Free Eastern Approaches by Fitzroy MacLean

miscellaneous collection of Georgians and Russians.
    The Georgian Military Road, which runs from Tiflis across the main Caucasus Range to Ordzhonikidze, was built by Russian engineers in the first half of the nineteenth century, primarily as a means of subduing the warlike Caucasian tribes who were still holding out against them in the mountains. By enabling them to move considerable forces rapidly to important strategic points, it made it easier for them to contend with the highly mobile mountaineers and led finally to the defeat of Shamyl and the pacification of the Caucasus.
    For some miles after leaving Tiflis we followed the valley of the swiftly flowing Kura. Before long this brought us to Mtzkhet, theformer capital of Georgia, now a mere cluster of houses round an ancient cathedral jutting out into the swirling water of the river. Already we were in the hills and soon the road began to climb sharply. The air became sharper and the mountains wilder. From time to time we passed little groups of travellers on foot, on horseback and in carts and sometimes solitary horsemen, fierce shaggy figures. At Pasanaur near the top of the pass we stopped to eat — a surprisingly good meal: freshly caught trout,
shashlik
— mutton grilled over charcoal on a skewer — and a bottle of local red wine. Outside the post house sat a small, rather mangy bear on a chain, a forlorn-looking little animal.
    Still we climbed, more and more steeply. Our truck had seen better days and in many places the road had been washed away by the melting snow. At more and more frequent intervals it became necessary for everyone to get out and push, and I began to wonder whether we should ever reach our destination. High above us to the west loomed Mount Kazbek, a massive peak capped with eternal snow. We were passing through the towering Dariel Gap. Sheer rock rose up for thousands of feet on either side of us. Then we started to descend. Soon we found ourselves following the valley of the Terek, flowing down towards the northern slopes of the Caucasus. But our surroundings remained as wild as ever. An expanse of vast boulders lined the river bed and the mountains on either side were barren and craggy. The sun was down and it was bitterly cold. By the time we reached our destination it was dark and we were half frozen.
    Vladikavkaz, the Key to the Caucasus, or, as it is now called, after a People’s Commissar of that name, Ordzhonikidze, is an agreeably placed little town rather like a decayed French watering place, but otherwise has little to recommend it, and, after spending a night at the inn, I was glad to board the train for Moscow, where I duly arrived forty-eight hours later.
    My journey was over. I had not reached Central Asia and I had made a number of major tactical errors. On the other hand I had caught my first glimpse of the East and I had lived on and off in considerably closer proximity to the Soviet population than I would have believed possible. Next time, I decided, I would profit by this experience. Next time. …

Chapter V
Touch and Go
    B Y the end of the summer my turn had come for another spell of leave, and I was free to make a fresh attempt to reach Central Asia.
    This time I decided to try a different line of approach: by Siberia. As far as I knew, there was nothing to prevent one from travelling across Siberia by the main Trans-Siberian line. Some friends of mine had recently gone through to China that way. My plan was to take a ticket on the Trans-Siberian Express; leave the train without warning somewhere in the middle of Siberia, and then, stage by stage, make my way southwards as unobtrusively as possible, and without revealing my ultimate destination. I hoped, by this indirect approach, to keep the ‘competent authorities’ guessing until the final, illicit stage of my journey, by when, with any luck, it would be too late for them to stop me getting where I wanted. I did not expect to remain at large in Central Asia for