Do you go to great lengths to acquire your food? I once met three Azerbaijanis who did.

I’m not talking organic, grain-fed, hand-nurtured, intravenously-pickled, with a sprinkling of Atlantis sea salt… I’m talking an epic road trip, hurdling around hair-pin turns on high altitude roads.

To set the scene further, this is all mythical and spiritual Eurasian point-of-origin territory. The Altai Republic sits on the Russian corner of the crossroads of China, Mongolia and Kazakhstan and encompasses the “Golden Mountains of Altai” UNESCO World Heritage Site. Think wide open planes and snow-capped mountains, and you’re halfway there.

We met in the Altai Republic town of Aktash. I was hoping to travel to Kosh-Agach, and further east into Tuva, an area famed for throat singing, as introduced to the world through the documentary Genghis Blues. They had travelled from the neighbouring district, towards Mongolia, in search of sheep for shashlik (shish kebabs). Abandoning my plans, I joined them for the promise of a great picnic.

Yet holding on for dear life as I sat in the back of the car, I stared to doubt my decision. Azerbaijani pop music blared, and we flew along at a speed at which no Lada was ever designed to travel. We stopped slowed down only twice. The first time was to get me into the front of the car, as I was the tourist guest (I tried to turn down this offer of the passenger “seat of death” under the guise of extreme politeness, but that failed. I spent the rest of the journey wondering how I could sneak my seatbelt on without offending my hosts), and the second was to point out the wrecked shell of a truck that had crashed and exploded only a matter of days ago.

“Some people don’t know how to drive on these roads”, the driver confided in me. I could only muster a nervous nod, and quickly discovered religiosity in the form of fervent prayer for an unscathed arrival.

Somehow we managed it. We arrived in the tiny mountain village of Beltir, a middle of nowhere place that had been recently devastated by an earthquake. My hosts negotiated some sort of electrical-wire-for-sheep deal, and after extensive arguing, we turned around drove back again. With two live sheep in the boot of the car.

All original thoughts for my safety flew out the window and were dashed somewhere at the bottom of a mountain crevice on the return journey. The sheep were alive back there! I was a bit shocked and sickened at the thought. After slamming the vehicle around sharp corner after sharp corner, I could smell something strange… excrement? I must have had a puzzled look on my face, as “it’s just the sheep” was the next thing I was told.

‘I’m becoming a vegetarian’ became my mantra for the rest of the trip.

Needless to say, hours later, my resolve dissipated on one smell of the freshly, sizzling shashlik. Beside a small river, with good company, bad red wine and plentiful vodka, we ate and drank the dust and fears of the day away.