But over the weekend we came down the mountain; our neighbor Larry from Kortaneti called to say he was with his in-laws in a village called Sakhudabeli, outside of Aspindza, a town about 45 minutes from us toward Borjomi. He invited us down along with Christopher from Ninotsminda; we checked the marshrutka schedules and headed on down for a day in the village.
Larry and his brother-in-law met us in Aspindza; we piled into an old Soviet-era junker and started up toward the village. This was an isolated place, 20 minutes drive up a dubious road into the mountains; wolves had eaten a colt in the village a couple days before. We got there to a warm welcome from a warm family. Then Larry announced that he was off to make hay with his three brothers-in-law, and we decided to tag along.
Larry had said that the field was far away; from our walks around Kortaneti, I had assumed that “far away” meant maybe half a mile. But we weren’t walking, and this wasn’t Kortaneti. So for almost half an hour, we rode that old car along cliff faces, through two-foot deep puddles and two-foot high grass. There were some uncomfortable moments when we felt like we were on our way off the mountain, but somehow that old car made it (with a few groans of protest), and we found ourselves in a field below a ruined fortress, looking out across the valley at the mountains beyond.
Making hay by hand is hard work; Larry was nice (or tired) enough to let me try, and whatever else it might be, mowing with a scythe looks cool. I started to get the hang of it eventually, but the other guys were making like John Deere, so I got out of the way and went to sit in the shade to watch them mow.
Then we saw the rain coming across the mountains, a lot of rain, and we made our scrambling ascent back up to the car; they were anxious to get the field done, so it was just before the thunderheads rolled in that we all got up to the car.
And by all, I mean seven of us, plus the four scythes. The car could barely fit five. So Melissa and I squeezed into the front seat and one of the brothers took his seat in the little trunk, next to the scythes. And, with a push from the guy in the back to get us started we rolled up onto that mountain track. If it had been a little nervewracking before, it was terrifying this time, in the overloaded car with the rain starting to come down and turn what road there was into thick mud. Luckily we had cleared most of the cliff faces before the sky really opened up, but then it started to pour (which was an endless source of amusement to the brothers sitting in the back seat shouting encouragement to the poor guy sitting in the trunk, in the rain, next to the scythes).
There was about half a windshield wiper on the car, and it didn’t work. So it was through a sort of Impressionist lens that we saw our lives flashing before our eyes. We were sliding through the mud like it was a foot of ice and snow, and three times we got stuck and everyone got out and pushed. I don’t know how old that car is, or what kind of magic they put into it, but I want one. We made it back to the village, somehow, and just as we did, the windshield wiper started working.
It was about two when we got there and our marshrutka was supposed to leave at 3:30. We told Larry, and he, preferring us to stay longer, assured us that there were later transportation options, and if somehow we missed everything, he would have his brother-in-law take us back that night. He told us that the other brother-in-law who had gone to town was going to call him with the full schedule, but that didn’t seem to be happening, so we kept bothering him about it as the food started rolling in.
And it was good food. Mountain people, Larry told us, love their dumplings, and so did I (Melissa got major points for helping to make some). The wine came out soon after, and there was toast after toast. Larry got drunk pretty quickly, and then disappeared. The hours ticked by and by around 5:30, with no sign of Larry reappearing, we thanked our hosts and said that we probably should be going soon, since the marshrutkas probably wouldn’t run much later.
“What?” was the universal response. “Larry told us you were staying the night!”
Larry, it turned out, had gone to sleep, informing absolutely no one about our repeated requests for information about when we could go home (he was to sleep straight through until morning). The brother-in-law who he had promised would drive us had known nothing about it, and had gotten good and drunk himself. And so it was that we spent the night in the little village of Sakhudabeli.
After dinner, we went out to walk around, and, despite the mud sucking up to our ankles, it really was beautiful. We saw the sheep coming home, the sun setting over the mountains with the rain rolling away, the old Turkish cemetery, and the river running down the valley between us and the next village. A neighbor called out to us and sent out something that was half crescent roll, half nut roll, and all delicious, and we grabbed some sour cherries from the trees. We had to give a wide berth to the wolf-fighting sheepdogs, which would lunge against their fences when we came near. It was a really pleasant evening stroll, and the family was so friendly and open-hearted you couldn’t help but feel good.
We woke up the next (rainy) morning to find Larry pouring some homemade vodka to cure his hangover, and as we got ready to head back into Aspindza to catch the morning marshrutka home, he asked, “You’re leaving already?”
We flagged down the marshrutka to find it overfull; Melissa and I got to sit on little wooden stools between the seats; the trip up the mountain was mostly uneventful (only one person had to stop to be sick!), and I can tell you the hot showers here never felt so good.
The car that made it all possible.
haha, I miss Larry =)
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