XINALIQ - ROAD CLIMBING THE HILL

Roaring with strain, choking and clinking, the engine of the old bus was pulling us up the hill along a narrow road, to where stark-white mountain peaks glimmered. This was the first time the tourists were travelling this kind of route: the road, which wound along the foothills like a narrow dark strip, had been built just recently upon the President's special directive. It was literally battled through the mountains. I am talking about that very high mountain road in Azerbaijan which leads to the village of Xinaliq. In the past, the village was accessible only on horseback or foot, using trails that ran between the peaks. Elcin, the organizer of the tour, spoke enthusiastically about the sights nearby, telling us the names of the villages and explaining what the local residents do for living. Oqtay muallim, who has been studying the history of this area for a long time, joined him. We learned from him that the residents of Xinaliq call themselves ketj [as transliterated], and their language nominally belongs to the Sahdag group of Lezgi languages. The Ketj (Xinaliq), Gryz, Budug and other small ethnic groups reside here and, although their languages belong to the same linguistic group, they hardly understand one another. The Xinaliq language is unique in that it has the largest number of phonemes in the world. There are 77 of them, of which 59 are consonants and 18 are vowels.

There are several theories to explain how people settled in these kinds of areas which, frankly, are not very amenable to a comfortable life. The most plausible one is that some Sunni communities, which were driven out by Sah Ismail Xatai, fled to the mountains to preserve their faith, to live and evade taxes. Having settled there and avoided assimilation with other peoples, they have become a land-based "pelagic" civilization of sorts by preserving in their original states their language, customs and genotype. Separated from the rest of the world, they existed as if in a parallel world devoid of the comforts of civilization in their realm of clouds and mountain peaks.

The historian's narrative was silenced by the roar of the engine at the next turn in the road. The turn was so sharp that the driver asked us to get off the bus and take it on foot because the vehicle could not handle it. Seizing the opportunity to familiarize themselves with the surroundings, everyone ran out onto the road. Far below, in a scary mountain gorge, we saw a fast river. An eagle soared freely in the blue sky with its wings spread. The air was imbued with the inebriating smell of mountain herbs to the extent that I felt dizzy. Or maybe this was due to lack of oxygen: we were at an altitude of 2,500 metres above sea level.

After the turn, everyone got back onto the bus and half an hour later we arrived in Xanaliq. The landscape reminded me of pictures from Tibet: no trees, scenic mountain views, short, stiff greenish grass. The stone-and-dung-brick houses with flat roofs that huddle together as if trying to get warm were particularly reminiscent of Tibet. As it emerged, the village has a problem with drinking water:  It is carried by hand from springs which are below the village. Despite the remote location, some achievements of urbanization had also reached the area. A satellite dish looked down proudly on us from under a blue balcony and right below it there was a neat shed, made of dung bricks. Dung bricks are the most prevalent commodity here: they serve both as fuel and as construction material.  So here they are: the rural contrasts of Xinaliq!

Local residents, who have got used to tourists of late, were easy to talk to. We learned from them that the village has its own museum, where a comely old man in black astrakhan hat kindly invited everyone in.  Our group split in two: some decided to stay in a tea house, wishing to taste the local aromatic herbal tea, whereas others went to the museum. Guests who gained the special sympathy of our hosts were shown inside a typical house. They are usually built to the same plan: a long "aynabend" gallery/balcony, small rooms with wooden pillars to support the roof in the centre, earthen floors and walls. The walls, which are plastered with clay and cleanly whitewashed, are decorated with beautiful carpets made by local carpet weavers. The niches in the walls display wool blankets with satin linings. We were told that, five kilometres from Xinaliq, there is a place where fire comes out of the ground constantly, day and night. The site is called Rozer, which means the "place of fire." The same natural phenomenon can be found near the neighbouring village of Cek.  There fire emerges together with water, which in itself is unique.

As dusk neared, we hurried back to the bus because there was a long journey in a bus that was made in the 1970s, not in very good shape and not really intended for this type of travel. The residents bid us farewell with what we interpreted as a tinge of sadness. Despite the new road, outsiders are still not everyday visitors here. A little later we were already bumping along in the old bus which we by now considered out friend. We somehow managed to eat our cracker bread and cheese sandwiches which the local residents had supplied us with and to look at the products of local artisans - long woollen socks, called "corab," with beautiful patterns.

We were coming back from a world in which everyone found something new and, at the same time, felt part of something big that we all have in common. Experienced mountaineers say that we don't conquer mountains, mountains conquer us. And indeed, mountains enthral us, changing our world and our view of it with their overwhelming and powerful severity.  If you do not believe me, visit Xinaliq!