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 | | Midsummer in the Caucasian Foothills A Tourist Idyll - But Life is Not So Easy for the Locals |
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| By Jill Sperandio |
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Midsummer's Eve - the giant chestnut trees in the groves around the village of Jar are in bloom, their long creamy tassels framed by rosettes of fresh green leaves, their great girths reminders of a long and productive past. In the meadows the flower strewn grass falls to the swish of the scythe, and is forked onto the small stacks that dot the field. More hay is piled into a mountain atop of a cart whose patient horse peers out beneath a fringe of stalks as it wends its way back to the byre and the hayloft. Their work done, the hay makers sit beneath a tree while the samovar steams and a cloth is spread - roundels of bread, white salted cheese, sweet summer tomatoes and cucumber, pickles and preserves, washed down with glasses of tea laced with lemon slices and sugar lumps.
On the lower slopes of the hills, an old man watches over the village bee hives, the bees lured to the flowers of the linden trees, their heavy fragrance mixing with the smell of cut grass to scent the long summer evening. A lazy cow ambles down the cobbled streets, pausing to sample the branches overhanging the garden walls - mulberries, staining the street purple; persimmon, just finished flowering, the miniature fruit just setting; yellow and black cherries sunsweet and juicy; apples and figs still forming, walnuts, hazelnuts and almonds swelling in the warmth. Another cow lowers its head to drink from the little stream tinkling down the cobbles before disappearing through a hole in a garden wall to water a vegetable plot here, a rose patch there, then under another wall to waiting green beans and peonies.
Lace curtains flutter in the breeze through the open windows of the two storey houses, their light gray stonework and roofs brightened by the orange of decorative brickwork and roof tiles. Roses clamber over walls and barns, chicken and geese forage for tidbits. Another samovar appears on the bright plastic cloth set in the shade of the fruit trees for afternoon tea and the hot bread carried by a grandchild from her mother's oven to the elderly couple surveying the garden. The urge to lie in the clover and dose over a book that doesn't need to be read becomes irresistible.
Down at the boulder-strewn riverbed the village boys have stripped to their underwear, and are damming pools, splashing and shouting. A lad picks handfuls of wild strawberries and shares with a friend and two honey buzzards circle lazily overhead. As the heat increases, the dark leafy cool of the beech woods that rise up the hillsides around the village is inviting - but the climb up through them to the green summer pastures above the tree line is strenuous, a scramble through beechmast and leaf mold. But from the top the reward is views of snow capped peaks against the blue sky stretching off to Dagestan, and the plain beneath where the road to Georgia skirts round the hills.
In the cool of the evening people come to the little square around the 700-year-old chestnut tree in the little town of Zagatala. Grandparents with toddlers, courting couples, kids playing games on the pavement. The neighboring shopkeepers move their refrigerators to more prominent positions on the pavement, and settle down under jaunty umbrellas to sell ice cream. Heavily laden Ladas leave the Bazaar where the stallholders are packing up, for far-flung villages and farms. The last bus to Baku honks is way out of the bus station. The young soldier on duty outside the barracks in the old fort yawns, and wishes he were somewhere else.
11pm and night falls - the magic hour of Midsummer's Eve when the fairies dance in the leafy glades in the depths of the forest. But few are around to ponder these ancient rites or see the dawn of the longest day of the year. The moon rises over sleeping hamlets and towns, glints on the tin roofs of little mosques and the ruins of ancient Albanian churches and dances with the fast flowing waters of the mountain streams. Midsummer in the Caucasus - truly magic!
For the tourist - definitely. But for local farmers life is less idyllic. "Yes, it looks lovely, but there is no work, no money" - moans a local farmer, hospitably sharing tea and fresh baked bread. The local factories that used to process agricultural produce such as tobacco and nuts are now defunct or facing stiff competition from similar goods being imported from Turkey or the CIS who have been quicker to revamp their agricultural sectors for the export market. Agricultural equipment is now outdated or has broken down, with few farmers able to afford new, and no collective or cooperative organizations to facilitate purchase. This has forced most farmers back to substance farming, requiring long hours of hard toil and hand labour in the fields.
Tourism has a great future in this region - both from a growing middle class in urban centers, and in the future from foreign tourists. If properly managed, it could bring in additional income for the rural farming community. But to do this it must be carefully managed - and Azerbaijan should learn from the mistakes of some such as the unattractive overdevelopment of the Turkish coast, and from the successes of others, such as the state tourist organization of Kirgystan. The haphazard developments of camps and chalets along river valleys in the Caucasus, and the garbage-strewn river in Sheki are not attractive - standards should be kept high, and prices low until destinations have become established. Farming communities should be advised on the ways to cash in on the tourist market - through Bed and Breakfast schemes, the manufacture of high quality craft products for sale to tourists, and provision of services such as pony trekking and guided walks, even the setting up of local tourist organizations. Above all the natural environment must be protected - the forests managed, the cutting down of prime timber for firewood stopped, the replanting of trees on eroding hillsides, the protection of the many rare species of plants, animals and birds with which Azerbaijan is blessed. With forethought and planning now, the magic of midsummer in the foothills of the Caucasus will be enjoyed for many generations to come.
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