Getting High

‘Get ready to enter the history books’, the sign reads.

Of all the implausible scenarios regarding the likely source of the fifteen minutes of fame owed to me by life ever since the day I reluctantly accepted that I would become neither rock star nor professional footballer, this has to be the most left field of all: going down in history as the first person to have his lower intestine, bladder and stomach force their way upwards and out into the evening air via my unsuspecting and open mouth was definitely not part of the plan, but this is exactly what appears to be happening to me.

As the world’s fastest elevator rushes me up to the 124^th floor at a speed of 18m/s, my ears pop once, twice, three times in quick succession but my guts stay put, thankfully. In less than a minute, my temporary co-astronauts and I have reached the outside viewing deck of the Burj Khalifa skyscraper in Dubai at an altitude of 452m. Although this is the tallest building in the world, my initial feeling is that I have been cheated of 376m, for only residents of the corporate suites and executive penthouses have access to the upper reaches of this architectural behemoth that stands 828m tall. As I step onto the platform, however, I soon realise that there can be no better vantage point from which to survey the first city to have entered the 22^nd century.

For there can be no doubt: this is the future. A dusky silhouette of extraordinary construction shapes and an ever-increasing random pattern of giant fairy lights dazzle as far as my stunned eyes can see in the fading evening light. It is truly breath-taking. Staring at the mesmerising sight before me, I very nearly forget that the building that I am halfway up is more than twice as tall as anything that stands within my field of vision. Incredibly, this city of just over two million inhabitants is home to 25 of the world’s 100 tallest buildings, all but 4 of which were only completed in the last three years. In comparison, the entire United States contribute a mere 22 to the list. Europe? Zero…

With each new addition trumping the aesthetic and structural excesses of the previous sprouting giant, this city has become a battleground for excitable, delusional and quite simply disbelieving architects given a blank cheque book and carte blanche to drop jaws. But whilst most of these spectacular skyscrapers would be considered icons of modern design in any European or North American city, there are a great many more that stand incomplete with empty crane cabins hovering hopefully overhead and alongside unjoined steel, glass and concrete. When the global housing market collapsed in 2008, the slow ripple of recession turned tidal wave in the overenthusiastic Emirati construction market, leading to the foreclosure of many dreams and the halting of many new follies mid-girder.

Nowhere is this more visible than at ground level. Where there ought to be parks, pedestrian walkways and office forecourts neatly filling in the space between the forest-like growth of shopping centres and tower blocks, there is nothing but dusty rubble and abandoned construction equipment. As the metro glides down Sheikh Zayed Freeway on its raised track, the scenery unfurling itself beneath me is more post-apocalyptic industrial wasteland than visionary city of the future. I half expect arab zombies to stumble into view, their rotting dishdashas blowing in the warm wind and revealing flaps of undead flesh tucked neatly inside diamante Gucci sandals...

Spot the zombie...

Up, Up And Away...

In the wake of the global economic crisis and the ensuing devaluation of many of the world’s leading currencies, many stock market traders and financial speculators are deciding to minimise the risk of depreciation by investing in safe and tangible commodities, with gold or platinum the preferred values. Today however, it is not in precious metal that I am investing my life savings but modest wicker, for the simple reason that is the only material that will be separating me from an almighty splat onto the volcanic landscape of Turkey’s Cappadoccia mountains from an altitude of 1,300m.

It is 5:30am and I am standing in a remote field with a complete group of strangers for the first time since my last year at university. This time however, it is the sound of liquid propane being ignited rather than electronic music that is filling the fresh morning air. Despite the fact that I have only had four and a half hours sleep, I feel as though I have knocked back a dozen Turkish coffees and a petrol tanker of Red Bull and adrenaline is buzzing through my veins: I feel electric. As my oversized shopping basket follows several dozen other hot air balloons into the clear summer skies, the morning sun starts to warm the striking central Anatolian landscape. With each loud whoosh of hot air that is released into the thick canvas of the balloon, my heart both skips and adds a dozen beats: a traveller’s dream is coming true.

The main topic of conversation that can be overheard in the many backpacker bars and cafés of Göreme is whether the 120€ invested in a dawn flight represents decent value for money, with many travellers baulking at a budget-blowing expense that provides a mere sixty minutes of entertainment. But there can be no debate for me: of the many travel dreams I am hoping to fulfil before punching my clock for the very last time, soaring high above the striking geological features of Cappadoccia has long topped my adventure wishlist. That this is now a commonplace activity popular with tour groups of French and German pensioners rather than a white-knuckle ride and ‘real’ travel experience matters not one bit: today my extensive bucket list will see its highest-ranking entry ticked gleefully off the list.

As I jostle for position within my quarter section of the balloon basket with four middle-aged Spanish señoras equally eager to secure the best viewing position, I count no fewer than fifty-five other balloons rising gracefully into the dawn skies. Within ten minutes of being airborne, I have tuned my internal frequency modulator to cancel out the incessant Hispanic yelps of delight that Fernanda and her three excitable companions are exchanging and can finally set about enjoying the astonishing natural beauty of the unique terrain unfolding beneath my eyes and feet.

It was the eruptions of three volcanoes – Erciyes, Hasan and Melendiz Dağlan – a mere thirty million years ago that covered the plateau of Ürgüp in ash and mud, creating the region’s organic raw material: tuff. This soft stone was then easily eroded to create the valleys and gorges for which the region is so famous. Where the tuff mixed with harder rock, however, only the sides gradually disappeared, leaving hundreds of spectacular cone-like chimneys to litter the landscape. Various civilisations subsequently exploited the porous properties of the tuff to excavate numerous cave dwellings, pigeon holes and monastic settlements, many of which still feature perfectly preserved religious frescoes dating back over 800 years.

Four hours of hiking through the canyons, culverts and chimneys on the previous day provided enough photographic material to wear down the shutter release button on my camera to a smooth polish. Seen from the sky today however, I am moved to silence and have to keep reminding myself to digitally immortalise the occasion, particularly as my habitual verbosity appears to have deserted me momentarily.

To my great surprise, and in stark contrast to my only previous aeronautical escapade throwing myself out of an airplane, I find that time has slowed down whilst at altitude, and I can enjoy the sixty minutes in the unhurried serenity that such stunning scenery deserves. Drawing some enthusiastic cooing sounds from his middle-aged flock, our pilot alternates between rapid ascent to our flight ceiling of 1,500m and some adroit manoeuvres within touching distance of the fairy chimney cones. It is a magical experience. For once, the burden of expectation has not been too much to bear and the hopeful dream has become fantastic reality.

Baku To The Future

‘No, this is illegal in our country, we have to confiscate it. You should not have it.’ I am in deep trouble. How stupid of me, I should have known that I would not be allowed to enter Azerbaijan with a live hand-grenade and a kilo of near-pure Columbian cocaine. What was I thinking? Oh wait, you mean the Armenian souvenir magnet depicting Khor Virap monastery framed by Mount Ararat? Illegal? Of course it is.

But I keep a straight face despite my innocent amusement, for the ongoing conflict with Armenia over Nagorno-Karabakh is no laughing matter in Azerbaijan. With over 200,000 internationally displaced refugees and several counts of ethnic cleansing and alleged genocide during the past century, to say that neighbourly relations are somewhat strained would be a mild understatement. In all my travels, I have never seen such raw and intense nationalistic dislike as the one felt by Azeris towards Armenia.

The border guard maintains his stern official look and passes the offending item to his superior. ‘It is not true, you know. The mountain is in Turkey, not Armenia. You know this don’t you?’ I nod feebly, bowing my head like the true and guilty criminal that I am.

‘We cannot let you keep it, but we can give you this instead.’ He walks over to a desk and rummages around in the top drawer. Unbelievably, he hands me an Azeri souvenir magnet of Baku and a key holder with the national flag. ‘For your keys’, he continues, seeing the undisguisable look of consternation on my face.

Regaining a modicum of composure in this almost comically surreal situation, I clutch at the only straw left in my diplomatic bale of hay. ‘I know that Mount Ararat is in Turkey, but it is the monastery of Khor Virap that is named on the magnet, not Ararat.’ Silence, followed by a nervous glance towards his commander. Bullseye! ‘You are right, but you do understand that the mountain is in Turkey, don’t you?’ Sensing victory near, I confirm solemnly that we are indeed singing from the same geographical hymn sheet and the item is returned to me, albeit very reluctantly. ‘Have a nice trip, enjoy our country…’, the hitherto silent commander says, in flawless English.

Relations between the three countries of the Caucasus are complex

‘Enjoy our country…’ The commander’s words ring loud and clear in my ears as I realise that wandering hands from a fellow bus passenger have just divested me of £20 of local currency within an hour of arriving in Baku, the Azeri capital. They are still echoing bitterly the following morning as an entrepreneurial urchin grabs some coins from my hand and runs off just as I was about to top up my travel pass at the automated machine. Even with my eternal optimism and unrestrained love of half-full glasses, I am less than enthused by this introduction to my final destination on what had previously been a blemish-free exploration of the Caucasus.

Thus it is that I wander into the Old Town in my new incarnation as a walking wallet, with a face like thunder and a mood to match. These narrow streets may be worthy of the Unesco World Heritage list, but my feelings are as cold as the stones I walk upon. I am immune to the charms of the Palace of the Shirvanshahs and cannot see beyond the railing standing on top of the Maiden’s Tower, despite the jaw-dropping views of the Bay of Baku sweeping before me. This is all wrong, something must be done: it is time for some amateur psychoanalysis.

Thinking hard and clearly, it becomes obvious to me that an unhealthy combination of my uncharacteristic loss of faith in human nature and my post-geocoital longing for Tbilisi have robbed me of more than cold, hard cash: I am suffering from a classic case of travel disillusion and unreasonably high expectations of my new surroundings. This is all the more disconcerting as it is completely out of character; that I am aware of this is adding a large dollop of self-frustration to my bubbling cauldron of seething discontent.

After countless impressive monasteries, quaint old towns and spectacular mountain hikes, just why had I been putting undue pressure on myself and poor defenceless Baku? I had clearly forgotten my very own first rule of travelling: arrive at each destination with a blank canvas and enjoy your new environment for what it has to offer. Having spent more than forty cumulative hours in marshrutkas and avtobuses visiting nine different localities in sixteen days, here I was in a spectacularly unique sun-drenched city with a 4km leafy boulevard by the Caspian Sea. With café after inviting café beckoning me to cosy padded chairs and the travellers’ knots in my body and mind begging to be massaged, why was I looking for different opportunities to the ones already available to me?

There is only one course of action open to me: I sit down at table on the seafront bulvar and order the holy trinity of emergency mood-repair sustenance. With my milky cappuccino despatched to plumb new depths of stomach lining and the sinful honey-drizzled pakhlava following swiftly thereafter, it is left to the ice cold Xirdalan beer to complete the rescue mission. My brain goes into automatic standby and slowly but ever so surely, the clouds start to dissipate.

Calmer than I have felt in what feels like an eternity, I have made my peace with Baku. It has not given me what I wanted, but what I needed: three entire days of rest, relaxation and much needed contemplation. This is in no small part due to the inspirational hospitality extended to me by my Azeri host Ferid, his lovely sister Ayshe and their wonderfully inquisitive grandmother Zamfira (‘You are not married at 36, what is wrong with you?’ or ‘How many rooms does your house have?’). Evenings spent at the local çayxana drinking calming lemon tea whilst discussing world politics and male promiscuity to the soundtrack of clattering backgammon counters and bubbling hookah pipes prove to be the perfect antidote to my natural travel intensity and the best possible way of winding down what has been a phenomenally enjoyable Caucasus adventure.

My rehabilitation complete, I step out of the Metro station on my final full day to discover a brand new city, a Baku that is smiling conspiratorially at me with her arms wide open. I wink back in the noon sunshine and sense that my apology has been accepted. As I look around with fresh eyes and with the clouds of my irrational judgement lifted, I can finally see the real Baku: a fascinatingly progressive city riding the crest of an oil boom wave and embracing its unexpectedly good fortune with unreserved excitement. Perfectly manicured parks and fountains of gleaming white marble greet me on every street corner and avenue; everywhere I look, the glare of new sandstone on recently constructed ministry buildings, theatres and museums dazzles me with blind happiness. My propensity for exaggerated emotional response is soaring to new heights, it is as if I have finally broken free of my own invisible mind shackles.

As I meet Ferid and his friends on my final afternoon, I attempt to convey the near-euphoric intensity of my experience, but they merely think that I have been drinking or am suffering heatstroke. I try to explain the tough love that their city and I have shared, that we have gone through much turmoil but that we have come out of it stronger, together. They simply think that I am crazy, and maybe they have a point. But this emotional psychobabble is precisely why I live to satisfy my wanderlust: to connect emotionally with each country, city, culture that I am fortunate to experience; to feel as though I understand and am a part of it, for but a fleeting moment in time. These wonderfully open and warm Azeris are proud of their city, and rightly so. Tbilisi may have provided the passion and Yerevan the excitement, but it is the hard won mutual understanding and serenity bestowed upon me by Baku that has given me the perfect closure to this great adventure.

There is always a happy ending...