132 - Strolling Baku & The Hash House Harriers (Baku, Azerbaijan)
I PURCHASED A ONE-WAY TICKET TO BAKU, AZERBAIJAN on FlyDubai.com for $85, neglecting to prepay for my checked bag. I believed this to be of little consequence and was punished for my insolence. When I arrived at the counter, they slapped me with a $50 excess baggage fee, more than double the internet. It was listed in the fine print on my e-ticket, but, as I had never experienced such a phenomenon, I failed to notice. Now, this is the norm across the globe. Frown.
My second nut punch came at the Baku airport. Price of a one-month visa? $131. Muchas gracias. I found it an amazing coincidence this was the exact cost of my Bangladesh visa. $131? Why not $131.43, if you want to be assholes about it? Well, it’s a reciprocal “go fuck yourself” aimed at the United States, as that’s the antagonistic price it charges nationals from Azerbaijan, Bangladesh, and a host of other “suspect” countries. (“Suspect” countries are those whose inhabitants might not bother with the return flight. Also, terrorists and shit.) Azerbaijan was in the midst of a tourist marketing campaign. Commercials beckoning travelers on CNN International testified to this. I'm no PR genius, but charging an inflated price for a visa isn’t the best way to attract globetrotters to a place unknown to most of the world. Then again, who the fuck am I, really?
Baku is no Dubai, but it’s still a modern-ish city with all the accouterments of any industrialized society courtesy of the Caspian Sea’s oil and gas reserves. Hotels aren’t cheap, and it was difficult finding anything decent under $60. Couchsurfing to the rescue! I rendezvoused with a former Peace Corps volunteer named Kyle offering sanctuary. He’d lived there for over three years and was a wealth of information about Azerbaijan and its people. As a fluent Azeri speaker, he connected with locals in ways few visitors could ever dream of.
A top priority was buying a local SIM card, so I could call all my new Azeri friends. The cell phone shop was my first adventure. Upon entering, the clerk looked at me and yelled, “Barack Obama!” There goes my cover. Cell phone purchases in many countries require all kinds of paperwork, especially in places with less democratic ideals. While waiting for said paperwork, the clerk began expounding on the evils of America’s nuclear foreign policy. His broken English was impeccable and included a barrage of nouns. “America have nuclear bomb. Russia, yes. France, yes. Iran, no bomb.” He then continued his diatribe in Azeri, which I interpreted as “Iran has no nuclear bomb only wants to use for power so why doesn't America just leave them alone and fuck off! And if they do have nuclear bomb, so what? You have one. France has one. Russia has one…” So on and so forth.
This was all delivered in a cordial tone, and there was zero chance of offense. I feared offending him, as my ability to stifle laughter was deteriorating exponentially by the moment. The young woman filling out the paperwork began laughing, so I could indulge a chuckle here and there. It continued. “Iran good people. Not bad people. Why America kill good Muslims? America no like Islam. No kill good Muslims. Osama bin Laden not Muslim.” I would interject with, “No, no, Iran people very nice. I wish to visit Iran,” or “Yes, sometimes America baaaaad,” or “Sadaam also bad Muslim, right? Maybe?” Part of me was almost sad to finish the paperwork. We bid each other a fond farewell. I laughed for hours.
While passing a Turkish restaurant selling shaved meat off a skewer, the gentleman working the street window requested a photo of him in action. I obliged. His coworker wanted in, so he grabbed a large knife and Vogued a murderous pose. And not to be outdone, a random guy on the street got down and stood on his shoulders, kicking his feet in the air to get my attention. I thought he might request money. Nope. He rose and moved along. Randomness is the lifeblood of foreign travel. Yes.
The next morning, Kyle accompanied me inside a cafe and inquired on my behalf before heading to work. I’m guessing they thought the door was locked. We were told the place was closed, but a second gentleman emerged from the interior to assure us it was open. Kyle left. I sat down for a cup of tea. I was the only patron and all was silent… unless you count the sound of porn emanating from a television in the back. While surfing the internet, I was treated to a soundtrack of ecstasy. It went well with the tea. It was just after 9 a.m. At 10:30, I was told they were closing. Closing at 10:30 am? Okey dokey.
I didn’t want to wear out my welcome with Kyle, so I searched for suitable lodging. The Lonely Planet was no match for Baku’s pace of progress. I discovered finding a hotel is more difficult after it’s been demolished. It is safe to say Baku was under construction. They were tearing down all the old Soviet-style buildings, replacing them with more classical styles. And yet, walk a few blocks from Baku’s center, and the Iron Curtain felt reborn.
I spent days wandering the streets with no particular aim or destination. It all fascinated me, nothing more so than the fact almost every male citizen looked like a mafia don or hitman. I snapped dozens of photos, added absurd biographic details. It entertained me to no end. Turns out, it’s illegal to take photos without permission. Whoopsie. In the recent past, journalists took compromising shots of government officials sleeping on the job. Their response was to pass an absurd regulation forbidding such scandalous behavior. (Photos, not sleeping.) So, any photo with people has the potential to send you to jail? Super. Can you say overbroad?
Baku’s Old City is picturesque with its ancient wall and structures, including the Maiden Tower. There’s also the promenade along the Caspian Sea which makes for a pleasant stroll and an excellent place to snap illicit photos. The area has a European-esque feel without chaotic traffic, intense pollution, or exceedingly narrow streets and sidewalks. An ideal venue to meander, and meander I did.
Courtesy of 2TRL Media
Ever heard of the Hash House Harriers? It’s a social club describing itself as “drinkers with a running problem.” Chapters span the world. In Baku, they often met on Sundays for a non-competitive run, followed by an alcoholic reward. From what I've read, it began as a way for British ex-pat businessmen living in Kuala Lumpur to purify themselves after a weekend of debauchery, though the original runs were on Friday and later switched to Monday evenings. Periodically, they get together for an extended weekend outside the city. (On that occasion, it was in the northern town of Nabran).
They had an extra spot open, so I was invited to tag along with Baku Hashers. Drinking began on the bus and didn't cease until our return. The run mimics the traditional British Paper Chase (Hares and Hounds). “Hares” set a semi-ambiguous route somewhere in the countryside, while “hounds” follow the trail marked by spots of white flour.
That’s one way to experience a northern forest in Azerbaijan. Just me and a bunch of assholes running ramshod through the woods. To say this was baffling to locals would be a vast understatement. Our first run was on the grounds of a bizarre vacation resort with a kitschy medieval theme. I think we had permission to be there, but the police did show up to see why drunk yahoos were skipping through the forest adjacent to a nearby village. Someone surely called them to investigate. The interaction was a bit “soviet” for lack of a better word. They spoke with our bus driver and then engaged the group. Folks dressed in running attire and sipping beer aren’t something they saw every day. They looked the part with wool hats (known as a papakhi) and grave expressions. One officer called the station for further instructions. Ten minutes later, he received the green light to leave. They shook everyone's hand and departed. All that and no bribe request, a common occurrence. Super.
To be a true “Hasher,” you must be anointed, i.e. given a nickname, and doused with copious amounts of flour. Colorful names included Teletubby, Dominatrix, Screams and Creams, Rubberduck, Sticky Sex, Sticky Balls, Hashvestite, Ginger Wolf Pecker, Table Dancing Queen, and Social Sex. It doesn’t take a detective to appreciate the theme. This was one of those rare occasions where I had little fear of offending anyone.
After the second run, I was fortunate enough to be inducted into their ranks. This was quite an honor, as it usually required ten runs. Until the end of time, I’ll be known to Hashers everywhere as Doggy Dick. Yes.
