High pastures of pain
Delivering winter fodderXinaliq, an ancient village deep in the Caucasus, is special for a couple of reasons: the inhabitants have their own language, unrelated to any others in the region, and stunning scenery. We found Nicolas from Kazbegi in a hostel in Baku and he agreed to come along. The trip up to Xinaliq was in two parts: four hours of marshrutka to a small town the countryside from where transport deeper into the mountains would be arranged.
The marshrutka left Baku and drove out past the oil destruction, miles of abandoned factories, and a failed construction site, with wet noodle rebar and collapsed concrete forms (this one made even the locals do a double take), to the small town of Quba. Here we planned to switch to a jeep or some kind of 4x4 for the rest of the way. But on picking up an English-speaking companion in the bazaar our ride ended up being a Lada "sports car." "No problem," our companion assured us. About the only time I paid attention to what bad shape the car was in was when we had to get out and push it up over some of the rougher mountain roads. The driver was (when the car was moving) fast, and appeared to know the road well; it wasn't until we arrived that we learned that this was the first time he had driven to Xinaliq. This made us all shiver.
Once in Xinaliq our companion negotiated a homestay for us on a small farm. We only really saw our host and the eldest son, as the women-folk were kept away from us. To keep evil away, the living room was painted the traditional red, and decorated with a tapestry embroidered with two mermaids holding hands and kissing, and a giant poster of a lion pouncing on a wildebeest. As soon as we sat down for tea the TV was turned on and Turkish MTV filled the room. Our companion translated our host's complaint: “I bought the TV and satellite dish and all that's on are these boring shows.”
the beatles, or the youth of XinaliqAfter tea the eldest son reluctantly took us on a tour of the village and local museum. The massif across the valley dominates the village, and the tiny white specks of sheep on its slope seemed to have been added to provide a sense of scale. The only outwardly significant change in the past hundred years has been the addition of satellite receivers and glass in the windows. The stone houses appear otherwise unchanged. The villagers were getting ready for winter, pitch-forking animal fodder from overloaded Russian trucks to the roofs of their houses. The museum was constructed of stone and looked like a miniature castle. It was filled with dusty artifacts from the village: shelves full of old Korans that escaped the Soviet purges only to mould away unopened, war medals from Afghanistan and the Eastern Front, Communist Party membership cards and old carpet scraps. The museum was free... that is, until you signed the guest book: that cost a dollar.
morning in XinaliqThe following morning we attempted a walk to a fire shrine in one of the higher pastures. About a kilometer out of town, a truck on its way to collect fodder stopped and gave us a short lift. Standing in the back of the truck, the ride was actually smoother when charging over broken ground then on the road, where we had to hold on for dear life. There were a couple of shepherds going to the same pasture to collect their sheep, so we headed up the mountain with them. They were, not surprisingly, in better shape than us, and we had to practically run to keep up with them. Near the top, I lost my balance crossing a stream, slipped and twisted my knee: walk over. The going wasn't so bad on the way back; we passed other farmers bailing fodder and were stopped by a pair of soldiers on patrol. They were a little confused and didn't quite know what to do with us, and we didn't want to give them time to think so we smiled, shook hands and moved on.
On the drive back to Baku the marshrutka broke down, twice. The first was a flat tire, and the spare also turned out to be flat. We all piled into the next Baku-bound marshrutka, only to have some mechanical component fail about 100km from Baku. It took three attempts to get a "new" spare part that worked enough for the marshrutka to limp into town. My knee by this point was quite painful and stiff, so we decided to take a taxi to our new couchsurfing host (Tasha)'s home.
loading hayAfter the usual taxi driver confusion of trying to figure out where the stupid foreigners wanted to go, one guy stepped forward and mentioned a landmark close to our destination; we went with him. Big mistake. After the taxi left the congested areas around the bus stop and moved onto the wider ring road where the traffic thinned out, the driver could really pick up some speed. At around 100 kph he took his hands off the wheel and put them behind his head and started steering with his knees. The speedometer kept creeping up. No seat belts. I didn't want to distract him so I waited until he had put his hands on the wheel then slapped him, hard, twice. He was much less friendly after that, but he did drive with his hands on the wheel.
Tasha’s easygoing attitude was very welcome after the harrowing taxi ride. As a teacher she has lived everywhere, including Cairo, which she thought was amazing. She explained that once you get used to Cairo, it has a lot to offer; and, yes, it takes a while to get used to it.
road to XinaliqOur last day in Baku was spent chilling at Tasha's. So much emotional effort had gone into planning the Turkmenistan portion of the trip: should we fly, should we take the boat, should we take a tour, or risk a transit visa. In the end the extra-terrestrial visa policies of the Turkmen government forced us to take a tour and fly. So with two hours to catch our flight we hopped into Tasha's trusted taxi and headed to the airport. We got half way around the block and then all the traffic stopped. It was stopped everywhere in Baku. It turned out that President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran was in leaving town and all traffic was halted to keep his would-be assassins at bay. Our two hours to catch the flight was slowly whittled down to one. When the traffic cleared Tasha's driver drove like a star, but we still arrived at the airport with only half an hour before departure. But since nothing runs on time in these parts it turned out we had nothing to worry about. The departure hall of the airport was full of Afghans picnicking on blankets on the floor before their (much) delayed flight to Kabul. We spent our last Manat on beer, and boarded our flight to Ashgabat.