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 | Xinalig - A Village Too Far Part Two |
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| By Mike Walsh |
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By Mike WalshO ne question everyone asks me is do I get lonely doing these trips on my own. The honest answer is no. It is hard to feel lonely when so much beauty surrounds you. I would confess to feelings of sadness that there is nobody to share it with me because it is incredibly exhilarating but I wouldn't miss this kind of stuff for the world.
The only other village I cycled through before reaching Xinalig was Qaly Sudat. I didn't know much about this village and I didn't stayed to find out in all honesty. Sometimes I want to stop and sometimes I just want to keep going and this was definitely a case of the latter. Other than screams of derision from a group of young girls, I didn't see any movement in the village anyway. I did stop once I had passed through to look back and admire its setting and it seemed to me that it clung to the slopes of Qizilqaya like it knew it was only matter of time before it lost its footing. Great view though it was, I can't say I dwelled too much on it as I now had Xinalig firmly within my grasp. As I continued my run, turning corner after corner, I began to hold my breath as I knew any moment I would see Xinalig itself.
When it finally happened I was not disappointed. More that that, I was rewarded with a sight that was as stunning as it was unexpected. I was in such anticipation at reaching Xinaliq being a goal of mine for so long that, had the first sight of the village amounted to a plastic bus shelter with a coca-cola sign on top of it, I don't think I would have been disappointed. As it was, I could not believe my eyes. Not only had I discovered what was to me in my four years in Azerbaijan, the most beautiful view in the country, but it must rank up there with some of the best sights I have ever seen. I guess I am biased but I thought I knew Xinalig, having been there a couple of times on my way to Bazaar Duzu. Then I had gone via Cloudcatcher Canyon but on that road you approach Xinalig from the valley below and it is difficult to see the whole village in perspective. Here, I found myself above Xinalig looking down on it. Better still; I could see the whole village laid out before me and how it sat on one of the many spurs of Qizilqaya. Even more beautiful was the sun setting behind it which bathed the village in a serene light giving it such a magical, mystical quality that will stay with me for a long, long time. To my right, I had the majestic cliffs of Shahdag and to my left, the many hills of Qaytar Qoca Sil. Straight ahead, due west, I had Xinalig, the setting sun and the peaks of Bazaar Duzu, Azerbaijan's highest mountain at 4,466 meters. Simply stunning.
I stayed there for about an hour soaking up that view. I had no desire to move at all. There was no need. I was completely content. Even as the sun slipped down beyond the horizon I felt no desire to move on. I mused over the thought of spending the night where I was. I could see for miles in every direction and there was not another person in sight. And the idea of staying there was pretty attractive. I did not know what I would do if I went into the village for the night but I knew if I did, there would be no turning back. In the end, it was the thought of the wolves that made up my mind for me. There were wolves in these mountains, that I knew, and although I did not know much about their habits, I figured it was quite probable that they would scavenge around the edge of the villages at night time to see what pickings were to be had. I didn't fancy being their dinner for the night. Besides, Ruth had ask me not to sleep alone in the mountains as all I had was a sleeping bag, so, with my mind made up, but with some reluctance, I set of for the village, wondering what lay in store for me there.
Ten minutes later and I had reached the village. I got off my bike at the outskirts and started walking slowly up the hill towards the village centre. There were a few kids, all excited at seeing me, and we had the usual fun exchanges before I meet my first adult, a middle age man, who was walking in the opposite direction towards some houses at the far end of the village. We stopped to chat (there is, quite clearly, a universal language) and he asked me where I was staying that night. I shrugged my shoulders and said the word "hotel". I knew there was not even a shop in the village, let alone a hotel, but I had to start somewhere and it succeeded in conveying the message that I planned to stay in the village for the night! His immediate response was to invite me to stay at his home. As I understood him, he was telling me that he was having some kind of party that night. I said that I would be delighted to stay of course so he pointed me in the general direction of his house, being the direction I was heading in, and explained that he would shortly follow before then disappearing away down the hill. (Although he first made sure I had a pair of long trousers with me - he made clear he did not appreciate my cycling shorts!) Well, there you have it, the first adult I meet and I am fixed up with a friendly home for the night.
I continued to walk slowly up the hill before he caught up with me and took me to his home. There was a rush of activity with many people milling around his house and the sense of excitement was clearly in the air. Without wishing to sound vain, I couldn't help but puff my chest out as even this reception took me by surprise and, help it or not, a certain swagger crept into my step as I brought my bike into his garden. Alas, it quickly became apparent that the excitement had nothing to do with me but was for something else far more important. The "party" he referred to was a wedding; not any wedding, but his daughter's! I couldn't believe it. Without a thought, he had invited me into his house to stay with his family on the night of his daughter's wedding. I was dumbfounded at the openness and hospitality displayed. I wasn't given too long to soak up this atmosphere, sadly, as I was hurried into the house and out of sight with instructions to put my long trousers on as quickly as possible. My host, Samad, visibly relaxed when I brought out a pretty cool looking pair of waterproofs to slip on. Had I known I would be attending a wedding I could have brought my kilt but I guess waterproof trousers are the next best thing! I was clearly inhibited by my non-existing language skills (which can be a blessing or a curse depending on the context) so I did little but follow Samad around like little boy as he went from place to place during the evening. To be fair, it was difficult to do anything else as he kept a constant hold of my hand throughout the proceedings. Once suitably fed and watered (with nobody taking up my contribution of a squashed tuna sandwich) it came time to join the main wedding celebrations themselves. This involved a large marquee set up in the centre of the village where musicians were playing. I can't say I had taken too well to Azeri music in Baku but to hear it out here, in its full context, was truly beautiful. (To my horror, one of the first things I did when I returned to Baku was to buy some Mugam music!).
How fortunate for me that I had attended a wedding in this region just a few weeks before so I had a vague idea of the wedding etiquette. That time I had managed to avoid dancing but I wasn't to be so lucky this time. The set-up for these weddings is more akin to a performance that what I would consider a traditional wedding party. Here we have the musicians at the front of the marquee, a dance floor in front of them, then rows and rows of benches on which all the villagers sit. The men of the village take turns on the dance floor, I wouldn't say peacocks strutting, but you get the idea. The men are generally joined by the wives when they get up to dance, with the wives doing their civic duty, displaying unfettered loyalty to the husbands until such time as the husband retires from the dance floor. Then, the wives can return gracefully to their seats amongst the other villagers. This goes on indefinitely and is a remarkable sight as there is a real sense of form to the proceedings.
Like a lamb in a slaughterhouse, I was too busy enjoying myself, clapping and cheering, to notice Samad warming himself up for his turn. Before I knew it, and with little warning, he was pulling me through the crowd towards the dance floor. I was horrified - so much so that my first reaction was to pull against him with an involuntary cry of "yox" springing from my lips. He was having none of it. I was his guest for the night and he wanted to make sure the village knew it. With a conversion that Saul on the road to Damascus would have been proud of, I realized that now was my opportunity to display all my Azeri dancing skills in their full glory. Better that that, I had the whole village to impress upon. Not in my wildest dreams could I have hope for such an opportunity. Having said that, I think it would be better for you and less painful for me if I were to leave a description of the dancing itself to your imagination. Thankfully it all passed in a bit of a blur. although one aspect clearly stood out. Another of their peculiar traditions is for the villagers to walk up to the dancers and hand them over some money - 100, 250, 1000 manats, whatever suits. Once received by the dancer, it is held for a few moments before being dropped onto the floor. Little kids are constantly skirting the floor waiting to pounce on any dropped money but, unlike my home custom, where it was finders keepers at any "scramble" on a wedding day, this money was then deposited in a box beside the band. I assumed romantically that this was a form of wedding present for the newly married couple but it has since been suggested to me that this money is for the band. Well, it came to pass that, after dancing for a few minutes one of the older men in a village approached and placed a one thousand manat note in my hand. Strange, but at that moment, I didn't think I had ever felt closer to the Azeri people. It was a sign of acceptance that warmed me in ways unimaginable before then. So much so that I wanted to hang on to that note for eternity and it was with great reluctance that I let it go and saw it float to the floor. I couldn't help but smile as I saw a few of the little kids scramble about my feet to pick it up. This was a signal for a few more men to come up and give me money also. Nothing compared to the contributions made to the villagers themselves but enough to let me leave the dance floor feeling an integral part of the wedding party. After that, it was back to Samad's house for another round of vodkas but I had had it by then and was dead on my feet. It had been quite a day and I passed out through exhaustion before the second round of vodka came my way.
I awoke the next morning feeling surprisingly well. I was keen to get going as I had a long way back to Guba and the later in the day I set off, the harder the river crossings would be. I knew I'd have to traverse the river 4 or 5 times on my way back down to Cloudcatcher Canyon and, as this was always an ordeal in a car, I didn't really know how I would cope with my bike. Things moved too slowly for my liking in the morning, of course. I couldn't leave without saying goodbye nor without having my passport checked another 5 or 6 times for that matter. I admit that one tiring aspect of my stay in the village was the constant demand by the village elders to know who I was and why I was there. Fortunately I had my passport with me this time so I was confident that this would be enough to ease suspicions. It didn't work like that in practice as I am sure they harboured concerns that I was a military spy when they saw the number of stamps I had in my passport. It brought home to me what different worlds we live in but nevertheless it was simply exhausting the times I had to explain my motives when we had such an inability to understand each other. Particularly so when they took the view that, when communication is difficult, raising your voice and shouting loudly was certain to make yourself understood. All in all I had to go through this process at least a dozen times during my overnight stay in the village and it was too much for me. Still, I couldn't complain as I did appreciate I must have been a peculiar sight to them.
Breakfast was not the event I had hoped for considering I had to sit next to a newly severed sheep's head in a basket - the reality of village life. The wedding celebrations were continuing that day and I was sorry to leave as always but I managed to say my good-byes and convey suitably my heartfelt thanks for the hospitality shown by mid morning. Then it was off with my water proofs, on with my shin-pads and I was soon cycling down the valley towards Cloudcatcher Canyon.
The only dogs that bothered me that day were chained up in the villages so at least one major worry was removed, which left only the river crossings. The current was disconcertingly strong and the water was up to my thighs so I can't say the crossings themselves were particularly enjoyable. It was made harder by the fact that I had to carry my bike above my head each time because any time it would make contact with the water, the current would nearly sweep both me and my bike away. I managed to negotiate the first three or four crossings successfully but, like all good obstacle courses, the last crossing was the hardest. This is the first crossing you come to when driving in the other direction, once the road drops down to the river valley and, although narrower than the other crossings, it is much deeper and the current was uncomfortably fast. Fortunately or unfortunately I had no choice. Had a vehicle been around I would readily have accepted a lift but there was nobody in sight. Going back to Xinalig was not an option and this was the last major hurdle to deal this before reaching Guba. After looking around for a better crossing and seeing nothing I had no option but to go for it. I don't have much experience of crossing rivers so all I could do was proceed very slowly and nervously making sure my balance and footing was solid all the way. I didn't know if I was being fool hardy but I put all thoughts of the consequences of losing my footing out of my mind. It wasn't going to happen. But I got through it and from there on it was a beautiful run through the villages of Quznut Kazma, Qimil Kazma and Katrash and on to Guba. Sadly, there was no real sense of triumph when I arrived back in Guba as I was fairly exhausted again by then and still had the long solo drive back to Baku.
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