Wednesday, 11 October 2017

 

Morning: Baku (AZ)

Evening: Tbilisi (GE)

Total: 580 km

 

On which I learned:

 

that Azerbaijanis are amazingly helpful and kind

that it's never a good idea to piss off officials (well, I knew that already)

that I will be fine anywhere in the world

 

 

At half past nine, I woke up, refreshed, happy and full of energy. Aarat had left the hotel early to try and secure a visa from the Georgian embassy in Baku. So I took the elevator to the rooftop restaurant and enjoyed a lonely but delicious breakfast of yummy eggs, yoghurt, fresh fruit and bread. I used the free time (and free wifi) to check my messages and connect with friends back home.

 

I had just finished breakfast, when Aarat showed up with bad news: the embassy had refused to give him a visa, saying he a) didn't need one and b) could only apply for it in his home country, which was clearly not true, as many world travellers get visas while on the road. In any case, the embassy assured him that he would be allowed in a second time, as his UK visa had not yet expired, but that he would have to get a reentry visa next week coming back from Armenia for our final flight back home. "Why not simply make it official and give you the visa now?" I sighed. "They would have let you stay in Georgia for 90 days yesterday, why would it be a problem one day or one week later?" But there was nothing we could do about it now. For all his positive good humour, Aarat seemed worried too. "Would you mind an awful lot if I took the flight to Delhi from Erevan instead of Tbilisi?" he asked. That would leave me on my own for two days. "I'm a big girl," I laughed, "actually, it might even be an adventure. You go ahead and change your flight."

 

This turned out not to be so easy. Despite his travel insurance, Aarat didn't manage to change the departure online without ending up paying for both flights. Not wanting to waste any more time, we decided to visit Baku and then hop by at FlyDubai's headquarters and have them sort it out.

 

First on the list was Mini Venice next to the Caspian Sea. It turned out that we had been very close to the place yesterday evening. The park was beautiful with a charming pond and splendid shrubs. Aarat took some really good pictures and we went for a stroll on the promenade. "If you get into the water here and swim in a straight line, you end up in Turkmenistan," I said dreamily. "More likely you will drown on the way there," Aarat laughed. Granted, it was not that close. "Look, tadpoles!" Aarat pointed into the water. I peered closer. Indeed, a whole school of them, bravely swimming against the surf. I fondly watched the little buggers, enjoying the early stages of their life. I love small items of interest like this. It makes a day special. And you are more likely to have these moments when you are with someone. But I would have my travel buddy for another seven days before he left. Little did I know...

 

From Mini Venice we walked back up to the Maiden Tower, Qiz Qalasi. Together with Shirvanshah Palace, this remnant of 900-year-old fortifications forms the UNESCO-protected heart of Baku. While I got us entrance tickets (10 manat = 5 euro each), Aarat talked to a man from Pakistan who had approached him, probably thinking him a fellow countryman. The two chatted for a while and then we made our way up the high tower.

 

Round and round we went. The original use of the Maiden Tower is shrouded in mystery and folk lore. My first idea was for it to have been a bastion tower for soldiers to protect the city. The small slits in the walls certainly speak in favour of that. But there are other theories as to how it might have been used. On each floor, you can catch your breath and study the explanatory panels. Was it an ancient observatory where the magi studied the movement of stars and planets? Or maybe an old fire temple of the Zoroastrians, with an eternal fire burning on top? Then again, there is a mysterious well inside the structure, reaching down to the groundwater. Was the tower a huge cistern, a means to provide the city with fresh water? As always, the truth is probably an amalgam of all of these theories - or none at all. Because there is another explanation for the Maiden Tower, told in the famous eponymous ballet. A young girl fell in love with a young man, but the king wanted her for himself and locked her into the tower. The young man managed to kill the king and came to rescue his beloved. But when the girl heard her lover's hurried footsteps on the stairs, she thought it was the king coming for her. In her despair, she threw herself from the top of the tower. And what do we learn from this? Look before you jump.

 

There are many more stories about the Maiden Tower, and I also have my own: Me being a fan of Game of Thrones, its name, Qiz Qalasi, reminds me of Daenerys Targaryen, also known as Khaleesi. I now realize that Qalasi is actually the Azeri word for "tower" but that doesn't keep me from spinning my own phantastic tale of a tower of dragons and their steely-willed young queen.

 

Still discussing Game of Thrones, Aarat and I found ourselves in a beautiful courtyard that would not have been amiss in the royal castle at King's Landing. In the middle of the yard stood a large statue, representing the head of the Azerbaijani poet Vahid Aliaga. I wouldn't have noticed it, but Aarat told me to have a closer look at the statue: there are actually protagonists of his works coming out of his head. I love that symbolism.

 

There was a stylish restaurant located in the yard, and we seized the opportunity to have a soup and some tea, as by now it was getting a bit chilly. It was pleasant enough to sit outside, but there was a very stiff breeze. There's a reason why Baku is named The City of Winds.

 

After our snack, we headed towards Shirvanshah Palace. Shirvan is actually the old name for the region around Baku, and until the 16th century the area was ruled by a Persian shah. Which neatly explains the name. The palace complex is well worth a visit, with a mausoleum of the former rulers, a mosque, the throne room (minus the throne) and lots of narrow hallways and innumerous small rooms with beautifully chiselled Arabic lettering decorating the ubiquitous large sandstone blocks. 1001 Night, yet again. I adore Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, but the Shirvanshah's residence now comes a close second.

 

Towards the end of our visit, we made the acquaintance of an Iranian who accompanied some Russian tourists around the place. He was nice enough to take a picture of Aarat and me.

 

Then we left the complex and made our way to the closest metro station. I am a great fan of underground transportation and my only regret is that I live in a city that refuses to get a metro and instead solely relies on its shiny new trams. Ah well, I am sure our politicians will see sense, in a decade or two. Meanwhile, I meant to explore this wiser and, granted, much larger city's subterranean transportation. We would only have to travel one station to get to FlyDubai's offices. Aarat knew the way to the metro station as he had taken it this morning to get to the embassy. There was a narrow entrance door and, right behind it, a desk with two security guards. Everybody was squeezing through the door and hurrying toward the escalators, but the security guards stopped us and wanted to see Aarat's backpack. And, since they were at it, my handbag. Fair enough. With everybody else passing by unhindered, we clambered to open every zip and clasp on our belongings. Halfway through, the pokerfaced security man was satisfied that we were inoffensive tourists, harmless if somewhat clumsy, but definitely not trying to smuggle in a bomb. Now he wanted to know where we were going and if we needed any help. What was the next station's name? No idea. His English was very rudimentary and we were a tad bit in a hurry, so we just waved in the general direction of somewhere and proceeded to the ticket machine. Thank you, no, we didn't need any help.

 

The machine was in Azeri. So, in order to change the language, if that was indeed possible, you first had to decipher the Turkic instructions on the display. Where did we want to go? No idea. Aha. Helpful. Maybe we did need the security guy's help after all. He seemed to think so too, so we tried to tell him that we wanted a ticket for a very short distance, just to the next station. He seemed not to understand, or we did not understand what he wanted to communicate. It became a bit stressful, the tiny glass entrance hall glary and hot and crammed with people rushing past us. None of them, incidentally, getting their bags checked. Maybe he had just wanted to strike up a conversation with us? In the end, we understood that the next station was closed for repair. He suggested that we walk or take the bus. Disappointing, but it really was not that far. We would walk.

 

After less than 10 minutes, we arrived at the supposed location of FlyDubai's offices. We looked up and down the large boulevard, read every company plaquette on the buildings in the vicinity, but nothing remotely looked like an airline company. We asked a man passing by and he seemed helpful enough, directing us into an adjacent side street. Hm, no, definitely not it. This was fast becoming a running gag: failing to locate an address in shiny, organised Baku.

 

But we were not about to give up that easily. Back on Zarifa Aliyeva Street, we asked several people, all of them more than willing to help, and, sadly, all of them failing to do so. There were three employees standing in the doorway of a government building. Hoping that State officials might speak English and maybe know a thing or two about their immediate surroundings, we asked them. A big talk ensued among them, with more employees coming out to discuss the matter. Apparently, no one knew how to help us. Thinking on his toes, Aarat asked if we might use their wifi to doublecheck the address. This, apparently, was not possible, but they took him inside to use their computer. Neat! Being real gentlemen, they insisted that I come in too and have a seat, please. It seemed we had roused the beehive. The entire ministry wanted to help us find this address, looming over Aarat as he tried to understand where we had gone wrong. In the end, they concluded that the address we were looking for must be further up the street, just one more block to go, on the other side of the Hilton. Are you sure, mate? Yes, they were very sure. Just as sure as our cab driver had been the day before. We thanked them for their hospitality and their outstanding willingness to help us and walked on. After the next crossing, we saw a huge, pompous building. The Hilton? Might well be. Without entertaining any high hopes, we crossed the street. There! A travel agency for FlyDubai! Honestly, I would never have thought it.

 

Their customer service was friendly, but not really helpful. At first, the lady explained that the flight could not be changed. After some arguing, she conceded that the flight could be changed, but it would cost a lot of money to do so. The cost would, in fact, be equal to the original flight's prize. Or not. Aarat was trying to doublecheck what she said, but his cellphone battery was about to die. It was all very confusing and frustrating, especially since we were by now very late for our flight. In the end, we thanked her and decided to worry about this problem tonight at our hotel, where we would have free wifi access and plenty of time.

 

Half past four. In little more than one hour our plane would leave, and we were still 25 kilometers away from the airport. "I think we can forget about visiting any Zaha Hadid buildings," I said sadly, "and the fire temple in the North of Baku is off the list too." I would have loved to see that ancient temple, but there was nothing to be done about it. And I was sure I would be back in this beautiful country. There was still so much to explore. The mud volcanoes and rock art to the south of the city and Ganja, the birthplace of the famous, 12th-century Persian poet Nizami, to name just the most obvious ones.

 

But now, focus: how to get to the airport? Fastest route: take a taxi. "We don't have a lot of manats left," Aarat reminded me. Who cares about money, we need a cab, now. I hailed a taxi, we did some perfunctory haggling and he agreed to take us to the airport for 30 manats, which is 15 euros. "We don't even have 10 manats on us," Aarat tried to argue, loud enough for the driver to hear. Pleease, just shut up. Let's deal with this once we are at the airport. I scanned the interior. No card machine, so he probably wouldn't take my Visa. During the half-hour drive, we made pleasant small talk about Luxembourg and beautiful Baku. The driver didn't speak too much English, but we managed to understand each other in a mix of English and Russian. My Azeri, unfortunately, did not reach further than teshekür edirim, which I remembered because it is the same in Turkish.

 

After a record 20 minutes, he stopped in front of the departures entrance at the airport. "Can you wait for me outside, please?" I asked Aarat. To my relief, he got out without arguing. I turned to the driver and gave him my most heartfelt smile. "Do you take credit cards?" As expected, he shook his head. "Ok. Do you take euros? We don't have manats." He looked a bit doubtful, but I shoved a 20 euro bill into his hand. He shook his head, probably trying to explain that he didn't know how much change he would have to give me. I closed his hand on the bill. "It's okay. The rest, for you." When it dawned on him that I had just given him a very generous tip, his eyes lit up. He started to thank me and shoved his business card into my hand. If I ever came back to Baku, I would have the most loyal and willing taxi driver.

 

Perfect, but now we had a plane to catch. Aarat and I ran through the departures hall and even had about 10 minutes to spare before our plane was airborne and we were heading back, across the skies, to Georgia.

 

 

 

It was seven o'clock in the evening when our plane landed in Tbilisi. We headed along the now-familiar corridor towards passport control. "Let's hope it doesn't take one hour, like in Baku," I joked, and then I remembered Aarat's visa problems. Let's hope they don't raise a fuss, I prayed to myself. We stepped up to the passport control desks, me to the right one, him to the left. The officer glanced at my passport, handed it back and motioned for me to step through. I lingered, looking over to Aarat, but the officer insisted that I move on. Hesitantly, I walked to the balustrade overlooking the conveyor belts. We had travelled light, so we wouldn't need to wait for any baggage. Instead, I was waiting for my friend.

 

At first, I had fun overhearing an elderly German couple's lovers' tiff. On holiday in the Caucasus, they bickered just like back home. You can leave a place, but you cannot leave your character behind. Then a group of young Indians finished passport control. I remembered them from the flight and I had seen them when we left the plane too. They had been standing almost at the end of the queue. What was taking Aarat so long? Worried, I tried to see if he was still at the desk. No. They must have taken him to a back office for an interview. I tried to remain calm. He was a young tourist, there was absolutely no reason for them to refuse his entry. The area of passport control emptied. I tried to find out what was the matter, but no one seemed to know what had happened to my friend. Instead, I was told that I couldn't linger up here any longer. I had to leave the building. Of course I would do no such thing. I walked down the stairs to the conveyor belts. Except for an employee on his self-balancing board, everyone had left the hall. My chest constricted. I refused to believe that there was a problem that could not be resolved.

 

More than one hour after we had left the plane, a customer service representative of Qatar Airways approached me. "Are you waiting for your friend?" he asked me. My heart hammered in my chest. He explained that immigration would not let him into the country. He didn't know any details, but my friend was to be deported to India. This jerked me into action. No, it couldn't be! I wanted to head back up, but the representative told me that I was not allowed to. I should just drop the matter and if I needed any help, I should come see him at the Qatar Airways desk in the departures hall.

 

Of course I would not just drop the matter. At that moment, I spotted Aarat. Ignoring my interlocutor, I ran back up the stairs. My friend was standing behind a cordon between two check points. He hurriedly explained to me that they had indeed refused to let him back in and that they were going to put him on the next flight to Delhi. Now the immigration officer in charge appeared, and he was not happy to see us talking. He ordered Aarat to step back and me to leave the hall. I asked him calmly to please explain the situation to me, why they would refuse the entry when barely 30 hours earlier they had let him in without questions, allowing him to stay in the country for three months. But it was clear that the official was done talking. He announced that he was not our friend, that he was not willing to resolve anything, and that if I stayed up here for just one minute longer, he would have me arrested and make sure I'd spend the night in jail. I turned to Aarat: "We will stay in contact." The official interrupted me, telling me to stop talking to my friend. I couldn't believe me ears. "We are tourists. Just what exactly are you accusing us of?" I asked. I was really wondering. "Do not say another word or I will have you in jail." This was pointless. This person was clearly savouring his position of strength and would not change his mind. I turned to Aarat. "Don't worry about me. I will be all right. Message me as soon as you can." Giving him my bravest no-biggie smile, I turned around and left.

 

Like in a trance, I walked down the stairs, past the conveyor belts and through the sliding doors. In the entrance hall, people were going about their usual business. Hotel employees holding cardboard signs with their guests' names, tourists exchanging money and renting cars, a group rallying around their guide, waiting to be taken care of. Everyone was waiting for someone, talking to someone. And I was alone. All alone. In a country where a man had waved about a dagger in a bus.

 

Snap out of it, I admonished myself. Focus on the problem at hand: Aarat's baggage. They will put him on a plane to Delhi. His baggage better be on that plane too. I took a deep breath and rummaged through my handbag. Thank God I had the receipt. I knocked on the door to the baggage storage and handed the receipt to the attendant. It was a different person than last time and she didn't seem to understand neither English nor Russian. But she took me into the little room that contained our things and let me decide which "nondescript three items" were mine. Luckily she didn't ask where my friend was, even though her colleague had said that both of us must be there to claim the baggage. I heaved Aarat's suitcase from the rack. It was so heavy that I could barely move it. Then my own suitcase. And his guitar. We were all set. I paid for the storage and left.

 

Next step: Check in Aarat's things. That would be in the departures hall next door. I looked around. No trolleys. I shouldered the guitar and pulled both suitcases behind me. Outside, I was immediately beleaguered by cab drivers, trying to help me with my luggage. Mental note: Stop looking like a target. I gave them an nonchalant c'est-la-vie smile, shook my head and slowly moved on.

 

Waiting in line to get through the scanner, I suddenly noticed how tired, hungry and above all thirsty I was. I'd had nothing but breakfast, a soup and a tiny snack all day long. And we had been walking a lot through Baku. I so wanted some lemonade. I shook myself out of this line of thought: Stop being a baby and do what needs to be done.

 

At the check-in desk they explained that I needed a valid ticket in my name to get the bags on a plane. Of course. What had I been thinking? I remembered the representative from Qatar Airways. He understood the situation, he might know how to get this sorted. So I pulled the luggage all the way to the far end of the building to their office. Which at this time of the evening was closed. But there was a light on inside. I knocked on the door. No answer. After a short while, a young employee appeared and slipped into the office. She ignored me, but I saw that there was at least one more person inside. Again, I banged on the door. Usually, I don't like to make a nuisance of myself, but there was nothing else I could think of. After about five minutes, someone opened the door and told me to wait.

 

I waited. Just when I was about to resume banging on the door, the customer service representative showed up. They must have rung him up and told him to get rid of me. He explained that Aarat's plane had already taken off. I asked him to please accept the baggage on their next flight. Nothing to be done about it, rules are rules and what better thing to hide behind than rules. He advised me to throw the bags away. Right. Very helpful. "How do you get a large box on a plane without passengers?" I asked. "There must be a way." "The cargo centre," he answered, "but it is closed now." Ok, and where is this cargo centre? He informed me that it was just up the road, in the direction of Tbilisi. Good. Thank you and bye.

 

I needed to get rid of these bags. I would have to come back to the airport tomorrow morning anyway, so I might as well leave them here. I grabbed a trolley and heaved the bags onto it. Back to the arrivals hall, to the storage room. I knocked on the door. The same lady opened. I pointed to my bags. "I need to leave them here." She looked at me, then at the luggage. For some reason, the thought of taking them back seemed to frighten her. Was she afraid I had placed something illicit in it? But why fear this more now than the first time around? In any case, she violently shook her head and closed the door to my face. I was non-plussed. A storage room that refused to store your things? I knocked again, but the door remained closed. They had decided to ignore me.

 

What a night. I looked at my watch. Almost nine o'clock. I should go to the hotel. Outside, a man grabbed my suitcase: "Taxi?" I nooded: "Yes, to Tbilisi." No, wait! Too late, he had taken both my suitcases and literally ran away with them, away from the line of cabs. I ran after him. He opened the trunk to a nondescript car. No taxi sign on it. What should I do? Raise a fuss? What if he just drove off with my things? I held the car door open and looked around. Two young policemen strolled past, in animated discussion. Feeling very foolish, I asked them: "Excuse me, is this a real taxi?" They looked at me, nonplussed. "I need a taxi," I insisted. "No problem," one of them laughed, "he's okay." The driver said something to them and all three of them laughed. Nice. Having fun at my expenses. Resigned, I got into the car.

 

When we drove off, I sized my driver up. He reminded me a bit of my grandfather. Big, but harmless. Hoping I was right, I struck up a conversation. One more opportunity to practise my Russian. I sure needed it. The driver found my hotel on the west side of the old town without problems and even helped me drag the suitcases to the entrance. He waited until the receptionist had come to the door and then wished me a happy holiday. Such a nice bloke.

 

The receptionist was friendly too, though the hotel turned out more basic than I had hoped. He showed me to my room, which was large and clean, but a lot less comfy-cosy than the one in Baku. But it would be more than okay for one night. Back at the reception desk, he asked what had happened to my friend. I am quite sure that he was genuinely feeling sorry for my bad luck, but tired as I was, his repeated assurances in very basic English that he wanted to help me were starting to creep me out.

 

Maybe I wanted coffee or tea? - Finally, a welcome thought! Yes, I would love a cuppa, с сахаром, with sugar, please, but no milk, вез молока. He would bring me the coffee to my room right away. And if he could help in any other way, me being all alone now? At that moment, an elderly man, probably another guest, came into the corridor. He must have overheard our conversation, and felt like it demanded his input too. If I needed something, he drawled in Russian, his room was right there, next to mine. I felt his hand on my arm, smelled his alcohol breath. No thank you, I'm fine, good night! I hastily retreated to my room, closed the door, turned the key around twice and made sure it was locked. Then I leaned against the frame and took a deep breath.

 

I was so disappointed. How would I find my way through Georgia and Armenia, driving and at the same time trying to figure out directions? I didn't even have an internet connection on the road! And even if I managed all right, what was the fun in being all alone, constantly warding off more or less well-meaning males?

 

There was a knock at the door. My coffee! Any problem, however complex, is less daunting when contemplated over a cup of steaming black coffee. No, not Oscar W. - Sandra S.

 

I undressed, propped up the pillows, snuggled into bed and sipped my coffee. I needed to contact my sister. She would be worried if I didn't tell her soon that I had safely arrived at my hotel. I rang her up and told her about Aarat's misfortune. It felt good to talk it through. She sympathized, but she was sure I would enjoy the holiday in the end. "See it as an adventure. Go girl!" LOL She knew how to cheer me up. I finished my coffee and looked at the clock: just after 10. Not late at all. But I didn't feel like taking a shower, dressing up and going out. You will never find a travel companion, hiding in your room, I admonished myself. Even though.... this was the twenty-first century, after all.

 

When the mind is too tired to deal with a novel situation, it tends to go into autopilot. The tried and tested. I grabbed my phone, clicked on the red circle with the white flame and started swiping. After five minutes, I had left-swiped myself through half of Tbilisi and right-swiped on seven guys. That got me six matches, almost instantaneously. This country was Tinder Heaven!

 

In real life, I prefer to chat up guys. On Tinder, I always wait for them to send the first message. And "hey", "hello", "how r u" are NOT messages in my book. So that reduced my matches to two. The first chat looked promising. The guy was eager to befriend me on facebook, and immediately agreed to show me around. But when he sent the first virtual hugs and kisses, I had my doubts. Soon I felt smothered. Then he called me on the phone. Should I answer? A one-minute conversation made it clear that he was not the travel companion I was looking for. Unfortunately, his assessment of the situation was quite different. In the end, I had to ban him. I threw the cellphone on the bed. This country was Tinder Hell!

 

The phone beeped. New match. I gave it an irritated look. Not interested.

 

It beeped again. New message. I sighed. This felt like work. I snuggled under the blanket and read on the display: "A memorable first message." Hm. At least he had managed to write a full sentence without a single spelling mistake, netspeak abbreviation or sexual innuendo. I checked his pictures again. Ah yes, George. Probably a tourist, or an expat. He didn't look like my idea of a Georgian. Not that I had met that many. I decided to give him a chance.

 

In the end, I was glad I did. We had a very funny conversation, and his English was first rate. Unfortunately he wasn't on holiday in Georgia, and so had to work over the next days. But he had vastly improved my mood and boosted my confidence. I had a date with a Georgian, not for tomorrow, but the day after, when I returned from Gori. I would be all right.

 

I put away my phone, turned off the light and hugged my pillow. George the Georgian. Sweet. I smiled. My ex had once said: "I will be fine anywhere, even in South Sudan. Because women are the same anywhere in the world." Now I don't intend to go to South Sudan, and I am neither my ex nor Ringo Starr, but I agree with both: I will be fine anywhere, too. And with that comforting thought, I fell asleep.