It was just another typical day in the Azerbaijan Caucasus. A picturesque mountain village, fresh air, hospitality (no problem, just pay what you can) and a humble breakfast of bread, butter, honey and loads of tea. Some newly made Polish friends upgraded my plan to hike between the mountain villages of Vandam and Xinaliq from 'Vague' to 'Maybe Possible' with the help of a black-and-white printed Soviet-era topographic map.
I heroically folded myself into a marshrutka and gazed across the backseat at my fellow contortionists. He doesn't look Azeri, I mused. Minutes later I had teamed up with the enigmatic Gus the 'that's a motherfuckin' big mountain' Dutchman who happened to be facing his travel boots at the same valley. We dismounted our trusted steed in Vandam and dined in style at a yemekxhana with suitable "character". The menu involved pondering the contents of the stovetop pots and selecting an appropriate offal to go with the bread and animal fat. hmmm, tasty. With no haste we made camp riverside, at the trailhead under walnut trees; looking closely you would have seen two jitterbugs munching on the atmosphere, ravaged with the excitement of over-imaginitave youngsters waiting to cry "beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, BEETLEJUICE!".
In the morning the first bend in the valley already offered a ball-teasing glimpse at the mountains beyond; the steep valley walls were luscious, densely forested legs that went AAAALLLL the way up. But alas, we spent the next four hours at a military post. The curious, confused glances of the commander gave way to tea and watermelon, and a steadily growing consortium of onlookers, passersby and officials as we waited for bureaucracy to pull its punches. Gus managed to get a local guide on the blower, who on our behalf told the Commander that we have permission to pass, but 'lost' the documents. This bought time, until he found somebody with higher authority to enter the telephonic discussion. Slowly, promises of passage gave way to reluctance, and ultimately a stubborn denial. After playing so amicably, like a child the border guards took their bat and ball and went home. We finally left defeated, but not deflated, and made our way again by Marshrutka-Steed to the next idyllic mountain village en route to adventure.
After another camp where the mountains constantly ogled us, I awoke in the wee hours of the morning to dogs barking frantically in the background, and an unfamiliar growling in the fore. As my senses slowly raised themselves from unreality I came to realise that we had a visitor. and fuck me, it weren't no Goldilocks. after an hour or so of sniffing around our tents, and a few verbal showdowns with the dogs, Papa Bear finally departed as the Sun poked it's weary head over the mountain crest. I curled myself from the folds of my tent, and was greeted by Gus "what the motherfuck was that?!!!!". My racing heart slowed to a mere canter as I murmured "That was a freakin BEAR, man!!"
hugs and love from just another day in Azerbaijan.
joe
