The flight from Moscow into Azerbaijan was uneventful, Aeroflot again, and the same meal we had coming over. Sat next to a gentleman from Morocco, he was very nice. He is traveling to Baku to be a referee in a Taekwondo match in Baku. There are about ten young men of oriental descent on the plane too, we assume they are going to the same event.
We passed through a cloud layer at about 4,000 feet and got our first look at the city of Baku, at about 12:30AM. Lights of a city, and a river running through it. Before too long the outline of the Caspian Sea came into view, and then we were turning out over the water. A good landing, toward the north, and then taxi-back on the runway to the south end, turning off to the left and parking. We are now arrived, it is about 12:50--ten minutes late. We are wanting to not keep our man waiting, so we are working to get out of the airplane as quickly as possible, and I was a bit concerned about the general nature of these people as we deplane, this particular group is very pushy and crowding to get off the plane as well, no politeness displayed here. But Beloved’s “please!!” stopped the tired travelers and a space opened up, and closed just as quickly in a press behind us.
Approaching the door of the aircraft (an Airbus A320) we see not a jetway but a stairway, and we are going down to the pavement and getting on a bus. A short ride over to the terminal, the Baku airport is tiny. Through the door into a low-ceilinged room about 40x60 feet, this is passport control. Three open lanes for nationals, one lane for visitors. (And one desk for diplomats, which is manned though I do not see anyone go to this desk) Our first greeting walking onto this room is cigarette smoke, and three or four men standing around smoking and talking. Welcome to Azerbaijan.
Beloved is first up to the passport control desk, the young lady calls for another officer to look at her passport. Shortly enough we figure out that her picture on the passport is just different enough that they want to really scrutinize it. So what if it was taken six years ago when her hair was really short? And who looks like their passport photograph after 30 hours of traveling? We get through okay and over to the baggage conveyor. I pulled out my phone considering taking some photographs, but quickly thought better of it. We are fresh in the country in the middle of the night and they already think Beloved’s passport is fake--better not do anything that would garner any more attention!
We collected the luggage just fine, everything made it okay and no evidence of tampering. Following the locals through the short hall out to the real would I am requested to send the three bags I am carrying through the detectors. Okay. The man running the machine is completely engaged in a conversation with another cigarette-smoking man and seems irritated that the officer would interrupt him to look at the monitor. Down the belt they guy does not slow his animated conversation at all, the bags spit out the other end and I pick them up, and we are officially walking into the Republic of Azerbaijan.
Ten steps in we quickly recognize The Canadian, a gentleman we had met at the Business Meeting in Colorado back in November. He greets us, and his driver, and gets us to the car. It is now after 1:20 in the morning after a long, long series of flights and airport waits, so the drive to his apartment is a bit of a blur. The taxi driver is driving like a taxi driver, and though there is practically no one on the roads in this middle of the night he is still racing down the lanes and “short-cutting” through a maze of parking areas and alleyways like a crazy man. The Canadian apologizes for this, “force of habit I suppose,” he says.
**Disclaimer** Any descriptive terms that follow are not meant to be derogatory, only a depiction of what we are encountering. Please understand that we are adventurers and WE LOVE THIS LIFE and chose it knowing full well what we might encounter. Our tolerance for the out-of-the-ordinary is very high, and we are having a great time! Some people would find this a hardship, we find it a thrill.
The Canadian lives in an apartment building of Soviet origin, the stairway is filthy and smells bad and thank God he is only on the third floor. We get in his apartment which is actually quite nice, where his wife and daughter are sleeping, and offers us a shower or bath before bed, yes, that would be nice. A very primitive space, we are reminded of the Soviet style of infrastructure--if you want hot water, as long as you get hot water who cares what you have to go through to get it, right? There is a box on the wall, about the size of a desktop computer. The Canadian opens a panel and asks me if I would assist him, please turn on the hot water handle at the lavatory when I say, okay? Okay... Apparently it is an on-demand type water heater, but if the water flow is interrupted the fire goes out. He gets it running on the third attempt and proclaims it ready, just don’t turn off the hot-water faucet until you are done. Great. Four minutes later when Beloved is ready to get in the shower--no hot water. So much for a nice shower before bed...
There was conversation on the ride home about getting into Ganja the following day, so after about 5 hours of sleep we rise and prepare to get to Ganja. The Canadian’s wife and daughter are up and around in the morning, and I am able to send a couple emails and skype to my mom while Beloved is talking to the wife and preparing some breakfast. The taxi driver is back at about 8:35AM and we are off for the bus station. Oops, a look came over the drivers face, as he realized he missed the exit, so he smiles and backs down over a quarter mile exit to reach the road with the bus station.
The Canadian asks what we have planned for the journey, “I guess we were going to get on a bus, that is what The Coffeeman had recommended and offered no alternatives other than to say the train was a prohibitively long trip. What would you do?” “I would hire a taxi to go the whole way.” And the decision was probably a good one based on our lack of familiarity with anything Azerbaijan, mostly the language. Some negotiations were made and we were introduced to our next taxi driver, a greying-haired man of about 60. He is cordial and polite, a couple of gold-capped teeth in his smile.
We bid The Canadian and driver thank-you and goodbye, and set off toward Ganja, our new city of abode for the foreseeable future.
**Disclaimer** Any descriptive terms that follow are not meant to be derogatory, only a depiction of what we are encountering. Please understand that we are adventurers and WE LOVE THIS LIFE and chose it knowing full well what we might encounter. Our tolerance for the out-of-the-ordinary is very high, and we are having a great time! Some people would find this a hardship, we find it a thrill.
Driving in the rest of the world cannot barely be comprehended if you’ve never been there. There are very few signs regarding speed limits, one-way streets, street names, etc., and one traffic signal I saw looked like it was lit with 25 watt bulbs. I guess it’s okay because the drivers never seem to notice them anyway. If there is a space that you think you can wedge your car through, give it a try. Intersections? Cars turn two and three wide at a time. U-turns, passing, parking, these are all based on whatever the driver thinks he can get away with. It is a good thing I am tired, it is easy to close my eyes! Baku is a dirty, smoky, bustling city of crumbling buildings and new construction that looks like it will be crumbling soon. Tight winding streets choked with people and trash and all manner of vehicles ranging from scooters to ancient autos, dirty busses and huge transport trucks all honking and crowding for their space. Throw in a few dogs and a couple cows per mile and you begin to get the picture.
Soon enough the traffic is thinning and we are out of the city. We pass some landmarks and the taxi driver is valiant in his effort to explain what we are seeing, even trying in Russian. Beloved knows just enough Russian to be dangerous, and soon the driver thinks we can understand what he is talking about, so I fake sleep until the real thing takes over. The drive is about 5-6 hours depending on how fast you want to travel, and our driver is determined to make it in five.
We soon fall into this pace and the road is not terrible, and I think the taxi driver begins to understand that we do not really get all that much that he is talking about, so his quantity of conversation recedes a bit, however he remains completely polite. I am not sure of the conversion rate, but there were many times that the we were running 160 kilometers-per-hour and I think the posted limit was 90. We slowed several times and he would point out that there was a remote detection station (a camera and a radar gun on a pole), other times we would see the officers standing beside their car. If they pointed the baton at you, that’s it, you’ve been gotten. Which did happen to us one time. This did not seem to phase the taxi driver, he was just as polite as ever afterward, and it did not seem to affect his driving afterwards either!
At some point about two-thirds way along he stopped and motioned us into a nicer-looking road side restaurant. We followed, and the only ones inside were the owners and two cleaning ladies. All were extremely polite and welcoming, even to the point of taking Beloved back into the kitchen to point out what she might like to have to eat. Very patient and accommodating.
**Disclaimer** Any descriptive terms that follow are not meant to be derogatory, only a depiction of what we are encountering. Please understand that we are adventurers and WE LOVE THIS LIFE and chose it knowing full well what we might encounter. Our tolerance for the out-of-the-ordinary is very high, and we are having a great time! Some people would find this a hardship, we find it a thrill.
I will take just a moment to speak about the toilets--such as it were... We were pointed toward a door, and Beloved and I both entered, with the taxi driver and one of the cleaning ladies, four closets, quite private actually, and quite clean, but once entered into these little rooms one thing became immediately apparent-there was no commode. Nice shiny tile, with foot spaces, and a hole. And the picture will fill in the other thousand words. Welcome to Azerbaijan.
The owners and workers were entirely helpful and pleasant, and everybody smiled and laughed as we tried to understand each other. We got some photographs of them, and they thought that was good, though they did not understand what we were asking when we offered to send them by email. Perhaps one day we will stop again and share them face to face. The meal was simple but good, the taxi driver eating far more than we. We had bread and good butter that we thought was cheese and the tea was delicious. Not sure of how or what to pay, the taxi driver motioned to us that he had the bill.
At the outset of our journey we had given the taxi driver $60 US, and he gave us back ten manat, the local currency. The manat exchanges about 1 manat equals $1.25. We had stopped once about midway and made our first Azerbaijani transaction, a purchase of two cans of pop--orange Fanta. (From a small roadside stand that looked like it had sat beside the road for months, the can was filthy and the toothless salesman did not offer to clean the top off where you drink from. I didn’t even drink of it) So I only had eight manat. The taxi driver stopped a little before arriving in Ganja at a bank and I was able to withdraw 100 manat from an ATM, and the taxi driver and I figured out that if I gave him one of the 20’s he would give me back 8 and lunch would be square.
As we arrived into Ganja, the taxi driver began chattering more and more, and pulled off the roadway into a small parking area to show us the tomb of Nizami and a wall of statues depicting scenes from Ganja’s ancient past. It was a somber and quiet but beautiful place. I am glad to have been able to see these monuments.
As we pull into the city proper the taxi driver is on the phone, we assume to England, and we drive toward the center, pulling into a cacophony of taxis, stopping of course in the middle of the street. Horns blaring and men standing about in huddles of three or four, many smoking, they are all dressed nearly alike. Black or charcoal grey pants, black leather shoes of European style, and black coats. Most of the taxis are Lada’s, the ubiquitous Russian car. There is the occasional Mercedes and BMW, but they are few and far between, and stand out like a pearl in the pig-pen. One thing to note about the majority of the Lada’s--they are kept in a very good shape. Most are very straight, no rust, and a very sharp paint job, exhibiting an obvious pride in ownership. These people are not lazy concerning their cars, they seem to be fairly self-respecting.
England pulls up a couple minutes later, just as the stares were really becoming pronounced, it felt as if a UFO had landed and we had jumped out of the ship. I had never yet met England, and I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a line-up even though we had spoken numerous times. All of a sudden we are face to face, and, since the cars are parked in the middle of the street, the greetings are fairly quick and we bid our generous taxi driver goodbye.
England drives a Mitsubishi pickup truck, but does not seem like a pickup truck guy. In fact, “guy” is not really a good description at all, he is a proper British gentleman. Short, compact stature and soft-spoken, extremely polite but not out-going, simple and practical. This, he explained is why the truck was a practical choice, the poor roads and the occasional need to carry things to-and-fro. He appears to be a very sharp individual, and I think I am going to like him.
He doesn’t speak a lot, but shows us a couple points of interest on the way to The Training House, as well as practical landmarks for navigating the small city. He has explained that our arrival is a little sooner than he had expected, he has a meeting in a few minutes, would we mind stopping by The Training House for about 45 minutes prior to getting on to our house? Okay, no problem.
The Training House is another of England’s projects, over 200 students are enrolled in various stages of learning the English language. We park (again, Azerbaijan style which is half on the curb and half on the sidewalk) and transfer the luggage from the bed of the truck into the cab of the truck so that we might be assured of it’s presence when we return, and walk through the gate. The Training House is a two-story building in various stages of repair, but serviceable. We go up to the second floor and into a big room, there are several people there, all very friendly, and smiling with an innocent curiosity. We are introduced and given into the care of a national whose name I cannot remember at this moment. England disappears to his meeting, and we are politely asked if we would be willing to be interviewed by a class of students? Of course.
We enter a smaller adjacent room and the instructor introduces us and excuses herself. We are facing ten or twelve 18 and 19 year old english students, young men and women. They are nervously giggling as we go through fairly simple questions like, “What is your name? Where are you from? Do you have and children?” It is very interesting, and these young people are very friendly as we share some culture and speak to them in english.
After about ten minutes we are collected and taken to another room to do the same thing, to a more advanced class of students, mostly 19 to 22 years old. These are all college students of various fields, an electrical engineering student, a couple of students training to teach and even a heart doctor. Their questions begin similarly then advance to more cultural questions like, “What do you do with leisure time? How much money does a teacher make in the USA? Why are you here? Do you like us?” It was a fascinating half-hour.
England comes back, and introduces us to his wife, Mrs. P. and the rest of the staff of five, I think. Quick greetings and then we are off to our house. We drive up a one-way street and past The Bank (which I will tell about more soon) and to our house. The four locations that will make up our world for the next little bit are all located on this one-way street, all within about 20 minutes walking distance from the furthest point. Our House, The Bank, England’s House, and The Training House, in that order.
We arrive at the house, turning into an alley and parking. The entrance is through a small metal door in a wall, and into a big courtyard with grapevines and a couple of pomegranate trees. Plenty of room for a garden too. The house appears from the outside to be pretty big, and as we walk in, it proves to be so.
**Disclaimer** Any descriptive terms that follow are not meant to be derogatory, only a depiction of what we are encountering. Please understand that we are adventurers and WE LOVE THIS LIFE and chose it knowing full well what we might encounter. Our tolerance for the out-of-the-ordinary is very high, and we are having a great time! Some people would find this a hardship, we find it a thrill.
The house is cold, so the first thing upon entering is to light one of the several heaters. The first one we encounter, in the big room, is a smallish, cast iron box with a gas pipe running into it. There is no pilot, nor thermostat, the operational basics are, “turn the valve on and light it.” The valve is not real sensitive and England gets a nice “phoomph” as the gas ball ignites. Gotta love it. This is the only one England lights, “Right. You can figure out the rest?” “Of course we can, no problem.” This turns out to be the typical situation with all the heaters in the house, turn the valve and light it, including the water heater. No thermostats, no safety valve if the fire goes out, just on or off. Welcome to Azerbaijan.
It is now 4:30PM and has been a long day. England, politely asking if we can fend for ourselves for a couple hours, invites us to dinner at his house and states he’ll be back in a couple hours. We light another stove and explore our new abode, which is actually The Coffeeman’s house. He has lived several years in this house and has gotten to know it’s idiosyncrasies. It is a big old house, the ceilings are about eleven feet, it is built like an arts-and-crafts house with a central hall and four big rooms at each corner, and a big room on the back with the bath and kitchen at each end. It is sturdy but drafty--big single pane windows in three of the four rooms. The east wall is shared with another building and has no windows. The back room, the room we first entered off the courtyard and the one we spend most of our time in , is almost floor-to-ceiling windows and the door does not close well. All of the rooms inter-connect, so each room has three doorways, one to the hall, and one to each adjacent room. All the doors are double doors, and the doors onto the hallway and kitchen have windows in them. All the ceilings are high, and all the floors are wood, though not what you would think a wood floor to look like, rather a thin plywood that has been painted a deep shade of reddish-brown.
We pick a room and make it our own, not changing anything except the position of the bed knowing that this is not our long-term house, just a landing spot. We laugh and smile at each other, we are living what we have dreamed of for more than a year now, and every experience--however crazy--is a delight. The house is drafty, the infrastructure primitive, the methods are crude and unrefined, and we are having the time of our lives.
England arrives back about 6:30 and we go to his house for dinner, fish and potatoes and peas, and apple pie for dessert. England’s wife is not England, but is from Sri Lanka, I think. They are very pleasant people and we are going to like them. They have two polite children, and our time visiting is enjoyable. We write a couple emails and skype to The Coffeeman for a little more information on how the water heater works, and then back to the house.
It is still chilly but it is beginning to warm up, we climb into bed under three or four blankets and quickly fall to sleep. It has been a long and full day 1.
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