This morning I woke up on the balcony where we've been sleeping, I think it was the cat that woke me up, prodding my face, kneadning it with a little paw, but I actually can't remember if that was today or yesterday. Either way I woke up and the first call to prayer for the day was drifting through the chalky-pastel morning sky. It wasn't close or even broken by static because it's so loud that way I've heard it elsewhere, rather, it was indistinct, like it actually had to be listened for, as if only those listening for it, that is to say the pious , could have heard it. As it was dawn, and I've been feeling near-narcoleptic lately I fell asleep again shortly after it was finished.
I woke up again about 3 hours later to Elliot's alarm and the humid rays of the Caspian-saturated sun. It took a while to get moving, really because we didn't really have to be. There is nothing like a schedule or timetable for the ferry to Turkmenbashi. One simply shows up and hopes for the best. Today we did not get the best, or even the decent, but, it can only be hoped that tomorrow the port authority will decide some things need to be sent to Turkmenistan.
While we waited, after hauling our 30 lbs. packs across downtown Baku, Elliot and I alternately read and dozed in a nearby cafe, where the propritors have been incredibly kind, offering sweets with tea and not allowing us to pay for anything, even though we've now been there two days in a row, sweating all over their chairs and drooling on their tables. Today we decided to totally wear out our welcome by asking if they'd mind keeping our masochistically large packs in a closet or something. Somehow these people agreed to this bizarre request and now our load is greatly lightened as we spend another night in Baku, walking through the large, built-up, public consumption avenues and the narrow, dust-choked IDP alleys that snake between them, where kids play football between two homes 20 feet apart from each other and little girls will follow you down the street, unable to believe that you don't speak Azeri, but enraptured by the fact that you know your way around the English language to respond that you are feeling well and thank her for being so considerate to ask.
Tomorrow I will read in the sun without concentrating, drink more tea and watch the swaet salt dry on Elliot's shirt while we sit there, waiting for a boat and musing on the other side of the Caspian.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Old Town Torn Down
We had hot Turkish tea in a cafe next to the cargo boat port. It was late in the day and we'd already missed the boat to Turkmenbashi, if one even left that day. As we drank, the sweat rose, already sun-clotted from my pores, thick like sugar water and I began to nod off as I had been doing all day, mostly because we've been moving without a break for the last few days.
The Tbilisi airport was quiet in the early evening, we took a bus for free because no one as ever asked me to pay for a bus in Georgia, because I never have exact change.
Under the bright sodium arcs I skated through an empty parking lot to the sound of far off airplane engines.
The emptiness of the airport was solmem, almost reverant somehow. I read a little, listening to the suffle of automated advirtisements changing images and the soft broom drift of the peragrine cleaning lady, drifting from one corner of the concourse to the other, regardless of cleanliness.
Fell asleep around 12, using my shoes as a pillow and was awakened around 3 by a man tried, in poor English to explain the soviet period to some foreigners. I heard him say Brezhnev, and when they didn't understand who he meant he changed the antagonist of his story to Stalin instead. I chuckled a little and soon fond that I wasn't going to get back to sleep.
The night air outside the airport and a filmy cigarette, like garbage smoke almost, burning my throat and my tired eyes.
We landed in Baku shortly after we left Tbilisi, just enough time for a coffee (ersatz) and a few glances out the window, toward the ground I would've prefered to travel.
It's an airport, so there's really nothing there. High walls lining the highway back into town, huge apartment buildings and sculptures; Azerbaijan looks a lot like Turkey, at least in the capital there's not much in the way of Typical Caucasian Effluvia.
Since then it's been the Uzbek embassy, sequestered like they all seem to be; a visa, a bus ride that lasted much longer than it should've; a cup of instant coffee; that tea I mentioned earlier and all of it done, beautifully, without socks on, just to remind myself that as I transverse a boring, overbuilt and grey town in the summer heat that I am on vacation.
The boat to Turkmenbashi isn't looking too promising, tomorrow we'll bring our stuff down there and make enough of a nuisance to either get a lift or get booted out.
The Tbilisi airport was quiet in the early evening, we took a bus for free because no one as ever asked me to pay for a bus in Georgia, because I never have exact change.
Under the bright sodium arcs I skated through an empty parking lot to the sound of far off airplane engines.
The emptiness of the airport was solmem, almost reverant somehow. I read a little, listening to the suffle of automated advirtisements changing images and the soft broom drift of the peragrine cleaning lady, drifting from one corner of the concourse to the other, regardless of cleanliness.
Fell asleep around 12, using my shoes as a pillow and was awakened around 3 by a man tried, in poor English to explain the soviet period to some foreigners. I heard him say Brezhnev, and when they didn't understand who he meant he changed the antagonist of his story to Stalin instead. I chuckled a little and soon fond that I wasn't going to get back to sleep.
The night air outside the airport and a filmy cigarette, like garbage smoke almost, burning my throat and my tired eyes.
We landed in Baku shortly after we left Tbilisi, just enough time for a coffee (ersatz) and a few glances out the window, toward the ground I would've prefered to travel.
It's an airport, so there's really nothing there. High walls lining the highway back into town, huge apartment buildings and sculptures; Azerbaijan looks a lot like Turkey, at least in the capital there's not much in the way of Typical Caucasian Effluvia.
Since then it's been the Uzbek embassy, sequestered like they all seem to be; a visa, a bus ride that lasted much longer than it should've; a cup of instant coffee; that tea I mentioned earlier and all of it done, beautifully, without socks on, just to remind myself that as I transverse a boring, overbuilt and grey town in the summer heat that I am on vacation.
The boat to Turkmenbashi isn't looking too promising, tomorrow we'll bring our stuff down there and make enough of a nuisance to either get a lift or get booted out.
Monday, July 26, 2010
How to Dig a Hole to the Other Side of the World
I stopped and watched a toad leaping around a landscaped roundabout. The curb just a little too high for him to get over. He jumped and fell back down against the wet street where the sprinklers were still recklessly casting water.
I was out walking around, after ducking out of Tbilisi's central party hostel. Young travelers from all over Europe and America smoking and climbing up exposed staircases to the tune of MP3 player-piped disco music.
Later, I cut back through Old Town, probably 1 AM with an Australian philosophy student studying in Turkey. We talked about Peter Singer and his contradictory ethics. Elliot was waiting with a shot of vodka in either hand when I got back to the hostel. We still haven't paid for our places on the floor where we slept to the night sounds of still-padding feet and bathroom traffic in a dark house full of people.
...
The Azeri Embassy was closed Monday. We left the Tourist office walking quickly down the street, intent on booking a flight. Flying has never seemed very adventurous to me. I don't like to arrive in a new place without being gradually introduced to it, makes being there even less real. However, it seems that the shock will probably finally induce the realization that I've finished with the Peace Corps life. I haven't been on a plane since I flew into Armenia over two years ago.
Fly into Armenia. Fly in Azerbaijan, bordering Caucasian countries with the borders sealed, easier, they say, for the visas, more business-like that way, brisk, Baku business to which to attend.
The goodbyes have worn me out, and most of the people I said goodbye to have already arrived back in the states. By plane, while we, are still in Tbilisi, stowing our bags away, headachy and filmed with sweat.
I was out walking around, after ducking out of Tbilisi's central party hostel. Young travelers from all over Europe and America smoking and climbing up exposed staircases to the tune of MP3 player-piped disco music.
Later, I cut back through Old Town, probably 1 AM with an Australian philosophy student studying in Turkey. We talked about Peter Singer and his contradictory ethics. Elliot was waiting with a shot of vodka in either hand when I got back to the hostel. We still haven't paid for our places on the floor where we slept to the night sounds of still-padding feet and bathroom traffic in a dark house full of people.
...
The Azeri Embassy was closed Monday. We left the Tourist office walking quickly down the street, intent on booking a flight. Flying has never seemed very adventurous to me. I don't like to arrive in a new place without being gradually introduced to it, makes being there even less real. However, it seems that the shock will probably finally induce the realization that I've finished with the Peace Corps life. I haven't been on a plane since I flew into Armenia over two years ago.
Fly into Armenia. Fly in Azerbaijan, bordering Caucasian countries with the borders sealed, easier, they say, for the visas, more business-like that way, brisk, Baku business to which to attend.
The goodbyes have worn me out, and most of the people I said goodbye to have already arrived back in the states. By plane, while we, are still in Tbilisi, stowing our bags away, headachy and filmed with sweat.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Sakartvelo Straight Hair
In Tbilisi Elliot is constantly taking out his phone with the new Georgian SIM card, sputtering out the soft syllables and sibilants of the Russian language.
The sky is darker, unblanched by the nearness of the Armenian sun and tosses rain around the narrow alleys of the city every few hours.It's a warm summer rain, not hard enough to make walks difficult. Just enough to soak the brick and bring out that warm sandy smell of rain in the city.
I miss speaking Armenian, although it was only a day ago that I spoke it with a Yezidi cab driver from Ortachala to Marjanishvili.
Our Azeri visa problems do not bode well for this rest of this trip. We thought Azerbaijan would be one of our easiest places to visit and now the border between here and Baku seems impenetrable, at least without a significant bribe.
Nobody worries, though. Nobody cares.
I made bad coffee and will make it again before I go to bed tonight. There's wine, there's a courtyard already winedark and a moody Sunday tomorrow.
The sky is darker, unblanched by the nearness of the Armenian sun and tosses rain around the narrow alleys of the city every few hours.It's a warm summer rain, not hard enough to make walks difficult. Just enough to soak the brick and bring out that warm sandy smell of rain in the city.
I miss speaking Armenian, although it was only a day ago that I spoke it with a Yezidi cab driver from Ortachala to Marjanishvili.
Our Azeri visa problems do not bode well for this rest of this trip. We thought Azerbaijan would be one of our easiest places to visit and now the border between here and Baku seems impenetrable, at least without a significant bribe.
Nobody worries, though. Nobody cares.
I made bad coffee and will make it again before I go to bed tonight. There's wine, there's a courtyard already winedark and a moody Sunday tomorrow.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
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