II. Comatose in the Caucasus

You may have heard of the Caucasus — but probably not in a good way. It’s a region that for thousands of years has been associated with conflicting ideas of barbarism, mysticism and beauty. The ancient Greeks refer to the region as the place where Prometheus was banished by Zeus to lie chained to the mountains, his liver exposed and pecked on by an eagle forever. In the epic poem Argonautica, Jason, the Argonauts and the gods schemed to wrest the Golden Fleece from the brutish Kingdom of Colchis, located in what is now Georgia. Hardly Elysium, the Greeks depict the region as wild, savage and at the ends of the Earth.

Less storied than Greek, a survey of modern history of the Caucasus is not the most charming either. For hundreds of years the region has been at the center of a three-way tug-of-war between the empires of Persia (present day Iran), Turkey and Russia. It’s a history of war, divide-and-conquer intrigue, banditry and ransom, forcible expulsion and resettlement, freedom fighters and terrorists. Some of the earliest cases of genocide in modern history can be attributed to the region: forcible removal and resettlement of the Circassians by the Russian Empire in the 1800s and the Ottoman Turk expulsion of Armenians in the early 1900s. Being a native doesn’t necessarily preclude one from brutal treatment of your neighbors, as Georgian-born Josef Stalin demonstrated with treatment of the Chechens — among other native ethnic groups in the Caucasus mountains.

With the collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, the region became a hotbed of conflicts, nations fighting for sovereignty that for much of their history was never achieved or fleeting. Conflicts broke out in Chechnya, Nagorno Karabakh, Abkhazia and Ossetia. Today the conflict in these regions lies dormant and seemingly stable, but historically volatile, like the earthquakes that sometimes strike the region.

More recently, you may have heard of the region through news stories of Islamic terrorists having roots in the Russian north Caucasus. The Boston bombers had family heritage with roots in the region. The alleged mastermind of the June 28 attack on Ataturk airport in Istanbul, Akhmed Chatayev, is Chechen, and was arrested and later released after a violent confrontation with Georgian special forces in 2012. One of the Ataturk attackers was also claimed to have come from the Russian north Caucasus region.

I provide this historical synopsis to introduce readers to a part of the world they may be unfamiliar with that I have long had an interest in seeing first hand. The default response from many, upon hearing of my plans to journey there, was an overt or at least nonverbal “?”, “why?” or “is it safe?”. Given the history and recent news, it’s understandable.

Yet, it would be unfair to view the Caucasus only through the lens of war and conflict, ethnic tensions and terrorism. No more fair would it be to reduce German history to the Nazis or American history to the Indian Removal Act, slavery, racism and gun violence. Yet these things did/do happen and they influence our lives and culture today, for better or worse. The same is true for the Caucasus.

Beneath the surface of historical turbulence, there is a beauty and spirit about the Caucasus that is truly spellbinding. It is a fascinating place with an incredible amount of ethnic, religious and linguistic diversity, amidst some of the most beautiful mountains landscapes in the world. Mt. Elbrus with its peak at 18,510 feet, is the tallest mountain in Europe. The region is home to some 40 unique languages with no roots to any major linguistic family, such as Indo-European to which English is a member. Muslims, Christians and pagans live in the mountains with shared folk traditions interwoven among different beliefs. It is a region of contradictions, some more visible to the outside world than others; a region mired in conflict but populated with people that share traditions of strength, community, honor, respect and incredible hospitality. The beauty of the Caucasus, like the wildflowers that grow at certain altitudes in certain environmental conditions, was cultivated and grew from its past and continues to be shaped in the present.

Regarding safety, fear is normal. Fear is healthy and critical for survival, but living life always in fear is not living. What is the fear based on? Is it legitimate? Think it over, trust your gut but don’t get in a rut. For me the allure of the region outweighed any perceived risk, and in some mad way this risk was part of the appeal. Call me a romantic thrill-seeker. Yet overall, I felt safe in the Caucasus. There were times I was afraid, but this fear made the experiences more vivid and memorable. I will never forget them. “Do you have plans to do anything dangerous?”, my boss randomly asked months before my trip. Yes sir, I have plans to live.

Armenia

I arrived in Yerevan, Armenia and the Pope was in town. I was not there to see the Pope, but it would be a shame to tell anyone that. The Armenians are not Catholics. They adopted Christianity before Catholicism or any other formal Christianity existed — in the 4th century. Yet this beautiful, dusty old city welcomed Francis and it welcomed me. The Pope was a bit more popular than I, so my host / guide, a nice young man with the ubiquitous Armenian name of David and I retreated to the south to Tatev, into the beautiful southern Armenian countryside not far from the Iranian border.

We visited Tatev monastery, built in the 9th century on a cliff outcropping in a mountainous part of Armenia. Tatev was the site of a medieval university and played an important role in the region as a cultural, spiritual and educational center.

We visited the Armenian stonehenge, Zorats Karer — believed to be much older than than the one in England.

We visited Noravank monastery, built in the 13th century amidst mountains that reminded me of the landscapes of the southwest US.

I visited Garni, an ancient greek temple, and Geghard monastery.

After the Pope was gone, I explored the city of Yerevan.

I spoke more Russian than I expected, and met wonderful people along the way. The Armenians are an intelligent and hardworking people. They are proud and very friendly and welcoming, much like most of the people I met during my time in the Caucasus.

Yerevan to Tbilisi

The drive from Yerevan to Tbilisi is paved with dreams and nightmares. Some of these will never leave my memory. Unfortunately I was not able to photograph what I saw, as I was stuck in the middle seat of a 5 seat wagon car with a Philippine girl on my left, a old Georgian man on my right, a Serbian man in the passenger seat and an Armenian driver. The Serbian and I amused the Armenian driver as we conversed in Russian, each with our own accents and skill levels. It was probably similar to listening to a 2 and 5 year old having a conversation. The roads in Armenia are awful, almost as bad as in Chicago, and the driver drove them as if the zombie apocalypse had just germinated in Yerevan and all hell had broken loose. On the road, within the length of a couple miles, I saw cows, sheep, wild dogs, babushkas calmly walking in the road with bags of groceries and a group of men frantically attempting to put out a car engine fire with floor mats.

Tbilisi

Cities were not to be the highlight of this trip, but Tbilisi was a charm. The juxtaposition of modern, medieval and soviet along a river that winds through mountains invited exploration. I covered a lot of ground in the few days I was there. I found the people beautiful and bohemian, and I wish I had spent more time there. But it was hot and humid and time to continue the journey into the heart and soul of the region — the Caucasus mountains themselves.

Tusheti

If the whole trip could be compared to a dream, the time I spent in Tusheti was the deepest of REM sleep — almost comatose. Tusheti is one of the most remote parts of the south Caucasus highlands and reachable only by one road. The road requires four-wheel drive and is recognized to be one of the most dangerous roads in the world. Tusheti borders some of the more volatile areas of the north Caucasus in Russia — Chechnya and Dagestan. It is also one of the most beautiful and pristine areas of the Georgian highlands. I booked a guide, Koba, an energetic, strong and enthusiastic man in his 40s with Georgian military experience working with NATO and US Forces. A man with a strong highlander mother and who was completely at home and fearless in these mountains. A man who spoke British English and often quoted the movie Braveheart and laughed at his own rendition of his favorite Irish limericks. A man who loved to point out local wildflowers to me, and a man who I am deeply grateful for his services as a very professional guide who kept me safe and provided such a memorable experience. The 5 days I spent with him in Tusheti will be forever etched in my mind.

The drive to Tusheti is a six hour drive on a one-way unpaved road that twists and turns higher and higher to Abano pass at 9,350 feet. The drive introduced me to some of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve seen, all the while reminding me of my own mortality. The beauty of the pristine wilderness is as much life as death, for life cannot exist without death. I saw eagles soaring overhead, looking for prey below and dead carcasses of animals — a lone sheep swept away from its flock by an angry spring mountain river stream — crushed on the rocks downstream, its carcass picked clean by vultures. The road to Tusheti was dotted with memorials for those who perished, while beautiful horses stood idly in the middle of the street. Flocks of sheep, herds of cattle and horses roamed free save for their protective shepherd dogs.

And then traffic.

As we approached the pass, climbing higher and higher along a road with increasingly steep drop-offs, we came to a halt behind several other vehicles. There had been a landslide and the road was blocked. All was well, though, we just needed to wait about an hour for the local tractor to clear it.

All clear.

I arrived in Omalo, a small village amidst other smaller hamlets with medieval towers that unbelievably cling to the sides of mountains like lichen — Darlto, Kvavlo, Dano, Shenako, Diklo. I stayed in a stone guest house a short 10 minute hike to towers perched on the side of a cliff, which served as the backdrop of Omalo’s dreamscape setting. In these villages they have electricity from a few solar panels, but energy is conserved and completely shut off in the middle of the night. Cell phone connectivity was extremely limited, really intermittant in Omalo only. People live much like they have for hundreds of years. The home cooked meals I took were cooked over fire and supplies and much of the food have to be brought in from the lowland — six hours away. Before we left the lowland Koba stopped for gas and purchased a large 5 gallon jug of water. We emptied its contents into smaller bottles of water and the rest returned to the local earth. Koba then filled the water jug with petrol for the trip. It was just enough.

My first night in Omalo was one of the most memorable. Local villagers joined us for dinner and I spent the evening speaking Russian with some, English with others, and listening to a lot of Georgian over endless toasts, homemade wine and delicious home-cooked food.

The following day, Koba and I hiked to from a village — this one I don’t recall — along the side of a gorge, over mountain streams and around landslides that had covered portions of the trail to a tiny shepherd’s hamlet deeper in the mountains. We stopped along the way near a cluster of towers and ruins amidst, when two men on horseback approached us from the direction we were headed. They were local villagers, shepherds on their way back home. As was to be the norm, Koba called out to them as they approached and they dismounted in front of the ruins to talk with Koba. One, a young man who wore a beard and a traditional Caucasus Papakha-style hat and adidas sweatpants and another older man with a marlboro jacket pulled out a bottle of homemade vodka and offered to us after a few minutes. I casually declined, which was the wrong answer I was quick to realize. The older man cut other plastic bottles into little shot glasses. Koba and the men talked for awhile, and we drank and drank and toasted there, amidst the ruins in the middle of a beautiful gorge on a sunny day in Tusheti. He knew the younger man as he seemed to know everyone in these mountains where kinship is strong among the highlanders. When they parted at last, we continued on our hike and my first drunk hike in the wilderness.

At last we reached a large rapidly running stream, and I watched as shepherd dogs approached us from the other side in defense, alert and barking. Koba climbed a rock across the stream from them and shouted at them and the dogs shouted back, my guide speaking their language, speaking all the animals languages in that wild part of the world. He was the dog, horse, cow, and sheep whisperer, and it probably saved my life on at least a couple occasions.

On the way back I became thirsty, so Koba called out to a nearby shepherd, Adam, who welcomed us into his humble shack. Lined with bags of cheese fermenting, he offered more than water — fresh cheese, bread and sour cream. In the Caucasus, the norm is to offer whatever you have to strangers.

The next day I explored Dartlo and climbed from there to Kvavlo near the border with Chechnya and, as commonly happens in the mountains, the weather changed. It began to rain that afternoon and evening. It created dramatic evening scenes to photograph, but also made the roads terrible.

On the third morning we were warned by locals to not drive too far, the roads had not had the opportunity to dry and were muddy and difficult. As it turned out, this simply meant that instead of driving across a deep gorge closer to our original starting point near the village of Shenako, we would be hiking through this gorge to this village and beyond to Diklo, near the border with Dagestan. Along the way, we encountered aggressive village dogs, which Koba placated with bread and and charming dog conversation. We met a mother learned of her tough daughter, who spent time living in the SF Bay Area. We later met her daughter on the trail. She was searching for a missing horse with some locals, and she made me feel weak.

At one point, in a long grassy meadow between the villages of Shenako and Diklo, we encountered a flock of sheep. A shepherd dog began to approach us aggressively, but the shepherd was able to call her back and move the flock away from us. We stopped there for lunch to give the flock time to move away from us. We sat in a decayed makeshift shelter, tree bark and other locally gathered wood nailed together with a tarp roof that was perhaps used over the winter but no longer. Charred wood and tin cans littered the area.

Suddenly, more barking. The dogs had rediscovered us and were running towards us at full speed. These shepherd dogs are trained to protect the flock from wild wolves and rustlers. They are out there in the winter even. These are tough dogs and they smell fear. This one was a mother of three pups. As she approached, Koba and the shepherd exchanged shouts back and forth. Koba said he was crazy. Closer and closer the bitch approached.

Then Koba told me we needed to climb up into the rafters of the shelter for safety. Are you serious?! Yes. I climbed and lied across a beam and the shepherd greeted us as he walked up to the building, keeping the mother dog at bay. Then, suddenly, we were greeted by three vicious pups. Koba dropped to the ground and sat and talked with the shepherd awhile, with the pups playfully fighting for his attention. After about 15 minutes Koba noticed I was still in the rafters and laughed and said I could come down now. I sat with the pups, they gazed up at me as if uncertain as to who I was or where I was from and whether I was a threat or not. I smiled back and everything was alright. We made our way further with the shepherd and parted as we approached Diklo.

Then, it began to rain again. It steadily rained — not torrential but not drizzle — for the entire 8 mile hike back to where we originally parked. I was prepared, or thought I was, with a rain shell jacket and waterproof hiking shoes. Yet, when we finally arrived back at the truck, I was completely soaked despite our efforts to stay drier by staying under the tree line and away from more dogs. Along the way Koba kept my spirits high while making me feel like a total sissy. If former Israeli military guys vacation here to challenge themselves in the wilderness, so will I. Other vacationers are content sitting cross-legged outside of their cabins amidst the mountain landscape and wildflower meadows in meditation or absorbed in a painting or book. Tusheti is like Sedona and Everest combined. Let the mystical power heal you…or kill you.

The following day we headed back to Tbilisi. It was time to wake from this dream and return to reality. Somehow Koba and Iffa safely brought me back to civilization and out of coma, through impassable muddy roads and dense fog from the Abano pass all the way to the lowlands. Then, I was on my way home.

The whole experience was quite surreal. To be sure, it may have been self-induced romantic surrealism. Depending on the visitor, a long trip to Chicago could be a dream or nightmare. As a Chicago resident, I might say your dreams and nightmares are real. This might be presumptuous of me.

As much as I thought I was prepared for my journey to this incredible part of the world, in the end I wasn’t. My senses were hijacked and it truly felt as though like I was tripping on some kind of hallucinogenic. I will definitely return for another healthy dose of dreams and delusion.

Photographed with Fujifilm X-E2 camera and XF 35 and 14 mm lenses.