Dagestan - Land of Mountains

Makhachkala, Republic of Dagestan, September 21 2019

I decided to go to Dagestan because a coworker of mine, Katya, had invited me to go there with her family as they were 'seeking better weather' before the dreary overcast of Moscow began.  But at the last minute, they canceled their plans due to a 'poor forecast'- or perhaps they were simply hesitant- I don't know.  The tickets were so cheap and I had recently come back from Lake Baikal and the city of Irkutsk, so I had a massive case of the travel bug.  I doubled down and bought a cheap ticket to fly there on an early Saturday morning and come back on a Monday morning- a short trip.

I didn't know much about Dagestan, which got its name from a Turkish-Persian hybrid meaning 'mountain land'.  I knew that it was located in Kavkasia, which is Russian for the Caucasus mountain region; I have become accustomed to referring to it as such.  A two hour flight south of Moscow, Dagestan is in the Northern Kavkasian Federal District of Russia, but is in fact the southernmost of Russia's Kavkasian territories- beyond the border lies Azerbaijan.  The capital is Makhachkala, a sprawling city of some 570,000 on the Caspian Sea.  It is very different from other cities in Russia, what with the scores of unfinished buildings and the heavily armed police checkpoints.

The reason for the existence of said police checkpoints may explain why my coworkers were astonished when I told them I would go to Makhachkala alone; Kavkasia has a reputation of sorts.  It is considered by some to be the 'bad' part of Russia, and many Russians would balk at the idea of going there (and have done so when I told them I went there and would recommend it).  A coworker of mine told me that there had been a bombing not long ago, and sporadic confrontations between police and terrorists are said to continue.  The U.S. government travel advisory website said of the region 'Do not travel due to the risk of terrorism, kidnapping and civil unrest.'  When I asked Katya why she was afraid for me but not for her family, she said something along the lines of "It is because we are Russian, and we can communicate with our compatriots."  (But wait... I speak decent Russian!) What she perhaps failed to understand (or perhaps knew but didn't care- her family is an adventurous bunch) is that ethnic Russians compromise only around 3 percent of the population of Dagestan.  And that is noteworthy because the history of the region and its relationship with Russian people is complex; the road to the incorporation of Kavkasia within the Russian state has not been a smooth one, and there remains some animosity and mistrust between Russians and Kavkasians, something which one might better understand within the context of historical events (this topic will pop up throughout this post).  Would she and her family really have a good time, let alone this American tourist?

And thus begins your history lesson, as before continuing, I must explain more about this aforementioned reputation, and the place Dagestan holds within Kavkasia.  Dagestan was involved in the Chechen Wars, the first of which lasted from 1994 to 1996 and resulted in the deaths of so many, as well as the total destruction of Grozny, the capital of the Chechen Republic, Dagestan's neighbor.  This event shook Russia to its core; it was like Russia's Vietnam, as popular opinion about sending young Russian recruits to fight well-equipped and dug-in jihadists was very low, and the military execution of battle plans was poor at best, resulting in a lot of collateral damage without killing a lot of the insurgents (I can't say this was Russia's Afghanistan because Russia's Afghanistan was also Afghanistan). But the epicenter of these conflicts was indeed in Chechnya, which is kind of like the strongest, fiercest brother in the family of Kavkasians.  Staunchly Muslim and fearful of nothing, the image frequently conjured up of these people during the Chechen Wars was that of a wolf, Chechnya, ferociously fighting a bear, Russia, despite being the smaller of the two.  Revenge and retaliation for even perceived wrongdoings are characteristics commonly associated with Kavkasians, as well as honor and loyalty to one's family- especially elders-  and to tradition and Islam.  These characteristics, as well as a mountainous territory that the freedom-loving Kavkasians have made their own for over a thousand years, ensured that the war would be a brutal fight with major repercussions.

Dagestan is of course different from Chechnya, and has a reputation as the slightly calmer, less hot-headed but-still-hard-as-nails-and-super-fierce of the two.  In 1999, three years after the end of the First Chechen War, Dagestan was actually invaded by Chechen militants who were trying to support a terrorist group within Dagestan, which is how Dagestan became further embroiled in conflict- this event led to the Second Chechen war which lasted from 2000 to 2009.   The year the war was proclaimed to have ended, the interior minister of Dagestan was killed by a sniper during a wedding, and within a couple years there were bombs going off almost daily, with local and foreign imams fueling the flames with the anger of disenfranchised youths.  So the conflict certainly didn't end there- it just went underground.  Disbanded terrorists all over Kavkasia formed criminal gangs, turning to kidnapping and arms trafficking to finance their future exploits, forming a grey area of Islamic-extremists-turned-bandits.  There exists a phrase in Dagestan which means something like 'going into the forest,' a coded phrase which means abandoning society to clandestinely take part in Islamic jihad and banditry.  Even as recently as 2016 a Dagestani policeman, Magomed Nurbagandov, was ambushed by terrorists in the mountains and murdered.  He became a national hero for his defiance to their demands, and was caught on camera telling his fellow police officers to "Keep on working" in the fight against terrorism shortly before his execution.  And so we can see how the people have suffered due to internal strife, and have fought hard against extremism in favor of a peaceful existence within the Russian state.  But it would seem the Kavkasian people were destined for conflict, as they have for centuries found themselves at the precarious crossroads of Europe and Asia.

I don't want to paint a bad picture of this place by writing about history.  However, I feel that a little bit of background information needed to be put out there; by understanding history, as well as recent events, we may better understand what kind of place Dagestan is.  That being said, Dagestan is still officially a part of Russia, which means that it is still hard to understand; one may be left with more questions than answers, a situation in which I frequently find myself.  In the words of Winston Churchill, Russia is "a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma."  While this phrase was specifically used to describe Russia's geopolitical intentions at the time, I think it could perhaps carry over to describe the mentality, culture, and sometimes the state of the nation as well.  This makes life here exciting! Anyway, the history lesson is over.  On to my trip!

One thing that made this trip different was that I had a contact in Makhachkala, with whom  Katya's husband had got in contact with.  But seeing as how they weren't going and I was, Katya gave me the contact, a tour guide of sorts named Ruslan.  I knew nothing about him, but his photo on whatsapp featured an adventurous-looking guy standing in front of an FJ Cruiser.  I messaged him before leaving for Dagestan, not knowing if there would be a reply.  But sure enough, he got back to me, and I planned an excursion of what sort I had no idea for that Sunday.  So this time I made some plans.

Upon arrival, I took a 30 minute taxi ride to my hostel in Makhachkala, where I was warmly greeted by the owner, Mr. Magomedov, who lived downstairs with his family.  Apparently Magomedov is one of the most common surnames, with something like 20 percent of all people bearing it.  My room had a great view of the city, and was close to what seemed to be the center- but it was hard to tell.  After checking in, I decided it was time to start wandering.

My first major stop was at the central market, something which every city has.  The central market is kind of akin to a farmer's market in the US, only usually much bigger.  It is very cool because there are many small business owners, something which seems to be alive and well in Russia- the popularity of big box stores hasn't exactly taken hold.  This market was different though, as it smelled heavily of spices and meat and had a more 'eastern' feel.  Women in hijabs and bearded men hawked their wares and haggled with one another.  A central market in a Russian city consists of many stalls selling food and goods, all in a warehouse-like structure.  There can be many stalls, and it is easy to get lost.  

Feeling peckish but not satisfied with the usual fare some nearby cafes had to offer, I went with Mr. Magomed's recommendation- a restaurant called Kazan Mangal, which despite the name (Kazan is a city in Tartarstan, a different region) he claimed served local Dagestani cuisine.  And indeed it did!  I had perhaps one of the heartiest, most delicious meals of my life; a national dish consisting of oven roasted goat meat on the bone served with a garlic-tomato-pepper sauce and bone broth; khinkal, which are just rolled lumps of dough (amazing); a meat filled pizza-pie sort of thing; and pomegranate tea.  It was delicious and filling, but I needed a nap afterwards.

I went back to my hostel for a short nap, and then went out again.  I took a taxi to the national museum of the Republic of Dagestan, an old but picturesque blue-and-white building of the typical Russian style.  If I recall correctly it was very cheap to get in- no more than 100 rubles, $1.35 or so.  The two-story building had about a dozen large rooms, each featuring a different epoch or facet of Dagestani history and culture.  In each room there was an attendant, who does little more than just sit there.  Because I don't feel like I get a lot out of reading plaques (I can speak Russian much better than I can read it) I decided to ask each attendant to explain what was in their room, and they were more than happy to oblige.  The first few rooms were mostly about natural history, with ancient fossils and displays and pictures of regional wildlife.  The next few focused mostly on ancient and medieval history and everything else up until major contact with Russia, with displays of weapons and armor. Huge paintings of such historical events such as the defeat of a Persian army by the Dagestanis covered the wall.  And while the people of Dagestan were not content being the vassals of Persia, nor would they welcome the eventual sovereignty of Russia, the victors of one of the latter Russo-Persian Wars.

One room contained the national garb of the many different ethnic groups of Dagestan.  The phrase Dagestani, of course, just describes the people of the region.  The reality is that Dagestan is among the most heterogeneous regions of Russia, with the most populous ethnic group, the Avars, making up not more than 30 percent of the population.  The remaining groups include Dargins, Lezgians, Kumyks and Laks, and a handful of other smaller pockets of ethnic groups, which includes Russians.  Of course with so many groups many people must be mixed, and can simply say they are Dagestani.  I imagine that even for a native of the region, it could be difficult to tell which group someone is from unless they start speaking.  They all speak Russian as a lingua franca, but speak their own language as well; some are mutually intelligible with one another, and others are completely different.  I have read that they are very difficult languages to learn. 
The second floor rooms were mostly devoted to the history of Dagestan during the era of Russian expansion into the region, and the many wars and conflicts which ensued.  While Tsar Peter the Great had laid claim to the area in the 1700s, it wasn't until the 1800s that the Russian conquest of Kavkasia began, beginning in the early 1800s and later regressing into a brutal insurgency known as the Murid war, which wouldn't end until 1864.  The most important hero of Dagestan, Imam Shamil, was the spiritual and military leader of the Kavkasian Imamate and its resistance to Russian encroachment during the mid-1800s until his capture.  This is was a very important time in the history of Dagestan, and it exemplifies the people's strong will and refusal to submit to foreign authority.  In fact, in speaking with one of the attendants, an elderly woman wearing a hijab, I understood this sentiment more  from her words quite clearly: "Dagestan is not a part of Russia."


After I left the museum I wandered around some more and made my way to the Caspian Sea, and saw a statue of Lenin in a central plaza.  Not uncommon in Russian cities, this one was different, as it contrasted sharply with the Islamic-style arches behind it.  Deciding it would be better to make my way gradually back to the hostel, I called a taxi back to the central market, since it was so interesting to walk around in.  The driver knew immediately that I was a foreigner, not only by my looks but also because I didn't use the traditional Islamic greeting used between men.  He was happy that I had come to his republic as a tourist, and was glad foreigners were taking interest in it.  After strolling around a bit I had a simple but tasty meal at a cafe and made my way back to the hostel not too late in the evening, where I installed myself with the intention of getting a good night's sleep.  Little did I know what the evening would entail.

There were a couple other guests in the main room who I soon met; Ziadullah, a half-Kyrgyz from Altai who came to hone his boxing skills (martial arts, especially MMA, is huge in Dagestan, with Makhachkala being the place to do it), and Anton, a military officer from Vladivostok on vacation who was touring Kavkasia.  Ziadullah convinced us to join him for dinner, as we all had ample time and were united only by the fact that we were from away.  What was odd was that Ziadullah, who said he was Muslim, wanted to find a restaurant which served alcohol, to which Anton and I assented.  However, finding alcohol in a Muslim Republic is easier said than done, with hookah being the preferred vice.  With no luck at a couple of nearby restaurants, the hostess at one told us the place to go, but we would need to take a taxi.  A note about taxis in Russia; you always have the option to call Yandex taxi, which is the main option in most cities, but there is frequently another local option.  Taking a local taxi can be fun because it's a gamble; the drivers can be a little more talkative as they aren't running a twelve-hour shift like the Yandex drivers, and their vehicles can range from totally tricked-out to 'how is this car street-legal?'  There are competitions in Russia where drivers compete to see who has the loudest, most bass-boosted sound system.  Well, our driver felt much obliged to show us the supreme power of his, with the sub-woofer behind the passenger seats.  It was extremely loud, and the whole car shook with an energy that I've never felt before.  I often hear cars go by in the Moscow region, blasting bass-heavy music, and understand that the occupants must be going deaf.  That was me for a short moment, and it was kind of fun.

At the restaurant, Ziadullah ordered wine and enough food to feed an army, but after a couple drinks became withdrawn and taciturn, saying little to me or Anton.  I don't know if it was his personality, the wine, or that maybe he's been punched in the head a few too many times, but it was kind of like night and day.  This guy just seemed perplexed to be having dinner with a far-Eastern military officer and Russian-speaking American in Dagestan.  While I don't need a never-ending conversation, it was a bit odd, so I turned to Anton to chitchat with a bit.  He seemed very stereotypically Russian; hatched-faced and terse.  So we ate and drank with little conversation, and eventually returned to our hostel by a quieter taxi.

Anton wasn't finished.  In fact, he was just getting started.  Upon returning to our hostel, he produced a bottle of Ossetian samogon that he had picked up in a different region about a week earlier.  Samogon is Russian moonshine, a pure-grain home-brew which can be clear in color but is frequently a dull yellow.  This samagon was different though; it was opaque with a peachy color.  Anton invited me to drink with him, and I felt much obliged; he had held onto this bottle until the moment he felt it was right to drink it, which was with me, in Makhachkala.  It seemed like a cool opportunity, to drink with a Russian military officer.  After some shots he opened up a little more, smiling more and even laughing here and there.  When I asked him about what he does exactly in the military, he simply said "It's a secret".  I find that when drinking with Russians, they like to put the pressure on you if you're a foreigner.  And while I can hold my own, Anton simply didn't stop pouring shots; I did not, however, want to start my excursion the next day totally hung over, so that was my excuse.  His excuse for continuing; "I have an excursion tomorrow too."  So we continued drinking together until we both agreed it was time to sleep, and we learned a lot from one another.

The following morning's results were predictable, but bearable.  As promised, my guide, Ruslan, showed up shortly after eight in the morning, with a lady named Olesya who I thought was another tourist but soon figured out was a well known friend- maybe even his girlfriend or wife; I didn't ask.  Shortly after we picked up two more women, Rima and Larisa, and Ruslan's huge FJ Cruiser was packed full with me sitting in the front.  It seemed that I had had a stroke of luck; while an excursion usually consists of you, the tour guide, and a few other tourists, it would seem that I had come at exactly the right time.  These local Dagestanis were going for an excursion into the mountains like they would any weekend, and I had been accepted to come along! It gave the excursion a much more personal feel; we were friends for the day, and the whole operation was very laid-back..

It was an incredibly exciting feeling, knowing that I was going outside of the city.  I would have settled for a nice view of some mountains.  Little did I know that we would be going beyond the mountains, under them, around and over them; on top of them.  I didn't know that today I would have one of the greatest, most mind-blowing adventures of my life.  The excursion would go as follows; drive, stop for photos, drink coffee, repeat.  Our first stop was in a simple field, but with a good view of the beginning of a snow-capped mountain range; and it was only September.

We stopped at a small shop for provisions in a city called Buynaksk, which is just ouside of Makhachkala.  It was interesting to see what the shops were like in this part of Russia; the shop was selling dates, nuts and other food commonly found in the region, as well as freshly baked bread from a bakery next door.  Buynaksk was a terrorist hotspot some years ago, but seemed calm and otherwise unremarkable as we passed through.  On the outskirts of Buynaksk we stopped again at a rest stop with a gas station across the street, where I snapped a quintessential photo of a Sunday in Dagestan.

After this, we started to ascend into the mountains.  The next town, Gimry, is connected to Buynaksk by the Gimry road tunnel, the longest tunnel in Russia.  It was built with the help of American engineers in the 1980s and was a massive undertaking due to the difficulty of moving equipment and materials in such a mountainous region.  Prior to entering the tunnel, you don't really have a good view of the nearby mountains, but know they are there.  But upon exiting, the view is breathtaking; you immediately see never ending, gargantuan mountains flanking a winding valley.

In a large, empty lot nestled in between the winding roads we stopped for a bit, and Ruslan made coffee which was enjoyed with a local salty string cheese.  He made it clear that coffee and cheese wan't an exclusively Dagestani tradition, but rather, "It's just our tradition."  The view was incredible; steep, snow-covered peaks surrounded us.

We were in Gimry, the birthplace of Imam Shamil, the hero of Dagestan.  It is a rural locality in the mountains and was a center of resistance during the Murid Wars, so it's very significant to the people of the region.  We went down the road to find Gimry tower- a tall, castle-tower structure.  There is also a mausoleum for another hero, Ghazi Muhammed.  He fought against the Russians in the battle of Gimry but died, completely overpowered; he is venerated alongside his ally, Imam Shamil, who escaped from the battle.  There is a plaque which explains that it was in this fortress that Imam Shamil was surrounded by Russians; in a death-defying move, he jumped from an elevated stoop, killed some soldiers with his sword, took a bayonet to the chest, pulled it out and jumped again off of a high wall and was gone, only to reappear later as the head of a strong resistance movement.  Understandably, the town has a sort of reputation, and was the sight of an anti-terrorism operation six years ago.

The Mausoleum of Ghazi Muhammed

Gimry Tower

Moving on we passed by Irganai dam, a hydroelectric station provides work for many local people. It is located on the green-blue Avar Koisu river, which is situated in a mountain valley flanked by sheer cliffs on either side.

After passing through another tunnel we were in a town called Shamilkala, where pretty much everyone is employed at one of the nearby hydroelectric stations.  It would seem that the government was taking full advantage of the rivers' energy-generating potential, as Dagestan has many rivers and is so mountainous.  I imagine that the building of these hydroelectric power stations has helped alleviate the disenfranchisement of locals by providing jobs.

We stopped at a rest-stop outside of Shamilkala, where the river Avar Koisu widens.  The beautiful turquoise waters were calling me to go for a swim, but with no suit and towel I though it would be better to just enjoy the lovely scenery and take some photos instead. Before we could go to the next town, we made a mandatory stop at a police checkpoint where three roads met.  The heavily armed military police spoke with Ruslan, asking for his identification, where we were going and if we had any weapons in the car.  Of course everything went very smoothly and we were soon well on our way, but the existence of such checkpoints reminds you of the reason they exist- and also who is in control.  Also at these crossroads was an intersection of the rivers, the Avar Koisu with the Kara Koisu, along which we would continue to drive.  At a certain time of the year, both rivers are a different color but mix together where they entwine.

Confluence of the Avar Koisu and Kara Koisu

It is difficult to explain how enjoyable it was to be sitting in the front seat with such amazing views everywhere, taking in every moment on that open road, as well as talking with Ruslan, Olesya, Rima and Larisa.  I learned more about them; Ruslan is Avar, while the others were Dargin and Kumyk, I think, or a mixture of more than one.  While Ruslan and Rima definitely looked Dagestani, I wouldn't be able to tell Olesya and Larisa apart from ethnic Russians.  I also told them about myself; about the state of Maine, my life in the Moscow region, and what had brought me to Dagestan.  They told me that two days was not enough, and I would have to come back.

We were heading towards a small city called Gunib.  We went through yet another tunnel, but not before passing a man using local transport.  Here the Kara Koisu widens, and acts like a reservoir.
Before making our way into Gunib, we stopped at the Gunib hydroelectic power station, which has a great view, another fortified tower, and a steep drop. Then it was on to Gunib; mountain after mountain, valley after valley, we had driven deep into Dagestan.

Gunib is a unique and beautiful city; it is located on the top of a mountain, with a natural wall of sheer cliffs surrounding it on almost every side.  The road into the city quickly becomes serpentine and congested with herds of cattle.  Homes and shops are packed side-by-side along the winding streets, where children run and play while elders sit by and watch.

This city, perfectly nestled in a hollow on the mountaintop, is the heart of Dagestan.  Ruslan told me that "If you come to Dagestan and don't go to Gunib, then you didn't really go to Dagestan."  It is of great historical importance, as it was here that Imam Shamil fought his final battle against the Russians, who sieged the city until his capitulation.  Thereafter he was taken to Saint Petersburg the meet the Tsar Alexander II; he was exiled to a small town, but was relocated to Kiev.  He apparently became fond of the luxuries provided to him, but wanted to return home, although he was forbidden to do so; during the late years of his life, he was allowed to perform the Hajj to Mecca, and died in Medina.  A large mural on the cliff face commemorates him, high above the city.

Gunib has an upper and lower quarter; above the upper quarter, a road winds precariously upwards, at one point crossing a metal bridge installed in the side of a cliff.  At the top is an observation point, from which you can see the whole city, the neighboring villages and distant mountains.  It has an older feeling to it as well; many building are made of stone, but there are of course plenty of modern-looking ones as well.

Nearby are the ruins of a fortress, as well as a small waterfall carved into the cliffside.  It was hard to navigate my way there as there were cow patties everywhere, but the risk to my already beat-up shoes was well worth it.  This place feels like a hidden shrine of sorts; it is lovely, but tucked away.


For a city of only around 4,000 people, Gunib has a lot to offer; mostly stunning views.  But also, food! We stopped and ate at what was possibly one of the only restaurants in town but also served as a sort of community center, where we had apricot kompot and chudu, which is kind of like a pile of dough, cut like a pizza and covered with cheese. Delicious.  There was also a display of local items such as a Burka, a traditional Kavkasian sleeveless felt coat, a Papakha, which is a fuzzy-looking hat, and various swords and daggers.  A photo was taken of a bygone warrior passing through.

Leaving Gunib, the next part of our trip would take us up a very steep and winding dirt road which hardly seemed traversable, but ended up being no match for the FJ Cruiser.  I'm glad I've got an iron stomach, as the zigzagging never seems to end, and you just want to enjoy the view as the car makes another turn.  We were now on the opposite side of the valley, facing Gunib, with a perfect view of the city, spilling outside its walls in all its glory.  Viktor Tsoi, the beloved Russian rocker and former leader of the 80s band Kino, blared on the radio.

Here, at an observation point, we stopped and enjoyed the fantastic view for a while.  Above  was what seemed like the highest point of this particular section of the mountain, so I went for a short hike to get close to the summit, where I made this video showing the whole area, and where we were going.  We were actually on a massive plateau, so while it seemed like we had just summited the mountain, there was a vast, almost-flat expanse at the top of this range; a valley between to points on top of a mountain.
We went to the village of Keger, which had one of those "I love (city)" signs; quite funny, really, as these sings usually seem to be reserved for capitals or major cities.  The dirt road into the village took us past windswept hills and old stone stables.  If Gunib seemed old, then Keger was timeless.  Almost all of the buildings were made of stacked stone, and herd animals congregated around the watering hole in the center of the village.  If all signs of modern technology were hidden, this place would look the same as it perhaps did ages ago.  Keger is THE top-of-the-mountain, middle-of-nowhere village of Dagestan.

We were making an attempt to drive to the top of yet another peak nearby the one we had just passed, so Ruslan asked the locals how to get there.  We made our way towards the peak on what seemed like a dirt road, and our destination didn't really seem that far or steep.  As the road went on, however, it became worse and worse, and the terrain became very rocky, until the road became indistinguishable from the surrounding highland plain.  While we had to turn back towards Keger, it was still fun.  Here, in this vast expanse, horses and cattle roamed and grazed, and it seemed like this place would always stay the same.

We went beyond Keger.  Where we were going, I had no idea, and by that time it was 6:00.  We were trying to go to the next village, but in the end, the mountain roads proved too much for the FJ Cruiser; on a treacherous road next to a canyon, leading outside the village, a hydraulic pump bit the dust.  Ruslan understandably became concerned about the situation, and I had a flight to make early the next day.  To reduce the weight, we had to walk back to the village, but along this road runs a beautiful, deep canyon- quite a sight to see.  In fact, there are many canyons in Dagestan, the largest of which, Sulak Canyon, I unfortunately didn't get to see.  But I got to see Keger Canyon- you can walk right up it, but watch your step!

While making our way back into town, Ruslan spoke with the locals about his issue, and before I knew it, the car was in the village square getting repaired.  But the issue was more than just a tire change; this kind of issue required a more experienced mechanic, as well as the presence of every man, young and old, in the village.  It became the daily event, and I shook every man's hand as they joined the gathering, as is traditional.  The elders sat and watched, while the young men went to grab the necessities for car repair: tools, motor oil, and sunflower seeds.  It was very interesting to see how ready the locals were to drop everything they were doing and help.  After a couple hours, a young man who was helping us repaired the car using a piece of something found lying on the ground.  Truly groundbreaking mechanic work.  I had heard that Kavkasians are very hospitable, and will invite you into their homes for dinner; our group was invited by an elder, but we declined (I would have accepted) due to the fact that it was getting late and we had a mountain to drive down.  Ruslan gave them a portable gas-powered grill in return for their assistance.  Who exactly it was given to didn't seem to matter; it was 'for the village'.  After shaking the hands of all who had gathered, we started our journey back to Makhachkala.

We were on our way home, but that doesn't mean the fun was over yet. Stopping in Shamilkala, we explored an abandoned mine, a dark tunnel which ended abruptly after a hundred feet or so.  Then, we found a rest stop with a large wooden deck, which was the place chosen for dinner.  It was very fun; our host brought out flatbread, cured beef sausage, local cheese and vegetables, and we had Dagestani butterbrod.  Butterbrod is just Russian for 'a slice of bread with something on top,' usually cheese and meat.  Simple, but tasty.  The real fun, however, occurred when Ruslan suddenly brought out a flask and shot glasses.  Strange, I thought, as I recalled how difficult it had been to find alcohol the night before.  But sure enough, he lined up the glasses and we did shots of Dagestani cognac, and everyone partook. While Ruslan joined us for only one round since he had to drive, the women were more than happy to imbibe a little more, and showed off their local dancing skills in a fun-loving manner while Kavkasian accordion music played on a smartphone- an entertaining fusion of tradition and modernity.  It was very fun; I never expected that we would share a drink near the end of our journey.  I inquired about the acceptability of the act, asking Ruslan "Aren't we in a Muslim republic?". His response was pure gold: "This is Muslim cognac!"  Truly, I was in the best of company.  I better understood that the normal laws of both Russian and Islamic society, the cultural expectations, the stringent black-and-white mentality, did not apply here; at least not among this group.  

We made our way back to Makhachkala, stopping for tea near a reservoir.  We had had an incredible fun-filled day, and I saw and learned so much, but we were exhausted.  I said goodbye to my friends for the day as they were dropped off, one by one, until we reached my hostel, and thanked Ruslan.  

And that was the end of my adventure.

The next day, early in the morning, I caught my flight back to Moscow, wondering if I would ever see this magnificent mountainscape again.  I certainly hope so.  The scenery is spectacular, what with the formidable mountains, turquoise rivers and unique architecture. Yet, as cliché as this may sound, it was the people who made the trip worthwhile.