Land Ho Mate

The (plush) apartment we were staying in sat on the 10th floor, overlooking the port of Baku.  We could see ships coming in, ships loading and their eventual departure.  This apartment was a godsend to us, not just for the hot, high pressured shower and luscious bed, but because if it was not overlook the port we would have never caught our ferry to Kazakhstan.

Around 10 am we go to the port, ask the lady it who sits in a tiny, all cement office, "ferry Kazakhstan, there is?"  (our Russian is improving I swear...)  she says no, but to come back tomorrow.  We decide (based on research) to return that afternoon.  Around 3 pm we return and as I open my mouth she flatly states, "Ferry Kazakhstan, NO!"

So, satisified that there will be no boat that day, we start planning/buying our provisions for the possible 3 day boat ride.  Setting our burrito making fix'ns on the table in the apartment, we notice a large boat enter the port... so I am nominated to return to the port and double check that it isn't Kazakstan bound.  Huffing, I bust in the door to this unexcitable woman's office asking if that is the boat.  She says yes, but there are no beds.  I ask if there are chairs, she says yes but that she'll have to call the captain - the captain confirms that chairs do in fact exist on this boat.  I have finally gotten this woman to crack a smile when I tell her I want two tickets to sit on chairs on this boat.

I now have 60 minutes to return to the apartment, rally McNabb, pack our bags, pass customs and board the boat.  We make it, only to find out our "ferry" is a legitamate cargo boat and we are the only passengers.  They lead us to the crew's lounge where we settle in, planning out our sleeping spots.  At this point it is 6pm.  8pm rolls around and the boat has yet to move.  Around 9pm the first mate comes to the lounge and informs us some of the crew (which we have become quite the interest piece to) have shuffled about so that we could have our very own cabin.  Gratefully, we move in to these sailors' bunks (read: real, real nasty), though hardly private as the normal occupants had to come and go to retrieve personal items, or to simply sit and chat with us until we felt the need to tell them we wanted to sleep.  Shaken awake at 3am, our boat finally leaves the port and sets sail to begin the journey across the Caspian.

                                          

The next day is dedicated to exploring this cargo ship we have found ourselves on.  I spend the morning climbing ladders, while McNabb spends the morning informing me that that is probably against the rules. 
 Our exploring pays off though, as the captain catches me poking my head into the bridge and invites us in.  They explain the controls, the maps, the periscope type thing, and then they actually let us both have a turn driving!  Yup, we both earned our captain's - fins(?), on the high seas of the Caspian driving a cargo ship.  Then my new best friend, Rakhid and I went through all of the flags this fine vessel had to offer, followed by a tour of the rest of the ship.

Later on, during exploration part 2, I ventured into the cargo hold to see what it had to offer.  Making friends with two truck drivers, one of them decided to show-off his semi's sound system with none other than the best of Michael Jackson.  So, naturally, we capped off the evening with a cargo-ship deck dance party with some of the crew as the sun set over the Caspian.  Pure magic.

Truck Driver friend #1


After 33 hours on the boat, we finally docked in Kazakhstan around 1am, where we then had little other choice than to sleep at the port.  Luckily, we had made a Georgian man-friend who also had to sleep there, making us comfortable enough.  Around 8am we headed into the city to catch our 12 hour train into Uzbekistan.  Sharing the compartment with our Georgian friend and an adorable old Kazakh man we had no trouble sleeping through the entire journey.  We disembark, waiting at the station for another 2 hours until the next train.  This time 14 hour journey to take us across the border and to our first place of destination.  While there were no actual immediate threats, this train was a bit less sleep conducive.

Other than our Georgian friend (we never did learn his name) we were the only other foreigners, and the only females.  The Train car was partitioned much like cubicles, but instead of with walls, with 3 benches that faced each other, then another row of benches above the first.  About 40 men crammed in, with all eyes on us.  To say the least a bit intimidating.  Eventually we became acquainted with the men in our immediate vicinity (utilizing our Russian dictionary).  They even became our protectorates so to speak, as all questions were asked to them about us, and answered by them, about us.

You know the saying, "calm before the storm," well nothing could be more true in regards to the Kazak-Uzbek border.  As soon as we crossed all of the train cars were flooded with men, women and children selling everything under sun.  The already cramped passing lanes become a jungle of limbs as people yelling their offerings, shoving buckets full of food in your face, passing this way and that.  If you can imagine what the exact opposite of what a bazzar/piata/open market would be this was it.  Instead of the customers shoveling past, the vendors did so - hot boxing the train car with smells of cooked meat, perfumes, and the ever increasing body odor.  People bought cell phones and clothing, hot tea and coffee, there was even a man going around yelling "Shashlik" (BBQ) but had nothing to show other than a plaid bag (punga) from which I can only guess he served his meats from.  This is also how you change money though, and it proved to be an experience in itself.  As Uzbekistan is a bit of a police state, the government holds that the dollar is worth about 1,500 Som (Uzbek currency), so if you exchange at a bank, or use an ATM that is the rate you get.  The dollar is actually worth about 2,700 Som however, meaning that nearly everyone exchanges on the black market.  We exchanged a bit of money and were handed HUGE stacks of cash, as the largest denomination of Som is 1,000 -- so when you exchange $50, you are given 135,000 individual bills, all wrapped neatly together with a rubber band.

After 5 days of uninterrupted transit, we reached our destination.  Collapsing into our respective beds, we rejoiced in finally having a door to close.  It didn't even matter that our "hotel" didn't have plumbing, I was more than happy to brush my teeth out the window as long as it meant I would not be woken by the brow-cringing calls of "Davushka!"

 How we spent a lot of our time on the boat...

Celebrities and Sing-Alongs

Maybe you haven't heard of them yet, but you should as they are a pretty big deal.  The overnight singing sensation Caspian Dreamers with their hit "Baku State of Mind."  Actually, they are two PCV's who re-made Jay-Z's song to be about Baku which went viral on Youtube, actually propelling these two young men into (relative) stardom (www.youtube.com/watch?v=f4-U6TGX1T4).  McNabb, doing what she does best, internet stalked them and got into contact.  So we ended up staying with one of the local stars, who was living in the big city.  The weekend we were visiting also happened to be that group of volunteer's COS conference (final conference, A.K.A weekend of debauchery).  So we got to tag along for all of the festivities, and though we thought we had kept ourselves relatively tame, were later on told that we were the "pace cars" for the evening... Moldovan training I guess.

Towards the end of the night we had found ourselves to be the only girls remaining in a pack of COSing volunteer men who were ready to hit the clubs.  As we walked to Club Malibu (for the second night in a row) I watched as McNabb walked slightly ahead of the herd, warming up her dance moves in preparation.  Clubs are not the same, middle of the floor dance-off, losing yourself to the music in Azerbaijan.  Instead each dancer claims his or her (though most of the "hers" were paid to be there) place in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors that line the walls.  Once all places are filled, a second row forms, staggered so as to ensure constant vision on one's own shakes and shimmies.  That was fun for a while, but McNabb and I definitively broke the mold, and soon hypnotized by our dance moves were joined by the other PCV's.

One of the PCV's enjoyed us so much he even invited us out to his village for the weekend as his first and most likely only guests!  What an honor, the schmuck!  mwahahahaha.  When you think of the Peace Corps and the living conditions, this is how Matt (our new best friend) was living.  It was so hot in his little "house" that he had moved his bed out onto the porch, which is where we all 3 slept.  Being quite and anomaly, there was a constant stream of peering eyes peering through the slits in the fence, children and adults alike.  One night we were invited over to a neighbor's birthday party.  Upon entering it seemed to be all quite familiar, loads of food and vodka bottles covering one long table.  Matt was immediately ushered to the table, whereas we girls were given a signal that suggested we go up stairs.  This was obviously a man party, but it was fine because we were warmly (and curiously) welcomed in to join the women and children, sitting on the floor drinking tea and eating cake.  Eventually we went back home, though about 10 minutes later the party followed us (unannounced), and this time we were allowed to participate.  Shots, Russian, Azerbaijani and marriage proposals flowed well into the evening, until one of the the men took a wrong step, falling off the porch, leading his friends to call it a night.  This is when the fun really began, as turns out Matt is an excellent guitarist and has in his possession a book of the 40 most requested acoustic songs.  We rallied.  Singing all 40 songs, heartfelt and at the top of our lungs for the whole village's listening pleasure (3 am).   Around 6 am, the neighbor came over to milk their cow that lives in Matt's yard, but while that was going on, the little baby calf managed to break free, running a muck and bucking all around the yard.  The most help I could muster up for this woman as she chased down the cow was a weak, "oh, oh no."

                              The upstairs birthday party was joined by the birthday boy (man) himself.

                                                                           The Culprit.

No one believed us, they all said "one week, minimum," "it's impossible!" "10 days, if you're lucky!"  And McNabb cackled in their faces, for they did not foresee her masterful planning skills.  It took us 2 hours and 15 minutes to obtain our Uzbek visas while in Baku.  Two hours of general paper shuffling, and 15 minutes of celebratory high-kicking in the streets after its attainment.  For our second stay (broken up by the village outing) we switched up our host, and stayed with some American ex-pats living in Baku.  We immediately took a liking to this couple, as we perused their pictures from things like Burning Man, costume parties, and mountain trekking.  As our conversations pushed on though, we found out that Jessica (one of the hosts) is actually an Arial-acrobatist and used to perform in the circus!  She even brought much of her equipment along with her, including her stilts!  Unfortunately, our boat arrived unexpectedly after our first night staying with them so we had to run to catch it as the next one wouldn't be for at least 10 days.  In retrospect, it is probably good that the our boat came when it did, as we were not stranded in Baku, and I did not have the opportunity to break my neck trying to moon-walk on stilts.

                                            High-Kicking in front of the Uzbekistan Embassy.
                                                            (It's hard to capture, ok?)

Land of Fire!

Into the Land of Fire (Azerbaijan) we marched, and hot indeed it was. Spending a couple nights in Zakatala, our first stop. The town itself, however, had little more to boast than a 400 ft tall flag, so we decided to hop on a random local bus (read: oversized van) and head out to a village. We disembarked at the end of the line and walked down a winding road, followed signs that our fluent Azerbaijani told us meant cafe (it was written “Kafe”) where we could ask a waitress how to find the nature preserve we had read all about.

In short, we walked a great distance, winding ourselves farther and farther into nowhere when we finally stumbled upon a gem of cafe. More of a lean-to with a wood burning stove, surrounded by tables hidden under trees around 50 yards from one another, and a creek running through the middle of it all. We drank tea, stumbled through conversations in Russian and about 2 hours and 2 pots of tea later, a delivery of food was brought to the “kafe.” So we ate and relaxed in the mountain breeze some more before heading back to town by foot. This is also where our current love affair began, no not with the kind Azeri border guard who took us out for a traditional Azeri dinner, but something a bit less....animate. 

Along with salt and pepper Azerbaijani tables also come equipped with what is called “Sumakh” (pronounced with a guttural “k”). At first, not knowing what it was we lightly sprinkled some on top of our shishkabab. Then it happened, an explosion of flowery, sweet and sour, slightly spicy deliciousness overwhelmed our pallets. In short, we were hooked. We put it on our salads, plain bread, anything and everything possible. Turns out, when I exclaimed out of utter bliss “it tastes like flowers!” I was right. It is in fact dried and crushed flower pedals. It may be time to stage an intervention as Katie and I have become full-blown addicts. At the bazaar we bought ourselves a stash and it has accompanied every snack and meal since.

Working our way back to town, at the very top of Zakatala stands an old castle that had fallen under Russian, Turkish and Azerbaijani control throughout the years, but was currently in Russian hands as a military base within the old fortress walls. We had read that you are actually not allowed in, being a “sensitive area,” however, after eh hem.... accidentally, tripping and falling into a door, we discovered that is in fact open to those who may be interested, though tip-toeing around Russian barracks does not necessarily equate to a leisurely stroll.

Ever onward, we continued east to an ancient Silk Road town called Sheki, where we stayed with an adorable Azeri family. Other than some of the sights and overall feeling in the town itself, the best part of staying here was this family. We were given an intimate glimpse into the life of a typical Muslim-Azerbaijani family upholding their traditional culture. Ilgar (husband) works at the silk factory and was able to describe in detail the process of silk making, a welcomed impromptu lesson as we sat in the first true silk road town on our journey.

As the road never ceases, never shall our feet, and we were off to our next town, Barda. A fellow peace corps volunteer from Moldova had actually already served not 2, but 4 years in Azerbaijan before signing up again and serving in Moldova. When we told him we were going to Azerbaijan, without hesitation he announced that we would be visiting his old site and staying with his old host family. So we did, and it was amazing. Not only were we warmly welcomed by the family, the current PCV's took us under their wing to show us around. We were taken to play basketball and ultimate frisbee with no less than 20 local kids, most of whom turns out are actually refugees from the Azeri-Armenian war. We were even taken to the (no longer functioning) school where all of the families are now living because of the conflict. Within minutes we were surrounded with eager ears and smiles as we walked into the courtyard and immediately Russian/Azeri/Hand-signed conversations ensued.

Although we thoroughly enjoyed our time in Barda, we were quite ready to escape the sweltering heat, and open desert plains for the cool breezes of the Caspian sea and of course the bright lights of Baku.

Mmm, fish bits

Healed by the holy springs, refreshed by the atmosphere, and our spirits lifted by wine of that which is called Sighnaghi.

A tiny town teetering atop a hill, overlooking a vast sea of vineyards and pastures far below and bypassing the horizon. We stayed for two nights, walking the winding cobblestone streets, napping in hammocks, and visiting monasteries to soak in their holy springs. The town itself lulled you into a content state of relaxation, of which we soaked up.

 

After narrowly escaping the town that shall not be named, we sought respite in this adorable town's one and only hostel. Turns out awhile back an American man, while experiencing a mid-life crisis decided to purchase a house in this remote part of Georgia. Unfortunately, war broke out shortly after, so what does any good father do? Send his son and daughter to check it out and open a hostel. This is how we came to meet Andy. He and his Lithuanian girlfriend Inga, both 26, run this hostel and while it may lack general cleanliness was overflowing with character and characters. Andy was kind enough to even take us along while he bought the hostel's supply of wine from a local man (delivered in a 5-liter plastic jug), straight from his cellar. In this cellar this kind and excitable Georgian man also offered a taste of his very own “Cha Cha,” more commonly known as moonshine.

Feeling refreshed and ready to conquer we set off to Lagodekhi National Park for a couple days of hiking and camping. Upon entering the park gates, we were immediately taken under the care of an enthusiastic Georgian park ranger who, after learning we were American, informed us that their park had an American of their own working there and promptly ran off to present him to us. Turns out he, Shannon, is a Peace Corps volunteer working in the community and park. Shannon then introduced us to the “Trail Master,” Daniel, a swiss man in his early twenties. It would be impossible to do these two justice using only the written word, but to try, they are exceedingly kind, sincere and easy going. Shannon, tall dark and handsome, Daniel smaller in stature and adorable, capped off with a mop top of blonde curls.

The first day we hiked to a smaller waterfall and camped out in the park. The second day we teamed up with Shannon, Daniel, and an older German gentleman named Hogel who drove us out to the trailhead for an even taller waterfall (aprox. 40 meters high). We climbed up to the very top, which was more of a ladder made of roots than a trail, leading us directly upward, where a series of pools waited for our wadding pleasure.

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On the way back we passed a small Trout farm, so with no hesitation Hogel, our ever jolly German, proclaimed that we would have a fish party and it was so. We headed back to our campsite, cleaned , gutted, and stuffed the fish with delicious goodness while the park rangers built a giant fire. A perfect example of Georgian hospitality, the park rangers even took over the cooking of the fish while I took over as official supervisor. We ate, drank homemade wine, listened to stories and laughed until late in the night when Shannon offered to let us sleep in his host family's backyard. So, in true hobo fashion and to save roughly, 5 dollars each, we rolled our sleeping bags out in the yard. Feeling refreshed from a night under the stars and recharged from Shannon's American coffee, once again Hogel came to our aid. Picking us up and driving us to the border where we once again simply walked out of Georgia and into Azerbaijan. I could hear Katie laughing all the way back at border control as my giddiness overpowered maturity, leading me to mimic riding a horse, lasso above the head, yelling “I'm Genghis Khan,” when asked by border guards what brought us to central Asia.