Off the Beaten Track: Vappu, May 1st in Finland

Our guest today is Christine Hammar. Christine  lives in Finland in a small village north of the Capital, Helsinki. She works five days a week as office manager in a transport company. She enjoys reading, writing, gardening in the summer, cooking and long walks. Her eight-year-old grandson also keeps her busy at times as do her four grown children.

In Finland, restaurants’ outside terraces open on April Fool's Day and are kept open until October 31st. As May approaches, the cold, dark winter finally gives way to spring. The sun shines and it gets warmer by the day. The first heralds of spring, the wood anemones and common hepaticas, are in bloom amidst last year’s brown leaves.

In earlier times, the first day of May was also the time when the cattle were turned out to pasture for the summer. After the  winter, people in Finland are as giddy as cattle let out to graze after being kept in the dark; we jump around and make merry--maybe overdoing it a bit, but after being either wet or cold or both for almost seven months (October-April) we’ve definitely earned it!

As the warmth spreads, farmers get to work as soon as their fields have dried up a bit from the melting snow. The potato farmers, especially, are at it as soon as weather permits because we just have to have new potatoes for our Midsummer festivities.

All this slow waking and stretching from our winter hibernation gives way to May Day festivities. It’s a national holiday in Finland. May 1 is traditionally Labour Day in much of the world, and the Finnish celebration blends three traditions:  ancient pagan rites of spring, St. Walburga's day, and the students’ feast.

St. Walburga’s Day has a complicated history. For more than a thousand years before Christianity, pagans of the north celebrated spring with festivals that honoured the sun's welcoming and warming rays after the cold of winter with its short daylight hours, snow, and stormy nights. Spring brought the promise of life-giving forces and much needed warmth. In Germany, this festival was the night when witches were reputed to hold a large celebration on Brocken Mountain, awaiting the arrival of spring.

St. Walburga herself was born in Devonshire, England, around 710 AD. When her father started with his two sons on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, he sent eleven-year-old Walburga to Wimborne Abbey where she received a classical education. Later she wrote about lives of saints in Latin and is regarded by many as the first female author. Several miracles are attributed to her, including praying in a storm-tossed boat  that brought instant calm to the sea.

With her brothers, she became an evangelist among the still-pagan Germans and eventually entered the monastery of  Heidenheim am Hahnenkamm, founded by her brother, Willibald. She later succeeded him as abbess.

The night of May 1, the date of Walburga’s canonization, has come to be known as Walpurgisnacht, blending the pagan festival that marks the beginning of summer and the revels of witches. Though Walburga had no connection with this festival, and many Catholics strenuously protest, her name became associated with witchcraft and country superstitions because of the date. It is possible that the protection of crops ascribed to her, represented by three ears of corn in her icons, may have been transferred to her from Mother Earth and the connection to this pagan holiday.

The rather intense Vappu festivities begin in the evening of the 30th of April with lots of outdoor merrymaking, dancing, and drinking. In Helsinki, the mermaid statue and fountain of Havis Amanda, situated in Market square, is washed. The bronze statue, by Finnish sculptor Ville Vallgren, rises from a granite fountain on the fins of four fish spouting water. She got her name from the Swedish word “hav” meaning sea and the Latin word “Amanda,” beloved.  She represents rebirth and is thus a fitting representative of spring.

Students gather at the statue to give Havis Amanda a bath. The celebration continues as students climb aboard a crane to place a student cap on the statue. They spray bottles of bubbly on the statue and each other—of course, they also drink the sparkling wine. Many students end up having a cold bath in the fountain.

After celebrating and partying through the night the party-goers gather in parks to have a morning picnic, also called "Herring Lunch", and to listen to traditional male choral singing (lovely spring songs, in both Swedish and Finnish) and brass band music. This has become a yearly tradition, no matter what the weather is like. Traditional food includes nonalcoholic mead called sima and special May Day cookies called tippaleipä, which resemble German Schneeballen or funnel cakes

From All Gods to One—The Roman Pantheon

By Patricia Winton

One of my favorite buildings in Rome is the Pantheon which happens to be the city’s oldest, intact one. An architectural marvel, the building’s vast dome spans 43 meters (142 feet) and rises 43 meters, the perfect sphere within a cylinder. I’m awed by this dome, the largest in the world for more than a thousand years until Brunelleschi built the one for the cathedral in Florence. Michelangelo studied it when planning the design for St. Peter's dome.

This area of Rome stood outside the city proper during ancient times. While horses and sheep grazed, the army trained there, giving it the name Campus Martius--dedicated to Mars, the Roman god of war. Legend suggests that a temple to Mars stood on the site at some point, but there’s no proof. Emperor Marcus Agrippa built the first Pantheon, a rectangular structure dedicated to pan theos, “all gods,” in 27 BC. The Great Fire of 80 AD consumed this temple along with many neighboring buildings. Emperor Domitian quickly rebuilt it, only to have it struck by lightning and burned again in 110 AD.

Emperor Hadrian (known for erecting Hadrian’s Wall, the northern border of Roman Britain) constructed the current temple in 125 AD. Apparently mindful of fire, Hadrian crafted this building from concrete.

A 22-meter (72-foot) circular wall supports the dome. Huge niches along the wall originally held statues of Roman gods, the round design ensuring that no god stood higher, and thus more important, than the others. Today, the niches display a motley collection of statues, frescoes and tombs. The building’s only light source is a 8.2-meter (27-foot) open oculus in the center of the cupola.

For its first couple of centuries, the building functioned as a pagan temple. Worshipers burned animal sacrifices at the center, where smoke escaped through the oculus, and they honored the statues in the niches.

During this period, Christianity began emerging as a religion that threatened the status quo. The early Christians refused to revere the Roman gods or recognize the emperor as divine. Nor did they pay the Ficus Judaicus, a tax Jews paid to gain exemption from pagan worship. As a result, anti-Christian sentiment grew, and mobs in Rome began stoning suspected Christians in the streets.

This persecution was mostly random, but by the mid-third century, it became codified; Emperor Decius ordered commissions seeking written certification that every citizen across the empire had burned a sacrifice to the gods. I have seen no suggestions that some Christians may have been forced to burn sacrifices in the Pantheon, but it wouldn’t surprise me.

And then the tables turned. In 312, Emperor Constantine the Great converted to Christianity after dreaming about the religion on the eve of a battle, which he subsequently won. He set about transforming the empire into a Christian state. By 346, law prohibited pagan worship, and ten years later, most pagan temples had closed.

Christian Worship Area

The Pantheon sat empty and unused for two and a half centuries. Unlike many other pagan temples, it survived destruction. Its architectural grandeur probably protected it: it has no windows, it’s difficult to open because of its massive doors, and it was built almost entirely of concrete. Even vandals couldn’t storm the fortress.

In 609, ownership of the building shifted to Pope Boniface IV, who converted it into a Catholic church, consecrating it as the Church of Saint Mary and all the Martyrs. The Pope removed the pagan statues and installed an altar opposite the door. Mass is still celebrated there, and weddings occur regularly. While there is a small sign by the entrance naming the church, the massive carving on the portico, dating from Hadrian’s day, still proclaims it to be the Pantheon.

Raphael's Tomb

The painter Raphael and the composer Arcangelo Corelli are entombed in two of the Pantheon’s niches as are Italy’s first two kings following the country's unification. Like so many other facets of Italian life, the secular and the divine combine here with a military honor guard protecting the royal tombs, even within the walls of the church.

I am drawn to this building, awed by its architecture. Even when it’s full of tourists, it feels quiet and restful. Once, I encountered a church choir, from North Carolina I think, that had arranged themselves in a circle beneath the oculus. They had apparently sought permission to perform but had been denied. So they sang, standing under the dome, just for the joy of it. Worship, indeed.

I blog every Monday at Italian Intrigues  This week I blogged about the She-Wolf, the symbol of Rome and it's copy in Georgia.

The photo of the interior of the Pantheon comes from East Tennessee State University. 

Guess Their Religion—The Fire Worshippers of the Atashgah

The Ateshgah temple compound (photo by Nick Taylor)

By Supriya Savkoor

Here we are, in a fairly small, poor town, standing on a not-so-narrow peninsula jutting about 40 km into the Caspian Sea. Its population is only about 200,000. See those old oil rigs and industrial plants off in the distance? They’re mostly abandoned by the Soviets, though some are operational. Head a few hours north, we’d be in Russia itself. Directly west is Armenia. Wedged between the two is the former Soviet republic of Georgia, as well as a tiny border with Turkey. And over there, due east just across the sea, is that curious country of Turkmenistan. Wanna catch a 10-hour ferry ride just to get about 180 miles (roughly 300 km) across? Wait, no international banking in Turkmenistan, you say? Fine, shall we head south into Iran instead? Except what about our visas? Too bad, cause Tehran’s only 300 miles south of here, and we’d only be driving along one of the world’s most gorgeous coasts to get there. Next time. For now, let’s check out one of the more unusual sights around here, shall we?

We’re plop in the middle of little Surakhani, a small suburb outside Baku in Azerbaijan, yet another former Soviet republic. Had you already guessed this? I’m not sure I would have, my knowledge of the Caucasus being painfully limited. Thankfully, my blogmate, Edith McClintock, here at Novel Adventurers, is taking care of that for all of us. But it’s still embarrassing. Not only is Azerbaijain the largest country in the Caucasus, but like Turkey, it’s considered an important crossroads in which east (western Asia) meets west (eastern Europe). It was also the first democratic and secular Muslim country in the world and remains very secular and progressive to this day. And it’s one of the birthplaces of mankind, sitting right at the heart of several ancient civilizations. The earliest films, operas, and theater all hail from this fascinating country as well, and its unique folk traditions, music and dance, go back at least a thousand years.

If being a cultural hotspot weren’t enough, Surakhani—which means “the region of holes” or could refer to the red glow that once emanated from its natural gas reserves—is, quite literally, a geophysical hotspot as well. The Soviets sucked much natural gas and petroleum from the country, back when the rich, dark petroleum literally oozed from the ground, yet two-thirds of the country is still rich in these natural resources. If all its other milestones weren’t enough, natural oil fires once literally rose from the ground as if by magic.

Issued in 1919, an Azerbaijani postage stamp with an
image of the Fire Temple (Scott Cat. no. 9)

Which brings us to the Atashgah, also known as the fire temple of Baku. The area around Baku is filled with ancient mosques and cemeteries, not to mention the remnants of the many invasions this region has experienced. UNESCO has certified literally dozens of World Heritage sites in this area, and the Atashgah is a notable one. Some 15,000 tourists—pilgrims, really—visit the temple annually.

Of course, I didn’t bring you here just for the heck of it. This temple has an unusual pedigree. Not only because notables like Marco Polo and Alexander Dumas visited it or that the Russian czar, Alexander III, reportedly observed religious rituals there. But because of its dubious religious origin.

Many consider the Atashgah Zoroastrian, the ancient Persian religion Heidi and I both keep harping about in this space. Fire, a central element of the Zoroastrian faith, perpetually burns at the center of the temple, of course, and the name of the temple itself hails from the Persian  word for fire, “atash.” For years, an “eternal fire” burned at the Atashgah’s main altar. Turns out it sat right above a natural gas field, causing spontaneous bursts of fire through seven natural surface vents. An incredible natural phenomenon if you ever get to see one. In fact, Azerbaijan has some of the most concentrations of such “natural fires” that spring up around the country. The natural gas under Atashgah became exhausted in 1969, after about a hundred years of Soviet over-exploitation of the area’s natural resources, but ever since, the Baku municipality has piped in gas to keep the fire burning and keep the tourists and pilgrims happy.

Eternal flame in the Atashgah

The compound, compared to a castle in some descriptions, is shaped like a pentagon, with little cottages for the monks who stayed there and a fire altar at the center. The government has since turned the temple into a museum, and in addition to its UNESCO designation, the Azeri president declared it a state historical-architectural reserve in 2007. Zoroastrian symbols at the old temple abound. A Naskh inscription over the entrance to one of the cells uses a couplet to announce the visit of Zoroastrians from Isfahan in the 18^th century. (There's a 10th century atashgah in Isfahan, in fact, one of the few still in Iran, I'm guessing.) The trident sitting atop the Azeri temple structure is thought by some to be a symbol of the Zoroastrian concept of the “good thoughts, good words, and good deeds” Heidi wrote about on Monday. The compound may have been ravaged by Islamic armies during the conquest of Persia, and it’s thought that the “locals” may already have been worshipping around the “seven holes” even before the Hindus arrived.

Yes, not only have Zoroastrians worshipped here over the centuries, but so have Hindus, Sikhs, and Buddhists. That’s the real rub. The temple might not even be Zoroastrian originally, but Hindu. Sure, the temple’s right in the middle of Central Asia, not even South Asia, and sure, today there aren’t more than a few hundred Azeri residents of Indian descent. Modern scholars and old writings indicate Indian merchants did a lot of trade along this part of the Silk Road, settling down and forming a sizeable community in the late Middle Ages, possibly around the late 1700s. Many of the woodworkers building the trading ships at the time were Indian as well. The growing Indian population may have been responsible for building the temple or renovating an existing one into a Hindu one. Over the centuries, many have written of it primarily as a Hindu temple though. Even historians who are Parsi, that is descended from the Zoroastrians who’d migrated to India, believe it was always a Hindu temple.

Inscriptions from the Atashgah in Baku, with both a Hindu
invocation in Sanskrit as well as a Persian couplet.
From A. V. Williams Jackson’s 1911 book,
From Constantinople to the Home of Omar Khayyam. {PD-US}

And the physical evidence validates it as well. Fire is a common element of both faiths, as is the trident (known as a trishul, as in the one  Lord Shiva carries). But most telling are the Sanskrit and Punjabi inscriptions peppering the structures around the compound. The tribute to the Zoroastrians from Isfahan has its share of typos, and right above it, inscriptions pay tribute to Lord Ganesha and a Hindu goddess known as Jwala Ji—in Sanskrit. Both these inscriptions note the modern calendar year of 1745, the likely date the temple was erected. And get this. Followers of Jwala Ji have long paid tribute to the goddess by lighting either seven or nine fires, much like the fires coming through the seven “holes” under the altar.

There's another really curious little factoid, a side note, I have to share about this place too. If you've read some of my previous posts (such as this one), you may remember mention of the shared ancient history between the Indians and Persians (all Aryans). It turns out a 10th-century Persian geographer by the name of Estakhri wrote that fire worshippers lived not far from Baku. Another 10th-century scholar—Armenian historian, Movses Kaghankatvatsi—confirmed that information, referring to a province called (unbelievably) "Bhagavan." The translation of that word back in the medieval Albanian Caucasus was the "field of gods" or the "fire gods." But what makes this just so fascinating is that in India, regardless of whatever faith you practice, Bhagavan is pretty much the literal translation for God. Wow.


But back to the fire temple of Baku. 

One after another, Europeans visiting the area in the 17^th and 18^th centuries mention the “brahmins,” the “Indian ascetics,” or the worship of the Hindu fire god, Agni, they observed at Atashgah. Some noted distinctions such as the priests’ strict vegetarian diets or their wearing of tilaks on their foreheads. The fire ritual Czar Alexander III observed was, by all accounts, a Hindu one.

Around the time the Russians arrived to cash in on the oil, the Indian traders and merchants began migrating back to their homeland—mostly from the Sindh and Punjab regions of modern-day Pakistan. In their place came Zoroastrians of Persian origin who’d settled in India and came back to ancient Persia to help restore and maintain the temple. Among the many visitors to the temple each year are thousands of Zoroastrians who revere the sacred grounds regardless of which faith built it.

Iranian Zoroastrians at the fire temple in Baku

A Tale Of Two Religions

By Alli Sinclair

One of the most wonderful things about living in a culture different to your own is the opportunity to have new experiences every day. When I lived in Peru, the similarities we shared surprised me and many, many times the differences had me entranced. What I loved most, though, was the Peruvians ability to hold on to their Incan beliefs and blend it with the influences of the Spanish, creating a fascinating, ever-evolving culture.

The main cathedral in Cuzco, Peru, is a classic example. Situated on Plaza Independencia, the main plaza in Cuzco, this impressive structure houses the beliefs of two religions, albeit in a dramatic fashion.

Forming an annexe to the cathedral is the Iglesia de Triunfo, built on the foundations of Wiracocha, an Incan palace. During construction of the church that started in 1559, stones from Sacsayhuamán, an Incan fortress just outside Cuzco, were used—stones that had been painstakingly cut and placed in fortress walls made without mortar.

In 1654, the church was finally finished, despite weathering a devastating earthquake in 1650 that damaged or destroyed many other churches and Incan sites in the region. Within the walls of the church are examples of the Cusqueña School of Painting, including a painting of the last supper by artist Marcos Zapata.

What a brave man Marcos Zapata must have been to create the painting he did in 1753. If you take a close look, you’ll find the centrepiece of the supper is cuy, a guinea pig popular amongst Peruvians, even today. The little rodent is eaten during many religious celebrations and I have more than one story to tell about this, but I’ll leave that for one of our “foodie” posts.

Not only is cuy present but if you study hard you’ll see there are two platters of foods popular with the Incas, including purple, red, tan, and yellow potatoes, peppers, and corn. And what would a religious painting be without controversy? The cloudy, yellow-coloured liquid in the foreground is rumoured to be chicha, an alcoholic drink the Incas make out of maize and spit (yes, we need a post on this one, too!).

Local guides at the church are keen to point out that Judas, seated to the right of Christ, is clutching a moneybag beneath the table and appears to look directly at the viewer of the painting. For generations, locals have said the image of Judas in this painting bears strong resemblance to Francisco Pizarro, the Spaniard responsible for capturing and murdering the Inca Emperor Atahualpa.

When I first visited the church, a guide told me the Incas that had been “recruited” for the construction and had inserted a stone from one of their sacred sites. This way, when the Incas attended church under orders from the Spaniards, they could brush their fingers on the sacred stone near the entrance of the church as a way to ask forgiveness from their gods for entering the Catholic church.

Carved on the wooden doors of the church are pumas, the Incan symbol for the earth, yet another indication of the Incan influence on this Catholic church.

Even though Catholicism is popular throughout South America, there are many references to local beliefs and cultures influencing “imported” religions, such as Catholicism and Protestantism. I love how people have put their own spin on religion, sometimes melding the two effortlessly. Of course, many battles were fought when the Spanish arrived in South America, and this adaption of Catholicism wasn’t without suffering, but today, the people appear to have found a way to balance their beliefs and ancestry.

Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds

Zoroastrian temple near Persepolis

By Heidi Noroozy

The first time my husband and I visited the central Iranian city of Esfahan, our explorations of the city took us to the outskirts, where a Zoroastrian fire temple perches high atop a hill. The structure today is in ruins, not much more than crumbling walls the same color as the yellowish rocky cliff at their base. While there are much better preserved fire temples elsewhere in Iran, this one got me interested in Iran’s Zoroastrian past. Over the years, on subsequent trips, I’ve noticed more influences, from fire and water symbolism to architecture. From epic Persian poetry (such as Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh) to holidays that date back to Zoroastrian times. If you’ve been following my contributions to this blog, you’ve probably also observed some of the ways in which Zoroastrianism continues to influence Persian culture.

The religion is over three thousand years old and follows the teachings of Zoroaster (also known as Zarathustra or Zartoshti, as he’s called in Farsi). Although the exact date of his birth is unknown, Zoroaster probably lived sometime between 1500 and 1000 BC. He recorded his teachings in a series of poems—the Hymns of Zoroaster—which form the most sacred part of the Zoroastrian scripture (the Avesta).

Zoroastrianism was one of the first faiths to believe in a single deity rather than a pantheon of gods and also the concepts of heaven and hell. This duality is expressed in the ongoing battle between Ahura Mazda (the Wise Lord) and Ahriman (the Destructive Spirit), an internal struggle within each human aimed at banishing evil through “good thoughts, good words, good deeds.”

Haft seen

Zoroastrians see fire and water as purifying elements, and these symbols are still common in everyday Iranian life, even if much of the original meaning has been lost. Among these symbols are the mirror and candlesticks that Iranians place in their haft seen arrangements during the Persian New Year. The mirror reflects the candle’s flame like firelight across the surface of a reflecting pool.

The use of rosewater in ceremonies and sprinkled around the house during the spring cleaning ritual called khooneh tekooneh (shaking the house) was also handed down from Zoroastrian times. Iranians still use rosewater to clean Islamic shrines and wash the graves of deceased loved ones.

A number of Iranian holidays are rooted in Zoroastrian traditions. The most important of these celebrations is Eid-e Norooz, or Persian New Year, which takes place on the spring equinox and is kicked off by a Zoroastrian fire festival (Chahar Shanbeh Souri). Another is Shabeh Yalda, the winter solstice, with rituals that reflect the struggle between light and dark, Ahura Mazda and Ahriman. And Tiregan is a Zoroastrian-based midsummer festival that celebrates the rain.

Zoroastrian society of ancient Persia has also left its stamp on Iran’s present-day Islamic Republic. The ancient Zoroastrians had a hierarchical class system, including a high-ranking, hereditary priesthood whose members were known as the magi. The Bible refers to the magi as the three wise men who brought gifts to Jesus at his birth. This priestly class can be seen today in Iran’s clerics (the mullahs and ayatollahs). While these religious ranks are not hereditary anymore, no other Islamic society has anything quite like them.

Farohar image on a plate

Zoroastrianism’s influence extends beyond Persian culture to the Abrahamic religions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The faith of the ancient Persians introduced concepts such as the Kingdom of God (which Zoroaster called “the chosen government”), five daily prayers (Islam), and resurrection. The early Zoroastrians believed that the soul dwells in the material world for three days after death before rising to the spirit realm, which is reflected in Jesus’s resurrection after his crucifixion.

One of the best known Zoroastrian symbols is the farohar or faravahar, a figure with the wings and tail of a bird and the body of a man. It represents a fravashi (guardian angel) and first appeared on royal inscriptions. I have one in the form of a gold pendant with the farohar encircled by a decorative ring. Modern Zoroastrians interpret the farohar as representing one’s purpose in life—to think good thoughts, speak good words, and do good deeds. Not a bad purpose for any of us to have.

Off The Beaten Track: Columbus' Anchor

Sangeeta Nancy Boondoo, an attorney with the government of Trinidad and Tobago, is a student of life. She's always on the lookout for something new and interesting to learn and do. She loves to travel, and though she hasn't yet been to India, the land of her ancestors, it's at the top of her list to visit someday. She loves to go to the beach, take nature hikes, and bake. She does not like to cook, but she collects cookbooks anyway, along with all kinds of other books. A girl after our own heart...

It can be difficult to explain to people why a person can like a museum. I know I tried on a few occasions. Why do I like them? Simple. One never knows the treasures and discoveries to be made when a museum is visited!! Last year I visited the National Museum and Art Gallery (Royal Victoria Institute) in Port-of-Spain for the first time as an adult, with all the time in the world to wander around. I “found” quite a few treasures, but one stood out in particular: Christopher Columbus’ anchor.

The National Museum and Art Gallery (Royal Victoria Institute) is housed in a beautiful old building, built at first as a Science and Art Museum to mark the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria, and hence originally called the Victoria Institute. It was opened on 17th September, 1902 and over a century later Royal Victoria is still a very beautiful lady. 

The building is currently under renovation, with visitors having to walk across the southern courtyard to enter. I didn’t mind because it was right around the corner, and in the recent past the building was marked for demolition. The courtyard is rather inconspicuous, and I remember resigning myself to the fact that only in Trinidad would the entrance to our national museum be like this.

 Passing a white, wiry swan as I entered, I was not deterred, certain that at the very least there were a few cannons scattered around the courtyard, and they were sure to entertain me for a while. The courtyard had a surprise though, neatly tucked away in a corner, next to the swan stood a simple anchor with a metal plate inscribed with some writing. I took the pictures first, and then I went in closer to read the writing. This simple anchor, almost blending in with the shrubbery, was said to be the anchor lost by Christopher Columbus along the shores of Trinidad in 1498—and it had been exhibited as such in Normandy, Paris, Madrid, and Chicago. I was excited, and given that I was not prohibited from touching it either by a sign or the knowledge that I would damage it, I admit I did reach out and touch it, imaging to myself the stories this anchor could tell if it were able to. 

I left the museum quite happy, having photographed and noted the many treasures housed within but saddened at the difficulties that the museum staff faced in maintaining them. It is sad how little we appreciate our history.

Christopher discovered Trinidad during his third voyage to the new world. The legend is that having sighted land on 31st July, 1498 and seeing three hills, Columbus was reminded of an earlier promise to name the first land he discovered “La Trinity” after the Holy Trinity. La Trinity became Trinidad over the years and has stuck. The three hills Columbus saw are a bit of a myth because that triad of hills which inspired Columbus is yet to be found; fishermen report that in certain conditions they can see the Trinity.

Columbus’ records indicated that he and his crew stopped several times along the Trinidadian coast. On the second day of one such stop, at  “Punta del Arenal,” Columbus and his crew, on noticing a large canoe carrying twenty four Amerindians armed with bows, arrows, and wooden shields, ordered his men to play drums and dance. It was perhaps one of the earliest examples of the tourists not understanding local culture but having done some research, mistakenly thinking that they knew it all. The tourist guides did get it wrong long before the modern-day tourism industry. The Amerindians began showering arrows onto the ships and, according to the records, managed to communicate with a ship captain.  

Later that night Columbus stopped somewhere along the coast near modern day Icacos, at a spot in which the sea was apparently rough and lost the anchor of one of his ships. 

An anchor bearing the date 1497 imprinted on its stock was discovered in Icacos by one Mr. Agostini whilst conducting excavations on his plantation in 1877. The New York Times reported the find on April 12, 1880, stating that, “...it seems by no means improbable that it crossed the Atlantic on board the vessel which in the following year carried the Genoese adventurer outward upon his third voyage...”.

According to the inscription, the anchor’s 15th-century authenticity was confirmed by the French Societé Des Antiquiaries. Mr. Agostini later presented the anchor to the nation on March 9, 1912 and it has been since housed at the National Museum.

I have always heard that you never know what treasures lie waiting around the corner, and having literally discovered a treasure around the corner, I can’t wait to see what lies behind the next corner!

Georgian National Ballet Sukhishvili

By Edith McClintock

I fell in love with Georgian folk dance by accident. I’d just arrived in the country during my first visit, and was invited to attend a kids' dance recital. The day turned epic, culminating in an eleven hour supra (feast), but that’s a different story. Before the supra, we attended what turned out to be a national youth festival of Georgian folk dance, with kids from all over the country demonstrating their regional traditions. Despite the age and variable talent, the show was mesmerizing, partly because of the costumes and music with hints of so many cultures, but also because of the sheer athleticism.

Since I loved the youth dance festival, my new friends recommended I see the Georgian National Ballet Sukhishvili, the first professional state dance company in Georgia. They said the ballet toured frequently, but often came back to Georgia around Christmas. I kept mentioning my interest and a few weeks later an American friend who lived outside Tbilisi called and asked if I wanted to see Sukhishvili, and could I also buy tickets for her and another friend. I happily agreed, despite barely speaking Georgian, or even knowing how to get around the city very well.

I walked to the theater during a lunch break, managing to get lost several hundred times, but eventually I found the hordes of people waiting in line. I even had the wherewithal to ask someone who I thought might speak English (based on his blond hair and general scruffy appearance) if he would help me if I had any problems with translation. Sure enough, the tickets were sold out for the date I wanted, but my translator told me they had tickets for the day after Christmas. So I bought the tickets and wandered on my merry way.

Before the dance, I met up with the friends, all American and mostly new to the country. We entered the theater, which, surprisingly, wasn’t full, given the popularity of Sukhishvili in Georgia. The show started, with no dimming of the lights, only a man on stage talking for a very long time—we didn’t know why—followed by another man singing a tortuously long Georgian ballad (they sound similar, no matter the language). I began to suspect I’d made a mistake. Several songs later, we left, asked around, and confirmed I’d purchased tickets to the wrong show.

So while I can’t provide you with a live review of Sukhishvili, as I’d really like to do since they are one of the few Georgian dance troops that tour frequently, I can say with authority, as I’ve seen other performances of Georgian folk dance and watched several Sukhishvili performances on TV, that if they ever come to your town, you must go to a show.

To wet your appetite, below are some videos and a bit of history.

Georgian folk dances reflect the country’s history as a crossroads of trade and war between Eastern Europe and Western Asia. The music and also many of the costumes, particularly for the women, have a strong Middle Eastern influence, while the men often dance on their toes, or actually the knuckles of their toes, or fall to their knees, which seems influenced by Russian and Central Asian cultures (or the other way around). The dances also seem heavily influenced by the medieval reign of King David IV and Queen Tamar in the 11th–12th centuries, the peak of Georgia’s political and economic strength.

Here’s an introduction to Sukhishvili:

Georgia is an ancient land and many regional differences date back to between 2100 and 750 BC, a period of numerous invasions. It also heralds the formation of the Georgian language and the beginnings of the first two Georgian states, the Kingdom of Colchis in the west and in the east the Kingdom of Iberia. These regional divides are still reflected in modern culture and statehood, as well as some regional traditions in dance. 

Georgia is also a country still very defined by gender. Reflected in their folk dances, the men and women do not touch. The women's dances are smooth, elegant, often with rippling silk costumes, and based on traditional women’s roles such as the Samaya, or dance of the bride's attendants, or the Tzkarostan, a dance of water carriers. The male roles, by contrast, are athletic. The men are competitors and warriors. The Mkhedruli (see below), for instance, is a dance of cavalrymen; the Khandjluri, a fight dance with swords and knives.

Below is (I believe) the Georgian National Ballet performing the Acharuli dance that originated in the Adjara region, an autonomous republic located in the southwestern corner of Georgia, bordered by Turkey to the south and the Black Sea to the west. Adjara is a home to the Adjar ethnic subgroup of Georgians and about 63% are Georgian Orthodox Christians and 30% Muslim. Acharuli is distinguished from other dances by the costumes and music that have a definite Middle Eastern influence.

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