140 - Foothills of the Caucasus - Part II (Near Zaqatala, Azerbaijan)
"A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.”
- George Bernard Shaw
AFTER A MOUNTAIN PICNIC BREAKFAST, our friends escorted us to the hilltop and pointed in the right direction, i.e. toward a brook that led to the main river back to Zaqatala. We hoped to hitch another ride on the same amphibious assault vehicle (A.A.V. minus the assault) we rode to Cimcimax. We meandered downhill for a few hours until connecting with the valley stream.
Just before we found it, we encountered a local. To say life is predictable in those parts would be a massive understatement. Our arrival paralleled a Martian landing without the paralyzing fear. He was elated to make our acquaintance. We were to learn his village was semi-abandoned, occupied only by five families of farmers and animal herders. He’d sent away his wife and children, so the latter could attend school. They returned in the summer, but it’s not a stretch to assume the solitude could be oppressive. We were a welcome distraction. Arif was quick to offer an invitation to his home. We were quick to accept.
We strolled to his humble abode through an actual ghost town. Most houses were abandoned, unsuitable even for phantoms. I tried to imagine the palpable eeriness of the wee hours, deciding the scene was the perfect setting for a horror film. At Arif's home, his cousin, Letif, ushered us up the ladder stairs to the second floor. They were downright giddy, falling over themselves in the name of hospitality, literally in Letif's case. He tumbled down the stairs on his way to retrieve wood for the stove. Tea, jam, bread, eggs, and vodka materialized forthwith. I was a tad unsettled by the largess as I feared they might tap into needed reserves, but refusal wasn’t an option.
I can’t remember who mentioned vodka, though my amnesia may be self-serving. If it was me, I’m certain it was only in jest… probably. Never joke about vodka in the Caucasus. Arif sprung into action, emerging seconds later from a back room with a bottle of spirits and a shit-eating grin that could disarm Putin’s bodyguard. I’m a less than staunch advocate of vodka shots, but resistance was futile, refusal an impossibility. Fucking impossible, I say! They were so excited by the prospect of downing vodka with yours truly, I didn’t have the heart to tell them I was a boozing pussy.
The first installment didn’t go down without a fight, propelling me into an epic battle against involuntary regurgitation. Each successive shot went down easier than the last. I now had a newfound appreciation for alcoholism. Before I could say “shitfaced,” we polished off the bottle. They were giggling like children, especially when I preempted them, lifting my glass before they had a chance… scalawag.
We were enjoying ourselves so much, we considered spending the night. Arif and Letif were adamantly in favor. I stifled a laugh when Amy laid down the ultimatum that, should we remain, I wasn’t permitted to get FUBARed. Who knows what two inebriated, not to mention sexually deprived, Azeri men might do with an unmarried female while Richie was lying face down in the chicken coop. (She felt, perhaps unwisely, our sham marriage was no longer necessary.) Seeing as I was already two sheets to the wind, I deemed it wise to leave. We also weren’t sure how long it would take us to return or what physical exertion lay ahead. A raging hangover wouldn’t help. The temptation to linger was overwhelming, but we moved on. Labeling Arif and Letif as hospitable is like saying Jesus was fairly Christian. They emanated a brand of warmth and kindness I was fortunate enough to encounter repeatedly during my global sojourn, though I must admit there was something charmingly unique about those two.
Moments. The adventure was about moments, providing the fodder, the spark, the addiction that propelled me forward on an open-ended journey, replenishing parts of my soul I'd neglected and almost forgotten. For two hours, we four were the only people on Earth. Life was perfect. Imagine kids meeting for the first time on a playground engrossed in that magical world only children can inhabit before being inculcated with so many meaningless distinctions arising from nationality, culture, socioeconomic status, race, and ethnicity. For a moment,we revisited that world and a part of ourselves so easy to forsake.
Departing was sweet sorrow and not a simple task, made less so by Arif's gift of a deer antler from a hunting excursion. I had the sense it held meaning and was something he cherished. An eight-inch deer horn isn’t pack-friendly, but I could not decline. I was, to put it mildly, grateful. We bid farewell, received instructions as to our route, and continued, a bit wistfully, on our way. C’est la vie, mes amies!
Arif said we’d find a path over a hill above the riverbed and on to the river from which we’d entered. We thought it would be obvious. It was not. (Or was it?) Instead of the trail, we decided to just follow the river. Easy, right? Wrong. It was incorrigible, prone to skirting cliff walls and blocking progress. We were forced to make a few crossings, skipping from stone to stone. In the beginning, that was fine, but the water deepened and sped up at crucial junctures. This required a few exploratory expeditions. As dry footwear and clothing were foremost in my mind, I conducted reconnaissance in my boxers. So, there’s me frolicking in the Azeri wilderness almost naked to find safe passage across the icy, fast-moving waters. No dice.
Two and a half hours in, it appeared we’d have to cross somewhere, come hell or high water. (Pun intended.) I found this prospect uninspiring, though we could return to Arif's as a last resort. Before executing another mountain striptease, I scanned the vicinity again for trail signs, inspecting a cliff's edge deemed too steep and treacherous. We were wrong. We were idiots. Not only did we waste three hours, but we’d also walked within ten feet of the track Arif described, right where he said it would be. Whoopsie.
We made it to the juncture leading to Zaqatala. How we were going to get there was still a mystery. It was too late to keep moving, so we'd resigned ourselves to another night in the tent. Our goal was to catch the A.A.V. (minus the assault) that brought us in, something we were told by everyone and their mother would be bound for Zaq at 8 a.m. the next morning. It was that or more river-crossing hijinks. So, we had no clue when and if it would show up, how long to walk back, or if it was even possible. Yes.
Around 11:30 p.m., I awoke to a light shining in the distance. I cracked the tent flap to see headlights approaching from the mountain village where we started our trek. I roused Amy, and we sat mesmerized. What the hell were we looking at, and why the hell was a vehicle trolling the riverbed so late? Besides being dazed and confused, we were a tad alarmed. A vehicle or an evil beast stirred from its lair, devouring all in its path?
Had we considered it, we might’ve dressed and waved down the approaching leviathan we assumed was headed toward Zaqatala. Instead, we stared like deer frozen by the lights of oncoming traffic. This was for the best. From what I could tell, it was an antiquated hauling truck used to gather rocks and gravel, likely staffed with one or more intoxicated mountain men. I can’t imagine what they thought when they happened upon our neon orange tent. I was surprised (and relieved) they didn’t stop to inquire. Perhaps they’d heard of our incursion.
We arose in the morning to find hopes of rescue dashed. No A.A.V (minus the assault) appeared. We were forced to huff it on foot, progressing in phases. I’d recon an area, then we’d doff footwear and waddle through the icy waters. And I do mean icy, painfully so. It took a half-hour for my feet to adjust to a blissful state of numbness. After surmounting a series of narrow crossing points, we donned our boots and proceeded, thinking we were in the clear. Nuh-uh.
We hit another wall where the river pushed water flush against a cliff. A confluence of streams deepened and intensified the flow, making fording attempts all the more precarious. We spotted three young Azerbaijani soldiers across the torrent, border patrol posted near the village where we’d received our minor interrogation on the way in. They approached the water's edge and watched as I tried and failed to find a suitable pass. It turned into a cooperative effort.
We scanned our respective sides for an opening. Young Soldier Number One beckoned me forward to a designated area that happened to be the most turbulent section. I stood in awe as he ushered me across, then gestured “What the fuck” while pointing at the swift-moving waters and doing my impression of falling and being swept away. He continued to usher. I continued to ignore him.
I rejoined Amy, and we gaped in disbelief as Young Soldier Number Two began disrobing. He was going to show me how much of a little girl I was. I was going to watch him die. I returned to the river bank, and in my most accomplished “what-the-fuck-are-you-thinking-you-crazy-son-of-bitch-are-you-out-of-your-mind” sign language, tried to dissuade him. We were skirting the edge of an international incident. Imagine the fallout from the death of a soldier attempting to rescue two morons from themselves. Not good. Not good at all. Moments after entering the frigid waters, Young Soldier Number Two reassessed and aborted the mission. Phew.
We spent three hours trying to cross in vain, and as it turned out, unnecessarily. A shepherd of the sheep-herding variety appeared on scene and offered to assist. His first idea was to join hands and cross together. Ahhhhhh… no. We vetoed the plan, but the thought of dying like that was amusing in a Darwin Award sort of way. Imagine border patrol dudes waving as two idiots and a sheep herder get dragged downstream. “Two Idiots and a Sheep Herder” would be an apt title for the subsequent newspaper article. Think of the orphaned sheep.
He then pointed to a trail tracing the cliff above the river. Um, trail? Yep, that's right, we missed another path circumventing the angry waters in a fraction of the time. You'd think the military boys would’ve pantomimed this option instead of watching me splash in the water like a yahoo. And why would the herder suggest we risk a watery death? I found this rather bewildering.
Mr. Herder Man was a friendly and considerate sort. To a fault. He asked Amy if I minded him speaking to my wife. (We remarried.) It’s culturally unacceptable for a man to address another man's wife without permission, so his unease was understandable… I guess. We were lost and stupid. No time for tribal jealousy. Imagine if I hadn’t given my permission. I suppose we would’ve had to pretend Amy didn’t exist. She would’ve had to narrate our conversation, and we would’ve had to pretend we were communicating with our minds.
He said the trail was easy, kind of hard, not so easy, a bit difficult, hard in the beginning, and then easy. In actuality, it wasn’t so bad. He led us as far as he thought necessary and said goodbye. We thanked him and continued. The rest of the walk did involve a few more crossings of shallower water but was comparatively easy. We'd made it back to Zaqatala not long after exiting the river area. Crisis averted.