The weather suddenly turns bad behind the pass. It’s cold and rainy. We drive along the semi-autonomous province of Nagorno-Karabakh and have to be careful not to drive into it by accident.
Officially, the area belongs to Azerbaijan, but culturally and due to the clear majority of the Armenians living there, there are still frequent exchanges of fire there. The conflict between the two countries over numerous areas is still hot.
After we cross a village, a truck suddenly blocks our way. Another old truck seems to have driven into the abyss and now the recovery is taking place. A crane truck appears and the male half of the village appears to be there too.
The vehicle is pulled up slowly and shows itself to be deeply buckled. The driver would have to have had an enormous guardian angel if he survived that.
We camp within sight of the border with Iran. The mountains looming in front of us already belong to the Islamic Republic.
We drink the cognac, but we can’t say whether it is because of that – a creepy howl can be heard at night. It sounds like a tribe of cannibals have arranged to meet for a party. There are many beings who howl together and sound almost like humans.
There are pauses and then the singing voices come from another direction. But at least nobody wants to attack us.
The next day we follow the border with Iran, which is guarded by a white water river, a very high barbed wire fence and border towers.