I was travelling all night long on the shut-eye train from Athens to Thessaloniki.  I arrived there in a daze. Next thing I knew was someone shaking me awake by the bus stop.  The bus for Ouranoupoli, the “Sky City”, was about to depart.  It was still dark.  The small cafe by the bus stop, crammed with plastic tables and chairs, illuminated by bright neon lights red and blue, seemed like a prop from an Aggelopoulos movie. I boarded the bus and sat next to teenage boys with scruffy jumpers and goat-beards, priests and monks bearing silver crosses on their chests, an old lady buried under incredible shopping bags and a bunch of other pilgrims of various descriptions, all half -asleep. The bus engine roared; we started moving; for some reason I finally felt safe enough to sleep.

Athos, our destination, is a mountain, two thousand metres high, one of the tallest in Greece. It rises upon a slim and rocky peninsula in the north Aegean Sea, like a prayer into the clouds.  Along its steep slopes, in the monasteries, the “skites” and the caves, for the past one thousand years lives a unique monastic community of orthodox monks.  Athos, the “Holy Mountain”, “Agion Oros”, the “Garden of Virgin Mary”,  is the Christian Tibet.  It has survived the turbulent tides of Balkan history since Byzantine times with a perseverance that only faith could deliver.  Athos is a place of prayer and meditation, of worship and dedication.  For some, it is also a place of miracles.  On the southern coast of the peninsula, on a barren rocky landscape called the “vertical desert”, stories are told of ascetics and monks levitating while praying.  

Athos’ history is much older than Christianity.  The Persian king Darius, when he expedited against Greece in 492 BC, lost his fleet onto the sharp rocks of Cape Nymphaion, the southernmost tip of Athos.  He was so angry about this mishap that he ordered his soldiers to lash the sea in retribution. Few years later, in 480 BC, his son Xerxes, poised upon a similar ambition, dug a canal across the peninsula (still visible today) in order to get his own fleet arcross and thus avoid his father’s fate. Later still, during Alexander’s reign, a sculptor offered to carve onto the mountain the head of the king.  Thankfully, Alexander declined the honour, weary of such extravaganzas.  Ouranoupoli (the “Sky City”) was founded by Alexarchus, brother of Cassander (305-297 BC) king of Macedon, during the Hellenistic era.  In doing so Alexarchus initiated the ascetic tradition of the peninsula. Ouranoupoli was planned as an Epicurean-style utopian society where its citizens, isolated and protected from mundane worldly affairs, could immerse themselves into the spiritual joys of philosophy.  Alexarchus, a linguist by trade, went as far as to invent a language for the foundation of his society, by borrowing many foreign words into the Greek “koine”.

Monastic history proper begins around the eight century, when Greek ascetics begun to arrive in Athos.  Bulgarians joined them around 864 and, as communities begun to form, many other orthodox nations joined in; the Russians and Georgians in the 11th century, the Serbs in the 12th, the Romanians in the 15th.  Monastic life went through a major crisis during the period of Iconoclasm in Byzantium.  Many legends persist today about Athonite monks resisting the absolutarian rule of the iconoclast Emperors of Constantinople. The internal strife ended with the Ecumenical Synode of Nice in 787, when Empress Irena the Athenian put an end to the clashes and the icons returned to the churches.  In 883, Emperor Basil I decreed Athos a place dedicated exclusive to worship and forbade settlement by anyone else.  And finally, in 979, Emperor Ioannis Tsimiskis drafted the first Constitution of the monastic community, written onto a goat skin that is still preserved today.

At the port of Ouranoupolis the pilgrims formed a queue in order to get the “diamonitirion”, the “visitor’s pass”.  Athos is a self-ruled monastic republic administered by a Council made up from the abbots of its twenty monasteries.  The Greek state, following World War I, became the guarantor of Athos’ liberties which are inscribed in the Greek Constitution.  There is a garrison of Greek police in Karyes, the capital of Athos, and a Prefect who acts as liaison between the Greek State and the “Holy Community”, while the “spiritual” authority resides with the Ecumenical Patriarch in Constantinople.

There are a couple of shops in Ouranoupoli where you can buy a few supplies for the stay.  Biscuits, a bar of chocolate, a tin of sardines, a packet of cigarettes.  Some people hurried to fill their bags as if about to depart for the Arctic.  Others sat and waited quietly for the ferry; when it arrived everyone made their way towards the wooden pier, like ants rushing around a seed of wheat. I tagged along with a strange sense of uneasiness There was something weird about the atmosphere which was making me feel part of a conspiracy.  It took me some time to realise where the awkwardness of the situation lied.  At first, I thought it had to do with the fact that everyone whispered; there was nothing of the usual Greek-style razzmatazz one gets when travelling around the country. But in the end it wasn’t the whispering. It was something else. We were all men, only men, waiting for the boat, without a single woman in sight!  The last female of our species was the old lady at the kiosk who sold the sardines.  A huge yellow board on the pier proclaimed in five different  languages that no women should board the boat or visit the monasteries.  The same yellow board would appear again and again, in every port along the coastline.  Ever since the ninth century, the Holy Mountain has sealed its entry to women, banning them forever by the law of  “avaton” (no-pass).

Ironic perhaps, because Athos is  referred by the holy fathers as the “garden of Panagia”, the mother of Jesus; it is her property, the dominion of a woman, the only woman allowed to be worshipped here. According to Christian legend, Virgin Mary, the “Panagia”, following Jesus’ resurrection, was on her way to Cyprus in order to visit Lazarus, accompanied by John the Apostle.  A terrible storm forced their ship to land on Athos, near an ancient temple of Apollo. She was full of joy to have found herself there that she asked her Son to dedicate the mountain to her. Jesus’ celestial voice was then heard confirming that, from then on, the place would be “her garden and a port of  redemption for those who wish to be redeemed”.

The little boat sailed past the monasteries, one by one. Dochiariou, Xenophontos and St. Panteleimon - the “monastery of the Russians” - with its distinct architecture reminding of the days after the fall of Constantinople, when the Russian czars took upon them the role of protectors of the Orthodox faith. Like them, many other Balkan rulers offered money and land to the monasteries, as pious gifts. As time went on, the monasteries saw their wealth and influence grow.  At its heyday, Athos was home to 30,000 monks. Some rulers, like the Serbian king Stefan   

Nemanja (the founder of the Nemanic dynasty), relinquished their throne and came to Athos to end their lives as monks. Following the battle of Kossovo (1389) Athos, like  most of the Balkans, fell to the Ottomans.  But the Turks respected Athos’ autonomy, referring to it as “the place where the name of God is glorified day and night”. Their veneration, however, did not stop them from taxing it.  And taxing it they did in earnest. The monasteries’ lands outside the peninsula were confiscated and early this century Athos was left near-deserted, financially broke. During the past few years, however, the tide of its fortunes has changed once again.  Following a destructive fire in the late 1980’s, money was poured in by the European Union to re-built and preserve the unique architecture of the monasteries.  And along came a new blood of monks; young Greeks and others who turned their backs to the modern society of Man for the monastic society of God.  Evidence clearly suggests that Athos is entering a new era of vigour and glory.  

After a brief stop at small port of Daphne in order to change boats, we arrived at the Monastery of St. Dionysius late that afternoon.  Myself and two other pilgrims from Kozani, a city in northwestern Greece, got off the boat and slowly climbed the long stairs that connect the pier to the main gate. A young monk was waiting for us there. He was the “archontaris”, the guest-receiver of the day.  It is a custom of Athonite monasteries to offer “filoxenia” (hospitality) to pilgrims.  The monk took us in the “archontikon”, the reception room,  and offered us a small glass of raki, a loukoumi and a cup of coffee.  We registered our names and were then led to the xenonas (the visitors’ quarters).  It was soon time for the evening Mass, the “esperinos”.

One thing you notice in Athos almost immediately is the lack of common everyday obstructions such as cars, radios, televisions and, above all, clocks.  There are no clocks in Athos. Time is measured in a totally different way here. There are twelve hours to the day, starting from sunrise and ending at sunset.  The calendar is different too.   The Julian is still in revered use, lagging the Gregorian by several days.  It is a place truly out of time, with its own rhythms, that slowly grow in you as well.

The Monastery of Dionysius was built on a steep rock rising 50 metres from the sea by Dionysius, an ascetic of the 14th century. Apparently he had no intention to execute such an opus. He lived quietly on the rock until one day, “the unbuilt light” of God order him to set up a monastery.  The Paleologi, the last Imperial family of Greece, were amongst its benefactors, followed by the rulers of Vlachia and Moldavia.

In the chapel, the “Katholicon”, the strong smell of burning incense mixed with the aroma of the moist wooden temple, the icons, the candle chandeliers and the faint beam of the afternoon autumn light that slipped through the narrow portholes of the dome.  The monks would come and go like shadows, kneeling in front of the icons, once, twice, three times, then taking their position in the dark background.  The hymns were sung by the youngest brothers, the most melodic ones.  There is a distinctly different experience to be in a Mass in an Athonic monastery.  It is easy to forget yourself and become part of another time, an era of emperors and czars long forgotten, of Byzantium’s finest glory.  Little has changed since then on the Holy Mountain where centuries-old traditions live on and thrive, as if history has stood still.

After the “esperinos”, we all moved to the “Trapeza”, the dining-room. The monks, when not in fasting, eat two meals per day.  They are strictly vegetarian, although some fish is allowed during special occasions, like Easter.  The menu served was a typical one: baked beans cooked in tomato sauce, bread, olives, water, an orange and a glass of strong red wine, to wash it all down.  Dinner in the Agion Oros is an experience.  Because food is necessary for the keeping of the body, monks eat.  But they always have to keep their minds to God, even while paying the necessary dues to their flesh.  So during dining, a monk reads a sermon.  No-one is allowed to talk.  You eat silently, listening to the sermon. Each time the monk pauses, you have to pause too; the sound of mouths snapping is considered bad manners.  You resume eating after the monk resumes his sermon.  When the sermon ends you have to stop eating too.  It all takes less than five minutes.  Everybody then gets up and leaves.  For the uninitiated it is a shock, specially for those with a tendency to eat slowly in order to enjoy their meals. Meals are not meant to be enjoyed here and missing them means a long wait of more than twelve hours, until the early morning when breakfast is served. And there are no seven-elevens in the neighbourhood.

After dinner I took a stroll along  the narrow footpath that wound around the monastery.  I found a spot to sit and I marvelled at nature. The sun was setting, the Aegean turned into a dark blue carpet of velvet and the birds hurried into the nests and quieted down; there was peace, true peace everywhere.  The “outside world”, as the monks call our world of worries, was definitely “outside”.  I looked at my “outside watch”.  It was only six o’clock.  There was nothing else to do but read a book, or go to sleep, or pray; praying was exactly what the monks would do for the rest of the evening until daybreak.  I headed for the xenonas thinking I should get rid of my watch.  It was an instrument of self-imposed stress, totally useless around here.

Early next day I packed and said goodbye to the archontaris.  I took the trail to the Skiti of Agia Anna, some three hours walk for the Dionysius Monastery.  The path follows the coastline until Nea Skiti, then climbs on a spectacular height where you get a panoramic view of everything: Nea Skiti, Agia Anna, the Aegean and Mount Athos’ peak.  From there it is a small downhill way to the Skiti.  When I finally arrived there I was greeted by the “gerontas”, the old man of the Skiti, and was shown to my quarters, a simple room with a wood heater and a window that opened to the sea.  There was a totally different atmosphere here from the one in the Monastery.

“Skites” is a word derived from “asceticism”, suggesting a way of life away from a community, even a monastic one.  It is a distinctly orthodox view of monasticism, where the monk lives alone, or in a small group, following a much more “free” way of praying.  Nowadays, besides the twenty monasteries there are several “skites” sparsed around Athos.  They are associated to a “mother” Monastery, but keep their own independence.  The Skiti of Agia Anna, dated since 1007, is the oldest of all.

After a quiet sleep next to the warmth of  the wood heater, I woke up at 5:30 and waded to the small chapel for the morning liturgy. Complete darkness enveloped the world.  Lack of electricity is something one needs time to get used to. The good weather of the previous day had changed for the worse.  Strong chilly winds came sweeping from the sea, cold enough to freeze your breath.  In the chapel there were four monks and the “gerontas”, their faces barely visible under the dim candlelight.  The hymns were now sung without the angelic vigour of the monastery but   

in more human, down-to-earth way.  When finished, we all gathered to the gerontas’ cell for a cup of coffee.  One of the visitors was a priest from a city in the Peloponnese who was had come to the Skiti to visit old friends.  He had spent fifteen years here, as a young monk. He had told no-one of his visit and he was now worried that his Bishop might discover his absence.
“Dear Mother of God, will I be in trouble then!” he said making the sign of the cross to his chest.

Father-Lefteris, that was his name, joined me for the short walk to the pier of Skiti where we could get a boat; him back to Karyes and me for a visit of the monasteries on the other side of the peninsula.  On our way there, it begun to rain.  On the pier we met with some mountaineers from Thessaloniki  who had attempted to climb Mount Athos on the previous day.  They told me of the danger they faced when they were suddenly hit by a snow blizzard.  We were in the heart of the autumn.  At 2,000 metres the conditions were not to be joked at.  But neither were on the pier.  The wind grew stronger and stronger and soon we all realised that no boat was about to brave such a weather in order to come and pick us up.  Father-Lefteris  was exasperated.  With no chance of a boat I decided to walk.

Under heavy rain, I continued my trail to the nearest Monastery, St. Paul’s.  It was my only chance for a shelter. When I finally got there, the rain had seeped through my anorak and my clothes. I was wet to the bone.  To be inside a wall and under a roof was pure bliss. It was there where I met a young monk from Athens, father-Ioakim.  He was about my age and had recently been ordained after spending two years in the monastery as a dokimos, a monk- on- trial.  He greeted me and although it was past the time of dinner, he took me to the kitchen to give me something to eat.  I sat at a table, next to some bread and olives. A plate of cold baked beans appeared miraculously from nowhere, followed by that stupendous glass of red wine. It  was the best meal I had ever been offered in my life.  We stared talking and so I asked him what made him decide to become a monk.

“It is a call I felt inside me ever since I was a young boy”, he confided.  “After spending some time with a spiritual father at my parish church, I decided to come to Athos for a trial period.  My parents were very angry at my decision but after a while they understood.”

Ioakim, as a teenager,  was writing poems, songs and short stories.  He had to burn and destroy everything in order to join the monastic life.  His books, his poems, his tapes with the Doors and Janis Joplin, his old photographs, everything.  He rarely communicates nowadays with his family and has no friends other than his fellow-monks.  A complete cutaway from his past was required by the Monastery. No private property is allowed here either.
“My old life means nothing to me anymore”, he said.  “I do not even care to ask visitors for news from the “outside world”.  Here, in Athos, everything is true.  Outside there is only illusion.  Frankly, I do not understand how people can bear life so far away from Jesus...”

We then entered a conversation into more spiritual matters, religion, Buddhism, Hinduism, until we hit upon the orthodox practice of prayer, the “way of enlightenment” characteristic of the Athos Monasteries. Ever since the Quietist movement of the eleventh century, Athonite monks practice a special type of prayer which is called “noera proseuchi” (mental prayer).  It resembles the Hindu practices of yoga and involves the repetition of specific words while maintaining a certain type of breathing.  The monk sits on a short stool and focuses his mind onto the area around his navel.  By inhaling and exhaling according to a specific rhythm, he recites holy words under the guidance of an elder monk, the gerontas.
“Through mental prayer”, said father-Ioakim, “you can elevate to the highest levels of perception of God. St. Paul, the founder of our monastery, is said to have reached the seventh Heaven where he joined the angels in prayer”.

Bad weather continued pounding at the Monastery throughout the night.  The heavy rain filled the mountain’s crevices with water which formed torrents and streams.  The roaring sound of water gushing from the thick forest was my companion throughout the night.  I slept in a large room with other pilgrims who were all anxious for their return to Karyes.  But, without the boat service, return was impossible.   There were no cars or buses and the walking trail took more than six hours through heavy cold and rough terrain, not withstanding the packs of wolves one could encounter along the way.

Tension was high on the next morning. Everyone was very nervous; except the monks of course who continued with their everyday errands.  Each one of them is assigned a task or a job, as a gardener, a cook, a tailor, an iconograph, a librarian.  Monastic life is a busy one for, besides the daily duties of communal life, there exists the all-nightly prayer and personal effort to unite with God, every monk’s ideal.  According to Orthodox belief, the only thing you have to do is abandon yourself to God, without fear, without passion, with the wholeness of your being.  Just like Jesus on the Cross. The monk prays to enter Heaven during his lifetime by destroying his ego and shedding the cloth of flesh that surrounds him.

“You know the legend of the Twelve?” asked father -Ioakim as we waited for the weather to change in the small kitchen of the monastery.  “They say that up on the Athos highest reaches there lives a small community of twelve Athonites.  They live completely isolated from the rest, naked, without shelter, feeding only on wild grass and praying continuously, impervious to the elements that lash at them everyday.  Whenever one of them dies, they come around the monasteries seeking a replacement.  They stand in the distance and wait for someone to come out and join them.  If no-one does they go on to the next Monastery and do the same.  They never speak a word. Their call is a silent one. There will always be somebody to make them twelve again because, you see, their number must always remain constant, like the number of Jesus’ apostles.  They say that the “twelve” have reached sainthood and their lives are one with God...That is the power of true and selfless prayer!”

It must have taken a prayer of a lesser order, that of distressed pilgrims anxious for their return to the “outside world”,  for the elements to finally quell, just enough for the brave little boat to make its way from Karyes and pick us up.  The pilgrims were exuberant.  Their short stay in the Garden of  Panagia had reached the point where everyone eagered to go back to the worries of the “outside world”. I waved good-bye to Father-Ioakim.
“I don’t think you ‘ll ever come back”, he said to me as I was boarding the boat.
I promised I would.  He did not believe me.  The boat rocked like a sea-shell and carried us all away.