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From the peak of the Holy Mountain in northern Greece an ancient monk claimed to he able to see Constantinople on a clear day. Even if the sky were not quite clear enough to see that far, one could, by gazing northward from the summit of Mount Athos, see a landscape unique in the world today,: a hilly forested peninsula dotted with ancient fortresses. The unpaved roads of its interior are walked by men in black leading donkey trains that wind slowly past chapels containing icons from the 10th century. No cars, no electricity, no telephone poles. On the western coast o'er a pebble beach washed by a bluegreen sea stands the monastery of Xenofontos, founded in 520, and just below the horizon are the glistening contours of Macedonia, battleground of Greek history.
The promontory is physically part of the Greek mainland, but by custom and law it is quite removed. It is an autonomous monastic state consisting of 20 large monasteries and hundreds of chapels, hermitages and retreats. Many small caves remain for the ascetic who wants to remove himself from temptation. Climb the rope ladder, pull it up after yourself and drop a basket down once a day for bread and water. For visitors less ascetically inclined, it is possible to spend a night or more at one of the monasteries of Mount Athos. But the possibility is limited to men.
This has long been sacred soil to the Greeks— even before the spread of Christianity. Ruins of a temple to Poseidon have been found at the base of 6,450 foot Mount Athos, the highest peak in the province of Chalcidice, and the locale would clearly have it so. The rolling finger of land rises at its very end to the rocky peak of Mount Athos, resisting for eons at its base the constant assault of wave after wave of the Aegean Sea. The mountain conveys to men who have lived near it or made pilgrimages to it a sense of spirit and struggle and desolate beauty.
Zorba the Greek had been to Mount Athos and it was through him and his creator, Nikos Kazantzakis, that I first learned of it. The film of the book with its infectious music and dance led me to other works by Kazantzakis, who had made his own pilgrimage of 40 days to Mount Athos as a young man. He first told of its effect on him through Zorba and later of his own experiences there in the autobiography completed just before his death, “Report to Greco.” The long chapter in it on the Holy Mountain can still serve as a literary guide during a stay at Athos. But one change will quickly be noticed; the number of monks is dwindling and the percentage of white beards to black is not reassuring for the future existence of the monastic republic.T
The monks who live and work there are the sole monastic branch of the Greek Orthodox Church, the Order of St. Basil. These are monasteries of the earliest traditions —prayer and selfsufficiency —and were never intended for purposes of teaching, healing or proselytizing. The monks grow what they eat, have no private property and are under the supervision of an elected abbot. All celibate.
Salonika is the most common starting point for a visit to Mount Athos, although there are Greek cruise ships that depart from Piraeus and include Athos on a sevenday tour. Most permits to visit the Holy Mountain are issued at the Ministry of Northern Greece on Eleftheriou Venizelou Street, but the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Athens also grants permits. One can be obtained rather quickly upon completion of an application at the American Consulate, but there are certain restrictions due to the nature of the monasteries: no women or small children, no short pants, no musical instruments, no pets or movie cameras. Still cameras are allowed and most picturetaking is permitted, although some monks may ask not to be photographed. Buses leave daily all year round for Ouranopolis, the town bor
Heaven City, as Ouranopolis trans. lates, is aptly named. It is there that women must wait for the return of their men. And it must look like heaven to the pilgrim returning from an extended stay in a land for males only. He rounds the last promontory on small ferry boat and gazes on a long whitesand beach covered with women in bikinis and children building sand castles while dance music softly wafts from a shoreside restaurant. Saved at last, he sighs, and crowds to the front of the boat. Get Thee behind me, Satan, the old monk In the stern prays and crosses himself at the sight of so
Ferries run daily from Ouranopolis to Daphne, the main port of Mount Athos. At the Daphne dock, permits are inspected and, except for the addition of a few Greek police, it is much the same as Kazantzakis saw it: “We set foot upon the sacred ground. The monks standing on the wharf cast trained eyes on each person who debarked, in case a woman dressed in man's clothing should be hidden among the passengers. In the thousand years since the Holy Mountain was consecrated to the Virgin, no woman has ever set foot here.” The monks also check for female animals.
The one partially paved road and bus line goes from Daphne to Karyai, the capital of the Mount Athos autonomous district, over a small mountain range that provides the first of many
spectacular views. On the western side are monasteries on stilt foundations precariously overlooking the sea; on the east, Karyai itself, the Prototos Church, a basilica of the 10th century where the head monk officiates, the Koutloumousiou Monastery and surrounding vegetable gardens, fruit orchards and vineyards. Along the roadside lie tangled blackberry bushes and ivy obscuring approaches to the forests of poplar, pine and chestnut trees. Bells in a campanile ring for services, and blackrobed monks slowly converge. It is still as it was when Kazantzakis walked its cobbled streets: “Grocers, vegetable dealers, cooks, peddlers, street cleaners—all of them monks! . . . Nothing but beards: black, blond, brown, gray and snowwhite, some pointed, some spread out like bellshaped brooms, others thicit, curly, and impenetrable, like healthy cauliflowers.” In Karyai each visitor is taken to the office of Holy Supervision to purchase a card called the “Diamonitirion” for 100 drachmas, about $3, which entitles him to visit any of the monasteries and receive free room and board for up to one week. (This card is not necessary for those on a day trip.) I spent seven days hiking around the monasteries of Mount Athos and was never asked for additional rent or board money, although donations are accepted after monastery tours.
For thoseon an extended stay at Mount Athos, there are limited means of transportation. All roads from Karyai, other than the Daphne road, are either cobblestone or dirt, and they often narrow down to trails as one leaves sight of the capital. You can walk or rent a mule for the inland monasteries or hire a small launch to get from one to another of the monasteries on the coast. The monasteries are conveniently situated so that to get from one to the next is never more than a day's hike and often under two or three hours.
Those on a day trip can visit Karyai and the nearby monastery of Koutloumousiou and, with the aid of a launch, be back in Heaven City by evening. Koutloumousiou is a 20‐minute walk from downtown Karyai. It was founded toward the end of the 13th century and has among its treasures the left leg of St. Anna and the left hand of St. Gregory Theologos. Although I didn't see these relics, I did have a long walk in and around the monastery itself. Originally designed for 100 monks, it now houses only seven. An ecclesiastical mansion covered by ivy and grape vines gone wild, it appears to be gradually succumbing to the lush vegetation around it. This is definitely not the Greece of rocky plain and dusty fishing harbor. At times the foliage meets over the path to block out sunlight and one could well be in a tropical jungle stepping on ripe figs and dodging vine nooses. Only a few rooms op the upper two floors of the monastery are in use; the rest are empty or shuttered. Within the outer walls is a small chapel with gold and silver icons, ivory inlaid prayer stools and an intricate handcarved wooden altar. On request, a monk opened the chapel's heavy door with a huge key dangling from his waist. The chapel is like a precious egg in a nest half decayed, guarded by aged eagles. The monk demanded that no pictures be taken of the interior and asked that I remove my hand from my pocket.
Outside in the courtyard a cat, fat and talkative, rubbed gently against my ankle. I was bending over, stroking its back, when I heard a board creak. A frowning monk approached from behind, wagging his finger at me. The cat disappeared into the shadows, and I listened to a short lecture in Greek, which I couldn't understand, presumably about feline sensuality. The next day, walking alone through a large garden in the afternoon sun after sampling a luscious Greek tomato, I start ed singing aloud to myself. It was a happy reggae tune about the rain being gone, but I caught myself in midnote. No secular singing or whistling is al. lowed on Mount Athos, the pamphlet had said. I found myself looking up on the hillside for a private place where I could sing and dance in a circle like Zorba. The empty whitesand beaches nearby also tempt and tease the irreligious traveler.
My week's stay was planned in a circle out from and back to Karyai, concentrating on three monasteries. It is possible to spend each night in a different monastery, but this would be rushing visits that should be savoured. Some of the monasteries are more pleasant hospices than others. After a night at Koutloumousious, I walked to the Pantokratoros Monastery in the company of a Greek from Trieste who spoke perfect English and a German with his two sons. When the monastery first came into view, it looked like a Gothic fortress. On a wooden porch built out over the massive front entrance sat two monks in the shade. One rose and came down to greet us. His gay hair was tied in a bun behind, and the beard fell below his chin. After going over variations of the four sentences he knew in English and the two I knew in Greek, we were shown to our rooms and told when and where we would eat. It was as simple as that. There is no visitors’ timetable, as such, of events, tours or sermons. The monks have their work in the fields and their times of prayer.