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...