tains, a jet aircraft catches the last of
the sun's rays and glows like a light.
It is centuries away.
At first I thought the defensive tow-
ers were the steeples of old churches.
But there were too many. For that
many churches, there needed to be a
population living here that would fill
a city. Clearly this was not so.
The towers, I discovered, are
defensive, not religious. They were
built between the 9th and 12th centu-
ries as protection against aggressive
neighbours - the northern Caucasian
tribes on the other side of the moun-
tains and the Ossetians to the east.
For centuries the Svans, this isolated
tribe with their unique language and
its distinctive script, lived in fear of
invasion from their neighbours, as
well as attacks nearer home caused
by blood feuds that often took place
in these communities. Instead of
building large fortresses or castles
with defensive walls to protect the
whole community, each Svan family
constructed their own tower, five sto-
reys high, with a gently tapering pro-
file. The towers had entrances twelve
foot above the ground with a ladder
or staircase that could be quickly re-
moved if they were attacked. Inside,
heavy, flat stones were kept close to
the ladder holes, ready to block the
entrances.
Each tower was attached to a large
two-storey, rock-built home that pro-
vided shelter for the extended family
and their livestock, especially during
the long, harsh winters.
While many of the towers have
fallen into disrepair and collapsed,
in this village, Ushguli, at the head
of the Enguri gorge, more than 200
towers have survived.
The next morning I wake early,
get up and head again into the vil-
lage following the muddy, rocky
paths frequented at that time of
the morning by cows and farmers'
wives carrying wooden stools and
milk buckets. I need to be absorbed
TRAVERSE 43
into the medieval atmosphere of this
place once again before we leave and
pass on into the future. I find myself
accompanied by a large, hairy dog
who lightly bites my hand when I stop
petting him. Faithful brief friend, he
sticks by me even though every dog
through whose turf we trespass at-
tacks him. I am faithful too and fling
stones. We make it through together.
Cows stand about with yearning in
their eyes, waiting to be milked. An
old crone, stooped and, as always,
dressed all in black, scoops up cow
dung with a spade and flings it on a
compost heap. Women, their cheeks
pressed against the warm flanks of
cows as they milk, smile at me as I
pass. The metallic hiss-hiss of the
warm milk frothing into the bucket
blends with other early-morning
sounds and the warm smell of cow
dung.
Then it is time.
Back at the guesthouse, a friendly
cow, tethered to the back of a truck,