135 - Martial Artistry & Ye Old Church (Near Zaqatala, Azerbaijan)
THERE’S BAKU, AND THEN THERE’S THE REST OF AZERBAIJAN. Baku is everything the rest is not and vice versa. Cosmopolitan, frenetic, “liberal.” The oil and gas wealth concentrates in the capital, the hinterlands pick up the scraps. Two different worlds. Two different countries. I set my sights northwest toward Zaqatala, an eight-hour bus ride from Baku. All the travails of foreign travel were assuaged by my new guide, a Peace Corps volunteer deployed locally. We met through Kyle, my Couchsurfing host in Baku, a former volunteer himself. Löki invited me to “surf” at her flat in the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains. This was most propitious, a unique opportunity for local insight in a place I had little chance of garnering such for myself. She spoke Azeri and had been living in Zaqatala for over a year. Yes.
The journey crossed all nine of Azerbaijan's climate zones, starting in the monotonous flatlands of the central region and ending in the shadow of the Caucasia. The weather was abysmal, the countryside a verdant green from daily rainfall. The contrast between outlying regions and Baku went far beyond landscape. One could be forgiven for mistaking downtown Baku for a European capital, but past city limits you’re right back in the Soviet era, an effect intensified the farther you travel.
I spent my first week in Zaq shadowing my Peace Corps host like a lost puppy. I’d considered the Corps myself after graduating from college but foolishly failed to pursue it. A dream deferred is a dream denied. For this reason, I found the minutia of Löki’s everyday fascinating. And she wasn’t the sole volunteer, so I got to hear multiple accounts on daily living in the area. And then they put me to work.
Her fellow volunteers created a monthly series with a guest speaker invited to address a local village. The aim? Foster community interaction and involvement. The Russian Judo master scheduled to speak canceled at the last minute. They had a backup plan, one entailing a wayward wanderer from Upstate New York. My mission? Regale the locals with tales of exotic travel.
The turnout was modest, a consequence of relentless rain (the likely explanation for Mr. Judo Master's absence). Folks, as in a few males of varying ages, showed up in the belief a martial arts expert would share his story followed by a demonstration. One volunteer wanted me to impersonate said Judo master, performing my own creative martial arts exhibition. Although intrigued by the thought of such comical subterfuge, I wasn’t comfortable with it. Besides the threat of destroying the credibility of the volunteers, I wasn’t too keen on angering the natives (ethnic Avars), a group of men tougher than I could ever hope to be… even with all my judo training.
So, through a translator, I shared my tale, traced my journey on a world map, and answered whatever questions arose. A moment of levity came when I was asked about whether I felt safe in the places I’d visited, to which I replied that I did, for the most part, feel at ease. I included Azerbaijan. An older gentleman with a mafia boss aura seated in the back asked why I felt safe there. I assumed it wasn’t meant as a warning, and so brushed it aside as a “lost in translation” artifact, but we all had a laugh at the implication. I had the fanciful impression I was a phone call away from having the man’s deranged nephew Luchencko book my ticket to oblivion. Standing in that dimly lit town hall straight out of a communist indoctrination video (with a disproportionately large picture of the deceased president, Heydar Aliyev, on the wall to complete the circle), I could almost hear the Gestapo whispering in my ear. It was fantastic. My Peace Corps host liked my presentation enough to request an encore with kids at a Zaqatala community center.
If I’d waited for the sun to come out, I would’ve been in Zaq until the Rapture. So, I explored the nearby countryside in search of an ancient abandoned church. Löki drew me a map to aid my adventure. I meandered along the road, stopping to snap random vignettes of village life. Of course, I got lost, putting me at the mercy of two local kids (aged 12 and 15). They took pity on me and guided me to the ruins. Water-logged fields, mud, cow dooky, and swelled stream crossings were all on tap.
We stopped in a field en route to munch on wild roots, then paused to chuck rocks off a cliff. From somewhere in the forest, we could hear a man yelling in the distance. My young companions looked a bit unsettled and fled in the opposite direction. Not having any idea what was occurring, I hauled ass as well. Imagine a thirty-five-year-old man tearing through the woods with adolescent co-conspirators like we’d just thrown a bag of shit at someone's car and were attempting to escape the owner's wrath. Just to punctuate the juvenile nature of the scene, we then hopped a fence and crouched down in the grass as the sound of the man's voice drew near. When he was only fifty feet away, the older of the two broke our vow of silence and responded. Turns out, it was another friend. We emerged from our hiding spot and continued our quest.
We approached the ruins of a derelict stone building engulfed by vines, suitable for an Indiana Jones set. Had I been alone, I might’ve deemed the place haunted and crossed my fingers and toes for security, but I had the three musketeers to protect me from the bogeyman. A drizzle fell as we inspected the ruin’s interior, descending into its underground belly. I knew nothing about the building’s history, but this didn’t dampen my fascination. It felt like a relic of the Middle Ages whose “grandeur” after construction probably wasn’t much cheerier than its current incarnation.
I was as in the dark about my companions as I was about the church. I wanted to know more, but they spoke no English unless you count the chorus to Pitbull’s “I Know You Want Me.” When the youngest expedition member began an unprompted rendition, I almost wet my pants. Yes.
No country for young women. That’s my somewhat harsh verdict on Azerbaijani culture. Single female? Looking for a fresh start? Want to live in an exotic place where you can express yourself? Stay the hell away from Azerbaijan.
Löki had to make adjustments, not the least of which was suppressing her buoyant personality. In a repressed society, friendly extroversion can be a real liability, especially when you’re female. Staring a man in the eye for longer than four nanoseconds is akin to intense flirting. I experienced the phenomenon often, eye contact with the opposite sex met with a slight exhibition of panic. I almost felt like a leper.
Women don’t drink and rarely enter restaurants without a male escort. If they do venture out with a female friend, they sit upstairs, in the back, or at tables sequestered behind thin screen walls erected for the purpose. Single men and women don’t congregate in public without justification, i.e. a family connection. Arranged marriages are common, but even if the couple comes together of their own accord, it’s pre-sanctioned by relatives. Marrying your first cousin isn’t out of the ordinary.
A female living alone is almost unheard of. They have a word for such an individual: prostitute. Imagine having to overcome that assumption daily. Imagine having strange men banging on your door in the middle of the night looking for action. As much as Löki tried to dissolve stereotypes through community engagement and friendly exchanges, it was an uphill battle.
Sexual repression leads to odd behavior. Young men are in the habit of dialing phone numbers until reaching what they believe to be a young female, at which point they strike up a conversation to gather details (age, status, location, etc.). This happened while I was in Löki's apartment. Imagine trying that in Anywhere, USA. We have a word for it back home: harassment. Young Azerbaijani women aren’t averse to such activity and even encourage the behavior.
Domestic abuse is far from rare. A jealous husband's vengeful wrath is tolerated, if not condoned. I was told women might gauge the extent of love by the extent of violence, and stories of spousal abuse are often romanticized. Ouch.
Löki’s Soviet-style apartment was a wormhole. I'd been transported behind the Iron Curtain. My overactive imagination could almost hear Red Army boots pounding up the stairwell. At any moment, a knock at the door would signal my imminent detainment and a marathon interrogation session behind a spotlight spearheaded by a burly KGB officer in nondescript civilian attire named Boris. And the cab driver parked outside the apartment complex? Had to be KGB. Had to be. A dash of Cold War propaganda, two tablespoons of Tom Clancy, and just a pinch of schizophrenia. Also, a sprinkle of reality. All foreigners are suspect. There’s no question Peace Corps volunteers were under the proverbial microscope, and my arrival likely sparked conversations among local “security” folks. Was I surveilled? Probably not, but then again…
