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    CHAPTER 17 – GANJA AND SHAKI, AZERBAIJAN
    Jul 21, 2019
    CHAPTER 17 – GANJA AND SHAKI, AZERBAIJAN
    CHAPTER 16 – YANAR DAG, AZERBAIJAN
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    CHAPTER 16 – YANAR DAG, AZERBAIJAN
    CHAPTER 15 – BAKU, AZERBAIJAN
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    CHAPTER 15 – BAKU, AZERBAIJAN
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    CHAPTER 14 – THE SILK ROAD, KAZAKHSTAN part II
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    CHAPTER 13 – THE SILK ROAD, KAZAKHSTAN part I
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    CHAPTER 12 – BISHKEK, KYRGYZSTAN
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Azerbaijan, Journey

CHAPTER 15 – BAKU, AZERBAIJAN

posted by Aleksandra Wisniewska
Jun 20, 2019 6271 0 0
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Only late at night, we manage to leave the Russia-Azerbaijan border crossing. We still have to drive a few dozen kilometres to reach the country’s capital – Baku.

Roads are lacking any street lamps, but the roadworks are plenty. In the darkness, in the maze of roadworks, we manage to lose our way several times. We get to the city frustrated and tired. Even its fantastic light-up is not able to impress us.

The next day doesn’t promise to be any better. We run from place to place, arranging the documents needed to apply for a Pakistani visa. We must send documents and passports to a tourist agency in Poland. Only this way we can get a visa, without a personal appearance at the Pakistani embassy in Warsaw. Our Azeri visa expires in 30 days. The whole application process for the Pakistani visa – including the delivery time – takes 26 days. If everything goes well, but with Christmas, on the way, it could be longer. We push our luck, but there is no other way.

Finally, when the valuable cargo is already sent as a quadruple-protected, registered and insured letter, stress-free we can give in to the charm of the city.

Every tourist who has been in Azerbaijan for more than two weeks must register in the electronic system of the immigration department. For this, you need a temporary residence address. To get one, we book a few days in the hostel and leave our registration matter to the staff. Ourselves, we set off to explore Baku.

We stroll between sandy-coloured, elegant buildings. The influence of Gothic and Baroque styles is visible in their architecture. The dens greenery of trees draws fantastic shadow paintings on the beautifully decorated buildings’ facades. It fills us with pride that the Polish contributed actively to the city’s aesthetics, which Italy or France would not be ashamed of. Four of our countrymen were successively the chief architects of Baku: Józef Goslawski, Kazimierz Skorewicz, Jozef Ploszko and Konstanty Borysoglebski. Their buildings adorn the city to this day. In casual conversations, the Bakians themselves are proud to report on Polish influences on the city’s architecture.

However, the Polish presence in Baku was not only marked by architecture. Some fellow citizen came here as political exiles, some because of the oil boom at the turn of the twentieth century. Many Polish scholars and engineers moved to Baku, linking their professional development with the rapid growth of the city. Among them were engineers Witold Zglenicki and Pawel Potocki. The former was the author of an innovative – on a global scale – the idea of oil extraction from the seafloor. Potocki, on the other hand, became famous for draining the Bibi-Eibat Bay. According to his concept, almost 80 hectares of sand poured into the bay to create the above-ground oil field. Józef Jesman was the creator of oil hydraulics and one of the designers of the Baku-Batumi oil pipeline. The engineer Stefan Skrzywan worked on the construction of waterworks, which significantly contributed to averting the epidemic of cholera and malaria that plagued Baku at the turn of the twentieth century.

The effects of gold-bearing oil fields can be seen everywhere in the city. Baku continues to grow. Hand in hand with historical architecture stand modern buildings of abstract designs, shining with glass and metal. At night, their surface turns into giant projection screens. The bay is closely watched by the huge ‘Eye of Baku’ – a massive Ferris wheel. Next to it, the sophisticated lotus flower of a modern shopping centre blooms. Just a few steps away stands – or I should rather say – lies, a building in the form of a rolled carpet richly decorated with gold ornaments – the Carpet Museum. Investments in Baku flow like a rapid river. Tourists, new clients and new investments follow.

We have to admit; Baku’s modern splendour impresses us. However, instead of glass, metal and golden ornaments, we prefer thick fortified walls and narrow, cobbled streets of the historic Inner City – Icheri Sheher. Its history dates back to at least the 12th century. Around this time, the construction of the Maiden’s Tower was completed – the most recognizable symbol not only of Baku but of whole Azerbaijan. The tower’s history, purpose, circumstances and exact date of creation still give historians a headache. Some of the oldest parts of the tower date back as far as the 4th century, while others are hundreds of years newer. Some historians claim that the structure was erected as a Pre-Muslim Zoroastrian temple and hence the eternally burning fire at its top – the symbol of Zoroastrians. Others, however, believe that the tower was simply an astronomical observatory and had nothing to do with religion. Legends and folk tales around the Maiden’s Tower are alike confused. Those referring to sources of Zoroastrianism claim that Baku was invaded by a king who wanted to make Bakians his slaves. Zoroastrian priests locked themselves in the tower and prayed for rescue. God Ahura Mazda heard their plea and in response senton Earth a beautiful virgin with flaming hair. The woman defeated the evil king, who captivated by the courage and beauty of the virgin, married her, sealing the peaceful existence of Baku. Other legends, unfortunately, have no happy endings. According to them, the daughter of the king did not want to marry a prince chosen for her. To buy herself some time, she asked her father to build a tower for her. When the building was completed, the desperate girl threw herself from its top. All romantic and historical confusions around the Maiden’s Tower only add to its sentimental value. Even to such an extent that its image appears on banknotes, coins and official letterheads.

As we cross the threshold of the Inner City, we move back in time. Our feet slide on cobblestones, polished by millions of footsteps. We get lost between the thick, stone walls of houses, which massive gates open to shaded patios. Wooden balconies hang above our heads. Everywhere we look, cats bask in the rays of December sun. They took over all of Icheri Sheher. They stroll lazily along its streets, holding their heads high. A mischievous spark shines in emerald eyes. They thoughtfully and carefully choose slaves who will not only pet and scratch them behind the ear, but who will also be in the seventh heaven that they have received the gracious permission to do so. Everyone falls victim to Baku cats. A man with a briefcase hurrying to the office suddenly deviates from the route, enters the store and leaves with an armful of cat food. The suit of an elegant lady, who talks to the client over a coffee, is abundantly decorated with cat hair when the feline jumps unceremoniously on her laps. It does not surprise either the woman or the client, who soon also becomes a cat recliner. Even cleaners in Icheri Sheher work for Baku cats. Every morning they clean houses specially created for them. Each morning they fill cats’ bowls with food and water. Baku felines have no owners. However, you cannot call stray nor homeless animals, on whose services the whole city is.

Strolling through the old town and meetings with the Baku cats become our daily routine. We start to feel at home here. An impromptu invitation from the Polish community for a Christmas Eve dinner magnifies this feeling even more. Soon after, we leave Baku and set off on a trip around Azerbaijan.

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[English below] Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozn [English below]
Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozniosła nam głowy. Kilka lat później przeprowadziliśmy się do niej na sześć miesięcy. Kraj przez pół roku konsekwentnie i nieodwracalnie przepalał nam styki. Dlatego nie zdziwiliśmy się wcale, kiedy kilka lat później w Wołgogradzie po meczu Polska-Japonia kibice naszych rywali zabrali się za porządkowanie stadionowych trybun. Co kiedyś mogłoby wywołać uśmiech politowania i wymowny gest posuwisto-zwrotny palcem wskazującym w stronę czoła, dziś było tak oczywiste, że aż trzeba się było dołączyć. Wcale nas nie zdziwiło, że przed stadionem rzesze japońskich fanów gratulowało Polakom tak żarliwie, jakbyśmy wcale nie grali o pietruszkę. Przy tym wszyscy byli tak urzekająco szczęśliwi naszym… hmm… szczęściem, jakby sami właśnie wygrali puchar. Wymianom szalików, koszulek nie było końca. Andrzej wrócił chyba z trzema. W tym jedną vintage z rozgrywek w latach dziewięćdziesiątych ubiegłego wieku. Co prawda juniorska, ale przynajmniej na jedno z nas pasuje.
-----
Three-day Japan, in a nutshell, blew our minds. A few years later, we moved in there for six months. The country has been consistently and irreversibly frying our brains for half a year. That's why we weren't at all surprised when, a few years later, in Volgograd, after the Poland-Japan match, our rivals' fans started cleaning up the stadium stands. What once might have caused a smile of pity and a back-and-forth gesture with the index finger towards the forehead was now so obvious that we had to join in. We were not at all surprised that in front of the stadium, crowds of Japanese fans congratulated the Poles as passionately as if we were not playing for honour at all. And everyone was so charmingly happy with our… hmm… victory as if they had just won the cup themselves. There was no end to the exchange of scarves and T-shirts. Andrzej came back with at least three, including one vintage from the 1990s. It's a junior size, but it fits at least one of us.
[English below] Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w po [English below]
Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w poniedziałek z samego rana. Przyszedł jak zwykle elegancki. W jasnej koszuli w kratkę, w spodniach w kancik, w idealnie wypolerowanych okularach, z wypielęgnowaną skórzaną torbą przerzuconą przez ramię. Snuła się wokół niego mgiełka nienachalnej serdeczności i zaraźliwego spokoju. Wystarczyło stanąć obok, żeby nim przesiąknąć. Jak zapachem. Ale zapachu Andrieja nie pamiętam. Wydaje mi się jednak, że pachniał mydłem. Takim zwykłym, szarym. Każdego ranka krótkim, grubym pędzlem nakładał mydlaną piankę okrężnymi ruchami na twarz, żeby zmiękczyć zarost. Potem zmieniał żyletkę w ciężkawej srebrnej maszynce do golenia i uważnie przesuwał nią po policzkach, brodzie, szyi. Na koniec chlustał w dłonie wodą kolońską ze szklanej odkręcanej butelki i wklepywał ją w podrażnioną ostrzem twarz. Na pewno szczypało. Tak, Andriej musiał pachnieć szarym mydłem i wodą kolońską. Tak pachniał mój dziadzio. Tak pachniał mój tata. Tak pachniała dobroć. 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
-----------------------------
As promised, he came on Monday morning. He arrived elegant as usual. In a light checkered shirt, in crease trousers, in perfectly polished glasses, with a well-groomed leather bag slung over his shoulder. There was a mist of unobtrusive cordiality and contagious calmness around him. All you had to do was stand next to him to be soaked in it, like in the fragrance. But I don't remember Andrei's scent. I think he smelled like soap, though. Just plain grey soap. Every morning, he used a short, thick brush to apply soapy foam in circular motions to his face to soften the stubble. Then he changed the razor blade in the heavy silver shaver and carefully ran it over his cheeks, chin, and neck. Finally, he splashed cologne from a glass screw-top bottle into his hands and patted it on his face, irritated by the blade. It definitely stung. Yes, Andrei must have smelled of grey soap and cologne. This is what my grandfather smelled like. This is what my dad smelled like. This was the smell of kindness.
(The whole txt under the link in bio)
[English below] Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy [English below]
Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy, ale ma swój przydział potężnych rzeźb. Smutne to rzeźby. Pełne cierpienia, rozpaczy. Rzeźby żołnierzy dźwigających rannych kolegów. Rzeźby twarzy wykrzywionych męką, mięśni rwanych wiecznym bólem zakrzepłym w kamieniu. Ten umęczony szpaler prowadzi do stóp Matki Ojczyzny. Matka jest potężna – ma osiemdziesiąt pięć metrów wzrostu, krótkie rozwiane włosy i powłóczystą szatę. W prawej uniesionej ręce ściska nagi miecz i nim wzywa. Do czego? 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
---
Volgograd is nothing like Moscow but has its share of massive sculptures. Here, sculptures are sad. Full of suffering and despair. These are sculptures of soldiers carrying wounded colleagues. Sculptures of faces twisted with torment, muscles torn by eternal pain congealed in stone. This tormented row leads to the feet of Mother Motherland. The Mother is huge - eighty-five meters tall, with short wind-blown hair and a flowing robe. She holds a naked sword and calls with it in her raised right hand. Calls to what? 
(The full story under the link in bio)
Instagram post 18199135858260048 Instagram post 18199135858260048
Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą z Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą zaraz po meczu. W stroboskopowych światłach imprezy na strefie kibica błyskają malutkie rosyjskie flagi wymalowane na ich twarzach. Podchodzą nieśmiali.
- Bardzo przepraszam, ale mówiłem synowi, że wy z Polszy i mamy do was taką prośbę – stara się wykrzyczeć w nasze uszy szpakowaty ojciec.
- Bo on by chciał, żebyście sobie obok waszych polskich, rosyjskie flagi namalowali. O tak, jak my – szpakowaty pan pokazuje przedramię swoje i syna, gdzie widać małe znaczki flag obu krajów.
Chłopczyk odziany od stóp do głów w barwy narodowe Rosji patrzy na nas okrągłymi oczami. Przestępuje z nogi na nogę. Ściska ojca za rękę. I już nie wiadomo, który z nich się bardziej denerwuje – ojciec czy syn.
A Szpakowaty pan mówi dalej. Mówi, że on synowi o Polsce od zawsze opowiada. Żeby wiedział, że przecież nas więcej łączy, niż dzieli. Że między nami bardzo silna więź, bo w naszych żyłach płynie ta sama krew. Słowiańska. Że jesteśmy bracia Słowianie. Bracia krwi. Szpakowaty pan opowiada. Opowiada i ma łzy w oczach.
--------
A grizzled father with a few-year-old son approaches right after the match. In the strobe lights of the party in the fan zone, flash tiny Russian flags painted on their faces. The two of them approach shyly.
“I am very sorry, but I told my son that you are from Poland, and we wanted to ask something of you", the grey-haired father tries to shout into our ears.
“He would like you to paint Russian flags next to your Polish ones. Here, just like we did," the grey-haired gentleman shows his and his son's forearms, where we can see small stamps of the flags of both countries.
A boy dressed from head to toe in the national colours of Russia looks at us with round eyes. He shifts from foot to foot and squeezes his father's hand. We no longer know which of them is more nervous – the father or the son.
The grey-haired man continues. He says that he has always been telling his son about Poland. To let him know that there is more that unites us than divides us. That there is a very strong bond between us because the same blood flows in our veins. That we are blood brothers. He explains and has tears in his eyes.
[English below] Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów [English below]
Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów dalej pozwalamy sobie wierzyć, że to nie jest żaden podstęp. Że naprawdę nas wpuściła. Że już nic „nas ne dogonyat”.

Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów później zauważamy jaka Rosja jest piękna. Przynajmniej jej początek.

Jedziemy pod łukiem powitalnym z szerokiej tęczy, co łączy, przecięte gładziutką szosą pola soczyście żółtego rzepaku. Nad rzepakiem – bezkresne błękitne niebo.

W 2018 Rosja wita nas kolorami Ukrainy.
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
----------
Only a few dozen kilometres further, we allow ourselves to believe that this is not a trick. That she really let us in. That they really ‘nas ne dogonyat’.

Only a few dozen kilometres later, we notice how beautiful Russia is. 

We ride under the welcome arch made of a broad rainbow, connecting the juicy yellow rapeseed fields cut by a smooth road. Over the rapeseed stretches an endless blue sky.

In 2018, Russia welcomes us with the colours of Ukraine.
(the whole text under the link in bio)
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[English below] Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozn [English below]
Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozniosła nam głowy. Kilka lat później przeprowadziliśmy się do niej na sześć miesięcy. Kraj przez pół roku konsekwentnie i nieodwracalnie przepalał nam styki. Dlatego nie zdziwiliśmy się wcale, kiedy kilka lat później w Wołgogradzie po meczu Polska-Japonia kibice naszych rywali zabrali się za porządkowanie stadionowych trybun. Co kiedyś mogłoby wywołać uśmiech politowania i wymowny gest posuwisto-zwrotny palcem wskazującym w stronę czoła, dziś było tak oczywiste, że aż trzeba się było dołączyć. Wcale nas nie zdziwiło, że przed stadionem rzesze japońskich fanów gratulowało Polakom tak żarliwie, jakbyśmy wcale nie grali o pietruszkę. Przy tym wszyscy byli tak urzekająco szczęśliwi naszym… hmm… szczęściem, jakby sami właśnie wygrali puchar. Wymianom szalików, koszulek nie było końca. Andrzej wrócił chyba z trzema. W tym jedną vintage z rozgrywek w latach dziewięćdziesiątych ubiegłego wieku. Co prawda juniorska, ale przynajmniej na jedno z nas pasuje.
-----
Three-day Japan, in a nutshell, blew our minds. A few years later, we moved in there for six months. The country has been consistently and irreversibly frying our brains for half a year. That's why we weren't at all surprised when, a few years later, in Volgograd, after the Poland-Japan match, our rivals' fans started cleaning up the stadium stands. What once might have caused a smile of pity and a back-and-forth gesture with the index finger towards the forehead was now so obvious that we had to join in. We were not at all surprised that in front of the stadium, crowds of Japanese fans congratulated the Poles as passionately as if we were not playing for honour at all. And everyone was so charmingly happy with our… hmm… victory as if they had just won the cup themselves. There was no end to the exchange of scarves and T-shirts. Andrzej came back with at least three, including one vintage from the 1990s. It's a junior size, but it fits at least one of us.
[English below] Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w po [English below]
Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w poniedziałek z samego rana. Przyszedł jak zwykle elegancki. W jasnej koszuli w kratkę, w spodniach w kancik, w idealnie wypolerowanych okularach, z wypielęgnowaną skórzaną torbą przerzuconą przez ramię. Snuła się wokół niego mgiełka nienachalnej serdeczności i zaraźliwego spokoju. Wystarczyło stanąć obok, żeby nim przesiąknąć. Jak zapachem. Ale zapachu Andrieja nie pamiętam. Wydaje mi się jednak, że pachniał mydłem. Takim zwykłym, szarym. Każdego ranka krótkim, grubym pędzlem nakładał mydlaną piankę okrężnymi ruchami na twarz, żeby zmiękczyć zarost. Potem zmieniał żyletkę w ciężkawej srebrnej maszynce do golenia i uważnie przesuwał nią po policzkach, brodzie, szyi. Na koniec chlustał w dłonie wodą kolońską ze szklanej odkręcanej butelki i wklepywał ją w podrażnioną ostrzem twarz. Na pewno szczypało. Tak, Andriej musiał pachnieć szarym mydłem i wodą kolońską. Tak pachniał mój dziadzio. Tak pachniał mój tata. Tak pachniała dobroć. 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
-----------------------------
As promised, he came on Monday morning. He arrived elegant as usual. In a light checkered shirt, in crease trousers, in perfectly polished glasses, with a well-groomed leather bag slung over his shoulder. There was a mist of unobtrusive cordiality and contagious calmness around him. All you had to do was stand next to him to be soaked in it, like in the fragrance. But I don't remember Andrei's scent. I think he smelled like soap, though. Just plain grey soap. Every morning, he used a short, thick brush to apply soapy foam in circular motions to his face to soften the stubble. Then he changed the razor blade in the heavy silver shaver and carefully ran it over his cheeks, chin, and neck. Finally, he splashed cologne from a glass screw-top bottle into his hands and patted it on his face, irritated by the blade. It definitely stung. Yes, Andrei must have smelled of grey soap and cologne. This is what my grandfather smelled like. This is what my dad smelled like. This was the smell of kindness.
(The whole txt under the link in bio)
[English below] Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy [English below]
Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy, ale ma swój przydział potężnych rzeźb. Smutne to rzeźby. Pełne cierpienia, rozpaczy. Rzeźby żołnierzy dźwigających rannych kolegów. Rzeźby twarzy wykrzywionych męką, mięśni rwanych wiecznym bólem zakrzepłym w kamieniu. Ten umęczony szpaler prowadzi do stóp Matki Ojczyzny. Matka jest potężna – ma osiemdziesiąt pięć metrów wzrostu, krótkie rozwiane włosy i powłóczystą szatę. W prawej uniesionej ręce ściska nagi miecz i nim wzywa. Do czego? 
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Volgograd is nothing like Moscow but has its share of massive sculptures. Here, sculptures are sad. Full of suffering and despair. These are sculptures of soldiers carrying wounded colleagues. Sculptures of faces twisted with torment, muscles torn by eternal pain congealed in stone. This tormented row leads to the feet of Mother Motherland. The Mother is huge - eighty-five meters tall, with short wind-blown hair and a flowing robe. She holds a naked sword and calls with it in her raised right hand. Calls to what? 
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Instagram post 18199135858260048 Instagram post 18199135858260048
Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą z Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą zaraz po meczu. W stroboskopowych światłach imprezy na strefie kibica błyskają malutkie rosyjskie flagi wymalowane na ich twarzach. Podchodzą nieśmiali.
- Bardzo przepraszam, ale mówiłem synowi, że wy z Polszy i mamy do was taką prośbę – stara się wykrzyczeć w nasze uszy szpakowaty ojciec.
- Bo on by chciał, żebyście sobie obok waszych polskich, rosyjskie flagi namalowali. O tak, jak my – szpakowaty pan pokazuje przedramię swoje i syna, gdzie widać małe znaczki flag obu krajów.
Chłopczyk odziany od stóp do głów w barwy narodowe Rosji patrzy na nas okrągłymi oczami. Przestępuje z nogi na nogę. Ściska ojca za rękę. I już nie wiadomo, który z nich się bardziej denerwuje – ojciec czy syn.
A Szpakowaty pan mówi dalej. Mówi, że on synowi o Polsce od zawsze opowiada. Żeby wiedział, że przecież nas więcej łączy, niż dzieli. Że między nami bardzo silna więź, bo w naszych żyłach płynie ta sama krew. Słowiańska. Że jesteśmy bracia Słowianie. Bracia krwi. Szpakowaty pan opowiada. Opowiada i ma łzy w oczach.
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A grizzled father with a few-year-old son approaches right after the match. In the strobe lights of the party in the fan zone, flash tiny Russian flags painted on their faces. The two of them approach shyly.
“I am very sorry, but I told my son that you are from Poland, and we wanted to ask something of you", the grey-haired father tries to shout into our ears.
“He would like you to paint Russian flags next to your Polish ones. Here, just like we did," the grey-haired gentleman shows his and his son's forearms, where we can see small stamps of the flags of both countries.
A boy dressed from head to toe in the national colours of Russia looks at us with round eyes. He shifts from foot to foot and squeezes his father's hand. We no longer know which of them is more nervous – the father or the son.
The grey-haired man continues. He says that he has always been telling his son about Poland. To let him know that there is more that unites us than divides us. That there is a very strong bond between us because the same blood flows in our veins. That we are blood brothers. He explains and has tears in his eyes.
[English below] Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów [English below]
Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów dalej pozwalamy sobie wierzyć, że to nie jest żaden podstęp. Że naprawdę nas wpuściła. Że już nic „nas ne dogonyat”.

Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów później zauważamy jaka Rosja jest piękna. Przynajmniej jej początek.

Jedziemy pod łukiem powitalnym z szerokiej tęczy, co łączy, przecięte gładziutką szosą pola soczyście żółtego rzepaku. Nad rzepakiem – bezkresne błękitne niebo.

W 2018 Rosja wita nas kolorami Ukrainy.
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Only a few dozen kilometres further, we allow ourselves to believe that this is not a trick. That she really let us in. That they really ‘nas ne dogonyat’.

Only a few dozen kilometres later, we notice how beautiful Russia is. 

We ride under the welcome arch made of a broad rainbow, connecting the juicy yellow rapeseed fields cut by a smooth road. Over the rapeseed stretches an endless blue sky.

In 2018, Russia welcomes us with the colours of Ukraine.
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