Archive for Caucasus

(SUR)real Georgia

Posted in Photo with tags , , , on 2015-09-22 by candycactus

Here is a collection of images from Georgia taken during prolonged stays in 2004-2012




Posted in Caucasus, English with tags , , , on 2013-06-19 by candycactus

Displaced people, robbed public money and overall unsustainable development as an effect of the neoliberalist logic  – same reasons for the protests across the world.

The film Ecümenopolis (2012) describes the background of Turkish protests, but the story is really similar in other places, like Brazil, where tens of thousands of people have been displaced due to the building of stadiums for the Olympic Games.

Sochi in North Caucasus, where Russia is preparing the Winter Olympic Games 2014 literally on the graves of Circassian people, suffers from the same fate. Will North Caucasus rise too?

Watch the film Winter of Discontent published by Al Jazeera.


And some more info, why to boycott Sochi 2014 Winter Olympic Games. 

Caucasian Brazilian Fusion

Posted in CandyCactus Music, Caucasus, Downloads, English, Music with tags , , , , , , , , , on 2010-09-30 by candycactus

back in Tbilisi, Georgia – the amazing, craziest, most surreal spot in the World.. A place where subconscious is all played out: people love, kill, steal, give everything to you, disappear as in a dream and come back transformed with stories of things that can happen for anyone in the rest of the world only in a dream…

Also back in Anna’s cellar in Barnova, again recording music. Here is the fruit of music recording last night (demo): a classical Brazilian song “Aguas de Marco” with Armenian duduk, Georgian panduri and Indian tampuri..!

version of “Agua De Beber”

Posted in CandyCactus Music, Caucasus, English, Music with tags , , , , , , , on 2010-08-30 by candycactus

Black version of Tom Jobim’s “Agua De Beber” – coctail of Brazil, Armenia and cactus, since it Armenian duduk and JHNO with strings in the background


Posted in Caucasus, English, Poetry, Stories and Tales with tags , , on 2009-06-03 by candycactus

“Some have entirely forgotten the lost heritage and the mystery of their abandonment; their games absorbed them, they have become gamblers, they have theories of chance, their talk is all of Progress of one sort or another. They forget the great mystery of life. We tramps and wanderers remember.”

“The town is one large house of which all the little houses are rooms.
The streets are the stairs. Those who live always in the town are
never out of doors even if they do take the air in the streets.”

“Then the spirit drove me into the wilderness to my mountains and
valleys, by the side of the great sea and by the haunted forests. Once
more the vast dome of heaven became the roof of my house, and within
the house was rebuilded that which my soul called beautiful. There I
refound my God, and my being re-expressed itself to itself in terms of
eternal Mysteries. I vowed I should never again belong to the town.”

“I never knew in advance where I should make my night couch; for I was Nature’s guest
and my hostess kept her little secrets. Each night a new secret was
opened, and in the secret lay some pleasant mystery.”

from “A Tramp’s Sketches” by Stephen Graham, a guy who hunded years ago was a tramp in Caucasus. His writings are like medicine healing the sadness being once in a while back in what they call civilization. I am back in Tbilisi, suffocating of cars, dust and noise. Will escape soon. Mountains are close.

Toast for ancestors

Posted in English, Travel diary with tags , on 2008-07-22 by candycactus

Even being sedentary one cannot stop traveling I guess. Yes, I was on one spot, next to the sea. I would read books and practice poi and then have some future building activities – trying to buy a piece of land in order to set up a garden in the epicurean sense.

One can survive there before and after the season. I was before. Piles of plastic bottles, the unimaginable green around and quietness, interrupted only by at the sudden busy Georgians who seemed to grab histerically all their tools and try to repair that has not been repaired since ages. But that’s fine with me as long as the bars, playing “chornye glaza” – the music type I cannot bring over my heart, were not opened yet.

I did not move and people came here with their stories.

There was this Russian familiy around. While eating at the only opened inn I told them from the other table, that they were as smart as me to come before the season would start. Their child, Petia, had a summer cap that looked like a white boat, like from the old times. His face was incredibly Russian. Like from the old pictures in black and white. But here they were. In colour.

It took some time for us to strike the conversation. Both, me and them rather shy animals. Another, when we already would dine all at the same table, Ilja said: I am actually a Georgian. It sounded stupid. Trying to what? To complimet the culture this way, or what? No, my grandgrandfather was Jugashvili. They called him Stalin.

In Georgian tradition there is a toast that one drinks for the ancestors. One spils some of the drink to the ground.

Let us drink to our ancestors: your grandgrandfather, and my grandfather, who was forced to write a poem for your grandgrandfather.

We did not talk about politics, the future or the past. We drank toast for the houses, boats and the black sea.

On the last day, when they had to leave, I ran around trying to find them. I wanted to give them a small childish badge with moomintroll, we were talking so much about.

I found them finally. Ilja and Olia smiled. Like in one of those books of Tove Jansson they started digging in their bags, unpacking and causing a chaos just before having to leave.

They pulled out a small black bag. They said, you might need the bag more than a badge, don’t you?

There were moomintroll on it.

I waved them good bye like a grandma from the old animation film about the lion Bonifacius. I will miss you, I waved to them.

In the shadows of USHBA

Posted in Caucasus, English, Photo, Travel diary, World Bike Trip with tags , , , on 2007-09-18 by candycactus

It smelt like death. Dead meat. Must have been an animal or something, I thought. Hm, so this is the known Svaneti, the praised place. I was walking to Nakra, and looking at the pieces of woodlogs on the side of the small dirt road I thought only how I really like it small.. small mountains, small lakes, rivers, I missed Ajara, Spirakiai and felt so unfitting in that place. No people. Then a young woman with a child. We went to fetch some mzhave zkhali, the mineral water coming out from the ground. There used to be some tourist bases in soviet times. Many sovietzt toursist would come to hike around Ushba, bringing kedi, sportshoes that they would trade with locals to cheese and other food. Empty houses in Nakra. There used to be a sasadilo, an inn. I could imagine tourists flirting with the locals here on the stairs. Only ghosts remain.

I walk to the main street again, 6 km, no people, in the shadow of the narrow  valleys mountain. It is a little bit spooky, but there are no objective signs of what i should be afraid of.

In the main road there are no cars. In the way I enjoy the facts, since there is so much dust after anyone passes by. but now, the warm suns light is turning to dusk and i admitt to myselft that i dont want to walk here. one car comes from the front. we talk, they live in a village in the opposite  direction, say surprised xochax xochax, when they here my story, that i travel alone, by bike or by foot. Their excitement does not comfort me much, since I have read and heard of Svaneti being a little bit wild place. Therefore I let my bike in Batumi and came up by marshrutka.

They leave and I walk again. Strange, I think. THis landscape is not mine.


pics are here, look for Svaneti