A Day of Discovery in the Russian Heartland
By Colleen F. Halley
Spring 1992
Printed in Great Expeditions, Spring 1992
When I left St. Petersburg that afternoon, there was a chill in the air and the forecast, as always, called for rain. I had only a vague idea of what I was getting myself into as I boarded an Aeroflot plane bound for Makhachkala, capital of the Dagestan Autonomous Republic of what, up until three weeks prior, was the Soviet Union. Three hours later, we were descending into the valley.
As we flew broke through the light cloud cover, enormous peaks rose up to meet us. We weaved in and out for a few minutes and finally came over the last of the Caucasus foothills. The mountains carved a sunset into the sky as if razors and the sun's last rays blood.
Below lay the glitter reflections of light from the towns of Makhachkala and Kaspeesk. The sky glowed a red that could only remind one of Stalin and the Old Regime of Soviet power. The natural gas field in some places had caught fire and burned bright, lighting up night into day, reflecting in the Caspian Sea only a few mile from the mountains. The moon was full that night, as were my expectations.
I was entering the land of Avars and Chechens, home to Cossacks who lived off the land as if just another animal roaming free in the mountains. This long fought-over region had been father to a strong people, a blend over time of Tatar, Moslem, Great Russian and Caucasian tribes. They were the characters whom I had encountered before only in the stories of Pushkin and Tolstoy.
This is Dagestan -- 146,000 square miles of land situated in the northeastern part of trans-caucasia, home to over 900,000 people from more than 40 different ethnic groups. Makhachkala, the capital, rests on a few miles of flatlands nuzzled in between the foothills of the northern Caucasus and the shores of the Caspian Sea.
The chance has arrived for foreigners to travel, explore and discover this land of a mysterious and unique past . Once limited by stringent rules of travel, the system has made way for the curiosity of the west.
The recent changes in the former Soviet Union have opened this area to foreign travel, but have not seen the loss of all of that fascinates the western mind. The sweeping changes have only begun to reach deep into Dagestan.
The statues of Lenin and Stalin have not yet been toppled as they have in many parts. In fact, the ideas of Lenin, and even of Stalin in many cases, are still looked upon here with respect by many. But there is still a chance to grab hold of an even more remote past. The culture and traditions from centuries ago still find a home in the village regions tucked away in these mountains and shores.
Before the Soviets, a wide number of people occupied this area. As early as 1000 B.C., Scythians and Samaratins crossed the land en route to the west. The first known settlers were Avars, who by 650 A.D. established their rule throughout the region. Tatar influence became a staple during the 200 year occupation following the conquest by Ghengis Khan in 1223. Actual Russian presence was not made until the time of Peter the Great, when he pushed Russian influence south of the Terek River in 1722. Dagestan came under Tsarist rule officially in 1806.
Originally, a wide array of people were drawn to Dagestan by the riches of mountains and sea. Currently, over 40 different ethnic groups exist in the region, mostly of Caucasian and Turkic background and include Avars, Laks, Dargins, Lezgians, Aguls, Rutuls and Tabasarans.
The golden age of Dagestan's history came during the rule of the Imam Shamyl, Master of Dagestan in the late 1700's. The Imam was the first successful ruler to unite the many tribes of the region. As you can see today, ethnic hostilities still prevail in the southern parts of trans-caucasia including Georgia and Azerbaijan.
While a student in St. Petersburg, I had many opportunities to travel, but none so unique and adventurous as this. It all started with a Russian student named Andrei.
He was perhaps the most unique and long-lasting friend I made while in Russia. As students at the same university, we got to talking - he in his broken English, me in my limited Russian. Very often he would talk of home, the sea, the mountains. We both came from beach towns -- his on the Caspian, mine on the Jersey Shore. He said some day I should visit his home, that it would be a learning experience never equaled in the classroom.
He was right.
Within a week, we were on our way.
With the current political unrest in the Caucasus and the civil war in Georgia, the neighboring republic, I had my own concerns about the trip. I wasn't sure what to expect.
Dagestan turned out to be the ideal place to go. It allowed me to experience the trans-caucasian culture without placing myself in the middle of a civil war. Dagestan has remained free from such internal strife, while offering the same cultural delight.
The first adventure one encounters when traveling in Russia will most likely arrive during the Aeroflot flight. The only airline of Russia, Aeroflot is truly unique. From the rarity of being able to buy round trip tickets to seeing farm animal such as chickens pass for carry-on luggage, you are sure to be entertained.
Passengers on Aeroflot should not expect the service and style of western airlines. Very often, planes can be filled with flies and get extremely hot (even in the winter). Most recently, unforeseen fuel shortages have caused flight delays up to and beyond a week long, and this is sure to worsen once fuel prices are deregulated. The flights do, however, serve to prepare the passengers for their stay in non-metropolitan areas Russia.
Daytime flights over the mountains can be breathtaking. As you approach the airport just outside of Makhachkala, the beauty of the mountains joins the splendor of the sea. It creates a balance to nature's beauty and can be a pleasant distraction from the often abrupt Aeroflot landings.
My arrival in Dagestan was greeted with exceptional warmth. Andrei's special visit home had brought the entire family out to welcome us. His mother, father, sister, aunt, uncle and cousins were all very eager to meet their first American.
As we walked through the airport gates, his mother approached me, wearing a truly Russian smile that could have warmed the loneliest of homesick hearts, and hugged me. At once, I realized how much it meant to her that some foreign girl had brought her son home to visit.( Normally, students manage only one visit home throughout the year.) His sister took me arm in arm and walked me to the car. Seven of us piled into the family Lada and began the very cramped ride home.
That evening I had my first taste of ethnic Dagestan food. His mother had spent the entire day preparing a welcome home feast.
They dishes were spicy, exciting my tastebuds that seemed to have been in hibernation since my arrival in St. Petersburg. We ate from a table of pickled tomatoes, a cucumber salad, baked yams, breaded eggplant, spicy meatballs in a rich tomato sauce, smetana (a Russian variation on sour cream), and of course fresh Russian blackbread. Some of the dishes looked like ones I had eaten in America, but to taste was to realize that they were all uniquely prepared as only found in southern Russia.
The evening was topped off with four bottles of homemade raspberry wine his father had made with raspberries from their dacha and saved for such a special occasion. As all Russian get-togethers, there was drinking and dancing, singing and storytelling all throughout the might.
In the early morning hour, as I tried to get some sleep before the day arose to meet us, my thoughts were filled with curiosities of these people and the land.
Most of the families living in Makhachkala came from the various mountain tribes along the coastal Northern Caucasus region. Ties with their native villages still remain strong and they often go back to visit, managing to keep in contact with their cultural centers.
While the new city life is a leap into the modern world from remoteness of the mountains, life in Makhachkala does not resemble that of a St. Petersburg or a Moscow, or a Kiev. It is a small city, and because it is, maintains a unique mountain character.
Most of what I saw of the town came during our walk to the bus station where we would catch the daily bus to the neighboring town of Kaspeesk. From there we would take a connecting bus back to the airport.
Our first day's plan of a trip deeper into the mountains was put on hold because of inclimate weather in the mountains. Since it was still a beautiful day along the coast, we decided to make our way to the beach.
Rather than wait for the irradic schedual of the bus to take us back to town, we decided to walk to the beach directly from the airport. It gave Andrei a chance to show me a little something of the countryside.
The walk from the airport to the beach was about two and a half miles through arid drylands, home of the local natural gas industry.
As we walked across the dry, cracked land, periodically we would come across a natural gas outlet that had caught on fire. The sound of the fire roared like jet engines, and the horizon in front of them melted into a mirage.
We came across the dried up bed of what used to be a lake. Small shellfish remains blanketed the fine dusty sand. The bed shimmered in the middays sun from the thick cover of salt crystals left like diamonds. All bodies of water near the Caspian Sea are salt water, in part because of the high salinity level of the Caspian itself -- 120-285 parts per thousand, the most of any body of water in the world.
As we approached the shoreline, we crossed over a number of small bays and inlets. As Andrei explained, they were the newest creations of the sea. The largest inland body of water in the world is getting even bigger.
The Caspian Sea has risen drastically over the last ten years. The growth resulted from the increased run-off from its three main tributaries as well as a decrease in the use of the Caspian Sea for irrigation in the Central Asian republics.
The sea has grown so much that it has taken over small coastal farm lands, dachas and roads. It has turned the actual shoreline into a sandbar, set apart by inlets more than waist deep.
The growth of the Caspian, according to Andrei, "Will swallow up my town in a few years." It has already forced a slow move inland and poses a threat to towns over the next two decades.
Although not a premiere seashore resort in Russia, the Caspian does draw its fair share of tourists, although mostly in the southern port of Baku, capital of the now independent Azerbaijan.
The primary use of the sea in the north is harvesting the riches of Russian sturgeon, black caviar. The sturgeon are plentiful from the Volga Basin through the North Caspian and make it the largest industry in the region.
Other Caspian riches include large deposits of natural resources beneath the sea's floor. Oil drilling has grown over the past few years as a result of joint ventures with western companies such as Amoco, BP, and Chevron.
For the traveler in Dagestan, the Caspian Sea provides a nice place to relax, before or after an invigorating trip to the mountains. The sea is swimmable from spring to late fall with pleasant temperatures and secluded beaches.
After our day at the beach, a picnic and a good swim, we were ready to head for the mountains.
The following day, with all flights still down because of weather, we decided to find our own way to the mountains. Misha, Andrei's cousin, knew of a place in the foothills we could hike to for the overnight.
We packed all our gear and were soon on our way. This gave me another opportunity to enjoy the countryside. From Misha's home in the neighboring town of Kaspeesk, we walked westward towards the mountains.
Along the way, we passed through an enormous grape field.
"This is wine country," said Andrei, "We can eat these grapes and get really...piyanni.... oh, what is your word for it? Drunk! Yes, we could be drunk." We all laughed for a while, and then pushed onward and upward, entering the foothills.
{ As we started our climb up a steep path left by an old mountain creek now dried up, we noticed we had some guests. Behind us trailed a dozen cattle from the village who had decided to follow us.
"They're up for a climb today, huh?" I said.
"Probably likes your orange peels you have been leaving behind as you eat." answered Misha, "That's okay. The more friends the better. Maybe we'll get them drunk? "
"No, we'll let them follow us, so when we get tired, we can ride them like cowboys!" Andrei said. "Yeah, real RUSSIAN cowboys!" }
The journey became an uphill battle. We wanted to make it to our campsite before dark, but the sun was quickly setting behind the mountains. As we pushed on, the city disappeared behind us and all that we could see were the mountains and the stars slowly shining through the twilight.
Upon reaching our campsite, we set up the tent and built a fire. (Girl Scout Camp pays off at last!) Misha then took us up to the overlook point known as "Devil's Pinky". From the top of this rock, we could just see over the hills to the sea. A fishing boat out at sea shone in the moon's glow.
We stayed at Devil's Pinky for a while longer to take in the power and beauty of all that was around us. As the rainbow colors behind the mountains in the west faded away to a black speckled with a sea of stars, we made our way down. We settled for the night with one of Misha's favorite mountain tales.
The next day, Misha woke us early, so we could witness the sunrise over the sea. Rather than the path we had taken the night before, Misha led us up "the back door". This was the sharp edge of the rock he and his friends used to practice rock climbing.
Misha belongs to a local group of "Alpinists", or mountaineers. They rock climb throughout the Caucasus and all of Russia in competitions, as well as leading groups on tours of the mountain regions. The scale of Devil's Pinky was a beginner's climb, but a good practice for alpinists when they cannot make it deeper into the mountains.
He showed us the path to take, grabbing on to small crevasses and notches up to the point. When we made our climb, Misha followed close behind in order to catch us if we fell.
35 feet higher and what seemed to be hours later, we reached the point. As we stood victorious over Devil's Pinky, the sun's rays began to pierce through the horizon. The physical challenge had worked up an appetite. Soon after the sun was up, we began the hunt for breakfast.
Misha and Andrei were quick to find a small grove of bushes bearing ripe berries of blue and red and pink. "Don't worry, they're safe. You won't oomyere (die)" said Andrei, reading the skepticism in my eyes. We found a cold mountain spring not far from camp and were able to make a fresh mountain tea with the berries and herbs we had collected.
We had ourselves a rich mountain breakfast. Misha had brought soup and some bread, and together with the berries, we ate very well. We needed our energy for the long trek back to town.
On the way home that afternoon, we wrapped our way around Bazardeezie, the large mountain on whose bottom slopes sits Makhachkala. We followed a slowly winding dirt road to the city. Behind us the road disappeared into a rocky maze of mountains, leading to the many religious centers tucked away in the Caucasus.
The mountains are still a religious center for the people of Dagestan. Religious treks are made to mountain auls (Tatar term for village) such as Buynaksk, just north of Makhachkala. This historic village in the area known as "Moslem Country", is filled with famous graves and mosques of the Sunni Moslem people. The aul is supposed to hold great religious powers of healing and guidance for its visitors.
Our journey deeper into the mountains was made two days later after the weather had finally cleared. Andrei's uncle, Olaf, works as a pilot for Aeroflot in the Northern Caucasus region. He regularly flies villagers to and from their homes in the heart of the mountain land. He said he would take us with him for the day.
Since traffic in this area is not very high, they are only small craft flights, in planes not much bigger than a Chesna. This was to be my first experience in such a small aircraft, as well as my first time in the co-pilot's seat.
After a buzzing take-off, Olaf asked me to take the co-pilot's seat so that he could give me a proper tour during the flight. From the cockpit, we peered out over the skyway marked by high rising peaks and deeply cut valleys.
Because the plane was not pressurized, we had to keep our flight low, weaving in and around the mountains and dipping into the canyons. The one canyon we followed, Olaf explained, is the world's second deepest canyon, _____________.
"Some day, maybe I fly inside your Grand Canyon?" Olaf said.
As we followed the course carved by the Sulak River, we were joined in flight by a pair of eagles. The wildlife in the mountains is rich and populous, explained Olaf, but they can cause much problem with flight.
When we readied to land, he asked me to grab a hold of the wheel so I could learn how to land. We eased down onto a dirt clearing on the edge of one of the mountain cliffs.
"This is an airport?" I asked.
"People live in the weirdest places here. It's not an airport, just the land closest to where they live." Andrei explained.
We would spend the day in the village while Olaf continued his day's flights between the mountain villages and would meet with him later to return to Makhachkala.
One of the only motorized vehicles in the area was waiting to carry the people to the main village center, Botleek. We piled into the back of the livestock truck with the entire group of travelers for the five mile ride to the center.
Botleek serves as the main trading center for all of the smaller villages in the area. People come from days away in order to exchange goods and crafts, shop in the market for food and livestock, and access travel to the city.
Here the Russian language is rarely used. Local ethnic languages and mountain dialects, such as Avar and Chechen, are used in most business transactions. Theirs is a loose political organization in the system of villages, relying mostly on traditional village rule more so than the Soviet system. Because of their remoteness, they could get by without much of the bureaucracy that comes with the Soviet system.
It does not mean, however, that the Soviet element is all but forgotten. While walking down one of the dirt paths in Botleek, we came across a token reminder of where we were.
Andrei, Misha and I wandered throughout the village, watching the people and taking in the atmosphere. We walked down a path lined with small houses, known as saklyas, made from earth and clay plasters. As we rounded the corner and came into a small square, there in the middle we were greeted by a fifteen foot silver statue of Lenin, arm raised strongly in his Bolshevik salute.
Immediately I was brought back to reality. For some time I had walked though the village, being carried away with its remoteness and its subtle beauty. But now I was grimly reminded that I was still in the (former) Soviet Union.
There were people back in the cities waiting on line for bread, tanks rolling down the streets of Georgia and black marketeers trying to sell anything to a tourist for a few American dollars.
And yet, in this village in the Caucasus, I walked with my friends among people who didn't seem to have it so bad after all. Where you go and what you see can change with so little a distance.
We continued our walk, although now memories of the other Russia, the northern cities, St. Petersburg sat in the back of my mind. Here, the scenery was not dominated by grays or faded yellows. In Botleek, things were earthen, brown and dusty, with the last bloom of fall flowers -- violets of some kind--- lining the walkways and growing wild on the mountainside.
In the village market and bazaar, women draped in black beshmets and scarves weaved flowers onto silk scarves for a celebration to be held in two days. Others sold fruits and vegetables brought in to the village from the cities and farms.
One old women, half-bent with her age approached me holding out a single pear. At first she said something to me in a village dialect that neither I, nor Andrei or Misha, understood. I said excuse me in Russian.
She sighed, and repeated herself happily in Russian. "You must buy this pear, young girl. It looks just like you. Oh dear, you must take it."
I bought the pear, smiled and said thank you. Once again I was struck with awe with the fact that I was so far from my own element, that I was a complete stranger.
While I paused to fathom the distance I was from my home, Andrei and Misha spoke to a man in their native tongue, arranging a ride back to the airstrip where we were to meet Olaf.
A woman who overheard their conversation called out, "But you cannot leave before the celebration. Stay with us. You may sleep in our saklya and be guests of my family."
But we couldn't stay. Olaf was waiting, and Andrei and I had a flight back to St. Petersburg the next morning. Reality awaited us outside of this dream world we had encountered in the mountains.
When we had exhausted the day and it came time to leave, we once again met up with the man who would take us back to the airstrip. He greeted us and introduced us to his companions, the three mules that were to be our ride back.
We rode slowly down the hill on which sits Botleek. Olaf met us, and we flew back to Makhachkala through the mountains and canyons with the sun setting behind us.
The next morning we said goodbye to his family who all came to send us off. We had a three hour flight ahead of us, but I now knew that the distance between this land and that of St. Petersburg could not be measured by travel time or distance.
As I sat once again on an Aeroflot plane, waiting to take off, I remembered the aged face of a babushka from Botleek, drained of energy and life -- the wrinkles scars of their toil and burden, yet the eyes still aglow with a magical fire ... the Russian soul, a fortress that opens itself up to foreigners for exploration, but that you will only ever encounter in the deepest reaches of the true Russian heartland.