. We wanted to arrive there when it wasn’t dark so we didn’t have much time. It was amazing for me how the Nenets can find the right direction in the tundra. It is a completely white plain and monotonous landscape. Only sometimes there are some hills and small trees. When we were closer, we met the head of the family and he suggested we take a sled ride.

Sled Ride

The people that we visited didn’t have many reindeer. There were only about 300—they told us that is not a lot. They say that each of them has a special name and they remember each of them. Reindeer here are considered a holy animal for people. Life without them in such a severe climate is not possible; they provide food, clothing, and transportation.

There was only one traditional tent (chum) where people usually stay. Women are responsible for the transporting the tent, as well as setting it up, and what goes on inide. Usually there is an iron stove inside which helps to keep it warm.

The Chum

Inside there a lot of deerskins that are used as carpets and sleeping bags. The woman, host of the chum, treated us with different kinds of raw frozen fish and some vodka. As all Nenets people who complete school can speak Russian, we had nice conversation about their life and how they migrate from the north to the south during the winter and back during the summer. Toilets are situated away from the chums and separated into male and female areas. Their clothes are made in a special way to make it as comfortable as possible. However, I was told that when there is a snowstorm they use a robe to go outside because sometimes people can get lost. They cannot find their way back even if they go only a few meters away from the tent.  Also the Nenets will often take a stick with them to the toilet to fend off any overly-friendly reindeer that are in search of salty fluids.

In general, I was impressed with Nenets’ way of thinking. In the beginning I thought that I am going to meet uneducated people with who I do not have anything to talk about. However, I found out that they are incredible people who live in harmony with nature and who are completely happy to be there in such a cold and severe place. They told me how it is hard for them to live in small apartments, and how they miss the unlimited dark tundra, snow, frost, raw fish and meat.

We came back when it was completely dark. I did not want to give back such warm and comfortable clothes because I was going to stay in Yar-Sale for couple days more, but I did.  I was really happy that I had opportunity to understand these people who live in such a severe climate. It seems so crazy for us, people who are used to hot water from the tap and a heating system during the coldest days.

I understood once again that people can get used to everything and that happiness depends only on our perception of situations and that the endless white plain is one of the most beautiful landscapes that I have ever seen.

If you go

If you want to visit Yar-Sale, you need to have a special permission because this area is considered a pre-border area. I would suggest finding people who can host you there beforehand.

Nelya Rakhimova grew up in the town of Tobolsk, Russia, and moved to Tyumen when she was 15. She has spent the last few years traveling and studying in various countries and has recently completed her Master’s degree in the United States on a Fulbright Scholarship. This is her second feature for GoMad Nomad.

Meet Jonas Studer, a primary school teacher from the small town of Brugg, Switzerland. For the last decade he has been crossing the world in search of the biggest, badest, and most exotic waves. It wasn’t until after years of traveling to surf that he began to “see things” other than waves. I caught up with him for an interview on a non-surfing leg of a trip to Malaysian Borneo.

GN: I’ve heard of Swiss hikers, mountaineers, ice-climbers…but surfers? No. How does a person from a mountainous land-locked country develop a life-long obsession with surfing?

JS: The first time I saw a proper wave was in my friend’s brother’s bedroom. We were young. It was a poster of Hawaii’s Back Door. We were sneaking into to his room to look for any evidence of girls that we could find. Instead of girls, we found surfing.

When I got a little older, I learned to surf “static” waves in rivers. At 14, we had raised money for a school trip to Barcelona. Due to a measles outbreak, the trip got cancelled. But some of us wanted to salvage our summer holiday. One of our classmate’s fathers invited us to his beach house in Brittany, France. We ended up using the money we raised for surfing lessons.

GN: Where are some of the destinations you’ve traveled to surf?

JS: In South America I surfed on practically every beach from Ecuador down to Santiago, Chile. In Central America I hit the waves in Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama. Also, Indonesia, Australia (including Tasmania), New Zealand, and Hawaii. Closer to home, I’ve surfed in France, Portugal, the UK, Italy, and Morocco. And there’s one more place…but…I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.

GN: The question I always ask? Does your passion drive you to travel, or is traveling the driving force? In other words, do you travel to surf or surf to travel?

 JS: I definitely travel to surf. But traveling is a nice “side effect”. I thank my girlfriend Camilla for helping me to begin to see things when I travel. In fact, my first trip not to surf was to Bolivia and it was an incredible experience.

GN: Do you always travel with your surf board? How do you transport it?

JS: The surf board is a big pain to transport. My biggest board is 6 ft. 4 in. Some airlines charge extra for surfboards. British Airways does not allow them. You can find information like that on surfline.com.

GN: Has surfing brought you closer to locals or the local culture of the place you were traveling?

JS: For surfing, many times you have to trek to remote places. This has meant that I come in contact with a lot of locals and consequently have spent a lot of time hanging out with them. In Morocco, I took a car about two or three hours south of the touristy area to a predominately Berber region.

GN: How do you compare surfing in surfing cultures, say in Hawaii or Australia versus non-surfing cultures like Indonesia?

JS: In countries with a large percentage of surfers, everything seems to revolve around surfing, so much so, that it can be annoying. It attracts not only considerate surfers, but also the arrogant and selfish crowd.

In a place like Indonesia, you meet independent travelers that have come to surf and they tend to be much more open minded.

GN: Where are some surf destinations that are at the top of your list for the future? How about your favorite places to revisit?

JS: Indonesia is definitely on my list to revisit as is South America, predominately because of the combination of the waves and the culture.

I’d love to surf in Mozambique and Ireland at some point in the future.

GN: Thanks so much for the interview!  Keep in touch during your future surfing adventures!

Interview compiled by Stephen Bugno

By Stephen Bugno

I am definitely not a mall person. You might even be able to classify me as a mall hater. Here are five reasons I didn’t fight malls when I visited Singapore.

5) A National Obsession

To understand Singapore without eating at or entering a mall is like trying to understand Ireland without entering a pub. Singaporeans are obsessed with shopping. The temples they’ve built to worship this infatuation with consumerism, are malls. They are big, they are beautiful, and they are here to stay. My conclusion: understanding malls equals understanding Singaporean society.

4) Nice to Look at

These are some of the nicest, most well-designed buildings I’ve seen. I spent much of my time in Singapore just walking through the malls admiring the interior design, the grand open spaces, the escalators. Not to mention all the beautiful people. Singaporeans look good! In fact, they are the best dressed people I have ever seen. Don’t get me wrong, Londoners and New Yorkers are dressed well, but in those cities there’s at least one person poorly dressed for each one that is well dressed. In Singapore, it’s just beautiful person after beautiful person. Even if they’re not good looking, they still look good.

3) I didn’t ask to visit this mall

How did I end up in a mall? Get used to it, malls are everywhere in Singapore. And they’re almost impossible to avoid. If you exit the MRT (mass rapid transit), you may end up inside a mall. It’s nearly impossible to escape. I tried once for 20 minutes to get to street level and failed. Luckily there are good information desks helping you plot your way out. So you may not have a choice about visiting malls while in the city. Accept the mall. Be one with commercialism. Smile, you love shopping.

2) It’s freeeezing in here

A mall in Singapore.

Singapore is hot. Walking around the city, you’ll think it’s the hottest, most humid place you’ve ever been. Enter shopping malls. They are cold, very cold. And to most people this feels good. Feeling good goes hand in hand with spending a lot of money. There you have the secret to happiness in Singapore. Unfortunately, to the weak (myself included), this shuffling into the ice cold mall and out into the hot street can cause headaches. Why not stay inside the mall all day?

1) 1 +1 = 3

Shopping malls combine shopping with Singaporean’s second obsession: eating. This city is both eater’s and shopper’s paradise. Malls have food courts. These are not the disgusting and dirty food courts that you are used to back home. This is good food. And lots of it. A diverse range of independent stalls offer an array of sophisticated food choices at reasonable prices. Char kway teow (fried broad noodles) with cockles, lemon pepper beef rice, fish ball and wan tan soup, chicken rice, turnip and mushroom dumplings, kaya (coconut jam) toast and coffee,  just to name a few that I tried. The mall food court is the place to get good food at good prices. If you think Singaporeans have fashion sense, they have even better food sense.

There you have it. Malls rule Singapore. The next time you’re here, just try to avoid malls. I dare you.

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Contributing writer Sally Kay has been traveling through South America for 17 months, from Ushuaia, the southernmost tip of Argentina, all the way to Cartagena in the north of Colombia. She has covered many of those miles by hitchhiking.  I was about to meet her in Colombia but she got temporarily held up in Ecuador after being robbed. I was intrigued by her hitchhiking, especially alone as a woman, and I wanted to bring her story to our readers. So she answered some of my questions via email.

Sally Kay above Santiago, Chile

GN: First, the stats: How many times, roughly, have you hitched? How many countries? What was your longest ride?

Sally: I’ve probably hitched about 100 times, give or take, in seven countries.  My longest ride was with a friend across Argentina from Rosario, in the east almost to Salta in the west. When the truck driver stopped for the night we unrolled our sleeping bags and slept beside the semi.

GN: How many years have you been traveling like this? When was your first hitch?

Sally: I am relatively new to hitching.  My first ride was in 2009, but I was hooked from the start.

GN: The question most people want to know: Are you ever scared hitching as a female? Do you usually hitch with a male companion or another female? Is it safe?

Sally: I have been in slightly uncomfortable or awkward situations, but nothing scary.  Like anything else, I think it’s important to be safe about it. I have hitched alone and with another person without problems, but it really is safer to have a partner while hitchhiking.

I don’t think it’s unsafe for a woman to hitchhike alone during the daytime (depending on the place) and by no means would I advise against it, but a woman and a man together is definitely the best combination.  Whether or not you are actually a couple doesn’t matter, it gives that impression and discourages awkward overtures.

GN: I am biased about hitching in my home country, the U.S., because I think can be more dangerous than other places. Have you ever hitched in the States?

Sally: I think that it is more dangerous in the States.  I have thought about it, but the closest I have gotten to hitching in the States is Craigslist rideshares. The main reason I say this, is that while people will tell you hitching is dangerous all over the world, in South America people who do hitch, recommend it. In the States, hitchhikers have warned me that it is too dangerous for a girl alone.  There is also the added problem that hitching is illegal in many states and police will often fine hitchhikers.

GN: What was your easiest country for getting rides? Your most difficult?

Sally: Chile was probably the easiest country to get a ride in. The roads are wonderful, many people have cars, and everyone seems willing to give hitchhikers a ride. I hitched from La Serena on the west coast to Mendoza, Argentina in a day, getting one ride after another.

Colombia was by far the most difficult country to get a ride in. Though Colombians are wonderful people there is still a fear of kidnappings and guerillas. The government even has run announcements warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers. This sadly makes hitching in Colombia almost impossible.

GN: Any stories of over-the-top hospitality?

Sally: That’s part of why I love hitchhiking.  It’s pretty standard for truck drivers to buy hitchhikers meals when they stop to eat, which is always nice.  I have had truckers offer to pay for bus tickets when we weren’t headed to the same place. I have had truckers invite myself and a hitching partner sailing with them.

I think probably my favorite over-the-top hospitality experience was traveling with a friend.  A truck driver called ahead to the city we were visiting, found us a hotel room, and paid for our accommodation.

GN: What has been the most frightening part of hitching; when were you worried the most?

Sally: I have been pretty lucky and haven’t had any really frightening experiences.  Once I hitched with a trucker, it was pretty far, but I thought we would make it to our destination before nightfall.  Much to my surprise he pulled over and stopped for the night and ended up making advances on me.  It was extremely uncomfortable but I told him quite firmly that I wanted no part of that and wanted out of his truck.

As soon as he realized I was serious about it, he apologized profusely and was extremely embarrassed, but it could have gone quite differently.  After that, I never hitched alone after dark or on extended trips where there was any possibility the driver would stop for the night.

GN: Why Hitch? Are you trying to save money or just after some adventure?

Sally: Hitching is more than just a way to save money.  It is a great way to meet some extremely interesting people you wouldn’t otherwise encounter, see a different side of countries, and some amazing nature along the roads.  It is also wonderful to see how kind so many people are, hear their stories, and get an entirely different perspective on life.

I hitchhiked with one miner who had grown up in a family so poor the nine children had to share four pairs of shoes when they went to school.  Half the children had morning classes and would bring the shoes back for the other children to wear in the afternoon.  Not only did the miner have fascinating stories, but he took me and my travel partner to the mine he worked at and let us stay in this amazing house made completely out of salt, with salt tables and benches!

GN: Any advice to anyone out there, especially for females who are looking to travel by thumb?

Sally: There are a million ways to hitchhike, but I’d be happy to give a little advice to help get some new hitchhikers started.

• Do not get into a truck if you get a bad feeling about the driver or the vehicle.

• Bring a map with you. That way you will be able to see the best route to where you want to go.

• Starting early is another good idea, especially for women, but for men as well. Drivers rarely pick up hitchers after dark, and with good reason. You and the driver want to be able to see one another.

• Smile, do a dance, look the driver in the eyes, and make yourself stand out.  Drivers want to pick up hitchhikers who will be good company and pass the time.

Sally has written Ten Things she should know before couchsurfing: Tips for Women and A Hitchhiker’s Guide to South America for GoMad Nomad. She blogs at: Adventuresse Travels

Interview by Stephen Bugno

By Danielle L. Krautmann

A local celebrity

How did  it get to be this late?  I’m lying on Violeta’s bed in her one-room home in Baños del Inca.  Actually, it’s not just her bed, she shares this queen-sized mattress which sits on cinder blocks with her husband and 11-year-old daughter, Alejandra.  It’s four o’clock in the afternoon; I had planned to be home hours ago.

Outside Violeta's house after lunch

When I agreed to go to church with Violeta, I assumed it would be your typical hour-long service…not three hours.  When I said I’d come for lunch afterwards, I thought we would slam down some sandwiches, and say chau.  Instead, we spent two hours preparing a feast and another hour eating it.  After lunch Violeta taught me how to prepare “fresh” limeade with tap water that spurted out of the faucet cloudy and yellow in color.  But how could I refuse to drink it after watching her cut and squeeze 10 limes all the while explaining to me that it is the most refreshing bebida you can consume after a big meal?

I gulp it down as fast as I can to show my appreciation (and to get it over with).  I’ll leave soon and either throw up or take an antibiotic, I assure myself to ease the nausea that is already setting in.  Violeta, seeing how much I enjoyed her refreshment, proudly refills my glass.  I try to politely refuse, “I should really get home to let Brandy out.”

“You don’t have to go yet!  Stay!  Chat with me!  Just give me one more horita of your time.”  Violeta pleas.  And again, how can I refuse?  My new friend and her family have taken me under their wing, inviting me for large meals, taking me to church, and bringing me with them to weddings and other events as if I’m a member of the family.

My new friend, Violeta, is a 42-year-old Peruvian woman who owns the only laundromat in Baños del Inca with her 52-year-old husband Alejandro.  She met her husband when she was 18 and they tried for 12 years to have children. Not until she was 30 did she realize that all she needed to do was pray and God would grant her one.  So came Alejandra or Lisbeth as we call her.  A plump, happy pre-teen who loves watching pirated DVD’s and can recite every line from Shrek and all four of its sequels.

We have nothing in common.  She has a child, I don’t.  My first language is English, Violeta’s only language is Spanish.  She believes Jesus Christ is her savior while the only God I’ve even known is Pachamama.  My house has four bedrooms, her’s is the size of my bedroom.  Despite all this, we have somehow formed a close connection.  Three or four afternoons a week, I go and visit her at the laundromat, spending hours chatting, and sometimes helping her fold clothes (she fired me from ironing).

Lisbeth and I playing with my camera at a wedding.

I agree to stay for un momentito  and try hard to forget about the mud-water limeade I just consumed.  I’ll leave it up to my stomach to decide whether to begin the digestion process or send it back up.  As we prop ourselves up on the bed with pillows to chat, I feel like I’m at a slumber party.  Violeta explains that she doesn’t have a lot of friends and prefers it that way.  After dealing with people at the laundromat six days a week from 9am until 7pm she likes to spend her free time by herself.

“Well then, por que yo?” I ask her, wondering what makes me special enough to be taken in by this wonderful family.

“Porque eres gringa!  Duh!”  She proclaims, correctly utilizing the English word I taught her this afternoon.  She must notice the naive confusion in my face and begins to explain how fascinating the “gringo culture” is.  “Ever since I was a little girl, I watched you on TV.”  She refers to a show called “La familia Ingalls,” which I realize must be Little House on the Prairie.  From an early age, Violeta watched this show, dreaming that some day she would marry a gringo and move somewhere like Europe or the United States of America.

“And I watch American TV shows every night.  You’re culture is so impressive!”  She went on with wide eyes.  “You gringos are so sophisticated, so rich, so advanced.  Your houses are enormous and you look beautiful all the time with your make-up, nice clothes, perfect hair…”  As she goes on, I peek down at my outfit.  With a hat on my head to hide the fact I didn’t shower today, worn cargo pants, filthy bare feet, and a short sleeved t-shirt over a long sleeved one, I’m afraid I must be a terribly disappointing gringita.

I recall the last show I watched on TV.  After five minutes of My Super Sweet Sixteen, where privileged teenage brats scream at their parents about which convertible they will receive at their million dollar birthday party, I had to turn it off.  This is what impresses her?  The chunks are rising in my throat, but I’m uncertain if it’s due to the limeade or her words.

I try my hardest not to cringe as she continues, “I tell my Alejandra to study her English so that maybe, some day, she can marry a gringo, or at the very least, travel to another country.”  The Peruvian dream.  Really.  If the American dream is to work your way from rags to riches, the Peruvian dream is to marry a gringo and move to the States.  I can’t take any more of this.  I’m going to puke up two hours of cooking, and two glasses of limeade.  I need to get home, and fast.

“Thank you so much for today, it was wonderful.”  I tell her honestly.  I will visit her on Monday at the laundromat.

What have we done to you people?  I think to myself as I run home.  I storm into the house, grab some Ciprofloxacin and a glass of water and plop down on my couch.  Feeling unsettled, I mull over a conversation I once had with a Peruvian friend of mine about Christmas.  “Why,” I asked “Do you Peruvians put plastic snowmen and fake tinsel pine trees everywhere for Christmas when it doesn’t snow in Peru and there are hardly any pine trees?”

“You did this!” He exclaimed as if it was obvious.  Then, after seeing in my face what a blow he had just delivered, he softened his voice.  “Well, your country did…or the country you come from…”

Peruvians are laid back, have strong family values, beautiful folkloric music and bright colors.  It pains me to think that people from a country as culturally rich as Peru would want to be anything else.  They want to be like the “classy” gringos who start wars for money, who shake hands instead of kiss and love to be politically correct.  Ugh.  This realization pains me almost as much as the thought of Peruvians watching our TV shows and thinking that is what our lives are like.

I am overcome by disappointment and guilt.  The fact of the matter is that I haven’t invited Violeta to my house because I once told her it was small.  After seeing that her and her husband share their bed with their daughter and their kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathroom all fit into a room the size of the one in which I sleep, how I can ever show her my four-bedroom home with TV, sofa, refrigerator, coffee pot, closets?  The fact of the matter is that I am gringa and the quality of my life is better than that of many of the Peruvians here in Cajamarca.

And yet…I suppose I do the same thing.  I yearn for “the simple life.”  I admire the rich customs in Peru and want nothing more than to take part in them.  I’ve left my culture behind to immerse myself in another.  Who am I to judge?

Either the antibiotics are kicking in, or my stomach chose digestion.  As I sit on my couch, reviewing this afternoon’s conversation in my head, I recount Violeta saying, “You know, we don’t see gringos here often, and when we do, we think ‘Wow! Look how nice they look!’  We want to listen to them speak their perfect English to be just like them.”  This is true.  When I go running in the countryside, people come out of their houses just to watch.  The other day a woman yelled “gringita, please wait.  I want to show you to my children!”  I kept running.  People honk their horns, follow me, and the brave ones greet me or try to speak the only English they know.   “Hello!”  they call.  “Gringita!” they yell and wave.  Children follow me and ask questions.  “What country are you from?” “What are you doing in Peru?” “Why is your dog on a leash?”

I hate this attention.  I want to say “didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”  I usually try my hardest to scoot by as quickly as possible without making eye contact or reacting.

But, aren’t I guilty of the same crime?  I watch when a campesino woman walks by with a heard of animals and marvel at how one person can control five sheep, three cows and two burrows at the same time.  I study their skirts and hats and wonder what their lives are like.  I gawk when they shamelessly whip out a breast in the middle of the street and massage it to squeeze the milk into their infant’s mouth.  They call me gringita, I call them the hat people.

I am a celebrity in the countryside only because few gringos pass through.  If a campesino walked into Concord, NH, hat on head, and baby in blanket on back, we would stare too.  Thank Pachamama we still have diversity.  People will continue to gaze at the weirdo gringa who walks her dog on a leash every morning; I can’t change this.  My only choice is to be the best weirdo-gringita I can be.  I can answer their questions, return their Hello’s, and every now and then wait, so the woman can show me to her kids.  Turns out, I’m representing a culture.  “The gringo culture.”

Gergeti Trinity Church on the hill above Kazbegi, Georgia

Georgian culture is completely inseparable from their orthodox Christianity.  The land and people have been Christian since the 4th century.  People walking past a Georgian church stop, face the church, and cross themselves before continuing on their way.  The interior of the churches are dim with painted icons of saints and the holy family on the walls.  Devotees kiss the icon and then dip their forehead to lightly touch the object as they pray.  This is also done on the outside of the church’s gates and the interior corners of the building.  Services are marked by chanting prayers and ethereal singing by the priest and select groups of worshippers.  The Byzantine faces of the art, the candles, and the devotion of the people make the churches much more than a tourist attraction.

Text by Jett Thomason, photos by Stephen Bugno

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The Jvari Monestery on the cliff overlooking Mtsketa