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The village is a ghost Gamsutl
Photos and text by Dmitry Chistoprudova
"I am the last of the Mohicans" - smiling, said patter only inhabitants of the village, and put it on a gas burner to boil a kettle.
His name was Abdulzhalil. For more than nine years, he lives alone in an abandoned village in the mountains of Dagestan. Abdulzhalil hurry to tell us their stories and thoughts that have accumulated in his mind for the time spent alone. Therefore, the stories of the old man fell at an incredible rate, mixing and jumping from topic to topic. Few that managed to understand, but it was not so important, the main thing - Abdulzhalil glowed with joy, taking the rare guests in their home. He fussed and kept looking at each of us, as if afraid that we can suddenly disappear ...
The village is a ghost Gamsutl as ancient tale, living somewhere in the mountains of Dagestan. Unprompted traveler never notice a small abandoned village on the slopes of the Caucasus Mountains.
Even with Murtuzali, our guide on Gunibsky District, see the crumbling walls of houses Gamsutlya was not an easy task.
We walked down from the pass, and left at the bottom of the river cars. Until the village could walk only on foot.
Evening sun promised is about to disappear behind the next hill.
At one of the houses in large letters written: "Keep up the herd paths, do not go to the village, it's dangerous."
Incredibly beautiful place.
The sun is gone, and we went down to the abandoned village - an open air museum.
Here Abdulzhalil, the hero of our story. Nine years have passed since departed as the last inhabitants of the village, and Abdulzhalil left alone.
Talk Abdulzhalilu only comes with bees and an old radio. In his eight bee farm families. Besides beekeeping Abdulzhalil working on their own garden where they grow vegetables. Them it is enough for a whole year. Once a month he goes to the neighboring village Chokh to restock provisions, take on new books in the library and get a pension.
The house, built in the late 18th century, can rightly be called the family nest. Here Abdulzhalila ancestors lived. In this house he was born.
In the rare days when travelers go up to the abandoned village and meet Abdulzhalila, he gladly accepts them in their home waters the tea with honey and conducts a tour of the aul. He is like a guide - can tell the story of each house and its inhabitants.
His spare time Abdulzhalil spends reading books, and in the corner of his living room is an old radio, on which Abdulzhalil listening concerts on demand and even sometimes calls himself piper calls the tune.
- Often you drop in tourists?
- Yes, all the time! In year two or three times someone comes yes.
The darkest room - a bedroom. Hear rustling in the corner of the stove. Hoods no or clogged pipe. The smoke from burning dung can see two beds, a table with newspapers, some utensils. Standing on a stool with a can of water, which Abdulzhalil every three days walking to a mountain stream. I'm on to something came - it's something blurted out and rolled away under the bed. Eyes watered from the smoke and I coughed, rushed into the street.
Being away from people and civilization, Abdulzhalil considers himself a happy man. In the village there is the Internet and television. Cell phone catches only on the windowsill.
We drank tea and talked. More precisely basically just Abdulzhalil, and we eagerly listened to him and laughed at his jokes and anecdotes. The evening passed quickly. It was time to go back to not go down the mountain trail in the dark. Abdulzhalil went to escort us through the village, continuing all the time something to tell. And went down to the river with us.
In Gunib including lighting. There we waited for hotel, bath and dinner. We said goodbye to Abdulzhalilom, thanked him for his hospitality, and he silently walked back up the hill. In the darkness, its low silhouette floated like a ghost.
Source: chistoprudov.livejournal.com
"I am the last of the Mohicans" - smiling, said patter only inhabitants of the village, and put it on a gas burner to boil a kettle.
His name was Abdulzhalil. For more than nine years, he lives alone in an abandoned village in the mountains of Dagestan. Abdulzhalil hurry to tell us their stories and thoughts that have accumulated in his mind for the time spent alone. Therefore, the stories of the old man fell at an incredible rate, mixing and jumping from topic to topic. Few that managed to understand, but it was not so important, the main thing - Abdulzhalil glowed with joy, taking the rare guests in their home. He fussed and kept looking at each of us, as if afraid that we can suddenly disappear ...
The village is a ghost Gamsutl as ancient tale, living somewhere in the mountains of Dagestan. Unprompted traveler never notice a small abandoned village on the slopes of the Caucasus Mountains.
Even with Murtuzali, our guide on Gunibsky District, see the crumbling walls of houses Gamsutlya was not an easy task.
We walked down from the pass, and left at the bottom of the river cars. Until the village could walk only on foot.
Evening sun promised is about to disappear behind the next hill.
At one of the houses in large letters written: "Keep up the herd paths, do not go to the village, it's dangerous."
Incredibly beautiful place.
The sun is gone, and we went down to the abandoned village - an open air museum.
Here Abdulzhalil, the hero of our story. Nine years have passed since departed as the last inhabitants of the village, and Abdulzhalil left alone.
Talk Abdulzhalilu only comes with bees and an old radio. In his eight bee farm families. Besides beekeeping Abdulzhalil working on their own garden where they grow vegetables. Them it is enough for a whole year. Once a month he goes to the neighboring village Chokh to restock provisions, take on new books in the library and get a pension.
The house, built in the late 18th century, can rightly be called the family nest. Here Abdulzhalila ancestors lived. In this house he was born.
In the rare days when travelers go up to the abandoned village and meet Abdulzhalila, he gladly accepts them in their home waters the tea with honey and conducts a tour of the aul. He is like a guide - can tell the story of each house and its inhabitants.
His spare time Abdulzhalil spends reading books, and in the corner of his living room is an old radio, on which Abdulzhalil listening concerts on demand and even sometimes calls himself piper calls the tune.
- Often you drop in tourists?
- Yes, all the time! In year two or three times someone comes yes.
The darkest room - a bedroom. Hear rustling in the corner of the stove. Hoods no or clogged pipe. The smoke from burning dung can see two beds, a table with newspapers, some utensils. Standing on a stool with a can of water, which Abdulzhalil every three days walking to a mountain stream. I'm on to something came - it's something blurted out and rolled away under the bed. Eyes watered from the smoke and I coughed, rushed into the street.
Being away from people and civilization, Abdulzhalil considers himself a happy man. In the village there is the Internet and television. Cell phone catches only on the windowsill.
We drank tea and talked. More precisely basically just Abdulzhalil, and we eagerly listened to him and laughed at his jokes and anecdotes. The evening passed quickly. It was time to go back to not go down the mountain trail in the dark. Abdulzhalil went to escort us through the village, continuing all the time something to tell. And went down to the river with us.
In Gunib including lighting. There we waited for hotel, bath and dinner. We said goodbye to Abdulzhalilom, thanked him for his hospitality, and he silently walked back up the hill. In the darkness, its low silhouette floated like a ghost.
Source: chistoprudov.livejournal.com
