A Feast of Plov in Khinalug

"August marks the beginning of the honey season in Khinalug. The local honey differs by its unforgettable taste and odor, and the local people say that honey is a remedy for curing seventy diseases." 

Another early morning walk. Sara was feeling a little better, the Turkish Afrin having worked its miracle. Our sleep schedules are misaligned, and we've joked we are like the mother and father cats that take turns guarding the kitten-house outside. I had been up for some time, but she was fresh and ready. Both of us wanted coffee.

A happy little stumble through a terraced park where sleepy hosers watered the grass and kind old women swept up the smashed pomegranates. We made our way to a Starbucks where they spelled my name Sayman on the cup. Say, man, you know where the coffee's at?

Today was to be a guided tour to Khinalug, a remote village high in the hills near the border of Dagestan, a mountainous republic inside Russia. "Dag" means "mountain," and the big ones in Azerbaijan have names like Shahdag and Babadag. Sara suggested that when a mountain disappoints in some way, it's a "deadbeat dag," a joke we repeated to one another many times.

It was notable to us we hadn't heard the call to prayer in our time in Baku. Combining that with the low-pressure sales in the Old City, made us feel like they sort of half commit to things. They're quasi-East and quasi-West and kind of just do what they like without being hardcore about either one of them. You want to buy something? Let me know when you're ready. You want to pray five times a day? There's a room over there... somewhere.

It's really nice, frankly. Why put on a show? Do what you like.

The shopkeepers DO sit outside their shops like they're ready to do some massive commerce, but we think it's because it's hot inside, because they don't mess with you.

The tour place operating the van to Khinalug was fairly capitalist, though, insisting we pay in cash. We were introduced to Alex, a handsome, affable guide, who led us to a mini-van. Not a lot of folks lugging up to Khinalug. It was just us, a standard-issue Australian, and an older doctor introduced to us as "The Gentleman from Khartoum."

The Australian, (and just as there's always a guy from Brooklyn in the army unit of a WWII film, there's an Australian on every tour), had just come from Kazakhstan where, he said, he had been eager to flee because it had no beach. 

Alex was incredulous, "It's on the Caspian Sea!" he said, "Of course there is a beach," but the Australian implied it wasn't up to his standards. He then went on to discuss the finer points of a horse-meat diet with the Gentleman from Khartoum. It went something like this: 

John the Australian: They eat their horses, you know. Horse is on the menu, part of their diet.

The Gentleman from Khartoum: It is to their taste, and it is what they have available to them. Do not your people eat kangaroos?

John the Australian: We do. We do eat kangaroos. But not enough, bloody things are everywhere. 

The driver wasn't introduced, but he made himself known by his speed and daring, which is a kind way of saying he was a fucking maniac on the road. "The ride will be fast," said Alex, "but it will be smooth." The first part of that was true. Alex and the driver cackled and cursed for about three hours of Mach 5 mania. There was nothing in the way of a tour, really. Which fit with the theme of non-commitment. And really wasn't so bad.

Like, it's cool to just be taken to a place without having to hear about the average rainfall or how many millets of grain each resident subsists on. We did want to know what the weird colorful disks were that hung from several kiosks on the roadside, though. They looked like collectible vinyl records.

At infrequent moments of stoppage, boys would run to the window and wave walnuts at us. Alex said not to buy them. "Where we're going," he said, "walnuts and apples are free. We will simply shake the trees and they will fall into our mouths."

This never happened.

John filled in some of the toury bits by improvising facts on the fly. Did you know there was a difference between the American gallon and the Imperial gallon they use in the UK? How big is your pint, mate? It's not the same as mine. Course, there were terrible inflation when they got off the pence. Four pence to a groat used to be. Not anymore.

I was able to read through the jostling and the groating and got much further into that Thomas Goltz diary about Azerbaijan. It was kind of a hate-read. Some really good and interesting information speckled around a lot of self-aggrandizement. It's insanely long, but I am determined to finish it for no legitimate reason, really. That'll teach him!

Anonymous Driver's strategy was to ride the white line of the road, never picking a lane until we were in mortal peril from an oil tanker or a taxi or an escaped cow. Then, a lurch to safety and right back to the middle. It was a kind of metaphor for the country, right? Right? Almost too on the nose.

In any case, part of sticking with the monster-book was to distract myself from the terror. Sara tells me I missed several Soviet-era bus stops, which I regret. I did see a giant goat with Satanic horns, though.

After a while, we got to a larger city called Guba. Or Quba. There has been a lot of shifting between alphabets here, from Cyrillic to Latin, and the spellings scrabble around to match the sounds. The K, G, X, and Q all battle for dominance.

Khinalug is also spelled Xinaliq and Kynalyg. The maps are hilarious. Changing the signs has got to be tremendously expensive, so sometimes they keep the old ones and just let you figure it out. Can you tell me how to get to Qarnaqy Hall?

When we go to the sheepy foothills, we saw many picnic areas and families having little cookouts on the side of the road. It was where Quba kicks back. We spent a lot of time doing voices and pretending to be a radio DJ giving out the local station's call sign. WQBA, 98.7, Where Quba Kicks Back. 

Vendors sold honey and apples on the roadside. Men sold meat. The meat was wrapped tightly in white sheets, which I had never seen before. They were like the ghosts of animals. You could tell what it was by the outline. Here is a lamb.

The Alex said, "Here it is not so smooth," and it was not. It got raucous in the Caucasus, and the dumb little van jounced its way over a one-lane gravel path climbing, climbing, and sliding toward the "highest little village in almost-Europe."

And then! We got to a clearing where an army stood. Men held rifles in firing position. A line of incredibly handsome men in black turbans were on horseback ready to charge them. It was completely unexpected and totally marvelous. A movie set with an action scene in mid-production. We were told it was an Indian/Azerbaijan co-production, but Alex knew nothing more. With the soaring dags in the dagground it's going to be a hell of a battle scene.   

Maybe we'll scroll past it on a plane someday. 

Then it was back to forcing smaller cars to pull over and to cursing supply trucks and to the complete destruction of the car's shocks. At some point, Alex spat at a stray dog, and I was consumed with hatred for him. 

We made it to the top, after many valley switchbacks. It was a very beautiful drive (minus the terror) with rusty-fisted crags and pure green slopes against the Azerbaijan-Airlines-Blue sky. In a flutter of chickens, and a scramble of wild turkeys we were in Khinalug. 

Creaking out of the van, we beheld the simple stone homes and the overall peaceful remoteness of it all. The mountains of Dagestan held the horizon and the quiet stones of Khinalug dotted the vale. We explored quietly and respectfully. We saw fewer than ten people in the twisty alleys, emptying pots of water, sweeping with branch brooms. They seemed not to notice us, and we respected their privacy. 

We drifted, I thought, like ghosts through their lives, and I thought about a Simon-shaped sheet hanging from a roadside kiosk. Here is a Sayman. Alex encouraged us to climb to the roof of a mosque. It was square and made from manure bricks. 

We weren't sure if it was cool, but Alex said it was and John said, "Well, if the mufti don't mind..." so we did it. Sara waited respectfully below. It was calm up there and the view of the village it commanded was worth the climb. Then it was down, down, and a stony scuttle to where they kept the food. 

                                            

Apparently, this place was inaccessible for centuries, but a recently completed road connecting the village to Quba, opened it up, and the folks began traveling down with goods and making a few bucks, so they have TV now and can watch soap operas and tune in WQBA (where Guba qyks bacg!) They also do a brisk trade in hosting native meals to tourists, and the one we had was very good. 

Our host was hilarious, speaking bits of several languages. Apparently his Azerbaijani accent was incredibly funny. Alex would double over every time he spoke. We were fed lamb and lavash and potatoes, and a huge bowl of plov. Everything very fresh and flavorful. Cucumbers. A crumbly local cheese. Some exceptional berry jam. 

The host wanted to know all about us. We learned the Gentleman from Khartoum was a doctor. When he heard John was from Australia, it went like this: 

You are from Australia, Australia?

"Yes, Melbourne."

Do you know roo sacre?

"I'm not sure I caught that."

Do you know roo sacre?

"Sorry?"

Ruse la croix! From Australia!

"I really don't.."

Ruse la croix!!!

Alex figured it out: *Is he saying Russell Crowe?*

Yes!! Roo Sacre!!

                                  

It was great craic. We peed our tweeds over that one. Laughter filled the village. 

Then there were some adventures with a Turkish Toilet, and a harrowing ride back during which our vertebrae did more realigning than the Azeri alphabet. I kept my face in the book I hated and tried to stay clear of visions. 

Back in Baku, we bookended the day with a return to the Starbucks. One cannot live on plov and jam alone.