Day 88 Sunday

Woke up early again, I guess I'm kind of jittery about our impending departure, so I grabbed the camera and headed out the door about 7:20 AM. It is getting light and it looks like it will be fairly clear. 


I get to walk around my neighborhood and down toward the river for the last time (for a while) and think back on the past three months' adventures here in Azerbaijan.

We will be back, I’m sure, just not sure when or for how long. We would like to be able to return in the fall, September or October, (even if it is just for a couple of weeks) to continue our friendships and relationships with those that we have gotten to know in our short time here. 


The nation of Azerbaijan is populated with wonderfully kind people. They are interesting, engaging, and curious. Open and warm, I have only once encountered a shop-keeper that was rude. We have been welcomed like no where I’ve ever been even though we know little of the language.

200 pieces of Bread in a Lada

The common workman is hard-working and inventive, although tending to be a little lazy in the area of excellence. There is a purvasive attitude of “good-enough” that appears to be the standard. Many things here are cobbled together--if it works, it’s good enough. Is it safe? No, but it works. Is it astheticly pleasing? No, but it works. Will it break soon? Yes, but they will patch it back together again and there will be gas or water or electricity again for a few more weeks...


I have had very little experience with the government sector here other than my dealings with the Police and the Immigration Department. These too, can be likened to the labor of the worker--they appear to create bottlenecks rather than create freedom in order to retain power over those that they govern. It appears to me that the government has lost any sense that they are the employees of the people. 


A couple cases in point; The nation of Azerbaijan took and initiative in response to the recent uprisings in Egypt--they switched around a bunch of mayors. I guess they can do this, Mayors are appointed not elected. So Ganja got a new mayor. This is done to stem the corruption that ruling individuals seem to gather. Our new mayor was the previous mayor of Yavlax, a city of less than 30,000. Ganja has 300,000 so qualifications do not seem to matter a lot. One of the first things he has done was command that one of the most successful resaurants in the city, “Elegance”, pull down their outside seating area, stating that it was bad to look at. I am certain that this has had a significant financial affect on thier business, however, three tea houses within viewing distance of Elegance have been allowed to keep thier outside seating areas. Totally a double standard here. If the new mayor wanted to do something about how the city looks he should do something about all the litter. This would make him a good official.


There are numerous other points that could be made about the Immigration Department, the Police, and other governing sectors. Bribes, lax reporting, non-standard decision making processes and many other things, but I guess that the “good-enogh” mentality is at work here too. The people have grown accustomed to heavy handed governance and when the pain of change is less than the pain of staying the same change will come.


It is not intolerable, we have been comfortable enough. No, it is not American standards, but it is livable. The people here have almost no expandible money for luxury or leisure, and it shows, but they have chosen to not let it get them down. They shine their shoes and wash their 40 year old cars and drink tea while playing dominoes and celebrate the good life that they have. They are a very optimistic people, choosing to see that the gas was only off for a few hours rather than the fact that the gas went off at all.


I wish we could have gotten to stay, it would have been interesting to see how it all played out. I know we would have done more work at the Training House--they need to finish several more projects to be able to apply for another registration. That registration would permit them to reach more children and give them a quality education. I would have liked to meet the artistic community and see what they are doing. I would have loved to get into the music scene here--there is a pretty good jazz station on the radio. I would have liked to create some kind of grass-roots anti-littering campaign and coordinate some clean-up projects.


We have to trust that there was some sort of bigger reason in our “detour” at this time. There is one thing certain, we will return to Azerbaijan. Whether is is a short visit or we do find a way to live here long term, our hearts have been knitted with this land.


I will also offer this as well--if anyone reading this blog would like to experience the adventure of Azerbaijan first-hand Beloved and I will be your guide and host for a 7 day visit to Azerbaijan. You will get to meet most of the regulars on this blog, England and Mrs. P., Manchester, Berry and her family, Farshid, and get to be involved in bettering the lives of a few Azerbaijanis. If you are truly interested contact me, the cost would be about $2000, that would include your visa, airline ticket, and food and housing while in Az.

Day 85 Thursday

Woke up early (the consequence of going to bed early) and saw a golden light radiating in yonder window pane. Hark, be still my heart--could that be, lo, the sun? Well, it was for about 15 minutes, just enough to peek in under the clouds. However, since we were up Beloved and I chose to take a walk and see what we could see.

I wanted, if possible, to take a photo down by Yaver’s house. There is a nice drop-off where the ridge comes down through that part of town and you can see the Mountains to the south pretty well. Should be really nice if we could get a glimpse of sunshine on them. We got there and clipped a few shots of the mountains and the cityscape, then discussed whether or not to continue up the hill when we noticed that we were being watched pretty closely.

There is a gentleman standing about 75 feet away. When we turned to come up his way I nodded to him and gave him a greeting but as Beloved came past him he came to life and began to make us feel a little unwelcome. I spoke to him in english, but that was no good. When I started to walk away he pulled out his phone and started saying, “Police! Police!” When he was done with his phone call I spoke to him again and was able to pick up the word “why?” and pointing to my camera. (The camera is not a consumer grade point-and-shoot it is a pro series Canon with a double battery pack, so it looks like serious business!) “Man touristeyam,” I answered--I am a tourist. (More true today than any other day in my 90 day stay. “Shekillar manim dustum,”  which, though probably terrible grammar, indicated that the photos were for my friends.


This seem to satisfy the man and defuse the whole event. He sheepishly put away his phone and made his way off to the left. I nodded to him and smiled, and he gave a little hint of a smile back. However, we did not stay in that locale any longer just to see what happened!


We walked back toward the house trying to to be paranoid about a police car wheeling around the corner and being accosted. 

We are not in our usual neighborhood, we are about 15 blocks from our house. There is an unused (duh) church building of Georgian/Armenian origins that we walk around and get a few photos of. We would love to go in the gate, and perhaps one day we will.


Walking home we are finding several quiet streets with no traffic whatsoever. Being a very family-oriented society, weddings and funerals are big deals, and part of the deal is a tent that is set up in the most convenient place--right in the middle of the street in front of the home. This creates a little bit of an interesting situation with the traffic (especially since there are so many one-way streets--but no one really seems to mind because it is so ingrained in the culture. So, on our walk back to the house this morning we encountered four such tents, and walking on these streets is very easy because there is no traffic.

At noon it is time to go to the Training House for our last Azeri language lesson, this time around anyway. Spring is coming and we grab a couple of shots of the blossoms and daffodils, small patches for color in a grey world.

There are lots of things we will miss over here, and the primary thing will be the people. In three short months we have made many friends and will miss them when we leave. Our language lesson is not the most effective lesson we've ever had, there are many pauses as we try to overcome tears at the unavoidable change that we have been thrust into.

One last photo of the restroom remodel at the Training House. It is complete now and I want to give a special "thank you" to Indy. I don't know if we would have been able to finish it with out her irreplaceable help and incredible assistance. Thank you, Indy--you were indispensable to this project!

Doesn't even look like the same room. Thank goodness!!

Day 78 Thursday

The electrician did indeed come at 9:00 this morning. He set to work an after about an hour our electricity was restored. Note--all of the electric cable I have seen so far is aluminum. No copper yet... Not sure what he actually did, but from seeing the left-over Stalin-era electric panel he could have done some voodoo on it and I would not be surprised. This entire house runs all electricity through one breaker!


So, electrician comes out to the house, works for an hour, fixes the problem. How much did it cost? 9 manat--$11.25. Not bad.


Had language lessons today too, we are working a lot more now with speaking the language and it is tough! Good though. Finished up that and changed clothes and spent three hours painting in the restroom--half done with that. Tomorrow whould finish all the paint, then plumbng on Saturday and it’ll be done! Yahoo!!


Came home to macaroni and cheese dinner and wrote the blog the rest of the evening. Now it’s 11:30 at night and I'm all up to date, so goodnight!!!

Day 77 Wednesday

We had been asked by Berry’s dad (I really must think of a good handle for him someday soon)if we would like to participate as a host home for a progressive dinner for the ten visiting Americans and several Azerbaijani students that would tag along. “Sure we would!” and we did.  However, as beloved is putting together a tex-mex fajita dinner for 20 people, the electricity went out about 2:00 in the afternoon. Not like this is a huge deal, it does that from time-to-time. You get used to it. It usually comes back on in a couple hours and life goes on. Today, it didn’t come back on. Thank goodness the stove is a gas range! 5:00 came, and then 6:30 and our guests arrived. Fortunately the time change has provided us with more sunlight in the evening hours and the dinner goes off as planned.


One of the locals even offers to look at the electric situation--it is decided that we are the only house on the block with no lights! He is not an electrician, just a guy that has some skill, but he cannot find the reason we are without power. He calls a friend and the electrician will be here at 9:00 tomorrow morning. Well that’s good news...

Azerbaijani’s love to take photos of special occasions and tonight is no different. So I also get to take a few for posterity. Here are a few, including a rare stage-diving incident right here in Ganja!

We decide to forgo the clean up since it’s getting dark--and there is no electricity in the house--and walk with the group to the last house on the Progressive Dinner stop for dessert. It is a very nice time, and on the walk home Beloved and I grab a couple night time shots of the city. Enjoy Ganja at night!

Day 76 Tuesday

Today is the English Gala. We are not sure what to expect, but there seems to be a lot of hubbub about it. It is divided into two parts, the children and the adults. From 2:30 to 4:00 the children at the Training House are gathered up and the Gala begins. Mrs. P. emcee’s the event. There is the first-ever showing of the Drama Club, they have prepared a rendition of “Jack and the Beanstalk,” in english no less. The performance is nice, the giant is played by the smallest member of the troupe. How fun!

Then there are skits performed by the various classes of the Training House. Indy, one of the teachers, tells me later that her kids put together the concept and the acting-out of the presentation. There were four skits, and Indy’s team won the prize!

The American guests that arrived Sunday morning were also taking part in the Gala, they did a presentation of American Culture and were very well received by all the kids.


At 4:30 the whole thing was produced again, only the skits were performed by older students and most of those in attendance were adults.

Beloved and I skipped out midway through the second gig--we were pretty hungry after having been there most of the day. We walked down to Ala Turka and visited with our friend Farshid the waiter. The food and discussion was good as always, and having our tummies full we walked back to the Training House and out in two more hours on the tile floor. We’re getting close now!

Day 74 Sunday

The Daylight Savings Time change happened last night, we are finally back to just ten hours ahead of the Midwest instead of eleven hours, which we have been for the last three weeks. This is an important point because we are expecting the arrival of several guests from the USA arriving this morning. A group of ten, friends of Berry’s family (and Indy too, actually) flew into Baku arriving just after midnight then traveling by bus directly here. Berry’s dad had told us that he would call ten minutes or so before knocking at the gate, but he wasn’t sure exactly what time that might be. “Expect somewhere between 5 and 6AM.” So, at 5:30AM--with the time change it felt like 4:30AM, you know the drill--the phone rings. We’re here! So much for the ten-minute warning. No problem, we greet them and show them where they are to bunk and then get back to bed. Beloved did not sleep very well prior to that, she was fidgety, not wanting to miss the phone call.


Beloved and I got up and around about 8:30 and met with some friends for breakfast. It was progressing to be a normal day, so in the early afternoon we left the house to go to the Training House to continue with the tile work.


On our way we are passing by the Stadium that we occasionally run at. On the field are about a dozen or so people with, what’s that? American-style softball gear. I had to take a closer look at that, so as I am walking up to the entrance, a police car stops at the curb and motions us over. “Can we see your documents?” “Ummm, we left them at the house...” We stood there on the curb for about three minutes when one of the young Azerbaijani guys from the field walked down and asked if he could help us. He was very kind and it is a very generous thing that he is doing, but it is to no avail. The young man says, “you must go with them so they can prove that they are doing something. Please do not hold it against Ganja, we are really nice people.”


I though that was particularly kind of him to do.


We did go with the police. They had asked our address, which we were able to pick up, and we were able to tell them our address. Okay, so they will drive us back to our house, we will get the passports and the visa and all will be well. They drive about 80 percent of the way to our house, then go in a different direction. Beloved and I look at each other--they are taking us to the police station.


We quickly and wisely decide to phone for some help. “England, we have been picked up and taken to the police station.” That’s a first.


I thought about snapping some photos but then decided against it. In hindsight it probably would have been okay but I didn’t want to inflame an awkward situation. The station itself was small and dumpy--the same odd angles in the construction, the same power-struggle-style of leadership. The officer that brought us in started writing, a report I would imagine, but not a form--just a white sheet of paper. The senior man, judging by the gold flourishes on his jacket was busily playing Suduku. Don’t want to interrupt him. There was a soccer game on the television in the corner. There were about five guys at this post, all of them filing through as if to look at the latest catch. I guess we were somewhat of an oddity.


Nobody at the police station speaks english beyond, “hello, what’s your name? How are you?” After some fumbling around England walks in. There is some discussion between he and the senior man at the desk, then England says, “We must go and get your documents but one of you must stay here.” Great.


I stay and Beloved goes with England back to the house for the papers. All others leave too, I guess the show is all but over. In a very halting dialog I find out that this man, the senor man, is England’s neighbor. He goes back to his Suduku and I wait quietly for England and Beloved to return.


Shortly enough they do, and after some inspection of the documents all is pronounced in-order. Great! Can we go now? No. We must wait for a district man to come by and inspect the documents, then take them and get them photocopied.


England wishes us well and bids us good-bye, and soon enough the district man arrives. He looks over the passports and the visas and the receipts and the stamps, then all three of us depart the station. In a friendly gesture I ask his name as we drive to the photo-copy house. We understand very little of each other’s language, but in the small spaces that our proficiency overlap we are able to speak and laugh a little bit. His name is Jehann or something like that, so we laugh that we have similar names.


In the end, we spent two-and-a-half hours with this transaction, but it was not a horrible experience. The lawmen were courteous, there was no brutality or perceived request for a bribe. It is not something that I would like to do again but all-in-all not the worst thing I’ve ever been through.


We finally did make it to the Training House and worked for about two hours.


That was a full Sunday.

Day 65 Friday 2

Today we are going to the building materials place. We walk down to the Training House and meet with Nomiq and Mrs. P. and then we are at the building materials warehouse.


Mrs. P. drops us here--she has other errands to run, she will come back after while and collect us.


Mrs. P. has done a great job putting together a list of all that we determined it would take to complete this project, along with a budget of how much each item should cost, so it should be a straight-forward time of picking up the materials. The tile acquisition was easy enough, but then we moved over to the paint side of the building. I love paint, I made my living with paint for more than 13 years. I know paint. What they have over here is not paint. The majority of all painting that is done is whitewash. Almost a watercolor paint. They call it “emulsion” and they use it everywhere, even outside, and it washes off in the rain. Also, it only comes in white, but they have small containers of coloring that you can tint your emulsion with. Great.


Is there a better grade of paint? Yes, they call it “paint” and use it almost exclusively for doors and window frames but almost never for a wall. It is a heavy duty oil-based enamel, and it comes in several colors, but only about 15. A couple shades of red, light blue and dark blue, etc. I sure hope it mixes well, I got a 500ml of black, red, yellow and medium blue, we’ll see what we can do with these and three litres of white.


The language barrier is a tough thing to get over or around, especially with slightly specialized technical terms, like those used in building materials and remodeling practices. I would like to know about some plumbing options, but I cannot get our interpreter to understand what I am asking about, so he is unable to ask the salesperson about it, so I was getting frustrated and just decided that this would be one time to walk away and attack it another day.


We got our tile and  thinset and cement and paint loaded up and we headed back to The Training House.

Day 64 Thursday

Azerbaijani Language Test Today. I have been looking forward (not) to this day for a week, ever since it was announced that we would have a test coming up. The first portion, the written portion was 30 minutes of suffixes, possessives, plurals, and some translation, plus a few sentences of descriptive terms about my family. I struggled, but did my best. I really didn't feel good about it, but our instructor didn't help when she announced, "Almost passed."


Great. Now what? I hate studying, I hate school, and now I have to re-double my efforts because I just failed the first test I ever took. Honestly, I felt like crap.


During our break I guess I looked a little more down-cast than I wanted to, Amalya, our instructor, asked how I was feeling, I said I wish I had passed the test. She says, "But you did." I did? Yes. "What about, 'Almost passed?'" "Oh, that was joke." I shake my head, my instructor knows just enough english to be dangerous. After some amount of discussion I figure out she was trying to say, "Barely passed!"  I told her, "we need to work on your joke-telling..."


Passed the spoken portion with an 85, Beloved got a 90!

Today is the birthday of my father. He has been gone now many years, but today I want to honor his memory, and honor all my family by telling just a little bit about him.


I have never ever regretted that my dad was a gear-head. From the first times I can remember him he always had some old car or truck in the back yard that was in some state of repair or customization. He loved auto racing and demolition derbys. I have many memories of Saturdays at the dirt track, and it was fun to see his silver race car lead the pack and win the race. We always had lots of trophies around and a huge (to a ten-year-old kid) garage in the back yard.

I was 10 or 12 maybe, I had gotten as a gift a painting set--my family recognized my artistic talent early on. It was a nice set of oil paints and a book of canvas sheets. I was having a hard time figuring out just how they worked, and was very frustrated. Crying actually--I was always a sensitive artist. My dad heard me and intervened, turning to a fresh sheet in the book and picking up the brush. With a deft stroke, he drew a large red numeral 5 in the middle of the page. That was it. He said, "If you can figure out how to paint numbers and letters you would always have a job as a sign painter..." or at least that is the way I remember it. I was done trying to paint mountains or flowers for a while.

I had leukemia when I was 14, the same year dad had by-pass heart surgery. He would bring me along when he went "out for coffee" with the guys. I was awkward and sickly, but felt like a million bucks when I got to sit at the table and listen to the stories.


I finally did become a sign-painter, and dad was always helping me out. Like the time he helped me build two 22-foot ladders so I could almost break even on a job that I was way over my head on. I had bid on--and won--a plastic face job, installed. $650. The materials alone cost me $600. I was young and stupid, but he never brow-beat me about it. He sent all his cronies to get signs from his son.

He had asked me to paint a sign for his and mom's "What-Not Shop," a 4x8 sign. He helped me install it, we drove metal fence posts in the ground to install it on. I was standing in the bed of the truck with a sledge hammer while he stood on the ground and help the post in place. See where this is going? I almost broke his arm...


He died of a heart attack when I was 28. I sure miss him. Happy Birthday Dad.

Day 59 Saturday

My how quickly two months passes. We have had so much fun here getting to learn all sorts of new things and meet so many interesting people.

Today broke bright and clear, and about 43 degrees F at 8:30AM. We had an idea that it would be a warmish day, the heaters did not have to work so hard overnight. We actually turned them down when we got up at 11:00PM. Thanks Manchester! After a long Friday we went to bed early, about 8:30--I was really tired for some reason. Manchester called at 10:50, "Sorry to call so late, I know it's short notice but can we borrow your house tomorrow?" She had a conflict in venues needed a room for her student group. "Ummm, sure. Goodnight."  However, being awakened, we both had a hard time going back to sleep, so Beloved and I watched a movie in the middle of the night! Got back to bed about 1:30 and finished out our eight.

It ends up they did not come over today, something else worked out but the house was all ready just in case.

So, like I started out saying, the day was bright and warmer than it has been recently, so it was a good day to work outside. We walked down to The Training House and jumped right in. England was there with Vagev, and by the time noon came around we, about eight of us, had removed six small trees and a couple stumps from the playground, which is just about ready for a few loads of topsoil and then grass seed. Hopefully we can get some growth before it gets too warm.

After the workout in the yard was our language lesson. Still learning more every session, I hope we are ready for the test on Tuesday. It will be half written and half speaking. Always remember, in the possessive, add -nun to the owner and -i to that which is possessed. Johnun bacunun gozun adI Tinadir.

After the lesson we went with Mrs. P to get some prices for a tile and paint project that we have volunteered for. Beloved and I love to do building projects, so this is right up our alley. Mrs. P has done a little, but she still learns some terminology about thinset and grout and sealer and self-leveling concrete, and does a great job of wading her way through the language and interpreting for us to understand what is going on. Turns out that the restroom can be tiled and painted for about $200. We will start next weekend.

By the way, most of you will be starting Daylight Savings Time tonight--don't forget to change your clocks. It will be an interesting week--we start DST next Saturday night. Just gotta be different I guess!

Day 54 Monday

Beloved and I decided that perhaps it is time to have a little more separation in our day-to-day lives. Don't get me wrong--I love spending time with her, and she with me. It's just that, since we have arrived here we are almost with each other 24/7, which is great, because we really enjoy each other. However, this is not a normal state, and once I get to work a normal schedule this will come to an end anyway, so I am off to the Bank this morning, building some sort of routine.

The Bank

The Bank is an easy, downhill walk of about ten minutes. I arrive at 9:00, which is the normal start time for the workers there. It is a big but simple room that I share with three, sometimes four other workers. One day I will remember all their names, but that is not today, sorry! They are friendly but very focused people so it is a quiet place except when the phone rings--for some reason every phone I have heard ring in this country is way, way, way louder than it needs to be. Someone explain this to me? One is the chief accountant, one is the head of something and the third is her assistant. The desk I am sitting at is also occasionally occupied by the head IT guy of the Bank.


The time is spent in some design concepts for a new logo/branding of the bank, and a couple brochure ideas. I also spend the time in language studies--it seems there is always time for that. There are occasionally people and co-workers coming around, it is nice to surrounded by the language. Just hearing it is helpful. Not a lot of words are familiar to me, but some are, so it is good practice.


One of the co-workers to come in this morning is a gentleman named Azad. One of the things the Bank offers besides loans is training sessions for business owners, he is the director of this entity and an associate of the organization though not an employee of the bank. He has an appointment with England in the office next door, and after that meeting he and England come back into the room. "Azad would like to know if you would be willing to teach a course on marketing," England says. It would not be to clients, but to the instructors of the training organization so that they could offer the information to the clients. It is a gracious offer, one that I am happy to accept. I will spend the next few days putting together some questions so that I can better target specifically what they would like to know. The training session will come up in April, should be fun.


In the afternoon I join back up with Beloved, she has been asked to sit in on some english language speaking tests at the Training House. It is about 15 minutes beyond the bank, so we walk together. The language tests are poorly attended, 6 out of 10 show up, but it is worth the while to be there.


As we are leaving we are talking about what to have for dinner. We decide home-fried  potatoes with onions and melted cheese on top. Yummy! "Wouldn't it be good if we could get some bacon too?" This is a point of laughter--of course it would be good, but there is only about 20% chance that the market will have any today. There is only one market in town that we have seen it at, and it is only about 15 minutes walk out of the way, so we wager the walk. We've only gotten it once before, it comes in a block, not sliced, but it is pretty good. No dice at the market but we get a good walk, so it's a good day for the diet and exercise plan!

Day 53 Sunday

When you don't speak the language, and you don't get a bill in the mail, how do you know when your telephone bill is overdue? When the phone and internet quit working--this would be an indication thereof.


Soooo, I spent a good chunk of the day at a friends house on their network doing email and other various on-line tasks. I also played a very loosely-interpreted game of volleyball with Indy, Berry and her brother. The stairwell pit is definitely OUT!

Day 50 Thursday

I couldn't exactly dance for joy, or even call this streak of grey weather over, but we did see the sun for a few minutes this afternoon. About 20 minutes, actually. There was this mysterious gold-ish light coming out of the west.  Other than that, the grey continues, we walked to the Training House this morning in the rain...


Came home to a headache and slept the afternoon and early evening, but felt better about 9:00PM, so spent some time looking for a car for A. If you are reading this in my Hometown (you know who you are!) and know of a descent car for about $1000, we are looking right now. It doesn't have to be perfect, just dependable.


Sheesh, I'm 6,500 miles away...

Day 48 Tuesday

How's the weather? Cold and grey... Day number nine of no sunshine or stars. Gee, if I had wanted this I coulda gone to Seattle. Here is a bit of color on this wintery-grey Azerbaijani day, a photo of my daughter I took last summer. She in one of her mischievous poses and her fiery red hair-color. I love this image, it brightened my day. Love you girl!

A

Speaking of A, she sent an email on Saturday, something to the effect of, "Call me as soon as you get this no matter what time it is my car just died and I don't know what to do and I'm kinda freaking out here so call me as soon as you get this okay?" Just the kind of message every dad loves to get when he is 6,500 miles away from his little girl. Honestly it was not all that frantic, she didn't even use the words "freaking out," she was quite level-headed about the whole thing considering the engine broke a major moving part and blew a hole in the side of the block. A couple phone calls and my brother helped her get the car diagnosed ( I think his exact words were, "It's toast.") and back to a place that she can get it sold instead of towed away. So, If you have a loaded 2010 Mini Cooper for sale we can give $900 today!

Here is another image, now the second-most important document we are holding in Ganja, the receipt of our work-permit application having been received. It only took three trips to Yavlar to get it! So now we wait, and in some 30-35 days from now we will have an answer if we can remain here. This is the one that our hopes and prayers are on, so be hoping and praying with us that we receive our work-permit in good order. Otherwise we are on to plan-B and we don't know what plan-B is right now!

Tuesday is language lessons day, so we were at the Training House today. Twice, actually! It was also the last day of a class that our instructor was teaching to Azeri young people. She is teaching them english so she invited us to be in this last day class, a graduation party of sorts. It was a lot of fun, and I commend these young people for taking the time and making the effort to learn another language. I know how hard it is, really!

Day 27 Tuesday

Yaver was here this morning to do the housekeeping but ended up doing as much language tutoring as we were both working on our Azeri language studies this morning. It was funny, our diction is still very slow, we both have only a couple of phrases that we can recite quickly, the rest of the time we have to struggle as we think of every part of every word to say. We are learning more words, but the recall and then getting them out of the mouth still take a lot of work. 


Yaver is patient and helps us with the pronunciation of words and the proper construction of sentences. I have to remember to put the words in the right order or it doesn’t make sense to the locals. For example, “Man bir az Azarbaycan dillinda danashuram,”  is literally translated word-for-word as, “I a little Azerbaijan language speak.” Which is really messed up to my American mind. But that’s the way it is. 


We go to language lessons in the afternoon, our teacher would like us to remember more phrases rather than construction of words, like the example above. “If you remember it as, ‘da-dat-da-dat-da-da’ instead of the actual words...” but I don‘t know. I like to know what I’m saying...


It has been cold weather and I feel a little sick when we get home, so I nap by the heater. I am feeling a little better four hours later, and the blog is now up-to-date again. Goodnight.

Day 26 Monday

England has informed me that there is a meeting of all the branch managers this morning, and a few other key individuals of The Bank, and he thinks it would be good for me to attend this meeting. So, I walk down to the bank at about 9:00 and prepare for this meeting--I find out that I am on the agenda. England has asked me to prepare some ideas for advertising the bank, especially to market the launch of our newest branch in Zakatala in April.

The meeting is about many things concerning the operation of the bank, but it is helpful to learn more about the details of the workings of the bank. My portion goes well, although England showed my graphics before I could set them up, so there was some awkward explanation of what we were looking at since it was revealed before I could tell them what they would be seeing, most glaringly, all the text was in English and I made up the names of the clients and their business names. All-in-all not too bad, there was some good discussion about visual concepts and elements of the logo of the bank, which I am encouraging them to review and refresh. 

I apologize about the redaction of certain elements--primarily the name of the firm. I am not sure if this is even necessary, and I’m sure that anyone really trying hard could figure out who I am and the company I will be working for, but for now, I am going to try very hard to keep it more secure. There are a lot of strange things that go on over here that are not very savory to speak about, so I will try to keep things as secure as possible until such time that I am confident I can reveal more. Thanks for understanding...


The meeting is done at 1:00 and I go home for lunch. Beloved and I are back on the sidewalk at 2:00, we have been asked to do some volunteer “listening” at the Training House, listening and evaluating the language skills of some students there--Azerbaijanis that are learning english.


At 2:30 the students start coming in. We have been instructed to explain the directions, then listen to the students interact with each other, two students at a time. “One of you think of an animal. The other student will ask descriptive questions to try to determine what animal the first student is thinking of.” It was exhausting. The students didn’t seem to understand the questions, then didn’t seem to know enough language to accomplish the directions. Oh well, everyone has a bad day from time to time. I’m sure our language skills have a long way to go as well.


It’s funny, when you are surrounded by a language you don’t understand, you can get to the point where it is hard to think or communicate in English! Today was that day! We go to bed early, tired-out in our brains.

Day 13 Tuesday

Azeri lessons started in ernest today, and it is interesting already. There are some similarities to english, but it could be a long time before getting fluent in this language! We learned the alphabet (36 characters) and all their sounds--there are several sounds that do not have any english equivalent-and some simple greetings. “Salam, manim aduhm John dur.” Hello, my name is John--except the “is” comes after John and it sounds like my name is John Deere. Welcome to Azerbaijan.

Day 1 Thursday

**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 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.