In our first human contact for a week we find ourselves this morning in the company of a team, a troupe, a barrel of steamy shepherds. nearing the camp we contemplate which method to use to get past the dogs. Griet paws their ferocity with indifference, while I battle my manlihood and remain terrified. the dogs are hushed away as we are called into the tent, passing our would-be comrades hard at work shearing sheep by hand.
we feast with them in their midday meal from a blackened pot brimming with a variety of offal swimming in sheep fat. a bucket of salt has provided some contrasting flavour. the greasy concotion is startlingly delicious, washed down with sheep cheese sharp enough tear the your lips back over your gums.
The hands on this Chechnyan could swallow a cabbage. they are beyond massive, and try as i might, my eyes remain glued upon them. until a broken-toothed smile bursts forth and he giggles at the amount of tea he drizzles over his sugar.
The wry smile and wayward eyes of this Georgian speak volumes as we learn that this is only his summer job. For the first time in our escapades together, we find indifference at my Australian nationality and excitement at the Belgian. After much sign language, and a little very broken Georgian-English translation we decipher that in the winter he deals Arms on the black market in Belgium. didn't see that one coming.
the Chechnyan's hands become delicate weapons as he plucks sheep like rag-dolls and graciously removes their winter lining. the workers all plug away in their own fashion, and our wrists get RSI just watching them. it is time to leave, and we bid a fond farewell, stunned once again at the hospitality of mountainfolk and glad the Arms smuggler and massive Chechnyan are on our side.
hugs and love from the shepherds and their flock
Joe and Griet
