Dagestan- Round Two

July 18, 2020

My 28th birthday was spent among some of the kindest, liveliest and most hospitable people I have ever met, seeing unbelievably beautiful sights and tasting delicious food, all while immersed in a culture which is a far cry from my own.  My social memory is not the strongest, and I cannot recall very well some of my other birthdays.  This one, however, is indelibly marked upon my memory, as it was a day that I lived my life to its fullest.

But how did this happen?  How did it come to pass that I spent my birthday in Dagestan, a place that if I were told two years ago I would visit, I wouldn't have believed it?  

It just so happens that my father was born on the same day as me, July 18th.  While I celebrated with newly made friends in Dagestan, my parents celebrated on the other side of the world.  It is the qualities and interests of my parents which have had a profound effect on me as a person, more so perhaps than they and I know.  My father is an explorer of sorts who has, throughout his life, had an immense love of physical travel, using every means at his disposal to open up the world, and to get from point a to point b, whether by land, air or sea.  It is more from him, perhaps, that I got my undying desire to physically explore new places.  My mother is a lover of culture, particularly music and art; her love and knowledge seem to know no bounds.  It is more from her that I got my unquenchable thirst to learn about and experience culture, language, and music.  Both have lived in a foreign country, and both are bilingual.  But the qualities and interests of my mother and father overlap to some degree.  Both love to go to knew places and meet new people. These qualities of my parents seem to have created a perfect storm within me, the results of which they perhaps did not foresee.  In short, it is because I am their son that I ended up in Dagestan, and I suppose I am dedicating this particular post to them.

This was not my first time in Dagestan.  I had had an incredible experience when I traveled there in October 2019, but the trip was only for two days.  I knew I should return, but have this conviction of not visiting the same place twice so that I may always experience something new.  As my birthday approached, I knew I didn't want to spend it sitting in my apartment.  Thoughts of Siberia crossed my mind, of a somewhat far-flung city called Ulan-Ude, a city in Buryatia which I visited over a year ago and love.  But I didn't really know anyone in Ulan-Ude, and the idea of making a six hour flight twice for a four-day vacation wasn't exactly appealing.  But I remembered that I knew people in Dagestan; I knew my guide from last time, Ruslan.  And so I made the decision to return there, as I knew there was so much more to see and the chances of going on an excursion and seeing some incredible sights was much higher than going anywhere else.  When I met Dagestani people in different parts of Russia and told them I have been to their republic, they frequently asked if I had been to Sulak Canyon, which is perhaps the main sight in Dagestan; but I didn't go there, and decided that this would be a place that I should try to see.  So I messaged Ruslan, and the chaotic and often unpredictable process of setting up an excursion began.

The goal: line up vacation time, a flight, and an excursion, all within the same time frame.  The problem was that I had to book my flight and take time off based on Ruslan's schedule.  I told him I wanted to go back into the mountains like we had done last time, and he told me which days he would be free.  The problem was that he was only available from Thursday until Saturday, and nobody else had requested an excursion during that time.  He told me he would look for others to join, but as the date of my flight approached, and he told me nobody had reached out to him, it became clear that I could not wholly depend on him to give me an excursion.  It seemed that the Coronavirus was taking its toll on Dagestan's fledgling tourism industry, just like everywhere else.  I did not want to base my plans on chance- there were other things I wanted to see in Dagestan.  So I asked him if he knew anyone else who gave tours and excursions, and that is how I got in contact with another guide, a woman named Lena.  She offered me an excursion to Sulak canyon on a Saturday, my birthday.  I was in luck! I knew that I would have at least have one fulfilling day in Dagestan.  Little did I know how lucky I would be for the whole of my trip.

 
I flew to Makhachkala on a Wednesday afternoon, and by the time I got there it was night.  One thing I did not anticipate was how hot it would be in Dagestan, upwards of 90 degrees (32C).  Staying on the third floor hostel I had stayed in last time, I struggled to sleep.  It was like a sauna, and I wondered if I had made a mistake.

The next morning, I woke up and had a goal in my mind: get to the city of Derbent, Russia's oldest and southernmost city.  To do so I chatted up some locals, and learned about the bus station from which marshrutka buses depart to neighboring cities.  After a taxi ride there, I found the marshrutka ready to leave.  For over an hour, the bus took us along endless vineyards lodged between distant high hills and the Caspian Sea.
Derbent is an incredible city, a city of stone houses, archways and winding, congested streets.  I'm kind of a Star Wars fan, and if Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky is like the snow base on planet Hoth, then Derbent is like Mos Eisley on Tatooine.  Hijaab wearing women were selling fresh fruit on the streets as the sun beat down on the city, seemingly affecting nobody but me.  The main sight, an ancient Persian fortress called Naryn-Kala, overlooks the city up on a high hill.The history of Derbent is fascinating.  It is an ancient place with such a long history that it is also deeply steeped in legend.  Empires of antiquity such as Greece, Babylon and Egypt held in their imaginations legends of wicked and mysterious peoples living beyond the borders of the known world.  There is also Biblical and Quranic reference to a certain 'Gog and Magog'- individuals, tribes or nations whose savagery, rumored to include cannibalism, struck terror into the minds of those living in antiquitous civilizations.  These legendary tribes were associated with apocalyptic hordes who brought death, devastation and despair, from times of antiquity well into the medieval era.  But the empires of antiquity were not wrong to believe in the existence of tribes living to their north.  The Scythians were a warlike nomadic people, skilled in equestrianism, who went west to raid Europe, and passed south through Kavkasia to raid the Middle East.  They terrorized the region and led to the destruction of the Assyrian Empire.  And then, they were gone; defeated in battle by different kingdoms and assimilated by other incoming tribes, like so many peoples before and after them.  But they were not the only ones; Huns, Sabirs, Khazars, Mongols and other nomadic tribes all at one point roamed around the Pontic Steppe of southern Russia, passing through Kavkasia and playing their role as the apocalyptic horde, leaving their terrifying mark on the psyche of the 'civilized' world.  There is a legend which credits Alexander the Great with pushing the Scythians back to where they came from, and to keep them out he built the Gates of Alexander, also called the Caspian Gates.  Some say these legendary gates are a mountain pass; others say they are a fortified city.  Derbent, which means 'gateway' in Persian, is strategically located in the eastern foothills of the Caucasus mountains.  

The fortress of Derbent, Naryn-Kala, was built by the Persians, adding to already existing fortifications which had been built during the 8th century BCE, and not during the time of Alexander the Great.  Nonetheless, many scholars believe it is safe to say that Derbent is the strongest candidate for the Caspian Gates.  For well over a thousand years, Derbent served as the protector of empires on the edge of the civilized world.  But the defenders of the known world could never have imagined how vast the territory north of them was, through which many different invaders would come.  And these invaders have certainly had their affect, as Derbent is a Jerusalem of sorts, containing many different peoples and faiths; it is archetypal of Kavkasia, which seems to have more ethnic groups than waves on the sea.  The city, which historically and culturally was Iranian, has changed ownership innumerable times; Persians, Arabs, Mongols, Timurids and a handful of smaller tribes and kingdoms all ruled Derbent at one time.  Now it is under the control of the Russian Federation, and has been since the Treaty of Gulistan of 1813, which saw the Iranians cede territory to the Russian Empire, the victor in the Russo-Persian War.

Upon arrival, a taxi driver offered to show me some sights, for a price.  He seemed intent on taking me to as many places as I would allow him, so as to lengthen his services and therefore increase his revenue.  But I wanted to wander, first and foremost to the ancient Persian fortress, Naryn-Kala.  This was the main sight that I was interested in, and it is a formidable sight indeed.  Here, one can wander through the old Persian courtyards or in the bathhouse of the Khans.

From the front of the fortress walls, you get a great view of the city and the Caspian Sea; from the rear, a view of a nearby village, tucked away in the beginning of the forested mountains.  I walked along the ramparts of the bullet-ridden walls, scarred from conflicts which could have been from times gone by or recent. 




I decided to spend a night in Derbent, so I showed up at a rather unusual but appealing hostel.  A teenager named Ismail greeted me and showed me my quarters, which were adorned with traditional handmade Dagestani rugs and blankets and traditional metal urns.  The informality was almost comedic; Ismail and I chatted a bit in the main room, and when I told him I was going into the city, he handed me the key to the place and left.  No passport copying, just choose a bed and here's the key.

After buying some much-needed sunscreen, I caught the marshrutka to the city beach, but not before winding through a city neighborhood on the worst dirt road in the city.  It was like being in one of those space ship simulators, only the simulator also has a sauna inside.  At the beach, I swam in the warm bathwater that is the Caspian Sea.  Everywhere, families were drinking tea and chatting; children were playing football, or practicing 'barba,' Dagestan's national sport- wrestling.  All men know how to wrestle, and boys are instructed from a young age.  It is a timeless tradition, one that encourages not only health and physical fitness, but also discipline.  For a people who live at the crossroads of Europe and the near east, where countless waves of invaders have come and gone, knowing how to fight is a way of life in Dagestan.  It is also seen as an activity which can help prevent young men from being radicalized, as it gives them something to focus on as well as something which can bring them prestige; this allows young men to channel their energy towards something positive and away from Islamic extremism.

After enjoying the beach atmosphere, I did some shopping and went back to my hostel.  There I relaxed, and in the evening met a guy staying at the hostel named Malik.  We hung out and ate together, and started talking.  He was in Derbent for work, repairing medical equipment at hospitals.  At one point we were talking about how Dagestan used to be dangerous, but now is safe.  At that very moment, gunfire erupted next door; it was loud and sudden, a repeating pop-pop-pop, and then it stopped.  I looked at him.  He smirked and said "That's Dagestan for you."  Clearly, the neighbors were having a party!  I remember how I had seen a bride and groom doing a photo shoot at the Persian fortress and put two and two together.

Malik told me he was heading home to Makhachkala the next day just as I was, so we exchanged numbers.  He told me he would catch the 1:30 train back to the capital, and in the morning he was gone.  I wandered to the 'northern market' where I bought myself a Papakha, which is a traditional Kavkasian hat which looks like an afro wig- I just couldn't resist.  I bought some kvas, a Russian drink made from fermented boiled bread, from a boy selling it by the street.  This is something you can see in Dagestan which you won't find in Russia's mainland- children working, in street shops and small markets.  While technically illegal in Russia, nobody in Dagestan seems to care.  Next, I checked out a very old Armenian church which has been turned into a carpet museum.  The outside of the church was scarred by gunfire, but it was still standing strong.

A walk down the street took me to an open square where Lenin's statue watched over two pieces of Soviet military equipment, a helicopter and an APC.  It was a reminder that, despite the different culture and architecture of Derbent, I was still in Russia- or rather, in the post-Soviet Union.

Satisfied with what I had seen, I decided that I might try to catch the train, which I beforehand hadn't planned to do. I took a taxi to the station, and gave Malik a call; sure enough, he showed up shortly after me.  We hopped on the train and were on our way back to Makhachkala, and I told him how I enjoyed the city and would stay at a hostel.  And then something completely unexpected happened- Malik invited me to stay with him at his flat for the rest of my trip.  I had heard about the incredible hospitality of Kavkasian people, but to experience it firsthand was something entirely new for me.  I was kind of blown away, but I obliged.  And that is where my experience with one of the most hospitable cultures began, but did not end.

The train ride, which was dirt cheap, took about an hour and gave us a chance to start talking a bit more.  Once at the train station, we took a marshrutka to Malik's part of town, a busy area with many shops, and went to his flat, a typical Soviet five-story brick building complete with stray kittens and grandmothers walking with children around the 'podyezd' (individual entrance to a section of the building).  While still in Russia, the people, culture and even buildings had changed, but the scene stayed the same.  His flat, which he shared with his younger sister, was simple but nice, well-kept and indiscernible from any other Russian flat apart from the large Persian carpet on the floor.

Over the next few days I would talk with Malik about everything under the sun.  He was very interested in why I had come to Dagestan, and of course wanted to know where I had been in Dagestan before and about my impressions.  He wanted to know about America and about Maine, what my life was like there, and why I left and came to Russia.  He also wanted to know about different places in Russia, many of which I have seen and he has not.  All of this I told him, and much more.  I of course had many questions of my own, and asked what it was like living in Dagestan, and what his relationship with the rest of his country was like.  All of this he told me, and much more. The answers I got were much more straightforward than I had expected, and were incredibly interesting.  He told me about his family, who belong to the Laks ethnic group. While he can speak Laks, he said he and his sister prefer to speak Russian, the language they know best.  He speaks Russian with all of his friends, who are from different ethnic groups.  It is a strange thing to behold; you feel that you are not in Russia, yet everyone is speaking Russian.  As we got to know each other a little better, I was able to ask questions that one normally wouldn't ask, such as what it was like growing up in Dagestan in the midst of Russia's war on terror.  

He told me about growing up in Dagestan and about life in Makhachkala during the worst of times.  He said that at first, when bombs started to go off, people were very scared.  You could hear a bomb from the other side of the city, followed by sirens.  The attacks were intermittent, and frequently on high-profile Dagestani officials, but sometimes against anything deemed haram (forbidden) by Islamic law, such as shops selling alcohol or lingerie. He said that after a while, people got used to explosions going off in the city and shootouts between terrorists and military police.  He said you would hear a bomb explode, and go on with your day.  

He also mentioned how there was so much that is unknown about the conflict, and how shadowy people were profiting from it.  An example he mentioned was about a time when a terrorist holed himself up in an apartment and decided to do things Alamo-style.  The military responded with a show of force, surrounding the building with soldiers.  Many soldiers; snipers and troops carrying light machine guns and rocket propelled grenades; and armored personnel carriers, and tanks, until the quantity of soldiers and military equipment, called upon to take out one terrorist, was absolutely superfluous.  War, even a shadowy war, is not cheap, and all of these soldiers needed to be paid, all of this equipment paid for.  Who will foot the bill for the operation? The government, of course.  Whoever was in charge of executing that operation asked for a sum of money to pay for it all, so the more soldiers and equipment, the greater the sum.  One can speculate, as this is a widely known practice throughout Russia, that not every ruble spent was spent for the original purpose, and that the officials in charge of the operation, after getting the job done- the terrorist was killed in the apartment- walked away richer than before.  Seeing how profitable war can be as well, this leads to other questions and even conspiracies, namely that it was for some time profitable that the war in Dagestan continue as long as possible, and at the same rate of random violence- not so violent that scores of people die every day, but with just the right amount of occasional terrorist activity for the military officials to swoop in, mop things up, and cash out.

At Malik's apartment we relaxed in the afternoon, and we had lunch after he picked up some food that his mother cooked, a local dish called 'chudu' which is kind of like flatbread with meat inside, and is very delicious.  Then, in the evening, Malik suggested we go to the heart of the city to walk around a little, so after a short bus ride we found ourselves at Makhachkala's very own 'tsentralny ploshad'- central square, complete with a statue of Lenin.  It didn't take long for us to bump into one of Malik's friends, Shamil, a professional photographer and car enthusiast- Malik warned me that once Shamil started talking about cars, he wouldn't shut up.  Shamil joined us, and back at the central square we met up with another of their friends, Zaynab, who showed up on her bicycle.  She was interesting since she spoke perfect English, a rarity in this region; she had lived in York, in the U.K., for a year and had been studying English since childhood.  She was more than happy to get some English speaking in, something she said she greatly misses since moving back to Dagestan.  The four of us set out and walked around town, and I learned that I was in the presence of a bunch of jokers.  Shamil and Malik, hearing Zaynab and me speaking in English, started to count all the words they understood us say, words like police, business, car, and problem.  Every time one of us said a word in English that they knew, they would take note of it and add it to their list.  After the vocabulary review was finished, they started to speak to each other in the crudest of English, their English classes from childhood finally producing something.  Their conversations sounded like something out of a gangster film; "Hey, you talking to me?!?" "You have problem?" "Yes, I problem" " Shut up, man!".  

The hilarity continued.  Zaynab was quick to point out how Shamil, an ethnic Avar, met the stereotypes.  The Avars are the predominant ethnic group of Dagestan, and have shaped the history of the region for centuries as highlanders with a strong warrior code.   They are known for being tough fighters, but, as the stereotype goes, also for being a little dull at times and doing things a bit brutishly.  So when Shamil dragged Zeynab's bike down a set of steps on the sidewalk instead of using the ramp directly next to him, she was quick to jokingly call him 'tupoy Avar' (stupid Avar).  In fact, all the ethnic groups of Dagestan have some stereotype. Malik's people, the Laks, were traditionally herders who lived on harsher lands, and came into contact with many surrounding tribes, so they were frequently multilingual; today they are considered to be the 'smart' ones.   The Dargwa, who pushed the culture and civilization of Dagestan forward with their skill in construction, crafting and medicine, are today known as good businessmen and traders.  The Tabarasan, one of the lesser populous ethnic groups, are claimed to be among the oldest inhabitants of the region and are known as expert carpet makers; their language, which has 48 cases (Russian has 6 cases and that is already a headache), is frequently considered to be the most difficult language in the world.   The Kumyks are claimed to be related to the marauding Turkic Kipchaks, and are therefore said to not be true highlanders; during the Caucasian Wars, they were constantly stuck between the Russians, who pressured them to cooperate, and their Kavkasian kin to the south, who constantly encouraged them to resist and join in the struggle; it is for this reason, perhaps, that the stereotype goes that they have a poor reputation, victims of the way history turned out.  There are many other ethnic groups in Dagestan, but these were the ones I learned about from my company.  Dagestan is truly an ethnographic enigma, an anthropological wonder whose people differ as much as the land they inhabit.

Our campaign took us through much of downtown Makhachkala, and ended near a market where I witnessed a man remove his license plate from his car, stow it in his trunk, and pull out and put on a different license plate.  Zaynab mentioned the need to be cautious in Dagestan, and to avoid people with nice cars and loud sound systems, saying that cars have trunks, and trunks can hold a body.  After walking all over the city, Shamil and Zeynab parted, and Malik and I returned to his flat.  There we talked and drank a bit of wine, as I bought a bottle of Derbent wine, something I had wanted to try.  Malik slept on the carpet, something he claimed he enjoyed, and let me have his room.  And so I understood the level of hospitality that I would receive for the next few days, and was blown away.

I awoke at 5:50 in the morning to take a taxi to the meeting point of the excursion, my favorite restaurant in Makhachkala, Kazan Mangal.  There I was the only person at first, but gradually the other members of our excursion assembled, a hijab-wearing woman here, a married couple there; all were locals and all were as sleepy as I was.  I met our guide for the day, Lena, who started rattling off facts about the city the second we all piled into our lifted van, seemingly unaffected by having woken up early.  We were on the road, driving outside the city on our way to Sulak Canyon.  Heading north, we passed agricultural land, went out of sight of the Caspian Sea and passed a massive sand dune called Sarykhum.  The majority of the drive there was actually a straight shot, and upon looking at the map and seeing how much space we had covered and how close we were to Sulak Canyon, I thought the excursion might be a short one.  But I was deceived by the map, as the remainder of the drive, after a city called Kizilyar, took us up into the highlands and then the mountains.  The sun-scorched plains give way to rocky hills which give way to forested mountains, from which the Sulak river emerges and flows to the Caspian Sea.  There, close to the canyon, we passed a military checkpoint and a couple of villages, and then it was into the forest on the mountain, along a winding road.  Our vans (there were two of them) parked near a farm after sometime, and we walked into a wooded area and emerged at the top of a mountain, and beheld the magnificent Sulak Canyon.  Its blue-green waters, beautiful and glistening, cut through the mountains, winding like a serpent.  On one side of the canyon, canopied trees cover the mountainside, while on the other side, it is rugged, steep, and has little vegetation.  Deeper than the Grand Canyon but not as long, Sulak Canyon brings about a feeling of amazement by its great beauty.  I could have stayed there all day, but after taking in the views and a photo session, our gathering moved on.

We piled back into our two vans and the slow, precarious descent down the mountain towards the Sulak River began, winding down the road as our driver deftly avoided large rocks and the more treacherous parts of the path.  The view of the mountain appeared and reappeared as the forest canopy opened and closed, beautiful and serene in and of itself. After more than an hour of rocking about, Lena telling us facts the whole way, we we emerged from the forest on the mountain to find ourselves on the mountainside itself, on a road with a cliff wall on one side and a steep drop on the other.  

The road, now more treacherous than ever, hugged the mountainside as we entered a village seemingly built on a precipice, the buildings miraculously standing upright.  A woman in our van told us that her grandmother, who lived in this village, had died a few years ago in a rock slide, buried in her own home.  It was a stark reminder that despite the beauty of the place, life out here can be hard.

In the central square of the village, we parked and piled into a very beefy open-topped jeep, which took us down the worst road yet, worse than the mountain road; jagged rocks jutted out of the ground and a stream ran down the middle forming a gully, but our driver drove over everything as if no obstacles were there at all.  After a short time we were on the banks of the Sulak River, its blue-green waters ever more beautiful from up close.

Being one of the main places for launching boats on the Sulak River, there were many people, perhaps on their own excursions, moving about and boats picking up and dropping people off.  Lena started to use my name as a rallying cry for our group to assemble and follow her, and this would continue all day.  "James is here, let's go!" After some waiting and a little chaos, our speedboat arrived and our group hopped in, and off we went, speeding along on the river flanked by rugged cliffs and mountains. 

This was a truly amazing, awe-inspiring experience that I won't forget.  On the river, so lovely, clean and serene, you get a feeling of insignificance which comes from looking up, as anywhere you look you see sheer cliffs and tall mountains looming above you, looking down at you.  The river curves, bringing you yet another breathtaking view, as speedboats full of elated people zip by.

After our boat ride was over, we returned ashore, hopped back in the jeep and returned to our vehicles. Exiting the village, we found ourselves winding on the side of the mountain once again, and stopped for yet another fantastic view.  The code of driving is evident on the road, as there is barely space for two cars to pass each other and drivers frequently signal one another to pass while one stops on the side of the road to make space- space which is much needed when there is a sheer cliff on one side.

The elevation gradually decreased as we made our way out of the highlands until we drove under a tunnel and came out of the mountain.  Stopping in the town of Sulak, we ate at a very nice restaurant and I sat with the group who was in the other van, and they were chattier than my company, to say the least.  They had all sorts of questions for me, about my impression, why I was in Russia, and how old I was; I told them "today, twenty-eight" and they all applauded and sang for me with much jubilation, and made our lunch a special occasion.  The restaurant had a fish farm next to it, so on the menu was fresh river trout, a local specialty which was so delicious I ordered a second fish, and someone footed the bill for me.  We also drank tea, and one lady produced a flask of cognac and poured some in my tea cup so as to hide it.  Still in a Muslim republic, the people of the region never fail to surprise.

Satisfied with our meal, all were invited to see the fish farm and small zoo nearby.  In the farm, trout and sturgeon were being kept in different pools for young and mature fish.  The Caspian Sea used to be full of fish including beluga sturgeon, whose black caviar is an expensive Russian delicacy.  However, years of irresponsible fishing during the time of the Soviet Union has left the sea with a dearth of fish.  Today, pollution and desperate fishermen continue to wreak havoc on what little is left.  To respond to this, fish farming has become a sustainable alternative.  We saw the small zoo which had plenty of farm animals but also a camel, monkeys, tegus and a Nile crocodile.  Afterwards, it was on to our final point of interest.

Driving back the way we had come, our next stop was at a 'zapovednik,' or protected nature reserve.  It was a massive sand dune considered by the locals to be a true desert, and for me, it certainly seemed to be one.  Called Sarykhum, it rose out of the nearby fields as we got closer and closer, contrasting sharply with the surrounding steppe and mountains.  It means yellow sand in some local language, and is aptly named.  It is said to be the remnants of the Caspian Sea's old shore from eons ago, and is home to many different species of plants and animals, many of them rare, including snakes, scorpions, and migratory birds.  

At the foothills of Sarykhum are a few buildings- a café, operations buildings for park rangers, and an old abandoned Soviet train station.  A very long boardwalk snakes up the dune, and at the top I could see almost 360 degrees around me, and had a stunning view of sand dunes, fields, and distant mountains.  There, locals relaxed and walked barefoot in the sand.  It was very hot, and while perhaps it can be contested whether it is a true desert or not, it certainly felt like one, and Lena was very emphatic that it was, in fact, a true desert.

Sarykhum was our last stop, and we drove back to Makhachkala.  Everyone was dropped of at certain destinations, and I thanked Lena for the incredible excursion and told her what a fantastic guide she was.  I was dropped off at Malik's flat, and waited for him to come back from a bike ride in the nearby mountains.  It wasn't long before he returned, and we talked about our day.

That evening, I met one of Malik's friends, a soft spoken ethnic Dargwa named Ganjimurad.  He worked part time as a barista and the rest of his time focused on photography; it seemed that all of Malik's friends enjoyed seeing Dagestan's incredible sights and taking photos.  I ordered food from Kazan Mangal for all of us; chudu, lamb on the bone and Dagestani khinkal, those delicious rolled dough pieces that I find so tasty and filling.  In Russia, you must provide everything on the table for your birthday, and I was happy to do.  There, in Malik's living room, we celebrated my 28th birthday.  Malik told me that he didn't really know what to get me for my birthday, so he decided to give me a book of poetry by the famous Dagestani poet Rasul Gamzatov.  I was kind of taken aback; I hadn't expected anything, and I personally find giving personal items to be more significant than giving something bought.  How could I possibly thank him? The whole situation felt very one sided, yet Malik made it very clear that he expected nothing in return and was just glad to have me as a guest.  The poems of Gamzatov, Malik said, contain the soul, the very essence of the people of Dagestan, and are said to be among the most beautiful pieces of poetry in Russia; yet Gamzatov's poems are said to be even more beautiful in his native language, Avar.  It was a wonderful gift which I will forever cherish.

I believe that Malik's intentions and hospitality were good-hearted and genuine; he never asked anything of me, there were no probing questions, and we treated each other with mutual respect.  However I feel that I must say that the overwhelming hospitality shown towards a foreigner from the West like myself can serve a purpose, which is primarily to paint a positive picture of the region for tourists who will then return home and say only good things.  While being treated with utmost respect is, of course, highly appreciated, I am cognizant of the fact that there is an agenda, that some Dagestani people want to show the world that they are hospitable, proud, and free, but also that they feel themselves the victims of Russian expansionism, or more likely, heroes in their resistance against it.  The Russians, for their part, would prefer to highlight Kavkasia's criminal and terroristic history and the aggressive reputation of its people.  Both sides are to some degree true, but the truth is never so simple; this is one of the most politically complicated places in the world, and the history, as I have highlighted so many times, is equally as complicated and rife with conflict.

The following day was my last full day in Dagestan.  It was a lazy Sunday.  Malik picked up a cake made with fresh apricots, and chudu with meat and cheese, once again compliments of his mother who I didn't meet.  It was a day of cultural exchange.  With the oriental rug as our training ground, Malik taught me some basic moves in barba, Dagestani traditional wrestling.  Much of it involved legs grabs, headlocks, and destabilizing your opponent.  This type of fighting, with its heavy emphasis on grappling, is what makes Dagestan's Khabib Nurmagomedov, a UFC champion, so dangerous and effective.  For my part, I gave Malik an English lesson, covering the basics of English grammar- I think he did pretty well.

In the late afternoon, Ganjimurad joined us once again.  Malik suggested we take a taxi up into the village overlooking the city from a nearby mountain.  We agreed, and it wasn't long before we were all on the windy side of the mountain looking down at all of Makhachkala.  You can see the whole city from up there.  We ate some sweets and drank tea, and enjoyed the scenery and the serenity up on that high point, looking down at civilization.  

We waited for it to get dark, but not before taking some photos of the city and of ourselves.  When we were satisfied, we called a taxi to take us into the city, where we walked around and saw some important sites including the grand Mosque of Makhachkala and the historic park.  After a while, we returned to Malik's place, where we ate and drank in the more traditional manner, on a mat on the floor.  We spoke much of the different places there are to see in Dagestan.  The places they spoke about visiting, where they have been and would like to go, make me want to come back to Dagestan again and again.  Every place here is different- every mountain, every river, every village differs from the next.

The next day, at 5:30 in the morning, I woke up ready but not wanting to fly back to Moscow.  Malik saw me off in front of his flat, and we wished each other well and said our goodbyes.  My taxi took me to the airport in good time, and from there I flew back to Moscow, wondering what other adventures could await me in Russia's southernmost republic.

My second adventure to Dagestan was a great success.  I saw breathtaking nature which I won't soon forget.  I got better acquainted with the culture, lifestyle, and hospitality of the people, and with the people themselves.  I welcome unique experiences wherever I go, but know how to assess risks with regards to the people I meet.  Yet, this trip really showed me how far a little communication with a stranger can go; it showed me how the ability to speak the language of the locals, mixed with chance, can take adventure to an entirely new level.  While there are many places where going once is enough, I will always be happy to travel back to the mighty land of mountains- to Dagestan.