137- Mystery In The Mountains (Zaqatala, Azerbaijan)
ATOP THE HILLS OVERLOOKING ZAQATALA and the surrounding valley lies an ancient graveyard stocked with the ghosts of long forgotten. What is it about a graveyard, any graveyard, that captivates me? Beneath every stone, there’s a story, a story unknown and often unknowable. Names. Dates. A dedication, if you’re lucky. Only imagination can fill in the blanks. I find a strange peace in graveyards, a soothing I can’t quite grasp. Simple arithmetic leads to tragedy or triumph. Eighty-five years. Fifty years. Nineteen years. Three years. The older the dates, the deeper the intrigue. Add foreign languages, rudimentary stonework, and a mountain view for a blind walk through history and an excellent morning hike.
Though given directions by my Peace Corps sherpas, I managed to miss the mark and bypass the trailhead. I could see my target from afar, so this was of little import. For my insolence, I was forced to cross a river, cut through someone’s backyard, and surmount the steepest hill I could find. Thankfully, the journey was the destination. The forests of northwest Azerbaijan resemble my conception of Robin Hood’s stomping ground. Elfin villages wouldn’t be misplaced, and a “Smurf Crossing” sign would certainly blend. I didn’t spot any Merry Men milling about, but I did pass a solo hunter sporting a shotgun and a peculiar expression. I’m guessing my presence was almost as exceptional as Robin Hood himself.
Morning rain did little to dampen my spirits, and thunder only added to the imaginary drama playing out in my head. Hilltops were treeless expanses of short grass that made me want to curl up in a nook for a mid-morning nap. A shifting mist blanketed the valley beneath the cemetery, adding a mystical quality to the proceedings while providing intermittent peeks at the Caucasus Mountains to the rear.
A clear view of snow-capped leviathans would’ve been nice, but fog imbued the scene with a haunting appeal one hopes to encounter at mountaintop graveyards in foreign countries where no one speaks your language and where it’s easy to psyche yourself out with perceived whispering voices and an eerie sense of being watched while wandering alone between final resting places of long dead unknown denizens of which you know nothing. Yes.
At first glance, the graveyard appears to be a pattern of roughly hewn upright stones strewn about haphazardly. Except for one proper headstone containing the date “1611-1697” and a smaller rock with Farsi, graves were delineated by unengraved rocks organized in rectangular patterns, if at all. Who were these folks, and why were they buried here? Perhaps, they’re remnants of one of the highland tribes scattered across Caucasia before imperial Russia “gentrified” the mountains. Where’s an Azerbaijani scholar when you need one?
A good day. A very good day.
