a week with the Yaelong

(or, having a whorphan of a time with marauders)

My first night in the Lower Yalung Valley is cold, damp, and filled with the haunting calls of the yip-yip-yend, Grigovia's first official national animal. For the next week, I shall be accompanying the Czabpamndt, one of four dedicated scouting parties for the fiercely independent, semi-nomadic warriors known as the Yaelong. Bandits feared since before the time of Alexander the Great, the Yaelong recently received international attention – and widespread acclaim – for their vehement refusal to submit to Yankee demands for the counting of their numbers, the video-taping of their traditional dances, the recording of their hunting calls, and that they finally settle down in tastefully-furnished, prefabricated structures built by nice civilian contractors from Texas; in truth, however, they have for untold centuries protected their rights – and their verdant, mountainous valleys – from most every incursion by, “idiotic, ignorant outsiders such as servile Persians, snooty Englishmen, meddlesome Soviets, and, now, capitalistic Americans.”

Due to its unique location and great age, the Lower Yalung Valley is home to many treasures, among them the czabtyip (a local spice-drug plant), the yip-yip-yend (a goat-like beast prized for its single horn, tender flesh, and dazzling coat), and, due to its location in the eastern Caucasus mountains, the vast deposits of rare-earth-minerals such as lithium, high-grade silicone, and inert, rock-bound hydrogen. The area is also known for its pristine aquifers and crisp, cold-running mountain streams that appear to keep the Yaelong in good health regardless of their hard-charging, marauding ways and a nearly universal addiction to czabtlan, a tart, intoxicating, and mildly hallucinogenic beverage made using czabtyip root.

On the sixth day of my visit, we climb – precariously – up to a string of sheltered glens that do not appear on any of my maps. We meander from spot to spot, with the Yaelong pausing to tend semi-wild, seemingly-perennial crops along the way. For hours we walk in silence, soaking up such rays of sunlight that manage to penetrate the thick overhead canopy of trees. We keep our eyes peeled for the poisonous harsh-vine, which strikes with a whip-like lash, and speak little so as to listen for predators such as cougar, bear, or man. As I am preparing, the next morning, to leave for the Glorious Republic of Grigovia's capital, Grig, Yhend Yipyend, the self-educated and democratically-elected leader of the Western Lower Yalung Yaelong, tells me, “We did not assist the Russians when they asked for our help to fight our neighbors, and we shall help neither the Americans nor the Islamists; we said the same thing to the clean-faced Yankee missionaries that we told the bearded Saudi jihadists: 'Please, leave us alone,' we said, 'please, everyone, please go fuck yourselves and stop trying to interfere with our ancient and long-standing traditions.' We have no problem with the way other people go about their business, and we expect them to leave us alone – on own our lands, in our own valleys – and that they respect our right to go about our business as we please.” Mr. Yipyend is being considered for various peace prizes, including a Nobel, and one from the United Nations.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit